“You really mean it?” His eyes were very bright.
“Yes. The business details would have to be worked out, of course. And—I should ask that you sign a paper of the kind that Mr. Mauleverer was talking about earlier. One that would cause embarrassment neither to Lady Heverdon, nor, in the future, to little Thomas.”
“Nor to you?”
She looked at him steadily. “Nor to me. Write out such a confession, cousin, at once, and I will ask Mr. Mauleverer and the Duke, since they know all about it, to act as my agents in making the arrangements with you. I promise you that, so far as I can, I will leave you a free agent on Barsley.”
“You would have to come over once a year, for the islanders’ homage-taking.”
“Yes, so I would.” She had forgotten this medieval ceremony which was much valued by the islanders.
“This is essential?” The Duchess looked very straight at Urban, who nodded. “And how does the island’s succession lie?” she asked.
Urban looked at her, almost, it seemed, with respect. “My uncle stipulated in his will that if my cousin died childless, I should inherit.”
“Quite so.” She gave him a friendly smile. “How wise you are, Mr. Urban, to admit what we could so easily find out for ourselves. In that case, Marianne, I do not recommend that you visit the island—under Mr. Urban’s benevolent jurisdiction—until you have taken the precaution of equipping yourself with an heir. Aside from that,” she went on, ignoring Marianne’s crimson confusion, “the suggestion seems to me an admirable one. Miss Urban says she does not wish to live on Barsley; Mr. Urban, it seems, loves the island almost too well. What do you say, Mr. Urban?”
“Give me pen and paper,” he said. “I had best begin confessing.”
“You do not propose to thank your cousin for her extraordinarily generous offer.”
He smiled his cynical smile. “What would be the use,” he said, “since you are all convinced I would murder her if I got the chance? Besides, she is right. I shall make a very much better governor of Barsley than she ever would.”
“You are an honest villain, I must say,” said the Duchess approvingly. “I think, perhaps, you had best give us an undertaking not to leave Barsley until we give you permission.”
“You think I might try again?”
“I think you capable of anything, Mr. Urban. Mr. Mauleverer, do you think you could find us paper and a pen for Mr. Urban?”
“Of course.” He took a candle and disappeared through the green baize door to the front of the house. He had been very silent, Marianne thought, during this last interchange. If only she knew what he was thinking. Did he understand that she would gladly give away all title to Barsley, if only that would make him feel free to ask her to marry him? But very likely he no longer wanted to. She could not forget his anger on the night of the ball—and, since then, she had made matters infinitely worse by her readiness to believe him capable of murder. How could he forgive her? Wryly, she admitted to herself that her readiness to make Urban her steward on Barsley was partly the result of gratitude to him for his admirably lucid explanation of how he had gone about to deceive her. Perhaps, after that, Mauleverer would not think her so culpable. And, besides, there was infinite comfort in the thought that he had been similarly deceived and had hurried down here in an attempt to save her from the consequences of what he thought she had done. She smiled to herself, recognizing her cousin’s cleverness. Of course he had intended to rouse both their gratitude in just this way. He might have played—and lost—but there was no questioning his skill.
Once again he seemed to read her thoughts: “Grateful to me, cousin?”
She was spared the need to answer by Mauleverer’s return from the front of the house. He laid down pen, inkwell, and paper on the far end of the big table. “Now, Mr. Urban?”
Urban rose. “It will take me a little while,” he said.
“I should think so,” said the Duchess. “Lord knows, you have plenty to confess. I do urge that you make a thorough job of it the first time and spare us the trouble of a repetition. John, I think it would be best if you were to sit with Mr. Urban in case he should be struck with another of his bright ideas. I am going to exert the privilege of age and fall asleep, here by the fire.” She removed the cook’s cat from the rocking chair and settled herself luxuriously in its place. “Marianne, a stool for my feet, if you please? And then, perhaps, you and Mr. Mauleverer would feel like clearing up the kitchen a little. After all, so far as I can see, we are going to have to make breakfast for ourselves presently. We can hardly do it among empty champagne glasses. Washing dishes should prove a novel experience to you, Mr. Mauleverer.”
“This night has been full of them.” He rose and picked up a couple of glasses. “I am ashamed to confess that I am not quite sure where it is done.”
“Down the hall here.” Marianne was already stacking plates on a big tin tray, while silently blessing the Duchess for this ingenious means of giving her a little while alone with Mauleverer. The Duke had drawn up a chair across the table from Urban, who had begun to write, slowly and with a good deal of scratching out. It looked like being a long business. She put the last glass on the tray and pushed it gently across the table to Mauleverer. “I will bring the kettle.” She had taken the precaution of refilling it after making the coffee.
He followed her down the long flagged hall that led to the sculleries. “Do you know, I am not sure that I have ever been out here before.”
“Why should you?” She put the candlestick she was carrying on the shelf above the sink. “It is not exactly the purlieu of the master of the house.”
“I suppose not.” He looked around the shadowy room. “You would hardly call it luxurious, would you?”
“No—and absurdly far from the kitchen. I have often thought that if you ever were altering the Hall, the kitchen quarters could well be improved.”
“But not by a Gothic front?”
She laughed. “No, indeed. I should like to see much more light in here, rather than less. You have no idea what a damp and dismal room this is in the daytime.”
“I can imagine.” And then, in a completely different tone: “Marianne!”
“Yes?” Her hand shook as she carried glasses over to the sink.
“What can I say to you? Or is it not too late to say anything? I said too much, I know—horribly too much, at the Duchess’s ball. What is the use of saying that I had been grossly misled about you! You cannot help but think me the world’s greatest fool to have believed Lady Heverdon when she told me you were as good as engaged to the Duke. Nor can I expect you to forgive me for what I said. And, besides—you are an heiress now. Barsley is yours. It is plain that the Duke adores you. He will ask you again, I am sure of it. It is in every way a most suitable match, and God knows he will make you a better husband than I ever could have. I have no fortune—and very likely no career if this night’s doings get out. Your cousin is quite right there. It is not at all the kind of scandal Lord Grey would relish. I shall end up as a bad-tempered old failure, the terror of his servants, the recluse, no doubt, of Maulever Hall.”
Marianne dried a glass and put it carefully down on the table. “Poor little Thomas,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You are his guardian, are you not? You surely cannot intend to let Lady Heverdon have him. Or—do you?”
“You mean, am I a complete, a hopeless fool? No, no, give me credit for that much sense. It was pride, Miss Lamb; mere, miserable pride that made me appear once more her slave this autumn—and a damned tedious business I found it, too. No, no, Thomas stays here—Martha can look after him. She seems to do that well enough.”
Madness to have hoped anything from this conversation. Give it up. Give it all up. Let it be over with—quickly. But there was something she must say. “Do you know”—she managed to keep her voice steady—“I am very much afraid that I have been mistaken about Martha. I begin to think that I made a fool of mysel
f—and misled you about those drops she gives your mother.”
“You a fool? Never.” Was there resentment in his tone? “But I am glad to have your favorable opinion of Martha, for I do not see what else I can do with the boy.”
“No?” If his pride was a fatal obstacle between them, so was hers. How could she say, “Marry me, my love, and I’ll look after Thomas.” The answer was, that she could not. It was all hopeless. Her fortune and his pride stood between them, insuperable barriers. And yet—she was almost sure that he loved her still. And equally sure that though it might just possibly work for the moment, an overture from her, now, would be fatal for their future happiness. He would never forget that it was she who had made the first move. He was not the kind of man who could allow the initiative to be taken by a woman. And, more and more obviously, he would do nothing himself. She had quietly finished washing the dishes while they talked. Now, keeping her face carefully turned away from him, she began to put them away on their shelves. It was all over. Tears ran silently down her cheeks as she moved past him to the china cupboard that opened off the far corner of the scullery.
Something crunched under her foot. She looked down—and screamed. The floor here was alive with cockroaches.
“Marianne!” As she dropped the glass she was holding and backed out of the pantry, he came toward her, arms outstretched.
She stumbled into them and felt herself enfolded in that firm embrace she had feared never to feel again. “Oh my darling.” His lips were on her hair. “Is there really something you are afraid of?”
“Without you”—she looked up at him—“everything.”
For a long moment, their eyes met and held. Then, slowly, like the beginning of day, his smile transformed his face. He bent toward her. “So much for pride,” he said.
They were roused from a kiss that should have been endless by the Duchess’s voice from behind them. “Very satisfactory,” she said.
Marianne turned, still in the safe compass of his arms, to smile at her friend. “Would you say that I was sufficiently compromised so he must marry me?”
“Oh, amply. If he needs compulsion, which I doubt. Besides, Mr. Mauleverer, you should remember that my poor Marianne must get herself an heir, or go in daily fear of murder by that ingenious cousin of hers.”
Mauleverer smiled down at Marianne. “My love fears nothing,” he said, “except cockroaches, God bless her. But—I could do with an heir myself.”
“Mauleverer of Maulever Hall?” Loving laughter trembled in her voice.
He shook her, just a little, gently. “And I thought you would never tease me again, my shrew.”
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