by Darcy, Norma
“What time is it?”
“Six, my lord.”
The earl stretched and yawned loudly. “What is it, Davenham?”
“A message, my lord, from Thorncote.”
“What message?”
Mr. Davenham produced a note. His lordship recognised it as the letter he had found on his desk the previous evening and had left unread. “Miss Marianne Blakelow had it sent over late last night with one of the stable hands. He said it was important.”
“Take it away, Davenham.”
“But my lord―” protested the butler.
“Take it away, I say,” muttered Lord Marcham, reaching for the bottle of brandy.
His faithful servant was quicker and moved the bottle out of his master’s reach.
The earl scowled at him. “Damn you, William, give me that back.”
“You have had more than enough, my lord. I think Miss Marianne is in trouble―”
“And what makes you think I give a fig for the Blakelows’ troubles?”
“Because I’ve known you since you were in short coats, my lord.”
His lordship groaned. “Give me back that bottle.”
“No, my lord. You may have coffee.”
The earl narrowed his eyes. “Oh, may I?” he said softly.
Mr. Davenham swallowed hard but returned his master’s gaze steadily. “Open this letter. Please, sir. I think that there is trouble at Thorncote.”
“There is trouble here!” protested his lordship. “A man cannot get a glass of brandy in his own home.”
“The letter, my lord.”
“Oh, give it here!” snapped the earl impatiently and snatched the note from his butler’s outstretched hand.
“Well?” asked Mr. Davenham anxiously as his master read the missive.
“Young Jack has a fever,” replied the Earl, standing swiftly. “Damn it, man, why didn’t you give me this last night?”
Mr. Davenham opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it.
“Coffee, my lord?”
“No, damn you. Have my curricle brought around in fifteen minutes,” snapped the earl, striding across the floor. “And send for Dr. Judd immediately and direct him to Thorncote with all possible haste.”
“Yes, my lord. Is it bad, Master Robert?” asked the butler.
The earl wrenched open the door, his jaw clenched tight. “Just do as I say.”
“Yes, my lord.”
* * *
Marianne was at the boy’s bedside when the Earl arrived at Thorncote.
He went up immediately to her, entering the room with a soft knock on the door. The room was in darkness save a single candle burning low in its socket and a meagre fire. The slight figure under the covers shifted listlessly, a sweat upon his skin, his eyelids fluttering at the inner torment which burned him.
Marianne turned and saw him. “My lord,” she said quietly, rising from her chair by the bed. “You came. Thank you. I knew that you would not fail us.”
The earl moved forward towards her. “How is he?” he asked as he clasped her outstretched hand.
“Delirious. He knows not where he is. He keeps asking for Georgie.”
Lord Marcham took a step towards the bed and looked down at the boy’s pale and sticky countenance. “I have sent for Dr. Judd; he should be here directly. If ever a sawbones could be trusted, it’s him. He fixed my brother’s broken leg and brought me and my siblings into this world.”
“You are too good. Thank you, my lord. Only―” she broke off and bit her lip.
He turned to look at her. “Yes, Miss Blakelow?”
“It would be so much better if Georgie were here. She knows just what to do. I am hopeless without her,” said Marianne in a rush.
His eyes slid from hers. “Well, that is not possible. You will have to content yourself with me and Dr. Judd, I’m afraid.”
She wrung her hands and looked at them. “But if she could be brought to us…”
“Not unless you are possessed of a gypsy’s crystal ball and can see where she is,” replied his lordship, laying a hand upon the boy’s hot brow.
“I know where she is,” Marianne said softly.
The log in the hearth spat suddenly and a shower of tiny orange sparks burst and glowed and fell to mingle with the grey ash. Lord Marcham did not move a muscle. The silence was deafening. His lordship felt as if his heart had just been rent in two.
Marianne swallowed hard but pushed on regardless. “Georgie wrote to me last Christmas. She missed Thorncote so much that she said that she could not help herself. She signed herself Honoria Wakeham or some such name, and pretended to be a distant relative of ours but the things she wrote about were only such as Georgie would know. And so we struck up a correspondence. She wrote to ask about my brothers and sisters and if Thorncote was to be saved. She missed us.”
The earl got to his feet, now staring at her, his eyes intense with some wild animal light. “Indeed?” he asked.
She bit her lip. “I know that you are angry―indeed, I think that you must be.”
“Angry? Angry that she misses everyone but me? Why should I be?” he flung at her.
She was chastened by his tone, the quiet vehemence, and the harsh lines of his features. “I, only, knew where she was,” she assured him hastily. “She dared not trust the knowledge with anyone else. Not Jack, not William… not even Aunt Blakelow and she tells her everything. She couldn’t take the risk that they would let it slip where she was so she bade me promise to keep her whereabouts a secret.”
“From me, you mean?” he demanded.
She bit her lip but made no answer.
“Oh, that I can readily believe. I have proven myself to be so very untrustworthy after all,” he snapped.
“I’m sorry, my lord. We didn’t mean to deceive you.”
“You didn’t think it might be kind to tell me that she was alive at least?” he demanded.
“She made me promise that I would not tell anyone. And you seemed to not want to talk about her―”
“Oh, that’s alright then,” he muttered, his eyes crackling with anger. “You didn’t think to tell me that she had found a new home. You might have spared me the bother of a sleepless night or two, at the very least.”
“She didn’t want you to go after her,” said Marianne, wringing her hands and unconsciously making matters worse.
“That much I had gathered.”
“Dear Lord Marcham, don’t be angry with me,” she begged, big moist tears filling her eyes.
He paused, struggling for mastery over his feelings.
“I’m not angry with you,” he said at last. “I’m angry with her.”
“She knows that she hurt your feelings―”
He laughed harshly. “Oh, really? Whatever gave her that notion?”
Marianne lowered her gaze. “Will you go to her and bring her here? Ned is in London with William and that horrid Thorpe woman he married and I have no one else I can ask, save John and I know he would go, only I don’t like to ask him on account of his knee being so very painful. I would go myself but I dare not leave Jack. Dear Lord Marcham, can my troublesome family ask of you one more favour?”
The earl walked to the window, his back to her so that she might not see the expression on his face.
“Where is she?” he asked, hating himself for the question.
“Bath.”
He nodded. Of course. A town full of rich gouty old men on their last legs for her to fleece of their money.
“Will you go?” she asked.
He turned around at last and came towards her. “I will go for you and for Jack, but she may rot in hell for all I care.”
* * *
Lord Marcham made the journey to Bath in record time, telling himself that speed was of the essence because the boy needed his sister. Had anyone accused him of being in a hurry to see Miss Blakelow, he would have been angry, he would have vehemently denied it; he was there for Marianne and little J
ack.
He left Thorncote immediately for Holme Park, ordered his travelling carriage to be brought around and by eight o’clock he was upon the road, his mind, if not his heart, focused on the task at hand. A distance of less than seventy miles separated Holme Park from the shabby genteel spa town that was his destination, and stopping to change horses only when absolutely necessary, and with the scant remains of a recent snowfall still on the ground, he made London Road, Bath by early evening by which time it had been dark for several hours.
His coachman pulled up before the York House Hotel and his lordship alighted, travel weary, hungry and thirsty. He took a tankard of ale in a private parlour, made a good dinner, and put off the moment of confrontation for a little bit longer. As the new set of horses were led into their traces, he looked up at the sky, grey and thick with cloud before climbing aboard once more for the short journey to the address given to him by Marianne. He glanced swiftly up at the townhouse as he jumped down onto the road, surprised that Miss Blakelow could afford to reside in such a house. He was expecting―well, he didn’t quite know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t the smart, elegant townhouse he saw before him.
He knocked at the front door and told the footman that he was a gentleman come to see the lady of the house. He dared not give his name for fear that she might flee the house by a back window rather than see him. But he was most clearly a gentleman, and the footman, reassured by his air of quiet authority, admitted him. He was shown into a small, plain drawing room, sparsely and simply furnished, but pleasing nonetheless.
The earl walked to the window and looked out at the street and his carriage which was standing before the house ready to take them both back to Worcestershire. In vain did he try to calm the jitters that seemed at that moment to have taken possession of his stomach and set it trembling with the dancing of butterflies.
The door opened and he turned, bracing himself for the moment their eyes would meet as if fearing that it would fell him to the floor, steeling himself against the urge to take her into his arms and bury his face in her hair, to feel her bosom against his, their lips melding as one.
He saw staring back at him, the frank and surprised features of his sister.
“Robbie!” cried the lady.
“Caro? What the devil are you doing here?” he asked, visibly stunned.
“I live here,” she replied laughing and coming towards him.
He shook his head as if trying to shake it free of some impenetrable mist. “I don’t understand,” he said as she took his hands in hers and kissed his cheek.
“Julius and I came to an arrangement. I always had a desire to live in Bath, and he helped me achieve my aim.”
“I knew you were moving but―since when?” asked Lord Marcham.
“Christmas.” Mrs. Weir looked at him amused. “Who were you expecting to see?”
He swallowed hard. “Miss Blakelow.”
“I see. And what makes you think that you would find her here?”
“I am sent here on an errand from Marianne,” he said and told her the story of Jack’s illness.
“I am grieved indeed to hear it,” she said. “But Miss Blakelow does not receive visitors.”
“Not me, at any rate,” he agreed, somewhat bitterly.
Mrs. Weir regarded him with a steady eye. “Robbie, how can you talk so? You made it perfectly clear that you never wanted to see her again. I taxed you on the subject any number of times and you were resolute. You professed you had much rather get shot at again by the Frenchies than spend another minute in her company. Honestly, Robbie, if you still entertained feelings for her, then why the devil didn’t you say so?”
He impatiently slapped his gloves against his thigh. “Can we come to the point? Does she live here or doesn’t she?”
Caroline smiled and sat down. “Shall I ring for tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?”
“Caro, I have no time to lose. My horses are waiting on the street below to carry Miss Blakelow to Thorncote. Please have the goodness to tell me where she is.”
“How stern you are Robbie,” she marvelled.
Lord Marcham ground his teeth. Christ, did everyone know where Georgie was but him? Was he the only fool completely in the dark?
“Is she here or not?” he snapped.
She rose to her feet. “If you are going to be odious and rude she will not see you. She ran away from you, you know.”
“I am well aware of it, thank you,” he returned acidly.
“You are a fool, Robbie.”
“And you disappoint me. I thought you cared for me. Were you ever going to tell me?” he demanded. “Do you know how many sleepless nights I’ve had worrying about her?”
“No, I don’t, for you have never told me,” she retorted. “As I said, you made your feelings on the subject perfectly clear. Besides, it was not my secret to tell and once Georgiana knew that you were not disposed to forgive her, I was forbidden to tell you where she was. I invited Miss Ash―Blakelow, to reside with me until she could find somewhere more permanent. She has earned a little money through her writing and pays me a small rent. We enjoy each other’s company. It works out very well.”
“How nice for you,” he replied acidly, thinking how readily Miss Blakelow agreed to the life of companion to everyone but him. “Then call her here, if you please. Time is of the essence.”
She regarded him with an odd, knowing smile. “I’m sure it is, Robbie.”
He glared at her as she rose to ring for the butler. She desired that young man to ask that Miss Wakeham join her in the drawing room, and then she turned her watchful eyes upon her brother.
“And still you have not forgiven her,” she observed softly.
A muscle tensed in his cheek but he made no answer.
“She cries herself to sleep every night, although she thinks that I cannot hear her,” said Mrs. Weir. “I would lay money as to the cause of her unhappiness.”
“I am here to take a sister to her brother, that is all.”
Caroline turned away to hide a smile as footsteps were heard in the hall. They paused outside the door and then the handle turned.
Miss Blakelow stood for a moment on the threshold, looking enquiringly at her friend, one elegant hand upon the door knob before she closed the door. She was dressed in a dark blue morning gown with a lace tucker made up to the throat. Her mahogany hair was uncovered and twisted into a simple chignon at the back of her head, one unruly curl dropping to her shoulder. The eyes were clear, green and unhindered by the presence of her ugly spectacles. She was confidant, elegant and assured. But the serene smile on her lips fled rapidly when her eyes alighted upon their visitor and the look of dismay that swept across her features was plain for all to see. She started, her eyes flew to his and she coloured.
Lord Marcham, correctly reading her feelings, was furious and not a little hurt. He stiffened, forced himself to meet her gaze as coolly as he was able even his heart lurched when he saw the hunted look that passed over her features. What was he hoping for? A joyful reunion? That she would cast herself into his arms and beg him to forgive her?
He bowed. “Miss Blakelow,” he muttered coldly.
She curtseyed, dropping her eyes to the floor and mustering what composure she could find, even though the tendons stood out on her slender neck with the tension of the moment. “My lord,” she all but whispered.
Why are you here? she wanted to ask. Why have you come? How did you find me? Did Caroline betray me? Or Marianne? Have you forgiven me for our last meeting when I told you that everything between us was a lie? Have you yet forgiven me for mocking your love for me?
How different he was! How stern and cool and aloof. He had lost weight too, she thought, and he looked tired and pale. But oh, how hard his eyes were! And how she missed his warm smile. She looked at him and knew that she had not been forgiven. She saw the bitter anger in his eyes and the rigid set of his jaw. He loathed her more now than he had the last time she had se
en him and that knowledge broke what was left of her heart.
“My brother has come to fetch you,” put in Mrs. Weir softly as she seated herself by the fire.
Lord Marcham glared at his sister. He transferred his eyes to Miss Blakelow noting the look of rigid obstinacy that passed over her face as her resolve set hard and he knew that persuading her was going to be difficult. “I have come to escort you back to Thorncote,” he corrected.
“If you think I would go with you, after all that you said to me―!” she cried and turned as if to flee, but he was quicker and was across the room in a trice, slamming his hand against the door to prevent her from opening it.
“After what I said to you?” he demanded. “By God, that’s rich!”
His arm was an iron bar across the space between them, barring her flight from the room, the sleeve of his greatcoat brushed against her breast. He stared down at her lovely profile, averted away from him so that he might not read her face. Her perfume, like sweet jasmine, teased him, bringing to mind the small hours of the morning when he left his room and sought the bed she had slept in at Holme Park. God what a fool he was! He would climb under the covers and bring the scented pillow to him as if it were her body and he could somehow magic her real form into his arms. Poor stupid fool!
He saw her stiffen now, bracing herself against him. The tendons in her throat were as taut as rigging. She loathed his touch. She had used him. She was vicious and heartless. She had hurt him, had all but destroyed him and the anger in him would not be suppressed. Whatever he had felt for her was dead. She had wilfully, savagely, killed it.
Let them go to Thorncote together and let it be the last time. Please God, let it be the last time. Let it cure him at last of this madness and let him never see her again.
“Do not think me here on my own account,” he said savagely somewhere above her ear. “I am well aware that my presence here is unwelcome to you.”
“You are correct in that assumption, my lord. After the things you said to me that night, I had hoped never to see you again.”
A muscle pulsed angrily in his cheek. “Don’t I know it? I seem to be the only person in the world who was not privy to your current living arrangements.”