A Banbury Tale

by Maggie MacKeever

  “Small chance,” snorted her hostess. “Who would suspect that the incomparable Damian Darlington hid behind that severe facade? Foolish girl!” She glanced at the Comte. “It was not kind of you to allow the world to think you dead. Why did you do it?”

  “Pride,” Motley said simply.

  “How the mighty have fallen?” The Duchess was acute. “Never mind. I can see that it was difficult for you to assume a subservient position to your social equals.” She smiled benignly upon Clemence, who appeared none the worse for her adventures. This was one young lady who would be spared such a fate, for Kenelm made it obvious that he did not intend to again allow Clem out of his sight. “You’ve a home here with me, if ever you’ve the need.”

  “A most unlikely probability,” said the Comte. Agatha was not so distracted that she failed to note Motley’s blush, and most becoming it was.

  “The neighborhood has not had such excitement,” the Duchess commented, “for a good many years.” The last occasion had been when the wretched Cassandra had tumbled down the steps, but that subject was hardly fit conversation. “Young Kenelm’s determined to have his actress, I apprehend?”

  “With my blessing,” agreed the Comte, “though I fear his mother has not taken the news well.” Agatha had been privileged to witness Letty Jellicoe indulging in strong hysterics and had been compelled to administer a strong slap, an act that had earned her the censure of both Eunice Scattergood and Timothy Rockingham. Agatha frowned. It was quixotic of Tilda to encourage the attentions of a gentleman who was dull to the marrow of his bones, but she had divulged some information that, she trusted, would prompt Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson to do so no more. “It seems the perfect solution,” Emile added, “to Kenelm’s dislike of society, for there will be those with long memories who will never welcome the girl into their homes, because of her unfortunate association with the stage. However, I doubt that either of them will care.”

  “You may find,” Agatha remarked, “that my attachment to the chit does much to atone for that unfortunate lapse.” She smiled. “I find myself tempted by the challenge of launching an actress into Polite Society.” The smile broadened as she considered promoting a match between the worthy Timothy and Letty Jellicoe. They were of an age and eminently suited, both being tedious bores. “And your charge?” she inquired of Motley. “What is to become of her?”

  “I do not know,” Motley replied, with a return of the governess’s necessary prudence. “Maddy has not confided in me.”

  Agatha had little doubt of the outcome. Even now Claude de Villiers scanned the room impatiently, anxious for speech with the Earl, who had, upon learning of the callers, expressed a determination to be elsewhere. Exasperating as he was, Agatha’s dearest wish was to see her godson wed.

  The Comte gazed upon his nephew, who appeared in remarkable spirits, despite the ardors of the past few days. “We have much to thank Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson for.” The Comte had arrived at the gatekeeper’s cottage to find Tilda, having dispatched Clem for aid, holding her mettlesome quarry at gunpoint; and had interrupted an enlightening exchange of insults. This timely arrival might seem to have been directed by Providence, but was actually prompted by the Comte’s investigations, which had led him to belatedly share Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson’s conclusions. “She is a splendid creature, is she not?” Motley suffered a brief pang of jealousy.

  “Indeed, she is,” Agatha agreed, “and stubborn as a mule with a temper to match that flaming hair.” She sounded abstracted, and watched with no great anticipation Claude de Villiers’ approach.

  “Madame,” said he, ignoring his brother, “I must speak with Wilmington.”

  “Of course you must,” replied the Duchess, with a vaguely patronizing air. “But you needn’t ask my permission, you know.”

  Claude’s brows lowered into a scowl. “The man is slippery as an eel! I tell you, this matter has gone too far. I begin to suspect that Wilmington is trifling with my daughter! You must agree that such callous disregard as Wilmington has shown is hardly befitting an Earl!”

  “I agree only,” snapped the Duchess, “that my godson needs to get himself an heir, preferably legitimate. As for his behavior, I neither condone nor condemn it, not considering myself entitled to judge.”

  Claude’s temper was not improved by this set-down. “My daughter—”

  “You were ever a poor gambler,” Emile interrupted. “I suspect this horse won’t run.” Claude shot his brother a look of venomous dislike, and turned on his heel.

  Motley reflected upon the importance placed by wealthy folk on the succession of their estate, though it was a condition of life among the aristocracy that she had once accepted without thought. But that had been before her father’s death, when his entailed estate had passed to a distant kinsman, and there had been no provision for her. Nor would she accept charity from that stranger, an unrealistic attitude that she had long since come to regret.

  Agatha’s melancholy was not of long duration. Her glance was wicked. “You seem mighty taken with Mathilda,” she remarked. “Shall I aid you to further your interests there?”

  The Comte laughed aloud, an unusual concession to levity that caused Letty Jellicoe to gasp. “Ah, no,” he said, and firmly grasped Motley’s hand. “There’s no denying Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson’s spirit and bravery, but I prefer a wife who I needn’t fear will shoot me out of hand.”

  “And in fact,” commented the astute Duchess, “your choice is already made. May I be the first to wish you happy?”

  “Yes,” replied the Comte. “You may.”

  Motley’s head swam. In less than a moment her future had been decided, and without a word from her. Since Emile would clearly brook no opposition, she had no choice but to accept her destiny. It would be a task of the most pleasant nature. Motley smiled mistily.

  “You may also,” remarked the Comte, “find it enlightening to engage Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson in a discussion of her marriage to Dominic.” Although Emile’s aristocratic features revealed nothing but polite concern, Motley had a sudden suspicion that he was greatly amused by a private joke.

  * * * *

  “So you have achieved your goal,” the Marquess remarked. “Your friend is to marry Jellicoe and thus escape a life of infamy.”

  Maddy wished fervently that she had not allowed herself to be escorted into the gardens, but in her surprise at Lionel’s invitation, she had not considered what he might have to say. “That is not her reason, I think.” She would rather have been anywhere than she was, but to have snubbed Lionel would have caused a great deal of interested comment. Most young ladies would have been thrilled by such an expression of interest, but Maddy had abandoned all hope of this particular swain. She knew well that he had only contempt for her, and it was richly deserved. She had been terribly mistaken in the Marquess; these past days had shown her that what she had rashly condemned as a lack of adventurousness was a quiet courage, a steadiness of purpose, that was far preferable. It was a pity these revelations had come to her so late.

  “Why did you bring me out here?” Maddy inquired bluntly. Lionel wore a look of faint surprise.

  “Why should I not?” he inquired. “I wished to converse with you. It will not be thought odd. We have been forced by circumstance to spend a certain amount of time in each other’s company.”

  “From duty, then,” Maddy commented with gloomy satisfaction. “I thought as much. I release you from the obligation, my lord. I find I no longer wish to view the gardens.”

  “Nonsense.” Lionel’s haughtiness increased. “You will not create further furor in Micah’s home.”

  “I had no intention of doing so,” Maddy replied. “Although I am well aware that your opinion of me would lead you to believe me capable of such a thing. I wish only that you will escort me to the others.”

  “But I have no wish to do that.” Chesterfield’s aloof gaze rested briefly on her, then moved away. Maddy had an agonizing thought of her father’s reaction were he to lea
rn of this interview, for Lionel was far more eligible than the Earl.

  “You did not announce my perfidy to the world, as you threatened. Why not, pray?” The memory of that encounter still rankled.

  Lionel looked, suddenly, abashed. “Lord, what a prude you must think me! But I cannot blame you for that.”

  “You still have not explained your purpose.” Maddy did not wish to prolong the misery of this conversation. “I am well aware that you have nothing more to say to me.”

  “You are mistaken,” replied her escort. “I have a great deal more to say.” Maddy found herself possessed of an extremely unladylike desire to kick his lordship’s shins, to see if she might pierce his imperturbability.

  “I am,” she said with resignation, “all ears.” Lionel showed little inclination to proceed.

  “Your aunt,” he remarked, “seems to have developed a considerable regard for Timothy Rockingham.”

  “And why should she not?” Maddy had little interest in her aunt’s affairs. Clemence would have an uncomfortable mother-in-law, but that would be Kenelm’s problem.

  “It might serve.” The Marquess frowned. “I would not have thought—but it’s none of my business.”

  “I wish,” Maddy said crossly, “that you wouldn’t talk in riddles. It’s most annoying.”

  “You’re tired,” Lionel commented, and led her to a bench. “I meant only that he was long Tilda’s faithful swain. Agatha feared his perseverance would wear her down.”

  “Feared?” Maddy repeated.

  “What an inquisitive child you are,” Lionel replied, with the tolerant superiority of his twenty-six years. “But I mean to say no more, for it is ancient history.”

  Maddy welcomed the diversion, for she cared not to dwell upon what Lionel might wish to say to her. She pondered the matter while the Marquess surveyed a distant prospect. “It must have to do with Cassandra,” she mused, absently accepting a plundered bloom. One sniff of the flower’s strong fragrance made her sneeze.

  “The Marryat rose,” explained Chesterfield, and seated himself beside her. “And since you are determined to know, the matter did concern Cassandra. I trust your friendship for my family will prompt you to keep a still tongue in your head.”

  Maddy idly began to dismantle the flower. “Cassandra,” she repeated. “Heavens! Was--” Speech deserted her; she blushed.

  “Most young ladies,” said Lionel, “would never have allowed such an improper notion to enter their minds.”

  “Most young ladies,” Maddy retorted, “haven’t had the advantage of knowing Clem.”

  “Even the Marryats have their family skeletons.” Chesterfield seemed remarkably cheerful at this admitted imperfection.

  “You are fortunate,” Maddy dourly reflected upon her father, “that the Marryat skeletons don’t assume earthly form, and walk!” Lionel so far forgot his dignity as to laugh, and Maddy bit her tongue. “I cannot think what has come over me.” She paused for composure. “It is not true, then, that Wilmington killed his wife?”

  Lionel was very still. “You thought that?” he asked at length. “You must be very fond of Micah to give him your friendship in spite of it. Cassandra’s death was an accident, nothing more. I doubt if anyone felt any emotion deeper than relief, for she was bent on bringing scandal upon us all.”

  “And scandal is to be avoided at all costs,” Maddy said bitterly. Perhaps the Earl had not committed murder, but she knew him to be capable of such an act. Never would she forget the brutality of his embrace. “Thank you, I am already acquainted with your views.”

  “You will have the goodness to allow me to explain.” Chesterfield’s tone was firm. “Cassandra cared for no one, save perhaps her brother. She married Micah for his money. When she found she could not bend him to her will, she turned against him and took lovers—with neither discrimination nor discretion, I might add. The family knew, of course. She taunted Micah with the knowledge that a bastard would succeed him.”

  “Gracious!” Maddy was shaken by such depravity.

  “Is it any wonder,” the Marquess inquired, “that her passing was not greatly lamented? You, too, are a hasty judge. Miss de Villiers.”

  “And there is no question,” Maddy persisted, “that her death was an accident?”

  “None at all.” Lionel’s tone was wry. “She was inebriated at the time. It was another of her less pleasant habits.”

  Maddy roused herself from silence. “I must return,” she said, and rose. “My absence will have been remarked.”

  “No.” The Marquess grasped her hand firmly and pulled her back down on the bench. “Not until you have heard what I mean to say.” He wore a crooked smile. “Nor will your absence cause undue concern. I daresay your father knows perfectly well where you are.”

  “Then I must return. You know what he will think.”

  “Perfectly.” Lionel was undisturbed. “I have no great apprehension regarding his opinion of myself as a prospective husband for his greatly cherished child.”

  Maddy wondered if one could die of mortification. “I will never forgive him for his behavior,” she murmured. “I beg you, do not keep me here, lest your intentions be misconstrued.”

  “Again you leap to conclusions.” Lionel appeared unaccountably benign. He smiled on Maddy’s puzzlement. “I mean to seek his permission to approach you on a certain matter, you see. I do not expect that his blessing will be withheld.”

  Bereft of speech, Maddy stared. Surely this very proper young Marquess could not wish to saddle himself with a wife whose shameless scoundrel of a father would be soliciting his financial aid at every opportunity. “Yes,” said Chesterfield, “I know I’ve behaved very badly. It is a failing of mine. Agatha accuses me of being high in the instep, and I’m afraid it’s true.” Maddy was treated to a bashful grin. “When I am uncertain, I wrap myself in dignity and, I’m afraid, become an unbearable prig.” He would not let her speak. “I was furious when I learned of your, er, deception. My pride suffered a severe blow. It does not excuse my behavior, I know. Nothing could do that.” He paused. “I also acquitted myself abominably concerning Micah, and have regretted it most bitterly. I know it was no fault of yours. For that incident, Micah is to blame.”

  “You refine too much upon it,” Maddy said in muffled tones. She did not intend to inform the Marquess that she had half hoped the Earl would catch her trespassing in his chambers.

  “Does that mean,” Lionel asked, quick to take advantage, “that you will forgive me?”

  “Of course.” Maddy reflected, with unusual humility, that her own conduct was not above reproach. She had been both foolish and thoughtless, motivated by a singularly addlepated determination to entrap a rake.

  “Then only one thing remains to make my happiness complete.” Maddy was forced to look at her companion. There was none of the haughty nobleman in his face.

  “I do not understand,” she said, disposing of the remnants of the bloom. “You deplore my rashness, my lack of foresight, and consider me a crass adventuress.”

  “I think you,” retorted Lionel, possessing himself of her hands, “an adorable minx. Only tell me that I have not been too precipitate, that you will consider my suit.”

  “This is so sudden—I must have time.” Maddy contemplated the skirt of her gown, a blue and white striped percale half-dress with a flounced embroidered border and white ruchings. Once, she would have received this offer with the utmost complacency; now, she felt a ridiculous urge to burst into either tears or song.

  “Do you consider this fair treatment?” the Marquess inquired. “I have laid my heart at your feet and you put me off with shabby excuses. The truth, please! Tell me my advances are repugnant to you, and I shall force myself on you no longer.”

  “Oh, no!” Maddy strove for rational thought. “Never that.” She realized the depth of her commitment to this engaging gentleman, and flushed. “It is just that I am so surprised.”

  “I shall tease you no more. I realize
I have waited overlong to make my sentiments known.” Lionel’s tone was wry. “I was afraid that you might bid me to the devil, and with justification. Tell me, may I hope?”

  Dazed, Maddy envisioned herself a Marchioness, with a considerate and charming husband who would neither treat her like a prime article of virtue nor, even worse, share his attentions with creatures of that ilk. “Yes,” she said shyly. “You certainly may.”

  * * * *

  Tilda sipped her morning chocolate and glowered at Wordsworth, engaged in a shrill diatribe against Intrepid, who sat atop a chair, tail twitching, peering wistfully at the plump inhabitant of the gilded cage. Trixie, whose interesting condition aroused in her a sublime indifference to such goings-on, slumbered on the hearth. “Hussy,” remarked Tilda, her thoughts more concerned with Miss de Villiers than with the maternally inclined setter. “You show little discrimination in your choice of a mate.” Trixie yawned.

  Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson was not in the best of moods. Her endeavors of the day before had resulted in a flaming row with Bevis, who had become so incensed by her bold rescue that he had elaborated on her every indiscretion, from her tree-climbing habits, which had resulted in a broken arm at the age of four, through her imprudent marriage, to her friendship with the Earl. And despite the various exertions of the day, Tilda had not enjoyed a restful night. Alastair could trouble her no more, but he rode triumphant through her dreams, while Micah laughed sarcastically.

  The Duchess would be in high spirits, but Tilda refrained from visiting her. She had no wish for further praise or censure; the adventure was done. Here in the Abbey she would hear no more of it. Bevis had made plans for immediate departure, having resolved to sever all connections with his disgraceful relation. And Puggins, delighted at the impending removal of this last intruder in her realm, had developed a surprising tactfulness that extended to treating her mistress as though she were convalescent from a severe and lingering disease.