Marianne & the Marquis

by Anne Herries

  ‘That is good of him…’ Mrs Horne was flustered, relieved that she was being offered a home, though there were only three bedrooms at the Lodge, which would mean that two of the girls must share, and their maid Lily would have to sleep in the kitchen on a truckle bed. ‘It is very kind of him, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes, for he need not have done anything,’ Lady Wainwright said, ‘and would not but for the fact that you are my sister.’ She smiled in a satisfied way as she saw her sister fade back into her chair. ‘But that is not all my news. I must tell you that my physician has decided I need to take the waters in Bath.’ She put a hand to her ample bosom, just now clad in crimson silk. ‘Wainwright insists that I overdid things when we were in London. It was Annette’s coming out, as you know, and now that she is safely married I have time for your daughters, Cynthia.’

  Marianne and Jo exchanged glances across the room, their expressions registering shock and dismay. Neither of them wished to be the centre of Lady Wainwright’s attention, but they knew that it must be one of them, for Lucy was too young to come out yet.

  ‘But we…’ Mrs Horne subsided under her sister’s frightful eye. ‘Of course we should be grateful for the house, but—’

  ‘You did not look for anything more,’ Lady Wainwright finished for her. ‘And why should you? The tenancy of the Lodge is extremely generous of Wainwright—but this is to fall on my shoulders. I have decided that I shall take Marianne to Bath with me. I believe she will have plenty of chances to find a good match there, for she could not normally expect to look higher than a younger son, though as my niece she may gain some credit. I might have taken her to London with Annette, but I thought it a waste of money and time. Annette is an heiress and received several excellent offers, as you know—but Marianne must settle for something less. I hope that she may catch a baronet if she is fortunate, but, if not, a gentleman of some reasonable fortune will do well enough.’ She looked at Marianne expectantly. ‘There, miss, what have you to say to your aunt? Is that not more than you could ever have hoped for?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Marianne answered. She clasped her hands in front of her, because it would not do to speak as she felt. Every sensibility cried out at her aunt’s words, making her embarrassed and angry. Had Lady Wainwright couched her invitation in another way, she might have been grateful for the opportunity, but as it was she could hardly keep from letting her anger show. ‘It was kind of you to think of me…’

  Mrs Horne saw her daughter struggling and understood her resentment. Fortunately, a knock at the door heralded the arrival of Lily with the tea tray, and for a few minutes they were occupied by the pouring and serving of tea, tiny cakes and biscuits, all freshly made by the girl that morning under Mrs Horne’s expert eye.

  ‘That gel is well mannered and she makes a decent cake,’ Lady Wainwright said as she ate three of the almond comfits one after the other and then sipped her tea. ‘If she ever leaves your employ, I should be happy to take her.’

  ‘I am sure she would be gratified to know that,’ Mrs Horne told her, ‘but I simply couldn’t manage without her, Agatha. She has been invaluable and offered to work just for her bed and board when she knew how we are situated. Of course I pay her what I can, but I am afraid it isn’t much.’

  ‘Lily knows you would give her more if you could,’ Jo said. She had watched her aunt’s hand reach for the last of the almond comfits, which were her favourites, and felt cheated, because she hadn’t managed to save one for herself. ‘Besides, she loves being with us. I am sure she would rather live with us than at the Hall.’

  ‘You are very outspoken, Josephine,’ Lady Wainwright said. ‘I wonder that your mother allows you to speak your mind so openly—but I dare say it is all of a piece. Cynthia never was a disciplinarian.’

  Jo opened her mouth, but shut it again at a warning look from her elder sister. She got up and went over to glance out of the window. Seeing the curate walking towards the house, she excused herself to her mother and ran out through the French doors to greet him.

  ‘Well, really,’ Lady Wainwright exclaimed. ‘You must teach that girl better manners, Cynthia. Otherwise she will never marry.’

  ‘I am not sure that Jo wishes to marry,’ her mother said with a fond look at her second daughter as she stood talking to the curate. ‘She is rather a bluestocking, I am afraid, though where that came from I do not know. I suppose her father, for it is not from me. I was never much given to study.’

  ‘You were always something of a featherbrain in your youth,’ Lady Wainwright said. Marianne made a movement of protest for it was not the truth, but her mother’s expression prevented her from speaking out. ‘However, we shall not draw comparisons. Marianne is decidedly the beauty of the family, and she does get that from you, for you were a beauty in your day, Cynthia.’

  ‘How kind of you to say so,’ Cynthia said and smiled faintly. ‘I believe I was admired once upon a time.’

  ‘You are still very handsome,’ Marianne said, rushing to her defence. ‘No one could think otherwise.’

  ‘Yes, I agree,’ Lady Wainwright said, surprising them. ‘I think you might make another match if you set your mind to it, Cynthia, which would be much the best for you if it could be achieved—that is why Marianne must make a good marriage. She will then be able to introduce her sisters into her circle and perhaps you, too, may meet someone suitable.’

  ‘Oh, no, I do not think—’ Once again Mrs Horne was saved by the arrival of her maid, this time bearing a letter. ‘Yes, Lily, is that for me?’

  ‘Yes, it is, ma’am,’ Lily said and beamed at her. ‘It has come all the way from Cornwall and the post rider says that he is to return for your reply in the morning—unless you wish to give it now?’

  ‘That sounds urgent,’ Cynthia said and took the letter. She broke the seal in an agitated manner, because she knew it must be from Lady Edgeworthy, her Aunt Bertha. She scanned the lines swiftly and then closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Oh, dear, it seems that my Aunt Bertha has been ill, Marianne, and she begs that you go to her at once, for she needs a companion.’

  ‘Marianne is to come to Bath with me,’ Lady Wainwright cried. ‘You must write and tell Lady Edgeworthy that it is impossible—or send one of the other girls.’

  Cynthia sat up straight in her chair, because she was caught on the horns of a dilemma, but for once she was not prepared to give in to her sister. ‘I am sorry, Agatha,’ she said. ‘Marianne is Bertha’s godchild and I think, in this instance, I must deny your request. Bertha is elderly and possibly frail. I know that she loves Marianne dearly, and I think she must take precedence this time.’

  Lady Wainwright gave her an awful look. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she would withdraw her favours from the family, but she knew that it was not in her power to deny them the Lodge. Wainwright had been most insistent that he wanted to give them a home of their own, and had even inclined towards letting them stay at the Vicarage. His wife had persuaded him that it would look odd if he did, so he had substituted the Lodge, though he had told his wife that he might look out for a larger establishment for them in time.

  ‘Well, I suppose if she has been ill…’ Lady Wainwright rose to her feet. ‘I shall have to think about this again, Cynthia. I am not sure whether or not Josephine is ready to go out into society, but I will let you know my decision in a few days.’

  Marianne smiled and went to kiss her aunt’s cheek. ‘It was very kind of you to think of me, Aunt,’ she said. ‘But I am sure my great-aunt needs me or she would not have sent all this way and paid for a reply.’

  ‘No, perhaps not.’ Lady Wainwright nodded. ‘You are a good girl to give up pleasure for yourself in favour of Lady Edgeworthy. I shall consider whether I think Josephine is ready to accompany me to Bath, but I must confess I should have been happier with you.’

  Marianne made no answer, but went to the door to see her aunt off. She returned to find the parlour in turmoil. Jo had returned to the room and was venting
her frustration at not being able to tell Lady Wainwright what she thought of her invitation, and Mrs Horne was trying to soothe her.

  ‘You never know, she may decide that you are not good mannered enough to accompany her,’ Marianne said with a sparkle in her eyes. She dodged the cushion Jo threw at her. ‘Well, you do not exactly put on your best manner when she is near, Jo—do you?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ her sister said, her cheeks pink. ‘But she is so—so smug!’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ Marianne agreed. ‘And some of the things she says to Mama make me want to strike her, but we must be careful. Politeness keeps us from saying too much—and her husband has done a great deal to help us these past months.’

  ‘Indeed he has,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘I do not know how we should have managed without him. Besides, you will meet others like your aunt in company, Jo. You have to learn to bite your tongue, my dear. It will not do to be churlish or ill mannered, for you would soon find yourself unwelcome.’

  ‘I know,’ Jo said and looked slightly ashamed. ‘But she does try my patience so. If she asks me to accompany her to Bath, I need not go—please say I may refuse her, Mama.’

  ‘I cannot compel you to go,’ Mrs Horne said and looked distressed. ‘But it will make things so difficult, Jo, my dear. You know your aunt as well as I—and, besides, it might be a good thing for you. She is sure to buy you some new clothes, and you may meet someone nice.’

  ‘I am not sure that I wish to marry,’ Jo reminded her. ‘It is a pity that I am not Aunt Bertha’s godchild—I would willingly exchange places with Marianne.’

  ‘You might enjoy yourself in Bath,’ Marianne reasoned. ‘You are always saying that there are never enough books in the library in Mallham, Jo. I dare say there will be many more in Bath, for it is a fashionable spa.’

  Mallham was the small neighbouring village, and their nearest town was Huntingdon, a drive of some fifteen miles. While the Reverend Horne had lived, they had managed to visit the town every few weeks to purchase or borrow books, but now, without the carriage that they could no longer afford, it was impossible.

  ‘Yes, I suppose there is that,’ Jo agreed, looking thoughtful. ‘And there may be some literary circles I might join for the time we are there.’

  ‘There is also the matter of Lucy’s future,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘I know she is young yet, but she will wish to marry one day, and I shall never be in a position to give her a Season in town. Your godmother may do something for you, Marianne, and Jo may find a husband in Bath…if she wishes—but what of Lucy?’

  The sisters turned to look at Lucy. She was sitting by the window, looking out, her head full of dreams, hardly aware of the discussion going on behind her, but she turned to look at them and smiled.

  ‘Did someone speak my name? I was dreaming again…of a knight on a white horse who came and rescued me from the castle of the wicked witch. He took me to his home in a land where the sun always shines, and then I sent for all of you to come and live with me. And we were all happy ever after.’

  ‘Oh, Lucy,’ Mrs Horne said and shook her head, smiling because, though she tried very hard not to favour her, Lucy was her baby and her darling. ‘You read too many fairy stories, my love. I fear that you will be disappointed one day when you discover that the knights you dream of are only fables.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ Lucy replied, uncurling from her seat in the window and coming towards them. She was perhaps potentially prettier than either of her sisters with hair that floated like white gold about her face and made her look like one of the princesses she dreamed of, her eyes a deep-sea blue that seemed as mysterious as the ocean. ‘I just like to dream because everything is so awful. I did hear what my aunt said, but neither Marianne or Jo want to go with her. Do they have to, Mama?’

  ‘I am not certain that I shall refuse after all,’ Jo said and put an affectionate arm about Lucy’s waist. ‘It will be an experience, and an author must experience life to write about it…’ She waited expectantly for their questions.

  ‘Jo?’ her mother asked anxiously. ‘Just what are you up to?’

  ‘I have decided to write a book,’ Jo said and laughed as her mother looked shocked. ‘It is not so very wicked, Mama. Other ladies do it and I think I should like to try, though of course I cannot afford to have it published, and I do not imagine a publisher would pay me. However, for my own pleasure and that of my sisters, I shall write my story.’

  ‘How exciting,’ Lucy said. ‘Will it have knights and princesses in towers, Jo?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘It will be a love story, Lucy, though it may not end as your fairy stories do with everyone living happily ever after.’

  ‘I shall look forward to hearing you read little bits of it,’ Marianne said, ‘though we may have to wait for a while, because I think I should go down to Aunt Bertha almost immediately, do you not, Mama?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ her mother said and clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Do you suppose that poor boy is still waiting for my answer?’

  ‘I asked him to return in the morning when I went to the door with my aunt, Mama. I knew you would wish to consider your reply. He will be here at seven of the clock tomorrow so that your letter may catch the mail coach at half-past seven.’

  ‘How thoughtful you are, dearest,’ her mother said, giving her a look of approval. ‘I hope that you did not mind giving up the visit to Bath in favour of your godmother?’

  ‘You must know that I did not,’ Marianne said. ‘It is always a pleasure to see Aunt Bertha, and I could not do otherwise when she wrote and asked for me especially. I expect she feels lonely, though I know she has a companion.’

  ‘I thought you would feel as you ought,’ her mother said with a smile. ‘We must go through your clothes, Marianne. Fortunately, you had a new evening dress last year, which you have hardly worn, but we must see if we can manage something further—I would not have you go there in rags.’

  ‘I am not yet reduced to that,’ Marianne said and laughed. ‘Indeed, several of my gowns will be perfectly suitable with a little refurbishment.’

  ‘You must have at least one new gown,’ her mother said with a fond smile. ‘I had been saving my shillings for your birthdays, but I think Marianne’s gown should come first—do you all agree?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Jo said. ‘Aunt Wainwright will not have me shame her so she is bound to have some dresses made for me. You don’t mind, do you, Lucy?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Lucy said, though her birthday was in a few weeks’ time. ‘Marianne must have some new clothes.’

  ‘We shall go into Huntingdon and buy them,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘There is no time to waste, Marianne. We shall take the mail coach in the morning—all of us. It will be a treat and we surely deserve it after these past few months.’

  The girls looked at each other in delight. Jo thought of the books she might subscribe from the library, Lucy thought of the adventure it would be to ride in the mail coach, and Marianne was wondering how much ribbon and trifles she could buy with five shillings, which was all the money she possessed in the world.

  However, Mama had been hoarding her shillings for some time and she actually had ten pounds in her purse when they descended from the coach the following day.

  There was but one shop in the small town that sold gowns already made up, and they set off immediately, because Jo wanted to help her sister choose her new clothes before visiting the library.

  In the event, Mrs Herrington had three gowns in stock that would fit Marianne: a pale blue silk with a high waist and little puff sleeves that would do for an evening party, a dark blue walking gown and a yellow afternoon dress. All three looked well on Marianne, needing only a few tucks here and there, which she could easily do herself. After some deliberation she decided that she would need the evening gown the most, but the seamstress saw their difficulty and told Mrs Horne that she could make a good price for all three.

  ‘Oh, no, Mama, that would be much too e
xpensive. I can easily refurbish some of my others with new ribbons and some silk flowers,’ Marianne protested.

  ‘How much for the three?’ Mrs Horne asked bravely. She kept her smile in place when she was told that the evening gown was five guineas, but twelve would buy all three gowns.

  ‘Oh, dear, I am afraid that is beyond me,’ Mrs Horne said and frowned. ‘It is very reasonable, madam, but too much for me. We shall take the evening gown, but must say no to the others.’

  The seamstress looked disappointed. ‘They were made for a customer who did not pay her bills,’ the seamstress replied. ‘I am letting them go at cost to recover some of my money.’

  ‘I wish we might take all three,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘But it cannot be done. If you would be kind enough to have it delivered to the posting inn, madam. We have some more shopping to do.’ She smiled at Marianne. ‘You will need slippers, too, my love—and a bonnet if we can manage it.’

  ‘It is a beautiful dress, Mama,’ Marianne said as they left the shop afterwards. ‘But expensive.’

  ‘I should have liked to purchase all three,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘But we shall buy some material from the market and you and Jo can make at least one afternoon dress before you leave if you each do some of the sewing.’

  ‘I’ll help, too,’ Lucy said and then laughed, for she was not yet as clever a seamstress as her sisters, being inclined to fall into a dream over her work.

  ‘Yes, you can help, dearest,’ Marianne said and smiled at her. ‘Besides, I have several dresses that can be refurbished with new sashes and some fresh lace.’

  ‘I have some lace put by,’ her mama said. ‘Yes, I dare say it will be enough, Marianne—and who knows, your aunt might give you something.’

  ‘You do not mean Aunt Wainwright?’ Marianne frowned. ‘I had rather not, Mama.’