Parfit Knight

by Riley, Stella

  Oddly, it did not occur to her to wonder why Philip had never thought she might be capable of braving the elements and enjoying it – and, if it occurred to the Marquis, he elected not to mention it.

  Not all their activities were so strenuous. There was music at the harpsichord in Rosalind’s parlour. Though she could play only by ear or from memory, she had a light touch and was quick to learn. Amberley, who could not play a note but was possessed of a pleasant, even tenor, ransacked his brain for all the latest Parisian airs and derived a good deal of pleasure from teaching them to her. In exchange, Rosalind attempted to pass on the rudiments of her skill at the keyboard but his lordship proved an indifferent pupil, much inclined to let his attention wander and seemingly incapable of getting past the stage of picking out Rule Britannia with one finger.

  There were books, too. Rosalind explained that while Lawson usually read her the news-sheets, she had to rely on the rector’s daughter for anything of a lengthier nature.

  ‘She normally comes three times a week for an hour or so – but, of course, she can’t get here while the snow lasts.’

  Even at the hectic height of the social season, the Marquis read rather more than that and it was his considered opinion that for anyone living as Rosalind did, three hours a week was little short of paltry. He said, ‘And what do you read?’

  Rosalind sighed. ‘Well that,’ she admitted, ‘is the problem. Rebecca is a dear girl and I’m fond of her and grateful. But she’s full of scruples and so very good that she can’t bring herself to read most of the things I’d like to hear.’

  ‘Dear me,’ grinned his lordship. ‘Never say you asked her to read Rabelais?’

  ‘No.’ She exhibited signs of mild interest. ‘It is shocking?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Oh. No chance of that, then. Even The Canterbury Tales was touch and go – though we did eventually finish it. As for Tom Jones or Moll Flanders or Pamela – she’s afraid her Papa would never approve of her reading novels. I did once manage to coax her into starting Clarissa but we had to abandon it when she felt that the content was becoming rather too warm.’ A gleam of humour appeared in the dark eyes. ‘On the other hand, she has nothing against the poetry of Herbert and positively enjoys Milton. We’ve had Paradise Lost twice.’

  ‘All of it?’ asked his lordship weakly.

  ‘All of it. Also A Pilgrim’s Progress. We did start on some of Donne’s verse but, despite being in Holy Orders, his work came as a terrible shock to poor Rebecca and we had to set it aside in favour of a book of sermons.’

  Amberley ran his fingers along a row of leather-bound volumes, noting that all the titles she had mentioned were present, along with a good many others, most of them patently unread. He said, ‘What shall it be then?’

  ‘Really?’ She was suddenly eager. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Quite sure. Choose.’

  ‘Oh. It’s so difficult! There’s Tom Jones or Wishart’s Life of Montrose that Philip promised to read to me but never did or -- ‘ She stopped, clasping her hands together. ‘No. I know. Please will you read The Castle of Otranto?’

  ‘Horry Walpole?’ he laughed, pulling the volume from the shelf. ‘Seriously? You surprise me.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘I haven’t read it myself but I’m told it’s a piece of spine-chilling nonsense.’

  ‘Exactly. Evil villains, horrible apparitions and blood.’ She shuddered with delicious anticipation. ‘Wonderful!’

  ‘Fine.’ Amused, Amberley sat down and opened the book at the first page. ‘But don’t blame me if you have nightmares.’

  They read it in instalments, often late into the evening beside the fire and, after the first few chapters, Rosalind took to curling up beside him on the sofa in order to grip his hand at all the most ghoulish bits. On one occasion, Amberley almost asked how being scared silly was enjoyable … and then realised that, of course, it was – but not necessarily solely due to Horace Walpole.

  *

  With Chard healing nicely above stairs nursed by Mrs Reed and attendance on his master required only three times each day, Saunders found himself with very little to do and resigned himself to a period of rare inactivity. His fifteen years with the Marquis had covered everything from the boisterousness of army life and a number of mad escapades abroad, to the courts of Paris and London, but never once in all that time had he been bored. Excited, over-worked, entertained, annoyed and occasionally scared out of his wits – but never bored. And strangely, despite his expectations, he was not bored now.

  Since the butler was the only member of the household whose status could be said to match that of his lordship’s valet, it was only natural that Saunders should be invited into Lawson’s inner sanctum on terms of equality. Within two days a curious friendship had sprung up between them in which little was said but much understood; and, within three, Saunders had absorbed the full measure of the manor’s mood.

  Between a gentleman’s gentleman and a dignified butler, both of unimpeachable professionalism, the question of gossip was unthinkable - so while Saunders confined himself to the perfectly proper indications of Lord Amberley’s wealth and position, Lawson made no attempt to enquire further. But it speedily became plain to the valet that, apparently on no greater recommendation than his personal charm, the Marquis was favourably regarded by everyone in the house – not excepting the scullery-maid who was unlikely ever to have clapped eyes on him. Even the fearsome Mrs Reed, after a confidential word from Lawson, had lowered her defences and grudgingly admitted that his lordship’s frivolous manner concealed a surprising degree of proper feeling and that he appeared to have done her darling nothing but good. And eventually, in a flash of dazzling insight, Saunders realised what was behind it all.

  The entire staff of Oakleigh Manor were romantically united in the belief that, though there could not be a man who was wholly worthy of their beloved mistress, the noble Lord Marquis would do very nicely. And, from Lawson downwards, they all entertained the expectation that Amberley would offer marriage.

  From stunned disbelief at their presumption, Saunders passed to sardonic amusement for what was likely to prove a forlorn hope and finally to a nagging concern that the Marquis was getting in a good deal deeper than he either intended or realised. This last caused the valet to subject his master to a discreet surveillance which finally served to convince him of three things; that Amberley and, as far as he could tell, Mistress Vernon were blissfully unaware of the fond hopes surrounding them; that his lordship, uncommunicative as ever, gave every appearance of knowing exactly what he as about; and, most significant of all, that – despite all this – a subtle change had come over him during the last few days.

  Saunders was unable to put his finger on just what that change was, but it somehow suggested that the household’s hope might perhaps be less forlorn than he’d previously supposed. It was a novel situation, fraught with possibility and he settled back to await the end-game with interest.

  There was, in fact, one inmate of Oakleigh Manor who was not reconciled to his lordship’s presence. Contemptuous of mankind in general and outraged in particular by those members of it who were rivals for his mistress’ attention, Broody sat on his perch and eyed the Marquis with growing malevolence.

  At first he sulked, silent, hunched and glowering; then he took to turning his back on the room and giving vent to an occasional muttered squawk; and finally he started to talk. With verve, élan and distressing clarity, he uttered every possible combination from his mixed fund of dockside and Anglo-Saxon invective. And the Marquis, bombarded by expressions he hadn’t heard since his army days and others he’d rarely heard at all, listened in shocked fascination before succumbing, typically, to laughter.

  ‘That bird,’ he told Rosalind, ‘could out-curse the devil. It’s totally unfitted for life in a genteel establishment and will undoubtedly come to a sticky
end. I hope.’

  Having exhausted both himself and his repertoire, Broody retired into undefeated silence while he devised new tactics. He discovered them when his enemy was alone and seated conveniently close by. Broody seized a sun-flower seed and spat; it was a hit and he squawked his satisfaction. His lordship calmly retrieved the seed and continued to read without turning his head. Broody was annoyed. He spat another seed and then another. Lord Amberley slowly closed his book and turned round.

  There was a pregnant pause while parrot and Marquis surveyed each other measuringly and then the Marquis – who by his own admission had been badly brought-up – picked up a seed and returned it with casual accuracy.

  Broody jumped. ‘Wark!’

  ‘Quite,’ replied his lordship. ‘My point, I think.’

  Broody waited, cautious but interested and, when the second seed was flicked his way, he side-stepped it neatly and put his head on one side.

  ‘Bugger!’ he said. And then, hopefully, ‘Clear for action?’

  And the Marquis, recognising that he had apparently made a major breach, laughed and shied the remaining seed. It was quite reprehensible and he knew it – for there was no telling who the wretched bird might choose to spit at next. But if it reduced the deluge of gutter-vernacular to a trickle, then it had to be considered an improvement.

  *

  For five days the snow lay heavy and unmoving; then, as January merged into February, a sudden thaw set in bringing sporadic showers of rain. Saunders told the Marquis that Chard was fit to travel, if not to drive, and then waited for him to speak of leaving. Amberley expressed his pleasure at Chard’s good progress and asked for his coat. Then he slipped the customary emerald on to his left hand, shook out his ruffles and walked serenely away to dine with Mistress Vernon. It was destined to be his last tranquil hour for a long time but neither he nor his quietly dissatisfied valet were privileged to know it.

  It began innocently enough when Rosalind asked his lordship to tell her about Paris and the court of Louis XV. Amberley described the splendours of Versailles along with its chronic over-crowding and then said, ‘As for Louis le Bien-Aimé, he’s not so well-beloved these days thanks to his unproductive wars, the extravagance and depravity of his court – and, of course, the influence wielded by his numerous mistresses.’

  Rosalind rested her chin on her clasped hands and said, ‘Madame du Barry is the present one, isn’t she? Have you ever met her?’

  He grinned. ‘My dear, I’ve danced with her – at her own request, moreover.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ A tremor of laughter entered his voice. ‘But don’t be too impressed. She only wanted to cross-question me about a friend of mine. He’s a particular favourite of hers and - though I’d like to say that’s purely because he has the advantage of a coronet - candour compels me to admit that, with the French King and the French treasury at her disposal, la belle Marie-Jeanne cares nothing for that.’

  ‘Is she very beautiful?’

  ‘Big blue eyes and an abundance of golden curls – so yes, she’s beautiful. But very beautiful? That would depend on one’s personal taste. Certainly, she’s not the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘No?’

  Amberley hesitated for a moment and then, casting caution to the winds, said, ‘No. That would be you.’

  A tide of colour swept over her face and she said unevenly, ‘Why did you say that? You can’t possibly mean it.’

  ‘Actually, I can and do – but I apologise if I’ve embarrassed you. I didn’t mean to.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to say to you.’

  ‘Then we’ll talk of something else until you do,’ he replied easily. And embarked on a description of the Paris Opera, the Comédie-Française and some of the city’s many other attractions.

  Gradually, Rosalind recovered her countenance and, having led his lordship to describe some of the private balls he had attended, listened with rapt attention whilst he did so. Her expression of dreamy eagerness was not lost on Amberley and after a while he said, ‘What are you thinking?’

  She shrugged lightly. ‘Oh – that it must feel marvellous to dance.’

  ‘And you wish that you could do it?’

  She flushed for it was the sort of admission she preferred not to make. ‘A little, perhaps.’

  The Marquis pushed his chair back and stood up.

  ‘Then you shall. I’ll teach you.’

  Rosalind looked startled. ‘You – I can’t,’ she said flatly.

  He walked around the table and drew her to her feet. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The teasing note produced an uncertain smile but she said, ‘I mean I could never dance properly – the way other people do.’

  ‘So?’ He drew her hand through his arm and led her relentlessly away to the parlour. ‘I can’t see that the way you do it matters in the slightest. Come.’ He thought for a moment, then, standing beside her, took her right hand in his and placed his left lightly round her waist. ‘My apologies for the familiarity but I expect it to pay dividends. Now. Lift your skirt in your left hand … yes, that’s it … and it’s right foot first. Ready?’

  For the next hour, while Broody looked irritably on and spat the occasional seed, the Marquis led Rosalind up and down the room, counting, instructing and criticising. ‘Now … one, two, three, four – forward, two, three, four. Yes. Again – and this time keep your head up and relax. Just move with me and stop worrying. And – one, two, three …’

  And Rosalind, dutifully doing as she was told, placed her trust in the light guiding hands and found that she was enjoying herself.

  ‘That’s much better. Now, round me … and back, two, three, four – don’t forget to curtsy. Very good. Let’s see if you can do it from memory.’

  She could and proceeded to demonstrate it with evident delight. Amberley smiled down into the beautiful face, flushed now with exertion and triumph, and raised the hand he held so that she could pivot gracefully beneath. And then it happened.

  As she returned to face him, the violet eyes seemed for one extraordinary moment to look fully into his and, in that second, all the baffling emotions of the past week crystalised into a single, breath-taking certainty. The things he’d taken for anger and compassion provoked by her situation were neither and the simple truth was that he loved her … and because of that, everything about her touched him.

  The safe shores of friendship crumbled beneath his feet; she was so close that he could smell the scent of her hair and he knew an overwhelming desire to bring her just one step closer, into his arms. He wanted, more than anything in the world or outside it, to kiss her. He froze, his fingers tightening on hers, and forced himself to remember that he’d given his word and that, even if he hadn’t, it would be an unpardonable abuse of her trust.

  Rosalind stopped, her hand poised high in his, and raised enquiring brows.

  ‘What is it? Did I do something wrong?’

  For an instant he stared back without speaking and then, releasing her hand, stepped abruptly away from her.

  ‘No – nothing.’ His breath returned slowly and he fought to keep his voice level. ‘You did it beautifully.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said. ‘Aren’t we going to finish it?’

  ‘What? Oh – no.’ He felt quite ridiculously vague except on one point – that he didn’t dare touch her again until he had himself thoroughly under control. ‘No. It isn’t necessary. You are such an apt pupil.’

  A tiny frown creased her brow but she merely swept a mocking curtsy and said, ‘Thank you kind sir!’ before sinking down on the sofa in a billow of amethyst coloured silk.

  A little pale still, the Marquis hesitated for an instant and then, resolutely putting aside his habit of the last five days, set a seal on Rosalind’s confusion by electing to sit opposite her. There were a dozen things he wanted to say and a hundred reasons why he must not say them. And, since this was clearly not the
time to think of either, he willed himself to concentrate on covering his temporary lapse.

  For a time he succeeded tolerably well and had the satisfaction of seeing the faint shadow of anxiety vanish from Rosalind’s eyes. But the light, amusing conversation occupied less than half of his mind while the rest of it seemed hopelessly beyond his recall and was dwelling, idiotically, on the curve of her throat and the sweet temptation of her mouth.

  A fraction too late, he realised that she had not replied to his last remark – a trifling reference to his mother and her Richmond home – and suddenly alert, he wondered what there was in it to produce the inexplicable tension he sensed in her.

  ‘What is it? Have I said something to distress you?’

  Rosalind started slightly and then shook her head. ‘No. It’s just that memory plays strange tricks. I haven’t thought of Richmond in years and yet … yet when you mentioned it just now, I found I could remember is quite clearly. A pretty village clustered about a green and a steep hill leading up to the gates of the park.’ She stopped and gave an uncertain laugh. ‘Do you know, I even remember the view from that hill – and I don’t think I saw it more than once.’

  Amberley was watching her very closely. He said, ‘It hasn’t changed. I suppose your uncle took you there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her mind was plainly far away and the violet eyes grew dark. ‘It was when we lived with him in Sheen. He took us to the park and we had tea in Richmond. And because I enjoyed it so much, Uncle George promised that we would go again on … ‘ She stopped.

  ‘Yes?’ prompted the Marquis gently.

  There was a long pause and then, ‘We were to go again on my birthday – only it wasn’t possible.’

  ‘Why not?’ He knew that he was on hitherto forbidden ground but he had to know if she trusted him enough to remove the barriers and confide in him. ‘Why not?’

  The slender fingers were gripped tight in her lap and her face was strained but she answered him. ‘There was an accident. And I was … ill.’

  Suddenly he could no longer bear to leave her to tell him alone and without help. Because she never complained, because her blindness – oh, so long ago it seemed – had ceased to matter, he’d begun to lose sight of what it must mean to her. And he couldn’t watch her hurting without giving some comfort.