The Marriage Mart

by Teresa DesJardien

  “I see. Well, and now that my part in your ensnarement is found out, what are we going to do about it?”

  “Why, absolutely nothing.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think I shall certainly give this Miss Yardley the eye. I must see this paragon for myself. If she is all Hortense believes, and if she has a sense of humor--the poor dear would need it with you--then I shall still do my best to whisper in your ear and urge you into her company,” Mary said, and she almost believed the confidence she heard in her own voice.

  He gave her a long, slow look from the corners of his eyes, and when he turned his head to face her, he growled, “Traitor!”

  She smiled, but the smile flickered uncertainly. “John, you know I will not, truly, if you do not care for--”

  “It’s all right, Mary. In truth, I am interested to hear what you think of this young miss. I vow, she makes me feel very old. Very old indeed. Perhaps even old enough, at last, to wed.”

  Mary lowered her lashes to watch as she unnecessarily adjusted the reins in her hands, and it seemed suddenly to be raining harder than ever. “I think we should go back,” she said toward the horse’s ears.

  John gave a grunt for an answer, and they turned their horses at once.

  He only said one more thing as they rode along. “This home of mine, Mary, it is the strangest place. I’ll confess I love it, much as one loves a leg or an arm. To be cut off from it, I should feel its loss deeply, and yet, too, it does not seem to quite fit me. I should like to be comfortable here. I should like to make it a home.”

  He said no more, but she filled in the rest of the words for him: he was, after all, thinking of taking a wife, that he might at last become the true master of this place. There was some kind of invisible marker that kept him from being in possession of his own estate, that allowed his sisters and mother to exert an old dominance over him, and that marker could never be put aside until he had succumbed to its singular demand: domesticity. Not until the heir had an heir would he have the authority to claim the kind of peace and freedom he wished here.

  So it was a paradox: that he must give up his freedom to gain it.

  And it was just like John to resist the commonplace, the expected, the natural flow of everyday life, even though, as she had come to see and accept, it was what he craved most in this world. Hortense was correct in this, Mary saw quite clearly and suddenly, and so she knew, for once, John could not call the tune, but in this must instead dance to whatever melody the piper chose.

  Of course, it need not be Miss Yardley, and should not be she unless the lady was, indeed, a wonderment. Nothing less would do for her dearest John, absolutely nothing less than a wonderment.

  Returned to the stables, he placed his hands on her waist and helped her slide to the ground, where her half-boots squelched and where she lingered before him a moment, looking up into his eyes. “It is not wrong to want to be happy,” she told him. She blinked a few times, suddenly struggling against the hint of tears that came at the faintly surprised and unusually somber expression on his face. She then stepped quickly away from him, able only to quickly mumble, “Thank you for the ride.” Pulling at her sodden gloves, she moved to leave the stables and step back to the house, but he called after her, causing her to pause with her back to him.

  “Mary? Will you ride tomorrow morning?”

  She hesitated a moment, then nodded. She did not linger a moment longer, all but running across the rain-soaked lawn.

  Chapter 10

  The ladies were on their best behavior. They sat decorously sipping tea, taking turns at speaking, laughing softly, their conversation so dotted with ‘how nice’ and ‘lovely’ that Mary herself had difficulty with her composure. She had swiftly become accustomed to the unbridled enthusiasm of the Rothayne Hall household, and though she could never fault the ladies by saying they pointed or yawned or in any other wise acted with poor manners, to see them now playing the part of high society matrons was almost too amusing.

  It was, of course, all strictly for Miss Yardley’s benefit. That lady may have enjoyed the camaraderie of a usual Rothayne meal, but Hortense was not prepared to frighten her away if she was not of that ilk. No (it had been strictly adjured), the ladies were to conduct themselves as if royalty had been asked to their little card party. Mary thought this wise, for much as she had come to enjoy John’s family, and as much as she would have forgiven them much for his sake, she had to admit she had been heartily overwhelmed at first herself.

  Soon, though, her amusement at the tempering of the ladies’ more natural tendencies was balanced by the sobering she felt whenever she glanced in Miss Yardley’s direction, which, of course, must be frequently. She had been no less than stunned when the dark-haired beauty had swept into the room. It was not enough that Miss Yardley had a bounty of thick, rich (and, Mary thought in pique even as one hand reached up to push back a stray lock of her own average brown hair), obediently in place deepest black hair, but her milky white, sweet heart-shaped face was dominated by large dark eyes, framed by thick, sable lashes. Her cheekbones were high, her perfect lips a natural pink, her figure slender but graced with womanly attributes, and she moved with the grace of a deer.

  There was only one flaw Mary could ascertain, her sharp eyes and ears taking in the fact with a completely unchristian lack of charity for which she immediately chided herself. She saw that Miss Yardley was quite willing and able to discuss French fashions or appropriate riding ensembles with any of the ladies, but she colored and stammered out mostly monosyllables when addressed by any of the gentlemen. That was a major minus to her suitability for John, for he surely would not abide a female who could not converse, Mary thought, raising one fingernail at which she absentmindedly nibbled until she hastily recalled herself and ceased at once.

  However, Miss Yardley’s defect, such as it was, went through a miraculous transformation when John entered the room. Where he had been until now, Mary could only guess--hiding was a likely choice. His late entrance served to bring every eye his way, not least those of Miss Yardley.

  “My lord,” she breathed, and to Mary’s astonishment she saw the young lady rise to her feet, that face suddenly shining and ethereal in its beauty. She stood alone, the other ladies retaining their seats, and the gesture could only serve to bring John to her side at once, for he was above all else a gentleman, incapable of discomforting a guest in his home. He took up Miss Yardley’s hand and brushed the air above it with his lips, and said in greeting, “How pleasant that you could come, Miss Yardley.”

  Was there unusual warmth in that greeting to the beauty?

  “My lord, it is my very great pleasure to be invited,” Miss Yardley said.

  Only a stone statue could have misunderstood the admiration in her eyes, and John was hardly a stone. Did he hold her hand just a little longer than was necessary?

  “Our others guests have begun to arrive,” John told the room at large.

  The butler began to introduce the arriving guests, and it was nearly an hour before John was able to suggest they begin to assemble their tables.

  It was hardly surprising Cornelia assigned Miss Yardley as John’s partner. Mary was at first pleased to also be assigned to the same table. She could so much more easily assess this Miss Yardley if she was in a position to interact with her, although after a certain length of time she rather wished she had not been required to observe that lady’s overt--yet curiously naïve--flirtation attempts. Or perhaps she was being unkind, or too harsh, for indeed Miss Yardley never said a word out of place, even if she engaged in a much more lively conversation with her eyes.

  “You play whist very well,” John complimented her once.

  “I do so enjoy games,” she had replied, and there was such promise in the way it was said that Mary allowed a few of her cards to fall to the floor to give herself a chance to cover her own embarrassment. Sweet heavens, had Hortense primed the girl? Had she told her John was one to enjoy a woman with spice? A quick
glance at her partner convinced her otherwise, for although Hortense looked pleased, she also had a mildly startled look about her. Since John--perhaps fortuitously, perhaps not--then excused himself to fetch them all a glass of wine, Hortense took the opportunity to stand and with speaking eyes persuaded Mary to do the same. She came close to Mary’s side, acting as though she had stumbled a little on the carpet, and publicly uttered an apology for her lack of balance, while she also managed to whisper quickly, “You see what I mean!”

  Mary looked back over her shoulder at the exquisite girl. Her own smile came automatically when Miss Yardley smiled so very attractively and innocently in return, and Mary thought to herself: Hortense is right again. This is a child waiting to know who and what she is. She speaks with her eyes, and yet I would swear she comprehends only a portion of what she so unwittingly conveys.

  John could mold Miss Yardley anyway he wanted. He, the dark angel; she, the innocent one. He could have that rare and specific being--a good woman who was capable of being tempted by the sins of the flesh, yet not dissolute. Unlike other women who tended to have their feet either on one side of that line or the other, she could be taught to walk the line, to tread on the border. That she flirted so outrageously, then offered a most sincere and sweet smile, was proof enough for Mary.

  When Mary sat down again, she allowed herself to finish the entire glass of champagne John had placed before her, and even let herself have another.

  Mary’s table finished their game first, and they turned good-naturedly to watch the play of the others until they, too, had reached resolution. There were ten tables in all, making the guests’ number twenty-six against the household’s fourteen who had opted to play.

  “Will those of the losing teams please raise their hands?” John suggested, and he was obliged. “There is a penalty,” he said after assessing who was who. “The losers must perform somehow for the winners.”

  “Unfair!” Harry protested. “That wasn’t part of the original bargain.”

  “There was no bargain at all,” John agreed in good humor, adding, “so the penalty stands. I suggest Mary go first, as she, I can assure you, will delight us all with her talent.”

  He turned to her, and, as usual, she could not deny him. “There is no harp,” she said, but it was not a refusal.

  “A capella, then, my sweet. Your voice is true. Or perhaps Hortense can pay her penalty by playing the harpsichord for you?”

  So it was arranged. Hortense found the sheet music for “Scarborough Fair”, and Mary agreed to sing it. Harry was persuaded to play the mandolin to accompany them, and thereby pay his penalty as well. It took him a few minutes to bring the instrument from the music room, and then to tune it, and a few grumbles about it not being nearly so fine as his own at home, and then they began.

  Mary made a point of singing to a particular corner of the room, for somehow she felt a little strange singing a love ballad in front of all these strangers, and besides she was just a little tipsy from the champagne, and staring at the corner served to steady her.

  She fancied the applause was a little more than mere politeness when they were finished, and she thanked them for it by offering a curtsy.

  Angela was then pressed into reciting a poem, “The Wreck of the Mary Rose”, as she claimed she could not sing. Aaron agreed to play the harpsichord quietly as background music, and all agreed the combination made for a lovely, if sad, recital.

  This was followed by a foursome who blended their voices in a silly ditty currently all the rage at the theaters. Penelope, Sophie, Harry, and Cornelia then came together, deciding to perform a few “imitations of famous moments in history,” and before long their penalty had dissolved into a full-fledged game in which all were involved. John swore his “Wellington Defeating Napoleon” was a masterpiece in the art of posturing, but since no one had even come close to guessing it, he was booed and forced to sit down, which he did while bowing with good humor. It did not truly surprise, or even shock Mary when Miss Yardley did “Aphrodite Rising From the Sea”. If that young lady knew of the famous painting, then she also surely knew Aphrodite was without benefit of clothing, but, thankfully, she did not demonstrate such. She did, however, color prettily when Edmund pointed out that “mythology is not history, per se,” which resulted in a lively exchange of opinions on the matter, which was never actually settled as they fell to laughing and going off on side tangents all willy-nilly.

  It was not until the candles in the front chandelier had more than half dripped away that the guests finally retrieved their cloaks and offered their farewells. Miss Yardley, perhaps emboldened by the many glasses of champagne that had been served all evening long, actually reached out and took up John’s hands in her own. “Thank you so much for a lovely evening,” she said, her dark eyes shining with sincere appreciation and perhaps something more.

  “It was our pleasure,” he replied, and Mary could not help but note with approval the evenness of his tone. It was a very noncommittal reply, although she also noted he did not extract his hands at once from Miss Yardley’s delicate ones.

  “I hope we may do it again sometime.”

  “But of course.”

  With that the guests were gone and the family faded back into the various sitting rooms, and Mary found herself alone in the entry hall with John. He did not move for a long time, but when he did, it was to clasp his hands behind his back and turn an inquiring look her way.

  “She is beautiful,” Mary said, by way of a reply to his unspoken question. “And she is very young. A little gauche, perhaps, but I find I cannot dislike her.”

  John merely gazed at her for a minute longer, then he turned, offering her his arm. All he said was, “Quite.” He escorted her to the base of the stairs, where her hand went to the carved newel in preparation of ascending. He said, “Can I not persuade you to stay below stairs a while longer? We could…oh, I don’t know…ah, I have it! We could strip off all our clothes and wander about together, observing the servants’ reactions to such. What do you say?”

  She smiled, and almost reached out a hand to touch his jaw where the faintest hint of color threatened to grow into an auburn beard, but she did not. “Ask me again in the summertime, when it’s warmer,” she said.

  How strange it was, this teasing way they had of speaking truths silently to one another. He obviously knew she had just given her approval of the young Miss Yardley as a matrimonial prospect, and she knew he was thinking, most weightily, along those very same lines. But she could not let him go without letting him know she had still some small measure of reserve concerning the young lady. “Perhaps you should ask Miss Yardley if she might be interested in such a proposal.”

  His eyes widened a little, then changed into a hooded expression. “What would she say?” he murmured.

  “That, my dear, is the crux,” she said, almost whispering.

  He lifted a hand, giving her a silent ‘good night,’ and stepped back from her. She turned and stepped with outward calm up the stairs, but in her heart a hundred tiny storms waged battle, one upon the other. She had seen Miss Yardley tongue-tied with the gentlemen, though she had come to life when John had entered the room. What did it mean? Did it mean she would have the conversation, the wit, that John required as some men required their pints of ale? Beauty could please the eye, could even warm the soul, but it alone could not touch the heart. And John’s heart had not been sculpted for anything less than love.

  And she, Mary, silently, secretly, admitted for the merest of seconds to herself that perhaps she possessed the one thing Miss Yardley did not: this understanding, this meeting of minds, this facility born of both words and of silence, this conversational way between her and John. And as much as she wished John to find his perfect mate, and as much as she knew it was selfish and thoughtless of her, there was a darker side of her that strongly, almost violently, hoped Miss Yardley did not come to possess it, ever. This talent was, after all, quite possibly Mary’s only redeeming at
tribute as a desirable female, and she found she had the ability to desire fiercely that it not be shared by the practically perfect Miss Yardley.

  Chapter 11

  To Mary’s surprise, and not a little regret, the week sped by swiftly. There were two more occasions, tea parties, whereby she was in the presence of the undeniably fine Miss Yardley. That lady managed to be the center of all activity, which of course must be expected of a guest, even if Mary found herself somewhat militantly thinking that she, too, was a guest. But that was unfair, for Miss Yardley had the grace and charm and beauty that must needs draw the eye and the attention of anyone. Even, Mary grudgingly admitted, herself.

  But if she spent her afternoons thoughtfully weighing the virtues of Miss Yardley, she spent her mornings blissfully riding with the gentlemen. There she was queen, for even though some of the ladies had bothered themselves once or twice to rise and join the run, they soon tired of the rain, and besides, Mary knew it was her presence which was truly appreciated. She knew the gentlemen looked forward to the repartee that was nearly as essential a part of the ride as were the horses themselves. Everyone, their minds cleared of clutter by a night’s sleep, excelled at clever quips and witticisms, or even biting political commentary, so that they chortled and applauded as a group their own cleverness. It was an entirely hedonistic time, for the gentlemen had become used to speaking their minds before her, and Mary reveled in the camaraderie and acceptance it meant even if it was, if one chose to look at it that way, not entirely complimentary to her femininity.

  “I say, I am of a mind Eugenia is with child again,” Harry announced this last morning of Mary’s stay. He did not blush, nor stammer, nor apologize for the statement before Mary, nor did she color up in the slightest.

  “Another girl, no doubt,” John said drolly, while guiding his horse around a hole presumably the result of a mole’s work.