His long speech had given her time to collect herself. “Quite mad,” she said composedly. “Nor do I believe that you do. You are mocking me, sir, and I cannot think what I have done to deserve it.”
“Can you not? You do not remember, then, sitting night after night, looking so quiet and so cynical? You do not plead guilty to thinking me a doting fool, and showing it?”
“If I showed it, I apologize.”
“That’s better. You thought it impossible, did you not, that any female could be so enamored as Lady Heverdon seemed of such a bad-tempered botched up creature as I.”
“I certainly thought you bad-tempered. I still do. Look at you now.”
His scowl changed to a reluctant smile. “Exactly. No woman in her senses would marry me. Miranda Heverdon’s finances must be deplorable indeed for her to have considered it for a moment. Well, I have looked into them, and it is true, they are. She is oceans deep in debt; has been, I suspect, since before she married my cousin, and his will has left her no chance of recovering herself. Oh yes, she needs to marry badly enough to be grateful for so easy a mark as I must have seemed. She told me, you know, that you had engaged yourself to Mr. Emsworth.”
“Oh.” Marianne was beginning to see. “She told me that she was engaged to you.”
“She lied. I have been a fool, but not such a fool as that. Flirtation is a game that two can play at; she gave me my cue; I followed it; she has no grounds for complaint.”
“Poor Lady Heverdon.”
“Yes, poor Lady Heverdon, if you like, and now, enough of her. We have established that I am ugly and impossible. I am, however, rich; I look like finding myself a Marquis malgre moi; I have a passably entertaining career ahead of me, and a foolish old mother who cannot help cheating at cards. I have a house in the valley over there on to which I do not intend to build a Gothic front, and another house in Yorkshire in which I do not intend to live. I shall always be bad-tempered, but I hope I should be good to my wife, so long as I respected her, and she me...”
“I hope you would too, but I do not see what it has to do with me.”
“It has everything to do with you, and you know it. Come, Miss Lamb, the time for coyness is past. You are the only woman I know with whom I can imagine living a reasonable life. You are not afraid of me; you do not cower when I scowl; you are damnably intelligent and know what I mean when I talk politics—you will make, by the by, an admirable politician’s wife. Can you not imagine yourself running a salon in London?”
“Yes, very much more easily than I can imagine myself married to you. And now, Mr. Mauleverer, I am cold and wet, and the thunder has slackened. Let us go home.”
“Is that all your answer?”
“What else should I say? You do not want a wife, Mr. Mauleverer, you want a housekeeper with political interests.”
He ground his teeth. “Damnation. I have done it all wrong; I knew I would. But how can I imagine that you might love a thing like me—what right have I to appeal to you on sentimental grounds? My time for romance was over sixteen years ago.”
“So your mother told me. Oh, no need to growl at me; I know you think yourself disfigured beyond repair. I tell you, Mr. Mauleverer, if you are sick to death of my mystery, I am equally so of your appearance.”
“I am sorry if I bore you.”
“No need to be. You will never do that.”
“And what, pray, am I to understand by that?”
“What you will.”
“Marianne! What a fool I am!”
She smiled up at him. “I think so.”
He looped Prince’s reins more firmly round his arm. “Miss Lamb, I have loved you, despite myself, I think from the first moment of seeing you. I will be honest with you and confess I fought the feeling—I tried to remain, as I thought, faithful to Lady Heverdon. It was impossible. Marianne, I adore you. If you will not marry me, I have no hope of happiness left. I hope I shall not actually destroy myself, but I shall most certainly degenerate into a bad-tempered, wretched old bachelor.”
“Worse tempered than ever? Impossible.” But her eyes gave him a different answer.
“Marianne! Is it possible? Can you really love me?”
She smiled up at him. “How can I help it?” And was in his arms. The rain poured down, the thunder still rumbled in the distance and occasional lightning flashes lit up the hills around them. They took no notice. The two horses, quietly cropping here and there at the close grass of the path occasionally twitched on the reins so carelessly held. At last, he raised his head to look down at her: “My darling, you are soaked to the skin.”
“So are you. Does it matter?”
“Nothing matters. This is happiness, my love. I thought I had lost all chance of it; I pretended to myself that I might have some respectable substitute with Lady Heverdon ... and now, now I have you. Tell me you’ll love me always.”
“Always. And you’ll not mind if we discover I’m a pauper?”
“Why should I, so long as you are mine? Marianne, marry me soon. I have known so much unhappiness, I shall not believe in my good fortune until I have you safely tied to me for life.”
Safe in his arms, she smiled again. “Should I be coy, do you think, and ask for time? Mr. Emsworth says young ladies always refuse offers of matrimony the first time.”
“Damn Emsworth. Shall we make him marry us, my love?”
“No, that would be too unkind—not that he ever cared a rap for me, but imagine the affront to the poor man’s pride.”
“Very well, let it be the bishop then, so long as it is soon. Next week, Marianne?”
“The week after. I must have a wedding dress, I suppose, and other things suitable for your wife. I shall be a sad charge on you, my darling.”
‘Terrible.” He bent to kiss her again. “I do not know how I shall bear it. But, come, the worst of the storm is over, and you are shivering. We must go home.”
“Yes, home. And I thought it could never be that. Oh, Mark, if I am shivering, it is with happiness.”
“If you look at me like that, we shall never get home. Come, up you go. Sadie will come quietly enough now, I think. And that reminds me to give you a terrible scold all the way home for disobeying me.”
“Yes? Shall we start straight in quarreling like a properly married couple?”
“Do you know, I think I loved you first because you would not be afraid of me. Do you remember how you stood up to me about the Martins? And you were right about them, by the way.”
She laughed. “Naturally I was right.”
“Do you intend to be so always?”
“I intend to adore you, always and forever. Always provided we neither of us catch pneumonia in the meantime.”
X
The rain was still falling steadily when they rode into the stable yard twenty minutes later, but they were too warm with happiness to notice it.
“What you need”—Marianne was slightly in the lead and leaned back to speak to him over her shoulder—“is a shrew of a wife, to keep that temper of yours in order.”
“And you will be my shrew?”
“I mean to tame you.”
“How?”
“Why, by cruelty of course, as Petruchio did. I shall wear you away with my moods and exhaust you with my tempers.” Her laugh belied her words. “But, look, there is poor Jim Barnes with the hangdog air of a man condemned. Tell him he is not dismissed.”
“Your first command?”
“My first petition, my darling.”
He jumped from his horse and turned to hand her down, then called to Jim Barnes who was being very busy with his back to them in a corner of the yard. “You—Jim—here a moment.”
“Yes, sir?” The groom came forward reluctantly and Marianne suspected she could detect the traces of tears on his grimy and weather-beaten face.
“You have served me how long?” Mauleverer had kept Marianne’s hand in his and now pulled her gently to his side. She saw Jim Barnes’s faded blue e
yes flicker with sudden comprehension before he answered: “Twenty years, sir, and your father thirty before that.”
“Too long to be learning new tricks, eh? Well, Miss Lamb here says it was all her fault and I must forgive you. Indeed, I do not see how I can help it, since she has merely had her way with you, as she does with the rest of us. If I cannot resist her persuasion, why should I expect you to? So, it is all to be forgotten, but if I ever catch you letting her risk her life again, I’ll not dismiss you; I’ll break every bone in your body.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jim Barnes, “and I’m sure I wish you very happy, sir.”
Mauleverer laughed and turned Marianne to guide her toward the house. “I seem to be very transparent,” he said.
“Happiness is transparent.” She smiled up at him. “That is its virtue.” And then: “Do you know, Mark, you look quite different when you laugh like that.”
“Like what?”
“Why—happily, without the bitterness. Was she very beautiful?”
“Who?”
“The girl you were engaged to.”
His arm went round her waist in an embrace that was very nearly shaking. “Surpassingly! The Cleopatra of her time. Men shot themselves daily for her love; I do not know how I managed to survive her faithlessness.” And then, laughing: “And you, my dear, are merely a hussy to remind me of her. I have remembered her, it is true, with bitterness, but it is all over now. You are my happiness, my life ... Marianne, if you should fail me...”
“I shall stick like a burr—Oh ...” They had climbed the stairs still arm in arm and now paused, confronting Martha who stood at the far end of the long upstairs corridor. Her black eyes seemed to snap at them, then she curtsied respectfully to Mauleverer and turned to disappear into Mrs. Mauleverer’s room.
He smiled down at her ruefully. “It is fortunate that we do not intend to make any mystery of our happiness, my love. Now, hurry and change your wet clothes before we give rise to any more scandal—and before you catch a chill, which I care much more about, while I go and interrupt Martha in breaking the good news to my mother. But first, even if the whole household should be watching, one kiss.”
“I do not care if the whole world is watching.” She raised her face to his.
At last he let her go. “We will be married next week,” he said, his voice shaking slightly on the words. “For the time being, I am master, and that is my decree. Yield in this, and afterward you shall rule me with reins of gossamer.”
She smiled at him tremulously, shaken, herself, by the passion that had roused in her to meet his. “I am glad you are master.” And then, with a recovery of her lighter touch: “And as to the reins of gossamer; I will believe in them when I feel them tried.”
“Infidel! Unbeliever! I intend to be the mildest of husbands.”
“Naturally. Always provided that you get your own way in everything.”
“You shall pay for that, little shrew.” He reached to pull her to him again, but this time she escaped him, still laughing, closed the door of her room behind her, and stood for a moment, leaning against it, savoring the strange rich taste of happiness.
It continued all evening. Mrs. Mauleverer was first amazed, then, characteristically, lachrymose, and finally, delighted, and they all dined together in an atmosphere of enthusiastic planning. From time to time, she would look from her son to Marianne and murmur all over again: “Never been so surprised. I was perfectly certain it was to be Lady Heverdon,” And Mauleverer would catch Marianne’s eye with one of the familiar, sardonic smiles she had grown to love and say, once more: “Disappointed, ma’am?”
“No, no.” Dinner was over and they were sitting on, talking in the flickering light of the candles, low now in their sockets. “To tell truth, Mark, lovely though she is, I was always a little somehow afraid of Lady Heverdon.”
“I think you were right to be.” He caught Marianne’s eye and said no more.
When his mother rose to move to the drawing room, he accompanied them: “Will you play to me, Miss Lamb?”
“With all my heart.” She was grateful for his quick instinct that avoided an apparent repetition of those tete-a-tete evenings with Lady Heverdon, and grateful, too, for the chance to let her skilled hands finger their way through his favorite Beethoven sonata while her freed mind went on roaming about the fringes of unfamiliar happiness.
Mrs. Mauleverer was soon nodding over her embroidery, and Marianne too felt herself exhausted with all that the day had held. Was it really only this morning that Mr. Emsworth had proposed to her? She finished her sonata and sat for a moment, slightly drooping at the piano.
“You are tired.” Mauleverer crossed the room to take her hand. “Best go to bed. There will be time to be happy in the morning.”
“A lifetime to be happy.”
“Happy?” Mrs. Mauleverer woke with a jerk. “Yes, my dear children, most happy, but wonderfully sleepy too. Come, Marianne, it is time for bed. We must think about your trousseau in the morning.” And she chattered gaily about silks and gauzes as he escorted them upstairs, and hovered enthusiastically close as he bent to kiss Marianne’s hand. “A lifetime of happiness,” he repeated her words. “Sleep well, my love.”
She wanted to lie for a while, and continue the exquisite tasting of good fortune, but fatigue had its way with her, and it seemed no time before she was roused by a low, furtive tapping at her door.
“What is it?” She sat up in bed and looked around her. It must be early still, for the room was full of shadows.
“May I come in, Miss Lamb?” Martha’s voice. Why?
“Yes?” Her voice questioning, Marianne sat up in bed and pulled a shawl around her.
Martha was fully dressed. “There is some one who says he must see you, Miss Lamb. At once. Alone.”
“Who? Where?” She was still dizzily rousing from sleep.
“A man—a stranger. I never saw him before. I was out with the child—there’s no keeping him in bed these mornings. He awaits you in the wilderness. Must see you, he says, on a matter of urgency—and secretly. ‘Ask her,’ he said, ‘if she wants to know who she is.’ ”
“Who I am?” Marianne was out of bed in a flash. “Thank you, Martha. I will go to him as soon as I can dress.”
“Let me help you.” They had spoken throughout in whispers.
Marianne’s hands trembled so much that she was grateful for Martha’s surprising offer of assistance. “Why the secrecy?” she asked.
Martha looked up from the buttons of her dress. “He did not say. No doubt he will explain.”
“Yes ... What kind of a man?”
The sharp black eyes met hers for a moment. “A gentleman. There. You are ready. Best lose no time. The servants will be stirring soon.”
“Yes. Thank you, Martha.” She ran downstairs, her heart high with anticipation. She would be able to tell Mark her true name, to marry him without the shadow of a doubt hanging over her. And yet—why the secrecy? Her spirits dimmed a little as she let herself silently out at a side door and hurried across the dew-drenched grass of the walled cutting garden and through the little gate into the wilderness.
Closing it behind her, she looked around. Ornamental trees and bushes grew thickly on this side of the wall in a well-ordered simulation of wilderness. Scarlet berries hung thick on the berberis, and here and there leaves were beginning to turn. Birds, interrupted by her coming, were taking up their morning song all around her. There was no one in sight. Could this be some strange practical joke on Martha’s part? There had seemed, surely, something odd about her unwonted friendliness—and at the same time more than a hint of malice in those bright black eyes. But what possible purpose could she serve by sending her on such a wild goose chase?
Marianne started forward down the winding, flagged path that twisted and turned this way and that through the bushes, making the wilderness seem larger than in fact it was ... In its very center, a rustic bench was sheltered by an arbor of traveler’s joy or
, more accurately at this time of year, old man’s beard, which trailed its long silvery tassels down almost to the ground.
A man was sitting on the bench his back turned toward her, and oddly muffled, considering the mildness of the autumn morning, in a capacious black traveling cloak. A twig cracked under her soft shoe and he rose and turned to meet her, his cloak still held protectively around his face ... Then, at sight of her, he let it drop and came forward, arms outstretched in greeting.
“Marianne; my love, it is really you.”
She stepped back, eluding his grasp, and gazed at him with dilated eyes. Surely she had never seen that sallow face, nor heard the curiously lisping voice before? Or—had she? Suddenly horribly, she was not sure. Was there, after all, something familiar about the shrewd gray eyes under colorless brows? Was this, perhaps, and, somehow, horribly, the beginning of memory?
His hands had dropped to his sides. “You mean—you still do not remember? I had hoped that the sight of me, the sound of my voice would bring memory back to you. Marianne, you cannot have forgotten it all.”
“Forgotten what, sir?” Her voice shook a little and she took another step backward, away from those white, pleading hands.
“I could not have believed it. Do you remember nothing—nothing, Marianne?”
She looked at him steadily. “I am sure that I never saw you before in my life.” But it was not true. More and more, she was tormented by near-memory. She had heard, and, surely, hated that melodious, lisping voice before. But when? Where? Well—he was telling her. She fought down terror, and listened.
“Oh, my God. To have to tell you.” His voice shook with emotion. “Try, think, listen to me. The little church on the hill, Marianne, and the rector who took snuff during the ceremony? Surely you must remember how we laughed about it afterward? Oh, that day I had such hopes, such happiness ... Marianne, how could you forget?”
Her hands, cold as ice, clasped each other for comfort. “What ceremony, sir?”
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