by Nicole Byrd
Marianne saw that the draperies in the drawing room were given a good dusting and shaking out, and the windows were washed before the curtains were rehung. She had the faded but good quality rugs taken outdoors for a beating to free them of some of the years of accumulated dirt, and the floor scrubbed and the furniture polished with beeswax and oil.
Their dinner that night was quieter, without Lord Gabriel’s stories and jests, and the food unfortunately not at all improved.
“I am looking for a new chef,” John assured them both. He put his knife, not without effort, into a piece of overcooked pork. “Looking hard.”
Louisa giggled.
After dinner John showed both the ladies his library, which Marianne had not had time during the day to explore.
Louisa nodded politely, but Marianne gazed in admiration at the large, handsome room with its high shelves filled with books.
“That is wonderful, my lord!”
He smiled, warmed by her approval. “My father was not a reader, but grandfather liked a well-stocked library, and I have added to the collection. Feel free to borrow any volumes you would enjoy.”
“Perhaps you have a nice adventurous novel?” Louisa suggested hopefully. “With lots of romantic dialogues, ghostly visions, and haunted chambers?”
“Perhaps,” he agreed and directed her to one of the shelves. She picked up a volume to peruse, and he was able to cross to Marianne. She stood at the side of the room in front of the large globe on its mahogany stand.
“So you have contemplated a larger world, too,” she murmured. “Do you read travel tomes, as well, my lord?”
He smiled ruefully. “Not as many as you, I think, but yes, I, too, have ventured abroad through the pages of a book.”
“Then we have more in common than you have admitted.” She smiled up at him, and only Louisa’s presence held him back from pulling her into his arms.
Both the ladies chose books to take to their rooms. As for John, tense with frustration, he paced up and down for some time before he trusted himself to go quietly up to bed.
In her chamber Marianne found even a four-volume history of the Ottoman Empire, which she had selected, failed to hold her attention. Instead, she thought of John—it was harder than she had expected to have him so close and be unable to spend time alone with him—until at last she sighed and extinguished her candle. And even then, he found his way into her dreams.
It was best to keep busy. As the week went by, she continued to lead the household staff in an energetic attack on the dirt and disarray. After the drawing room, they tackled the guest wing; the beds all needed new linen, the curtains had rotted from the sun, and some of the paper on the walls had mildewed. She learned from one of the few servants who had worked under the late marquess that John’s father had never allowed fires in any rooms except the ones he had inhabited. And he had never had guests, except for very rare instances, so the guest wing had been quite abandoned.
Sometimes John came to see what she was about, apologizing again for the house’s disorder, worried that she felt compelled to do too much, that he was being a poor host. She finally forbade him to say another word, and he retreated to his study or disappeared out of doors, spending long hours on horseback, either checking on his farmland or keeping an eye out for intruders, she wasn’t sure which.
In fact, overseeing the cleaning kept her from dwelling on the tantalizing reality of John’s nearness. At least that was her theory; the truth was, she still had to pull her thoughts back a hundred times a day. And going through his house taught her more than he might wish about the bleakness of his early life, and the ignominies he had suffered living with such a deplorable father.
She heard more recent stories, too. When she noted aloud that there were no looking glasses in any of the public rooms, the housekeeper told her that none was allowed in the master’s suite, either.
“Ordered ’em all out when he had the sickness, ma’am. Couldn’t bear to see his own face, apparently. A sad thing, that was. He was never the looker that his younger brother was—face of an angel, that one—” She paused.
Marianne raised her brows, her tone a little dry. “Yes, Lord Gabriel is most blessed.” How John must have tired of being always compared to his brother!
The housekeeper flushed and went on, her words a little too fast, “But our own lord was a nice sturdy lad, and many of the local lasses cut their eyes at him. Then, he caught the pox—his late lordship had not inoculated his tenants, as most of the neighbors had. They said a group of gypsies, traveling through, had the sickness, and some of the young men who had been down to try their hand at games of chance came down ill shortly after. My lord always tried to be a good landlord, even when his father was alive, and he went down to visit the sick and take them food.”
“Oh.” Marianne paused with a brush in her hand. To encourage their efforts, she was not above joining the servants in their herculean task. “He never told me that part.”
“He wouldn’t, ma’am. He’s shy about his own good deeds,” the housekeeper declared. “I think he’s still trying to make up for his father, if I say it, who shouldn’t.”
She looked anxious, and Marianne nodded, offering no rebuke for such criticism of a high-ranking lord.
She felt a deep rush of compassion for John, suffering so much. She put down the brush. “I think this paper is hopeless; it will have to be replaced,” she said. “I will speak to his lordship about it. We shall begin on the dining room, next.”
The housekeeper nodded. Although flustered from all this unaccustomed activity, at least she did not seem to resent Marianne’s directions.
“I know it’s all in a sad shape, ma’am,” she told Marianne, not for the first time. “His lordship’s mother kept the house better, I assure you—I was only a housemaid at the time, but I remember it well. After she died, well, the old lord had a time keeping any servants at all, and he cared little about the house as long as he had his wine at hand, and something halfway cooked on the table at dinnertime. He was a fierce one, he was, if you pardon me for saying so. I only came back after he died.”
“Quite understandable,” Marianne agreed. “I think you are shorthanded, as well, in a house this size. If you can find any girls in the village who are interested in a post, I’m sure his lordship would agree to hiring more maidservants.”
The housekeeper positively beamed. “Oh, yes, ma’am. That would be most helpful. I will send word. We’ve had trouble hiring servants in the past—such silly stories the girls pay heed to—but having visitors from London, well, it’s much more normal, isn’t it?”
Marianne wasn’t sure she understood this, but it seemed indelicate to pry too far. So they had a discussion about which chores to tackle next, then Marianne went in search of Louisa, whom she found in the formal garden, directing two of the gardeners.
“Yes, and I think this bush is past its prime—is there anything in the greenhouse ready to transplant?” she was asking.
The man wiped his brow with a somewhat grimy kerchief. “Don’t know, miss.”
“Even so, I think it has to come up. If we must, we’ll buy more from the market in the next town,” Louisa said.
She sounded confident enough, Marianne thought. If she did become mistress here—and the thought gave Marianne a sharp pang, there was no use denying it—she would no doubt do a fine job of looking out for the estate.
Louisa took out her fan; despite the shade of her parasol, she looked flushed from the heat. “Oh, hello, Aunt, what do you think of this?” She motioned to the bushes they had been cutting back, and Marianne nodded in approval.
“It looks very well. Are you ready to go inside for something cool? At least, if not cool, wet. I tried to order some lemonade made up, but there are no lemons, so we shall have to settle for tea. I fear the cook has neglected his pantry stores.”
“The cook has neglected everything else, as well, judging by the food we’ve been offered,” Louisa retorted. For once, her good temper s
eemed to have failed her.
Marianne made no answer in front of the gardeners, but she followed Louisa inside and up to the morning room. Louisa flung herself into a chair; she did not look at all happy.
Marianne waited for the tea tray to be brought in, then shut the door behind the footman and sat down in the next chair. “What is it, my dear?”
“Oh, Aunt, can we not go back to London?” Louisa blurted.
“Not yet. You know why we came, to provide you with a safe haven,” Marianne pointed out.
“But I would like so much to go back to town!”
Marianne wondered uneasily how Louisa would fare spending most of her time here. This lack of contentment did not bode well in a location destined to be Louisa’s future home. “We’ve only been here a little over a week,” she noted.
“It seems much longer,” Louisa complained. “Surely, we could be safe somewhere with more people and more things to do?”
Thinking of the marquess’s wound, Marianne tried to keep her temper. “Louisa, you are not being logical. Lord Gillingham has already been hurt. You must see that we cannot risk returning to London. We must determine who is trying to do you harm. This is a serious business.”
Louisa made a face. “I know, yet I’m so tired of having my movements circumscribed. It is so very quiet here. How many evenings can one spend reading or playing at cards with only three people?”
“It’s a beautiful house, beneath its neglect,” Marianne pointed out. “When you are mistress here—”
“I don’t know if I wish to be!” Louisa blurted, then stopped, biting her lip.
Marianne drew a deep breath, willing her heart not to beat faster. “What do you mean?”
“I’m just—not sure.” The girl would not meet her eye.
“Perhaps you need to speak to Lord Gillingham about your feelings, Louisa?” Marianne suggested, keeping her tone quite neutral.
“Perhaps, but not yet. . .” Louisa stared into her teacup.
They chatted a little longer, about less important matters, but her aunt seemed strangely preoccupied and soon left to check on the servants.
Left alone, Louisa drank her tea, which was the color of mahogany. Was there nothing this wretched cook could not ruin? She wished she could have lemonade, instead. Typical that the cook would not have thought to order lemons from the nearest market town. In London, such foodstuffs came into port every day, brought by ships from tropical climes. Oh, how she missed London! She had seen only enough to whet her appetite, and then to be dragged back into the country, into a place even more removed and sedate than Bath—life could be very hard!
Louisa wandered back out into the garden. One gardener had gone to check on the greenhouse to see what was available for transplanting, and the other was hard at work and did not seem to need her guidance. Louisa crossed out of the formal garden—its stone walls reminded her too vividly of her present state of near imprisonment—and headed for the orchard. At least here, she had some illusion of freedom, and beneath the trees, greening as the season’s blossoms faded and showing the first signs of the fruits that would mature by autumn, she could wander in the shade and escape the heat of the sun.
She found a wooden bench beneath one of the apple trees and sat down. She had not meant to blurt out her doubts to her aunt—she had not really fully examined her feelings herself—and yet, somehow she felt better for it. Surely, no one could say that she had not tried to love the marquess. She appreciated all the kindness he had shown her, but still—she could find nothing inside her but gratitude and friendship. And that seemed a barren field after the excitement and emotion she had felt for her first admirer.
If only she had not pushed Sir Lucas away . . . Sighing, she removed her bonnet and lost herself in memories, idly twirling her bonnet by its ribbons.
And when she heard the sharp ping of a twig snapping, for a moment it did not register. Then she tensed, aware that someone had approached her bench, someone who came up quietly without speaking. She was aware that a form loomed behind her, and fear gripped her throat.
She was out of sight of the big house—no one would know if the threatening stranger had reappeared.
Drawing a deep breath, Louisa gathered all her courage and prepared to scream.
Fifteen
“Louisa?” A familiar voice whispered.
His slender, handsome form seemed to have stepped out of her musings. She gasped, then jumped to her feet and, before she thought, ran into his arms.
He caught her and pulled her to him, holding her very tight. For a moment she lay her head on his chest, feeling relief weaken her knees. Not a stranger trying to shoot her, but the person she most wanted to see in all the world. Yet, despite the first flush of joy that she felt, she must try for more self-control, not like the heedless girl he had been so quick to reject.
“Lucas?” She had been ready to shriek and trying to change her tone made the word sound like a frog’s croak. With regret, she stepped out of his embrace. “What are you doing here?”
“I was worried. You disappeared from London so abruptly. And then I heard rumors about a shooting—they mentioned the marquess and that ladies were involved—and I remembered what you had said about an attacker. I should have paid more heed to your fears, Louisa, forgive me.” He looked unusually grave, and she tried to compose her own features. It would be unseemly to reveal the elation she felt at seeing him again.
“I’m glad you cared,” she said simply.
“Of course, I care! And I wanted to check on you. I’ve heard some odd things about the marquess—do you know that he’s called the Black Beast hereabouts? Even if he does have a great title, I could not allow you to be mistreated, Louisa.”
“Oh no,” Louisa argued. “Really, he’s a most honorable man, kind and considerate of me in every instance.”
“Ah, I am happy to hear it,” Lucas said. He did not sound happy. His expression seemed strained, and his eyes had gone somber.
“I did not mean to defame him, especially to you, since you are betrothed. I do not wish to cause you any distress.” He took a step back, and she reached out to him despite all her intentions.
“I’m not,” she blurted, then, as Lucas stared at her, went on more slowly. “I mean, I will soon not be betrothed. I am going to tell the marquess that I cannot marry him. Truly, I have tried my best, and the marquess is a most worthy man, but I have decided that I cannot feel for him what I felt—what I once felt for you, Lucas.”
“Louisa—” His expression was so twisted that she looked away, not willing to be rejected yet again.
“I know you no longer care for me in that way,” she murmured, “and you have formed other attachments since our parting, but—”
“No, I haven’t,” he interrupted. “Not that I didn’t try to. I was angry and hurt, Louisa, and I thought I could forget you, but no other young lady seems to quite compare. They all seem a bit quiet and dull after your company. I’ve missed you. You have such a happy spirit, not to say so much beauty and grace.”
Louisa thought she might burst from sheer happiness. “Oh, Lucas, it was all my fault. I was indeed too selfish and too concerned about myself. I have changed, really I have, and I am trying my best to be more understanding and considerate.”
He shook his head. “It was not all your fault. I was too easily wounded in my feelings and my pride. I should not have castigated you so severely. I don’t want you to change, dearest Louisa. I love you just as you are.”
She lifted her head, and he bent to meet her lips. Louisa felt the thrill of his touch through her whole being. Here was the spark, the joy that she had never managed to find with Lord Gillingham, that she had not even been able to imagine. She pressed herself closer to Lucas and their kiss grew and deepened, until she was dizzy with unaccustomed sensations.
At last, he pulled back, though she could see the effort it took.
“I shall speak to your uncle about a formal engagement,” he said.
She nodded, then paused. “Not just yet, Lucas, please.”
“You don’t wish to marry me?” He gazed at her, looking more perplexed than angry, and she quickly stretched to give him another kiss. By the time they broke apart this time, she felt even more giddy, and she had to content herself with simply holding his hand between both her own.
“Of course I do! But we must consider the marquess’s feelings. I have not yet even decided how I shall break the news. And I don’t think we should disclose our understanding, not yet. I do not wish to wound his pride more than we must. We should wait a few months before the announcement is made. We will know that we are betrothed, but let us not broadcast it, not just yet.”
He gazed at her in obvious admiration. “You have grown, Louisa. You’re right, though I will chafe at any delay that keeps you from becoming my wife.”
“Sir Lucas and Lady Louisa,” she murmured, delighted at the sound of it.
“Not much, when you could have been a marchioness,” he reminded her.
“It is everything I wish for,” she told him. “Just as you are everything I wish for. But, Lucas, do you think we can come up to London occasionally? I know your home is in Bath, and I will reside there all year if you wish it, but—”
“To be sure,” he agreed. “I find London most diverting. After we are married, I think we will look for a town house to purchase, so that we can come up for the Season every year.”
Louisa’s smile widened. “Oh, Lucas, you are so good to me!” She leaned against his chest again and felt something scratch her cheek. She raised her head and found that a leaf clung to his lapel. And that reminded her—
“Lucas, how did you get here?”
“I rode down.” But his expression was too innocent.
“No, there is a large wall about the estate, how on earth did you get over?”
He grinned. “I should say it’s big! Didn’t make it over the first time.” He lifted his arm and she saw the rip in his sleeve. “Had to go back to the village and buy a ladder. And then my horse objected to the thing on his back, so I had to walk back, pulling the ladder, and dashed heavy it was, too. Wouldn’t do that for just anyone, Louisa.”