The Baron's Honourable Daughter

by Lynn Morris

  “Oh, dear, the peacocks have found us,” Regina said regretfully. Two male peacocks, their magnificent tails fully displayed, strutted out of the glade and headed straight for the pallet. They were something of a nuisance, as they were aggressive in begging for food.

  “It’s all right, Mamma, I’ll feed them,” Valeria said lightly. “As long as they get their fair share—”

  At this point confusion ensued, as Mrs. Purefoy was apparently deathly frightened of peacocks. With a screech she gathered up her skirts, ran to the cart, and clambered up onto the driver’s seat. “Oh, dear,” Regina said again, rising to her feet. “Ned, try to drive them away. I’ll go to Mrs. Purefoy.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Ned sighed. It was almost impossible to drive peacocks away from food.

  Laughing, Valeria came to his rescue. “Come, let’s get some of the grapes and we can lure them back into the glade, at least.”

  “And then they can follow us right back,” Ned grumbled under his breath.

  “Well, perhaps Mrs. Purefoy will have to picnic in the cart,” Valeria said with satisfaction.

  They got the peacocks to turn around by taking a step, then offering each of them a grape, which they greedily snatched. Slowly they made their way back toward the wood. When they were about halfway across the clearing, Lady Jex-Blake and Lord Maledon suddenly came thundering out of the wood on horseback, nearly running down Ned, Valeria, and peacocks all. Lady Jex-Blake’s horse came so close to Valeria that she could feel its steamy breath as he reared and screamed.

  Then with horror Valeria saw that Lady Jex-Blake was riding her own horse, Tarquin. She stood motionless, staring with huge dark eyes and dead-white face at the horse. He was foaming, chomping hard at the bit, his eyes rolling and showing the whites. His front hooves crashed to the ground a bare foot from Valeria. She watched as Lady Jex-Blake yanked hard on the reins to pull him to a stop; but still her left foot, underneath her skirt, was pounding Tarquin’s side so that he kept prancing, dancing, restlessly half-rearing. Lady Jex-Blake’s face was a picture of fierce, savage joy. She was making a display, and she was making sure that Valeria saw her. They stared at each other for long moments.

  Valeria was barely conscious that the peacocks, frightened by the rampaging horses, had fled into the woods. Lord Maledon rode on up to the cart, where the grooms were waiting to take his horse. After an intense face-off, Lady Jex-Blake turned and spurred Tarquin to a dangerous gallop for the short distance to the cart. Numbly Valeria returned to the group.

  Lord Maledon helped Lady Jex-Blake down. It was then that Valeria saw the blood streaming down her horse’s side. Lady Jex-Blake was wearing a sharp spur. Clenching her fists, Valeria ran to the two of them. “That’s my horse!” she cried accusingly to Lady Jex-Blake. “How dare you use the spur on my horse! He’s never known the touch of a spur in his life, he’s never required one, he has such spirit—”

  “Be silent!” Lord Maledon roared, his face growing dangerously crimson. “Who do you think you are, you little chit? Speaking in that manner to my guests! I’ll have you know that my guests can ride any of my horses in any manner they wish, and you’ve nothing at all to say about it, now or ever!”

  “But, sir, Tarquin is my horse!” Valeria argued vehemently. “I know him, I know best—”

  Maledon stepped forward and slapped Valeria across the face, hard.

  Though stunned, she didn’t cry out; nor did she weep. Instead she turned her face back and glared fixedly at him, her eyes glittering with hatred. Maledon took an uncertain step back.

  Without a word Valeria mounted Tarquin; she barely touched his side, and the horse galloped off at full speed. She didn’t look back.

  Chapter Five

  THE DEEP BRIM OF HER BONNET blocked Valeria’s view in her headlong ride. Heedlessly she tore it off. Tarquin ran as fast as he ever had, and she bent low over his neck and gripped the reins so hard her fingers ached; her right leg, clenched on the sidesaddle leaping horn, burned with pain. Still Valeria thought she would just ride on and on, away from Bellegarde Hall, away from her stepfather and Lady Jex-Blake. She wished mightily that she could, but of course it was impossible.

  They reached the courtyard still at full gallop, but Tarquin knew he was at his own stable now, so he came to a sliding stop, reared, and then stood, his skin quivering. Two grooms came running out of the stables to assist her, but heedlessly Valeria jumped down and threw her arms around the horse’s neck. It was soaked with sweat and foam. “Oh, Tarquin, Tarquin, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” she murmured over and over again. After long moments she felt him ease up somewhat, and he reached his head around to nose her side affectionately.

  One of the grooms had taken Tarquin’s reins, the other stood close. Both of them were staring at her with shocked expressions. Valeria realized then that her hair was falling down in wild abandon. Her white afternoon dress, a round gown with a narrow bottom, was ripped up one side seam. Tarquin’s blood was smeared along the hem. “Where is Timothy?” she asked tightly. “I want Timothy.”

  “Yes, miss,” they gulped, and one of them ran back into the stables.

  Timothy Buckley, the youngest groom, had attended Tarquin’s birth, and Valeria had fallen in love with the beautiful black colt with the diamond blaze on his forehead as soon as he was born. She and Timothy had become good friends, as he had, at her insistence, taught her everything about taking care of Tarquin.

  He came running out, struggling into his coat, for the Bellegarde grooms wore livery, a brown coat and waistcoat, tight buff pantaloons, and top boots. He was a slight but sturdily built young man of eighteen with ash-brown hair and plain features, including friendly brown eyes. He skidded to a stop and grabbed Tarquin’s reins from the other groom, who slipped away. Timothy looked aghast as he took in Tarquin’s agitation, the blood on his side, and Valeria’s state.

  “Oh, Timothy, look what she’s done,” Valeria muttered in a strangled voice. “How could anyone be so cruel?” She grabbed the horse’s bridle and pressed a kiss to his nose, again murmuring endearments to him.

  “I’m so sorry, miss,” Timothy said quietly. “I thought she needn’t be riding Tarquin; but his lordship was telling her that you were the better rider. Her ladyship didn’t take it kindly, like, and insisted that she’d show him.”

  Valeria gritted her teeth, and several extremely unkind epithets came into her mind, but of course she would never say them out loud. With one last stroke of Tarquin’s nose she murmured, “You’ll take good care of him, I know, Timothy. I couldn’t bear to leave him if it weren’t for you.”

  “Yes, miss, thank you, miss. And just so’s you’ll know, as Tarquin is your horse and all, I believe I’m seeing he’s got a stone bruise on his off hind. I’m thinking he mustn’t be rode for a day or two,” he said with grim determination.

  “No, he surely mustn’t,” Valeria agreed gratefully. “Thank you.”

  She hurried into the house and to the sanctuary of her bedroom, seeing no one in the Great Hall or on the stairs. Slamming the door closed behind her, she went to her dressing table and sat down, staring at herself in the mirror.

  Her eyes widened, and she touched her left cheek, only now aware that it was stinging painfully. The crimson print of a long-fingered hand showed on it as clearly as if it had been painted on. She thought of how very white her face was, as pale as the moon, except for that handprint; and her eyes were stretched wide and seemed a flat lifeless black. Her throat was constricted so tightly that it hurt, but not because she wanted to weep. She didn’t feel in the least like crying. She felt anger, but it was not sharp and vengeful now. It was a low dull throb in her chest.

  Her head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool, and she had difficulty in comprehending what she had just been through. Never in her life had she been subjected to such a terrible scene, she had never even imagined that people could behave in such a manner. With sudden dread she tried to marshal her thoughts—had St. John seen?
Oh, please, merciful Lord, not that…

  Resting her forehead on her hand, she closed her eyes and forced herself to replay the scene. Her mother standing at the cart, comforting Mrs. Purefoy because of the peacocks; the landau pulled up behind it, and Ewan Platt and the grooms standing there, ready to take the riders’ horses; her stepfather and Lady Jex-Blake on this side of the landau as she came to confront them; beyond, Colonel Bayliss, St. John, and Niall at the lakeside…on the far side of the oak where the picnic pallet was spread. No, they could not have witnessed the ugly spectacle. Valeria felt a measure of relief.

  It was short-lived as she thought of her mother, however. No matter how awful she herself felt, she knew that her mother must have been even more sickened than she. And Valeria had escaped, but her mother couldn’t. This wasn’t because she would worry about the etiquette of leaving her guests; she knew that her mother would have hurried to her if it hadn’t been for St. John. Dully Valeria wondered about the aftermath, and how everyone had reacted. Then she realized that they would act as all well-bred Englishmen acted, as if nothing bad or shameful or embarrassing ever happened in polite company.

  After a few painful moments, she was sure that they had all gone about their picnic, and her mother would have to stay there and play-act along with them, for St. John’s sake.

  The door opened, and Craigie came in, carrying a tray. She set it on a side table in front of the open window, then came to Valeria and, without a word, put two fingers under her chin and lifted her face. Valeria stared up at her with some bewilderment; she still wasn’t thinking clearly. Craigie’s eyes narrowed to sparking blue slits, and she grimaced.

  “What happened?” she asked tightly.

  Valeria bowed her head and said numbly, “I can’t speak of it. Ask Platt when he returns.”

  “Come over here, my love, I’ve brought tea,” Craigie said with sudden gentleness. She took Valeria’s arm and led her to the side table, sat her down, then pulled up a chair and sat next to her. Pouring out a lightly steaming cup of tea, she said, “Drink this, it’ll help.”

  “Green tea, yes,” Valeria murmured. “Thank you.”

  Craigie sat in silence as Valeria sipped the tea. After a while Valeria said vaguely, “I lost my bonnet. In the glade, down by the lake.”

  “Don’t worry about that, my love, Platt will find it.”

  “It was very expensive, I believe. And I’ve torn my dress…and…and there’s blood on it.”

  “So I see.”

  Another long silence. Valeria reflected that Craigie was one of the most comforting people in the world to be with. She was silent and economical in her movements, and she had a stillness about her when she was listening that was very peaceful.

  Valeria finished her cup of tea, staring unseeing out the window. Carefully she set the teacup down, then slumped her shoulders tiredly. “I—I feel—soiled. I need a bath, a very hot bath.”

  Craigie patted her shoulder and rose, whispering, “Poor little mite.”

  “I don’t want to be a poor little mite,” Valeria cried in a strangled voice. “I want to be strong, like my father!”

  Craigie said quietly, “You are exactly like your father, Valeria.” Then she quietly left the room.

  In a few moments she and Joan returned, each carrying a trifold screen. They set them up to screen Valeria from the far end of the room, for manservants had to carry in the heavy copper tub and the water. Valeria poured herself another cup of tea and tried to prepare herself for what was going to be a terrible ordeal—attending dinner. She tried to imagine how she would conduct herself.

  She heard them bring in the tub, and immediately she heard water splashing into it, bucket after bucket. A delicious smell permeated the room, and Valeria sniffed appreciatively. Craigie used different herbal bath preparations for different times. This time it was lavender, chamomile, and rosemary: a soothing bath. Wearily Valeria thought that it would make her sleepy, and wondered if she had time for a short nap before dinner. She had no idea of the time; she couldn’t think how much had passed since she’d left the picnic. It troubled her.

  Craigie came around the screen and said in a businesslike manner, “Let’s get you undressed, and take your hair down. I’ve brought some new hair-wash that her ladyship ordered special from London and just came in today. It’s rose-and-lilac-scented, and by all accounts it’s good for both fair and dark hair, to give it a special shine.”

  As she had done when she was a child, Valeria stood limp and yielding as Craigie undressed her down to her chemise. More buckets of water splashed, and the sweet scent in the room grew stronger. Joan came around the screen and curtsied. “May I do anything else, Miss Platt?”

  “No, I’m just going to brush out her hair and then we’ll have our bath,” Craigie answered briskly as she sat Valeria down again at the dressing table. Valeria grew more alert. “What time is it, Craigie?”

  “It’s going on five o’clock, miss.”

  Valeria said, “Craigie, when my mother returns she is going to need you. I’m sure she’ll need a bath too, and most likely she’ll be suffering from headache. Joan can attend me.”

  “Are you sure, miss?” Craigie asked doubtfully.

  “I’m sure,” Valeria asserted in the most purposeful tone she had used since she had come home.

  Craigie left, and Joan came to take down Valeria’s hair and brushed it out until it was smooth, with not a single tangle. She adjusted the screens, so that they were now in front of the door.

  Gratefully Valeria sank into the hot bath. Pinching her nose, she fully immersed herself for so long that Joan must have begun to worry, but finally she came up spluttering and already feeling cleaner and better. Taking the bath brush, she rubbed herself so vigorously that her skin began to turn red, but it felt delightful. “My back, please,” she murmured, then wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned forward. With satisfaction she realized that Joan had observed her and knew her wishes, as she scrubbed Valeria’s back hard. Then she washed Valeria’s hair, rubbing her head vigorously to work the hair-wash into a foamy lather. Lastly she poured two buckets of warm water over Valeria’s head for clean rinsing.

  Valeria got out and began toweling herself down. Joan moved the screens again, then went out and instructed the maids to empty the tub and have the manservants return to take it away. She returned and finished drying off Valeria. Wrapping her wet hair in a large soft flannel she said, “Now, miss, if you’ll just lie down I think you’ll feel even better after a massage. I believe we’ll have the lilac-scented cream, as it’ll blend nicely with that wonderful hair-wash.” It amused Valeria that Joan was turning out to be just as motherly and bossy as Craigie. Then it struck her that she had relaxed enough to feel such a light emotion as amusement.

  Joan had strong hands, and the massage she gave Valeria was expert. Valeria felt the last bit of tension draining away from her body, and she almost dozed off. But with determination she said, “That will do, Joan, I’m getting too sleepy. We need to start drying my hair, or I’ll be going down to dinner with it still dripping.”

  Joan dressed her in her softest chemise and a light dressing robe, and again Valeria took her seat by the window, so that the late afternoon sun blazed in on her head. Joan fetched several smaller flannels and began partitioning sections of Valeria’s hair and drying them.

  The bath and the screens were soon cleared away, and almost immediately afterward Regina came into the room. She was hurrying, for she hadn’t even taken off her bonnet.

  “Valeria, my darling…please excuse us, Joan.” The maid curtsied and left.

  Regina untied the ribbons on her bonnet and took it off, then sat down, her eyes never leaving Valeria’s face. “I’m all right, Mamma,” Valeria said evenly.

  Regina nodded and swallowed hard. Valeria saw tears start in her eyes. Reaching over, she grabbed her mother’s hand and said, “Please, Mamma, please don’t weep. It would only make me feel worse.”

  “Then
I won’t,” Regina said, wiping her eyes. “Of all things, I don’t wish to make you feel worse. Oh, Valeria, I’m so sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Valeria said gutturally. “You’re not responsible for what he does, Mamma, never think that.”

  “But I am,” she said quietly. “He is my husband. I must share his burdens. I know that he will never apologize to you, Valeria, and so I must beg for your forgiveness for him.”

  “No, I can’t! I won’t! How can you even say such a thing? You—you should never have to be—subjected to—exposed to—” Valeria’s voice, along with her sudden rage, faded away. Finally she went on, “Mamma, how can you stand it?”

  “Because I promised that I would.” She rose and went to Valeria’s secretary and returned with Valeria’s prayer book. Opening it, she turned to a page that she evidently knew very well. Softly she said, “This was my promise: I, Regina Carew, take thee, St. John Edward Charles Bellegarde, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

  She looked back up at Valeria, and in her face Valeria now saw no sorrow, no sadness, only compassion. “Oh, Mamma,” she sighed, “I shall never be as good as you.”

  “Nonsense, my love. You’re so young, too young to understand, really, and I would give my life if you weren’t forced into the position where you need to fathom such hard things,” Regina said regretfully. “But we are here, and we must learn to live with the trials that we have. And so again, Valeria, I beg your pardon for your stepfather, and ask that you forgive him. No—don’t say it, I know very well what you’re feeling. And it’s useless for me to tell you that you must have charity, and to insist that you must forgive even your enemies. Only the Lord can give you this kind of love, and the ability to forgive. If you will ask Him, you will find charity, and love, and forgiveness.”