‘I’m not.’ Elsie laughed. ‘But it’s the only animal we own fat enough to transport the both of us to Surrey. Unless you take Bessie the pig, and she’s far too strong-willed to carry you.’
Mr. Harcourt’s answering laughter was real and genuine. Marcus smiled, too anxious still to join in, thanking God that Elsie’s parents had almost, maybe, accepted him into the fold.
They had accepted him, hadn’t they? He wasn’t dead. But then, there was still time. Oh, but the relief was already there, strong and swift, coming at the mere idea of their acceptance of him into the Harcourt family.
No. That couldn’t be what he was so relieved about—it would make no sense. Elsie’s parents needed to accept the ruse, not him—needed to believe that Elsie was married. Who exactly she was married to didn’t matter.
Even though it felt like it mattered. To Marcus, a swell of sentiment rising in his chest, it mattered very much.
‘At least the child will be able to own its name. Only the nobs don’t care about being born the wrong side of the blanket.’ Mr. Harcourt shook his head in deep disgust. ‘A more degenerate class of wastrels, I never—’
‘Father.’ Elsie put her hand on his arm. ‘We depend on the degenerate class for our bread.’ Her eyes darted to Marcus, silently reassuring him. ‘And we can all agree that there is no time for such discussions at this precise moment.’
‘Yes, dear. There is no time for anything at this precise moment.’ Mrs. Harcourt looked at her daughter knowingly. ‘Almost as if you designed it this way.’
‘I do not know what you could possibly mean, Mother.’ Elsie shrugged, the picture of innocence. ‘But if there is work to be done, we can set to it.’
‘Mr. Penn will go with your father.’ Mrs. Harcourt’s warning look to her husband seemed to preclude any possibility of violence. ‘You, my lady, can be of no use at all.’
‘Why that’s—that’s not true at all!’ Elsie’s eyes widened. ‘I can clean, and cook, and—’
‘And nothing. My grandchild will not be tossed about like a ship at sea.’ Mrs. Harcourt hooked Elsie’s arm through hers with a decisive nod, making her way to the door with Elsie in tow. ‘We’ll set you up in one of the staff beds. They won’t need it until tomorrow night, at any rate—too much to do.’
‘Mother, I—’
‘And nothing.’ Mrs. Harcourt smiled at Marcus. ‘We will see one another after the ball, Mr. Penn. Then everything can be talked of properly.’
Marcus bowed as she began bustling down the corridor, dragging a clearly unwilling Elsie with her. He caught sight of Elsie’s smile—of the glint in her eyes that said, we did it—before they vanished out of sight.
Now he was left alone with Mr. Harcourt. The man suddenly looked much larger than he had when he had been flanked by his wife and daughter.
‘Garden-work.’ Mr. Harcourt’s face was very grim indeed. ‘The maids never get the roses right on the table. We will go to the gardens, find the best roses and put them in the ice-house. Then tomorrow night, we’ll add them to the vases just before the guests arrive. They’ll be fresh, that way.’
Marcus nodded. Now was not the time to tell Mr. Harcourt that Augustus Penn, humble bookseller, would have mysteriously disappeared by the time tomorrow came.
‘So. A bookseller, eh?’ Mr. Harcourt looked steadily at Marcus. ‘Not a lucrative business.’
‘No. But I love the trade.’ Marcus paused. ‘I… I do not think Elsie would have chosen me if I didn’t love books as much as she did.’
‘And will you have a shop, in time?’
‘Yes. God willing. If I work hard enough.’
‘Good.’ Mr. Harcourt nodded, as if lost in thought. ‘A wonderful thing, a place full of books. Gives hope.’
Marcus nodded, desperate for the man to accept him. Not just to make the trick work—it was more important than that, somehow. ‘Quite.’
‘You don’t speak like you come from nothing.’
‘My parents gave me the gift of reading and writing, the same as you gave Elsie.’ Marcus swallowed. ‘And a priest paid for my education.’
‘You were meant to go into the Church?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you chose books?’
He had made a mistake, somewhere. ‘… Yes.’
Mr. Harcourt’s face broke into a reluctant smile. ‘That I can agree with, at least.’
Marcus repressed a sigh of relief. Mr. Harcourt began to walk down the servant’s corridor, with Marcus obediently following.
‘There is still much to discuss. I am not happy by any means—this must be properly spoken of, and properly remedied. Perhaps the vicar at Attlebury would bless you and Elsie in our presence, at least.’ Mr. Harcourt sighed as he walked. ‘But I must say, Mr. Penn—I’m glad our Elsie has found a man who loves books.’
‘I love your daughter more than any book.’ Marcus didn’t know why it needed saying, but it did. ‘Believe me.’
‘I do.’ Mr. Harcourt’s voice softened. ‘And I’m glad of it.’
The warm, highly-polished confines of the servants’ corridor still had a brightness to it at twilight. A cheerfulness that Elsie couldn’t remember ever feeling at the Cappadene Club, despite the luxury on display in every square inch of the pleasure-house. How had she ever thought she would be comfortable in those environs, able to be light and playful in the midst of such impossible wealth?
Marcus was wealthy. He had to be, given the ease with which he spoke of money. But he didn’t have the cold, powerful air to him that other clients of the Club did—there was an innocence to him. An innocence that Elsie couldn’t help but think she shared, somewhere underneath the brutal circumstances of the previous months.
How dull today had been! Unable to see Marcus, given his work with the other men; she had been confined to the room where the women slept, staring at the wall with no books to sustain her. Now, in the brief space of time between the end of work and the beginning of the staff meal, she had to find something to do in the meantime.
The cobwebs at the top of the door had begun to look interesting. Elsie, thanking the Lord that she hadn’t had to clean anything since Marcus had begun visiting her, stood on tiptoe as she ran a pilfered dishcloth along the top of the door.
Goodness, she had become bad at this. Very bad indeed. With a sigh, wiping a stray tendril of hair from her face, Elsie eyed the dishcloth and frowned.
‘Elsie!’ Her mother’s aggrieved tone made her jump. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘Mother, you must stop fussing.’ Elsie laughed, swatting away her mother’s fussing hands with a dishcloth as the elderly woman approached. ‘I am perfectly capable of a little work tonight. There will certainly be no time tomorrow, with the ball in full swing.’
‘The Hildebrandes have enough hired staff to make sure that you do not need to lift a finger. I highly doubt that you can match their skill, as well—I would hate to lose my place over my daughter being unable to polish a fork properly. Or the top of a door, for that matter.’ Elsie’s mother sighed contentedly as she looked at her daughter. ‘Can you not rest?’
‘I have rested all day.’
‘Can you not rest a little longer?’
‘I do wish I had a book.’
‘As do I, my dear. The new girls in the kitchen prefer to sing and talk of Halloween charms.’ Her mother rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue. ‘Feather-brained, and foolish. There will be time for books after the ball.’
‘Will there?’
‘Of course, dear. You will be going back to London, will you not?’ Her mother smiled. ‘Your fine husband will have a forest felled, so you shall have books to read. Or at least a spare pamphlet or two, from the stacks he cannot sell.’
Elsie blinked. For a moment, she had truly forgotten the fictitious life that she and Marcus had created together in London. A life full of books, and kindness, and facing the world together… oh, what a glorious dream. An impossible story.
‘You
look so happy when you think of your life in the city.’ Her mother reached out, cupping Elsie’s face with her weathered hands. ‘It is so good to see such happiness in you. I remember how wistful you were in Attlebury. How you used to burrow into the corner with whatever books we had managed to find, reading and reading.’
‘Reading is the best thing you and Father ever taught me.’
‘Aye. It could be.’ Her mother looked over Elsie’s shoulder, her smile widening. ‘Perhaps we taught you more. How to find a man that will treat you well, for one thing.’
Elsie turned. Marcus stood silhouetted at the end of the corridor, shaking her father’s hand with a smile.
‘I’ll leave you to your husband.’ Elsie’s mother took away her hand. ‘For the first time in a good long while, my dear, I can feel content leaving you. I know that someone is taking care.’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Elsie nodded, the falseness of it sticking in her throat. Her mother could never know—not ever. ‘You can rest easy.’
With a happy sigh, her mother walked down the corridor. Elsie watched her happily converse with Marcus for a moment, the three of them smiling together, before her mother and father vanished into the kitchens.
Marcus approached. Elsie took a deep breath, realising that they were alone.
How magnificent he was, in twilight! His face so strong, so pure—a simplicity that carried so much power lay in his eyes.
‘So.’ Marcus smiled. ‘How has my wife fared today?’
He said it so lightly; Elsie shivered at the sound of it. It was so perilously close to the things she had barely dared to dream, alone by herself in her cramped lodgings.
‘W-well.’ She forced herself to speak steadily, smiling as he approached. Oh, how strange it was to be permitted to stand near him—to be casual with him, as a married woman could be with her husband. ‘It is so wonderful to see Mother and Father.’
‘It was wonderful to meet them.’ Marcus idly leaned against the wall, mere inches from Elsie. ‘Your mother gave you your gentleness, and your father your fire.’
‘Exactly the opposite, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, come now. Have I misunderstood so very terribly?’
‘Yes. From beginning to end.’ Elsie breathed in the scent of him, suddenly giddy. ‘My father has never been able to look at a duckling without attempting to caress it, and my mother is always given the job of dispatching whatever poor fowl is destined for our table.’
‘My goodness. I am atrocious at observation.’
‘Yes. You must be a terrible hunter.’
‘Come now. That’s a very low blow.’ Marcus frowned mockingly, his voice lowering a little. ‘Such impertinence from a wife requires discipline.’
He had never been so free at the Cappadene Club. Never so flirtatious. Elsie couldn’t help but smile, lost in the dizzy splendour of such talk.
‘And you are smiling more. It is quite splendid to see you smile this much.’
‘Of course I am smiling. My parents are happy with me—happy with you. With us.’ Elsie hurried to correct herself. ‘With—with the arrangement we have made.’
‘With our marriage.’
Elsie looked shyly at Marcus, trying to judge his tone. Was it said with the same humour as before, or did something deeper lay beneath the surface? ‘I suppose it may as well be called that.’
‘We have rings, and a fine story.’ Marcus shrugged, his eyes twinkling. ‘What more is needed?’
Many things. A church, and a meeting on ordinary ground—not the shuttered confines of a pleasure-house. Two souls meeting in holiness, without sin.
She was sinful. Worse than sinful—stained by the sin of another. She already loved the child in her, more than life itself, but she could not love its origins. She could not love the man the man who had forced her into such a terrible position…
… the man who had prevented her from doing as she wished, exactly as she wished, with Marcus Bennington. Even if it only led to more heartbreak.
‘Your smile is fading.’ Marcus reached out his hand; Elsie held her breath as he gently stroked her cheek. He had never dared to touch her at the Club—the ring he wore on his finger had given him confidence, just as it had given her strength. ‘Why no smile? What has your husband done to displease you?’
‘Reminded me of his terrible lack of hunting prowess.’
‘Acute, but inaccurate.’ Marcus leaned closer. ‘Tell me.’
Elsie sighed. ‘I… I was simply reminded for a moment that life is not as sweet as it could be.’
‘Life rarely is.’ Marcus paused. ‘Sweetness must be found in unexpected places, and—and clung to.’
‘And if one cannot find it?’
‘Have you not found it?’
‘The sweetness is—is tainted with a sadness.’
‘Then sweetness must be practiced. Smiling must be practiced.’ Marcus’s hand lingered on Elsie’s face, sending indescribable sparks along her nerves. ‘Please.’
‘Smiles are hardly things one has to practice.’ Elsie moved her head, smiling faintly as Marcus dropped his hand to his side. ‘If anything, I shall have to practice weeping for the inevitable heartbreak you will cause.’
Marcus frowned. ‘Pardon?’
‘Well—you will have to leave your poor wife at some point. I can explain away your absence for tomorrow, but it cannot last beyond the ball.’ Elsie blinked. ‘This is hardly a deception that can be maintained for more than a season.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Marcus paused. ‘But… but I was rather hoping to be killed.’
Elsie’s eyes widened. ‘Killed?’
‘Yes. Of course. Have me stumble into the path of an oncoming carriage, or shot in a bungled robbery. Something like that.’ Marcus shrugged. ‘A good story to tell your parents, at least. Something exciting.’
‘A killing is certainly more exciting than an abandonment.’ Elsie spoke slowly. ‘But why, within the confines of this narrative, is dying preferable to simply leaving me?’
‘Because I would never leave you.’ Marcus leaned against the threshold. ‘The only I’ll leave you is by dying.’
Elsie’s heart leapt to her throat. Acutely aware of their proximity, the dark potency in Marcus’s gaze, she leaned forward.
‘Within the confines of this narrative?’
Marcus was silent. Elsie, trembling, leaned closer still.
Husbands could kiss their wives before bed. No-one could stop them—no-one important was nearby. Love such as theirs, a union such as theirs, would only be applauded. Encouraged, even.
At the very last moment, Marcus took a step backward. Elsie, already cursing her foolish thoughts, wiped down her apron with quivering hands.
‘Goodnight, Miss Harcourt.’ Marcus bowed. ‘Sleep well.’
Not Mrs. Penn. Not even Elsie. Miss Harcourt, like bloody always. Elsie curtseyed stiffly, watching his retreating back with narrowed eyes. I do not think I can bear it.
What a night. A night Marcus spent shivering on a cold stable floor, surrounded by nine snoring footmen. A night dreaming of Elsie, remembering how downcast she had looked when he had said Miss Harcourt, and viciously recriminating himself for not kissing her when he had the chance.
The morning was no better. The morning involved creeping on tiptoe over the slumbering array of servants, running over cold, damp grass as the sun rose with the gamekeeper’s dogs barking in the distance, and clambering over the wrought-iron gates to meet the carriage containing a large cup of warm coffee, a change of clothes, and his valet.
‘You look terrible.’ Peterson passed him the cup of coffee, looking on bleakly as Marcus gratefully gulped it down. I have another cup on the hot brick if you need it.’
‘This’ll do. I don’t know how you manage to look clear-eyed every morning.’ Marcus shook his head, sighing as he began to pull on his clothes. Peterson pointedly looked away. ‘I barely did anything of note yesterday, and I’m still barely capable of rational thought.’
‘You are a fairy undemanding master, as masters go. You rarely tire me.’ Peterson sniffed. ‘Apart from when you bid me to arrive at a country seat at some ungodly hour to given you coffee and shirts. And I normally consider you consistently capable of rational thought—at least, I did before this business. I suppose I’ll never know what all this is about.’
‘Peterson.’ Marcus looked thoughtfully at his valet, Elsie’s words on the cart suddenly filling his mind. ‘Do you have a dream? An unrealised passion?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Something that you wish you could do, but currently cannot.’
‘I wish I could be in the employ of a master who didn’t ask such egg-brained questions.’
‘Come now. Be serious.’ Marcus paused. ‘Do you?’
Peterson was silent for a moment. His habitually severe expression softened a little as he picked up Marcus’s discarded shirt, deftly folding it as he spoke.
‘I would like to visit my sister in Truro. Stay for a week or so. So far, time and circumstance have not permitted it.’ He nodded. ‘That, currently, is the only unrealised dream I have.’
‘That’s a commendably contented life, then. On the whole.’
‘I have a talent for being content. Being well-paid helps.’ Peterson’s face returned to its habitual severity. ‘Not that my wage couldn’t do with improvement, what with the extraordinary services I’ve been performing.’
‘You bring me coffee in the morning anyway.’ Marcus laughed. ‘This in no way counts as an extraordinary service.’
‘I shall refrain from comment, for fear of losing the station I currently enjoy.’ Peterson folded his arms. ‘Now put your head down for an hour. I’m going to smoke.’
After an uncomfortable, confusing hour of sleep, curled in his carriage like a dormouse, Marcus emerged into the wider world. With a grateful nod to Peterson, who rolled his eyes in response, he began walking down the wide, graceful drive that led to Attlebury Hall.
The house had always been considered an architectural marvel, its sweeping splendour in perfect harmony with the countryside that surrounded it. Marcus, letting the sight of the place soothe him as he walked, realised that it held quite a different significance now that he had spent a day working around and inside it.
A Courtesan's Comfort: Dukes of the Demi-Monde: Book Three Page 3