"I am proud of what they could be," the marchioness said, her gaze traveling from one end of the garden to the other. "I am afraid they have become rather overrun of late. I do not understand how Hopkins, our head gardener, has allowed such a thing to happen. I shall have to speak to Jack about it. Perhaps Lady Mary would like to undertake a project to improve the gardens once she and Jack are married."
"She would enjoy that, my lady, I am sure."
"You have known Lady Mary long?" the marchioness asked, closing the book on her lap after first marking her place.
"I have been in her employ for three years, my lady."
"Then you know her well. I find myself excessively pleased with Jack's choice for a bride." She cocked a brow and her blue eyes twinkled. "What do you think?"
"I believe Lady Mary is very happy with the match," Olivia said cautiously. "She would make any man a wonderful wife."
The marchioness laughed. "You are very circumspect, Mrs. Bannister. I suppose you question whether or not Jack would make any woman a wonderful husband. No, no," she said, smiling and waving a dismissive hand, "you need say nothing more on the matter. I am fully aware of Jack's reputation. But do not forget, I have known him all his life and am aware more than anyone of the true man who lurks beneath that rackety notoriety. I believe Mary is just the sort of woman he needs to bring him back to himself, to take him away from the dissolute sort of life he has led for so long."
Olivia was surprised at the plainspoken manner of Lady Pemerton and hoped she was right about her son, but she said nothing. The marchioness chattered on.
"He suffered so over that wretched business with Suzanne, you know."
Olivia, wondering who Suzanne was, gave a puzzled look.
"Oh, I suppose he does not speak of her, does he?" the marchioness said.
Olivia shook her head, still puzzled, and the marchioness sighed. "They were betrothed years ago, but the silly chit threw him over at the very last minute. He was devastated, you see. But, good heavens," her voice rose with frustration, "that was ages ago, and it is high time he found some happiness for himself."
"I know what you mean," Olivia said without thinking. "I have harbored similar hopes for Mary, after all the pain and suffering she went through."
"Good Lord, Mrs. Bannister," the marchioness said, sitting bolt upright and laying a hand on Olivia's arm, "what are you saying? In what way has Mary been made to suffer?"
Olivia felt an embarrassed blush warm her cheeks. There must be something singular about the Maitland family that encouraged her to such intemperate speech. She had said more than she ought to Mr. Maitland, and was now repeating her folly with his sister. She clamped her lips shut, afraid to utter a word lest she blurt out some further confidence.
"Mrs. Bannister?"
Olivia took a deep breath and considered her words carefully. "I am sorry. It is not my place to speak of my employer's private concerns. I will only say that Mary did not have a particularly happy upbringing. If you wish to know more, you will have to ask Mary."
"I will do that, Mrs. Bannister," the marchioness said. "And you must not fear that I will hint of any indiscretion on your part. You have not told me anything specific, after all."
"Thank you, my lady," Olivia said with a relieved sigh. Before she could embarrass herself any further, she changed the subject. "How are the wedding plans coming?" she asked.
"Splendidly," the marchioness replied. "Mrs. Taggert has things well in hand. It is to be a simple affair, you know. A brief ceremony in the family chapel followed by a wedding breakfast in the state dining room. Both Jack and Mary have requested a small party, and only a few friends and family members have been invited. I had asked Alicia and Charlotte and their girls to spend a few additional weeks here, to help Mary adjust to the family. Other guests should begin arriving as early as tomorrow."
"Is Mr. Edward Maitland expected?" Olivia could have bitten her tongue straight off. She could not imagine what perverse notion had caused her to ask such a question. She squirmed uncomfortably on the bench and cast her eyes down to the hands in her lap.
Lady Pemerton's eyes narrowed briefly as she gave Olivia a significant look. "My brother is expected tomorrow," she said.
Olivia made no sign of acknowledgment, continuing to stare at her hands as they twisted the muslin of her walking dress. She wished she could think of something innocuous to say, to change the subject again, but in fact she was too embarrassed to open her mouth.
Suddenly, the marchioness smiled brilliantly and patted Olivia's hand. "Good heavens, my dear, this is wonderful! I had given up all hope for poor Edward."
Olivia blushed.
Chapter 15
Mary strolled arm in arm with her future mother-in-law through the Long Gallery, listening, fascinated, to stories of each of the Raeburn ancestors depicted in the collection of portraits from Elizabethan times forward. The marchioness paused before a more recent painting of three dark-haired young boys shown outdoors in a beech grove: the tallest boy leaning negligently against a tree, another seated on an overturned log, and the third on his haunches with his arms around the neck of a large hound. Mary watched the Marchioness chew on her lower lip as she stared at the painting.
"You will be especially interested in this one," she said after a few moments, composing herself and turning toward Mary with a smile. "It was painted by Reynolds about thirty years ago. The impish-looking one with the dog is Jack."
Mary looked more closely and indeed recognized the intense blue eyes of a younger version of Jack. She smiled broadly. "He looks deceptively sweet, though his eyes do reveal a rather mischievous scamp."
"He was that," the marchioness said, "but sweet-natured as well. That's Frederick next to him and James behind."
"They were all handsome boys," Mary said as she studied the painting. "You must have been very proud."
"I was and am." The marchioness gave a ragged sigh. "It is a horrible thing to outlive one's children. But," she said, brightening somewhat, "I still have Jack. And I am counting on more grandchildren, you know."
Mary blushed, but returned an embarrassed smile.
The marchioness squeezed Mary's hand, which was resting on her arm. "I am so pleased about this marriage," she said. "And I am so very proud of Jack. He has shown remarkable good sense in betrothing himself to you. I believe that you will make him very happy, my dear."
"I hope so," Mary said with conviction. "I will certainly try my best to do so, my lady."
The marchioness smiled radiantly. "It is gratifying to see one's children happily settled and loved." When Mary blushed again, she continued. "You are in love with Jack, are you not? Yes, I can see that you are. How clever of you to see beyond the rather reckless, rakehell reputation he has done so much to foster. He is very deserving of your love, my dear. Ha! Listen to me. You will think me a silly, doting mama."
"Nonsense," Mary said. "I am pleased Jack has such a loving family, my lady."
"You must consider us your family as well, my dear. You are to be a Raeburn, after all. You must feel free to call me Mama if it pleases you."
"Thank you," Mary said, her voice catching slightly. "I would be very pleased to do so. My own mother died when I was born, so I have never had the privilege of calling anyone Mama."
The marchioness patted Mary's hand, and they moved on to the next picture.
"Oh, but this one is you!" Mary exclaimed as she stood before an enormous full-length portrait. A beautiful young woman with long, full powdered hair stood in the foreground of an ethereal, indistinct landscape, a rose in one hand while the other lifted her overdress slightly as she appeared to step toward the viewer. Mary recognized the unmistakable brushwork of Thomas Gainsborough. "How lovely," she said as she relinquished Lady Pemerton's arm and stepped back to better appreciate the painting.
"Yes," the marchioness said, "I believe this is the best—that is to say, the most flattering—of all my portraits. My husband insisted it be hung here in
the gallery along with all the previous marchionesses. Oh!" she exclaimed suddenly, turning to take both Mary's hands in her own and holding them out before her. "We must commission a bridal portrait of you! You will be required to hang in this gallery along with the rest of us, you know." She chuckled and squeezed Mary's hands. "Have you sat for a portrait recently, my dear?"
"No," Mary said, "I am afraid I have never had my portrait painted."
The marchioness's jaw dropped in astonishment. "Never?"
"Never." Mary smiled at the woman's incredulous look.
"But, your father was an earl. And I gather you were his only child. He never thought to have you painted? Even as a young girl?"
"No, my lady." Mary was becoming decidedly uncomfortable as she always did when the subject of her father came up in conversation. Her instinctive reaction had always been to abruptly change the subject. But she did not wish to appear rude to the marchioness.
"Good heavens, child," the older woman continued, "what can he have been thinking?"
"Is it not obvious?" Mary replied softly.
"No, it is not. Forgive me, my dear, but I do not understand."
Mary took a deep breath. "One only has to look at me to understand," she said. "I am not beautiful, or even passably pretty. My plainness was a source of great disappointment for my father. I cannot imagine he would have ever considered committing my likeness to canvas."
"Oh, my dear," the marchioness said, "you cannot mean that. For one thing, you are not the least bit plain. For another, all parents find their own offspring attractive. It is a result of loving them so completely, and also, I suppose, in seeing them as a reflection of oneself. It is a vanity of all parents, I am afraid, myself included."
"But, you see," Mary said in a low, husky voice, "my father did not love me. In fact, he hated me in part because I was a reflection of himself, for in appearance I resembled him and not my beautiful mother." Mary had never before said such a thing to anyone, and could not for the life of her imagine why she did so now. But there was something in the sympathetic blue eyes of the marchioness along with a general warmth and kindness about her that quite disarmed Mary.
"Never say so, my dear!" the marchioness said, an expression of shock and concern on her face. Still holding Mary's hands, she squeezed them tightly. "Surely he did not hate you."
"Oh, but he did. He told me so often. He could barely stand the sight of me."
"Oh, Mary!" The marchioness looked stricken, one hand flying to her mouth. After a moment, when Mary could not seem to move, the marchioness placed a gentle arm around her shoulder and led her to a large, comfortable sofa near the center of the Long Gallery. She seated herself at Mary's side and clasped her hand. "You did not have a ... happy life with your father, then?"
Mary gave a disgusted snort. "Hardly," she said in a sarcastic tone that she instantly regretted. She took a deep breath and went on. "My father was not ... completely sane, you see. My mother's death sent him into an emotional decline from which he never recovered. He blamed me for her death."
"You?"
"It was giving birth to me, after all, that killed her. He never forgave me for that. Or for being ugly. He considered her death a waste when all it produced was me. I have often wondered," she said in a wistful tone, "if he would have loved me if I had at least resembled my mother instead of him."
Mary looked back at the marchioness and saw such pain and shock in the woman's eyes that she felt her own control slipping. "I am sorry," she said in a shaky whisper. "I should not..." And suddenly she could no longer speak. No more words would come. Then, without warning, she was overcome by sobs that wracked her entire body. She was vaguely aware that Lady Pemerton's arms came around her and held her tightly. But she could not seem to stop sobbing as a riot of emotions overwhelmed her: sadness, regret, anger, shame.
Mary hated herself for displaying such weakness, most especially in front of her future mother-in-law. She had worked so hard to overcome her particular vulnerabilities, to keep all those old demons at bay, but once her composure had cracked, she found it difficult to rein them back in. And the shame of her outburst only caused her to sob harder. She concentrated on her breathing, taking deep gulps of air between sobs, hoping she could at least regain physical, if not emotional, control of herself.
The marchioness continued to hold her, rocking her gently against her thin breast.
"There, there," she said, as if speaking to a child. "There, there."
Finally, Mary's sobs subsided to quiet tears. She seemed to have no control over the tears, which streamed unchecked down her face. She gently pulled away from the marchioness and dug into her pocket for a handkerchief. She gave a frustrated cry when she found she had none, but the marchioness thrust one in her hand before she could become more agitated. She took it gratefully, dabbed at her eyes, and then blew her nose noisily. She turned toward Lady Pemerton, though she was unable to meet her eye, and attempted to speak. "I am sorry," she said again, and then hiccuped several times. "I should not have said such things to you. I have been so ... so happy these last... few weeks. There is no cause to ... drag up ancient history." She paused, trying to calm her breathing, ashamed of her lack of control.
The marchioness took her hand and held it gently. "Please do not apologize, my dear," she said in a soft, soothing voice. "And you have every right to speak of such things. We are to be your family, now. We want to know all about you—the good things and the bad." She paused, and Mary blew her nose again.
"I would like you to tell me what happened, Mary, if you can. Tell me about your father."
"Oh!" The word was stretched out into a mournful cry. "Please, no. I don't think ... no, no ... it does not matter. None of it matters anymore."
"It does matter, my dear," the marchioness said. "It is a part of you. It is important because you survived it. You rose above it somehow to become the sweet, delightful young woman you are today. Besides, it helps to talk about one's troubles. They become less burdensome when you share them."
Mary took a deep breath and looked hard at Lady Pemerton. Finally, she gave a ragged sigh and fell back against the sofa. She had already disgraced herself thoroughly. The full truth could do little additional harm at this point. It might even do some good, though she could not imagine how. But if the marchioness was willing to share this shameful burden, then it was certainly worth a try. She took another deep breath. "What do you want to know?" she asked.
"Tell me about your father."
"He was George Haviland, the fifth Earl of Assheton," Mary began in a singsong voice. "Both his father and mother, who died when he was a schoolboy, were Havilands, having been first cousins. He fell madly in love with Lady Honoria Beckwith and made her his countess." She paused and shook her head. When she continued, her tone was more even. "Besides being beautiful—I have seen her portraits, so I know it to be true—she had a sizable fortune left to her by her parents—she was an orphan, too, you see, and so I never had grandparents, either. Papa loved her to distraction. When she died ... well, I have told you what happened." She paused and gazed through the huge gallery windows looking out onto the rear courtyard.
"You say he hated you," the marchioness said, "that he told you so."
"Yes."
"Did he ... abuse you?"
"Did he beat me, you mean?" Mary, still gazing out the window, watched as young Lizzy, followed by her nanny and Charlotte, came skipping into view with a black-and-white spaniel at her side. Lizzy threw a ball that the hound chased after energetically while the little girl bounced and clapped her hands. "Yes," Mary said finally. "He beat me with some regularity." She rubbed a finger absently along the length of her nose as she watched Charlotte pick up Lizzy and swing the giggling child through the air.
"Why?"
"Why did he beat me?" She shrugged her shoulders and waved a hand in an indifferent gesture. "Usually, just for looking at him," she said. "He despised my ugliness. He said such an ugly, undersized runt of
a child had no right to live while his beautiful wife lay dead in the ground. It was always the same litany, with minor variations."
"And what did you do?" the marchioness asked.
Mary was surprised by the question and turned to look at Lady Pemerton. "What did I do? Well... when I was very small," she said, turning back toward the window to watch Lizzy tossing the ball back and forth between her nanny and her mama, "I shouted and screamed and kicked back. I soon learned, though, that such behavior only encouraged him. I discovered early on that it was to my advantage to submit quietly. He would soon become bored and leave me alone."
"How long did this go on?"
"Until I was seventeen," Mary said. "Papa had never allowed me out much, but he did take me to church every Sunday. The vicar had a large family, and some of the girls used to be allowed to play with me. Papa always disapproved, but was apparently reluctant to offend a man of the cloth, and so the vicar's daughters became my only friends." Mary paused, distracted by the simple game of ball taking place on the courtyard lawn.
"What happened when you were seventeen?" the marchioness prompted.
"A nephew of the vicar's wife came to visit," Mary said, wondering momentarily at the prudence of discussing this particular episode with her future mother-in-law. She brushed aside that concern—in for a penny, in for a pound—and continued. "Peter Morrison, his name was. He was three and twenty, a mature man of the world to a naive, sheltered girl of seventeen. He flirted with me shamelessly, although I understood nothing of flirtation. I had been told I was ugly for so long that I was overwhelmed by his flattery and attention. You can imagine how my head was turned."
"What happened?"
"I ran away with him." Despite her shame, Mary found it almost impossible to stop the flow of words, now that she had begun. "He had often teased me, saying we should run away together to some exotic place and be lovers. I took his words quite literally and saw an opportunity to escape my father. I confess to pleading with Peter to elope with me. He demurred at first, claiming he could not yet afford a wife. I assured him that I could expect a sizable inheritance as my father's only child. The castle was entailed, but I knew his fortune would come to me. And so Peter agreed."
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