by Jo Beverley
Laughing, he swept her up in his arms and swung her around. “Does this mean that you’re accepting my proposal?” He set her down with a kiss that left her breathless.
“No,” she said, laughing with him when he loosened his hold. “We will have a wicked affair with mad, passionate weekend liaisons that we will never, ever describe to our children. After the war, we will go directly to marriage.”
“That works,” he said agreeably. “I shall tell my family that I am going to marry the most beautiful girl in Scotland, and I don’t even have to spend half a year’s pay on an engagement ring.” He grinned down at her. “The money can go toward those wicked weekends. Champagne and roses and quiet, romantic country hotels.”
“How deliciously decadent.” She smiled back, happier than she had imagined possible. “But first, Wing Commander, I’m going to take you home to meet my mother.”
The English Rose: Miss Templar and the Holy Grail
BY KAREN HARBAUGH
Chapter 1
IN WHICH THE FASHIONABLE MISS TEMPLAR ACQUIRES A DIRTY CASTOFF AND PENS HER IMPRESSIONS.
April 5, 1806
There is nothing more odious than having the Holy Grail thrust into one’s hands when one is about to enter Al mack’s. But what could I do? I already had my foot on the first step of the building’s entrance. Mama and cousin Jeanne were before me, already within doors. A crowd gathered behind me, eager to partake of the evening’s entertainment.
A touch on my shoulder made me turn, ready to greet a friend, perhaps Clarice, for she is one of my bosom bows and had told me she would attend this week.
Instead, a masked man very boldly took my hand and closed it over the bowl of what looked like a dirty tin cup. He then pulled me too close to him. “You are the Guardian of the Grail. Keep it safe,” he said into my ear, and disappeared into the group of people moving toward Almack’s.
A masked man. Really. Why could he not have just appeared in normal evening wear, neckcloth neatly tied, presented himself to me in the proper manner, asked me for a dance or two, and then offered a pleasant remembrance of flowers the next day? Oh, no, he could not do that. No, he must appear masked, dare to touch me on my shoulder without any sort of introduction at all, and then converse in a manner that must make any observer assume he was either drunk or an idiot.
I heard titters behind me. It made me quite forget the whereabouts of my fan, so I could not contain my angry blush. I turned and did my best imitation of an offended Countess Lieven, and was gratified when my gaze silenced the two titterers (Gwendolyn Has-borough and Alice Mayfield; I have never laughed at any of their awkward situations, so I do not see why they would at mine).
My eyes caught a movement behind them, and I could see in the lamplight beyond the flash of a cape and two figures that seemed to run after the man who had accosted me. Surely a madman, I thought. I turned back to the assembly rooms.
Mama glanced at me impatiently. “Hurry, Arabella; the air is chill and I am afraid it will rain soon and ruin your gown.”
I hastened my steps and almost let the cup slip from my hand. But . . . a strange tingling running from my fingers to my heart made me pause, and I could not discard it. It seemed an oddly familiar sensation, and I thought of the family stories Papa had told me about the Grail and the Grail Council when I was a child . . . and which Mama had pooh-poohed when I questioned her about it.
It is all nonsense, I told myself, but I shoved the cup into the pocket of my cloak nevertheless, and quickened my steps after her. As I walked into the hall, the cup bumped against my leg; very annoying, for it distracted me from my goal, and that was to have a perfectly pleasant evening at Almack’s, full of dancing, conversation and looking at eligible gentlemen.
I am determined that finding a husband shall be my goal this year, for anything else causes nothing but trouble, and after Papa went to his heavenly reward, Mama—
Well, all I will say on that head is that our family has not been quite the same. I wish to make dear Mama happy once again, which means I must be as good as I can be, and to find myself an amiable husband. I have even quit my sword practice and pistol shooting, although I must say I have missed both terribly, as they were things I had enjoyed with Papa. Besides, it is not as if anyone other than Bertie would engage me in sword fighting, and he is not the most accommodating brother in the world.
But, Almack’s: I was in a quandary as to what I must do with the cup, and my first thought was to hide it behind a large aspidistra pot. However, some wretched servant or other must have thought large plants should be removed from the halls this week, and there was nothing for it but to leave my cloak on a chair with cousin Jeanne. Some look quizzically at us for taking in a poor relative, and French at that, but it is not her fault that she is French and her family was guillotined, after all.
I firmly put the cup out of my mind, however, for I shall acquire a husband and make Mama happy again. I succeeded in seeing her smile as she watched me dance with one eligible gentleman after another, until I danced myself into fatigue. I motioned Jeanne to the dance floor with a gentleman to whom Mama had introduced her, for as a de la Fer, she is hardly a nobody, and Mama had procured vouchers for her as well.
I fanned myself lazily, smiling at various gentlemen who passed, mentally willing some of them to fetch me lemonade. None of them did. I have always thought it is a wretched custom that one must have a gentleman in attendance before asking him to fetch lemonade. It would be so much easier to seize one by the sleeve and ask, or even better, pour copious amounts into a very large flagon and gulp it down with relish, especially after dancing four or five dances in a row.
But such things Are Not Done.
I thought Providence had granted my wish at last when Mama’s face lit up as Lady Cowper approached with a gentleman in tow. I smiled in return at her ladyship, for any young woman of normal sensibility must be deeply moved when presented with a vision of manly perfection.
“My dear Miss Templar,” her ladyship said. “May I present to you Mr. William Marstone? Mr. Marstone, Miss Arabella Templar.”
He bowed elegantly, though with a hint of stiffness, over my hand, and I admit to a little flutter of my heart. How could I not be pleased with hair dark like a night’s storm, fine sculpted lips, a firm chin, and eyes of a deep green the like of which . . . were oddly familiar. . . .
“It is my pleasure to meet you, Miss Templar,” he said.
Our Vicar Bentley once mentioned that God giveth and taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord, and when I heard this gentleman’s voice, I realized this was the taking-away part. Surely I am meant for the fiery realms, for I felt like cursing, and had no remorse at all about it.
“I, too,” I lied, thereby consigning myself deeper into Hades’ grasp.
Yes, it was he, the masked man, except no longer masked or cloaked. There was no mistaking the voice: low and musical with a pleasing timbre. I have a good ear for sound and voices; my only regret was that our voices would have combined well in a duet. But of course, I do not wish to sing with an idiot—or a madman. I reflected on the two choices and decided on idiot. Madmen generally are not given vouchers to Almack’s.
I retained a polite smile despite my wish to have him go away, which must count toward the virtue of fortitude.
“Will you honor me with a dance, Miss Templar?” He said it in a tone that assumed I would agree, but I could also hear a certain urgency within his voice as well.
Irritation warred with curiosity; curiosity won, and I nodded and took his outstretched hand. Besides, Lady Cowper looked on with approval, and it would have caused unpleasantness had I refused. I also remembered that it was best to humor insane persons lest they cause a scene, which simply would not do at Almack’s.
Excuse me. Not insane—an idiot.
“We must meet—alone,” he said as he drew me close in the dance.
I waved my hand in front of my face as if to cool an embarrassed blush. Indeed, my face was w
arm enough to show pink, I am sure, but it was from anger.
“La, sir, you are impertinent!” I let out what I hoped was a tinkling laugh. “We have only just met.” The figures of the dance parted us, but not before I heard a muttered curse pass his lips.
His frustration gave me satisfaction, and my smile was kinder when we met again in the dance line. It did not dispel the frown from his brow, however, and I noted a slight sheen on his forehead. I felt a stirring of doubt; he was a tall, strong-looking man, and a dance should not cause him fatigue.
Or to become so pale. I looked at him anxiously, and the intensity of his expression caused me to drop my gaze. Something spattered on the hem of my gown, the color at odds with the pale apricot silk.
Blood. It was dripping from his sleeve.
I gasped, and hurriedly pulled him from the dance, ignoring outraged exclamations from the dancers, and hoping the groan from Mr. Marstone was not a sign of a worsening condition.
I also ignored Mama’s outraged expression, and went straight to the point: “Mama, we must leave, and must take Mr. Marstone with us. He is bleeding and grievously injured.” I turned to him and managed to push him into a chair by Mama’s side; in time, I am sure, for he had seemed to become paler and to waver on his feet.
Mama opened her mouth, about to protest, but I had already looked for and found Mr. Marstone’s wound. I pointed to a red stain spreading on the left arm of his coat.
“Look, Mama, there is blood.”
He began to lean forward, and I hastily pushed him back upright in his chair. Mama gazed at his arm, then at me, and shut her mouth on her protests.
“You are right, my dear.” She leaned toward him. “Mr. Marstone, have you a servant here? Can you stand?”
I looked up to see curious glances cast our way. “We must leave soon,” I said to Mama. “We are drawing too much attention, and you know how everyone gossips.”
“No servant.” Mr. Marstone closed his eyes. “No servant. I can walk.” He seemed to force his eyes open. “Go. Now.” He pushed himself to his feet, wavering only a little. “I was shot, by God.” He seemed surprised, and I supposed he must have been in shock not to have realized it.
Jeanne, an alarmed look on her face, had nevertheless gathered our cloaks by the time we entered the assembly rooms’ hall. With Mama on one side of him, and I on the other, we managed to keep him upright until we shoved him into our waiting coach—difficult, for he had fainted. I have never been more thankful for Jeanne’s presence of mind in calling for the coach, which she must have done while she gathered our cloaks.
“Pull off his coat,” Mama said, and I saw a grim expression on her face as we passed close to a streetlamp. “And give me what handkerchiefs you have. We must keep him from bleeding to death.”
It was difficult pulling off Mr. Marstone’s coat, for he was a tall man and heavy; his unconscious state did not help, nor did the close confines of the coach. But I managed to release him from his sleeve, causing him to moan only a little, and Mama nodded approvingly. “That’s enough. Jeanne?”
She turned to my cousin.
“Here, Madame,” Jeanne replied, and held out her handkerchief, a pitifully wispy thing. I hastily searched in my reticule for mine, much larger, for what is the use of a tiny handkerchief if one must sneeze?
I found it, and tied Jeanne’s handkerchief and Mama’s more substantial one to mine, and quickly made a pad and tied it around Mr. Marstone’s arm.
“That should do,” Mama said, and I could not help thinking she had cut off the words, I hope, at the end.
It seemed too long before we finally arrived home, and too long to find a sturdy footman to help Mr. Marstone into the Blue room. I sent out another footman to find Dr. Stedson, and as I climbed the stairs to help Mama and Jeanne, I could feel against my leg the thump, thump of the cup Mr. Marstone had given me.
“Stupid, idiotic man,” I muttered. “To come and ruin all my plans to make Mama happy.”
But as I helped Dr. Stedson examine the wound while Mama held Mr. Marstone down (he was strong, and inclined to fight even when unconscious), it made me remember a few times when we had done the same for Papa. I glanced at Mama’s face, and she had the same fierce look that had once been there when she had attended Papa in the same manner, and for a moment I was glad Mr. Marstone had been injured, if only so I could see Mama look lively once more.
Until he threw up, of course.
I will end my day’s journal writing here, and this time hide my little book in a safe place, so that Bertie will not steal it away and laugh at me again. I am weary from dancing and attending to an injured and vomiting man, and very eager for sleep. I will write more tomorrow.
—Arabella
Chapter 2
WHEREIN THE KNIGHT OF THE GRAIL HAS DOUBTS.
April 6, 1806
My wound has not healed as quickly as it should. It must have something to do with the Spear of Destiny that I once had in my possession, or perhaps the Grail. . . .
It is a damnable thing to write in one’s journal when one’s arm is in a sling, even if it is not one’s dominant arm. My leg is an uneven surface upon which to write, and I cannot use my injured arm to secure the book so that it does not slip—
I hope to recover quickly, since the shot I received went cleanly through the muscle and hit no bone. Past injuries I have had healed quickly when I had the Grail in my possession. I shall ask Miss Templar to bring it to me, so that its healing properties may heal me—if I am worthy, of course. At least the Grail is out of the hands of Napoleon Bonaparte’s agents and in the hands of the Grail Guardian—for now.
I may be on a fool’s errand, however. The chosen Guardian of the Grail, despite her quick action on my behalf, is not much more than a silly little twit, concerned mostly with fashions and dancing and catching a husband. My observations of her before my injury made me certain that the Grail Council is mistaken in thinking she is the Guardian. Though the Templar family is an old and distinguished one, they have been more inclined to die when holy relics are put in their keeping than to stay alive and protect them. They have not stinted in their service, to be sure. But I cannot be certain that this chit of a girl will even try to uphold that family tradition.
Not that I wish her to die. She is apassable-looking thing, and would probably make some man a suitable wife. Not for me, of course, for I am committed to being the Grail Knight, and must remain pure. As she also must—if she is indeed the Grail Guardian.
I did follow her for the last three days to see if she was at all engaged in some sort of charitable or high-minded pursuit worthy of a Guardian, but came to exhaustion instead when I was forced to wander about every single shop in New Bond Street in my attempt to observe her character.
Indeed, the council must have chosen her more for her looks than her brain. Shelooks well enough, with a slim figure, a head of curling golden hair and a fine bosom, but there is not much more to recommend her except her sharp tongue, which might indicate some kind of intelligence behind it. I acknowledge I might be doing her mind an injustice, as she was quick to come to my aid and did not descend into hysterics. But that is not enough to be a Guardian of the Grail.
Tomorrow, I shall write a letter to the council and request that they reconsider their determination that Miss Templar is the Guardian. Even if she were, I fear she is not up to the task, and the Templar family would suffer yet another loss. I must make haste, however. It was only through luck that I had been given vouchers to Almack’s and thus could escape my pursuers, for without vouchers, even Bonaparte’s agents could not pass beyond Lady Jersey’s appalled and angry eye. No such dragon guards the Templar household, and thus all within are in danger.
Regardless, I must convince Miss Templar of her duty, or try to bring the Grail myself to Rosslyn Chapel, where it should be safe. I do not anticipate difficulty from Lady Templar, as she must be conscious of her husband’s family duty toward the Grail and the Grail Council. The farther a
way the holy chalice is from Bonaparte, the better. Though I regret dropping the spear into the Thames, at least it is not where any of Bonaparte’s spies can get it. Better it be lost forever than any tyrant take it. I have no ambition to rule, but even I had thoughts of forcible conquest when I held the spear.
I hear voices approaching my bedchamber; I cannot write more. . . .
—W. Marstone
April 7, 1806
I do not know in whom to confide. Mama, not approving of the supernatural, would not understand. Jeanne . . . Well, Mr. Marstone’s feverish mutterings mentioned Napoleon Bonaparte, and though I know she has no connection to that tyrant, I cannot risk any kind of scandal, either real or imagined.
I cannot help taking out the Grail and looking at it. I should not call it so, though there are times . . . It seems to change each time I hold it in my hands. Not suddenly, so I cannot be sure. When I first held it, it seemed nothing but a dirty little tin cup with holes in it. A “holey” so-called Grail.
But the second time I looked at it, there seemed fewer holes, and now as I look at it before me again, there are no holes at all. And oh . . . no, I am mistaken. For one moment as I touched it, it seemed to glint gold. There, I have touched it again, and it is only a tin cup.
With no holes.
It must be only an ordinary cup. No doubt there never have been holes, nor gold, but a trick of sunlight and shadows. I am imagining it. It is wholly possible that I am imagining it.
Holy, holey, wholly. Oh, I am writing nonsense. I am a loony bird. I have been to a ball every single evening this week. No doubt fatigue has played tricks with my mind.
I feel foolish for even putting pen to paper. At least I may laugh at my own silliness months from now when I read this journal entry again.