The Merry Marquis

by Meredith Bond

  He held tight onto his thoughts. He directed his wayward mind to the orphanage. The orphanage was Julia’s legacy. It was his homage to her. It kept her close.

  Another deep breath—this one easier than the last.

  But something wasn’t right.

  The quiet of the house caught Richard’s attention. For so many days, there had been a constant low level of noise, which had seemed to come from every corner of the house. He had no idea of what was going on and didn’t particularly care to.

  But now the house was silent. Something was off.

  Tentatively, he opened the door of his library and peered out into the entrance hall. The footman was there, standing silently like a statue, staring straight ahead.

  Richard went into the dining room where another footman quietly polished the gleaming wood of the table. Upstairs in the drawing room, a maid was going about dusting an already spotless room. She, too, moved in near silence.

  It seemed as if everything was normal. The servants were there doing their jobs. They were just doing so very quietly.

  The maid scurried out of the room, the hushed rustle of her skirts the only sound, as he stood looking about him. Something was definitely odd.

  Everything looked oddly clean and shining. All of the wood smelled of fresh beeswax. All the silver gleamed like it never had before. Even the windows sparkled. He could not remember his house ever being so very clean.

  But there was something missing. Richard could feel it under his skin.

  He went down into the kitchen where even the cook was working wordlessly, preparing dinner. He found Mrs. MacPherson in her sitting room going over household accounts.

  She looked up, startled, as he came into the room. “Och! M’lord, I dinna hear ye coom in.”

  “That is surprising considering how quiet everything is. Why is that, Mrs. MacPherson?”

  “Why is what, m’lord?

  “Why is everyone so quiet?” he asked again.

  “I dinna know fer sure, m’lord,” the housekeeper answered, as if she might be holding something back.

  “Mrs. MacPherson?”

  “Aye, m’lord?” The lady began to smooth down her apron in a nervous way.

  “What is going on?”

  She went over to her cupboard and took out a folded slip of paper. Her lips pinched together as she handed it to him. “Perhaps this’ll answer yer question, m’lord.”

  Richard took the note, recognizing his name in Teresa’s handwriting. And then it hit him. That’s what was missing. Teresa!

  “Where is Lady Merrick?” he asked the housekeeper.

  “I ‘spose that’ll tell ye, m’lord. She left it with me were ye to ask after her.”

  Richard nodded. Figuring that this was all he was going to get out of the woman, he took the note back upstairs. In his study, he drew back the curtains for the first time in over a week, needing the light to read the note. He settled himself into his favorite chair before reading through the few lines of the note, twice.

  She was sorry for what she had done to him? What had she done? He was the one at fault. He had been the one who had let his desires overpower his commonsense. She had only followed her misguided heart.

  And now she had left him. Just like Julia. Teresa had left him.

  When had she done this? He looked for the date. Two days past! He shook his head in amazement. He had not known. He had been so caught up in his own frustration and guilt that he had not even noticed until today that something was not right.

  The smudged letters and tear stains told him more than the scant words did. Richard dropped his head into his hands. How could he have let things go so far?

  The light from the sun burning through his fingers caught his attention. Following the sunbeam, he looked down to the carpet near his chair. There was a spot that somehow looked whiter, cleaner than the rest of the carpet around it. Richard stared at it for some time, an odd feeling growing in his chest.

  Was it just the sunlight or was that spot truly whiter?

  And then it hit him, like a blow to his gut. Where was the wine stain? The wine stain that had become a part of his carpet on the day Julia had died.

  It was gone.

  It had been right where the beam of sunlight now shone.

  He slipped off his chair on to the carpet, feeling it with his hands, as if his eyes were somehow deceiving him and only by touching it could he be certain that it was real. But it was real.

  The carpet felt oddly stiff just in that spot, as if a little of whatever had been used to clean it had been left there.

  Sprinting to his feet, he ran out of the room. Completely forgetting about the bell system he’d had installed so many years ago, he bellowed for Mrs. MacPherson.

  The woman came panting up the stairs, running towards him. “What is it, m’lord? What’s wrong?”

  “Mrs. MacPherson, what has happened to my carpet?” he demanded, pointing into his study.

  The woman looked at him oddly before going into the room. Looking about the floor, she shook her head. “I dinna know what ye’re talkin’ about, m’lord. Nothin’s happened to yon carpet.”

  Richard strode over to the spot where the sun still shone. “There, Mrs. MacPherson, there. Where is the wine stain that has been there for over a year?”

  The housekeeper followed him and looked down at the spot. “Och, that one. Well, ye know m’lord, I’ve been scrubbin’ at that stain off and on ever since it happened. I’ve never been able to get it up, but Lady Merrick, she said she got it up. Worked at it all night, I believe she said. Told me so when we was doin’ our spring cleanin’, m’lord.”

  “Your spring cleaning? When did you do spring cleaning?”

  “Why, we’ve done nothin’ else for the past week, m’lord. The mistress said we wasn’t to disturb ye in here. And she had already gotten the wine stain out anyway.”

  Richard felt oddly out of place. He did not know what had been happening under his own roof and he had been here.

  “When did she do that, did she say?” he asked, already certain of the answer.

  “Must have been a week ago Friday, m’lord,” the housekeeper said, clearly confused over his intense questioning over one little stain.

  Richard nodded, wandering toward the fireplace. The night they had consummated their marriage.

  She had probably come down here to find him. But what had she found instead?

  He looked up at the picture of Julia hanging above the mantle and then turned toward the spot on the carpet just in front of it. Slowly things were beginning to come together in his mind.

  “Thank you, Mrs. MacPherson.”

  The housekeeper bobbed a curtsey and then left him alone.

  Richard looked at the carpet one more time and then up at Julia. As always, she was looking down at him with laughter in her eyes and a smile on her face, but this time it truly looked like she was laughing at him.

  And well she should, Richard thought to himself. He had been a fool. He had found someone who truly made him happy, who had made him want to live again, and he’d driven her away.

  Yes, he admitted to himself on a breath, Teresa made him happy.

  He sat down in his chair. He missed her. He missed hearing her play the pianoforte. He missed having funny conversations with her about silly enormous horses and wine fountains in the shape of the sphinx. He missed her sense of humor and her intelligence. The way she glowed when she played her music and the way her face lit up and her eyes became intense when she argued for the returned soldiers. He missed her presence in his home.

  He looked up at the painting. “I will always love you, Julia. But Teresa makes me want to live again. I cannot live without her. Tell me, Julia, tell me that it’s all right to live again.”

  He stopped and waited. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for—lightening to strike him down? Julia’s painted smile to fade? But there was nothing.

  And then he heard it. The ticking of the clock on the ma
ntle.

  He listened harder.

  There was the sound of birds chirping in the trees just outside his window. Carriages were rolling past, their horses clopping quickly down the street. A fruit seller was wandering down the street crying out his wares—apples, oranges, and luscious berries. A woman was selling flowers, he could hear her song as it harmonized with the fruit seller’s.

  The sounds of life.

  So ordinary and yet so beautiful to someone who had shut himself off from it for so long. But he would do so no longer. He wanted to live. And he wanted to live with Teresa.

  Without further thought, he ran out the front door of his house and a moment later, he was pounding on the door of Lady Swinborne’s house next door.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Teresa was startled, but not too surprised, when she emerged from the breakfast parlor to find Lord Stowe sitting with her mother in the drawing room.

  She was used to her mother having men visiting her at all times of the day. And, despite the fact that her mother had only buried her father three months ago, she knew that to ask her mother to live without a man would be like asking a fish to live without water. It simply could not be done.

  She had thought, nevertheless, that Lord Stowe would behave with more propriety. But then he had also come to call at an odd hour the day before. Perhaps, Teresa thought wryly, it was the effect that her mother had on the men around her—one of those knowing half smiles when propriety was the last thing on the minds of her beaux.

  “Good morning, Mama. Lord Stowe, what a pleasant surprise to see you here so early,” Teresa said mildly, trying to hide her curiosity.

  “Good morning, Lady Merrick,” Lord Stowe said, his ears turning red with embarrassment, as he hastily stood up from the settee he had been sharing with her mother. At least he realized that his presence here at this time of day was not what was strictly proper, Teresa thought.

  “Good morning, querida,” her mother said with a smile. “You are looking charming this morning.”

  Teresa stopped mid-stride and looked at her mother. Was Dona Isabella, in the presence of a man, actually complimenting her on her appearance? But then, her mother had been unusually pleasant, even kind, recently. Why, Teresa had been completely floored the previous evening after dinner when her mother had said that she was proud of the way Teresa had blossomed over the past few months since she had been here in London.

  But that was a comment made in private. Teresa’s experience had always been that her mother had saved her most scathing and disparaging remarks for when they were in company, especially the company of men.

  Teresa looked speculatively at her mother, but all she got in return was her usual dazzling smile. Doña Isabella patted the settee next to her, where Lord Stowe had vacated his seat.

  Teresa sat down, as her mother asked, “Have you any plans today, Teresa? Perhaps…” She looked frankly at her daughter. “Perhaps you will see if that husband of yours has emerged yet from the refuge of his library?”

  Teresa had told her mother the whole of what had happened and now she was very sorry that she had. She had not been allowed to hear about anything else for nearly two days—ever since she had returned to her aunt’s house.

  “No, Mama. When Richard is ready to come out I’m sure that we’ll hear of it through the servants. Until then, there is nothing more that I can do.”

  Teresa braced herself for the flood of rebuke that was inevitable. Instead, there was an awkward silence for a moment. From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Lord Stowe and her mother exchange a little glance.

  “Querida…” Doña Isabella began.

  “Yes?” Teresa turned to her mother. There was clearly something going on, but she had not the faintest idea what it could be. Looking at Doña Isabella’s beautiful face, Teresa realized that she had never seen her look so uncomfortable. She had a small frown between her eyes, and yet underneath it she seemed oddly calm, even serene, with none of her usual nervous energy.

  “Harry—er, Lord Stowe, that is—has asked me to marry him.” Doña Isabella said slowly, not looking at her daughter, but instead over at Lord Stowe, who was still looking rather flushed. “And I have accepted.”

  “He has? You— you have?” Teresa’s mouth nearly fell open as she struggled with her thoughts. Looking at how her mother was looking at Lord Stowe and seeing the look returned, she realized that she should not be surprised at all. Now that she thought about it, her mother and Lord Stowe had been together very frequently of late.

  She wasn’t certain how she felt about this, but knew that something was expected of her. “This is wonderful,” she said, turning her lips up into an approximation of a smile. “Please accept my warmest felicitations.”

  “Thank you, Teresa,” her mother said, but her words were reflexive, as her eyes did not move from those of her newly betrothed. Stowe, for his part, also seemed caught in the spell, and, uncharacteristically, did not respond to her words of congratulations.

  Teresa rose from her seat, still struggling to understand the deep ache she now felt in her heart. Was she disappointed at this turn of events? After all, she had, at one point, thought that she might be interested in Lord Stowe herself. He was charming, handsome, with a raffish air lent by his eye-patch—yet kind and thoughtful. He was everything she had thought she would want in a husband.

  “I will leave the two of you together,” she said, moving toward the door. She got no answer, as her mother and Lord Stowe seemed to have forgotten that she was even there.

  Looking at them, she realized that the ache she felt had nothing to do with the fact that her mother had been the one to win Lord Stowe’s affections. No, in fact, the more she thought about it, the happier she was for them.

  Lord Stowe, who was so kind and good, deserved every happiness that was coming to him. And her mother not only needed a man to keep her company, but one to fill her heart.

  Leaning against the closed door to the drawing room, Teresa knew that her heavy heart was not because Lord Stowe had found his soul-mate. It was because she had found her own… and then lost him forever, locked behind the solid wooden door of the library in the house next door.

  The warmth of the sun that afternoon was almost too much. Teresa was tempted to retreat back into the cool of the house, but it was too quiet there. Lord Stowe had left after he and her mother had informed her aunt of their good news and then the two ladies had gone out to pay their morning calls leaving Teresa alone. Oppressed by the silence in the house, she had gone out to the garden.

  It would have been so pleasant if it were not for the heat. The air was as fresh as it could be in the city and there was the singing of birds and the chatter of some squirrels in addition to the normal noise of everyday life.

  Teresa leaned back on the bench that was perfectly placed out of the sun. The shade of the lone tree of her aunt’s tiny garden provided, at least, some respite from the heat.

  She wondered whether Richard had yet noticed that she had left, or if he was still hiding himself away in his library with Julia.

  A tear slipped down her cheek. It was hard enough that her husband didn’t love her, but that it was his dead wife whom he loved over her made it all the more difficult. She couldn’t compete with a dead woman. She brushed away a second tear, but missed the third one. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to stop feeling sorry for herself.

  The sound of muffled footsteps in the grass distracted her, and then she felt someone sit down on the bench by her side. Teresa opened her eyes.

  Richard sat next to her.

  Teresa shook her head in disbelief. He was here. He had finally come. The tears began to flow again. She didn’t know what to say or what to do.

  He looked awful. His blond hair, which he had cut short to be more in tune with the current style, was standing at odd angles and his face somehow looked older with more lines around his tired eyes. His neckcloth was untied, and his waistcoat and coat were both unbuttoned a
s if he hadn’t had the time or energy to dress himself properly.

  He handed her his handkerchief, but then took her hand so that she could not use it.

  “Please, Teresa, do not cry.” His voice was soft and comforting.

  Taking a deep breath, she made more of an effort to stop herself.

  “I want you to come home.”

  Teresa’s breath caught in her throat. She looked up at her husband. He wanted her to move back to his house? Why? Was it pride or social ridicule that he was worried about? Or something else entirely?

  She tried to discern what it was by looking into his eyes, but could see nothing there. He seemed just as closed off to her as he had been before.

  “Why?”

  “You are my wife,” he answered simply.

  So it was pride.

  Well, she had pride too and she was not simply going to go running back to him the minute he called. She knew he didn’t love her. Why should she go back to him and live in a loveless marriage?

  Teresa sat up straighter. “No, Richard. There is nothing for me there. There is no reason why I should return.”

  Richard took in a deep breath. “I am there,” he exhaled.

  “No, you are not! You are never there! I never see you.” Her pain took refuge in a burst of anger.

  “I spend every single evening with you. Is that not enough?”

  “No. It is not enough. Why do I never see you during the day as well?”

  “I… That was not part of our agreement.” He moved away from her by a fraction of an inch, as much as the space on the bench allowed.

  There was something else that he was going to say, Teresa was sure of it. There was something he was not telling her.

  “I promised to make you a social success and I have—and at no little cost to myself, I might add,” he said, his voice deepening.

  “What do you mean?” Teresa was suddenly confused. What could making her a social success cost him?

  “I mean that it was not easy for me. To be social.” He stopped speaking and looked down at his hands interlaced in his lap.