The Impossible Ward Read online

  The hitherto unacknowledged but pervasive miasma of discomfort that settled on him whenever he considered the deeper implications of his errand lifted a bit as his senses absorbed the green peacefulness of the scene, completely devoid at the moment of another human presence than his own. Useless to deny that he had rather dreaded approaching this young woman whose acquaintance her own father had never once desired to make. With no company and plenty of time for reflection on the long journey, his wayward fancy had persisted in picturing her as existing at a subsistence level, filled with resentment at the retired life she was compelled to lead through no fault of her own; but surely no brooding melancholy could perpetuate itself in this idyllic setting. Perhaps his mission could be reduced to its simplest terms after all: that of removing the girl to his mother’s protection during her period of mourning and her inevitable introduction to Society, followed quickly by a provident marriage to someone who might be more than willing to divide his time between Yorkshire and Town, or even to retire to this locality permanently. Surely any young woman, no matter how contented with her existence, would experience a sense of excitement and thrill at having her provincial horizons expanded. The girl did not exist who could turn her back on such an opportunity.

  Inexpressibly cheered by all he saw about him, he hitched the bay to the wrought iron rail and proceeded to bang the shining knocker. He had written to Perry’s father-in-law immediately after the funeral, apprising him of his son-in-law’s death and his own planned visit to discuss Lady Marianne’s immediate future. The household should certainly be anticipating his arrival, but not knowing their circumstances, he had left his chaise and postilions at the Rose and Crown at the village crossroads, and ridden the short distance to Crestview Farm on Mountain, his favorite mount.

  The marquess was idly admiring the remains of what must have been a lovely flowering border in summer when he finally heard a heavy, slow tread approaching. He straightened and smiled at the old woman who opened the door and stood regarding him with an unflattering lack of interest.

  “Good afternoon, I am Lord Lunswick. I believe Mr. O’Doyle is expecting me.”

  The woman’s flat-featured countenance did not lose one iota of its impassivity at this pronouncement.

  “T’ master’s asleep in his study. Miss Marianne says Ah mun not disturb him when he drops off like that, not for nowt.” She declaimed the words as though a formula learned by rote.

  “No, of course not,” Justin agreed hastily. “In that case may I see Lady Marianne?”

  His smile had. been declared an unfair weapon by more than one London miss, but his second effort had no more effect on the implacable servant than the first attempt.

  “Miss be down at t’barn,” she declared, shutting the door firmly on the words.

  For an instant the marquess simply stood there staring at the paneled door, natural irritation struggling with a mounting sense of unreality. His first stubborn impulse was to persist in his efforts to gain admittance, but his hand was stayed in mid-air from rapping more forcefully on the door by an equally strong disinclination to tangle again with an undoubtedly half-witted old crone.

  Shrugging aside his annoyance, he retreated around the right side of the house toward the cluster of farm buildings. There were no signs of human activity at the large hen house or in the dairy, but as he approached the barn he noticed a shadow from a lamp within playing over the door frame. Entering the dim interior he stood quietly for a moment adjusting his eyes after the glare of late afternoon sunshine. He was immediately aware of the contented movements of several animals, but as he moved further inside he saw no one save a black-clad female farm worker bent over a milking stool, too intent on her task to realize his presence. He passed her and headed slowly down the length of the barn, glancing quickly left and right as he passed two workhorses and more cows. The only lantern was placed to aid the milker near the entrance, which convinced him that Lady Marianne could not be here. He turned to retrace his steps with the intention of interrogating the farm woman and met the incredulous stare of the latter, who had risen carrying a pail in each hand and was standing there quite motionless with a look almost of wonder on her face. His disinterested gaze flicked across her person, dismissing her as an object of interest as he continued to approach at an unhurried pace.

  All expression died out of the girl’s face as he diminished the distance between them. She remained silent, and he who had rarely felt ill at ease in the presence of a female, found himself resenting her silence and constrained to break it.

  “Can you tell me where I may find Lady Marianne?”

  Realizing he had spoken rather abruptly, he smiled at her to soften the force of the words but noted with a mental shrug that this young woman was as immune to any charm of manner he might possess as the old crone who had shut the door in his face earlier. He wondered idly if this might perhaps be her granddaughter. He could not know that to the silent girl standing in the flickering light of the lantern he had seemed for an instant to be the living embodiment of all the Norse legends, the hero of countless fairy tales. For perhaps two seconds while he had turned and come toward her she had felt irradiated with sheer joy as her eyes dwelt with pleasure on the handsomest man she had ever beheld. Then as his cool glance had flicked dismissingly over her with contemptuous indifference, she experienced a rare surge of intense dislike that swamped her initial reaction and left her slightly shaken. His curt words did nothing to lessen her dislike, but she answered politely enough.

  “I am afraid there is some mistake. My name is Marianne Carstairs, but I know of no Lady Marianne in this vicinity.”

  Initially the deeper implications of this speech failed to penetrate the dismay induced by the girl’s calm recital of her name. He closed his eyes for an agonized second. This dark gypsy of a female with skin burned brown by sun and weather, carrying two milk pails and wearing a none too clean apron over a shapeless black gown could not be Perry’s daughter! It would be utterly impossible to try to foist such a creature into the Ton. She was utterly impossible. For a moment he was speechless, as he ruefully recalled his laughing assurance to his mother that no heiress was entirely ineligible. How little he had known!

  The girl had stiffened at the expression of restrained disgust on his features, and dislike turned to active hatred, completely eradicating even the memory of that first fleeting approval. Swiftly she set down the milk while she extinguished the lantern. Before she could repossess herself of the pails, however, the stranger had picked them up and was standing politely aside for her to precede him from the barn. For an instant she seemed about to protest, then she shrugged and complied silently.

  The girl glanced warily at him from under her lashes as she passed outside, but he was preoccupied with some thoughts of his own which obviously gave him no pleasure, judging from his frown. After a few steps, however, he stopped and faced her determinedly.

  “As I explained to your grandfather I was a friend of your father’s, and it was his dying wish that I come here to see you.”

  He could not have said quite how he expected her to react to this news, not with tears, surely, since she had had time to get used to the fact of her father’s death, and since she had never even met him, could not be expected to grieve greatly. However he had not thought to see an expression of shocked amusement cross her face and he raised questioning brows.

  “I am persuaded your devotion to your friends is most selfless and highly to be commended, but do you generally take so long to carry out deathbed wishes?”

  He stared at her blankly. “The earl’s funeral services were held just a sennight ago. I set out almost on the heels of my letter.”

  It was the girl’s turn to look blank, but she recovered almost immediately. “Now I am certain there has been some error,” she declared lightly. “My father was not an earl, he was a sailor, and he died over twenty years ago in the Mediterranean from wounds suffered during a sea battle with the French.”

&nbs
p; The marquess carefully set down the brimming pails of foamy milk. His startled eyes never left the girl’s composed face as she paused of necessity and awaited his response with somewhat obvious patience. It was some time in coming for his brain was rioting with conjecture. An initial faint hope that he might indeed be mistaken in her identity was dismissed at birth. She had given her name as Marianne Carstairs. He had been directed in the village to the farm of one Sean O’Doyle whom Perry had identified as his father-in-law. Unless the girl were lying, and there was no earthly reason for such an action, she was in total ignorance of her father’s circumstances. He moved impatiently and the movement nearly upset one of the milk pails at his feet.

  “Take care,” the girl warned, reaching again for the milk and moving it out of accident range.

  Suddenly the bizarre humor of the situation struck him forcefully. How Perry would have appreciated the irony inherent in the simple fact that the daughter he stubbornly refused to meet had never known of his existence. His guilt at his desertion of his paternal responsibility, had no foundation in reality, though in combination with his grief it had colored his life to a disastrous degree. Just as suddenly, all inclination to laugh at the grim joke deserted him and he was overwhelmed with mingled regret and pity for the man he had long liked but never understood. How completely alone he had always been! What a criminal waste of a life!

  She had been covertly watching the play of emotions animating his handsome face but had made no attempt to interrogate him, and now moved decisively toward the back of the house, once again carrying the milk pails with an easy fluid grace.

  “Wait!” he commanded urgently.

  When she did not pause, he caught up with her in several long strides and seized her, none too gently, by the shoulders. Some of the milk sloshed over the tops of the pails, splattering them both liberally. The amusement visible in the girl’s hitherto impassive face at his obvious annoyance increased that quality tenfold. Much later he admitted to himself with considerable regret that it was largely due to this petty sense of pique at her uncompromising attitude that he told her the truth so bluntly.

  “There has indeed been some error,” he drawled hatefully, staring relentlessly down into proud dark eyes, “but it is not of my making. Your father was Peregrine Carstairs, fifth earl of Melford, and although he was indeed wounded in the Mediterranean some twenty years ago, his wounds were negligible. For the last fifteen years he has been residing at his family estate in Somerset, close to my principal seat. He sent me to you.”

  “And you are...?”

  He was forced to reluctant admiration at her self-control as evidenced by the steady voice, especially since he had felt the quick tremor that had run through her at his callous words, and witnessed the draining of all color under her burned skin. When he was quite certain she had conquered the momentary dizziness, he released her shoulders and stepped back.

  “I am Justin Raymond, marquess of Lunswick, completely at your service, Lady Marianne,” he replied, sweeping off his high crowned beaver and making her an elegant bow.

  She suspected mockery and raised her chin in proud defiance. It should have been a totally incongruous gesture, but rough clothes could not disguise the proud carriage of the tall slim girl whose strong brown hands were still grasping the milk pails. For the first time a flash of interest enlivened the man’s eyes, but the girl was frowning into space, so failed to note the response that might have served to mitigate some of the humiliation she had suffered at his earlier reaction to her appearance.

  “Lady Marianne?” she faltered at last.

  “Of course. The title and entailed property go to a cousin of yours, but you are the sole beneficiary of all his personal fortune.”

  The girl was in total command of her emotions again. If anything her face appeared colder and more remote than before.

  “I see,” she remarked coolly. “Did my father never remarry then?”

  Justin hesitated. The girl waited quietly.

  He spoke with obvious reluctance. “No, in truth I must tell you that his marriage to your mother and your subsequent birth never became known.”

  The dark shadowed eyes widened but she remained silent, staring off into space.

  Justin could not call to mind a more uncomfortable conversation nor, shifting his weight irritably, a less comfortable partner in a conversation than this girl. By now he was cursing his own inept and tactless handling of the situation. How ridiculous they must appear discussing life and death over pails of milk, a significant portion of which was spilled on both their persons! He slanted a glance at the silent girl standing within touching distance but as remote from him as though she were on another planet. After the initial shock, she had displayed no emotion whatsoever, and he still had no clue as to her reception of the news. It seemed she had no slightest intention of ending the oppressive silence engulfing them, and with a gesture of resignation, he continued his explanation.

  “It was your father’s wish that you make your entrance into Society under my aegis. My mother has made me the bearer of an invitation to you to pay us a prolonged visit. Naturally during your period of mourning any social life will be sharply curtailed, but you shall have plenty of informal opportunities to meet your father’s friends before any official presentation.”

  “Never!”

  The ejaculation, uttered in throbbing accents of pure rage, quivered in the still air. They had paused under the spreading branches of a large beech tree and the girl’s face was partially shadowed, but he was shocked by a suggestion of glittering eye and flaring nostrils.

  “My dear Lady Marianne...” he began in reasonable accents.

  “Don’t call me that!” She turned on him, her body rigid, fists clenched at her sides. Only her face was alive with fury. “My father saw fit to ignore my very existence for twenty-two years. Well, now I choose to ignore the fact of his death. How can I mourn a man of whose existence I was totally unaware? I am completely satisfied with my life as it is. I thank you and your mother for your kind invitation but I must decline to leave my grandfather. Good-bye, Lord Lunswick.”

  She would have left him on the words, the milk entirely forgotten, had not Justin grabbed her arm. He was angry at her rude behavior but, having glimpsed the pain underlying her fury, he controlled his own reaction with difficulty and answered quietly:

  “He did not ignore your existence, you know. This charming property was purchased for you by your father. He has always provided for your comfort.”

  At these words the girl ceased her struggles to remove her arm from his steely grip and stood motionless, her color fading.

  “Do you mean to say my grandfather does not own the farm?”

  “You own the farm.”

  Her face had regained its earlier cold impassivity but he thought he detected a shade of relief. He guessed shrewdly that she now felt herself in a stronger position to refuse his request, and knew an instant’s malicious impulse to puncture her complacence by telling her just how much control his position of trustee gave him over her actions; but something of her unhappiness touched him and he decided to postpone any further discussion until she had come to grips with the fact of her father’s willful desertion.

  “I must see your grandfather while I am here. I intended speaking to him before seeking you, but the old woman who opened the door said he was not to be disturbed when he fell asleep in his study.”

  She did not miss the dryness of his tones. At mention of the servant some slight flicker of something—amusement perhaps—softened her expression fleetingly, but he was well aware of the reluctance with which she invited him to dine with them, despite her civil words. For the first time since their unpropitious meeting he found he was enjoying himself. He brushed aside her apologies for a meager meal, asserting suavely that he well understood the country custom of dining at midday and had consequently partaken very liberally at a good posting house earlier in the day. She lowered her gaze hastily and began walking t
oward the house, but not before he had glimpsed the disappointment therein.

  “She’d enjoy seeing me go hungry,” he realized with grim humor, “or seeing me discomfitted in any fashion whatever.”

  * * *

  Later, alone in a charming small drawing room, dimly but cozily lit by a crackling fire and two branches of candles, Justin had ample time to reflect on the rather harrowing events of the past hour as he waited for his hosts to join him for supper. In a way, his meeting with the old gentleman had been almost as difficult as the earlier collision with the granddaughter, but at least with the grandfather there had been none of the latent animosity thinly veiled with chill politeness shown him by the girl. Indeed Mr. O’Doyle’s gentle countenance had expressed pleasure as he welcomed their guest with real though absentminded cordiality when his granddaughter had tenderly roused him from his peaceful doze in his study. Justin had followed her into the room, blandly ignoring her ill-concealed annoyance. For some reason as yet dimly perceived, he had preferred not to allow them any private conversation before the introduction was performed. Their entrance had not roused Mr. O’Doyle, who had evidently fallen asleep as he sat reading in a wing chair by the fireplace. In the brief time that elapsed while Lady Marianne removed the book from the slackened grasp and gently shook her grandfather’s shoulder, Justin realized that Mr. O’Doyle was quite a small man; indeed, his slight form was rendered insignificant by the noble proportions of the crimson-brocaded chair. The initial picture of great age and fragility was shattered beyond recall, however, when he opened a pair of deep blue eyes, instantly alert, and made even more vital as a contrast to an abundance of silky white curls and bushy gray brows. His smile for his granddaughter was a blend of mischief and apology as he arched his neck and stiff shoulders.