Her bruised feelings were forgotten “And you? You look well enough, though you are very thin. How are you really? Are you so very torn to pieces?”
He chuckled, tucked her arm into his and walked her back to where Caesar stood waiting. “I wonder how you expect me to answer a dozen questions at a time. But yes, I am very well, thanks to you and all your coddling.”
She blushed and looked away in confusion, while he laughed at her again. Upon reaching her horse, he simply took her as he had done once before, and threw her up in the saddle.
He patted Caesar’s flank and looked up at Mary. “Shall we ride to Mr. Fanley, then?”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Mr. Fanley was properly overjoyed to see the Marquis of Denley, and he expressed his happiness with a terrific scold. “I cannot say you are very welcome, sir. You have given us some two hundred days of worry here, every evening alone with our most frightening thoughts of what you must surely have gotten yourself into. Not to mention our feeling very slighted, to have to be told by Eversham, who took his time and waited nearly two weeks, stacked upon a full three months, to speak a word about it. The whole was very badly done, Robert, and I’ll not say ‘my lord’ to you because you don’t deserve it. Why, the bloom nearly fell off my Mary, you know, what with convincing me to send Will off to…well…God only knows where, as he writes so poorly we can hardly tell.”
Lord Robert bore this treatment happily and said all that was proper. By the time they sat down to one of the cook’s famous roasts of venison, with an unseemly number of courses and delicacies, Mr. Fanley was in such charity with him as to say, “Well, finally, we are all together,” as if he were a right honourable member of the Fanley household.
The many intervening months of separation provided much conversation. Mr. Fanley had gotten it in his head to prepare cuttings of a number of fine cherry trees for an orchard at Treehill, planning to the precise day when the ground should be ready and exactly where they would go. Denley, delighted to converse deeply about anything at all, indulged him in all his thoughts on horticulture and cultivation, and for once, Mary was herself thrilled to hear about dirt. She glowed, plied their plates, filled their glasses, and laughed them out of any difficulty they encountered, such as a threat of argument as to whether the orchards should be let out or estate managed.
“I would never think to let some ham-handed, supposed orchard man near my stock,” Mr. Fanley protested.
“But, sir, if we were to suffer any kind of blight or fail to set fruit, how would I know what is best to be done? I say we find a person who is proven-”
By the end of the dinner, Lord Robert was convinced to stay the night, finding that his trunks had remained at Greenly after his abrupt departure, and in fact, nothing in his room had been packed or sent to Eversham as he expected. He did argue a little, saying that eventually he would simply have to stay at Treehill for the sheer novelty of it, but he was easily convinced by Mary’s suddenly shy blushes, which she covered by saying archly that “if he thought an upstairs maid could become a decent housekeeper overnight, he would be very rudely apprised of his mistake upon his removal to a place under her management.”
He gave her a low chuckle, saying, “I can hardly wait to hear what you think of my taking Jim from you to be my gentleman’s gentleman.”
“Jim!” she cried in mock outrage. “Jim? A valet to aristocracy? Jim?”
“The very same. Now, out of my way, Rabbit. He is going to manicure my nails before I retire.”
“Well, if you are not amputated of a finger or two when you arrive at breakfast, I will be very much surprised. And, without so much as a by-your-leave. I will tell you that I am very loathe to release him from his obligation to Greenly.”
“Oh, I did not expect you would let him go without a great to-do.” He ascended the stairs with his candle, turning back at the first landing. “Let us argue the matter at length tomorrow, I beg you.”
And argue they did, over Jim and any number of ridiculous, nonsensical things. They debated the colour of roses, his Lordship claiming a lady would never use the word “red” to describe anything that was clearly magenta. And they enjoyed a vicious debate over owls, she having claimed they were a great favourite and he finding them too ghostly to be considered birds at all. Their habit was to breakfast together and walk the lanes, either afoot or mounted, while Mr. Fanley attended to the immediacies of Greenly. After a simple country nuncheon, Lord Robert and Mr. Fanley would depart to Treehill to make all their empirical plans, returning by nightfall for a comfortable family dinner.
Lord Robert was oddly patient as he wooed his lady love. Instinct told him to let Mary have her length, for she trusted him so implicitly he thought his heart might break if he were to botch the business. No doubt she loved him back, but she was hardly aware of her feelings. He thought it best to court her in a way that she would like. Knowing Mary would laugh aloud at any kind of cloying sentiment, he would not tell her just yet that his heart beat in his ears at the very thought of her. And of a certainty she would not like to be reminded of her brief sojourn as Mr. Neville’s flirt, and so he carefully avoided toying with her feminine pride by mentioning just how lovely she was.
Instead, he was tender in the way he touched her, firm in the way he managed her caprice, and protective at every turn, supplying her with a seat by the fire and shielding her from Mrs. Darlington’s every attempt to rule her. He charmed her by charming her father, he entertained her by being just a little bit the hateful aristocrat, all the while tormenting her deliciously in his arrogant and disagreeable way. This was his strategy, and the result was that by degrees, he pulled her ever deeper into a great, shared affection, such that caused them both a little discomfort upon parting and a little joy upon meeting once again.
To Eversham he wrote, Pray sir, do not press me overmuch. I am in the business of making her love me, and while I can make anyone hate me, this is a feat of daring of which I have no prior experience. That confessed, I cannot imagine failing any more than I can imagine another day in my life without her company. I would not survive it.
And as a postscript, he wrote, I wonder if you would be so good as to arrange for something a little more than a trinket if we have any family jewels that yet remain? Preferably, something that belonged to Lady Valeria…
Chapter Forty-Eight
While they enjoyed fighting very much, not every day was a battle. Some mornings they were very agreeable. Since he was very tall, he could speak to her eye-to-eye on any one of the Greenly riding mares while she sat, in her adorable queenly fashion, on the mountain top that was Caesar. There were many days when he was far too content to upset her, and he let her prattle on about anything, saying only the requisite syllables of concurrence. One such quiet day however, it occurred to him to ask, “Mary, I have forgotten to inquire. How did the elopement with Mr. Neville end for Will?”
She started. “Oh! I had forgotten it myself.”
“I assume Will refrained from shooting him?”
“Poor Will. He was filled with disgust upon his return. I think he has no real taste for what he thinks he admires.”
“He will be a very good country squire, but first he must find out for himself that he is not overly interested in the world, and the only way to accomplish that is to expose him to the world and make him pretend to be in love with it for nearly a year. When he returns, you will find that he veritably hates town.”
“Do you really think so? I live in suspense that he will cry off his duty and join the regiment or some such horror.”
“Not when Clara Himmel lives three miles from his own estate. You may take my word: he is bitten.”
“But she is his calf love, and I worry so that it will not last.”
He laughed at her then, saying, “You know Rabbit, you should never talk of worldly things as if you know all about them. Calf love indeed. Next you will be saying ‘La!’ again, and I will be forced to turn around in disgust and leave you
to ride alone.”
She coloured and he watched with pride as her ire rose and she conquered it as gracefully as any demoiselle of the bon ton. She laughed very gently at herself then, and said, “Very well, if you say he is in love I believe you.”
“Do you think Clara loves him back?”
“La!” she said wickedly. “I am not qualified to talk of worldly things and you cannot entice me to try.”
He melted, and melted again. As much as he was her master, she was his most passionate indulgence. Soon, he thought privately, soon I will have run out of patience and I will put my heart in her lap. If she is not kind to me, I am done for.
Lord Eversham, upon receiving Denley’s note, let go of what might narrowly be called a true smile before he burned the letter. He then pulled the bell and announced to his butler that he would be travelling again on the morrow to see to Denley’s settlement at Treehill, but first he would be out on a matter of business. His carriage was called while his trunks were packed, and he made his way to the bank, where he retrieved a certain article held in his private vault.
He arrived several days later to a friendly welcome by Miss Fanley alone and her immediate insistence that he stay at Greenly with Denley. “I thank you very kindly,” he said ominously, “but I cannot understand why he is here at all. He should be minding his own estate rather than relying on Mr. Fanley to feed and house him.”
“And he would be if we would let him, my Lord.” Mary executed a daintily amused curtsey. “I daresay one day we will have to relinquish him, but you will forgive us, sir, for our attachment to him?” This last piece was uttered with such unconscious innocence that Lord Eversham forgave her instantly and submitted to her charms without any further protestations.
“Oh,” he said almost offhandedly, “I have brought you a trifle from town.” He produced a small box containing a tiny, wax-sealed crystal decanter of Perfume’ de Jardin straight from Paris.
Mary gasped in a very unladylike way. “Oh, my Lord, you cannot mean to give me this!”
“A trifle. You are very good to us you know, Miss Fanley, and you will allow me to be a little good to you in return — if you please.” This was said with such fatherly severity that she could not argue.
“Oh, very well,” she said shakily, taking his hand and kissing it. “And you will allow me to thank you for it, sir.”
They were interrupted at that moment by Denley and Fanley, hot and satisfied with their late summer review of the beets, the squashes, and the poultry. “You have got her kissing your ring now, like you are the archbishop, my lord?” Lord Robert asked jovially.
Eversham explained she was being overly grateful for a small bottle of scent, and proceeded to greet Mr. Fanley in a show of solemn detachment. Denley, however, was not fooled; when he met Eversham in the parlour alone prior to their usual country dinner, he said with a degree of irony, “I see you are half in love with her yourself, though you will tell me it is all but a piece of business with you.”
“She is refreshing, that is all,” Eversham clipped, taking up a discarded periodical to use as a shield. “You will find this useful, I hope,” he said from behind the paper, casually handing over a gold, ruby and diamond ring. “Not a breathtaking object, but one that belonged very particularly to Valeria. I gave it to her myself some thirty years ago.”
Denley examined the ring very closely. “I believe this will suit my purposes beautifully, sir, and I thank you. The stones are of an uncommon brilliance that makes up for its modesty.”
Eversham grunted. “So I have always thought. Now, do not keep me here rusticating overlong.”
“You mean to see the thing done then?” Denley asked a little rudely. “Do you fail to trust me even now?”
“I do not trust lightly. Besides, I do not want to have to make this trip more than a hundred times this year. I will have to be here,” he folded down the corner of his page to peer at Robert pointedly, “to settle the contract.”
“I would rather be allowed to settle my own affairs like a man,” growled Denley in the style of his former self.
“Suit yourself, then,” Eversham growled back. “But I will be here all the same. The business will all come as a little shock to her father. Is that why you are hesitating?”
Denley visibly deflated. “I can hardly explain. Suffice it to say I have never been happier, and — you will forgive me — I have never been so much a part of any family. I am loathe to disrupt this period even for something that may be happier yet.”
Eversham turned his page and only grunted, leaving them in relative silence for a significant period of time. Eventually Denley stirred and went to the window to stare at the ripening sky. “Do you not have some business in the village tomorrow that requires Mr. Fanley?”
After a brief hesitation came the droll reply. “I believe I do…”
“Then I will have to speak to him early, I suppose. I believe I will have a very early breakfast tomorrow.”
“A novelty, for a man once known never to rise before dinner.”
Denley looked penetratingly at his uncle. “You may blame these odious country hours, sir. I am forced to amend my habits.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Mary Fanley arrived for breakfast wreathed in the terminal happiness that had been her singular adornment of late. Naturally Lord Robert’s return had inspired a return to silk slippers and rustling satin skirts; her brown shoes, apron and faded blue dress were abandoned for drearier times. But she was still a country miss, whose cheeks were like ripe, downy fruit, and whose eyes were ablaze with sharp mischief. Denley greeted her with a slight cough to cover up her astounding power to stupefy him with what he had come to recognize as natural beauty.
“Oh, dear,” she said lightly, coming to him and gracing him with her hand. “Do not tell me you are just now catching the pox?”
He bowed over her hand and smiled wryly at how every day found her more and more like the aristocratic lady she was born to be. “Is that how you saw me, then? Succumbing to the pestilence in a bower of filth?”
“Well, that is a charming picture. And in time for my breakfast! But yes, my father pictured exactly that, and now you will know why he was so very put out with you.”
He absently filled her plate with every item on the sideboard which he knew would please her. It had been some time since he had assumed the parlour maid’s role.
“I am afraid that Mr. Fanley may be still put out with me for some time to come.”
“Oh, he will get over it. He gets over everything, you know, in his own good time. I never pay him any mind when he frets, since it is his way of expressing his better feelings.”
This speech made Denley smile. “Like father, like daughter.”
“La!”
He harrumphed and settled himself to watch her daintily mince a man-sized slab of ham. “I had thought to invite you for one of your famous long walks, but I see you are in one of your lady’s moods.”
She giggled in a very unladylike way. “Where shall we go?” she asked. And then, “Your uncle! I cannot leave him to breakfast alone. But where has papa got to, do you suppose? He is always out so early and leaving me to do all that is proper. Oh, but that is why you are not eating. You will join your uncle for breakfast?”
“Faith, you are hard to follow.”
“Most rabbits are,” she acknowledged, showing the hint of a dimple at the left side of her mouth.
He became firm. “Eversham has already gone with your father to Hampton to hunt for orchard men. And I, your ladyship, have already eaten long, long ago while you were still abed.”
“Shocking!”
“Now, if you are done eating,” he said, motioning distastefully to her third piece of bread and butter, “you had better change your shoes and meet me in the front garden.”
Once dressed for the out of doors, Mary Fanley tripped down the stairs, catching herself with the tiniest recollection of her recent depression. No, she would not indulge her
fear that this perfect time in her life would soon end. She continued to dance down the stairs to where Lord Robert stood impatiently with his hand outstretched.
No sooner had he taken her arm and steered her in the infinitely familiar direction of the gate house, than she caught her breath at the ominous expression on his face. She bit her lip and turned away, resolutely refusing to hear anything awful.
He noted the whole turn of her countenance, and though thrashing himself for his transparency, he let time pass in silence between them, until at last he straightened and steeled himself to a hard deed.
“Eversham presses me hard, Mary,” he said in a somewhat ungentle tone. “I believe I will have to settle soon.”
Her heart began to beat unaccountably wildly. “You mean he wishes you to go to Treehill and take up the estate more wholeheartedly.” She did not pause for breath. “Yes, he has said as much to me. So, we will let you go, but not before the month is out,. As you said, Papa is still a little hurt and does not entirely trust you not to bolt out of the county, as you are prone to do.”
“What I mean,” he said starkly, “is that I must marry.”
As if he knew her knees would buckle, he put his arm bracingly around her to catch her during a very brief wobble.
“Marry?”
He looked at her over the top of her head, tender and sorry he was causing her such distress. Still he pressed on in a hardened voice. “Well, of course. You are not fond of primogeniture, I believe, but that does not negate my duty to produce an heir. Devonshire must not decline while I am head of house.”
They walked on rather stiffly. He supported her still, and she swallowed a great many times.
“Well of course, you must marry,” she said with as much dignity as she could marshal. She lifted her eyes to his, and upon seeing his sharp blue gaze measuring her soul, she lost her will to contain herself. “But I will hate her!” she said very bitterly, while a single hot tear fell down her cheek.
Grace Gibson Page 18