by Jo Beverley
I will tell Mama that I wish for time away from the late nights at balls and routs, and need my sleep. She will agree, I am sure, for I have seen her yawn more than once at a luncheon.
Instead, I will try to persuade Bertram to engage me in a bout of swordplay. Yes, I know, I did say I had quit such activities, but I shall go mad with boredom else, and it is enough that we have one potential madman-idiot under this roof without my becoming another one. I hope I may engage in swordplay—Bertram is becoming harder to persuade, for I am now so good at it that I have beaten him in the last few rounds. The last time I asked him to show me some advanced techniques, he refused, but I am certain I can wear him down, for he is truly a dear, kind brother who indulges me terribly. I must persuade Bertram—it will keep my mind offthe annoying Mr. Marstone.
Until next time . . .
—Arabella
To: The Senior Grail Councilman, the Hon. James Wrenton
My apologies for not writing sooner. I have been ill with fever, and am not yet totally recovered. The Object of our Mutual Concernis safe for now, and Miss Templar improves upon acquaintance, but I nevertheless think she is not the one. I know time is of the essence, and I would call upon my sister to aid me with her medical skills, but it is too dangerous for her to come here. I will find a way to leave with the Object as soon as it is possible, and take it to Rosslyn Chapel.
Your servant,
William Marstone
April 10, 1806
I am all out of patience with Mr. Marstone. He is over his fever, thank goodness, but hardly well enough to be up out of bed, but he insists he is. Mama has persuaded him, however, that he must stay at least another two weeks, when Dr. Stedson will examine him again.
But that is not all. I am annoyed at Mama as well, for she will find any number of reasons why I must attend Mr. Marstone, and why she must leave us alone together for minutes at a time. I think she schemes to push us together, for no one can deny that the Marstones are a well-to-do, old and respectable family, although some say they are eccentric. My brother says they are known for breeding superior horses, and I suppose that must account for something.
I sound contradictory, I realize. I should wish the annoying Mr. Marstone gone and the Grail with him, but it is an equally annoying notion that he arise from the sickbed while he is still injured.
I do know one thing, however: It is best that Mr. Marstone have the Grail, and not I. As a result, I decided to give it back to him this morning, sickbed or not.
I took it out from under my pillow as soon as I had dressed, unwrapped it from my shawl and then held it to the morning light to look at it one more time before I returned it to him.
There were no holes at all in it, and though it still had a dull tarnish over it, an elusive light seemed to flicker beneath the brown patina. But as I continued to hold to the sunlight that flowed through the curtains of my bedroom, there was no light but that of the sun. It was a puzzle. I was refreshed after a good night’s sleep, so I could not blame fatigue for my seeing anything but a tin cup.
It does not matter: I want nothing to do with mysteries.
I wrapped it up in my shawl again, put it aside, rang for my maid and ordered breakfast to be brought to Mr. Marstone’s room. When I knocked at his door, he bade me enter, and I saw that breakfast had indeed arrived, as I had requested—except there was enough for two, not just one. I suspected Mama’s hand in this, for I had promised her I would look into Mr. Marstone’s condition upon arising. I put my irritation aside, however. It made no difference to me whether I broke my fast in the parlor or atMr. Marstone’s bedside. Besides, I had brought the Grail and would return it to him.
I hesitated before closing the door—I should have properly left it a little open. However, if this was indeed the Grail, and since his manner in giving it to me was quite conspiratorial, I believed it wise to be private.
As a result, his raised brows at my choice annoyed me, for I felt it was hardly his place to say what was proper in my behavior. After all, he behaved improperly himself by accosting me at Almack’s. My annoyance increased upon looking at him. He was pale from his fever, and his nightwear was untied at the neck and showed some of his chest, from which I properly looked away before I saw much of its muscled expanse . . . and had trouble not looking at it, for it seemed my attention had become distracted lately, and I had lost the discipline of mind I had cultivated in developing my sword-fighting skills.
If this is what happens when I try to do my duty by Mama, I would rather continue beating Bertie at fencing, for I do not need any complications in my life.
I found myself clenching my teeth. Rumors had gone about town that Mama and I had purposely jumped at the chance of making Mr. Marstone stay at our house, and it was because I was desperate for a husband. You may imagine I was furious hearing this, but there was nothing for it but to laugh it off in public and do my best to see thatMr. Marstone leave our house as soon as possible. Refusing the Grail—the tin cup—was a good first step.
But he had no right to look helpless and manly at the same time. It made me want to feel sorry for him, and that would not do if I were to refuse to be the Guardian of the Grail.
“Miss Templar—” he said.
“Mr. Marstone—” I said at the same time. I nearly growled in annoyance, for our speaking all at once nearly cast me out of countenance.
He inclined his head graciously, giving me allowance to speak first, which put me even more out of patience with him for some reason. I gathered my thoughts together before I spoke.
“Mr. Marstone, I have brought the—the Grail to you.” My tongue stumbled over the word—there is a part of me that cannot believe it is truly the Grail, despite its change from a hole-filled cup to one of elusive luster.
“Have you? Excellent,” he said.
I blinked. This was not the response I was expecting; indeed, I felt oddly disappointed. I thought perhaps he was still feverish and did not know what he was saying. Or, rather, he had come to his senses and thought better of giving me the Grail. Regardless, I unwrapped it from my shawl and handed it to him.
A reverent look came over Mr. Marstone’s face—his eyes shone with it, and he drew in a long breath. “You have kept it safe. Thank you,” he said, and looked at me with gratitude.
My breath caught, and something in me broke open; he looked at me as if I had been newly risen on the half shell à la Venus. I looked away from the intensity of his gaze, and could feel my face blush, much to my annoyance. “It is but a cup,” I said gruffly. “I am not at all sure it is the Grail.” I made myself look at him again.
Fast on my words came regret: His expression of gratitude became one of puzzlement and then disapproval. “How can you doubt it?” he said. “Do you not see how it glows with an inner light? Anyone with eyes must see it.”
I saw nothing but a tin cup, no holes, granted, but no light, no glow. I looked at him again, and I felt even more broken inside. I did not like the sensation.
I took a step backward. “No,” I said. “No, I do not see anything but a tin cup, and you are fevered, or mad, to think anything else.” My words came fast and harsh. “I . . . I will send for Dr. Stedson, and ring for a tisane.”
I am a coward: I turned and ran from the room.
“Miss Templar—!” Will called after me, but I did not stop. I could not help glancing back at him, only to see his distressed face and what I thought was a slight glow from his upheld hand. But a second glance showed only a frown, and nothing in his hand but the tin cup.
I will end here—I cannot write more. My mind is filled with astonishment and anger at myself that I could even think to run, acting like a coward before one who is just an eccentric or at worst has lost his mind. Heaven help me for such foolishness!
—Arabella
April 11, 1806
I have done ill byMiss Templar. I should not have been so abrupt in introducing the Grail to her. It is a relic of great power, and it seems she has not bee
n educated as to its qualities or the responsibilities attached to it. Perhaps if she had been told of it before I had given it to her, she would be able to see it for the miracle it truly is.
Even so, I do not know how she can think it looks like a tin cup. I am looking at it now as I write; true, it is said to be made of tin that Joseph of Arimathea himself had worked in his tin shop, and which he had given for use in the Last Supper, but it glows with divine fire, so bright at times that I must avert my eyes.
It has had its effect as well; though it works best through the conduit of the Grail Guardian, my wound has already closed, and the stitches that the good Dr. Stedson had used are beginning to fall out. Such is the power of it thatMiss Templar needed only to hold it for a moment for its healing powers to manifest. I regret my doubts that she is the Grail Guardian. She must be; no other could wield the Grail and effect such a cure.
Yet . . . she does not see the Grail as anything but a tin cup. It is a puzzle. The Grail Guardians of the past had revered the vessel when they had looked upon it. But not Miss Templar.
Perhaps it is a matter of her becoming used to it. I need to remedy her aversion to it when next we meet. It is important that she take on the responsibilities of the Guardian as soon as she is able, for Bonaparte’s agents followed me to England. If only they had not shot me outside of Almack’s, we would be farther along to Rosslyn Chapel, so that the Grail can be hidden in the most secret and sacred of chambers there. I must make haste. Rumors have spread of my presence here, which can only endanger the Templar family should those agents hear of it.
As a result, I must resume my duties, and must remedy any misunderstanding between me and Miss Templar. I should do better than to present myself as a disheveled inhabitant of a sickbed. Such a sight would put anyone off. I must dress and partake of breakfast, the size of which indicates to me that part of it was meant for Miss Templar as well. . . .
Later:
Closed wound or not, putting on the clothes Lady Templar had brought from my lodgings took a good deal of energy from me: the effects of the fever, no doubt. Nevertheless, I was dressed and in an armchair close to the fire when Miss Templar next came into my chamber, once again without her maid, although she made sure to keep the door open for propriety’s sake.
Yet, despite this precaution, she kept her distance and eyed me as if I had suddenly grown a third eye. I pondered this difference in attitude as I gazed at her gingerly sitting on the edge of a chair a good distance from me, and became conscious of a growing irritation. I realized her manner was the same as I had observed in people forced to deal with a rabid dog. My irritation increased.
“Miss Templar, I promise you I will not bite,” I said.
Her head tilted to one side, she gazed at me sidelong, as if considering my words against the possible state of my mind. “Of course you will not.” Her voice was set in deliberately soothing tones, the like of which would send a less tolerant invalid into spasms.
“You are trying to humor me,” I said, discovering a new ability to speak through clenched teeth.
“Not at all. I am merely seeing to the comfort of a guest.” She gave a light, artificial laugh.
“You lie poorly.” I immediately regretted my words—it was obvious even to me that I had lost my patience. I cleared my throat, unclenched my teeth, drew in a long breath and let it out again.
“My apologies. My injury, and the fever—they have made me rude and an ungrateful guest.” There was progress: Her outraged expression disappeared, although her wariness remained. I began again. “My dear Miss Templar, I need your help. My wound is now healed because of the power of the Grail, and I would appreciate it if you would take it back now and take on your responsibility as the Grail Guardian. My illness and my sojourn here do not erase my duty to the Grail to keep it safe from Bonaparte’s spies.”
She looked skeptical. “Even if I am the Grail Guardian, you can hardly claim to be healed. A bullet wound does not heal in a few days, however healthy a man’s constitution might be. Even if it has, you have recently been in a fever, and that can linger for more than a week, at least.” A look of frustration crossed her face, and she took herlower lip between her teeth, looking annoyed. “That is, I am sure you are feeling better and are mending well, and need not stay here more than a day—ah, a week instead of two weeks, as Dr. Stedson has said.”
Despite her skepticism, I felt heartened by her medical knowledge; that must point to some kind of healing power appropriate to a Guardian of the Grail.
“I am better, I assure you, and am ready to go back to my lodgings tomorrow,” I said. I sighed. “Would you prefer to see for yourself?”
“Yes, I would—ah, I would not—that is, not that you should show anything for me—I mean . . .” To my surprise, a blush suffused her face. She clamped her lips together and looked at once confused and as irritated as I had felt only a moment ago.
I realized then that for her to see that my wound had healed, I would have to remove my coat and shirt. I would not have thought she would have been embarrassed by such a sight, for she had seen me without them and had shown nothing but an efficient air when she attended her mother and the physician whom they had called on my behalf.
I am a wretched buffoon. As I gazed at her, I recalled some snippets of fevered memory, and understood that I had been a difficult patient. No wonder she felt awkward in my presence. I had intended to inform her of her duties as a Guardian of the Grail, had imposed on her mother’s household, no doubt keeping them from the pleasures of town life, and all the thanks she had received for it was a tiresome patient who vomited into a bowl she had held, and held unflinchingly.
“My dear Miss Templar, please accept my apologies. I have been abrupt with you and have imposed on you and your mother. Please believe me when I say I am in your debt for your care of me, and your patience in what must be my bewildering—yes, even in appropriate—approach to you. I should not have been surprised at your rejection of me—”
She came forward in a rush, her eyes shining. “Rejection—oh, no, no, you must not feel obliged—it was only unusual—and you were injured and ill. We could not just leave you as you were; think how awkward—it would have caused such a scene at Almack’s with you bleeding, and you might have died, and the gossip, it would have been all over town. . . .”
I cannot bear tears in a woman—she had taken in a sobbing breath, her eyes wide and looking as if she would weep. I took her hand and squeezed it. “No, no, my dear—Miss Templar, do not distress yourself. You did well, and I appreciate that you acted quickly and intelligently. I, however, have been wretched in my attempt at doing my duty. I should not have approached you at Almack’s, but there is an urgency to the matter, especially since word of my presence here has spread—”
She squeezed my hand tightly. “I know, I know,” she said soothingly. “The Grail.” She put her other hand on my brow and looked concerned. “Promise me you will stay another few days at the very least. Promise me.”
I am certain that Bonaparte’s spies will not cease their search for the Grail, and I should have been on my way to Scotland by now, with Miss Templar in tow, for only the Grail Guardian can put the Grail in the sacred place farthest away, and best protected, from Bonaparte. But as I looked into her eyes, a feeling of elation crept into me. At that moment, I felt I could not refuse her anything. I took her hand to my lips and kissed it.
“Of course,” I said. “I will stay a few more days, I promise you.” She breathed a sigh of relief, and her smile was so wide and brilliant that all thought of Bonaparte and Grail and duty fled my mind. She held my hand to her cheek, and there was nothing in that moment but Arabella, smiling through her tears, and the wish that time would stop and that I could dwell in the idea that she cared for me.
I am a fool. A cursed damned fool.
—W. Marstone
April 11, 1806
I am an idiot child. I am convinced of it. I should have made it clear to William that h
e was indeed well enough to leave, and with the Grail in hand. Why, he was even up and dressed properly in waistcoat, jacket and trousers, his neckcloth neatly tied. But he must look at me again with gratitude and warmth, and that was the end of my resolution. Indeed, I entreated him to stay longer, and my only excuse was that his forehead did feel quite warm with possible fever, although that could have been from sitting so close to the fire. And then I made so bold as to hold his hand and put it to my cheek. . . .
Although it was after he kissed my hand, so it was under duress. When given warm looks and a hand kiss from a man who has been half-undressed in one’s presence, a lady must respond, and I could hardly do so in a repulsive manner to one who had been gravely wounded. Indeed, had I rejected the kissing of my hand, the insult to his sensibilities must send him back into a fever, and it would be my fault if he died from it—
I am lying. I wanted to hold his hand and I wanted the kiss and I wanted to kiss him back. I pulled my hand away carefully, for I did not want to injure his arm again, and I believe I managed to compose myself enough so that we chatted of inconsequential things before I insisted he rest again.
I did not stay long at his side; it was clear he was weary. Instead, I went back to my room and brooded for a few minutes on the injustice of fate forcing me to feel an attraction for a man who was not in full control of his senses. However, I cannot brood for long, for it fills me with ennui. I dressed in my oldest gown, and then went to find Bertie, for there is nothing like swordplay or a round of target shooting to bring me into a better mood.
I let my dear brother win at swords after I beat him roundly the first time, which cheered him so much that he offered me a taste of Blue Ruin. I had never tasted it before, so I brought my toothbrushing cup to him so that he could pour some into it.