The Impossible Ward Read online

  “You appear very surprised to see me, Justin. I trust it is not an unpleasant surprise?”

  “It is always a pleasure to gaze upon you, Aurelie,” the marquess answered, and now both voice and expression were flatteringly cordial. “You look lovelier than ever. You must forgive my astonishment but I was unaware that my mother had invited you to spend the holiday with her.” Did she detect a faint question in his tones? Marianne wondered.

  The countess was all pretty confusion as she laughingly confessed that she had begged dear Georgina to allow her to bring Richard to visit his father’s relatives because he stood greatly in need of masculine company. The marquess’ face expressed exquisite politeness, but one eyebrow escalated slightly and his mother intervened.

  “I had no idea Aurelie had formed the intention of removing from Castle Mauraugh.”

  “And have you formed such an intention?” inquired the marquess gently.

  “Yes, but the house in Portman Square is in such a state with builders and decorators everywhere that it is simply uninhabitable at present. But enough of my silly affairs; we are keeping your companion standing,” said Lady Mauraugh, bestowing a brilliant smile on the man in question.

  “Ah yes, forgive me, Martin. Mama, Aurelie, may I present my friend, Sir Martin Archer. Andrew, you and Martin are already acquainted, are you not?”

  In the flurry of acknowledging introductions that followed, Marianne strove to gather her scattered wits together. Justin (somehow she had come to think of her trustee by his Christian name in the wake of his mother’s numerous references to him) had been completely taken aback to find his uncle’s widow comfortably established in his home. Certainly she was an unexpected sight, but whether an unwelcome one as well was the question she would pay dearly to have answered. The concern evidenced by his mother and brother would seem to support this theory, but Justin himself had quickly recovered his equilibrium and not only paid his surprise guest a pretty compliment, but was now devoting his entire attention to her conversation while his mother graciously made her unexpected guest welcome.

  Andrew brought Marianne into a desultory discussion of the weather conditions the recent arrivals had encountered on the road that lasted until Coleman announced dinner, the ladies all having agreed that the hour being so advanced, it would be a crime to make weary travelers change before dining.

  Conversation sparkled at dinner. Sir Martin proved to be a most entertaining raconteur who was not loath to tell a story against himself. Lady Lunswick and Andrew were bent on drawing him out, and the marquess, at the head of the table, divided his attention equally between his ward and his uncle’s widow. Unlike Andrew, he did not persist in calling the young woman aunt, but addressed her quite naturally by her given name. He still gave Marianne her title and, though he was a perfectly charming and attentive host, the girl felt that the magic interlude in the hall could not have happened. She told herself sternly that she must have imagined the warm look in his eyes earlier, and was unable to prevent her manner toward him from appearing rather stiffly formal. It was a relief to withdraw with the ladies to the music room, where she gave a good imitation of being totally absorbed in the countess’ renderings of several selections by a fine new composer from Germany named Beethoven. Not that one was obliged to pretend approval of Lady Mauraugh’s playing. As well as being beautiful, she was highly accomplished. Marianne had sat silently through a discussion with Lady Lunswick that afternoon that had thoroughly covered all the finer points of creative stitchery, and she had already learned that Lady Mauraugh did “little watercolors” for her dearest friends.

  When the gentlemen joined the ladies, the countess graciously obliged with one additional selection, looking graceful and ethereal with the candle glow turning her hair to rich fire. Sir Martin, confessing himself to be tone-deaf, gravitated toward Marianne during this interlude, and when the music ended remained attentively at her side. Marianne, thoughtfully observing Sir Martin’s attempts to keep her own attention though the gorgeous widow was at her most charming, wondered idly if he had learned of her father’s fortune, then promptly hated herself for the uncharitable thought. Truth to tell, she was more than a little dismayed by her own reactions ever since the arrival of Lady Mauraugh. She knew herself to be deficient in the attainments expected of young ladies of quality and was well aware that her looks were not in the accepted style of fashion, but these facts had not caused her any significant anxiety before the advent of the countess. Lady Lunswick and Andrew had always made her feel they truly valued her acquaintance, and she was now shocked and ashamed at the jealous tumult within her breast when she was in the company of a lovely, accomplished woman. It did not occur to her, mentally squirming in an excess of self-contempt, that she had never experienced the least stab of jealousy in the face of Sophia’s very real talent. If this degrading emotion was going to overcome her in London where the assemblies were thronged with lovely, accomplished women, she would do better to retire immediately to Yorkshire, she conceded ruefully. But at least she could now put a name to the disturbing lowness of spirits with which she had been struggling ever since the arrival of Lady Mauraugh. Certainly her reaction was not very admirable and was exceedingly foolish as well, for the presence of the countess was most unlikely to have any effect on her own life. Indeed the chance of their ever meeting again after this visit was so slight as to be negligible. Meanwhile a charming man was doing her the honor of preferring her company, and she had best bestir herself to respond with something slightly warmer than mere civility. Refusing to think about herself any longer, she set out to entertain Sir Martin and succeeded to admiration if his air of absorption and frequent gusts of laughter were anything to judge by.

  At least that was the strong impression received by the marquess as he glanced their way, not for the first time, after one such burst of merriment. Noting that his mother was fanning herself lightly, he excused himself to move the fire screen to shield her somewhat from the heat. He returned her appreciative smile affectionately and wandered over to take a seat near the blue sofa upon which Marianne sat with Sir Martin.

  “Martin, old chap, Lady Mauraugh was inquiring about Sarah Grensham just now. Did you not mention that you had bumped into Mrs. Grensham last week at Somerset House? I told her ladyship your information would be more current.” He smiled lazily at his friend who looked startled. At the same moment Lady Mauraugh’s green eyes turned toward Sir Martin inquiringly, and he rose with what good grace he could muster, murmuring an excuse as he changed to a chair nearer the countess.

  Marianne glanced uncertainly at Lord Lunswick from under curling black lashes to find him studying her at his leisure.

  “Tell me, Lady Marianne, do you still think of yourself as a farmer?”

  Those fantastic eyes, more blue than violet tonight, widened and her lips quivered into an unwilling smile which he noted with bland satisfaction. Good! Whatever she had expected, he had succeeded in surprising her.

  “Of course, my lord,” she answered demurely, then at his quizzical look, conceded honestly, “but I do not think about the farm very often these days.”

  “Allow me to tell you that you do not look like anyone’s idea of a farmer.”

  She smiled slightly in acknowledgment of the implied compliment, but remained silent.

  So much for attempted flirtation. Obviously there had been little progress along these lines during his absence; Andrew must be losing his touch. He tried another tack. “How have you been spending your days since I have been away?”

  This proved a more productive vein. At first hesitantly, then with more confidence as she noted his attention, Marianne described her recent activities, unaware how revealing her comments on Lord Andrew, Sophia, and Lady Lunswick were of her affection for these persons. He did not interrupt and asked only a few questions, but they were enough to elicit the story of her meeting with Andrew in the spinney, and she found herself telling him about Sophia’s paintings also. He chuckled over the a
dventure with Nuisance and even more when she related the gradual introduction of the dog into the household, seemingly over the strenuous objections of the marchioness.

  “Mama possesses the feminine trait of allowing her men to make for her any decisions that might prove unpopular with the staff. She’d have made a good diplomat.”

  Marianne took mild umbrage at this provocative remark. “That can scarcely be termed a feminine trait, my lord,” she said somewhat drily.

  But his lordship refused to be led into a general discussion on the failings of human nature as typified by either sex. He smiled at her, a different, more intimate smile than his customary cynical quirk, and it brought a faint rise of color in her cheeks.

  “You have been having an enjoyable time here?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord.”

  “Then, may I be permitted to hope that you no longer hold me in such deep dislike for coercing your removal from Yorkshire and your presence in my home?” He spoke lightly but was regarding her intently, and a wary look came into her eyes.

  “I ... I don’t dislike you, Lord Lunswick,” she managed at last. “It was just that the manner in which you—”

  He held up a silencing hand. “Unnecessary to say more. I think I know how your independent spirit rails against any authority I may have, but I do not wish to quarrel, at least not on my first night home.” He watched with satisfaction the smile that began in her eyes and gently tugged at the corners of her mobile lips as he added this qualifying phrase. “I am content, at present, to know I no longer have your enmity.”

  “Oh, never enemies, my lord,” she cried, rather distressed at the harsh sounding word.

  “Then may I hope, friends, Marianne?” he asked, deliberately dropping her title for the first time. His amber eyes were very compelling, holding hers with a deep seriousness.

  She smiled at him shyly, but whatever she might have said was forestalled by Lady Mauraugh’s clear tones, raised to reach the marquess, as she called to him to settle a question. For a second longer he continued to hold Marianne’s glance, the line of his mouth suddenly much firmer, but the intimacy between them was shattered. The girl beside him had been startled into awareness of the general company by the countess’ voice and was no longer attending to him. He turned toward the other group with a smiling answer to the question.

  The conversation remained general until the ladies retired for the night. Fortunately for Marianne’s peace of mind she had been unaware of the long speculative stare trained on her by the countess after the latter’s question had succeeded in breaking up a duet she had found too cozy-looking for her liking. The narrowed look had not escaped the notice of the marquess, however, and when the green eyes shifted at last to his face they met an enigmatically smiling regard.

  Marianne went to bed in happy ignorance that she was being reassessed by Lady Mauraugh, with the cautious hope that the increased size of the house party might not after all spell disaster.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Despite the lack of cooperation by the weather, which remained determinedly damp and dismal, the family and guests gathered together at the Hall for Christmas continued to have a very enjoyable time indeed. The comfort of their surroundings must be held greatly responsible, Marianne thought, and this was surely the achievement of Lady Lunswick, who was indeed a notable housekeeper. In the most unobtrusive manner imaginable she held all the reins of household management in her capable hands. The domestic machinery of the huge estate seemed to run along on greased wheels. If there did exist those intrahousehold clashes that enlivened other great houses from time to time, no echoes of such reached the ears of the guests, whose comfort was insured with no apparent effort. Beds were always warmed, hot water for shaving and washing appeared almost before a guest realized his desire for same, and visiting servants, even those like Selwyn whose deepest instinct was to find fault in everything, could discover little to repeat to their employers, every facility being afforded them to cater to the idiosyncrasies of their respective masters. Had Marianne been acquainted with the world of Society from birth, she would have known of the reputation of Lunswick Hall for hospitality and an excellent table. As it was, she was learning to admire the marchioness all the more for the manner in which she catered to increased numbers and remained unflurried in the face of her sons’ occasional capricious behavior which, Marianne was convinced, must necessitate changes in her prearranged schedule for meals. That this superb adaptability was possible with no guest the wiser must be due to the devotion in which Lady Lunswick was held by all her staff. Certainly it entailed much planning and work behind the scenes, yet their hostess seemed always to be available to her guests. It was a source of very real satisfaction to the young girl that Lady Lunswick permitted her to be of some assistance in the planning and carrying out of the domestic arrangements as though she were in fact a daughter of the house.

  The success of the house party might also be ascribed in part to a nice mixture of congenial people. Certainly Sir Martin Archer was a man to gladden the heart of any hostess. His secure social position and wide acquaintance among the great families had given him a broad repertoire of anecdotes, and his amusing nonconsequential manner assured his welcome in any group. Gregarious and good-tempered by nature, he was never above being pleased, and was always most willing to enter into whatever plans were being put forth for his entertainment. He could be counted on to dance with the wallflowers, to turn the pages for a young lady performing upon the pianoforte or harp, or to make up a fourth for whist; and his nondemanding personality made him adept at soothing away the attack of nerves and shyness that often rendered new debutantes tongue-tied in their initial appearances on the social scene. True, he might never be able to hold his own amongst the ministers and orators who belonged to the Melbourne House set, nor would he have anything original to contribute to the stimulating literary and artistic conversations taking place at Charles Lamb’s “Wednesdays,” for his intellect was not of a high order and his conversation could scarcely be said to be brilliant, but his amiability and shrewd social sense made him an asset to any mixed gathering.

  The Countess of Mauraugh was another who would be welcomed to decorate any scene even if she never opened her mouth. But the lovely widow had not earned her designation as an Incomparable before her marriage on her beauty alone. She was accomplished, conversable, and charming, exuding a potent appeal that most men found irresistible. Naturally, a woman so abundantly endowed with every attribute to attract the opposite sex was bound to have detractors amongst her own, but whatever might be said of her in tonnish circles, prompted no doubt by jealousy, here in Somerset she was taking pains to be universally agreeable company. Marianne, firmly repressing the instinctive unease she experienced in the widow’s company, stoically did her social duty by their guest, though it was an unprofessed relief to escape to Andrew’s undemanding society whenever he found an hour to resume the fencing lessons, begun as a joke weeks ago, but now quite seriously pursued by a very apt pupil and a proud instructor.

  The assembled company saw very little of the, young earl. Apparently his devoted nurse held a strong conviction that a child’s place was not among the adults. Because Lady Lunswick insisted, her nephew made a token appearance in the saloon each evening after his meal. After greeting everyone with a poise that was quite remarkable in one so young, he would sidle by degrees to a spot close to Lord Andrew, a process that Marianne watched with some amusement. Obviously he had elevated that young man to a status of hero, but still he was quiet and well-behaved, thrilled with any notice Lord Andrew took of him but never demanding attention. In comparing Richard with the only other child of this age with whom she was acquainted, Marianne found him to be much more self-possessed among adults but less spontaneous than Jamie. Only with Nuisance did Richard seem to approach the gaiety and enthusiasm that characterized the Yorkshire child, so Marianne formed the practice of bringing the pup up to the nursery for a short time each day for a playful session with t
he little boy. The two were boisterously delighted with each other. At first Marianne had been a bit apprehensive lest Nurse disapprove of the shrieks that emanated from Richard during these uninhibited romps, so she was relieved to observe Nurse’s complacency amidst the uproar. Evidently her strict theories on raising children did not preclude a judicious amount of noisy, physical fun-making.

  During the week between Christmas and the New Year, the company was pleasantly augmented on several occasions by neighbors exchanging visits. By this time, Marianne had met several of the genteel families in the immediate locale, and had found them to be quite friendly and welcoming, though she remained most drawn to the Huntingdons, who had become the kind of friends from whom it would be a wrench to part. They formed part of the company tonight, along with her cousins who had driven over from Maplegrove.

  Aubrey and Claire had returned early in December and now called at Lunswick Hall with some regularity. Marianne had enjoyed—or endured—(she was not of one mind on this point) the experience of being shown round the ancestral home of her father’s family, including the room where he and his two brothers and one sister had made their entrance into the world. She had gravely studied a portrait of her father done when he had been at home between naval engagements, just before the period when he had met her mother, she had guessed. It showed a laughing young man with merry brown eyes and a devil-may-care insouciance about his bearing that both intrigued and slightly repelled her. She admitted that she would have liked to have known her father, but felt again the pain of his not sharing the same desire with respect to herself. How desperately he must have loved her mother to have been so completely shattered at her death, but why had not this love, in later years, been transformed into at least a curiosity about the daughter they had produced? Since she would never know the answer to this riddle, it did not bear dwelling on, she concluded sadly, and resolutely turning her back on the painting, inquired about the rest of her father’s family. She learned she had two more cousins, the sons of her Aunt Margaret who resided in Kent, but somehow she did not feel quite the eager sense of anticipation at the prospect of meeting the rest of her family as she had experienced on learning of the existence of Claire and Aubrey. Lady Lunswick and Andrew were held much closer in her affections than her Carstairs cousins, though she enjoyed Claire’s vivacious company in small doses and found Aubrey mildly amusing. However, his attentions to her had been growing increasingly more marked lately, and she was somewhat at a loss to know how to deal with this unlooked-for development. While conceding him to be pleasant and eager to please her, as well as undeniably handsome, she could not help thinking that his intellectual growth had ceased completely at an unusually early age, especially since he never had a word to say for himself should the conversation chance to touch on subjects of more serious content than gossipy on-dits of the privileged class of society or the newest fashions in clothes, sports, or entertainment. Moreover, she well remembered their first clash over the actions of the factory workers and wondered, despite his charming attentions to herself, whether he was not au fond of a basically unfeeling nature. He had been beside her since Mrs. Huntingdon ceased playing some twenty minutes previously, and she was beginning to experience a slight ennui in his company. She replied to his most recent query rather mechanically and fell to studying the other occupants of the saloon with the greater portion of her attention, since Aubrey did not require too much in the way of positive response to keep him rambling on in his usual inconsequential fashion.