by M C Beaton
“All it needs is a lake with some swans,” said Lady Sally dreamily. The marquess bent over her hand. “The exquisite blue of your eyes is all the decoration this landscape needs.”
“Fustian,” muttered Miss Lindsay.
“La!” exclaimed Sally, lowering the parasol to hide her blushes. “First presents and now pretty speeches. I declare, you are a hardened flirt, sir. Why, only last evening you were holding hands with Miss Lindsay.”
The marquess bent his head closer and whispered something which sent Sally into trills of delighted laughter. Jean turned on her heel and walked away, closely followed by Lord Ian.
“Walk with me a little, my dear,” he said, his eyes appreciating the picture she made in her slim, yellow muslin dress and bergère hat with matching ribbons. “I have not seen enough of you lately.”
“Could it be because you found out from my godmother that I have no dowry?” asked Jean sweetly.
“I have never cared for money. I thought I did,” said Lord Ian with mock honesty. “But since your absence from the metropolis, I have discovered that my heart rules me after all. What is gold,” he exclaimed, grabbing her small, gloved hand in his, “when I am faced with the wealth of your beauty!”
Jean drew her hand away. “Very pretty, sir. Now could we discuss a more interesting topic?”
But Lord Ian was not to be put off. Why kill the goose with the golden eggs? He would not be averse to having Miss Lindsay and her fortune as well.
He drew her into the shadow of a lichened wall. Shaking out a lace handkerchief, he spread it on the turf and knelt down on one knee before her.
“I cannot be stopped. I must tell you the feelings that burn in my heart. I must…”
Whatever else Lord Ian was about to say was drowned by a grating rumble from above as a large stone, dislodged from the masonry, came hurtling down, missing the couple with inches to spare.
Jean screamed and Lord Ian cursed fluently. The marquess headed by the rest of the party rounded the wall, his face as white as Jean’s.
As Jean finished stammering out what had happened, the marquess strode back to the picnic table, which the servants had arranged on the grass. Hamish was sitting at his ease, his customary glass of madeira in his hand.
“Where were you five minutes ago?” snapped the marquess.
Hamish slowly took a sip of wine, his vinous, old eyes looking insolently into the marquess’s angry gray ones.
“I should not need to remind you, my lord, of the respect due to my gray hairs and my cloth.”
“Damn your gray hairs and damn your cloth,” said the marquess. “Should any accident befall your niece, Hamish Lindsay, you will have me to answer to. What d’ye think of that?”
“You are talking fustian, my son,” said Hamish. “Get down on your knees and cry out to your Maker for forgiveness, for you are such that was conceived in iniquity.”
One minute it seemed to the reverend he was sitting comfortably in his chair, the next he found himself held up by his shirt front in the air, his legs dangling, and looking straight into the murderous eyes of the marquess. “You insolent whoreson. Save your cant for your ignorant parishioners. Insult me or my name again and, by God, I’ll beat you to a pulp.” With that, the marquess threw Hamish from him and he fell backward on the turf like a grotesque doll. He lay glaring at the retreating back of the marquess with ideas of more than one murder burning in his heart.
But his worries were not over. As the Reverend got unsteadily to his feet, he was sent flying again by a blow from Lord Ian.
“Try to kill me, would you,” hissed Lord Ian.
Hamish got to his feet and brushed himself down. “Look you, Percy. I know your game. But if you marry my niece, you’ll never be alive on your wedding night. Keep that in mind. And should you think to kill me, there is a sealed letter at my lawyers with instructions that it be opened on the event of my death—my untimely death, that is. I could have killed you easily just now. That was just in the way of being a wee warning.”
Lord Ian thought momentarily of the charms of Miss Amy Jenkins, the merchant’s wealthy daughter, and then shrugged and took his place at the table. “Shall we begin anew?” he said coldly. But whatever plans the couple would have embarked on were thwarted by the arrival of the rest of the company, eager for lunch.
The sun sparkled, the wine and food were excellent since the marquess had arranged the treat by hiring the services of the local inn rather than suffer the terrible cooking of Blackstone Hall.
But a shadow seemed to have come over the party. The marquess was preoccupied, Jean was white and shaken The only happy ones were Lady Mary and Mr. Fairchild, who were holding hands under the table and sitting, staring into space, in silent rapture.
Lady Sally felt that her day of triumph was not turning out the way she expected. Any time the marquess began behaving prettily, something would happen to that tiresome Scotch female and put a damper on things. She would not be defeated. She addressed the marquess.
“John, dear!” She glanced out of the corner of her eyes to try to see how Jean was reacting to her familiar use of the marquess’s Christian name. “Could we not have a ball at Blackstone Hall? I confess I am missing the delights of the Season.”
“Ask Freddie,” said the marquess a shade abruptly. “It’s his home.”
“Capital!” said Freddie. “We’ll have a fancy-dress ball. I like that sort of thing. Like to dress up as a pirate and chase all the ladies, what!”
Feminine giggles greeted this witticism, except for Jean, who said, “Why?”
“What d’y’mean, why,” said Freddie crossly. “Why do I want to dress up as a pirate or why do I want to chase the ladies?”
“Both.”
“Dashed if I know. You’d like it anyway, Lady Sally. Always like fun, don’t you?” asked Freddie with a pointed look at the marquess.
“Oh, I am never too serious,” said Sally happily. “Not like Miss Lindsay. But after all,” she turned to Jean, “you did say your sole purpose in having a Season in London was to find a husband.”
“Well, why not?” asked Jean defiantly. “What else are we made fit for. All our accomplishments—needlework, cooking, playing on the pianoforte, playing the harp, singing, etiquette—are they not all put into our mind with one end in view: to entrap a man? Do our families not go to the expense of routs and champagne suppers and balls, jewelery and gowns so that we may be paraded on the marriage mart like so many prize pigs? It is a wonder you gentlemen don’t lean over the fence and poke us with a stick!” And with that, she left the table and walked off toward the cloisters.
“Well, really!” said Bess as the others gasped.
“She’s only telling the unpalatable truth,” said the marquess, lazily eyeing the retreating figure. No, he would not follow her. She was rude and gauche and he felt sure that Hamish had shot his bolt for the day.
Miss Jean Lindsay was off in the cloisters, giving herself the talking to of a lifetime. She had secretly despised the antics of the heroines in the romances she read so avidly—always sobbing and swooning and behaving like regular wet blankets. Love was destroying her sense of humor and making her mawkish. “Forget about the marquess, you silly girl,” she admonished herself. “Go back there this instant and be lively and gay.”
The company watched her doubtfully as she approached the table, but to everyone’s surprise, Jean launched into plans for the ball, outlining the costumes best suited to the characters present. As her suggestions were very flattering, everyone joined in the fun, and, in no time at all, the day was a success with Jean controlling the conversational ball and sending it rolling backward and forward with all the expertise of an experienced hostess.
Freddie began to decide she wasn’t so bad after all and volunteered the information that they had trunks full of costumes at the Hall, which had once been used for charades in his parents’ day.
It was a lively group who returned to the Hall. The marquess would hav
e been enchanted with Jean had she not singled Lord Ian out for her special attention.
They retired to their rooms in high spirits, promising to meet before dinner in the Blue Saloon and examine the costumes which Freddie had ordered the servants to bring down from the attics.
Once safely back in her bedroom, Jean sank down in an armchair and stared sadly out of the window. For the first time, since coming South, she felt homesick for the Highlands. Everything suddenly felt strange and foreign, the rigid social rules of conduct which governed the gayest outing, stifling. Never had she thought to wish herself back at the manse but that is exactly what she did. Her feelings for the handsome marquess had got out of hand. Either she would need to admit defeat and escape home and try to get rid of the painful sickness called love or stay and battle for the marquess’s flinty heart. She suddenly decided that unless she got him to the altar, she would never know a day’s peace again.
That evening, as the guests scrambled among the boxes of costumes like children, Hamish and Lord Ian made a leisurely stroll of the grounds.
“The hustle and bustle of the ball would be an ideal opportunity,” said Lord Ian reflectively, blowing a cloud of smoke from his cheroot to dispel a malignant cloud of mosquitoes which were dancing above his head in the humid air.
“When is it to be held?”
“It’s an impromptu affair. Two days’ time.”
“Well, then,” said Hamish. “What is your plan?”
“What is my plan? It’s as much your murder as mine, my friend,” said His Lordship peevishly.
Both ambled aimlessly in the direction of the home wood, turning over plots and schemes in their heads.
After much thought, Lord Ian said slowly, “She’s always doing something silly. If she wandered away from the Hall into the grounds on the night of the ball—far away—and were found dead, it would be blamed on some outside agent.”
“Where? How?” demanded Hamish, eagerly seizing the other by the lapel.
Lord Ian distastefully extricated himself from Hamish’s clutch.
“What about that ruin thing over there?” He pointed to a folly set on a small hill at the edge of the gardens. It had been built at the height of the Gothic Revival when all the best families had an ornamental ruin to show their guests, the more crumbling the better.
Hamish snorted. “How on earth are you going to persuade her to leave the ball and the fascination of Fleetwater to go traipsing around the gardens?”
“Simple,” said Lord Ian. “We’ll make the appointment for, say, eleven o’clock. You engage the marquess in conversation. I will already have delivered a note to Miss Lindsay, supposed to have come from the marquess, making the assignment at the ruin.”
“Capital scheme,” snickered Hamish cheerfully, rubbing his bony hands together and cracking his knuckles. “Now, let us return. This damp air is not good for my old bones and I wish to outlive my niece!”
As they turned toward the house, Lord Ian asked anxiously, “You are quite sure the girl’s fortune goes to you on her death?”
“Quite sure.”
“In that case, when we return, you will write a note signing over half her fortune to me.”
“Now, then. What kind of a fool d’ye think I am to put a thing like that in writing?”
“A treacherous one,” said Lord Ian dryly. “Look you—no note, no murder.”
Hamish sighed. “Very well, then. Accompany me to my chambers and you shall have it.”
Looking out of the window, the marquess saw the couple entering the Hall and frowned. He and his friends could not keep on guarding Jean’s door without occasioning remark. He decided to enlist the aid of Miss Taylor and found himself not believed.
“Jean has obviously infected your brains with her romantical notions, my lord. You must forgive me for speaking plain but I am at my wits’ end with the girl’s troubles as it is. No, not another word will I listen to!” and Miss Taylor whisked herself away to join the party at the other end of the room.
There was a loud whoop as Freddie discovered his pirate’s costume and the rest crowded around selecting their outfits. Lady Sally planned to go as Helen of Troy and the marquess, with a mischevious look at Jean, said that in that case he would be Paris to Lady Sally’s Helen. Bess had settled for an ornate jeweled mask, which she said would go with her favorite ball gown, and Mary chose a similar one for herself. Lady Frank declared her intention of going as the Spirit of Liberty in a wide, flowing, loose robe emblazoned with the Union Jack, which, she pointed out indelicately, would disguise her condition. Mr. Fairchild made a few choking sounds which Lady Mary, who had taken over Freddie’s role of translator, interpreted to mean that he was going to be a highwayman. Miss Taylor declined to go as anything other than herself, and that left Jean, still undecided.
The marquess held up a powdered wig and a box of patches. “I always think of you as being more suited to the last century, Miss Lindsay,” he teased.
Wincing at the memory of her first ball gown, Jean was about to refuse when Frank, of all people, waxed enthusiastic.
“I have a ball gown of my grandmother’s that would go with that. Lovely with your hair. Come upstairs with me and have a look.”
Jean went with her reluctantly, but one look at the gown tucked away in one of Lady Frank’s closets changed her mind. It was of black silk with a design of leaves and flowers, cunningly worked in silver thread and seed pearls. It had a panniered overdress and a demi-train at the back.
“I have everything to go with it,” said Frank, unexpectedly dropping her mannish role and becoming almost feminine in her excitement. “I declare I haven’t had such fun since my come-out.”
Jean, who had really wanted a Grecian dress to outshine Lady Sally, realized the futility of it, and settled for the Georgian dress.
Until the night of the ball, the house was in an uproar. Lady Frank had decided for once to work the servants and banish the dogs to the stables. Messengers were sent out from the Hall to the neighboring county families, Freddie himself posted up to Nathan’s in Covent Garden to order flowers for the ladies, and the marquess sent for his own chef.
A woodland theme was decided on to decorate the ballroom and the young people changed into old clothes and wandered far and wide collecting wild flowers and branches.
Jean’s homesickness began to vanish. Never in her life before had she thought she would enjoy the luxury of being able to wear old clothes and scrambled around the countryside, indefatigably happy as, for two blessed days, the woman disappeared and left the carefree child.
The weather had turned chilly and fires were lit throughout the Hall to heat the rooms. “We should do this more often,” said Freddie enthusiastically. He had never seen his home look so clean.
Before the carriages began to arrive with the other guests, the house party gathered downstairs to admire each other’s costumes. Jean, who had been feeling very gay and young and happy, suddenly felt the knife of jealousy twist in her heart as she saw the marquess and Lady Sally standing together.
Sally made an exquisite Helen with her blond hair caught up in silver ribbons and her simple, white silk dress falling in classic lines to the floor and showing off her excellent figure. The marquess was magnificent as Paris with his short, white and gold tunic displaying his muscular legs to advantage. He had a silver Grecian helmet on his head with a horsehair crest, dyed scarlet, and carried a spear from the armory.
He caught the fire of jealousy in Jean’s eyes and miraculously felt his old urbane self again. He would have that chit down on her knees, begging him to marry her! Not that she didn’t look a ravishing picture.
Jean wore her own hair powdered instead of the wig. The dress fitted her to perfection and she wore her mother’s pearls, which enhanced her excellent bosom. One black patch was placed at the corner of her mouth, accentuating the dimple. I’ll kiss her before this evening’s out, thought the marquess, and then there will be no more nonsense out of Miss Jean Linds
ay.
Bess sidled up to Jean, her eyes glinting behind her jeweled mask. “Don’t they make a handsome couple,” she tittered, pointing to the marquess and Sally with her ostrich-feather fan. “Sally has written to her parents to say that she expects to make a match of it.”
Jean moved away without answering and set herself to flirt outrageously with Lord Ian, who was dressed as a Turk.
Lady Frank had spoiled the Spirit of Liberty costume by topping it up with an enormous purple turban. Lord Freddie made a splendid pirate—that is if one could believe that pirates wore snowy cravats and polished Hessians with gold tassels. Mr. Fairchild was surprisingly the success of the evening. He looked a most ferocious highwayman and Freddie teased him by saying that the magistrate, Sir Giles Mannering, was to be one of the guests and that Harry would end up on a gibbet before the evening was out. Despite his cutthroat appearance, the highwayman blushed and choked and had to be fortified with champagne.
The house party moved to the ballroom. If the marquess does not take me into supper this evening, I shall die, swore Jean to herself, forgetting all her vows not to behave like a Gothic heroine.
The local county residents, who arrived in droves, turned out to be a noisy, cheerful, rambunctious crowd as the young people were barely out of the schoolroom, their elder brothers and sisters having gone to London to take their places in Society. Jean found it refreshing to be in the company of people of her own age. After all, Sally, Bess and Mary, she thought, had never been young. They had fallen out of their cradles as models of Regency womanhood. Jean romped and flirted with the young bloods of the county and made the marquess feel as old as the hills.
Twice he tried to claim her for a dance and twice she had skipped off before he reached her side on the arm of some young gentleman.
Cow-handed bumpkins, thought the marquess savagely, glaring after them through his quizzing glass. He was further incensed by an outburst of giggles from a party of young misses who shrieked that they had never seen an ancient Greek with a quizzing glass before. Miss Lindsay seemed to be affecting the world with her lack of respect.