by Dorothy Mack
“Nowhere ... that is, I ... forgot my handkerchief and am going up to my room to get one. Did you wish to speak to me?” She was still half turned from her hostess while she sought to compose her features.
“Not really, my dear, but Coleman has just brought me the mail and there is a letter for you from Yorkshire. I thought you might like to have it now. I was on my way to the kitchens to confer with Christophe when I saw you, so I took it from the bag and followed you.” The marchioness smiled and held out a white envelope.
“Of course, Ma’am, I thank you.” Mechanically Marianne descended the stairs and accepted the envelope. She managed a creditable smile. “Do not allow Christophe to bully you,” she said to break the tiny silence that ensued.
“No fear of that today,” Lady Lunswick replied gaily as she turned in the direction of the kitchens. “I can take on an army these days.”
Her nonsense brought a real smile to Marianne’s pale face. “Let us hope then that Christophe is not feeling just so full of bravado as you today.” She headed back up the stairs at a more sedate pace this time, noting but not really absorbing the fact that the envelope she held was directed in the rector’s spidery hand.
Once in the shelter of her bedchamber she leaned wearily against the closed door for a moment, still clutching the letter but making no attempt to read it. Instead she was gazing blankly into her future which had instantly been blighted by some half-joking words from her trustee. What a fool she had been, what a stupid fool to allow herself to hope that Justin had begun to love her as she loved him. For the first time she admitted her folly to herself. Despite the wise counsel of her brain which had recognized danger at the initial moment of meeting, she had allowed Justin’s charm of manner and that irresistible smile of his to disarm her defenses. Not quite immediately perhaps, but steadily, insidiously, his charm had eroded the sandstone of her pretense of indifference and left her now as bereft as she had felt in that instant in the barn when his quick glance had dismissed her as an object of interest. Why, when she had heard warning bells right from the beginning, had she chained up her intelligence, and thus encumbered, proceeded to jump into the sea? Well, she admitted wearily, she had now sunk without trace and all the blame was her own. She had ignored the blatant signs that Justin was a man incapable of loving a woman in the only way she would accept: by a mutual and total surrender of oneself to the loved one. It mattered little really whether his incapacity could be laid at Lady Mauraugh’s door or not, the end result was the same.
She began a slow pacing of the large room, as aimless as her wandering thoughts. Justin had assured her that she would not be wooed for her fortune and she readily acquitted him of having any designs in that direction. She could even accept that there was something in his nature that sought to win the approval of every attractive female who crossed his path, and therefore acquit him of any deliberate intent to wound those whom he succeeded in captivating by the inevitable withdrawal of his interest when a new face caught his eye. Whatever capacity he might have had for forming a lasting attachment had withered and died in the last five years. She knew he liked her quite well and enjoyed her company. He would undoubtedly be a charming lover. For many women, perhaps the majority of those who had lived through the romantic stage of the very young, this mild regard might be sufficient. But she knew by the depth of her disappointment at hearing his casual half declared intention to wed her to save himself future inconvenience that it was totally unacceptable to one of her passionate nature. Before meeting Justin she had calmly dismissed marriage as improbable in her circumstances. She had not really understood then that her “circumstances” could be more accurately described as a mental and emotional attitude than physical or financial restrictions. But now that she did know what she demanded, she must strive for acceptance of defeat and stop yearning for the unattainable. There was no question of compromise; not for her a half a loaf. Her lips twisted wryly as she acknowledged to herself that she was quite capable of destroying a pleasant marriage of convenience in her disappointment at not having achieved a true marriage.
So, having faced this unpalatable truth, it remained only to remove herself from Justin’s orbit, for she had no taste for daily martyrdom. Her place was in Yorkshire with her grandfather. Her hands which had been twisting something absently as she paced the floor, stilled at the thought of home, and her glance fell on a thoroughly mauled envelope. Heavens, the rector’s letter would be all but undecipherable after such treatment! With slow deliberate movements she opened the crushed letter and smoothed out the single sheet covered with crossed writing. She read it with the concentration of a lawyer perusing a contract, keeping her unhappy thoughts at bay for the duration. By the time she had completed a second careful reading she had resolved on a course of action. Her angry insistence on wringing from Justin that promise to allow her to go home in return for her cooperation in the mock courtship was proving to be a farsighted policy. All that was required from her was enough resolution to play her part without giving herself away. At this point no one need know that nothing less than Justin’s permanent exile would induce her to set foot in Lunswick Hall again. At the thought of never seeing Lady Lunswick again her step faltered in her pacing and the hot tears stung behind her eyelids. Angrily she dashed them away with the back of her hand and glanced at the mantel clock. This was no time to indulge in a bout of weeping; luncheon would be served almost immediately. There would be ample time for the shedding of tears in the years ahead, she concluded somberly—all the rest of her life. She repressed the shudder that rippled through her frame at the idea and, walking to the pier-glass, adjusted her sash with trembling fingers. She pinched her cheeks violently to restore some color to her ashen countenance and resolutely headed for the stage on which it was essential that she give her finest performance.
The beautifully sprung traveling chaise that the marquess’ father had had specially built for his wife some few years before his death was swaying crazily as they struck a particularly bad stretch of road. Marianne bent forward to peer through the window at the familiar Yorkshire scenery glittering in the weak sunshine under a thin coating of ice from last night’s storm. Even at the snail’s pace demanded by the condition of the road they should be arriving at the farm in full daylight and then it would be over, her bittersweet sojourn amongst the nobility. After today she would revert to her former position of farm manager and sometime companion to two elderly scholars. Unconsciously she sighed aloud, but so deeply immersed was she in her sad reverie that she failed to see the quick sympathetic glance cast her way by Agnes, one of the younger maids at the Hall, who had been detailed to be her traveling companion. Agnes, who had never been farther from her village than Bath, and that rarely, was all eagerness to endure a cold, uncomfortable journey in the dead of winter for the privilege of extending her provincial horizons. From her artless conversation Marianne received the indirect but distinct impression that the young country girl intended to make capital of this excursion to raise her status in the servant’s hall. In any event she welcomed her undemanding presence and intermittent chatter as an occasional respite from her own unsatisfactory musings, and a buffer between herself and Justin who had insisted on providing her with his personal escort back to her grandfather despite her heartfelt protests that she would do perfectly well with one of the grooms for protection.
As he had on the journey to Somerset, he avoided traveling inside the chaise unless forced to by the inclemency of the weather. At this point Marianne scarcely knew whether to be relieved or desolated that the dry, cold weather had remained with them until last night, thus reducing their actual contacts to shared meal times where they rivaled each other in tacit dedication to impersonalities and mutual avoidance of any real conversation. In the circumstances she knew she should feel nothing save relief at being spared the constant necessity to keep up the pretense of purely platonic friendship that she had adopted before her departure from Somerset as her principal defense against
his importunities that she marry him when Mr. O’Doyle recovered from the persistent bronchitis reported by the rector in his timely letter. Her grandfather’s condition had provided a natural and legitimate excuse to request an unscheduled return to the farm, although subsequently she had been made to feel thoroughly fraudulent by the sincere sympathy expressed by Lady Lunswick and Lord Andrew when she had brought the letter to the lunch table. She had been too unsure of her acting ability to risk looking at Justin, so she missed his initial reaction to her request.
She had not been able to avoid a private audience with him in his study after the uncomfortable luncheon, although she yearned to be able to escape the inevitable confrontation, and acknowledging this, knew herself for a coward. At the table he had promised to make arrangements for her immediate removal to Yorkshire, and he had opened their final conversation by repeating this assurance before coming directly to the point she had dreaded. And the interview had been every bit as painful as she had feared. Heaven knew it had been difficult enough to refuse an offer of marriage from the man she loved for good and sufficient reason. To be prevented by stiff-necked pride from being able to state those reasons, and further, to know herself patently disbelieved in the explanation she did give, had made the situation infinitely worse. Her well-feigned surprise, that he should have expected her to know intuitively that what had certainly been described to her as a mock courtship had actually been meant as a real one, was met by a searching stare that had reduced her nerves almost to screaming pitch. However, she had clung desperately to this pose of astonished dismay at being taken seriously, and had evaded his demands that she admit at least to a knowledge of his intentions after Lady Mauraugh’s departure with nervous murmurs about his propensity for light flirtations. She must have been convincing at last because Justin had looked so sincerely disappointed that, even knowing what she did about him, she had almost faltered in her resolution. Only the unhappy knowledge that such a marriage as his nature was capable of could never satisfy her had enabled her to continue in her refusal in the face of his declaration that so long as her affections remained unengaged he intended to persist in his attempts to change her friendly feelings to something warmer.
This determination, expressed with such convincing charm and earnestness, had straight away panicked her into betraying a lifetime of integrity. Hands behind her back where their trembling could not indict her as a liar, she had looked him straight in the eye and confessed to undying affection for another man.
In the swaying chaise she closed her eyes against the picture of Justin’s bleak expression when she had uttered that bald lie, but memory had seared it into her brain. If only she might have believed it and him! She shook her head, determined not to allow her thoughts to wander unprofitably in the land of “might have been.” But she could not repress the compulsive reliving of that scene in his study, and she knew with dismal certainty that it would haunt her dreams for years to come.
In the unlikely event that the one lie had not been sufficient to endanger her soul for all time, she had speedily added another one. He had demanded the identity of her lover and, knowing he would not believe her if she named either her cousin or Sir Martin Archer, she had unhesitatingly mentioned the only other man of her acquaintance, her old friend, Jack Richmond. This last had proved effective in terminating the most painful incident of her life. After one burning look he had accepted her statement with a formal bow, and a promise that he should no longer weary her with unwanted importunities. Thereafter he had treated her with a distant courtesy that had the surprising result of arousing a perverse feminine resentment in her breast. Recognizing this last, she sighed again and wondered despondently if she were in danger of losing her reason. She must be grateful to be spared any further emotional scenes. She was, of course, but the sooner she said her final farewells to Justin, the better for her peace of mind and her sanity.
Glancing outside once more, she was astonished to note that the chaise was almost through the village and just beginning the last ascent before turning off onto the lane leading to the farm.
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” she said to warn Agnes, who began gathering up the yards of tatting that seemed to be an extension of her person, at least Marianne had not seen her without it during the entire journey. For her part, she closed her book with finality and firmly put it away from her, knowing that if asked she would be unable to recall the title, but it had served its purpose in shielding her from unwanted conversation en route. She retied the ribbons of her smart burgundy velvet bonnet and smoothed on her matching kid gloves, aware in an uncaring fashion that in appearance at least she was much improved from the girl who had reluctantly left the farm less than three short months before. What an age it seemed since she had last entered the familiar lane; she felt years older than that awkward but contented girl. It seemed she had improved in appearance, widened her experience, greatly increased her acquaintance—in short, surged ahead in everything save contentment. But she would relearn the secret of contentment once she was back in a familiar routine, she thought in sudden panic. She must regain her former attitude if she were to find any value in a life that did not include Justin.
He passed the carriage as it entered the lane, and was already dismounted as the coachman came to a halt in front of the house. How small it now looked, but how dear! Her eyes misted over with tears she was determined not to shed as she waited impatiently for the steps to be put down. Clara and her grandfather had appeared in the door, the latter looking frailer than ever, swathed as he was in a mammoth knitted shawl. Absently she accepted Justin’s assistance in descending, then ran to enfold her grandfather in strong young arms. From the moment she had glimpsed his beloved face, her own misery had been forgotten. He should not be standing outside in the cold. Quickly, she bullied him into the warm house, calling a smiling greeting to the dour Clara over her shoulder and in between loving admonitions to her grandfather.
“You know you ought not to leave your bed, let alone venture outside when you have that dreadful bronchitis,” she scolded distractedly, leading him to his study where she gently pushed him into his voluminous chair.
“He won’t listen to me,” Clara declared, handing her another shawl to place tenderly over the old man’s legs.
“I know, Clara, but he’ll mind me or I’ll know the reason why.” Marianne soothed the servant and threatened her grandparent in the same speech, all the while pointedly ignoring the satisfied twinkle in the bright blue eyes.
It was a scene of confusion for a further few minutes before Justin and Agnes had been led into the warm room and assisted to remove their wraps. Agnes followed Clara to the kitchen to help her prepare tea. At the appearance of the tea tray Marianne noted her grandfather’s wink at Justin as he indicated a bottle on the side table. Soon the gentlemen were savoring Mr. O’Doyle’s finest Madeira while Marianne poured the hot liquid into a delicate cup. Now that the flurry of greeting was over, an awkward silence descended on the small party which Justin ended presently.
“I am sorry to find you in such queer stirrups, Mr. O’Doyle, but trust that Lady Marianne’s nursing will soon have you feeling more the thing.”
Like Marianne he had seen the look of exhaustion spread over the old man’s features following a nasty bout of coughing, and he glanced uneasily at the anxious girl. When he had succeeded in regaining his breath, however, Mr. O’Doyle cheerfully dismissed his condition in a raspy voice.
“It sounds a lot worse than it is, my boy, happens every winter, but it hasn’t done for me yet. You will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner, of course.” He eyed the marquess in a friendly fashion while sipping his wine with enjoyment. “I would like an opportunity to thank you for what you and your mother have done for Marianne. Her letters were a joy to read and she is lovelier than ever.”
Marianne’s color rose as the eyes of the two men surveyed her, one lovingly and the other with an inscrutable countenance. Her own gaze dropped
, and she interpolated hastily, “Justin, may I pour you some more Madeira?”
“No, I thank you, Marianne.” He smiled at the old gentleman. “I quite agree with you, sir, that Lady Marianne is exceedingly lovely. It was our very great pleasure to have her company at Lunswick Hall. My mother desires me to add her entreaties to my own that she honor us with her presence again in the very near future, and she is looking forward to making your acquaintance whenever you should feel well enough to travel.” He rose from his chair. “And now, sir, I must beg your forgiveness for declining your kind invitation to dinner. There are some rather urgent business affairs awaiting me in Somerset and I wish to take advantage of the daylight remaining to make a start at least today. I have arranged for the maid to travel back in my chaise tomorrow, so I thank you for your hospitality tonight on her account and must regretfully decline on my own.”
Marianne had become very still during this formal speech. The tea cup she had been raising to her lips tilted dangerously and she lowered it to the table with extreme care, her eyes on her shaking fingers. There was a buzzing sound in her ears and she missed most of what her grandfather replied. When at last she raised her glance Justin was struggling into his greatcoat. It was an effort to get to her feet, but from somewhere in the far distance her grandfather’s voice was urging her to escort Justin to the door. Mechanically her legs obeyed, but her brain could contain only the one thought and its concomitant agony—this was the end. After this moment she would never see Justin again.
At the door he raised her icy hand to his lips. “Good-bye, Marianne, I wish you every happiness in the future. I ... you know, it is customary to look at the person to whom you are saying farewell.”
At this she did look up and the stricken expression in her eyes stopped his heart for an instant. He had seen that look once before, when her grandfather had insisted that she accompany him to Somerset. His hand tightened on hers, a sense of urgency drove him to plunge into further speech: