A Banbury Tale

by Maggie MacKeever

  “We have not decided,” Clem remarked, setting a wreath of flowers upon Kenelm’s brow, “whether she is more eager to further Maddy’s romance, or to thwart Kenelm.”

  “The latter, I imagine.” Kenelm caught her hand. “I do not anticipate her success.”

  Upon a belated realization that she was interrupting a lovers’ tryst that could only be the result of great contrivance, Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson diplomatically withdrew. She entered the Hall cautiously, not eager for an encounter with Letty Jellicoe, and made her way to the breakfast room. One glance was sufficient to assure her that Agatha had not been overset by the advent of an unwanted guest. The Duchess waved Tilda to a chair with an airy hand that held a piece of toasted bread.

  “A vision of loveliness,” remarked the Earl. Since Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson’s carroty curls looked as though she’d run restless fingers through them only moments before, and the flounce of her gown bore unmistakable signs of damp, Maddy did not begrudge this compliment. “To what happy circumstance are we indebted for your enchanting company at so early an hour?”

  “Bevis.” Tilda accepted a cup of tea. “Though I hardly think one may consider him a happy circumstance.”

  Agatha snorted. “Ran away, did you?” The dark eyes sparkled; rarely had the Duchess so enjoyed herself. “Bevis is a nodcock. Pay him no mind.”

  “That is much easier accomplished,” Tilda retorted, “when he is not residing beneath one’s roof.” She helped herself to a generous serving of strawberries and cream.

  Agatha, however, had lost interest in the conversation. “Did you walk over here?” she inquired, dark eyes snapping. “Mathilda, I despair of you!”

  “Indeed,” murmured the Earl, as he assisted Miss de Villiers to arise. “Who knows what dangers may lurk in our peaceful woods? Calm yourself, Agatha, I shall see Tilda safely home.” Maddy stiffened only briefly at this remark, but Tilda was not unaware of her reaction.

  “Nonsense!” Agatha smiled. “You are going to show Madeleine around the estate. Lionel will see Tilda home.”

  Since no one voiced objections to this admirable scheme, the Earl and Maddy were permitted to depart. Tilda regarded the girl’s gown of blue jaconet muslin, which had countless rows of frills around the ankles, and marveled at the perversity of men, who discovered the true state of their emotions only when the object of their affections was looking positively haggard. It seemed, from the Earl’s solicitous attitude, that Agatha might have her way.

  Chesterfield, who had viewed this departure with a sublime unconcern that deceived neither of the ladies, soon left them. “You are a schemer, Agatha,” Tilda commented. “Micah seems to have fallen in very meekly with your plans.” She surveyed her friend. “Pray, what have you in mind for Lionel?”

  “Don’t be impertinent!” snapped the Duchess. She sighed. “I tell you, Mathilda, that I feel I am sitting atop a volcano that is about to explode. Letty Jellicoe has set the household on its ear—I was forced to put the silly creature to bed with laudanum and a hot brick. I doubt there’s anyone that doesn’t know by now that Clemence is an actress! And young Kenelm means to have the girl in spite of it. Then there are these mysterious accidents, as if someone meant to murder the lad.” So much, reflected Tilda, for secrecy. “And what must your dratted brother do but decide to take a hand?”

  “Timothy,” Tilda sighed, “has also returned. The cast of characters is almost complete.”

  “Save one.” Agatha wore a look of anticipation. “Mark my words, Mathilda: we have not heard the last of Alastair Bechard.”

  * * * *

  Motley dismounted gingerly. It had been many years since she had sat a horse, though this was a pastime she had once greatly enjoyed, and she already felt the ache of protesting muscles. But there were more important matters to consider, and Motley thrust aside all consideration of the stiff-jointed agony that threatened to become her lot. She cast an approving look at the Chateau de Ledoux. The Comte had fashioned a small portion of France from English soil.

  The Comte’s domicile, it soon appeared, was as well run as it was pleasing to behold. A groom, whose impassive face revealed no indication that Motley’s riding habit irrevocably marked her as one who had fallen upon hard times, dating as it did from those almost-forgotten happier days when she had enjoyed all the privileges of one of gentle birth, took charge of her mount: a dignified butler replied to her determined assault on the Chateau’s front door, conducted her very properly to a small waiting room and went to apprise his master of her presence, without betraying either curiosity or surprise about this female who called without invitation or companion. Motley did not imagine that many persons of an obviously dependent state in life called upon the Comte. Yet, despite the local gossip that labeled this most illustrious inhabitant of the neighborhood a recluse who received no one and went nowhere, one could not deduce from his servants’ behavior that visitors were infrequently received.

  Although Motley had cherished little hope that her mission would be successful, for the Comte’s reputation was not one to encourage the supplications of penniless females with boons to beg, she was quickly ushered into his presence. The interior of the Chateau was decorated with pilasters and peristyles, fine hangings in crystal and velvet, and antique furniture. As she entered the library, the Comte rose from the table where he had been, it seemed, working. Neat stacks of papers covered the surface.

  “Pray be seated,” said the Comte. Motley, suddenly aware of her appearance, flushed and tousled from her entirely too energetic ride, sat upon the nearest chair, and was conscious of an uncharacteristic desire to hide within its comfortable depths. This elegant and fastidious gentleman made her feel, in comparison, like a grubby kitchen maid.

  “It is good of you to see me, sir,” she replied. “I have come to you on behalf of a member of your family.”

  “That can wait.” To Motley’s amazement, the Comte instructed his emotionless butler to procure refreshments for her. “I will be with you in a moment.” The Comte bent again over his papers, and Motley took advantage of this opportunity to study her wayward charge’s fabled Uncle Emile.

  The Comte was a tall, spare man. Motley imagined him on horseback, surveying his domain. His features were haughty, arrogant; no trace of laughter softened their severity. The Comte would be a harsh judge yet, Motley believed, not unfair. Though in his late forties, no trace of gray could be found in the fair hair. The Comte glanced up from his papers and pierced Motley with steely eyes. Blushing furiously. Motley became engrossed in an inspection of the fireplace. It was fortunate that Maddy had inherited no more than the de Villiers coloring.

  “Motley,” mused the Comte, when his butler had withdrawn. “I find that an intriguing name, if one that is distinctly malaprop. Tell me. Motley, what has prompted you to so daring an act as to call on me?”

  Motley found herself sipping an excellent wine, and hoped it might rekindle her flagging courage. The Comte was formidable. “The matter concerns your niece, Madeleine. I am her governess.”

  “And are you quiet and regular in your habits?” inquired the Comte with interest. “These are qualities that I insist upon in my servants.”

  Motley restrained a strong desire to inform the Comte that, since she was not desirous of seeking a place in his household, her habits were none of his concern. “I believe I have given satisfaction, sir.”

  “No, Motley, you have not, but I shall let that pass, for the moment. What have you to tell me about my niece? I do not scruple to tell you that I have little interest in the chit. She is prodigiously like her father, and I have washed my hands of him.”

  “You are hard, sir!” The words were out before Motley could stop them but, having been so brash, she had no choice but to continue. “I make no excuses for her father, indeed I could not, but Maddy is a good girl and it would be heartless of you to abandon her.”

  “I apprehend,” commented the Comte in bored tones, “that nothing will serve the purpose but that you m
ust tell me the whole. Very well: proceed.”

  Motley perceived few traces of affection in this man for the younger brother and infant sister whom he had managed to rescue from the terrible fate reserved for the aristocracy during the troubles in France, or for their offspring. She recalled that Emile had also rescued the family fortune, though he had been powerless to prevent the loss of the ancestral lands. But the Comte was correct: she had no choice but to tell him the whole. The Comte would never be satisfied with less.

  When she had finished, Emile remained silent, a frown upon his brow. “You do see,” Motley inquired, “why I have applied to you?”

  “I do.” The Comte rose, but there was no softening in his expression. “You wish me to provide my niece with a dowry, so that she may marry advantageously. Very well, I will do so, on the condition that she tells this hypothetical husband of her treachery.” Motley winced. “Would you call it otherwise?” the Comte inquired. “She has deliberately professed to be something that she is not. She has passed herself off as a young lady of considerable fortune when, in truth, she is nearly penniless.”

  “It was done at her father’s prompting,” Motley pointed out humbly. The Comte’s frown deepened.

  “Yes. She, at least, has some excuse. I have always deprecated Claude’s rubbishing ways. Claude played fast and loose with his patrimony, which is precisely why I let it be known that young Kenelm is my heir.”

  Something in the phrasing of this speech caught Motley’s attention. “Good God!” she cried. “Do you mean that Kenelm is not your heir?”

  “I believe. Motley,” said the Comte, “that I shall take you into my confidence. Kenelm is a favorite of mine, but has no more desire for my fortune than I have to bestow it upon him. I had thought that, were Claude to be deprived of his expectations, he might be inspired to behave less like a ne’er-do-well and more like a gentleman. It seems that I was wrong.”

  Motley was rendered speechless by this information. The Comte rose, and she noticed for the first time that he walked with the aid of a cane. “A riding accident,” explained Emile, noting her interest. “The bone was improperly set. You must not concern yourself, however. It does not interfere with my prowess in the, er, hunting field.” Furious with herself. Motley cursed her flaming cheeks. Satisfied, the Comte continued. “I am not pleased, to learn of these mishaps that plague Kenelm, and will take steps to learn who is behind them. Does that satisfy you?”

  “It does.” Motley rose to take her leave. “You have been more than generous, and I feel that I may safely leave matters in your hands.”

  “No,” retorted the Comte. “You may not.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You may not,” repeated the Comte patiently, “leave.” For a startled moment. Motley wondered if she was to be held prisoner. She sank back into her chair. “I am not convinced that you are the proper person to have charge of my niece.”

  “Oh!” Motley understood. “You mean that it was reprehensible of me to visit a bachelor’s establishment? That is true, sir, but consider. I wished no one to know of my destination.”

  “Few young women,” retorted Emile, “who undertook such an excursion would want their destination known. I am curious—why do you assume that mine is, as you call it, a bachelor’s establishment?”

  “Did you not know that you are much discussed by your neighbors?” Motley countered. “Since you will not see them, they must be content with discussing you.”

  “A quelling set-down,” the Comte mused, “but beside the point. It is not this visit that renders you ineligible.”

  Motley revised her opinion of the Comte. There was laughter in this man, but it was of the sort that would be directed at others, and never at himself. “So you knew.”

  “From the moment I set eyes on you.” The Comte surveyed her. “Mine is the melancholy satisfaction of witnessing the decline of one of the most angelic faces and elegant figures that ever graced a drawing room or enlivened a rout into a rather dowdy-looking governess.” Motley bit her lip. “Come here, Damian.”

  Motley rose. She felt like the helpless victim of a predatory animal. The Comte’s eyes were fixed upon her face as he expertly removed the pins that restrained the coils of her heavy hair. “A governess,” he repeated, “ranked with the superior servants, but a servant nonetheless.” His tone was harsh. “But it is the life you chose. Tell me, when did you go to my sister-in-law? And why did you change your name?”

  “You are cruel, Emile.” But he would not let her move away.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “but you will answer my questions. The truth, Damian. I think you have not always told me that.”

  Motley closed her eyes. “I lost my place with Lady Farthingale, and Lady Henrietta, who had a kindness for me, took me in. We thought it would be wiser if I abandoned my old name.”

  “With my attentions, I made you notorious? Poor Damian.” The Comte’s tone conveyed no great sympathy. “You very effectively thwarted my attempts to find you. Damian Darlington very effectively disappeared. And Lady Farthingale?”

  Motley gazed upon her tormentor. “I cannot blame her for placing the worst possible construction on our relationship. A French Comte and a governess? I told you that it would not do.”

  “You told me,” remarked the Comte, “that you did not love me, which is quite another thing. My dear, had you been a creature from the streets, I would still wish to marry you.”

  For the second time in the space of an hour, Motley was deprived of speech. The Comte, perhaps, took unfair advantage, for the next thing Motley knew she was safely enclosed in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, listening to words of incredible tenderness. “Emile,” she murmured, “this surpasses all belief.”

  “Nonsense,” replied the Comte. “You have no choice but to marry me now, Damian, for in coming here you have hopelessly compromised yourself. Think how wretched you would be if this indiscretion were to be babbled on every tongue.”

  “There is Maddy to consider,” offered Motley weakly.

  “The future of my graceless niece,” replied the Comte in a tone that brooked no opposition, “must be my concern.”

  * * * *

  Maddy stared impatiently through her bedroom window. Even the immaculate grandeur of the vast grounds that surrounded the Hall had no power to distract her. The faintness that she had pleaded as an excuse to avoid the others was mere pretense; Maddy sought to perfect a scheme. The thought of what the Earl might do, were he to catch her in the act of returning the purloined key to his room, gave her little pause. Such a confrontation would be welcome: Wilmington was maddeningly non-committal. Now that Lionel had voiced his opinion, Maddy was all the more determined to bring Micah to heel. She did not stop to wonder why Lionel’s harsh words weighed so heavily on her.

  Fortunately, Motley, that keen-eyed guardian, was in the midst of a fit of abstraction so severe that she was apt to walk away in the middle of a conversation and to ignore the sound of her own name. Maddy had made so bold as to query her one-time governess concerning the matters that preoccupied her, but had received only a vague smile in return. Nor was Motley inclined to explain the reason for her absence of several hours that very morning. Maddy had been in a fever of apprehension during this unprecedented event, lest Lord Bechard had involved Motley in foul play as a means of revenge. Maddy sighed. Motley might as well have fallen into the villain’s hands, for all the use she was. It was unfair, of course—Motley was not required to account for her actions—but Maddy could not help but feel that she had lost her last ally. So great was Motley’s preoccupation that she would likely take no notice even were the house to tumble down about her ears.

  But speculation on Motley’s strange behavior was a useless waste of time, and Maddy had withdrawn into her chamber not to sulk over her watchdog’s apparent unconcern but to lay her plans. She would stealthily make her way to the Earl’s rooms while the others lingered over their meal, replace the key, and then join her hos
tess in the drawing room.

  In search of diversion, Maddy leafed through the journal that she’d discovered in Cassandra’s room. It had proved a disappointment, filled with the self-centered observations of a very thoughtless young woman in whom Maddy found a strong resemblance to her brother, Alastair Bechard. Maddy did not care to think of that sinister gentleman, though she knew that the Duchess was perplexed that he had thus far made no move. Perhaps Lord Bechard had philosophically accepted the loss of his game, though this theory did not fit well with what Maddy knew of the man.

  Cassandra had been displeased with the seclusion forced upon her at the Hall, and had stigmatized her spouse as a cold and heartless beast. Yet she had not been kept a prisoner, as Clem had intimated, but had been free to wander abroad at will. It may have been, perhaps, that her ladyship was kept under surveillance, for she complained of being constantly watched, and took childish delight in eluding those who, possibly, had her best interests in mind. There was no clue to the character of the Earl. Maddy squinted at the spidery handwriting, then turned the pages listlessly until her attention was caught by an entry halfway through the small book.

  We are undone! Cassandra’s untidy scrawl grew agitated. Micah knows all, and has told me that it must end. Never have I seen him in such rage. When I told him I care not for his opinion, he struck me! I live in constant fear of what he may do—

  Intrigued, Maddy turned the page, only to find it blank. Cassandra must have faced a crisis that left her unable to write more, or—and Maddy shuddered at the thought—it was then that the unfortunate Countess had tumbled to her death.

  “Pardon!” said Clem, and slipped into the room. “Maddy, I must speak with you.”

  “Well?” Maddy shrugged irritably. “What is it you want?” It was a pity Clem thought only of herself, and was undeterred by such obvious indications of a wish for privacy as closed doors and uncommunicativeness.