by Carola Dunn
“You are not responsible for rescuing him from his difficulties.”
“Perhaps not.” Yet she still felt guilty for abandoning the notion of marrying him and devoting her life to taking care of him. “I suppose it has become a habit. When he was little it was things like tracking mud into the house and stealing jam tarts. I used to intercede with Cook or Mrs. Finney on his behalf. Then with Jim Groom, when Ralph left the paddock gate open and all the horses wandered off up to the moor. And the dairymaid, the time he used milk churns as giant skittles and knocked over a full one.”
“Giant skittles!” Lord Malcolm exclaimed. Lilian’s groom Benson, sitting up behind, gave a snort of laughter.
“He thought they were all empty. It was a mistake. He was never naughty on purpose,” she said earnestly.
“I daresay.”
She tried to make him understand. “Ralph was only nine when he came to live with us. His parents had just died and he was dreadfully unhappy. I had already been there for some time so it was natural to do what I could to....Oh, slow down a minute! Ragamuffin wants to get out.”
Lord Malcolm reined in the bays and Ragamuffin took a flying leap. Mud spattered in all directions.
“Oh bother! I shall have to bath him.”
“Surely your groom...”
“Jim is an old man and sadly rheumaticky.”
“Begging your pardon, m’lord, but if you was to stay a half an hour to rest the hosses, I c’d wash the dog for miss afore we leave.”
Mariette smiled at him over her shoulder. “Thank you, Benson, I shall accept your kind offer. It is not one of my favourite tasks!”
The groom flushed. “My pleasure, miss,” he muttered.
Ragamuffin, having thoroughly investigated the enticing smell, returned to the curricle, quite prepared to launch himself into the moving vehicle.
“Oh no you don’t,” said Mariette severely. “You are filthy. You’ll have to run the rest of the way.”
They drove on up the valley, through a village which was no more than a few rows of whitewashed cottages, a tavern, a forge, and the tiny church of St. Elwyn. No resident vicar--a curate came over from Plympton once a fortnight. Mrs. Finney had taken Mariette and Ralph to services for the first year or two, until they started to disappear on Sunday mornings and she gave up. Mariette had attended once when she was older. The curate’s hurried sermon and evident anxiety to be gone disgusted her, and now she only went to tenants’ christenings and weddings.
She had no intention of explaining this to Lord Malcolm. From their discussion of Voltaire she suspected he was no faithful churchgoer, but she knew Lilian attended St. Bride’s every Sunday. As the curricle approached St. Elwyn’s, she waved to the blacksmith on the other side of the street and told Lord Malcolm how he had shod the ponies free when she and Ralph were children.
“Welcome home, Miss Mariette!” he bellowed, a huge grin splitting his grizzled beard.
Heads popped out of doors and windows. Women and children and old men waved, the bolder calling out, “Welcome home, miss!” “Glad you’m better, miss!”
Mariette waved and smiled, blinking back tears. “How lucky I am to have so many friends,” she said to Lord Malcolm.
“You have made your own luck, I should say,” he responded.
While she was puzzling over this, they left the hamlet behind. As the valley narrowed, the lane ran through woods, close to Bell Brook, now a swirling torrent in flood. They drove over several stone bridges across the stream’s windings, and Mariette pointed out the one from which she had caught her first fish.
Lord Malcolm laughed. “D’you know, I don’t believe I have ever met anyone who ever forgot the precise spot where they caught their first fish. I certainly have not. How about you, Benson?”
“Like it were yesterday, m’lord.”
Now the manor was visible through the bare trees, huddled under the steep slopes of Bell Tor and Grevin Moor. No sign of life but the smoke rising lazily from the chimneys into the clear air. Mariette clasped her hands tightly, suddenly nervous.
What if Lord Malcolm and Uncle George took each other in dislike? What if Ralph, instead of thanking his lordship for the return of the ring, took it into his head to accuse him of being a Captain Sharp? What if Lord Malcolm turned up his nose at a household with neither butler nor footman, none of the elegancies to which he was accustomed?
She stole a sideways glance at him. No, he would not turn up his nose. He was too courteous and too kind, never starchy, never toplofty.
In fact, he was nigh on as perfect as a man could be.
The curricle drew up before the front door. Benson jumped down to take the reins and Lord Malcolm handed Mariette down. Ragamuffin arrived, panting.
Mariette fended him off. “Go with Benson,” she ordered, pointing. Fortunately, after giving her an injured look, he obeyed. He knew the groom from the Corycombe stables.
The moment had come. Taking a deep breath, Mariette turned the massive wrought-iron door handle, pushed open the door, and stepped across the threshold. Dust motes floated in the sunbeams fighting their way through the grimy clerestory windows. From the depths of the hall came the clink of hammer and chisel.
Lord Malcolm followed her. “Good gad!” he said in a low voice. “I mean, good heavens!”
“I believe ‘gracious heavens’ might be permitted,” Mariette said wryly.
“Good...gracious...heavens!” He turned his head slowly, his gaze embracing the hall full of statues, then walked slowly around the nearest, examining it more closely. “A pony?” he asked doubtfully.
“How clever of you. It started out as a Dartmoor pony but its legs and muzzle turned out too thin so Uncle George changed it into a deer. Hence the tail, or lack thereof.”
“I did not mean to insult Mr. Barwith’s abilities.”
“Poor Uncle George is only too aware of his own lack of skill, I fear. It does not help that his eyesight is rather poor, which is why he had to give up the study of history. Give him your honest opinion, as I do, and he will not like you the less for it.”
“But you are family and I am an outsider,” Lord Malcolm protested. “I shall exercise the utmost tact.”
She smiled at him. “Very well, but no flummery for you will not deceive him. Uncle George!” she called, leading the way towards the centre of the hall. “I’m home. Let us meet by the lion.”
“Mariette? My dear child!” Hammer in hand, Uncle George came round the end of the granite crag, small and shabby, his wig crooked, reddish from sandstone dust, and thinner than ever. He hadn’t been eating properly.”My dear child, I have missed you.”
Mariette hugged him and kissed his cheek. “And I you, Uncle. Let--”
“I have been working on the lion, Mariette, but it goes very slowly. Come and see.”
“In a moment, Uncle. Let me make you known to Lord Malcolm Eden.”
Uncle George peered vaguely at the visitor. “Eden? Your pardon, sir, I didn’t observe you. How d’ye do, sir, how d’ye do. A friend of my niece, are you?”
Lord Malcolm bowed. “I hope I may call myself Miss Bertrand’s friend, sir. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Lord Malcolm came to my rescue on the moor, Uncle.”
“Much obliged, sir, I’m sure. Mariette, my dear, now I come to think on it, did not Mrs. Finney tell me you were injured?”
“I was, Uncle, but I am quite recovered, thanks to the kind offices of Lord Malcolm and his sister.”
“Excellent,” said the old man happily. “Simply splendid. Now do come and see what I have done while you were away.”
Mariette glanced apologetically at Lord Malcolm but he seemed quite content to follow them around the granite. Uncle George pointed out the spot below one ear where he had been working.
“Oh dear, I cannot tell the difference.”
He nodded, resigned. “It goes slowly, very slowly indeed. Now you are home, I believe I shall return to work on the pig.”
>
“I am vastly impressed by your industriousness, sir,” said Lord Malcolm.
Uncle George gave him one of his suddenly shrewd looks. “Most obliging of you. I haven’t quite got the knack of it yet, but I mean to keep trying. You’ll take a glass of Madeira wine, my boy? Mariette, is there any Madeira?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to go and ask Mrs. Finney while you take Lord Malcolm to the drawing room.”
No Madeira, but Mrs. Finney had prepared a tray with brandy, sherry, and the tea things, and Cook had the kettle on the boil.
“Jim Groom reckoned his lordship might bring you home,” Mrs. Finney explained.
“We was that happy, dearie,” said Cook, “when he come back from Corycombe this morning wi’ the message you was coming home.”
She had baked a celebratory apple cake and the kitchen smelled of cinnamon and cloves. Sniffing the delicious odour, Mariette realized she had never entered the kitchen at Corycombe. What real ladies missed by not frequenting their kitchens!
Kissing both the plump, grey-haired women, she asked Mrs. Finney to take the tray to the drawing room, and sped upstairs to take off her borrowed cloak and tidy her hair. When she came down, she found the gentlemen chatting amicably about the estate. She gave Lord Malcolm the cloak to be returned to the helpful housemaid.
“I should like to give her a shilling,” she said, opening her purse which she had brought down, “and another to Benson for washing Ragamuffin. Would that be proper?”
“Quite proper,” Uncle George confirmed. “You left vails for Lord Ferrar’s servants, I trust?”
“Lady Lilian’s, Uncle. Lord Ferrar died some years ago. What are vails?”
“A tip, my dear. What the French call a douceur, to sweeten service, or a pourboire, though one must hope not necessarily to be laid out in drink.”
“Oh, I was forgetting,” Mariette cried. “Lord Malcolm, will you drink brandy or sherry?”
“Tea will do me very nicely, Miss Bertrand, and may I hope to be offered a slice of that most appetizing cake?”
“Of course, sir. Cook’s apple cake is my favourite.”
As she served him, carefully following Lilian’s directions, Mariette noted the unmatching glasses and china. Thence her gaze took in the whole drawing room, so familiar she had never really observed it before. The upholstery and curtains were faded, the woodwork dingy, dusted but not polished with any vigour. The contrast with Corycombe was extreme, though Lord Malcolm was far too polite to give any sign of noticing.
Before he came again, she vowed, she would see everything done that could be done without spending money to brighten the manor’s public rooms.
Uncle George also chose tea. Pouring for him and herself and passing slices of cake, Mariette returned to the subject of vails. Lord Malcolm suggested that a crown would suffice. He undertook to divide it appropriately between the claimants at Corycombe.
“And will you please give Jenny Pennick this,” she said, handing him a little brooch of ivory carved into a rose. It cost her a pang to part with it--her step-papa had given it to her for the birthday before he died. “It is nothing much, but I cannot think of anything else suitable. She was particularly helpful when she might have reasonably resented being presented with an extra lady to care for.”
“I’m sure Jenny will be delighted.” He wrapped it up safe in his handkerchief and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat.
Today he was wearing a waistcoat in sober dark blue and brown checks. Mariette wished she dared think he was trying to impress Uncle George with his sedate suitability as a husband. But she had left them alone for a good fifteen minutes and all they had talked about was the estate.
Chapter 12
At that moment Ralph burst into the room. “The Fish said Eden is here!”
“Don’t call Mrs. Finney the Fish,” Mariette said automatically. “You know she dislikes it.”
Ralph paid her not the least heed. Spotting Lord Malcolm, he bowed and blurted out, “It was jolly handsome of you to send my ring back, my lord. I can pay what I owe you now. I got stuck in Plymouth with the snow and I’ve had a run of luck.” He pulled a roll of banknotes from the pocket of his riding coat.
“I sent it because your cousin was ill and fretting about it,” said Lord Malcolm coldly. “I have brought her home and I am happy to inform you that she is quite recovered.”
Though he had the grace to look a trifle conscious, Ralph said airily, “Oh, Mariette’s healthy as a horse. I didn’t worry about her. All the same, coz, it’s good to have you back. You look capital. What have you done to your hair?”
“Lady Lilian’s abigail cut it for me,” she said, putting up a self-conscious hand to touch the locks on her forehead. “She just shortened a bit at the front and sides and showed me how to curl it.”
“Makes you look quite pretty.” Losing interest in Mariette’s health and appearance, he turned back to Lord Malcolm. “If I recall correctly, my lord, I pledged my signet for fifty pounds.”
Mariette gasped. She had not realized he was playing so deep--he had pledged the ring to Lord Wareham for ten guineas. Remembering her blithe offer to redeem it from Lord Malcolm, she could only be glad he had not accepted.
“Fifty guineas was the sum, I believe,” his lordship drawled.
“Oh yes, guineas,” said Ralph, discomfited. “I’ve only the flimsies on me. Mariette, lend me two pounds ten.”
“Certainly not,” Lord Malcolm snapped. “I don’t take blunt from females. You may continue to owe me the shillings.”
As Ralph sulkily counted out the notes, Mariette was relieved to see that Uncle George had at some point drifted out of the room. He had eaten the whole of his small slice of cake. She would soon put the lost weight back on him.
“Will you take tea and some cake, Ralph?” she asked.
Glancing from the bottles on the table to Lord Malcolm’s teacup, he accepted, and even brought his lordship’s cup to be refilled. As he took his plate of cake, he looked round again in sudden dismay. “Where’s Ragamuffin? Oh, Mariette, he wasn’t shot, was he?”
She reassured him, saving for later the tale of how the dog’s presence had been responsible for her being shot. She did not want Ralph and Lord Malcolm discussing her career as a highwayman, whether they agreed on the subject or, more likely, violently disagreed.
“Ragamuffin doesn’t understand about guns,” Ralph explained to Lord Malcolm. “I bought him for Mariette when he was a pup, in Plymouth from a sailor, so I never tried to train him though I believe he’s some sort of setter. That reminds me, Mariette, I thought I’d better get your next birthday gift while the dibs are in tune. Do you want it now or will you wait till your birthday?”
“That’s not for six months!” By then her present might well have been sold to fill his emptied pockets. “I should like it now.”
“I’ll go and get it.” He dashed out, his slice of cake in his hand.
“You see,” she said to Lord Malcolm, “he is not the utterly selfish scapegrace you supposed.”
“I’m glad he spares you an occasional thought,” he said dryly, then at once looked as if he regretted his words. “No, I don’t mean that. He is obviously fond of you.”
“He is young and heedless. I expect you were once.”
“Thank you, ma’am, I do not yet consider myself in my dotage!”
“No?” she teased. “No, but you are a man and Ralph is still a boy. Were you never careless and frivolous?”
He winced. “You cannot expect me to damn myself from my own mouth! I will admit my family has been known to describe me as a fribble and even a sad rattle.”
“There you are. And all that is left of it is a taste for fancy waistcoats. Ralph will grow out of his careless ways.”
“I daresay.”
His tone was unconvinced but she had no time to persuade him for Ralph returned. He handed her a small package wrapped in layer upon layer of tissue paper.
“I hope you
will like it,” he said anxiously as she unwrapped, smoothed, and folded each sheet for future use.
In the middle was a gold chain with a pendant in the form of a Tudor rose, enamelled in red and white. “Oh, Ralph, it’s perfect,” she cried, and burst into tears.
“Devil take it, Mariette, there’s no need to cry. I didn’t mean to distress her,” he justified himself to Lord Malcolm.
“I don’t imagine you have,” his lordship said uneasily. “Females are given to odd crotchets. There wouldn’t be a vinaigrette about, would there?”
“I don’t need smelling salts.” Mariette sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry to make such a cake of myself. And I am not given to odd crotchets.” Though she could not explain her unexpected outburst to herself let alone to them.
“She has been ill,” the gentlemen reminded each other with relief. “She’s tired.”
“I had best be on my way,” said Lord Malcolm, standing up. “No, don’t move, Miss Bertrand. Put your feet up. Sir Ralph will show me out.”
However, Mariette felt perfectly well and insisted on accompanying him to the front door while Ralph went to tell Benson he was ready to leave.
In the hall they found Uncle George frowning over his pig, which somehow now looked more like a badger than it had when that had been his aim. He shook Lord Malcolm’s hand heartily, peering at his face, and said, “How d’ye do, sir? My girl seems to have made a lot of new friends while she was away. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Mariette gently explained that he had already met Lord Malcolm, who was come to wish him goodbye. Before she finished, his attention had returned to his pig--badger?--so they gave up and moved on. A cry followed them: “Goodbye, goodbye, do call again.”
“Perhaps when I have called often enough Mr. Barwith will begin to recognize me,” said Lord Malcolm, smiling. “What a pity his poor sight cannot be corrected by spectacles.”