by Darcy, Norma
“Although I’m not quite sure why you would pick…I mean…Georgie is a great gun and all that…but not exactly―oof.”
Jack was rescued from his rather unflattering speech when he was kicked in the shins by Elizabeth. He sank into moody silence.
“Yes, but Jack has a point. Why would you pick Georgie?” Marianne asked the earl. “You must know that she has vowed never to marry anyone? It is common knowledge, you know.”
“Hush, Marianne,” said Miss Blakelow quietly.
“You may think you know her but you don’t, my lord. She had any number of beau when she was young and refused them all.”
“Indeed?” he replied, meeting Miss Blakelow’s gaze. “A veritable little heartbreaker.”
The lady blushed and looked away.
“She doesn’t want to be married,” declared Marianne.
“I see. Well, what does she want then?” asked his lordship.
“She is happy to stay here with us,” said Kitty.
“Yes. And although she is not strictly related to us, she has always managed everything creditably,” said Marianne.
“And is like a mother to us all,” put in Lizzy.
“I see,” said the earl. “And what will happen when all of you marry? And when William brings his new wife to live at Thorncote? Do you imagine the future Lady Blakelow will be happy to have her sister-in-law running things for her?”
“She will come and live with me,” said Marianne gallantly.
“And me,” said Kitty.
“She will be the dear kind teacher to our children that she was to us.”
Although this impassioned speech was intended to be a compliment, it hit Miss Blakelow like a slap around the face with a dead fish. She tried to smile and failed.
Lord Marcham saw the look of consternation on Georgiana’s face and longed to box Marianne’s ears. “What an attractive prospect to be sure,” he murmured. “But perhaps your sister would prefer to have children of her own to love and nurture. And I own, I would like nothing more than to try to give them to her.”
There was an audible gasp in the room, and Miss Blakelow blushed scarlet.
“Sir!” cried Mr. Peabody. “There are ladies present.”
“So there are…” agreed the earl, picking up his cup and sipping from it. “Miss Blakelow has given up her youth and prospects to look after you brats. It is time she did something for herself.”
Miss Blakelow blushed. “What nonsense! I did not give up anything.”
“That’s not what I heard,” he murmured.
She sank into brooding silence, wondering how much Aunt Blakelow had told him.
“You, my lord, are a disgrace!” said Mr. Peabody, almost as red as a holly berry.
“So I have been told.”
“To speak of the…the marital act…in front of impressionable young minds is simply not to be borne!”
“If these young minds are anything like mine was at their age, then they probably already know more about it than you do,” replied the earl.
A collective giggle answered this remark and Mr. Peabody stormed from the room.
The earl’s eyes twinkled engagingly as they rested upon his reluctant fiancée. “Well that got rid of him, my love; I told you I would achieve it, didn’t I?”
“My lord Marcham, might I have a word with you in private?” asked Miss Blakelow, a steely edge to her voice.
He set down his cup and smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”
* * *
“What exactly are you up to?” Miss Blakelow demanded when a minute later, the party stood up to move for a stroll in the gardens and she brushed past his lordship as he held the door open for her. She trod on something and tripped and only just caught herself before she ploughed face first into his chest.
“That was my foot,” he said with a pained expression on his face.
“Sorry,” she said awkwardly.
“What did you do with that money I gave you for the new spectacles? You clearly have not made use of it. If I find you have spent it on any of the other Blakelow brats it will be very much the worse for you―”
“What are you doing?” she interrupted with some impatience. “Are you determined to shame me in front of the entire neighbourhood?”
“Not at all. You wanted to be rid of Pearbrain, did you not?”
“His name is Peabody. Please try and remember it. I did…did wish that he might go away…but not like that. And I wish that you wouldn’t say that I have given up my youth and prospects and beauty for the children; it is not true, you know.”
He looked down at her, a warm light in his eyes. “I didn’t say that.”
“You did.”
“Not your beauty. I didn’t say it for I don’t think it.”
“Then you need spectacles even more than I do,” she said caustically.
He smiled. “My eyesight is just fine and I suspect yours is too.”
“Did I or did I not refuse your offer of marriage the other day?” she demanded.
“You did.”
“I did. I am glad that we are in agreement over that. So why then, given my very clear refusal, have you just announced that we are to be married?”
“I didn’t. I announced my intention to marry you. That, my girl, is entirely different.”
“I am not going to marry you. Can you understand that?”
He gave her a twisted smile. “I will allow that you are not ready to marry me at the present moment but I hope that once you have discovered that you cannot live without me then you will change your mind.”
There was a loud audible groan from the lady.
“Yes, my love?”
“I will not change my mind. I won’t marry. I cannot marry. There, can I be any plainer?”
“Why not?”
She rolled her eyes. “I am not having this discussion with you. Please consider this my final answer.”
“Very well. I will come to an agreement with you. I will not send details of our engagement to the newspapers just yet.”
“How kind.”
“Yes. We will be friends first.”
“When are you going home?” she asked, as if his presence gave her exquisite pain.
He grinned. “When you have agreed to ride with me tomorrow.”
“Then you will have a long wait, my lord.”
“A walk then, by the lake.”
“No.”
“You are being rude to me today,” he marvelled.
“And you are making decisions for me and I don’t like it,” she said tartly, trying to move past him.
He caught her elbow in his hand and held it fast. “Don’t you?” he asked in a soft voice. “I venture to think that you like it a great deal.”
She blushed and tried to remove her arm. “You flatter yourself. I know it amuses you, my lord, to mock me because you think I have no experience of men. But I do not find it amusing and I wish that you would find yourself another flirt.”
“Is that what this is all about? You think I am teasing you?”
“I think we both know that you are amusing yourself at my expense. Now, please let go of me, or we will be remarked upon.”
He released her. “You will allow me to tell you that your Peabody fellow is a great deal too busy in your affairs, ma’am.”
She glared at him. “No, you are a great deal too busy in my affairs. You are no more my choice of husband than I am your choice of wife.”
He smiled. “Then that shows how little you know me…and yourself for that matter.”
With this very perplexing remark he let her go and watched her disappear into the rose garden with Mr. Samuel Bateman. Soon afterwards he left, sure in the knowledge that Miss Georgiana Blakelow was thinking about him―if not in the most flattering of terms―but she was definitely thinking about him.
* * *
“My dear Miss Blakelow,” began Mr. Bateman slowly, ten minutes later, “forgive my impertinence, but marriage to the
Earl of Marcham?”
She gave him a speaking look as they found a seat at one end of the rose garden. “There will be no marriage, never fear. Pay no heed to his lordship, Mr. Bateman.”
“Pay no heed? The man is a…a scoundrel.”
The note of shock in his voice made Miss Blakelow want to laugh and she bit her lower lip and sucked it under until she had controlled herself. “This is his idea of a jest only. He seems to take enjoyment from baiting me.”
“Baiting you?” he repeated. “But why?”
She shrugged and adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. “He has likely never come into contact with someone like me before. As part of my work with the church, I wrote a pamphlet, you may remember, condemning his morals and behaviour. No-one was more surprised than I was when it was published across half the country.” She smoothed the worn skirt of her gown over her knees and gave him a rueful smile. “I think he is looking for revenge.”
Mr. Bateman reached under the slats of the bench and pulled out a weed from between the gravel chippings. “I would never have thought a man like him would be bothered if a hundred such pamphlets were published.”
“I agree. But for some reason he seems determined to punish me by pretending to have an interest in me.”
“The thrill of the chase,” he said distractedly.
She smiled brightly. “Something like that. I don’t believe he has ever been turned down by a woman before. And his pride is wounded.”
“And such pride, too.”
“Oh, I don’t say that he has insulted me, or accosted me in an improper manner. Merely that he has made it his mission to make a fool of me.”
“How any man could make a sport of such a pure and gentle creature is beyond me,” Mr. Bateman said earnestly.
Miss Blakelow, who considered herself anything but pure and gentle, pulled a face. “He is bored.”
“Do you think so indeed? Bored with his wealth and position? I wish that I had the opportunity to be bored with his advantages,” he remarked bitterly and then coloured as if remembering that he was supposed to be a Christian man. “My apologies, ma’am, I meant only that he has a world of opportunity spread before him. He has no reason to be bored. He may go where he likes, buy what he wishes, and marry who he wants…others, younger sons especially, are not so lucky.”
“I don’t say that he is bored of his position, merely that he is bored of his life. Women come two-a-penny to a man like him. He is only making me the object of his attentions because I am different. A novelty.” She smiled brightly. “Do not worry for me. He wishes to make me fall in love with him so that he might cast me aside. And I am in no danger of giving him what he wishes.”
“Well,” he replied. “If the man becomes intolerable, let me know.”
She smiled, gratefully. “That is very kind of you Mr. Bateman. What do you plan to do? Fight a duel on my behalf?”
He baulked a little; unaware that she was teasing him. “If I must,” he replied, running a forefinger between his neck and the collar of his shirt.
“Dear sir, pray don’t be ridiculous. I was jesting. He’d kill you in an instant.”
Mr. Bateman turned towards her, his pride a little wounded. “I am known to be something of a fair shot, you know,” he said stiffly.
“I am sure you are,” she replied promptly. “But the earl is a crack shot and, more significantly, would not know a scruple if it fell on him. That is, I believe, the difference. Now tell me, are you planning to attend the dance next week with your mama and sister?”
“Yes, at least I think so if Jane has recovered from her cold. Will you be there too ma’am?”
“Me?” she said, rather taken aback. “Oh, Lord no. It has been a long time since I have shown my face in Loughton. No, Aunt Blakelow will accompany the girls. She enjoys it, you know, sitting and chatting with her friends.”
Miss Blakelow remembered the horrible tedious evenings, sitting amongst the dowagers and the chaperones, dressed in some featureless dull grey gown that no-one noticed anyway, her obligatory spectacles hiding her from the world, her foot tapping longingly in time to the music. She watched with every other dowager present as the young people set about having fun and yearned to join the dancing herself. It was torture. No, let Aunt Blakelow go and leave her in peace.
“If you are worried that you will want for a partner, ma’am, I should be honoured to lead you out,” said Mr. Bateman.
Miss Blakelow smiled. “That is kind of you, sir, but I do not dance. My eyesight is so bad that I constantly crash in to people and my memory so lax that I forget all the steps. No, don’t worry for me; I shall be happier at home with a book.”
They rose then and meandered their way through the gardens to the lake where the rest of the party were engaged in skimming flat pebbles across the surface of the water. Mr. Bateman soon discovered a hitherto undiscovered talent and was soon lost in the laughter of the moment. As his hand curled around Marianne’s, instructing her how to hold the stone, Miss Blakelow smiled like the veritable matchmaking mamas whom she so deplored.
Chapter 11
“What can you have found at Holme to entertain you all this time?” complained Sir Julius, looking at his friend through his quizzing glass.
The Earl of Marcham smiled. “I have been busy.”
“So I hear. Planning to get yourself leg-shackled, by all accounts.”
There was a short silence.
“News travels fast,” observed his lordship, reaching for a slice of toast.
“Don’t be a fool March. You have proposed to two females in the space of a month. Of course news of that is going to travel fast.”
“Pass the jam, would you?”
“You’re not seriously contemplating marriage with this girl are you?” asked Sir Julius. “I thought I could count on you to shun matrimony to the end of your days.”
“I cannot afford to, Ju. In case it had escaped your notice, I am in need of an heir. And for that I need a wife. More coffee?”
Sir Julius shook his head. “Who is she?”
“Does it matter?” countered Lord Marcham evasively.
“Oh-ho, touchy! Are you afraid that I might steal her away, Rob?”
His friend smiled. “Not in the least. But she is a gentlewoman and not likely to welcome a carte-blanche from you.”
“Who said anything about carte-blanche?” asked Sir Julius, wounded. “I may wish to get married myself. Describe her to me.”
Lord Marcham smiled and picked up his coffee cup. “She is not your sort, Ju.”
“Which means that she is something out of the ordinary and you wish to put me off the scent,” said his friend with a knowing look.
“Undoubtedly. I wish to have her all to myself.”
“A beauty then?”
“In an unconventional way―yes. You will find out for yourself once I have…er…secured her affections.”
Sir Julius thoughtfully rubbed the long scar on his cheek with the knuckle of his thumb. “You are confident of success?”
His lordship merely smiled and sliced his toast in two. He looked over at his friend. “And you? Are you serious about matrimony?”
Fawcett shrugged and took a sip from his tankard of ale. “I am in no rush. Marry in haste and you wake up one morning a few years later, lying next to a woman who you neither like nor desire. Heed my warning, March. Ask your brother if you don’t believe me. None knows better than Hal.”
“He always said you were a cold fish,” remarked his lordship, before taking a bite of his toast.
“Hal was the best of good friends, but the biggest fool of my acquaintance. Handsome as they come and a dashing red coat to boot. Not surprising he had half the women in London on the catch for him…more women after him than you, March. God alone knows what possessed him to hitch himself to Mary’s wagon.”
The earl, who knew very well what caused his brother to hitch himself to Mary, quietly ate his toast and remained silent.
“You know that Mary died, don’t you?” asked Sir Julius, thoughtfully playing with an unused fork on the table.
“Yes. I received a letter from Hal last month informing me of the fact.”
“Very sad business. Always ill, that girl, from the moment he married her. Between you and me Rob, she barely let him touch her.”
Lord Marcham lowered his eyes. “She was a…singular female.”
“Frigid,” said Sir Julius with an expressive look in his eyes that showed exactly what he thought of that behaviour.
“I think she was rather hurt by―well…it’s none of our business, is it?”
Sir Julius watched his friend, wondering what he had been about to say. Some things were off limits, it seemed, even to a lifelong friend. The Hockingham family always had closed ranks against the rest of the world; even against the people they considered their friends. It was a trait that irritated him. He always felt shut out and marginalised by the blood ties, which it seemed were stronger than comradeship in war. Sir Julius had saved Lord Marcham’s life. He had dragged his wounded body to safety when merry hell was breaking loose all around them. But even that was not enough, it seemed.
“How is he? Is he coming home? I suppose there is nothing to hold him in Brussels now. He was only there for Mary, after all.”
“And the war,” murmured his lordship.
“Yes, but he’s shot of all that now. A fresh start for him back home is what he needs.”
“I had an idea on that very subject that I wished to discuss with you.”
“By all means.”
“A neighbour of mine has fallen on hard times. She needs to sell the family home to pay her father’s creditors,” said Lord Marcham leaning back in his chair. “It’s in a hell of a state, of course, and will need careful supervision to bring it back up to scratch. But I had an idea that I might gift it to Hal, give him something to do. Something to think about besides Mary.”
Sir Julius raised his quizzing glass and frowned at his friend through it. “Lord, Rob. Can you see Hal as a farmer?”
The earl smiled. “Not exactly. But they have a decent man there who would shoulder most of the responsibility.”