by Georgie Lee
‘My goodness.’ Lady Ellington laid one sparkling hand on her ample bosom, rainbows from her diamonds spraying out over her dark blue dress. ‘I didn’t think the two of you were so well acquainted.’
‘We aren’t. I spent more time with his Érard than I did with him when we visited.’ The spine cracked as she opened the journal. She tapped her toes against the floor, as puzzled as she was flattered by his gift.
Lady Ellington rose. ‘Hurry and read it so you can give him your thoughts on it when we visit them tomorrow.’
Marianne brought her toes down hard against the parquet, leery of another meeting with him. ‘Can’t I simply send him a note?’
‘Not for something like this.’ A wicked twinkle lit up her pale blue eyes before she strode to the door. ‘You’ll have to play for him again and see what else you might inspire.’
Marianne frowned, not quite as amused by the situation as Lady Ellington, but certainly intrigued. She ran her finger over the title on the front of the journal, the one written by Sir Warren. He was asking her, a person he barely knew, to critique his work. It would be like her giving him one of her compositions to play. For all the flowers and stupid poems Lord Bolton had sent her, none had touched her as much as Sir Warren’s simple request.
Leaving the pianoforte, Marianne wandered through the double French doors overlooking the garden, past where the aged gardener, Walker, knelt in front of the rose beds. The heady scent of the summer blooms no longer hung in the air. It had been replaced by the crisp chill of autumn and wet dirt. She strolled along the gravel path, passing the fountain in the middle of Zeus and a nymph in an evocative embrace.
Too evocative. The same could be said about most of the statues scattered throughout the garden. Marianne passed by them without a second look. The peculiarities of Lady Ellington’s brother, the prior Marquess of Falconbridge, and his taste in statuary, didn’t interest her. Instead, with the journal clutched to her chest, she wondered if maybe Lady Ellington was right and it was time to stop hiding away from the world at Welton Place. If a famous man like Sir Warren could see the value in an acquaintance with her, perhaps some other gentlemen who weren’t Lord Bolton might do the same. It was almost enough to convince her to accept Lady Ellington’s offer of a Season in London, but not quite.
She reached the far side of the garden and followed the path winding up through the copse of trees to the brick orangery hidden among the oaks. Arched and latticed windows marked the front-left side while those to the right had been bricked in. She stepped through the double doors and into the comfortably furnished garden building. Sets of bergère chairs with generous cushions all done in the Louis XV style dominated the window side of the room. A tall screen embroidered with a mythic scene of Apollo seducing Calliope, as shocking in its depiction of love as the garden statuary, shielded a wide sofa situated in the darker half. The gaudy gilding reminded Marianne more of her mother’s boudoir than it did an outbuilding. Like the garden, the orangery owed its decorations to the old Marquess, a bachelor rake she’d heard so much about from Madame de Badeau she’d often wondered if the woman hadn’t bedded him too.
The orangery, despite its gaudy and erotic decorations, was, for Marianne, a small retreat from the dower house and a good place to be alone. She’d come here after more than one afternoon party to fume over the whisperings of Miss Cartwright or Lady Astley.
She chose a comfortable chair near a window and settled in to read Sir Warren’s note again. His handwriting was bold, each letter crafted from slashing lines and thick strokes. It was a stark contrast to the small flourishes and graceful twirls which filled her composition book.
She read it a third time, but nothing about the words changed. Like the Smiths’ daughter, who used to pore over each ‘good morning’ from the farmer’s son hoping there was more to the salutation, Marianne was looking for a deeper meaning which wasn’t there. It was silly of her to do so. She’d learned long ago at Madame de Badeau’s that when a man said something it was what he meant and little more. If Sir Warren was thanking her for inspiration, then he was thanking her. It didn’t mean she’d sent him into raptures. She stuffed the note in the back cover, glad not to arouse a grand passion in a man. Other people’s passions had already caused her no end of troubles.
She set to reading, focusing on Sir Warren’s work instead of him, determined to be worthy of his faith in her. However, with each turn of the page, each paragraph outlining Lady Matilda’s story, disbelief and dismay began to undermine the peace of the orangery. By the time she reached the end of the manuscript, Marianne wanted to toss the journal in the fountain at the bottom of the hill and watch the thing turn soggy and sink. She couldn’t. It was too good a story. Too bad it was hers.
* * *
‘I didn’t work so hard to gain Priorton to sell it off piece by piece the moment things get difficult,’ Warren insisted, his boots coming down hard on the stone of the cloistered walk in the garden. Lancelot trotted beside him, panting lightly. The garden ran wild in the current fashion, leading from the back of Priorton to the tree line beyond. In the centre of it, weathered stone statues lounged between the beds of dying summer plants and wildflowers.
‘Then you must let some of the field labourers go,’ Mr Reed, Warren’s bespectacled man of affairs warned, on Warren’s heels as they returned to the house after surveying the fields. The harvest had been good this year, but not nearly as profitable as either of them had hoped, or counted on.
‘No, not with winter coming. I won’t see families suffer because of my mistakes.’ He, his mother and Leticia had suffered because of his father’s financial mistakes. His father had been a good man, but he’d been careless in the management of his school, never charging enough or collecting what was due and leaving his family near destitute when he died. After refusing to apply for relief in the very parish where his father had preached, they’d been forced to rely on Warren’s reluctant bachelor uncle for support. It had been his uncle’s brilliant idea for Warren to enlist and save the time and money required by a lengthy apprenticeship. At sixteen, the clean, comfortable life Warren had known had been ripped from him and replaced with gore and filth, and the need to support his sister and mother. He still hated the old salt for forcing Warren into it and resented his father for failing to leave his family with means. He wouldn’t visit the same misery on other families, especially those under his care.
‘The second half of the payment for your next book will cover current repairs, but after they’re complete, you must stop for a while,’ Mr Reed instructed.
Warren slapped some dirt off of his breeches. The payment wasn’t coming any time soon. He didn’t tell Mr Reed, not wanting to send the little man into an apoplectic fit. The costs of the house were forcing him to live from one payment to the next as he’d done in the Navy. This time the sums were more considerable and the chance of ruin, starving and having nowhere to live much greater. The risks would soon be eased by the publication of Lady Matilda’s Trials and the payment of the second half of his advance. The money would help, but it wasn’t enough. Even if he received Miss Domville’s thoughts on the story today, it would be some weeks before the novel’s release, and more after that before money from the sales began to arrive.
Warren’s feet came down hard on the stone walk as he and Mr Reed approached the house. He’d taken a chance sending Miss Domville his manuscript and asking for her opinion, but he suspected she’d be blunt in her assessment it. He hoped she was. With his mounting doubts, and Leticia no longer here to read his work, it was growing more difficult for him to judge if his tales were accomplished or piles of rubbish. He wasn’t about to send Mr Berkshire a second-rate novel.
How the devil did I get myself into this predicament?
Through the arched sides of the cloister separating the garden from the wild field, he admired the peaked and turreted roofline of Priorton and the
hazy sky behind it. This was everything he’d ever wanted, his dream and his sister’s too, the one they’d shared in childhood. He’d achieved it for both of them, but at times it seemed more crippling than magical. For all the money he spent on Priorton, he didn’t enjoy it as he should. In the spring he went to London. The rest of the year was consumed with stories, bills and repairs. It was difficult to spend an hour wandering in the garden when he must toil to pay for it all. During the long, dark hours on the orlop deck, this was what he’d imagined, what he’d strived for and now he stretched to achieve it. He hoped it didn’t break him, the way his father’s dream of running a vicarage school had broken him.
‘You could seek a loan,’ Mr Reed suggested as Warren held open the back door and waved Mr Reed inside. ‘To tide you over until you receive your advance.’
‘No, I’ve never taken money from anyone before, I won’t start now. We can sell off some of the sheep.’
‘With wool prices falling, it won’t gain us much.’
‘At least we won’t have to spend money to feed them.’
They strode down the long front hallway. Through the diamond-leaded front windows Warren caught sight of Lady Ellington’s carriage in the drive. He tugged open his slack cravat, then struggled to retie it, wondering if Miss Domville was with the Dowager. Last night, the memory of her flowery scent and the gentle tone of her voice had disturbed his sleep more than new story ideas.
They entered his study and Warren settled himself at his desk while Mr Reed stood before it outlining expenditures. As soon as he was finished with Mr Reed, he’d join the ladies and discover what Miss Domville thought of his manuscript. Perhaps he could convince her to play for him again and inspire another story. He needed more inspiration, especially with Mr Reed rattling on about expenses.
‘You can’t afford to invest any additional money in Mr Hirst, beyond what you recently advanced him,’ Mr Reed cautioned. ‘We’ve yet to see any profit from his ventures or even documents outlining your shares.’
Warren organised a stack of papers on his desk. ‘I don’t intend to give him any more.’
‘Then you’d better tell him. I heard from one my associates in London he’s using your name to push his current venture. You must distance yourself from it in case it fails. You don’t want to be blamed.’
‘I’ll write to him at once and make it clear he’s not to use me as an endorsement.’ The bumbling fool. It seemed Rupert’s current scheme was already faltering, and taking Warren’s money with it. He should have known better and not allowed emotion to play any part in his business dealings. It wouldn’t happen again.
Mr Reed opened his thin lips to say something else when the study door slid open with a bang.
Warren peered around the slender man of affairs to find Boudicca herself standing beneath the lintel in the very appealing figure of Miss Domville. So much for avoiding her until his interview with Mr Reed was complete.
‘If you’ll excuse us, Mr Reed,’ Warren asked.
Mr Reed flipped closed his ledger and tucked it under his arm, needing no explanation for why he should go. It was clear in the storm in Miss Domville’s eyes. ‘Yes, of course.’
He slipped from the room, leaving Warren alone to face the fury.
‘Good day, Miss Domville, it’s a pleasure to see you.’ Almost too pleasurable. She marched up to him, her breasts covered by a sheer chemisette and the thin silk of her gown. It was all Warren could do to rise from his chair like a gentleman and keep his eyes fixed above her chin. Damn, she was beautiful, earthy and angry. ‘I’d hoped to see you today.’
‘Good, because we must discuss this.’ She slammed his journal on the desk, making a stack of papers curl up, then settle back down. ‘How could you use my story?’
He stared at the slightly rumpled pages. ‘You didn’t like it?’
‘No, it’s a wonderful story, quite enthralling.’ She leaned forward on her palms. He riveted his eyes to hers to keep his attention from sliding down and increasing the fury reddening her cheeks. ‘Except you took what I told you about my mother and twisted it into a tale to amuse dairy maids and hack drivers.’
‘I took something you’ve been ashamed of and made it into something you could be proud of. I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘You were wrong.’ She glowered at him like a schoolmarm ready to switch a naughty student, except she was the kind of woman who filled a young man’s fantasies, not his nightmares.
‘No one will see you in Lady Matilda, or think her story has anything to do with yours. I hid it too well.’
‘Of course they will, especially when they realise we’re acquainted with one another.’ She whirled around, her blue dress fluttering about the curve of her hips as she marched to the door.
‘Miss Domville, wait.’ She didn’t stop, but took hold of the wrought-iron handle. He couldn’t let her go. ‘I won’t publish the story if it troubles you so much.’
She released the handle. It dropped against the door with a thud as she turned to him, as astonished by his offer as he was. ‘You won’t publish it?’
‘I won’t make money off your unease.’ Even if he lost everything else, his word and his honour would still be his, he’d make sure of it. ‘In fact, you may keep this copy of the manuscript.’
He held out the journal to her, his grip tight on the paper as the full weight of what he’d volunteered to do settled over him.
She returned to him and took the story out of his outstretched hand. ‘And your original copy? How do I know you won’t send it to your publisher after I leave?’
‘I’ll burn it, now, so you can be sure.’
‘You’d do such a thing, for me?’ She clasped the journal to her chest and for a moment he was jealous of the book resting against her soft curves.
‘Yes.’ He picked up the stack of loose pages and tapped them twice against his palm, hesitating before he tossed them into the grate beside him. The gesture burned him as much as the flames did the parchment. Lady Matilda’s story had been a godsend after months of nothing. Now he was no better off than before. ‘It was never my intention to betray your trust.’
She watched with him while his words turned to ashes. ‘Then why did you write it?’
‘Because, until the day you came here, I hadn’t been able to write a single useful word for months. With the exception of Lady Matilda’s story, I still can’t.’ He looked at her, noting how the light from the rising flames consuming the manuscript reflected in her clear eyes. He’d hidden his failing from everyone, from his mother to Mr Berkshire. It was a relief to finally admit it someone.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’ Nor did she offer to let him publish her copy of the work. He wouldn’t ask her either. He’d made a pledge to her, and he would keep it, as he had all the others he’d made to himself, his mother and to Leticia’s memory, no matter how much it hurt.
‘It’s all right. I’ll write something else.’
She flicked a glance at the wads of papers scattered around his chair. ‘How?’
That’s what I’d like to know.
Warren watched the flames die down, their new fuel spent. Miss Domville’s playing had bolstered him like Leticia’s encouraging letters used to do when he’d written in the semi-darkness of the ship. The influence Miss Domville’s playing had exerted over his creativity had left with her. In the last few days, since finishing Lady Matilda, he’d tried everything he could think of to reclaim it, even hiring a young man from the village church to play while he’d worked, but it hadn’t been the same. There’d been something about her presence, as at Lady Cartwright’s, which had soothed and encouraged him and he wanted more of it.
He tugged on his loose cravat as an idea as unbelievable as it was tempting began to come to him. If Miss Domville could help him overcome his block once, she could do it
again. No, it was foolish to draw her into his struggles, or to tempt himself with her company. She wasn’t one of the London widows eager to discreetly amuse him, but a young lady fighting for respectability. For him to suggest any relationship with her outside of a betrothal and marriage was to risk her reputation further and he shouldn’t even consider it, except he needed her. With his talent failing him, he might lose everything he’d achieved and find himself as destitute as his father had been at his death. He wouldn’t allow it, or be forced by weakness back to the Navy to make his living. With blank pages and bills facing him, he couldn’t allow his muse to escape.
‘If you agree to come here and play the piano for me, I can create another story.’ He smiled with all the charisma he employed to woo patrons in London, hoping she didn’t dismiss the idea outright. He didn’t doubt, given her fierce entry into his study, she’d shrink from turning him down.
She laced her arms beneath her breasts and stepped back, the cynical schoolmarm returning. ‘And what instrument do you hope I’ll play afterwards? I’m not Madame de Badeau, a woman to be hired as a mistress.’
He didn’t blame her for being cautious. Once he’d achieved fame, the number of people he could trust had shrunk significantly.
‘I don’t want a mistress, but a muse.’ It was difficult to look at her and not think of twining his hands in her golden hair, tasting her pink lips as they parted beneath his and freeing those glorious breasts from their prim confines. He’d better not concentrate on them if he wanted to win her co-operation and keep himself free from distraction, and bankruptcy. ‘I need you.’
‘No one needs me.’ The same worthlessness which had torn him apart the morning Leticia had died hung in Miss Domville’s words. He gripped his hands hard behind his back, silently raging at himself and the world. A woman of Miss Domville’s loveliness and innocence didn’t deserve to feel the way he had that awful morning.
‘I do. I realise it’s a ridiculous request, but if I don’t have something to turn into my publisher soon, I could lose everything.’ Lancelot trotted to his side and sat down next to him. Warren dropped his hand on the dog’s head and stroked it, the simple motion easing the anxiety of waiting for Miss Domville’s answer.