The Impossible Ward

by Dorothy Mack

  “Marianne, if things do not work out the way you expect here with Jack Richmond, if you find that you...”

  These hasty words penetrated her cloud of misery. She drew back slightly and gently freed her hand. Now her face was expressionless and he wondered if he had imagined that tortured look.

  “I expect everything here to be exactly as it always has been.” Her voice was quiet and final. “Good-bye, Justin. Thank you for everything you have done for me.”

  He bowed silently and departed.

  Her final good-bye was whispered to the closed door. For a long moment she stood there staring blankly at the wooden panels, then she squared her shoulders and walked briskly back into the study, even achieving a reasonable facsimile of a smile for the benefit of her delighted grandfather.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was one of those late winter days that presaged an early spring. Standing at the long window in her morning room, the marchioness assured herself that there was actually some warmth in the sun’s rays today, and thank goodness for that. She reflected soberly that this winter had seemed longer and more difficult than usual, at least since Marianne had left Somerset. An endless succession of gray cheerless days had dragged past, giving way occasionally to snow or rain but only rarely to weak sunshine struggling to break through the ever-present cloud layer. Today was different, though. She could smell spring in the air. She left the window a trifle ajar for a moment to enjoy the air, but the fireplace began to issue smoke, so she closed it with a sigh and prepared to take up her embroidery. After setting a few jerky stitches she paused, needle in hand, and eyed the delicate work with distaste. Earlier she had much enjoyed the self-imposed task of working some linens for Sophia that had taken several weeks of her time. In fact, it was the knowledge of Andrew’s and Sophia’s quiet happiness that had made the winter bearable. It was good to see the dear girl lose some of that paralyzing shyness. She would never be a chatterbox or really gregarious, but it was amazing how she had blossomed in the confidence that comes from being loved by the man of one’s choice. There were occasional flashes of quiet wit now that were not reserved for the few people she loved. At the very least she had conquered her dread of social gatherings, though her future mother-in-law suspected at heart Sophia would always prefer rambling in the woods and fields to making conversation in an endless round of society visits. But that would present no real problem because Andrew would soon settle comfortably into the life of a country gentleman. She no longer entertained any doubts about Andrew’s future happiness.

  Which brought her back to her elder son. She. sighed deeply and pushed the inlaid tambour frame a few inches away. It seemed of late that all trains of thought eventually led to Justin. He was restless and unhappy, of this she was dead certain, though he contrived to conceal it well, and smilingly discouraged any tentative attempts to invade his privacy. Obviously Marianne was the cause, but his mother was no nearer to discovering just what had occurred between them at the time of his ward’s return to Yorkshire. To be perfectly accurate she did not even know for a certainty if anything had happened. Justin had been completely reticent, and when in desperation she had asked Andrew if he knew what had occurred between her elder son and his ward, Andrew denied all knowledge of how matters stood between his brother and Marianne, though he had been aware that Justin had certainly had the intention at one time of offering for his ward. And not being privy to all the facts, she did not know what to think. She had been so certain that Marianne loved Justin and that her son reciprocated the feeling. The scene in the conservatory had been a blow to her hopes, but only temporarily. It was in the days following this incident that she had confidently come to expect that a happy announcement was imminent. Which frustrating conclusion brought her right back to her original question. What had happened between her two young people, and what if anything could she do to resolve the problem, especially at such a distance?

  Somehow she could not accept that Marianne did not love Justin, but her letters were so unrevealing. She had had one this morning. Taking it from the pocket of her green-and gold-striped morning dress, she read it for the third time. It remained essentially a description of her grandfather’s physical condition which had finally improved after giving her cause for concern for the better part of a month. She mentioned that his old friend had called several times and recounted a few details about changes on the farm. She closed with polite wishes for the continued good health of Lady Lunswick and her family. Nothing at all in or between the lines to provide food for conjecture—in short, a totally unsatisfactory communication. She flung it away from her pettishly and in so doing dragged her finger across the needle stuck carelessly into the work on the frame. While sucking on the injured finger she gave the offending frame a forceful shove with her other hand.

  “I am sick to death of embroidery!”

  She was unaware that she had uttered the petulant words aloud until they startled her by reverberating in the empty room.

  “Then why do you continue to do it?” The subject of her concern had paused in the doorway and was looking at her expectantly.

  “Oh, Justin, I did not hear you. Pay no heed to me. I am just indulging in a fit of the dismals.”

  “On such a beautiful day?”

  “And what has the weather to say to anything, pray?”

  “Quite a lot sometimes, but let us abandon generalities and descend to particulars. Why are you battling a fit of the dismals?”

  Tired at last of pussyfooting around the issue, Lady Lunswick plunged recklessly, “For the same reason that you have been blue deviled this last month—Marianne!”

  “Marianne?”

  He had moved into the room now. His voice was quite level but the concern on his face had been replaced by a guarded look. “What has Marianne done to cast you into the dismals?”

  “I received a letter from her today.”

  “I ... see.” He turned slightly away from her intense regard to rearrange the papers on the small table. “Then I expect she has announced her engagement.” There was just the hint of a questioning inflection.

  “Her engagement? Of course not! What can you mean, Justin?”

  She thought his jaw seemed a little less rigid as he answered unemotionally, “Well, if it was not a betrothal announcement, what has Marianne written to upset you so?”

  “Nothing!” stated her ladyship flatly. “This letter is just like the other two; it contains little more than a description of her grandfather’s health and a wish for ours. It is totally unlike Marianne.” Her son remained silent, watching his mother’s sudden frown as the meaning of his earlier words achieved a delayed impact.

  “Justin, why were you anticipating a betrothal announcement, and to whom, for heaven’s sake?”

  “His name is Jack Richmond and she has known him half her life.”

  “I am aware, but it is utter nonsense to expect an engagement when Marianne considers him in the light of a brother.”

  “How do you know this?” he shot at her.

  “She told me so. Justin, why did you imagine me...”

  He cut in ruthlessly, “Just like that she told you she thinks of Jack Richmond as a brother?”

  “Why no, it came up in some quite legitimate context once and I...”

  “Tell me in what context. Try to remember exactly what Marianne said.”

  His eyes were no longer guarded but glittering with anger and some emotion harder to identify. His mother experienced a rush of pity for his suffering and in addition, a slight stirring of something else—a tiny seed of hope, perhaps?

  “Marianne had asked me if Andrew’s affections were engaged, and I thought for a second she meant she was in love with Andrew. I had just been questioning her about Melford and Sir Martin, you see, and she was evasive, but when I asked her if she loved Andrew she laughed and denied it. She said Andrew and this Jack Richmond were like brothers to her, but she suspected that Sophia had a tendre for Andrew.” She stopped and star
ed at her son’s angry and baffled face. “Why did you imagine she might be planning to marry this young man?”

  For a pulsating instant she held her breath, fearful that Justin would retreat from any discussion of the situation between Marianne and himself, but at last he looked at her directly and answered simply:

  “When I offered for Marianne she refused me with great finality.” He pushed his hands into his pockets then removed one to run it through his hair. “I do not mean to sound like a conceited lout, but we had become so—intimate, if you will, that I could not accept that she did not return my feelings.” He looked at his mother inquiringly, but she had merely drawn a sudden breath. She shook her head negatively and he continued evenly:

  “She claimed she had always thought our mock courtship just that. You knew about that?” At her nod he went on, “I did not believe her at first, but she insisted she had no idea even after Aurelie left, that I meant anything other than a flirtation. She insisted further that her feelings were strictly platonic. It was when I told her I’d keep trying to win her affection, after Mr. O’Doyle recovered, you understand, that she dragged in Jack Richmond. She told me flatly that she loved him.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “Well, it came as a shock, but it was the only thing that made sense and ... well, yes, I did believe her then.”

  “But not now?”

  “Now I don’t know what to believe.” He ran his hand nervously over his hair again, disarranging it even more, as he stared intently at his mother. “Just what was in that letter?”

  Silently she handed it to him and he read it frowningly, then looked up. “You are quite correct. She says absolutely nothing. Were the others like this?”

  “More or less.” His mother had been thinking deeply during his perusal of the letter. “Justin, do you imagine Marianne may have some nonsensical idea that she must remain unmarried while her grandfather lives?”

  “She did convey that impression when we first met, but I thought she soon realized it was not an insurmountable obstacle. It could not matter less to Mr. O’Doyle where he lives so long as he has his library, and I am perfectly willing to house his old friend when he retires, if that is a concern.”

  “It is the only thing I can think of that might cause her to lie about her feelings, but would it?”

  His mother looked troubled. “If perhaps she feared you would try to overrule her?”

  “Mama, were you funning or serious just now when you declared you were sick of embroidery?”

  The marchioness eyed her son closely, and presently a reflection of his reckless expression glowed in the china-blue eyes.

  “Definitely serious,” was the smiling response.

  “Do you think a short journey to Yorkshire might affect a cure for this malady?”

  “It’s worth a try,” she assured him solemnly, and went upstairs to check her wardrobe, knowing their departure was likely to be even more precipitous, though much less impressive, than that of her sister-in-law.

  Four days later, the marchioness sat staring morosely at the unfamiliar Yorkshire countryside, wondering what sort of madness had come over her that had succeeded in temporarily erasing from her memory myriad unpleasant recollections of past journeys. How, for example, had she come to forget that the swaying of even the most comfortably sprung chaise invariably reduced her to a state bordering on permanent nausea? Unless one could accept that she had been carried along on a wave of determination and optimism generated by a much loved son, the answer to this puzzle was destined to remain obscure. Of a certainty, though her brain had conveniently forgotten this uncomfortable phenomenon, it had not taken above two hours of traveling over indifferent roads at a fast pace to recall it forcibly to the notice of her stomach. For Justin’s sake she had tried to muster enough resolution to endure the situation. But one look at her greenish complexion when at last they had stopped for refreshment at a good posting inn, had been sufficient to appraise him of her general condition, and he had promptly ordered a sharp reduction in the speed at which they traveled from then on.

  If they traveled slowly and stopped frequently, and if she managed to get a good night’s rest, she was able to endure the slightly queasy sensation that was her constant traveling companion. As long as this misery was not all in vain! In addition to having a surfeit of time in which to ponder the basic situation between Justin and Marianne, her uneasy physical condition contributed to a lowness of spirits that would prevail despite her valiant attempts to think positively.

  In this praiseworthy endeavor she was hindered further by the gloomy presence of Norris, her abigail of many years’ standing, a dear, willing creature, but overly fond of predicting disaster. There was not a minor calamity of the past twenty-five years that Norris had not foreseen, which was indeed a remarkable achievement unless one remembered the innumerable predictions of trouble that had not come to pass. Since these unfulfilled predictions of disaster tended to slip from memory over the years, Norris’s reputation as a seer of ill fortune was in no danger of fading.

  She sighed unconsciously and rubbed her temple with two fingers in an attempt to ease the throbbing. Instantly she regretted the gesture; she should have known that nothing she did escaped the sharp eyes of her faithful dresser. How stupid of her to give Norris an opening for another one of her scolds. She closed her eyes, feigning sleep in a belated attempt to forestall the dresser, but Norris was well away on her favorite theme:

  “I told you how it would be, my lady, but you never would listen to me. It was ever thus with you charging off with your head in the clouds and never heeding those who have your best interests at heart. This kind of adventure may have been all right when you were a bride, but at your time of life you ought—”

  “At my time of life I ought to be confined to a rocking chair by the fire. Is that what you mean, Norris?”

  “No, it is not, my lady,” the maid replied stiffly. “I hope I know my place better than to make such suggestions, but to be haring off to outlandish places in the middle of winter when you know—”

  “It’s almost spring,” her ladyship rebutted mildly.

  “Be that as it may,” retorted Norris, determinedly taking the blackest view, “this carriage is cold and drafty, and if you do not end up with a feverish cold or worse, it is more than I dare to hope for.”

  “Well, cheer up, Norris, though I have no symptoms at present, who knows, I may yet succumb to this feverish cold, then you’ll be able to say ‘I told you so’ and I’ll be well served for not heeding your advice.”

  This provocative remark, uttered with careless good humor, mortally offended the dresser and she lapsed into a huffy silence. Lady Lunswick was well aware that Norris would now be on her dignity with her until she apologized, but at least it insured that she would be spared any more lectures for the remainder of the drive. Surely her ordeal could not last much longer. At the last stop Justin had estimated that they would arrive at their destination in approximately two hours. Though he rarely traveled within the carriage she knew he welcomed her company at meals, even though her stupid stomach compelled a regrettably slow pace on a journey that meant everything to him. His own thoughts had been poor company for too long. At the very least she would discover the true nature of her feelings from Marianne’s own lips. There had been enough of misunderstanding and confusion.

  The chaise was slowing down now to turn onto a narrow lane. Lady Lunswick, peering through the glass, saw Justin ride past the vehicle. They must be almost at their destination, thank heavens. She leaned forward trying to catch a glimpse of the farm house, and was astonished, as was her son on his first visit, to discover a charming small villa of perfect proportions.

  Eagerly she accepted Justin’s assistance in descending from the chaise, relieved to have her feet planted more or less firmly on the ground once more, though after hours of swaying, she was equally grateful to have the support of her son’s arm as they climbed the short flight of steps to the
front entrance.

  As footsteps sounded within the house it suddenly occurred to Justin that he had forgotten to warn his mother about Clara. He glanced quickly at her smiling but pale countenance and his lips parted, but it was too late. The door was opened by the stolid Clara who betrayed neither surprise nor pleasure at the unexpected appearance of two peers of the realm. She flicked one impassive glance at Lady Lunswick before addressing herself to the marquess.

  “So it’s you again.”

  He waited for an instant, but the grunted comment evidently constituted the servant’s entire greeting.

  “Good afternoon, Clara, how charming to see you again,” he said suavely, not daring to look at his parent. “My mother and I have come to see Lady Marianne. Is she at home?”

  “Miss be down at t’barn.”

  “I see, and Mr. O’Doyle?”

  “T’master’s asleep in his study.”

  “And of course you have your instructions not to waken him.” Ignoring his mother’s astonished glance, Justin prudently inserted his foot in the door to prevent a complete repetition of the events of his first visit. Already a sense of unreality was beginning to creep over him.

  “If my mother might come in to await Lady Marianne?” he suggested. “The journey has left her somewhat fatigued.”

  After a swift but searching look at the silent marchioness, Clara stepped back readily.

  “Ah’ll fetch ’un some tea.”

  Lady Lunswick smiled tremulously. “Thank you, Clara, that sounds wonderful.”

  To the unqualified amazement of the marquess, the dour servant actually stretched her lips in a grimace intended as a smile and led the way into the cozy parlor he remembered, where she left them abruptly, presumably to get the aforementioned tea. There was a small fire in the fireplace which his mother approached with a thankful cry. After a moment or two of relishing the fire’s warmth on her ungloved fingers, she stepped back slightly and raised understanding eyes to her son’s rigid features.