The Disdainful Marquis

by Edith Layton

  Jenkins displayed her dinner by whipping a serviette off the tray with a flourish.

  “There’s good fresh meat—best not to inquire too closely as to its origin, though. And bread and lovely green beans. And a bottle of the landlord’s best, with His Lordship’s compliments. He’s got a nose for good wine, you know, and he’s very impressed with this local vintage. Even to the point of regretting not being able to take a case or two home with him. So he’s trying his best to take as much home with him as he can hold.”

  Catherine, remembering her stepfather’s bouts with spirits, grew uneasy.

  “But if he gets light-headed, he might let something slip.”

  Jenkins only laughed.

  “I’ve been with him years now, and I’ve never seen him let slip one word in his cups. He’s got a hard head, Catherine, so don’t you worry. But you drink up, for it’ll ease your mind and let you get a good night’s sleep. ‘A little wine’s a lovesome thing,’ I once heard, and a little of anything can do no harm.”

  When Jenkins had left, Catherine sat to dinner, thinking she would be lucky to be able to peck at something, her fears had so encompassed her again. But the wine was good, and the dinner miles above anything she had eaten for days. By the time she was ready to place her tray stealthily outside in the hall, she noted with amazement that she had finished every scrap upon her plate and reduced the bottle of wine by half.

  Catherine did not like the sudden inactivity she was forced to here in her faded, but elegant little room. She was restless and impatient, itching to be off and doing rather than to be just a passive creature awaiting whatever fate had in store. That, she thought, was gentlemen’s main advantage in life. For they could go out and meet fate head on, while a gentlewoman was expected to sit back and watch what the tides of fortune brought to her feet.

  Women like Rose and Violet were able to go out and face life and try to turn it to their advantage, but a properly brought-up female could not. Perhaps, it was that, Catherine thought moodily, sipping her wine, that turned them to such occupation in the first place, rather than inherent lechery. A part of her was appalled by the new train her thoughts were taking, and yet another applauded her new expanded vision. Whatever else this trip provided, she concluded at last, it was certain that the Catherine Robins who returned to Kendal would never be the same who had left it.

  The hour was late, the muted sounds of activity and voices in the inn had all but faded away, and Catherine was sitting sleepily in her chair, when she heard the faint tapping at her door.

  “Catherine,” Sinjun’s voice called in low, conspiratorial tones, “it’s Sinjun, reporting back to you at last.”

  She was glad to ease the door open to admit him.

  He strode in and grinned at her. She sensed a high excitement emanating from him, and saw that his tanned face held a faint flush along its high cheekbones.

  “All the lads are planning how high to hang old Louis. Some are even talking of how to spend their prize money when they take over London. Oh, spirits are running high downstairs,” he said, walking carefully to the table and lifting the bottle of wine to peer at its label.

  “Fine vintage,” he commented, almost to himself. “It’s a great pity I can’t reason out a fashion of getting it home with us.”

  There was a recklessness to his speech and a glitter in his eyes, and Catherine wondered if he had indeed partaken too much of the wine he so admired. But she well remembered the condition of her stepfather when he was in his cups, and the marquis did not stagger—he walked erect, perhaps with even more of a careful tread than usual. And he did not wear a foolish grin or slur his words or sing or say inconsequential words as her stepfather had done when he came reeling home after an evening with his friends.

  “And what is said of the Englishwoman who was branded a thief?” she asked.

  “Oh, as to that,” Sinjun said airily, “there’s no description of her hereabouts save one. And that is that she is traveling in the company of two English gentlemen.”

  Catherine gasped.

  Sinjun grinned again.

  “It seems that you disappeared from Paris the same day Jenkins and I did. So Beaumont has reasoned, and one can’t blame him for it, that I ran off with you just to tweak his nose. Which is a bit conceited of him, but a lovely thought nonetheless. Still, they’re looking for three English citizens, and here we are, three sturdy citizens of the Republic. So there’s nothing to fear. But here,” he said, seeming to see her for the first time since he had entered the room, “it is far past midnight. Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I waited for you,” Catherine explained. “I was worried.”

  “And,” he went on, frowning, “not even in your nightclothes. You don’t have to share your room tonight. I thought you would make yourself comfortable and sleep like a proper lady, not in your clothes again. Catherine,” he said, marching toward her and glowering “get into bed and go to sleep. At once.”

  Catherine sat back upon her bed and told him that she would go to bed as soon as he had left her room.

  “Now that,” Sinjun said, sinking down to sit beside her, “truly wounds me, Catherine, it does. For we have shared our rooms for so long and you never were so punctilious before. I only came to tuck you in tightly, as a good brother should. And I have been a good brother to you, haven’t I?”

  He sat close to her and ran his hand gently across her hair, seeming to become engrossed in the texture of it.

  “I have tried very hard to be brotherly, Catherine, though Lord knows, you are nothing like my sister. And I have been extremely circumspect. Yes,” he agreed with himself, as if, it seemed to Catherine, he were speaking only to himself, “extremely circumspect. A perfect gentleman, in fact. And the wonder of it is that all these months I had thought you so available, and when at last I had you to myself, I treated you with perfect courtesy. And it has been hard, Catherine, very hard to do so. Now don’t you think I deserve a reward for being such a paragon? Especially,” he said, looking down into her eyes and bringing his other hand up so that he held her face between his two hands, “especially since…”

  But he did not finish his train of thought, for he bent and kissed her, gently and sweetly, and she was surprised at the eagerness with which she involuntarily returned his kiss.

  Although it was only Sinjun who held Catherine, she was so lost in the warmth and delicious pleasure of his embrace that she had no thought of holding him closer to herself as well.

  He moved his lips to her cheek, to her throat, and then gathered her still closer with a groan.

  “Catherine,” he whispered against her hair, “you are lovely.”

  And then he kissed her again, a deeper, darker embrace that began at last, to waken Catherine from her stuporous pleasure.

  But it seemed that as she became aware of exactly what was beginning to transpire between them, he became less aware of her reaction and more lost in their embrace. His hands drifted from her back and moved to begin to trace the outlines of her breasts and waist. He began to call her still further into his provenance as she retreated from him. His kisses became more profound, his mouth as warm and rich and fragrant as the wine she tasted upon it. But these were not the sweet light movements that had so enticed her. He now seemed to be setting something urgent into motion, something that she could not control or know how to respond to. So she began to try to pull away from him, to force his searching mouth from hers.

  “Catherine,” he breathed as his hands became more insistent, “no more pretense. Come, I know what will please you.”

  But now all thoughts of pleasure, for herself or for Sinjun, were gone from Catherine’s mind. In their place was panic and the realization of what he thought her willing to do with him. She struggled to be free from him and finally repelled him, crying out, “Please, Sinjun. No. No more.”

  He released her immediately when she spoke and sat confused.

  “No, Sinjun,” she cowered, fearful of the chang
ed expression in his smoky eyes, fearful of her own reaction to him.

  “What is it you want, then, Catherine?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “Have I gone too fast for you? I promise to go slower then. Lord knows we have the entire night before us. I can be patient. Come, Catherine,” he said, pleased with himself for being reasonable, and reached for her again.

  But she pulled away and stood and when he rose to take her back, she cried out again, “No. Sinjun, Your Lordship. Please, it is late. Please leave.”

  He let his hands drop to his sides and stood shaking his head, but no longer reaching out for her.

  “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “Why are you so afraid, Catherine? You’ve never been so afraid of me before.”

  “It’s only that I startled her,” Jenkins said, coming up from behind Sinjun, and indeed startling Catherine with the sudden soft-footed grace of his movements. He seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

  “I’ve something important to tell Your Lordship. Indeed I do. Come with me. Make a good night to Catherine,” Jenkins said, propelling Sinjun from the room with him, “and come with me, for I’ve something to tell you. That’s a good chap,” he said, talking steadily to the marquis and leading him away. “Lock your door, Catherine,” Jenkins called back to her, “and go to sleep. His Lordship and I have something to discuss.”

  Catherine collected herself and rushed to her door, not to lock it, but to see what Jenkins and Sinjun were about to do. But instead of leading the marquis back to his room, Jenkins, still talking softly and rapidly, led him down the stairs. From the top of the stairs Catherine could see them going to the front of the inn.

  She ran back to her room and went quickly to her window and flung the casement up. Cold night air rushed in, making her realize how warm and flushed she had been. She leaned out to see where her two companions were going.

  But she could see nothing in the darkness. All was quiet, no one seemed about. Then she heard a splashing coming from the pond. And a sound of thrashing water, as though some large animal had stumbled into it. She stood listening, straining her ears and eyes, but after a few moments all was quiet again.

  The room grew cold as the night outside, so Catherine lowered the window again and went back to her door. She was trembling with the cold and with the force of her emotions. She had welcomed his embrace—she could not deceive herself as to that. And she had pulled away from him not only because of her fear of the unknown, but because of her horror at having let him see what her innermost emotions toward him had been. Now, she told herself dumbly, he will think me no better than what he always thought me.

  After a long while she heard Sinjun and Jenkins return, heard them coming slowly up the stairs in silence. When they neared her door, Catherine’s eyes widened. Sinjun was drenched. His hair was plastered to his head, and his clothes were dripping water. She thought she could perceive a slow shudder race across his wide shoulders. He turned to her and bowed before he passed her door.

  “My apologies,” he said stiffly. “I bid you good night, Catherine.”

  Catherine could only gape after him, but Jenkins paused as they returned to their room.

  “Lock your door now, Miss Catherine,” he said sternly. “There’ll be no further disturbances tonight.”

  “But,” Catherine whispered, “what befell Sinjun? Was there trouble with footpads?”

  “No, no,” Jenkins said soothingly, “no trouble at all. His Lordship only decided to go for a midnight dip. Just a moonlight swim.”

  “But it is freezing outside,” Catherine said in horror. “He’ll be ill. He’ll take a chill.”

  “No, no,” Jenkins demurred. “He needed a chill was what it was. The poor lad was overheated from all that fine French wine. He’s a hot-blooded fellow, never fear for him. And I’m sure he’ll be all apologies for his behavior in the morning. He’ll be fine now, I assure you. And glad, I’ll be bound, to forget this night.”

  Jenkins bowed correctly and then waited till Catherine had closed her door and locked it.

  *

  Sinjun toweled himself dry in silence as Jenkins climbed into his bed.

  “I made a cake out of myself, didn’t I?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Jenkins answered.

  “I frightened her, didn’t I?” he asked.

  “Of course,” was the only answer he heard.

  “Well, blast it,” Sinjun shouted, throwing the towel across the room, “it was the wine.”

  There was no answer.

  “It was the wine,” Sinjun said softly, “and the last vague hope that I was right and she was just another cozening fancy piece.”

  “And the fact that she said no changed Your Lordship’s powerful mind?” Jenkins growled.

  “And the fact that she wouldn’t have known what to do if she said yes,” Sinjun admitted.

  His companion made no reply save a disgusted snort.

  “But,” Sinjun said, lying down upon his bed, “I will make amends. Never fear, Sir Galahad, I shall put things to rights. For I’ve attempted to seduce a decent young female of good birth, and I know the penalty for that. I am,” he said righteously, “a gentleman, after all. Not completely lost to propriety.”

  “Go to sleep,” was the only reply Jenkins made as he turned his back with an irritated ruffling of his bedclothes.

  Sinjun lay back and gave a deep sigh. The cold water Jenkins had toppled him into had cleared the edges of his mind, but he still felt the vaporous waves from the wine cluttering up his thoughts. He had, he thought wryly, not gotten himself so inebriated since his youth, and all, he now knew, because of that damned female.

  For he been a pattern card of behavior. He had watched her—noting the curve of her neck, the tilt of her nose, the inviting sway in her walk—for all these days and had pretended he saw nothing. He had been entranced by her in London, and then again in Paris, and then when he had grown to know her, she had captivated him completely. And he had shown nothing of his feelings all these days by word or action.

  She had completely enticed him, he thought angrily. For by the time he had offered for her favors in Paris, she had ruined him for other women. There had been an Italian countess when he first arrived in Paris, but her embraces had palled by the time he met Catherine again. And when Catherine refused him, the little unfaithful wife of a diplomat had offered him solace. But he had lightly rejected her, thinking then that it was that he did not care for the tone of her laugh, or for the way she had of constantly clutching onto his sleeve. But, he admitted now, it had been that he had looked up and seen Catherine across the room and the sight of her had turned the diplomat’s fluffy wife into something like a toad. No, there was no escaping it—he was, he admitted, well and truly caught.

  Well then, he thought, so be it. He would offer her marriage. And then a small repressed uncomfortable thought wriggled into his mind from its dark hiding place. He could not bear to think of the answer she would give him. The answer that would be like another’s so long ago. The remembered sad pitying look, the soft glance of sympathy, the mournful little syllable that would accompany all the unspoken sorrowful gestures: “No.” And then the torrent of words about understanding, and friendships and respect, followed by the reasonable explanation that there could be no acceptance where there was no love.

  Very well then, he thought quickly,’ I shall put it so that there has to be no word of love. Where love has not been offered, it cannot be refused. I shall put it on a basis a girl like Catherine can understand. And wait until we get back to that infamous town of Kendal, for surely her prig of a brother-in-law will understand and encourage it. For I have traveled unchaperoned with a young woman of good birth and spent many nights with her. No man of even sterling reputation can do that without destroying a decent female’s hope of ever being received into polite society again. And my reputation, especially with women, is far from clear. Moreover, Sinjun thought with some satisfaction, as he lay in the dark and built his reasonable case
for a reasonable marriage, I have overstepped the bounds of a decent gentleman. I have attempted her virtue. All the tenets of society demand that I offer her my name.

  I do not, he thought, have to offer her my love as well. At least, he amended, I do not have to let her know that is what is being offered. For surely it is not deception, he told himself, to withhold an emotion that can only distress her. She was horrified at my embrace, but perhaps, he thought with sudden hope, she will come to love me in time. It is not unheard of for a wife to come to love her husband, even in a forced marriage. But I can protect her. I shall have her for my wife. And that will be enough. More, he thought with a last sleepy grimace, than I deserve.

  Chapter XVI

  Three very solemn travelers mounted their horses in the stable yard of the inn early the next morning.

  Sinjun had come into Catherine’s room at first light, with a breakfast for her. He had been stiffly correct and unsmiling, and had apologized sincerely for his actions of the previous night, explaining that they had been caused by the amount of wine he had partaken. His words were gracious, his manner contrite, his gaze half-lidded and impersonal. His very correctness toward her froze Catherine. For she read disdain and revulsion in his every word and gesture. And so she had meekly accepted his apology and thanked him for it. He had turned and left her room, convinced that she held him in the deepest abhorrence.

  Jenkins, seeing his companions’ uncomfortable attitude toward each other, only sighed heavily and kept his own counsel. And so, though it was an easy ride to Le Havre for the last lap of their journey, it being a clear and sunny, bracing day, it was the uneasiest trek in spirit that any of the three could remember making.

  Their conversation was minimal, merely an asking after each other’s physical comfort and brief consultations as to their direction. By afternoon, as Catherine saw the houses growing more clustered together as they rode past and when she scented the distinct salt tang of sea air, she was heartsick and disconsolate.