The Honorable Marksley

by Sherry Lynn Ferguson

  “I have resolved to find some good in this. Certainly both of us will be surrendering a great deal. I, for example, feel I must reexamine my role as publisher of The Tantalus. As for yourself-well, you have not told me enough of yourself for me to gauge how much of meaning to you must be abandoned in the arrangement. But I can truthfully see no way to avoid our marriage.” He turned to face her. “I propose that, if we set our minds to it, there may be something of value, if only a modicum of respect and companionship, to be gained from our association. It is only rational.”

  For some reason the explanation prompted Hallie to shiver, though she stood next to the fire.

  “I am certain you must be right, my lord,” she said softly. “But I would ask one favor of you” At his raised brow she added, “I would ask you to continue with the journal. To continue your work on The Tantalus.”

  His smile was quizzical. “Why would that be of such importance to you, Miss Hallie, that you would ask it as a favor of me?”

  Hallie made a dismissive gesture with one hand, then clasped the mantel edge with the other. “Do you not understand? You are a craftsman. With a skill. You have dedicated so much to it. So many depend on you to continue. `Twould be tantamount to criminal to cease. You would-you would regret it.”

  Richard Marksley’s look was still puzzled, perhaps a little sad. “And you believe limiting that role would affect our union?” he asked. “Because you fear I would be unhappy?”

  Hallie nodded.

  “Then I must convince you that there will be compensations. Though not perhaps of a grandeur to suit your uncle, my resources are considerable. Perhaps we will spend more time in London. Even a Viscount is permitted to attend salons, readings and concerts” He smiled. “I am not beyond finding some contentment and enrichment in other quarters”

  “But it is not what you choose,” Hallie protested. “‘Tis not your passion.”

  “Do not be anxious for my good spirits, my dear. I am a reading man. I will continue to correspond, perhaps even to pen something myself now and then. But the investment of time to oversee The Tantalus is considerable. You would rarely have my company” A sudden, skeptical coldness crossed his features. “Or is that, after all, your desire?”

  Hallie raised her chin. “You insult me, my lord. I am not so calculating. I was thinking of your subscribers, of your contributors, and most of all of you yourself. To relinquish so much, out of a sense of duty! If you do not already resent me, my lord, you would come to”

  “That is a decision I must make,” he said. Hallie felt he watched her with a strained intensity. “I am trying, with your aid, to move beyond the circumstances that force me to that decision.”

  “But you will not forget them.”

  “Time will ease them” He startled her by smiling. “Miss Ashton-forgive me … Hallie-I believe you upset yourself to no purpose. We will wed tomorrow morning. Would you attempt to delay the inevitable? What possible alternative have you?”

  “I … have been thinking. Perhaps as a governess-”

  His gaze was kind as he shook his head. “Our betrothal has been the on dit in London for more than a week, my dear. Were we to cry off, scandal would inevitably result. No respectable family would have you.” He sighed. “I commend you for making the argument. I only wish that I could say it is persuasive. Unfortunately, whatever deductive powers I possess lead me so far and no further.”

  “There are people,” Hallie said carefully, “who have chosen to ignore the conventions. It is done, my lord.”

  “But I must disappoint you. For I fear, in this realm at least, I am a conventional man. Others have chosen more radical paths; I choose mine. It is a question of living comfortably with oneself. Even were you to hare off to the Continent tomorrow, I would feel you were owed the Marksley name”

  The point was conclusive. With a sinking sensation, Hallie asked softly, “But is your heart free, my lord?”

  “Free? It has been free many years.”

  Hallie noted that he did not say it was now free.

  “Forgive me,” she pressed her palms together. “But a number of people have taken pains to inform me of a certain lady-Caroline Chalmers.”

  “The former Caroline Chalmers, the Dowager Marchioness of Wrethingwell-Drummond, was married three years. If she is now, unhappily, widowed, it changes nothing.”

  “But you care for her?”

  Marksley shrugged impatiently and moved toward her.

  “I care for her only in a reflective way” He frowned. “Only as one cares for a memory.”

  “One saves it,” Hallie said softly, “though its bloom is spent.”

  His riveted attention instantly alerted her to her error. It seemed too long a period before he asked, “What did you say?”

  “I don’t … recall. Do you mean about memory?”

  “Yes. You quoted a poem-a line from a poem.” His gaze was sharp. “Do you remember where you read it?”

  “I fear I cannot. It must have been in The Tantalus.”

  “I think I can be trusted to recognize what I myself publish.”

  Hallie forced a laugh. “Surely not every line, my lord.”

  He looked irritated, whether by the honorific or by her doubt she could not have said. “Perhaps you read it in another publication?”

  “I believe I must have,” she said with forced brightness.

  “But you do not remember which it might have been?”

  “Really, my lord, this-”

  “Do not call me that. We are alone. I do not require it, nor do I like it, particularly from you.”

  “Why particularly?”

  “Because you, more than anyone, know what it means to me” He turned from her to face the windows once more. “The line you quoted is one I last saw in some private correspondence. I had not known he intended to publish it elsewhere-or had, perhaps, already published it elsewhere.” His manner was abstracted as he observed the cold rain.

  “Of whom do you speak?” Hallie ventured.

  Marksley glanced back at her.

  “Of Beecham. Henry Beecham. We have discussed his work.”

  “Yes” Hallie wanted him to say more. She wanted his confidences, though she should not have wanted them-cutting reminders of her duplicity! In that instant she decided, in her own selfish interest, that though she might burden him with an unwanted wife, she need not deprive him of a poet.

  “Ali. Here is your uncle,” Marksley remarked without enthusiasm. Hallie heard her uncle’s voice in the hall. As he entered the drawing room, she had the distinct sense of having her solitude invaded though Richard Marksley had been with her for some time.

  “Well, my lord, so you have chosen to return” Alfred Ashton’s words were not unfriendly, but he still sounded grudging. Hallie wondered what possible complaint he could have, as he had been an Earl’s guest-with the attendant generous benefits-for almost a fortnight.

  “Yes, Mr. Ashton, I have returned, and with a special license. Your niece and I will wed tomorrow morning. With your permission.” Marksley bowed. “I spoke to Vicar Mayhew on my way through town.”

  “But … the settlements?”

  “I saw your solicitor in London. I believe you will be satisfied.” Marksley pulled a thick sheet of vellum from his coat and handed it to Ashton. “All of your requests have been followed to the letter.” Hallie knew her uncle would be deaf to the chill in Marksley’s voice.

  “Well, then” Alfred Ashton seemed at a loss. “Tomorrow morning, you say? Harriet’s dress ain’t finished yet, so I hear. All these gewgaws and furbelows the women set such store by, as you know, my lord-”

  Marksley’s glance flashed to her. “I regret that. But I fear you must agree there is a certain premium on time.”

  “That may be. That may be. Don’t want any huggermugger business, though. Rushing the event now does seem a mite slapdash”

  “Does it, sir? Two weeks ago it could not have been soon enough. The `event’ as you term i
t, will not grow grander, I guarantee it.”

  “A few days more-”

  “Cannot be arranged, sir.”

  The brisk response sent the blood to Ashton’s face.

  “Now see here, Marksley … Viscount … my lord. You had best not forget what’s been done to the girl-”

  “I am unremittingly conscious of it, sir,” Marksley interrupted, “which is why we wed tomorrow.”

  “She’ll do naught unless I say so!”

  “Oh yes, she will, Ashton. Your niece no longer need obey you. From this day forward she no longer owes you anything she does not care to give. I intend to make that absolutely certain, sir. Good day to you” And with that pointed defense of his affianced, to whom he did not even grant a glance, the Viscount Langsford left the room.

  The wedding was a trial.

  The Countess, swathed in black bombazine, silently observed the dismal proceedings like a harbinger of doom. The few antique relatives carted in to lend countenance to the ceremony appeared likely to follow Reginald shortly to the grave. Vicar Mayhew sounded hoarse, an ailment no doubt exacerbated by an early blast of wintry weather, weather that left the church dark and drafty. Hallie’s sapphire silk gown, the finest she owned, clung damply to her ankles after the walk from the carriage in the rain.

  One of the horses had gone lame.

  Miss Binkin had the effrontery to cry.

  Richard Marksley looked as though he had not slept. By the time he slipped the ring on her finger and granted the faintest, perfunctory kiss to her chilled lips, Hallie felt mortified. She signed the register as though in a trance and fled the gloomy little church to the relative light of a drizzly morning. She clasped her drowned nosegay as though it were a friend. The morning’s single smile came from a young girl walking along the vicarage lane.

  Breakfast at Penham consisted of a bountiful buffet that could not tempt Hallie in the slightest, and, by the time their few guests had departed, she had been ready to take to her bed with a very real, painful megrim. But Richard Marksley had no intention of remaining another minute under the same roof with his sullen aunt and Hallie’s overbearing uncle. He had whisked her away to his home at Archers.

  Recalling all of it now, Hallie shifted her shoulders against the tree trunk and basked in the warm sunlight on her arms and face. Today’s return of good weather had brightened her mood considerably, as had a good night’s dreamless sleep. She had not seen Richard Marksley after their flight from Penham the previous day. She had excused herself to nurse her headache only to find that she slept through supper. Marksley had gone out, just where she did not inquire, and this morning he had left for a ride when she came down to breakfast. Hallie wondered whether this would be the pattern of their daysdetermining just how little time they need spend in each other’s presence.

  Yet he was working on The Tantalus. Hallie knew that, and indulged her curiosity. He had said he would be unable to continue, yet he seemed to be addressing the last days of the journal with energy.

  At some point in the future, he would be pressed to leave Archers and remove permanently to Penham. But in this interlude, however brief, Hallie could enjoy the manor’s quiet charms and the lovely old orchard where she had secluded herself.

  The relief she felt now, after weeks of strain, was substantial. That morning she had written out carefully, in Henry Beecham’s larger and less legible hand, the poem she had begun at Penham. The sentiment had been true for days. Her thoughts on the matter at last had shaped themselves so clearly that mere words flowed easily. With this poem, she thought, Richard Marksley would know that Beecham had not betrayed him; Beecham had never left him. No one could express such confidence and joy in one person yet seek out another.

  She had folded the single sheet and sealed it with a wafer, addressing it to R.E. Marksley, Archers, Surrey. Hallie planned to ask Jeremy to post it once he returned to town. Beecham’s bond with Marksley had not yet suffered. Some still hopeful part of her dreamed that Marksley need never know how close he was to his reclusive poet. Then she might continue writing poemsand writing poems to him.

  She fingered the letter between the pages of her journal. She had brought her writing box outside with her, but the sunlight and comfortable temperature, the serenity and low chirping of sparrows, were all so heavenly she had scarcely written a word. She untied the ribbons of her bonnet, slid it from her hair and raised her face to the sun. Her shoulders relaxed. She would bake all worry and distress into something deliciously sweet… honeycake or-

  “My lady,” she heard Gibbs say tentatively, “Ahem … my lady”

  She opened her eyes to find the elderly butler standing respectfully to the side.

  “Yes, Gibbs?”

  “You have a letter from the post, my lady. Forwarded from Penham. I thought you might wish to see it right away”

  “Thank you, Gibbs. You are very thoughtful” She took the letter without rising and watched Gibbs depart before breaking the seal. She had recognized Jeremy’s hand.

  Dearest Hallie,

  I start myself tomorrow, but wanted you to know as soon as possible that I have found your partridge. Together we have seen to the little matter that concerned you. Do not expect a small fortune, but I assure you it will suffice.

  George proposes to accompany me as far as Denhurst, where a gypsy band long familiar to him is now encamped. Expect me then, with the bounty, on Saturday.

  Yours,

  Jeremy

  P.S. I enclose one of Richard’s letters held at the General Post Office in London. Though you now need never tell him a thing, I urge you to do so. Surely you owe him that? I do not care to remember you as craven, Hallie.

  The note trembled in her hand. Jeremy had every right to admonish her. He was right to give his sympathies to Richard Marksley, who deserved so much of what she did not: respect and friendship.

  But now she had to think. Today was Saturday. Jeremy might arrive at any moment. And he would be shocked at just how craven she had proved to be.

  The new gold band on her finger felt strangely weighty. Thought of a precious, perfect Caroline Chalmers rose unbidden. `She walks in beauty like the night …’ Ah! Why had Archie Cavendish cursed her with Byron’s idolizing imagery?

  Marksley was unlikely to have forgotten such a paragon. Yet here he was, bound by laws of church and crown to a most imperfect substitute.

  Her gaze fell to the letter Jeremy had enclosed. It had been posted in London. The familiar and unexpectedly dear hand clearly spelled out `Henry Beecham.’ She wondered again what devilish ambition or yearning had possessed her to perpetrate this fraud. With trembling fingers she broke open the seal:

  Dear Beecham,

  It is difficult to encourage another when one is discouraged, but that is the task before me. My low spirits result from the necessity to limit my rela tionship with The Tantalus, perhaps even to discontinue its publication altogether. Thus the circumstances entail some disruption for you. The journal may yet live, but at this point I dare not pledge. As I have described to you in the past, the labor has largely been one of love-a burden not easily surrendered, however eagerly assumed.

  I will attempt to relay any news. For now, publication will be suspended after the next number. Should you have any difficulty placing work elsewhere, be assured I shall not leave you stranded. I have only ever encountered enthusiasm on your behalf.

  As always, I urge you to continue along those lines that most appeal to you. With ability as promising as yours, I am reluctant to direct it in any manner. The sole encouragement your talent needs is to be permitted to grow.

  Beecham, I have told you how greatly I admire your artistry. I am too practical a man to spend much time on regrets-the future will demand enough concentration-but I do know that I regret never having met you. Should you ever find occasion to redress that lack I would be most honored.

  As ever yours & c.

  R.E. Marksley

  He had signed it without reference to hi
s title. Hallie reread the letter several times, searching, ironically, for some evidence of those new responsibilities of which she was so much a part. But the tone of it was no different from any other letter Beecham had ever received. That she now found it frustratingly remote and unrevealing was less a measure of any alteration in Richard Marksley than in herself. He had, after all, no reason to suspect that in writing to Beecham, he was now writing to his wife.

  She carefully placed the letters inside her journal, tucked against her new poem, and leaned back once more against the old apple’s generous bole. It was, she thought, suitably an apple tree, for she was tempted to absolve herself of responsibility. After all, the roguish Reginald Marksley had brought her to this impasse. She should instead be blessing her good fortune: in ridding herself of her uncle and Millicent, in ascending to position and privilege, in marrying the man she loved. But even as she admitted as much she knew there was something drastically wrong.

  She was frowning when a shadow blocked the sun.

  “You look like a dryad,” he told her and watched her eyes open. “Siphoning sunlight instead of moonlight, playing truant rather than tending to your tree.”

  “You are being fanciful,” she murmured, sitting up. She brushed her skirts and looked about her. When her gaze fell upon a thick notebook, Richard noticed it as well.

  “I wonder,” he said, leaning to pick it up, “what you record in your journal?”

  “Words,” she said quickly and held up her hands to receive the book from him, “just words”

  He had an intense desire to open the book, to read her hand and perhaps a bit of her heart. The desire was so strong that he had to force himself to release the volume to her eager fingers. He was reminded of another, equally strong and troubling desire, one that had persisted from the time he had kissed her so chastely in the church. He had been ceaselessly drawn by the thought of kissing her again.

  His spouse seemed overly relieved to have her journal in hand. The fact engaged his curiosity. Perhaps she kept mementos of some sort inside. Then he scowled as he wondered if any were of Reggie.