The Wicked Guardian

by Vanessa Gray

  Clare regarded her with sturdy defiance. She considered Mrs. Morton as bad as her daughter, since she had stood by and let Marianna say such wounding things. But in this she was mistaken.

  “My daughter is sometimes very thoughtless,” said Mrs. Morton, sitting on the sofa next to Clare. “And I doubt not that some of the things she said wounded you deeply.”

  The Penryck pride stirred. “Miss Morton overstepped her authority, that is true,” said Clare. “She has nothing to say to the purpose when she tries to instruct me in my duty.”

  “I know this,” said Mrs. Morton. “But I came to tell you that Marianna is not so harsh as she seems. She has been, in most cases, exceedingly thoughtful of me, and while I cannot approve of every action she takes, yet I am persuaded that she means well. But that is not to the purpose. I should like to hear, my dear, of your plans for the future.”

  “Do you not know them?” said Clare. “I am to return to Penryck Abbey at the end of the week. I am still in mourning, of course, and my guardian felt it wise for me to live a more retired life.”

  Until, she thought, he can marry me off to Marianna’s cousin! Her bitter thoughts were reflected in her face for all to read, and it was not Mrs. Morton’s fault that she did not read them aright.

  “You must agree that this is wise.”

  “Of course, ma’am. But I am not quite used to having my wishes so ignored, and I do not think I shall be able to accustom myself to such a life.”

  Mrs. Morton was startled. She had thought to come to console Clare for her unhappiness. Mrs. Morton was quite sure she knew the source of Clare’s misery—the girl had developed a schoolgirl passion for her guardian. This was most understandable, for Lord Benedict Choate was an exceedingly personable man, with exquisite manners, when he chose, a great deal of address in dealing with females, and an air of intriguing aloofness. In fact, Mrs. Morton thought, he was just the kind of man to appeal to a mere child with her head full of romantic notions. Or, to tell the truth, he was the kind of man to appeal to many a settled matron, such as Mrs. Morton herself!

  “It is too bad,” she soothed Clare, “to have one’s hopes so dashed! But I must tell you this, my dear. It is not everyone who can have all she desires, you know. There are arrangements already made, don’t you know, that cannot with honor be changed.”

  And it would be best, thought Mrs. Morton, if Benedict could marry Marianna at once, instead of these unsettling postponements. If Clare could see that Benedict was beyond her reach, being already wed to the dashing Miss Morton, then she might the more readily recover from her mistaken hopes.

  “No arrangement should be allowed,” said Clare resentfully, “that cannot be altered. I mean, ma’am, that there is enough unhappiness without deliberately asking for more.” Clare was still in her dark mood, thinking of Benedict’s arrangement of a marriage for her with Marianna’s cousin. It was kind of Mrs. Morton to try to soften the blow, but Clare was, at times, a realist, and if the arrangements were already made, as she hinted, then nothing either Mrs. Morton or Clare could do would change them.

  Unfortunately, her thoughts were running along a different road from Mrs. Morton’s. Since Mrs. Morton was aware that Marianna’s threat of a marriage to her cousin was empty, since there was in actuality no cousin at all, she overlooked the possibility that Clare believed every word that Marianna spoke. There was no way for Clare to know that Marianna lied, but Mrs. Morton, bent on telling Clare how hopeless it would be to dangle after Benedict, was unaware of Clare’s real fear.

  After Mrs. Morton had taken her leave, Clare began to reflect. Mrs. Morton had been kindness itself, but still, she had come only to reconcile Clare to a marriage in the next few months with a man whose existence had not been known to her until this afternoon.

  Clare had rarely felt so alone. She had been encouraged to think for herself, during the years at the abbey when her grandmama had left things to her, but never had she had such strong wishes that she could lay the entire problem of her life in someone else’s hands.

  The only possibility—to turn her life over to Benedict—had, in spite of Grandmama’s best intentions, gone awry. And all that was left was Clare herself. It was her life, after all, and if it went wrong for her, at least it would be her own fault.

  There were two things she could do: one was to go along with her guardian’s wishes, and marry someone she had never heard of. Before even seeing him, she had taken an intense dislike to him, for anyone of Marianna’s kin could not be eligible for Clare.

  The second thing was to refuse the marriage. And then, when Marianna became Lady Choate, to live under her rule. And that was even more ineligible.

  But eventually a third prospect presented itself. It was not what she would have liked, but her likes were no longer of any moment.

  Clare pounded with her clenched fist upon her knee. By this time, she had retired for the night. A maid had lighted a fire in the grate to chase away the damp of the rainy night, and she huddled in a wing chair before the fire.

  “If Choate wants me wed,” she said aloud, “and off his hands, I can oblige him. He need not be put to any straits over it, and I am not bound by any arrangements he may have made with her cousin.” The fire at length burned low. “If he wants me wed,” she continued eventually, “I shall arrange it myself. Why not? It’s my life!”

  So by Thursday night, with Saturday and Mrs. Duff looming threateningly on her horizon, Clare, her mind made up, slept like a baby.

  Friday morning, she awoke and, lying in bed waiting for Budge to bring her tea, she went over every detail of her scheme. Seeing no fault with it, she tossed back the coverlet and rang vigorously for her maid.

  “Land sakes, miss,” said Budge. “I was coming all the time, but—”

  “Never mind that, Budge. I must go out this morning. Pray set out my dove-gray walking suit, and be ready to accompany me by ten o’clock.”

  Budge demurred. “But, miss, was you expecting to go out before Lady Melvin comes? I don’t think—”

  ‘That’s all right, Budge. Take this tea away, and bring me some toast. I’m starved!”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Budge. Do as I tell you. And not a word to Mrs. Bishop, mind!”

  Budge, balked of giving vent to her feelings in the servants’ hall, turned mutinous. “Now, I have my orders, miss,” she said unwisely.

  “And I’ve given you some new ones, Budge. Come, now, don’t let’s quarrel. I can’t do without you, that’s the truth. “Somewhat mollified, Budge hastened to follow her instructions, and thinking darkly, “I wonder what young miss is up to now, and I don’t think I’m going to like it at all!” she made ready to accompany Miss Penryck at ten in the morning, as Miss Penryck deliberately left the house in defiance of all instructions to the contrary.

  Putting off the somber tones of her thoughts of the night before, and donning, like a new frock, an expression of anxiety, she tripped along the Crescent and onto the Parade.

  She strolled slowly, with an air of preoccupation, searching the crowd out of the corner of her eye. At ten in the morning, only the gouty, those in wheelchairs, and those attending them were to be seen. One or two exceptions were known to her, and soon she espied the one face she was looking for.

  “Sir Alexander!” she cried, prettily putting out her hand to greet him. “Just the one man who can help me out of this great fix I find myself in!”

  Sir Alexander bowed over her hand. “My dear, you must tell me how I can be of service to you.”

  “N-no,” she said abruptly, “it is too bad of me to worry you with my troubles.”

  Beguiled by the sidelong glance bestowed upon him, he insisted, “Believe me, Miss Penryck, nothing would please me more than to be of whatever help I can. You must learn to trust me, for I hope you know I am always at your service.”

  Allowing herself to be coaxed, she burst out in a confiding way. “You know that Lady Thane has left Bath?”

  His jaw
dropped in surprise. Clare rushed on. “She was called away—to London. I simply must get to her. Her protection is vital to me.”

  “But your guardian?” objected Sir Alexander.

  “Oh, he is no help, you know. He is engrossed with Miss Morton, and I have not been able to talk to him at all. But I must go to Lady Thane, and I thought you would be able to tell me just how to go on. Shall I hire a post chaise? Or, if I took my maid, could I go on the stage? I am persuaded that I shall be safe, even though uncomfortable, but I shall be much more miserable if I stay in Bath alone, I promise you.”

  He said heavily, “It is surely not what I would expect from Lady Thane to leave you alone in a rented house. Why did she not take you back to London with her?”

  She had no answer ready. She looked into the distance and bit her lower lip. “Please, Sir Alexander, don’t press me for reasons. I simply wish your advice. How shall I go about hiring a post chaise?”

  “It is completely ineligible for you to travel to London in such a fashion. I should take a very strong position against it, I must tell you.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, how I wish I were wed!” she cried. “I would not feel so unprotected, so ... so very much alone!”

  “Wed!” cried Sir Alexander, startled. “I should hope that you would not wish to be wed for a few months yet. At that time, the proper time after your bereavement, I should like to speak to your guardian for your hand. I did not wish to speak of it to you until I had spoken to him. Even though it would be most improper in me to speak too soon, yet I confess that it much alarms me to see you in such distress, when I do not have the right to take your burdens upon my shoulders. On the other hand, since in a few months I shall be possessed of that right, then I do not see any real harm in helping you out of your fix at this time.”

  She put her hand on his arm. “Nor do I, Sir Alexander.” She smiled up at him. “Then you will help me?”

  “Be assured that I will do whatever I can do for you,” he said handsomely. “But first I think I should talk to Choate on your behalf.”

  “Oh, no!” she cried out in alarm. “You must not! Promise me that you will not trouble him!”

  “Why, what is this now? Surely you must see that he is the proper person—”

  “Oh, no, he is the last person!” she interrupted. “He is so stern, you know.” Seeing Sir Alexander still doubtful, she improvised hastily, “Besides, I have asked his permission.”

  Sir Alexander was assailed by real and valid doubts. But he was in a fair way of losing his heart to the minx before him, a sensation new to him. He strongly suspected that were he to marry her, his life would be changed from the orderly routine he cherished to an existence of strong currents and uncomfortable riptides. But no man could resist such an anxious look, could he? Sir Alexander, for one, could not.

  “I don’t think,” he said, “that I can assist you in making your arrangements.”

  “You can’t!” she cried. “Then I’ll go alone!”

  “On the other hand, I see that neither can I allow you to go alone to London. So I shall accompany you. I shall get my traveling chaise ready, and by Monday, I think—”

  “Monday!” she cried out in anguish. “I must go today.” She had succeeded in startling her rescuer. She could read mutiny in his features, but before she could be sure of that, his face softened and he said, “Well, well. Now, don’t cry, not here in public! I shall take you today.”

  “Oh, wonderful, Sir Alexander!” she cried out sunnily. “Now, at once?”

  He temporized. “Let us say directly after luncheon. We shall soon be on the way to London!”

  He doffed his hat and went on his way to make the necessary arrangements. Budge came up to her mistress after his departure.

  “Be it he is going to take us to London?” she demanded, her ruddy complexion paler than usual. “Today?” “Yes, he thinks so,” said Clare, too elated by her success with Sir Alexander to be cautious. “But on the way, I’ll see about diverting him. My real aim, dear Budge, is Gretna Green, and I cannot go without you.”

  “Oh, then that’s all right,” said Budge, vastly relieved. “I feared it was going to be Lunnon, and I couldn’t abide with that.”

  25.

  Sir Alexander Ferguson knew, humbly, that he was in general considered a dull dog. The blood of his Scottish forebears ran sluggishly in his veins, and much as he longed to emulate the feats of derring-do of others of his name—a Ferguson fought at Fontenoy, and a Ferguson’s name appeared on the rolls of the Black Watch—he had become resigned to the idea that never would such opportunities come his way.

  But now, he realized he was pleasantly titillated at the thought of a hasty departure from Bath, traveling with the young lady he already thought of as the future Lady Ferguson, for all the world as though they were eloping to Gretna Green! His proper soul cringed at the lengths his romantic heart contemplated. Never mind, he consoled himself—never in the world would I suggest to that delicately nurtured girl that I even thought of Gretna Green!

  However, he moved with unaccustomed haste as he returned to his lodgings and gave instructions to Angus, his groom, for his traveling chaise to be ready in an hour, and for Mackie to pack sufficient clothing for three days in London. There was an hour before he must leave to meet Clare. The time weighed heavily on his mind, and at last his conscience told him the right thing to do.

  He could not break his word to Clare. But now the entire scheme, no longer supported by the evanescent romance in his iron-bound spirit, looked havy-cavey to him. He wished he had not lost his head in the aura that surrounded that winsome miss. But it was too late to back out now. There was a small part of his mind that suggested that he did not exactly wish to support a lifetime of alarums and excursions—it would not suit him at all. But he had given his word to Clare, and he must keep it

  But caution, plus a very real respect for Lord Choate’s powerful temper, led him to shore up his defenses in advance. He found that he had not exactly believed Miss Penryck when she said she had obtained Lord Choate’s permission for this trip. He now doubted it completely, for Choate was too much of a stickler to countenance such a hasty trip to London.

  He sat down at his desk and penned a missive to Lord Choate. Surely he could do no less. It took some hard thinking to word the note properly. In fact, the more he reduced the journey to writing, the more he realized that it was a distinctly rum tale. But at last he was satisfied with his note, and gave it to the page in his lodging house to take to Lord Choate. And with a clear conscience, if not a light heart, he ascended into his chaise, totally unaware of a pair of eyes bright with curiosity and a certain amount of speculation watching him from across the street.

  Harry Rowse, possessed of a jaunty, devil-may-care attitude as part of his considerable social assets, was just now at a low point in his fortunes. He had almost come to agreement with a baroness in her own right, possessed of wealth and little else, but she had at the last moment cried off. The hag, so Harry thought of her, had shied away at some untoward rumor that had come her way.

  The gossip, Harry learned, was spread by Miss Morton, that paragon of young ladies, who had spread far and wide the tale of Harry’s attempt on the Penryck child’s virtue the night of the regent’s ball. Miss Morton could have possessed herself of the details of the episode only from her betrothed.

  Harry nursed his burning resentment. Not only had he been balked of the culmination of his advances toward Clare, but also of the more lasting, if less delectable, benefits of marriage to the wealthy baroness. The blame for Harry’s misfortunes—so Harry believed—was to be laid directly at the feet of Lord Benedict Choate.

  Harry had not before felt such a scalding rage, an unholy desire for a toppling revenge on anyone as he now felt it for Lord Choate.

  It was not by chance, as Clare had thought, that Harry Rowse was in Bath. He, too, had heard rumors that Choate was having difficulties with his ward, and where there are difficulties
, Harry had often found there were often ways to reap advantages. So Harry, partly to escape his creditors, and partly as a questing adventurer, came to Bath.

  The diligence of his inquiries and personal surveillance at last, so it seemed, was to bear fruit. Ferguson and Miss Penryck, thought Harry with a gleam of hope. They had seemed mighty serious as he had watched them converse. And now clearly something was astir. For Ferguson’s men were readying the coach, and his groom was giving agitated orders. Harry was not close enough to hear Angus’ words, but the air was full of hurry and urgency.

  If Ferguson were to leave town, directly after talking so long with Choate’s ward, then Harry would take the road in his wake. He dared not try to remove his own curricle, for he had a strong suspicion that the stableman would insist first upon payment for stabling and board for his pair. Harry slipped away on his errands—first to find a livery where he was not known, and then to pick up Ferguson’s trail. It should not be difficult!

  The Ferguson coach lumbered out of Bath at a speed that boded ill for the stated desire of Sir Alexander to reach London by the evening. Since Clare’s intentions were not to reach London at all, her only fear was that they would be observed in their departure and overtaken before she could divert Sir Alexander to the north.

  Clare had now, in the coach, time to consider the consequences of her impulsive venture. She had only one goal in mind at first, to show Benedict that she did not need him to arrange her own marriage. She was not precisely pleased with Sir Alexander, but she believed her own choice was better for her than Choate’s candidate, especially if the bridegroom were in any degree related to Marianna Morton.

  It was no use to speculate on a future that might include a London season, with all the gaiety that accompanied the search for a marriage mate.

  “That wouldn’t be so bad,” she said aloud to Budge. “I could stand going back to Penryck Abbey if it were only until next fall.”

  “But we ain’t going to the abbey!” Budge reminded her with some satisfaction. Budge was seeing more of the world than she had ever dreamed of, and while Lunnon was still the den of the evil Old Nick, and the dregs of the world, all waiting for Budge to set one foot awry to pounce upon her, yet she was becoming inured to this junketing around the countryside with Miss Clare.