by Jane Ashford
The kiss seemed to go on forever. They forgot that they were lying on a muddied dirt floor; they forgot the rain and their companions; indeed, they forgot all the world except each other. Each had kissed before, William rather more than Marianne, but neither had experienced anything like the passion that ran through them now. It seemed to Marianne as if they merged into one creature, with one mind and one desire.
Then, slowly, reluctantly, the kiss ended. They drew a little apart, both breathing fast. For a long moment, their looks were rapturous. Then William stiffened and began to struggle upright again. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean…” He finally got free of the riding habit and stood, holding out a hand to help her up.
“You didn’t mean to kiss me?” inquired Marianne, who was much less flustered now than earlier.
“No!”
“Strange. You seemed to mean it.” She knew what he was feeling, but she couldn’t resist teasing him. To Marianne, it seemed that all had been settled between them in that kiss. There were a number of wearisome details remaining, of course, chiefly his offer and her acceptance, but each of them knew the outcome. The only important thing was what had just passed between them.
William, however, had no such certainty. He was, in the first place, raging with self-blame for giving in to the impulses he’d been fighting so hard. Whatever his intentions toward Marianne, he told himself, he’d behaved abominably. But of more concern was the next step. William wanted nothing more than to ask Marianne to be his wife and to resume, with that sanction, their previous activity. But he was aware of certain impediments.
Marianne MacClain—Lady Marianne, he corrected himself miserably—was the daughter and sister of an earl. Though the Wyndhams were a fine old family, they had never risen above a knighthood, and their fortune was merely comfortable, while Marianne’s was known to be munificent. She could make a far more brilliant match. Moreover, and worse, William knew quite well that she’d refused a man last Season who had all the advantages he did not. What would she think when he proposed marriage? She might well laugh in his face. Or slap it, which was what he deserved after today. That Marianne had responded eagerly to his advances, and that she was smiling expectantly at him now, William was too miserable to notice. He could think only that he loved this girl with all his heart and did not deserve her. “I…I cannot apologize sufficiently for my unforgivable behavior,” he stammered at last. “We should go. And put it from our minds. I swear to you I will never do such a thing again.”
Marianne gaped at him, astonished and feeling the beginnings of bitter disappointment.
He misinterpreted her look. “I know it seems impossible to go on as if nothing had happened,” he said. “But I do not see any alternative. I will, of course, keep out of your way after this.”
“You…you…” Marianne couldn’t think of an epithet harsh enough. She couldn’t believe that he was rejecting her.
“You cannot hate me more than I do myself,” replied William unhappily. “Come, let us go.” He offered his laced fingers again, and Marianne was too hurt and angry to do anything but step up. This time, she mounted without mishap, and William followed suit. He pushed open the door and waited for her to ride through. The rain was somewhat less, merely a heavy shower now, and the water served to wash the mud from their clothes. They rode in silence to the lane and turned along it. They had not gone far before they met Susan and Tony coming back.
“Where have you been?” exclaimed Susan through the rain. “Tony insisted we come back for you. What took you so long? We might have found shelter by now and been out of this awful rain, if you had only kept up.”
“Sorry,” replied William gruffly, and he spurred his horse ahead.
“Anything the matter?” wondered Tony.
“Nothing whatever,” snapped Marianne. “Can we go on now? I am soaked to the skin.” And she followed William, at a distance, in his gallop.
Susan and Tony exchanged a bewildered look. “Well, why didn’t they keep up, if they are in such a hurry?” asked Susan, and they turned their mounts to follow.
Twelve
Several days passed without incident at the posting house. Ellerton regained strength slowly, but he was not capable at first of long conversations or sustained attention. Georgina established a quiet routine, sitting in the sickroom reading or sewing in the morning and afternoon, taking her meals in a private parlor downstairs, and sometimes walking near the inn for fresh air and exercise. After the second day, Jenkins was forced to sleep most of the day, as Georgina had predicted. Not even his devotion could erase the need for rest in the intervals of his night watches. Thus Georgina’s days grew easier, and she once again felt truly useful to the baron. Though Jenkins would sooner have cut out his tongue than acknowledge her contribution, and though he slept as little as possible and hung about Ellerton’s chamber, he told no more anecdotes about the baron’s female admirers. He even, at the end of the week, admitted to the doctor that Miss Goring was a fair nurse. When Dr. Mason repeated this to her, Georgina had to smile, for she knew that Jenkins would be mortified if he discovered she’d been told. But her early antipathy to the man was giving way to amusement as they adjusted to each other, and Jenkins’s unquestionable loyalty and unflagging industry in caring for his master impressed her. She had no intention of taxing him with his compliment.
A week and a half after the accident, Ellerton showed definite signs of improvement. He slept less, ate more, and began to complain of boredom. At this point, Georgina’s task became far harder than Jenkins’s, for Ellerton remained awake the whole day and rested peacefully most of the night. After one afternoon of complaints, she even considered asking the valet to change with her, but she could not bring herself to admit defeat, and when her annoyance faded she admitted that she didn’t really wish it.
On Tuesday morning, when Georgina came into the room, the valet met her near the door. “He woke very early today, miss,” he told her. “And a bit irritable.”
Since Jenkins had never before voiced even so mild a criticism of his employer, Georgina prepared herself for a difficult day. The valet looked very tired, she noticed; his eyes were reddened, and his face haggard. “You should get a good long sleep,” she whispered sympathetically.
This instantly brought back his suspicions. “I can look after myself, thank you, miss.” And with a little bow, he went out.
Georgina shook her head and went to her armchair. Ellerton appeared to be drowsing, so she picked up her book from the table and opened it. But instead of reading, she found herself gazing at the far wall and musing over her situation. It really was ridiculous, she thought, the way she and Jenkins vied for supremacy. There was no reason they should be rivals, for they both wanted the same thing. At the idea of rivalry, Georgina’s lips curved upward. First Susan and Marianne had thought themselves rivals for the baron’s affections, or Susan had seen it so, at least, and now she and Jenkins were being equally silly, though she claimed for herself Marianne’s part. The contest was of Jenkins’s creation. Amused, Georgina developed the comparison in her mind until finally the ludicrousness of it struck her so forcibly that she laughed aloud, at once stifling the sound and glancing at Ellerton to see that she had not disturbed him.
The baron was wide-awake, and watching her with an interested gaze. “What is the joke?” he asked, as if they were in the midst of a conversation.
Georgina flushed slightly. “I was only thinking of something.”
“Obviously.” He waited for her to tell him what.
She did not feel she could. It would mean exposing Susan and Marianne, and herself. “A private matter,” she replied, and before he could object, added, “Have you had your breakfast?”
“Yes, I have. And I have been shaved and combed and fussed over until I am half-mad. And now I shall lie here in bed all day with nothing to do. I am abandoned wholly with
out amusement, and now you refuse to so much as share a joke.” He made a piteous face.
Georgina hid a smile. He sounded more like a small boy than an elegant Corinthian. “You have had a number of visitors.”
“Cruel, Miss Goring! Do you not know that there is nothing more infuriating than laughing aloud, then keeping the reason to yourself? It’s nearly as bad as assuring someone you have a secret which you can on no account reveal. Perhaps worse.”
“I begin to better understand the old saying about idle hands,” responded Georgina. “They might better say idle minds give rise to mischief. I don’t believe you care a whit for the joke; you’re merely lightening your boredom by rallying me.”
“Miss Goring!” But though he pretended shock, an arrested look in his blue eyes showed that she had scored a hit. “I’m thinking of nothing but this joke, I promise you. I daresay I shan’t be able to put it from my mind. I shall become obsessed and develop brain fever, I suppose.”
“You are feeling better, aren’t you?” commented Georgina. She had not seen him so lively since the accident.
“On the contrary, I am worse. I begin to find this room and this bed intolerable. I shall ask the doctor for a pair of crutches today and get out a bit.”
“But he said you mustn’t move for two weeks, at least,” replied Georgina, alarmed.
“He doesn’t know my iron constitution.” Ellerton smiled a little. “You needn’t look so worried, Miss Goring. I said I meant to ask the doctor, and I shall abide by his decision. I fancy he was being overcautious.”
Georgina nodded, realizing that her concern was exaggerated by her own reluctance to end this interlude just as he was improving and able to talk. This was inexcusably selfish, she scolded silently.
“And so, what about the joke?” he continued when she did not speak.
“Do you never give up?”
“Never!”
“Even though I have told you it was a private matter?”
“That is what one always says to silence awkward questions. Is it really true in this case?”
“Yes!”
“Ah. Well, then, I mustn’t inquire further.”
His expression was so comical that Georgina burst out laughing. “I have never met a man so curious, or so determined in his curiosity. I was thinking about Jenkins.” She stopped, sorry to have revealed this much.
“It is true,” he replied. “Curiosity has always been my besetting sin. It often gets me into trouble, but on the other hand, it has helped me learn a great many useful things.” He paused. “Jenkins, now. I should be happy to know something amusing about him. He is such a solemn fellow. Some mornings, when he comes in with my coffee, I’m quite cast down by his dolorous manner.”
Georgina laughed again. “It’s really nothing. You make me ashamed to tell it. I was merely thinking of Jenkins’s jealousy over the nursing. He so hates to let anyone help.”
“Ah. Yes, he is rather like a mother hen.”
This comparison was so apt that Georgina had to smile. “You and he are not dreadfully at odds, I hope?” added the baron.
“Oh, no. We have reached a truce.”
His eyes gleamed appreciatively, and Georgina was certain that he understood more than she’d said. “What do you think of him?”
“Mr. Jenkins?” She was surprised.
“The same.”
“Well, I… Nothing, really. He seems a very good servant, and he is devoted to you.”
“Come, come, you expressed a much more natural opinion a few moments ago. What do you think of him as a specimen of human nature?”
This reminded Georgina of a conversation they’d had some time ago. “I am not in the habit of considering people as ‘specimens,’ Baron Ellerton.”
“No? I’m not so sure. I think you are as avid a student of the subject as I.” She started to object, but he forestalled her. “Watching your face as you thought of your ‘joke,’ I distinctly observed some of the same delight in oddity. I’m convinced you share my interest in unusual personalities. That’s one reason I insisted upon hearing it. As well as my insatiable curiosity, of course.”
“I don’t think of my friends and acquaintances as ‘oddities,’” answered Georgina stiffly, recalling more of that talk and his characterization of her.
“Of course you don’t. Why so haughty? There is nothing ill-natured or wrong in what I say. Indeed, it was just such an impulse that allowed us to make each other’s acquaintance in the beginning.”
When he had rescued Susan and Marianne, at the first ball, thought Georgina. He was interested only in her “oddity.” The thought hurt surprisingly.
“Why else are you here, after all?” he finished, and his words so echoed Georgina’s thought that she gaped. “Come, come, do you claim that you weren’t taken with the unusual, and ridiculous, elements of this situation? I certainly would have been, had I not been knocked unconscious. A mere chit, who looks as if she couldn’t stand in a high wind, takes over my phaeton, wrecks it, consigns me to a sickbed, and comes away without a scratch. And then I, who have some little reputation both as a whip and as a man of the world, am left to be rescued by this girl and her friends. If I were not the victim, I should call that the most amusing story I’ve heard in years.”
Georgina had to laugh.
“There, you see? How is your charming cousin, by the by?”
“Very well.”
“I had no doubt of it. Enjoying the Season, I suppose?”
She nodded, trying not to laugh again.
“Having forgotten all about her little contretemps with my phaeton.”
“Of course not! Susan is…” Georgina hesitated, remembering her cousin’s rapid dismissal of her mistake.
“Precisely,” said the baron, as if making the final, conclusive point in an argument.
“We have done everything possible to give her a proper sense of her, er, overexuberance,” answered Georgina stiffly.
“A fine word for mayhem and near-murder,” he responded admiringly. “What will you call it when she does manage to kill someone, I wonder. By the by, I hope I succeeded in ridding the world of that hellish cat?”
Georgina was forbidding herself to laugh again. “Daisy? No, he’s fine. He found his way home all alone.”
He was staring incredulously. “Daisy? I am referring to a very large, ginger-colored animal with the character of a Tothill Fields assassin.”
Georgina nodded, her laughter escaping.
“Its name is… No, you needn’t tell me. Miss Wyndham christened it, of course.”
“She was very young.”
“That girl was never young,” declared the baron, his eyes twinkling.
“I…I shouldn’t laugh.” She strove for control.
“Why not? Does this strike you as cruelty?”
This brought her up short. “No,” she replied after a moment. “But it is…”
“Yes?” He looked politely interested.
“Well, if Susan were here…”
“I should speak just as I have, and no doubt a lively discussion would ensue.”
“Lively, indeed!”
“I am fascinated by human nature, not contemptuous of it, Miss Goring. And I pride myself on understanding its foibles.”
This gave Georgina much to ponder, for it was true that she felt an answering impulse in herself when he spoke of his “study.” She had resisted her own bent in this direction, feeling it was a sign of false superiority, but now she began to wonder. Unfortunately, Dr. Mason called just then, and the conversation was dropped. It remained vivid in Georgina’s mind, however.
* * *
Ellerton was refused crutches, but the doctor did say he might be carried to a sofa downstairs for part of the day, and he seemed satisfied with this concession. In the afternoon, this was accordi
ngly done, and a party of visitors arrived soon after to inquire about him. Georgina, as was her custom on such occasions, retreated to her own room. She had no wish to be found sitting at Ellerton’s side by members of the haut ton. It was enough that she was vaguely known to be helping with the nursing. And the baron was unlikely to need her now.
She was just about to put on her hat and go out for a short walk when there was a tap on her door. Opening it, she found Lady Marianne MacClain in the corridor, hands clasped around her riding crop. “How do you do?” said Georgina warmly. “I have not seen you for several days. Are the others here as well?”
“No, I rode out alone.” Her hands twisted on the crop. “With a groom.”
Georgina was surprised at this. When William and the others had come the last time, Marianne had not accompanied them. And though she had thought nothing about it at the time, this solitary visit made it appear more significant. Looking closer, she thought Marianne showed strain. But she said only, “I was just going walking. Would you care to come, or shall we remain here?”
“A walk would be nice,” answered Marianne.
“Oh, but you are wearing riding dress, of course. You will not wish to—”
“It’s quite all right,” interrupted the other, more sharply than Georgina had ever heard her speak. She looped the trailing folds of her habit over her arm and turned toward the stairs.
Georgina said no more until they were outside the inn and strolling along the grassy lane that wandered out behind it, leading, as she had previously discovered, to a small village about a half mile away. Then she ventured, “A fine day.”
Marianne merely nodded.
“Your family is well?”
“Yes,” was the curt response.
Having established to her own satisfaction that something was wrong with Marianne, Georgina fell silent. They were not very well acquainted, but Marianne had come a good distance to see her, and that argued some sort of appeal. Georgina wished to help if she could. “The baron is much better,” she offered. “He is allowed to lie on the sofa downstairs, and he has callers today.”