Kidnap Confusion

by Judith Nelson

  "Aha!" Miss Tolliver heard herself say the word again and told herself sternly to try for a loftier tone. She sounded, she thought, like a character in a bad farce; next she would be rubbing her hands together in anticipation. She looked down to see she was doing just that and quit abruptly, fixing Gillian with that frosty stare that had him tugging at his cravat as if it had grown much too tight.

  "Fetch John and Peter and bring them to the blue salon," she commanded, and when he stood a moment longer goggling at her, she stamped her foot and shouted, "Imme­diately!" Gillian disappeared like a wild hare, and Miss Tolliver, her back as rigid as the proudest soldier's, proceeded to the blue salon.

  Chapter 26

  Next to the library, the blue salon was Miss Tolliver's favorite room in Willowdale. It was decorated in varying shades of blue, from the very pale shade of the room's large rug—a lightness Miss Tolliver was sure was the despair of his lordship's housekeeper but which she, as the person who did not have to clean it, could much admire—to the medium blue of the richly papered walls, to the cerulean shade of damask that covered the high-backed sofa and large wing chairs, and the deeper, almost midnight blue of the velvet curtains that draped the deep windows, shutting out both night and the grayest of days. A blue porcelain figurine sat on the mantlepiece, framing a gilded clock, and it was seldom that Miss Tolliver could enter the room without appreciating the beauty to be found there. This day, how­ever, she did so without difficulty. Nor did she seem to notice the loud slamming of the door behind her, a sound that brought both the countess's and the earl's heads up in surprise, distracting them from the numerous cards they had moments before been discussing.

  "Miss Tolliver!" the countess said, surprised. "By the sound of it, I was expecting Gillian—"

  "Gillian," Miss Tolliver said through clenched teeth, "will be here shortly."

  "Oh?" The countess was eyeing her with some misgiv­ings. "He will?"

  "He will." Miss Tolliver nodded in satisfaction. "So will John and Peter."

  "I see." The countess was treading carefully. "How very—nice."

  "Yes," Miss Tolliver agreed affably. "How nice. It will be a family gathering."

  The earl, who had been watching her face since her entrance, but who had not yet spoken, rose now and walked toward her, reaching out to take her arm. "My dear," he said. "Whatever has occurred—"

  "Don't 'my dear' me, my lord," she told him, wrenching her arm out of his grasp and taking a hurried step backward, out of his reach. "I am not your dear—"

  "But you are," he told her.

  "No!" She glared at him. "I am not! I am a pawn in your game and the object of your conspiracy—" She was striding about the room now, her face flushed and her skirts rustling as she smacked one hand into the other—"but I am not your dear!"

  "Miss Tolliver—" The earl started hastily toward her, but his grandmother, thinking it best that she now take a hand before these two silly children out-misunderstood each other to the point of no retreat, entered the conversation to say, "My dear, you look magnificent, striding about like that, but please, do come sit down. Watching you is quite fatiguing."

  Miss Tolliver halted in mid-stride to turn a startled face toward her. Words of ill-use warred with the one other thought crowding into her head. The other thought won. "I look—magnificent?" she repeated.

  "You do," the countess assured her. "Doesn't she look magnificent, Giles?"

  "She is magnificent," her grandson seconded her, with that peculiar smile that always made Miss Tolliver aware of how warm the rooms were.

  "I—" Ruthlessly Miss Tolliver pushed the flattery behind her, and her frown descended again. "No, I am not," she said crossly. "And I wish you would not so confuse the issue!"

  "But my dear," the countess said mildly, "we do not yet know what the issue is! Come—" she patted the sofa seat beside her invitingly "—sit down and tell us all about it."

  It was a reluctant Miss Tolliver who at last stepped forward, her eyes moving suspiciously from the earl to his grandmother. Both retained their innocent expressions as, with grave reservations, she took her place beside the count­ess. The earl, seeing her seated, pulled up a chair to her right and leaned forward. Then, with every sign of courte­ous bewilderment, they asked her to tell them what it was that had distressed her so.

  "You know very well what has distressed me so, and these innocent airs are no—" Miss Tolliver began crossly, only to be interrupted as the door opened and three decided­ly ill-at-ease gentlemen entered the room.

  "You—" John cleared his throat "—wanted to see us— Miss Tolliver?"

  "Oh, yes!" the lady said, rising to greet them. "I most certainly do!" As they showed no inclination to move away from the door, she begged them to be seated, and said, "Come in—do come in! Peter, you can take my place here by the countess. And Gillian-—there's a chair for you, and one for John—"

  She ignored all the gentlemen's claims to the right to give her their chairs, saying with great dignity that she preferred to stand for what she had to say. Gillian, Peter, and John exchanged glances, but the earl and his grandmother contin­ued only to regard her with polite interest.

  "It has come to my attention," Miss Tolliver told them, her eyes raking her audience in a way that made Peter and Gillian squirm and John clear his throat again, "that I have been the dupe in your conspiracy—-"

  "Conspiracy?" The dowager countess appeared much surprised. "Why, my dear—whatever conspiracy is that?"

  "You know very well what conspiracy," Miss Tolliver returned. "All of you know. I just left my aunt waltzing in her bedroom—"

  "Your aunt is—waltzing—" the countess started. "—in her bedroom?" the earl finished for her. Miss Tolliver frowned at them. "Yes, she is. And even if she told me some faradiddle about demonstrating for Lazaurus what happens when an ill chicken gets up before he is fully recovered—"

  "She told you—" the countess's lips began to turn up in spite of herself, and Miss Tolliver was much incensed to see the earl's shoulders shake.

  "Yes, well, it's all very well for you to laugh," she told him roundly, "but my aunt never used to lie to me, and—"

  "But my dear!" he interrupted her, "a demonstration for an ill chicken!" This time he could not contain himself, and his laughter burst out; the countess followed suit.

  "An ill chicken!" she said, wiping her eyes. "I do enjoy that woman!"

  "Yes, well—" Miss Tolliver felt her own ever-lively sense of humor threatening to overcome her, and tried firmly to bring the situation back in hand. "That's all very well. But what I want to know is, why? Why have you constrained my aunt to act against me—"

  Quickly the countess assured her there had been no constraint. "Your aunt likes it here, Margaret."

  "Yes, but—" Try as she might, Miss Tolliver did not seem able to bring them to an understanding of the full depth of their perfidy. "That is all very well. But you all know it is only a matter of time until we leave, so why did you choose to postpone it this way—"

  "Because we don't want you to go!" Peter said, rising suddenly to come forward to catch her hand and to gaze entreatingly up into her face. "We want you to stay with us. Always."

  "Oh, Peter." She smiled, and put a gentle hand to his cheek. "My dear, you know I cannot."

  "But why?" Peter cried. "Giles loves you! We all do."

  A flush rose in Miss Tolliver's cheeks, and she turned her head away. "No, no," she said. "Gi—I mean, the earl—is acting only out of his code of honor—"

  "No." Her startled eyes turned to the earl's as he too rose and came forward. "Gi—you mean, the earl—is not. Peter is right. Giles loves you."

  Miss Tolliver cried that it could not be true, recalling to his mind the look of disgust that crossed his face that long-ago day when he first announced their engagement to

  Chuffy Marletonthorpe. He possessed himself of both her hands and stood smiling warmly down at her.

  "Did it occur to you, my dear, that my feelin
gs might undergo a change since that time? That I might have moved from feeling obliged to marry you to feeling I cannot live without you?"

  "No." Miss Tolliver's lips parted in amazement, and she seemed unable to move as she stood staring up at him. Clearly it had not.

  "Lord, yes, Margaret," the countess seconded him from her interested post on the sofa. "He has been in love with you as long as you've been in love with him. Maybe longer."

  "In—love—with me?" Miss Tolliver turned her dazed eyes toward the countess and then back toward the earl. With great resolution she pulled her hands from his and said that it could not be; it was just his chivalry, and his love of mastery, so that if one told him something could not be, he must say immediately that it could. . .

  "Margaret!" The earl captured her hands again. "For a generally sensible woman, you say the most extraordinarily foolish things!"

  "It's love," the countess interjected wisely, nodding at her other three grandsons. "Love walks in and reason goes out the window. It was the same with your grandfather and me."

  Miss Tolliver, with the earl looking at her just so, was having great difficulty concentrating, but she turned her eyes to the countess again. "It—was?"

  "Just like," the countess approved. '"In the end I had to marry him. Just to save him from himself. Couldn't let the whole world know what a gudgeon he was, you know. I liked his family. Had to protect their name."

  "Ah." Miss Tolliver nodded wisely, and her eyes began to twinkle. "I see. I should marry his lordship for your sakes—"

  "Yes!" chorused the countess and her three youngest grandsons, but they were overborn by a forceful "No!" from the earl. Miss Tolliver gazed at him inquiringly.

  "You should marry his lordship," the earl said, each word deliberate as he raised her hands to his lips and gracefully kissed each finger, "for his lordship's sake. And for your own."

  "Gi—I mean your lordship—" A blushing Miss Tolliver was finding it difficult to speak. "You forget yourself—"

  "Giles," he corrected her, kissing her fingers again and watching her face in enjoyment as she tried to pull her hands away. His hold remained firm.

  "Your lordship—"

  "Giles." He seemed to have a particular interest in the tip of her middle finger, rubbing his lips against it in a way that made the normally capable Miss Tolliver feel rather— well—incapable.

  "Giles!" she said. "Really! There are other people in the room—"

  "Yes," he agreed, smiling at her in approval and releas­ing her hands to turn to them. "I have noticed that. I cannot imagine why they are still here!"

  "Oh!" The word came from four mouths as four very interested pairs of eyes met his lordship's and read the meaning there. "Yes! Of course!"

  "Studying to do—" said Peter.

  "Correspondence," said John.

  "Got to see a man about a horse—" Gillian tried. The earl corrected him gently with one word. "Library."

  "Library," agreed the crestfallen Gillian, and the brothers moved from the room.

  "Grandmama?" the earl questioned politely as the dowa­ger countess seemed disposed to remain on the sofa, smiling brightly at them.

  "I have no place to go," she said, her tone tranquil as she smoothed the stiff black silk of her gown. "I have no correspondence, and no studying to do."

  His lordship suggested that she could read a book—one of the lurid romances so dear to her heart. The old lady sighed and said she did not feel like reading. His lordship's eyes glinted.

  "Did I tell you, Grandmama, that just this morning we laid in a new supply of sherry? I'm told it is the best we've had in years. . ."

  "Oh?" The old lady looked up sharply, and rose. "Per­haps," she said, drifting across the room, "I will spend an hour or two reading . . ."

  With a quick stride the earl moved to open the door for her. "I told you it would work out," she said, pausing to pat his cheek before she departed. "And in time for the ball, too. . ."

  "Ball?" Miss Tolliver pricked her ears at the word. "What ball?"

  "Oh." The countess turned dreamily to face her. "Didn't we tell you, dear? We're hosting a ball a fortnight hence to celebrate your engagement. Nothing large—perhaps 200 people. It will be a costume ball."

  "Two hundred people—" Miss Tolliver began, aghast. "No, you didn't tell me—"

  "A costume ball?" the earl interrupted. "We did not speak of a costume ball, Grandmama."

  "Oh?" She turned vague eyes toward him. "Did we not, my love? How strange, for I distinctly remember writing it on the invitations . . ." She paused. "Your grandfather and I announced our engagement at just such a ball."

  The earl was heard to say that he did not care for costume balls. His grandmother smiled, and patted his cheek again. "Dear Giles!" she said. "Neither did your grandfather!"

  Then she drifted from the room, and the earl, with a philosophical shrug, turned to face Miss Tolliver.

  "Well, sir?" she challenged, chin up.

  He took a purposeful step forward. "Yes," he told her. "It is very well, Miss Tolliver!"

  Chapter 27

  It was some time before Miss Tolliver could bring the earl to a proper sense of duty, or to an understanding of his own duplicity, for he seemed much more interested in exploring the area between her right earlobe and the nape of her neck than in attending to her questions—an exploration that did not seem exerting to him, but which left her oddly breathless.

  "Now, sir," she said for the fourteenth time, firmly removing his hands from her waist and turning resolutely to face him. "Do behave! I have asked you and asked you about the people who have been invited to this ball I know nothing about—"

  "And—" she continued, resolutely pushing away his hands as he reached for her again, "I do not believe that I have yet received a formal offer of marriage." She bethought herself of John, Gillian, and Peter, and amended that to "from you." Then she remembered the scene in the green salon, and conscientiously changed her statement to "that I have accepted."

  The earl grinned. "Miss Tolliver," he said, considerably surprising her by taking her hand and dropping to one knee, "will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

  The next surprise was his. "Why la, sir!" she cried, her other hand fluttering to her heart as she opened her eyes wide. "This is so unexpected!"

  "Dash it, Maggie—" he began, starting to rise. Hurried­ly she put her hand on his shoulder to push him down again.

  "Are you sure, Giles?" Her eyes searched his face, all hint of banter gone. "Because it isn't what either of us expected or wanted that day at Mrs. Murphy's inn—and my brother Charles assures me I am not an easy person to live with—"

  The earl nodded sagely. "That, my dear, is very true. But—" he stopped her protest by turning her hand over and kissing her palm "—I have found that you are also impossi­ble to live without!"

  "Oh, Giles!" The capable Miss Tolliver was surprised to hear herself giggle. "What a romantic thing to say!"

  Pleased with his success, his lordship continued to pour romantic sayings into her ears for a considerable amount of time until Miss Tolliver, her conscience recalling her reluctantly to duty, remembered that she really should go tell her aunt that there was no reason for Aunt Henrietta—or Lazaurus— to be sick anymore. Her aunt took the news in good part, saying that in that case she rather thought they—that is, Laz—would be better tomorrow, since she had received another book and a box of chocolates from the earl that seemed likely to keep her in bed the rest of the day.

  Hiding a smile, her niece kissed her cheek and told her that she was very happy she would so soon be well. Her aunt nodded abstractedly, her eyes fixed on the printed page before her, and with a vague wave of her hand suggested that Margaret go away and entertain herself. Margaret prom­ised to do so, and was almost out of the room when her aunt's soft voice recalled her, and she turned questioningly.

  "I am very happy for you, Margaret," Aunt Henrietta said simply. "He is a good man. Lazaurus likes him." />
  If Aunt Henrietta was pleased with the news of her niece's real betrothal to the Earl of Manseford, Sir Charles was thrilled. Delighted. Ecstatic, even. In fact, Miss Tolliver told him with just the teeniest bit of pique that one would think it was Sir Charles himself who was getting married. And she asked, her tone dry, if it was his joy at her joy, or his joy at knowing he would now have continued access to the earl's well-stocked cellars, that made him so happy.

  "No, no, Margaret," he assured her, pumping her hand vigorously. "It is you I am thinking of—your happiness must of course be of the greatest moment to me. Twenty thousand pounds, Margaret! Think of it! The estates you'll have! The estates I'll visit! The jewels! The horses! The settlements—" Thought of the settlements made his face brighten further, and he vowed to seek the earl out immedi­ately to discuss them.

  "Because I am sure that he would not want to be backward in any attention, and neither would I, so we must discuss—"

  "Charles," his sister said softly, and he paused in his perambulations to beam at her, assuming an air of great interest in anything she might have to say.

  "Be careful in the settlements, Charles," she told him. "Because if I hear that you have done anything to embarrass me, arranged anything even the smallest bit uncalled for or pretentious, been anything but humble and unassuming in your requests, I promise you that when I am Countess of Manseford you will not be welcome in any of the earl's abodes."

  "Here!" Visions of largess disappeared before his eyes, and Charles's brow darkened. "I say! Of all the scaly. . . That is no way to talk to the head of your family—"

  Miss Tolliver smiled. "It is, however, the way I have found necessary to see that you are quite clear on my meaning."

  He gave her to understand that she had wounded him deeply; that he had only her best interests at heart and he didn't know how she could think—could imagine for even one moment—that it was anything else. Then he somewhat spoiled the effect of his earnest declarations by adding that he didn't know why she expected him to do with a paltry amount when she would be living on the earl's twenty thousand pounds. A year.