Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  She favoured Beaufort with a glance of biting contempt.

  'You are lying,' she said as calmly as she could. 'My husband is incapable of such a thing!'

  'How do you know? For how long have you known the man you married today?'

  'My aunt knew him from a child. That is enough for me.'

  'Who can claim to know what moves a woman's heart? I imagine Lady Selton was ignorant of Francis Cranmere's passion for gaming. At all events,' the American went on in a harder voice, 'I have not lied to you. Your husband has just lost all that you possess – and more besides.'

  Marianne heard him with growing annoyance. She disliked his easy manner and the steady gaze of his blue eyes but his last words awoke an echo in her mind.

  'That is the second time you have said that. I do not understand. What do you mean with your "and more besides" ?'

  Jason Beaufort did not reply at once. He could feel the young girl's nerve stretched taught as a bow string, perhaps at that limit of tension that comes before the breaking point. But she had weathered one storm and he liked that. It pleased him to have a worthy opponent.

  'Well, why don't you answer me?' Marianne said cuttingly. 'Are you afraid, suddenly, or are you searching for some suitable lie?'

  'I was merely wondering,' the American said gently, 'how you were going to take the remainder of what I have to – shall I say, confide.'

  'Say what you like, but say it quickly!'

  'After Lord Cranmere had lost everything, when he had nothing left to stake, he lost his temper and volunteered to win back all he had lost at one go. He proposed to stake, against all his former property, something infinitely more precious than all…'

  He paused again, hesitating to say the words which, in the presence of those clear eyes, seemed suddenly out of all proportion monstrous. And Marianne's throat was so dry with fear that she could find no voice to bid him go on. Her 'what?' was scarcely more than a whisper.

  'You,' Beaufort answered quietly.

  One single little syllable but it seared into Marianne like a shot from a pistol fired at point blank range. For a moment, she thought that she was going to faint. She stepped back, and back again in an instinctive search for support, groping behind her until her icy hand met the warm, comforting stone fireplace. Now, she knew she was going mad – unless it were he, this insolent creature, he were the madman. But he seemed so cool, so self assured, while she seemed to be falling headlong… A wave of sick disgust swept over her. At least the walls of the house were there, certain and solid under her hands, to lean on otherwise she would have been sure that this was some nightmare. She flung her thoughts in Beaufort's face:

  'Either I am mad, sir, or you are. Am I a slave to be sold or bartered at will? Even supposing Lord Cranmere to have been so vile or so rash as to stake the property placed in his keeping today, even then, he can only lose what belongs to him – and I do not belong to him!' The savagery in her tone startled the American.

  'In the eyes of the law,' he said, and his voice was more gentle than ever, 'you do belong to him. And let me make it clear, it was not you yourself, or your life he staked, but only this one night. It is this night which now belongs to me. The loss of that vast stake made it my privilege to come to you here, in place of your husband – to exercise his rights.'

  No, this was too much! Who had ever heard of such a thing? Not even the abominable Lovelace, the persecutor of the unhappy Clarissa Harlowe whose adventures Marianne had read not long before, would ever have dared to suggest anything so improper! With what sort of creature did this impudent foreigner think he had to do? Marianne drew herself up to her full height and racked her memory with childish fury for some of the more vulgar and incomprehensible insults overheard in the stable yard. She felt as though they would relieve her feelings mightily. When, inevitably, nothing came to mind she was obliged to be content with pointing imperiously at the door.

  'Go,' was all she said.

  Instead of obeying, Jason Beaufort swung round and gripped the back of a chair, resting one knee on the seat. Marianne saw the knuckles of the brown hand whiten.

  'No,' he answered coolly. Then, his eyes held by the pale graceful figure and by the disturbing recollection of the form half-seen not long before, he went on: 'Listen, and try to hear me out without losing your temper. You don't love that pompous selfish fop, you cannot love him?'

  'I am not obliged to discuss my feelings with you – and I ask you once again to go.'

  The American's jaw tightened. So this chit thought she could impose on him with her queenly airs. Furious with himself, more than with her, he took refuge in anger.

  'So much the worse for you!' he said grimly. 'At all events, he's lost you. No woman can go on loving a man who could gamble away her first night of love – not unless she had sunk as low as he. By his consent, you are mine for this full night. Come with me – come away with me – use this night he has relinquished to gain your own freedom! I'll not touch you but I'll take you with me, to my own country, out of his reach – I will make you happy – There before us is the sea to divide you forever from a man unworthy of you—'

  'And unite me with another, at least equally unworthy!' Marianne retorted. Gradually, as he became more feverishly urgent, she had been recovering her self possession. For the first time in her life she was discovering power over a man, sufficient at least to disturb this disagreeable American. She gave way to the perfectly natural temptation to abuse it.

  'If the chivalrous feelings you possess towards me are genuine sir, then you may prove it very simply…'

  Halted abruptly in the midst of his wholly unpremeditated outburst of feeling, Jason Beaufort asked curtly:

  'How?'

  'By returning the house, land and property which you have acquired by such dubious means. They have been in Lord Cranmere's possession for too short a time for him to have any right to dispose of them. Then, yes, I might think of you not merely without anger but even with friendship. As for my being yours, even for an hour, I think you can scarcely have imagined it?'

  A gleam of anger showed in the American's eyes. His hawk-like features seemed to become even harder. He turned his back abruptly, perhaps to shut out the seductive vision of the child woman who had seemed so innocent but was now exhibiting an alarming self possession.

  'Impossible,' he said flatly. 'For me, that game of cards was a chance in a lifetime. My ship, the Savannah Belle, was wrecked on your Cornish rocks. Only three of us escaped and everything I had went down with my ship. With the money from your estates I can get another vessel, crew, provisions and cargo. Even so—'

  He turned suddenly, a prey to a desire stronger than reason, and fixed her with burning eyes.

  'Even so,' he went on hoarsely, 'I'll give you back the house and lands, I'll even be fool enough for that if you will pay the final debt. Give me this night – and the morning I will be gone. You shall keep it all.'

  He was moving slowly towards her as he spoke, drawn irresistibly by the graceful elusive white figure. Marianne had a lightening vision of what might follow. An hour in this man's arms and then he would go away and leave her once again mistress of Selton Hall. But these last minutes had taught her to be suspicious and she knew that it would be a long time before she could trust a man again. How could she be sure that when dawn came and once this spasm of desire which even she, young as she was, could read naked and demanding in the man's taut face, was satisfied, how could she know that then he would keep his promise and give up the wealth he claimed to need so badly? A moment ago, he had promised not to touch her if she went with him and now he dared to claim payment of the shameful debt!

  All this rushed through her mind as Jason came towards her. He was reaching out to touch her when Marianne recoiled instinctively.

  'No!' she cried. 'Take everything there is since you claim that it is yours but you shall not touch me. Not you or anyone! At dawn tomorrow you may drive us out of here, Lord Cranmere and myself, but until then my b
ed shall be my own.'

  The reaching hands fell back. Jason drew himself up with a supreme effort to recover his control. Marianne saw the lean face which, a moment before, had been heavy with passion stiffen into a scornful mask of stone. He shrugged.

  You are a fool, Lady Cranmere. All things considered, you and your husband make a noble pair. I wish you every happiness. It will not be long I think before you discover the joys of living from hand to mouth with a man for whom you no longer possess any commercial value. But that's your affair. Keep your Francis since you care for him so much. You may remain here for a few more days until my man of business can take possession of the estate. For myself, I am leaving at once. Goodbye.'

  He bent his tall figure in a curt bow, turned on his heel and strode to the door. In spite of herself, Marianne made a move to follow the man who was taking with him, as though it were of no account, all her childhood memories and everything she held dear. She had the heartbreaking thought that Aunt Ellis who had so loved her home would rest now, along with all the other Seltons, on land belonging to a stranger. Yet even then it did not occur to her to beg. Her pride forbade it. Her throat constricted and suddenly she wanted to cry.

  'I hate you!' She wailed through clenched teeth. 'You can have no idea how much I hate you! I'd like to see you dead and while I live I shall go on hating you!'

  He turned again and looked at her. One corner of his mouth lifted in his mocking smile.

  'Hate me as much as you like, Lady Cranmere. I'd a hundred times rather hate than indifference. After all, don't they say that on a woman's lips hatred and love taste much the same? A happy thought – I may as well find out?'

  Before Marianne could guess what he meant to do, he had taken three steps across the space that divided them and caught her in his arms. Half-stifled, her head reeling, she found herself imprisoned in a grip of steel, her lips sealed by a hard demanding mouth that bore down relentlessly on hers. She struggled furiously but Jason held her fast, and for all her frenzy to escape there was little she could do. Alternate hot and cold waves seemed to run through her body, mingled with another strange and still more disturbing sensation. Unconsciously, Marianne's struggles grew feebler and ceased. That other mouth was so warm after the chill she had endured and by some miracle it had become suddenly soft and caressing – dazedly, Marianne was aware of a hand stealing up the back of her neck beneath the silken masses of her hair, imprisoning her head. It was like a dream – a not altogether unpleasant dream. And then, abruptly, she found herself released, standing alone while the world swayed about her, weak-kneed with a ringing in her ears. The American's horrible, mocking laughter sounded close by.

  'My thanks for your co-operation, but do not forget you still owe me a night. One day, I shall come to claim it. What a pity it would be to miss the chance of making love to such a woman. You are made for it.'

  At the sound of the closing door, Marianne, scarlet with shame, opened the eyes which she had closed to shut out the sardonic face of her tormentor. He had gone. She was alone at last but alone as she might have been in the midst of the ruins. Of her world, the world of her childhood, nothing remained. House, fortune, love and all her most cherished illusions destroyed in an instant. All that remained was a few, still-warm ashes soon to be scattered by the wind. The estate would be sold so that one more ship might sail the seas!

  A horse's hoofs clattered beneath the window, diminished and died away. Marianne had no need to look to know that Jason Beaufort was gone, fleeing the wreck that he had brought about. Now she, Marianne, must think what to do about the disaster he had left behind.

  She sat down calmly in the armchair so recently occupied by the American. Around her, the house was silent once again.

  ***

  When, half an hour later, she emerged from her melancholy thoughts she felt as though she had been born anew as a result of some painful and unaccustomed new process of gestation. Very little remained of the innocent young Marianne who had plunged headlong with such blind infatuation into the mirages of calf-love.

  Now, her only feeling was anger, an anger nothing but vengeance could assuage. This vengeance, Marianne was determined to exact at once. Francis had betrayed her, sold her, degraded her and for that he would pay.

  Calmly she slipped out of the frilly gown and gauzy nightrobe for which she no longer had any use and put on instead a dark green riding habit. She twisted her hair into a hasty knot on the nape of her neck and left the room. Out on the landing, she was struck by the heavy, almost brooding silence of the house, an ominous, waiting silence like that of a wood before a storm when all living creatures, beast and tree seemed to hold their breath.

  Throwing the skirt of her habit over her arm, Marianne glided soundlessly down the great oak staircase, a slight shadow in a world of shadows. On the last step, she paused. Everywhere was so dark. Where could Francis be? He had arrived at Selton Hall only an hour before the wedding ceremony and no room had been set aside for his personal use.

  The girl's quick ear caught the clink of a glass and at once, sure of her direction, she made her way to her aunt's boudoir and opened the door. Francis was there. He was lying back in a big armchair, elegantly shod feet resting on a table covered with green baize which also held a big bronze candlestick, decanters and some glasses. His back was to the door and he did not hear Marianne come in. She paused for a moment in the doorway, looking with fresh eyes at the man whose name she bore. A pang in the region of her heart told her that anger and disappointment had not been enough to kill her love. He fascinated and repelled her, like the curious plant she had seen writhing its libid tentacles in Lord Monmouth's glasshouses at Bath which devoured insects and small mammals. Her love for him was an unwholesome plant which she was determined to tear out by the roots, even if her heart were torn apart for ever in the process. But oh, how it hurt!

  With a mixture of pain and fury, she allowed her eyes to dwell once more upon her husband's handsome face, the mouth for whose kisses she had longed, and the slender hand with which just then Francis was idly turning his full glass to catch the firelight. Those hands would never caress her now because she was here with the single intention of killing Francis Cranmere.

  Leaving her husband's recumbent figure, Marianne's eyes flicked rapidly round the room and came to rest on a pair of fine Milanese swords which formed part of the decoration of this strange boudoir full of riding whips, weapons and spurs. She had used those swords more than once in practice bouts with old Dobs who had taught her to fence. Noiselessly, she reached down one of the weapons, a strong, slender blade she knew well. Her fingers closed on the hilt and, settling it firmly in her grasp she moved forward without a sound. The blade would pass easily through the padded chair and the thickness of the man's body and Marianne was ready to strike so, from behind, without remorse as the executioner lets fall his axe on the condemned man kneeling at his feet. Hers was the hand of justice. This man had betrayed her, broken her heart. It was right that he should die. She drew back her arm. The sword's point touched the leather upholstery of the chair.

  But slowly, she let her arm fall. The blade dropped. No, she had doomed him but she could not strike like this, from behind. She hated him with all the strength of disappointed love but she hated even more the thought of killing like a coward without giving her victim the least chance to defend himself. Her natural honesty recoiled from such a summary execution, even if Francis had deserved it a hundred times over.

  The thought came to her: since her conscience demanded that the villain must have his chance, why not force him to fight a duel? Marianne was an expert swordswomen and knew her own strength. She stood a fair chance of beating, and killing even a skilled opponent. And then, supposing Francis proved himself the stronger and overcame her, she would die without regret, taking her shattered love and unsullied chastity to a place where such things no longer mattered.

  She stepped out from the shadow of the chair and slashed the air with her sword. At the
hiss of the blade, Francis turned his head and stared at her with a real surprise that gave way almost at once to a mocking smile.

  'Here's a strange turn-out for a wedding night! What are you playing at?'

  Was that all he had to say after his outrageous conduct? He might at least have shown some shame! But no, he was as carelessly at ease as ever! And dared to mock at her!

  Ignoring the irony in the question, Marianne mastered her anger sufficiently to say coldly:

  'You played for me like a paltry handful of guineas, sold me like a slave! Don't you think you owe me some explanation?'

  'Oh, is that all?'

  With a weary smile, Francis Cranmere settled himself more deeply in his armchair, set down his glass and clasped his hands across his stomach as though composing himself more comfortably for sleep.

  'Beaufort is a romantic. He was ready to stake all the treasures of Golconda against you—'

  'Which he did not possess.'

  'As you say. But I do believe, if he had lost, he would have been prepared to steal to match your worth. Damme m'dear, you've an admirer there – unfortunately, it was I who lost. But there, there are some days when one is quite out of luck.'

  His airy tone whipped up Marianne's anger. Suddenly his handsome, insolently smiling face maddened her beyond bearing.

  'And you supposed that I would pay for you?' She said angrily.

  'Lord, no! You've plenty of breeding, even if you are half French. I was pretty sure you'd send our American friend to the right-about. And so you did because I heard him riding off and here you are! But what the devil are you doing with that sword, put it down, do, before you have an accident.'

  He put out an arm, more sleepily than ever, refilled his glass and carried it to his lips. Marianne noticed with disgust the dark red flush that was beginning to spread over his aristocratic countenance. Already, he was very nearly drunk. She saw him slip his fingers nervously inside his high muslin neckcloth to loosen it. She watched with contempt as he tossed back the last amber drops in his glass before saying curtly: