The Misfit Marquess

by Teresa DesJardien

Desire—a strange word, all but foreign to Gideon. No, that was not correct; he was used to desire.

  Now, desire's fruit... ! That was something of which he had too infrequently tasted.

  He had a normal man's appetites, those of the flesh, and there had been the occasional and accommodating females in the village for the last eight of Gideon's six-and-twenty years, so he had not lacked for sexual congress. In the three years just past, there had been one particular farmer's widow who had fancied having Gideon call upon her of an evening, a situation that had proved satisfactory for both. The fact that the Widow Denbarry was barren had been part of her charm, for Gideon was not anxious to leave by-blows about the countryside, not least because there was a part of him that feared he might pass on his mother's lunacy.

  The Widow Denbarry was married and moved away now though, going on four months, and Gideon had not found suitable company since. He had yet to summon the time—or was it the energy?—to find another outlet for dalliance. Had he become too accustomed to desiring a thing without being able to achieve it? That was an appalling thought.

  So while his sexual appetite went neglected, another hunger in him grew even stronger, even more fierce, that often left him pacing late into the night: he longed to be free. He longed for a life that included "more."

  But "more" must wait.

  I am used to waiting, he thought to himself.

  But it grows more difficult each day. came an answering whisper in his head, and there was no argument to be made in return.

  With an effort, he forced himself to sit down at his desk. He wearily reached for a quill and looked again at his list, a piece of foolscap marked w ith many lines of writing, some of which had been scratched out by a stroke of the quill. He uncapped the ink in the stand before him. dipped the point, and wrote below the other lines: "Asylum/four living patients. Three males, all identified or awaiting family contact. One female, unidentified" Below this he wrote: "Hire Arbuckle."

  He glanced down the entire sheet, realizing how many items remained on the list, waiting to be crossed out upon completion. There was so much to do. always so much more.

  And why did he even try 0 Once upon a time, when he was younger and full of the energy of hope, it had been his plan to create a paradise, to turn what had been a hell into a haven. He had meant to remake this house into a refuge—only to make it into a prison. A prison whose walls were built of duty and yet more duty, each stroke of his pen adding another brick to the battlements of his bondage.

  He could walk away. The physical leaving would be simple. even easy. But there were bonds that tied a man to a certain patch of soil, bonds far stronger, far more taxing than a chain or a moat could ever form. There was no peace beyond these walls, not for Gideon, not if he simply left his obligations behind.

  His dream was an impossible one. Had his mother's madness taught him nothing 0 Did he not know that some things were simply fated to fail forever? That Dame Fortune played tricks as neatly as she granted treats? He must go to find his peace of mind—but to leave everything as it was, was to know no peace. He was eldest. He was obliged. He was doomed. His dream could never succeed.

  In one thing he would succeed, he thought to himself with a toss of the head that would have belied his turmoil to an observer, had there been one about to witness his dogged return to the matter at hand. He would set Mr. Arbuckle to the task of finding out more about the mysterious female inmate. He would learn more of the woman who had brought from her asylum cell those soft hands, satin slippers, a fine wool cloak, and a silk gown. Something was decidedly not right here, and Gideon would know what it was, because knowing was what kept him feeling some measure of control.

  "What is your name again?" Elizabeth asked the maid with the black eyepatch when the girl came to retrieve the dinner dishes that night. The maid who was in a family way, Jeannie, knelt before the fireplace, stoking the fire for the night.

  "Polly," the one-eyed girl answered as she rearranged the used dishes on the tray so that they would not teeter and fall off when she lifted it.

  "Polly, might I be so bold ..." Elizabeth began, only to bite her lip in consternation.

  The maid looked up from her task, a hint of amusement gleaming from her one good eye if not quite on her lips. "You mean to ask what happened to my eye," she stated.

  "Yes," Elizabeth agreed, relaxing her shoulders and giving a tentative smile in return. "Do you mind?"

  "No. Everyone always asks, miss. I got cinders in it when I was stirring up a banked fire one night, oh, maybe five years ago now. It festered, and before you could so much as whistle, I'd lost the eye, miss."

  "How dreadful! I am sorry to hear it."

  The maid nodded as she gathered up the tray. "Thank you, miss. Will this be all? Would you be wanting more blankets tonight, d'you think?"

  "No, thank you. And ought I thank you as well for the use of this night rail I wear?"

  "No, miss. It was a found garment."

  "Found?" Elizabeth gave a tiny frown of confusion.

  The maid shrugged, noncommittal. Things get found around this house. And things go missing, too."

  Ah, the ghost. Elizabeth thought. Well, the servants would gossip about such a rumor, would they not? It was only to be expected. Anything found out of place would be blamed on "the ghost" of course. Elizabeth refrained from glancing toward the tapestry, not wanting to give credence to a rumor, not even one that made her wonder what she had seen after all.

  Polly left with the tray, leaving Jeannie. who now sat back on her heels, her hand pressed to her spine as she gave a tired sigh. Elizabeth felt sorry for the girl, so far along in her pregnancy and still having to work at such physical labor, but the reason seemed obvious. The girl sported no wedding ring. It could be that she and her fellow could not afford a ring, but Elizabeth suspected she knew the truer story here: that the baby must be that of the master of the house. Why else would a bachelor tolerate the girl's employment despite her obvious state?

  There was nothing extraordinary in a man having his way with a chambermaid—it happened all the time—but drawing attention to the evidence .. . ! Well, that was just another sign of how bizarre this household was.

  Elizabeth shook her head, and the gesture caused the sticking plaster on her forehead to pull a bit. She reached up. finding it was coming loose. She worked the edges off, making a few small noises of discomfort until it came loose and she could place it on the table next to the bed. The maid rose and left the room.

  What to do with the rest of her day? Elizabeth settled back against the pillows, frowning at the lump under her covers that was her bandaged foot. If not for it, she could be on her way, establishing a new life, a new way of going on until such time as she read the announcement of Lorraine's wedding in the papers.

  In the way sound sometimes does, Elizabeth realized that a noise had tiptoed into her conscious understanding. She held her breath until she was assured that, yes indeed, she had heard something. Was it. . . humming? But if it was. it was a strange, muffled humming. She slowly turned her head toward the tapestry, gooseflesh lifting the hair on her nape as she realized the sound came from behind the tapestry, from behind the wall the maid had shown her.

  It was too much. Elizabeth could not remain sitting in the bed, transfixed by an uncomfortable mix of dread and consternation. She must touch the wall for herself.

  She slid from the side of the bed nearest the tapestry, grimacing at pain and a nervous tightening in her stomach that made her breathing rapid and shallow, and balanced on her good foot. Working her way along the mattress, she took small hops down the bed's length, until she could grasp the post at its nether end. She swallowed hard, her ears still tuned to that disembodied, vaguely harmonious humming, and let go of the post. Spreading her arms wide for balance, she hopped once toward the tapestry. She nearly put down her injured foot as she teetered dangerously, but balance was restored, and she dared attempt another hop. The exercise made the heel wound scream
with pain, but pain could be overridden by fear.

  Completing four hops away from the bed brought her within reach of a high chair back, which she grasped with relief and a labored sigh. A few more hops forward brought her to the tapestry, which she pulled back from its left side, same as the maid had done.

  Nothing—no window, no door, just as before. There was a line where two strips of wallpaper met, but one slightly lifted edge proved there was nothing but wall behind them.

  Elizabeth shrugged the tapestry over her shoulder, splaying her now free hands against the wall. She inched along the wall's length, scarcely able to see except where combined light from a branch of candles and the fire on the grate barely crept past the edges of the tapestry, but feeling with her fingertips.

  "Ah!" she cried as her fingers found an edge, a crack perhaps, halfway along the wall's length.

  She needed more light by which to see, so she gathered up the heavy tapestry, folding it in her arms, atop her shoulders, piling it on her head. She scrambled to make it stay in place, but it kept insisting on falling from her grasp, its weight and awkward size nearly unmanageable. Perspiration dewed her upper lip and forehead, and a trickle of moisture ran down her back, but the humming just on the other side of the wall persuaded her to try again and again.

  At last she realized she need not hold up the tapestry, but instead turned and pushed against it, hopping forward until she had it extended so far out into the room, nearly to the bed, that light could flood around the edges. She awkwardly reversed her position, the tapestry pushing heavily against her head and shoulders, but it was enough to let her see the dim outline of a kind of door. It was covered with the same yellow-and-white paper as the rest of the wall, the pattern expertly matched to aid in the door's blending out of casual sight, especially in the half-light of evening. The oblong shape sported no knob, hinges, or decoration, but it was the shape of a door all the same. Elizabeth realized in amazement that, without the humming to prompt her, she could have lived in this room for a dozen years without ever discovering the door's presence behind the tapestry.

  Her heart in her throat, she hopped forward, only belatedly becoming aware the humming had stopped. The tapestry's weight pushed her insistently forward until she was once more touching the wall, running her fingers along the door edges she now knew existed. She pushed, with no result. She tried to find purchase by which to lever the door toward herself, but her nails proved ineffective. A hairpin missed by the maids who had taken down her hair proved useless as a lever with which to pry open the door.

  Wearily, Elizabeth worked her way free of the tapestry. She spent a long time clutching the chair, trembling from fatigue. How quickly one lost one's strength from lying abed, she thought to herself, even as she wished she had thought to exit at the other end of the tapestry, nearer the head of her bed. This way, she must not only achieve the bed's surface, but then push her way up toward the headboard, a feat that seemed increasingly infeasible to muscles gone shaky with pained fatigue.

  Should she manage to get to the bed without first collapsing, she thought wryly, at least she would be able to sleep there in peace. She had proven to herself that there was no mystery, no ghost—only a servant, surely, using a long-forgot hiding place or passage. There was no threat here, nothing that could not be banished by some simple investigation and a refusal to be cowed by tall tales.

  She hopped forward, each movement now a torturous reminder that she ought to have stayed abed, but feeling a glow of reasoned triumph all the same.

  The next morning Gideon quietly opened the door to Elizabeth's room, deliberately without knocking. He quickly and boldly made a circuit of the room with his gaze, although he was prepared to retreat quickly if needed. When no feminine cry of outrage met his action, he narrowed his gaze on the bed, quickly ascertaining that Elizabeth was not there.

  No, that was not true, she was there, but oddly splayed across the foot of it, only the top coverlet serving as a blanket to her.

  With a frown Gideon quietly closed the door, then turned his back to it and stared across the room toward the bed. An old emotion swelled in his chest for a moment, but it was not an emotion such as to raise tears. Anguish, yes, but never tears. Only cold, frosty glares and imperious, demanding words had ever got him what he wanted—tears had been rewarded with scorn and denial, and he had long since forsaken their release.

  All the same, it took tremendous effort to push away from the door and softly step across to the bedside. He looked down at the prostrate being, some fanciful corner of his mind half fearing to see his mother's face there, but Mama's pale blond curls were absent.

  Elizabeth was so dark of hair, as if designed to be the perfect foil against his own white-blond mane. Her inky tresses had been left unplaited to fall to hip level, where the loose, natural ringlets tangled, crying out for a good brushing. Hers was not the kind of hair that was easily managed, but must be disciplined into patterns, and best when the air was not humid. In her sleep, several wisps had formed around her face, making delicate ringlets that made her appear more childlike in sleep than she was presumably in age.

  She must be, what, nineteen, twenty? If her mind had been whole, she most likely would have married by now. She might have no dowry, for all he knew, but her face was pretty, and that could serve well enough as a girl's dowry to a man who liked what he saw. No, pretty was not the correct word —striking, or unique was perhaps the better word. She was apple-cheeked without appearing heavy, perhaps because her nose was a tad thin, making a balance. Her mouth was well shaped, the lips of even size and not too wide, and she had good teeth. She was fortunate enough not to be terribly pale, even though that was all that was fashionable, because with her dark hair it would have made her appear sickly rather than genteel.

  What a waste, Gideon thought, that this charming package should contain a befuddled mind. She claimed otherwise, but then the afflicted always did.

  In her slumber, all was innocence, and even her strange positioning at the foot of the bed seemed innocuous. But how many times had Gideon looked upon the seemingly innocuous only to later recognize a symptom of disordered thinking? Disorder, disease, mania —they were cruel, unforgiving of even the most blameless of victims. Mama had been blameless. Mama, curled on her bed, an unearthly keening accompanying endless tears. .. .

  He reached down and touched Elizabeth's shoulder, shaking her lightly. "Elizabeth," he spoke quietly, knowing that the dreams of the disturbed ought not be intruded upon abruptly.

  Elizabeth blinked once, then appeared for two heartbeats to slip back into slumber, only to open her eyes and focus with instant clarity upon his face. For a moment, disappointment crossed her features, and he knew she had dreamed she was someplace other than here in his home. He could hardly begrudge her that, since it was his own dream to escape this house, but something in the vulnerability on her face tugged at him, making the lump reform in his chest, making him feel un-befittingly angry.

  "I have come to inform you that callers have arrived," he said, and at least his voice remained gentle even if he was not so at his core.

  "Callers?" she murmured, her brow wrinkling in bewilderment. "For me?"

  "Local women, from the parish. St. Bartholomew's. They were told that you could not recall your family name. They are concerned, and wished to meet with you."

  "I am nobody," she said, and the anger in him flared and danced, then died out, becoming nothing more than a dim pain between his temples. Mama had claimed the same, had been made to feel useless and worthless, a nobody. Echoes—this house had too many echoes.

  "You are somebody," he said firmly. He extended his hand to her, and felt a tiny measure of victory when she placed her fingers there. He helped her sit up, the coverlet and her hair both falling to pool around her hips. The fabric of the night rail she wore was well used and thinning, and in the morning light it was possible to see where the fabric ended and her form began. The cool morning air had brought her nipples e
rect, and a dusty pink shadow showed through the material as well. Gideon forgot for a moment to avert his gaze, struck by the sight of a luscious form surrounded by dark tresses, but then he recalled himself. He had seen many a night rail over the years. He knew how to work without letting his mind take in what the eyes must see.

  "Your own clothes were ruined beyond repair, except for your slippers," he told her, "but I will have a dressing gown sent in for your use, for modesty's sake. Would you mind if a maid put your hair up? Or at least plaited it? It would be more seemly."

  "Must I see them? These callers?" Elizabeth asked, her distress clear to read in her gaze.

  "Yes," he answered simply, with gentle firmness, as one would to a frightened child. "They only wish to be sure you are well cared for here." At her continued anxious stare, he added, "It is good of them to come."

  "Just tell them I am well."

  He shook his head, and before she could say anything more, he scooped her into his arms. She gave a small squeal of surprise and glanced at him with approbation. "What do you think you are doing?" she asked with a briskness that betokened more affront than aggravation.

  "Carrying you to this stool, where your hair may be combed out."

  At least she made no further protests, instead turning to the looking glass set before the vanity stool on which he had perched her.

  "Oh! I do look a fright." she admitted at once, reaching up to comb her fingers through her tangled locks.

  Gideon was not so stupid as to reply to such a comment from a female, so instead he made her a bow. "I shall send a maid to you at once. Is ten minutes a long enough time in which to make yourself ready, do you think?·

  She stopped raking her fingers through her hair, and looked up at his reflection, their gazes meeting in the silvered surface of the looking glass. "You want these people gone as soon as possible." she stated.

  He was faintly intrigued by the way Elizabeth tilted her head. an obvious sign of comprehension. Mama had often not heard his questions, living as she had in a world of her own making, but then again she had also had a habit of blurting out sudden comments or observations just as this lady did. "It is as obvious as that?" he murmured.