by M C Beaton
“There you are. Come along, Miss Duvane. We’ll show ’em.”
“I do not know the steps either,” said Amaryllis, longing to escape.
“Faith, you just follow me. Lord Merechester will play.”
“Oh, very well,” said the Marquess crossly.
He sat down and began to play a very fast waltz tune. Lord Donnelly cast him a wicked look and swung Amaryllis into the steps of the dance, whirling her around at a great rate.
Mr. Chalmers watched with some amusement. A lock of Amaryllis’s hair had escaped from its pins and was curling riotously down onto her shoulder. Her face was flushed. Lord Donnelly bent his head and said something, and she laughed up at him, her face glowing with color. The Marquess’s long fingers hit a discord. “I cannot play anymore,” he said, staring so accusingly at the keyboard that Mr. Chalmers fought down an unmanly desire to giggle.
Agatha quickly said she did not want to dance anymore, and Cissie flashed a look to her mother for help.
Lady Warburton promptly moved into action. She drew Amaryllis aside and said a few well chosen words in that lady’s ear. Amaryllis hurriedly pinned up the stray lock and almost scurried over to her usual corner by the window, opened her workbasket, and took out a piece of sewing.
The Marquess watched her with thinly veiled contempt. Lord Donnelly, obviously feeling he had stirred things up enough for one evening, settled down to wooing Agatha.
The Marquess decided impatiently that if he was going to propose to one of the Warburton girls, he had better start somewhere. Of course, he could simply announce he was taking his leave on the morrow, and then he could escape from this distasteful situation. But he wanted an heir. And one young girl was pretty much like another. Women were the lesser breed. They had weak, inferior minds, but one had to be careful to pretend one actually believed them to be rational thinking humans and listen to their silly prattle as if it were all of world-shaking importance.
He settled down to flirt expertly with Cissie and, unfortunately, succeeded better then he knew. For Cissie fell suddenly and desperately in love with him.
Well content, Lady Warburton studied her daughters. Agatha, of course, must be warned again not to get on too intimate a footing with Lord Donnelly. But Cissie was doing very well, very well indeed.
It was a pity that Amaryllis had put herself forward so much, but all that had done was to give Lord Merechester a further disgust of her.
Lady Evans drew a chair up next to Amaryllis and said in a low voice. “My dear Miss Duvane, you must excuse me for being so familiar, but you should not allow your relatives to treat you so shabbily. I agree with Lord Merechester. It is not necessary.”
“Lord Merechester,” said Amaryllis, stabbing a needle into the silk on her lap, “is blessed with a title and a fortune. I am completely dependent on my aunt for a roof over my head.”
“Ah, but they would not dare turn you out, and so Lord Merechester told me. He said that Lady Warburton would be too frightened of the scandal that would cause.”
Amaryllis put down her sewing and looked at Lady Evans’s angular and kindly face with sudden intensity. “Do you believe that?”
“Yes, I think his lordship has the right of it. Sir Gareth says, if you will forgive me speaking plain, that one would never think Lady Warburton came from such an old family. Only look at her gown!”
Lady Warburton was wearing a purple silk gown with a great deal of tucks and gores and flounces. It was ornamented around the skirt with green sequins stitched in the form of baskets of flowers.
“She is as insecure in her social position as any mushroom. The censure of the world is what she dreads most. Lord Merechester says they bully you simply because you let them.”
“Lord Merechester has been very busy on the subject of my affairs,” said Amaryllis crossly.
“He can be very harsh and was quite rude about my country. I think he is a very proud, cold man, but he talks quite a lot of horse sense.”
“My lord was not always thus,” said Amaryllis, picking up her sewing again.
“Odso?” Lady Evans looked at her curiously. “You knew him before?”
“Once,” said Amaryllis. “He is much changed.”
Lady Evans looked as if she wanted to pursue the subject, but Amaryllis began to ask her questions about Boston, and the homesick Lady Evans eagerly replied and, for the moment, forgot about the Marquess of Merechester.
The next day had too hard a frost to go out hunting. Cissie and Agatha pronounced they would like to visit the nearby town of Caddam to buy ribbons. The other ladies looked out at the chilling cold and elected to stay home.
Amaryllis was summoned to accompany Cissie and Agatha.
She hesitated, turning over in her mind what Lady Evans had said. But now did not seem quite the time to begin rebelling, and she ruefully admitted to herself she had not yet the courage to do so.
Nonetheless, she dressed her hair in a more fashionable style than she had worn it in several years, brushing out her curls until fiery little sparks of light shone in her auburn hair.
Over her wool gown, she put on a blue velvet fur-lined cloak, one of the few remaining items from her once well-stocked wardrobe. On her curls, she balanced a smart blue velvet hat. It was almost as good as it had been on the day she had bought it, since she had not dared wear it before lest it excite the malice of the Warburton sisters.
Cissie and Agatha glared at her as if they wanted to tell her to go and change, but the guests were present and Lord Donnelly was generous in his compliments on Amaryllis’s appearance.
It transpired that the Marquess of Merechester had already left to visit an old friend in a neighboring county and was not expected back to dinner.
James, the second footman, was laid up with a severe cold and an inflammation of the ear. Mrs. Palmer had whispered to Amaryllis that he had no doubt got it from listening at keyholes.
And so another footman, Harry, was to attend them. To Cissie and Agatha this meant they could be as rude to Amaryllis in public as they liked.
She was spared their spite on the journey into Caddam, however, since the sisters were tired after their exertions of the night before and the journey was accomplished in silence.
Once they were let loose in the shops, they recovered their spirits, and it was Ammy do this and Ammy do that and Oh, you are so stupid.”
Amaryllis bore it all with her customary stoic calm until, in the middle of the haberdashery, Cissie called out, “Do come here and help me, Ammy, and stop gawking there dreaming of Merechester. If you don’t already know he dislikes you immensely then you are a bigger widgeon than I thought.”
Agatha gave a delighted titter of laughter. Harry, the footman, stared woodenly ahead.
Amaryllis took a half step forward and then stopped, her face flaming.
“Behave yourself, miss,” she said in a level voice, “and mind your manners. Vulgar malice ill becomes you.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!” gasped Cissie. “Pinch her, Agatha!”
“Now, ladies,” said the storekeeper anxiously, “no squabbling, please.”
“Know your place, my good man,” snapped Cissie, wild with temper. “I am Lord Warburton’s daughter.”
“Then I shall inform his lordship of your behavior,” said the shopkeeper stoutly. He turned to Amaryllis. “Do take your young ladies away, miss. They are upsetting my other customers.”
“Well,” gasped Agatha, flouncing out. “We shall never shop here again.”
Both sisters, heads held high, climbed into the carriage. But as Amaryllis made to climb in after them, Cissie gave her such a vicious push that she would have fallen back on the pavement if Harry, the footman, had not caught her.
“You can walk and cool that temper of yours, Ammy,” shouted Cissie, slamming the carriage door.
The footman rapped on the glass of the window, and Cissie jerked it down impatiently.
“It’s nigh six mile to home, begging
your pardon,” he said.
“I would rather walk,” said Amaryllis firmly, “than endure the company of such spoiled little girls a moment longer.”
She turned and marched off down the High Street, hearing Cissie’s jeers ringing out behind her.
Amaryllis was thankful that her sudden urge to appear more fashionable had not prompted her to discard her boots in favor of thin slippers.
It was going to be a very long, very cold walk home.
Chapter Four
The Marquess of Merechester sat looking out at the passing countryside as his well-sprung traveling carriage cushioned him against the bumps of the country roads.
The friend on whom he had called had turned out to be one of those unfashionable people who abhor blood sports and prefer to spend their winters in London, and so, after having been served a cold collation by the housekeeper, he found there was nothing else to do but return to Patterns.
His conscience was beginning to trouble him. It was beginning to nag louder and louder, telling him that his behavior to Amaryllis had been that of a total boor.
He decided to try to be pleasant to her on his return and then take his leave on the following morning. Marriage with one of the Warburton girls was sheer madness. Either girl would drive him insane with boredom within a week.
His coachman was driving; the Marquess was allowing himself the rare luxury of traveling inside. Usually he preferred to take the reins himself, but he found he had no spirit for driving, as he felt cold and dispirited.
Despite the rugs in the carriage and the hot brick under his feet, the cold of the bleak moorland stretching out on either side seemed to permeate his very soul.
There had not been any sun to melt the frost, and the day was bitter cold. The sky was leaden gray, and he wondered if it would snow.
November was an early month for snow. Usually blizzards did not strike the south of England until after Christmas. But of late years, the weather had been more erratic than he could ever remember, and the harvests had been quite dreadful. Prudent gambling on the Stock Exchange and careful implementation of all the latest discoveries in agriculture had meant that he had made money where so many landowners had lost it.
He noticed the coach was beginning to slow and poked open the trap in the roof with his cane and demanded to know what was amiss.
“Female up ahead, my lord,” came his coachman’s answering shout. “Looks like one of the young ladies from Patterns.”
“Then stop by all means,” called the Marquess. The coach lumbered to a halt, and the Marquess opened the door and jumped down.
Miss Amaryllis Duvane stood beside the road, half-turned toward the coach.
“What on earth are you doing walking miles from home in this freezing weather?” demanded the Marquess testily.
“I had a certain altercation with Miss Cissie Warburton,” said Amaryllis. “There is no need to concern yourself about me, my lord. I am perfectly well, and able to walk home.”
“Don’t be silly,” he snapped. “Get into the carriage immediately.”
Amaryllis looked about to protest, and then, with an infinitesimal shrug, she climbed in.
The exercise had brought a fine color to her cheeks and a sparkle to her gray eyes. Her hair curled under her smart bonnet, framing her face. She looked heart-wrenchingly like that young Amaryllis who had told him so cruelly all those years ago that she did not love him.
“I am sure there was no need for you to martyr yourself in this way,” he said crossly, as the carriage gave a jolt preparatory to moving forward.
“The Misses Warburton were insufferable,” said Amaryllis in a tight voice. “I must find some way to leave Patterns. I failed in the position as governess when I was young and pretty. But I have been thinking that now I am of maturer years and have lost my looks, it should surely be easier for me to find employ.”
“What happened the first time?” he asked curiously. “Did you not suit?”
“The gentleman of the house tried to force his attentions on me,” said Amaryllis, taking off her gloves and smoothing them nervously on her lap. “I was turned off without a character. I was glad to return to the Warburtons and very grateful to them for quite some time. I had nowhere else to go.”
“What of that rich husband you meant to marry.”
“I did not find him,” said Amaryllis quietly. “Did you enjoy your visit, my lord?”
“No. I went to call on Jimmy Carruthers, an old friend. He was not in residence, so here I am.”
The coach hit something on the road and gave a great bounce. Amaryllis struck her head on the roof and then fell across the Marquess’s knees. She hurriedly straightened up and adjusted her bonnet as the Marquess jerked down the window and asked what had happened.
The coachman replied gloomily that the roads were the worst he had encountered. Approaching Patterns from the opposite direction to the London road was a different kettle of fish, he explained. This road had hardly been maintained at all and was full of loose rocks and potholes.
“Go cautiously then,” said the Marquess, putting up the glass and sinking back in his seat. “Are you all right?” he asked Amaryllis. She was breathing quickly and there was a high color in her cheeks. That sudden contact with him had upset her. She was suffering more from a jolt to the emotions than from any jolt to the body.
“Yes, quite all right,” she said in a strained voice.
An awkward silence fell between them. The coach lurched and swayed dangerously. Amaryllis clutched tightly onto the strap for fear of falling against him again.
Every inch of her body was conscious of his nearness. He lounged back against the carriage seat with his long booted legs stretched out in front of him.
Suddenly there was an enormous grinding, a thump, and a sound of splintering wood. The Marquess clutched Amaryllis as the coach heeled over.
The door on his side shot open, and with a great splintering and crashing and alarmed cries from the box, the whole coach crashed over on its side, catapulting Amaryllis and the Marquess through the door and into the deep ditch by the side of the road as the great bulk of the traveling carriage crashed down on top of them.
Bruised and battered, Amaryllis lay very still in the ditch. The total darkness was frightening.
She began to wonder if she had died, the blackness was so absolute.
And then she felt a hand at her waist and the Marquess’s voice very near saying, “Are you there? Amaryllis! For God’s sake, say something!”
“I’m here,” she said, her voice sounding strange in her own ears. “I think I’m all right. I’m frightened to move. Are we crushed by the coach?”
“No. We are lucky. The ditch is deep. The coach is on top of us but fortunately not lying on us. All we have to do is wait until help comes, unless that coachman of mine has broken his neck.”
“My lord?” came the coachman’s voice from somewhere outside. “Oh, my lord, where are you?”
“We’re under the carriage . . . in the ditch,” called the Marquess. “No broken bones, I hope?”
“Just scratched, my lord, and fair shook about. Them here roads are a disgrace. John-groom is cutting the traces. The horses came to no harm that I can see. We’ll ride to Patterns and fetch help.”
“Go to it!” called the Marquess. “But hurry, man, or we shall both be dead of the cold.”
They lay and listened until they heard the sound of horses’ hooves fading in the distance as the groom and the coachman rode on to Patterns.
“Try to move,” said the Marquess to Amaryllis. “Make sure you have not broken any bones.”
Amaryllis moved cautiously, first her arms and then her legs. “I seem to be intact,” she sighed thankfully. “What of you, my lord?”
“The same.”
There was a silence. She could feel the slight warmth of his breath on her cheek and realized he was lying close to her.
After a few moments, the cold seeping up from the frost-covered gro
und made her begin to shiver all over.
“You had best edge close to me,” said the Marquess, “or you will die from cold.”
“It is not seemly, my lord, that—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Have some sense. Are you going to die of the ague because of a rigid observance of the conventions?”
He wriggled toward her as he spoke and managed to get his arms around her in the confined space. Soon they were lying pressed together as close as lovers.
He could feel her slim body against his own. She had lost a great deal of weight since the days when they had been affianced, he thought. But she still used the same soap with that elusive flower perfume. He could smell it from her hair.
He had a longing to ask her why she had rejected him. But he knew if he received the same reply as before, he would still be hurt beyond belief.
He felt her body tremble against his and rubbed her back. “Still cold?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she whispered, although she knew it was not the cold that was making her tremble.
“Patterns is quite close,” he said at her ear. “Help will be here any moment.”
“Tell me what you have been doing these past years,” she said. “It will pass the time until they arrive.”
And so with a tremendous effort of will, he wrenched his mind away from the seductive feel of her body and the smell of her hair, and told her about the terrible state in which he had first found the estates of Merechester. He spoke of the farming innovations he had introduced and of the bitter, black disappointment of the first bad harvest.
“After that,” he said, “we began to come about. I took a chance and speculated with the little I had on the Stock Exchange, and it paid off. It was hard taking that money and putting it into more investments, knowing I was taking a great risk. But it worked again. Gradually I was able to repair the fencing, the roads, the tenants’ cottages. I am proud to say that Merechester itself is now well on the way to becoming a model village. And you? What of you? How were you able to endure the Warburtons for so long?”
“It was not so bad at first,” sighed Amaryllis. “The girls were still young and had a governess to bully. She was dismissed, poor thing, a year before their Season. Cissie is the elder, but Lady Warburton wanted them both brought out at the same time. I did hope they would get married during their Season and then that would leave me with only Lady Warburton to cope with. They are both exceedingly pretty, but for some reason, they did not ‘take.’ And so here I am.”