The Impossible Ward Read online

  Marianne put up an impatient hand and flicked the long tresses behind her shoulders. “I was just thinking about Claire’s hairstyle,” she confessed. “There is nothing one can do with a yard of poker-straight hair. I fear I must be a sore disappointment to your ladyship,” she added anxiously. “I know nothing at all of current fashion.”

  “Pooh, nonsense!” declared her hostess roundly. “You are most attractive even without fashionable aids, and I shall hugely enjoy helping you to attain a more modern look, but it would indeed be a mistake to cut that marvelous hair of yours. We shall simply have to contrive a style that is somewhat less severe than a tight knot. In this respect, at least, it would be a grievous error blindly to follow fashionable dictates. You have the height and bearing to carry anything off, I daresay.” The marchioness sat on the edge of the dressing table bench and looked with flattering approval at the slightly embarrassed Marianne.

  “I am going to love having you here, my dear,” she said gently. “It has been a very long time, too long, since I have done anything that greatly interested me. But you interest me, and I hope we shall become good friends.”

  “Oh yes, my lady,” Marianne replied hastily, “you are so very kind to take a stranger into your home. I cannot be grateful enough for your interest.” Her brow furrowed and she went on more slowly. “I do not wish to pry, but I did not perfectly understand ... have you been ill recently? Will having me here be too much of a strain on you?”

  “Oh no, my dear child. Has not Justin told you much about our family then?” She looked curiously at the puzzled girl.

  “No, nothing at all, Ma’am. We ... we did not have much opportunity for conversation of a personal nature.”

  Looking at the slightly flustered girl from beneath gold-tipped lashes, the marchioness wondered what they had found to talk about on a three-day trip without touching upon personal matters eventually, but she merely addressed herself to the question at hand.

  “I was widowed four years ago, quite suddenly. My husband and I were very close, so very close,” she murmured, almost to herself before becoming brisk again. “At the time, both Justin and Harry were in the Peninsula with the army and Andrew was up at Oxford.” At Marianne’s uncomprehending look she explained, “We had three sons...” Marianne’s eyes widened at the use of the past tense, but the marchioness was continuing with careful control, “Justin and Harry were twins, but Harry was the elder by fifteen minutes. They had decided Justin would be the one to come home first to see to the estate, because Harry had a very important mission to undertake for the duke. He planned to sell out afterwards but was killed at Salamanca before he could do so.” She squeezed Marianne’s hand in appreciation for the distressed sympathy so evident on her guest’s mobile features.

  “I am afraid I am a coward, my dear. Oh, yes,” she insisted, placing a finger on the young girl’s mouth to prevent her uttering the instinctive protest rising to her lips. “The double blow prostrated me for far too long. I have not had the heart to resume my life, and I fear I have rather neglected the other two in my grief. Andrew was much younger, of course, but Justin and Harry were very attached, in the manner of twins, you understand. Each seemed to know what the other was thinking, and one would often finish a sentence the other had begun.” She sighed deeply. “Justin greatly misses Harry still. I do not think the void in his life will be filled until he takes a wife and has a son of his own. And I had almost begun to despair of that happening, but now...” She broke off abruptly, and when she resumed speaking it was to reiterate that she was sincerely delighted to have Perry’s daughter to stay with them.

  Marianne murmured a suitable response, but could not help wondering what the marchioness had been going to say about her elder son’s matrimonial intentions and why she had, in her own words, “despaired” of his marrying until recently. Was this last a hint that he was now contemplating marriage? She wondered who the girl might be, and a vision of her lovely cousin smiling at the marquess suddenly filled her mind. They would undoubtedly make a very handsome couple, suitably matched in birth and lifestyle, she thought dispassionately. For some obscure reason she suddenly felt restless and had to force herself to remain seated while her hostess got down to practical matters concerning her wardrobe. A few moments ago she had been eager to discuss fashions. Surely it did not matter to her in the least whom the arrogant marquess took as his bride, but she pitied her cousin if he intended to treat his wife with the same slightly belittling charm he had displayed the previous day, almost as though she were an amusing child to be played with affectionately and even spoiled, but not considered seriously when matters of importance were involved. However, perhaps Claire was content to be admired and amused, then dismissed when the men wished to talk seriously. She knew that she herself could never accept such a subservient role in her husband’s life. How nonsensical she was becoming, she thought impatiently, giving herself a vigorous mental shake. She had no thought of marriage in any case. She had her grandfather to look after in his declining years.

  Resolutely she put aside any concerns but the immediate one of what she was to wear that night at dinner. The marchioness, after a cursory examination of the few items hanging in the huge wardrobe, stated frankly that it was imperative to drive that very morning into Bath, to obtain a gown for dinner and make a start toward selecting fabrics and designs for a complete new wardrobe.

  A few minutes previously a tiny young chambermaid had brought chocolate into the sitting room. They had been sipping it leisurely but now, after a glance at the silver mounted mantel clock, the marchioness declared they must waste no more time, but bestir themselves in preparation for a busy day. Exhorting Marianne not to dawdle over her toilette, but to come to the breakfast parlor as soon as possible, she returned to her own rooms to change the green silk for a carriage dress, only pausing at the door to say softly, but imperatively:

  “Marianne?”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “May I beg a favor of you on such short acquaintance?”

  “Of course, Ma’am. Anything.”

  “That cap you were wearing yesterday...” She twinkled mischievously as her guest colored up and dropped her eyes in confusion. “I believe it has served its purpose, do not you? A decent interment is indicated.”

  A reluctant echo of mischief lit the young girl’s eyes, but she answered with deceptive meekness. “As you wish, my lady.”

  Left alone, Marianne gulped the rest of the delicious chocolate, then repaired to the bedchamber where she set a new record for quick dressing, speedily twisting up her hair and securing it with ruthless jabs of the pins. As she entered the corridor outside her room she looked around with interest. Obviously the interior of the house had been altered since its construction, for in Elizabethan days the rooms would all have opened off each other without the amenity of corridors. Her appreciative eyes admired the deep Turkey red carpet on the floor, and she promised herself a better look at the few paintings on the wall when she would not be so pressed for time.

  As she soundlessly approached the staircase, a door opened on the right and the marchioness issued forth, wearing a lovely pearl gray outfit. She was busy tucking something into a black reticule so was unaware of Marianne’s presence until the girl called out just as she reached the staircase. Startled, her hostess spun around lightly and smiled approvingly.

  “That was quick, my child. Now we may go down together.”

  How it happened Marianne was never quite able to say. They were descending the stairs together. One moment her hostess was gaily predicting that Marianne would admire Bath with its hilly streets; in the next she uttered a gasping cry and seemed almost to dive forward down the stairs, crossing in front of the girl. Marianne acted instinctively, grasping the railing with her left hand while her right clutched frantically at the older woman’s gown. For an instant they remained poised in these supremely awkward positions. Marianne, unbalanced, was unable to shift her feet or get a hold on the marchioness’
person. She hung onto a handful of dress stuff with grim persistence but her face reflected her fears that the other woman would be unable to seize something to break her fall before the dress slipped inevitably from her guest’s frantic grasp. The Archangel Gabriel himself would not have been more welcome than the sight of the marquess, alerted no doubt by his mother’s cry, charging white-faced up the stairs. He scooped his mother’s helpless form into strong arms, and knelt down on a stair until he could be sure of his balance. Marianne, relieved of her burden, plopped onto a higher stair for a second to still the trembling of her limbs.

  A quick glance assured the marquess she was unhurt, and he bent all his attention to his mother who was protesting weakly that he was crushing the breath out of her. He gave a shaky laugh as he settled her firmly on a stair and anxiously surveyed her pale countenance.

  “What happened? Are you hurt?”

  “I wrenched my knee. I don’t know how, but I do know I should have pitched down the whole flight of stairs if Marianne had not grasped my dress.”

  “Can you put any weight on the leg, my lady?” queried the young girl who had descended to their level and was now kneeling and gazing anxiously up at her hostess.

  “I think so. It doesn’t hurt much.” The marchioness was about to put a cautious foot on the stair below when her grim-faced son gathered her back into his arms.

  “You are certainly not going to make the attempt here, however. Back to your room, Mama, until we are sure of that knee.”

  “My reticule, it’s spilled everything down the stairs,” protested the marchioness, trying unsuccessfully to look around his broad shoulder.

  “Marianne will gather it all up. Stop wriggling. You might injure that knee again.”

  When Marianne joined them with the refilled reticule a few minutes later, she was immensely cheered to find the hard, anxious expression gone from the marquess’ face. His very evident affection for his charming mother was the nicest thing she knew of him, she thought fleetingly, before turning her attention to the victim.

  The marchioness, though slightly disheveled as to hair style, and crumpled from being carried, was sitting with color restored in a small cane chair. One leg was resting upon a needlepoint footstool, but she smiled cheerfully at Marianne and waved away the hovering dresser.

  “I shan’t need you for a few minutes, Norris.” After she had expressed fervent gratitude for Marianne’s quick action, she cried regretfully: “I am so sorry, my dear, to be so careless. I’m afraid I’ve spoiled our plans for a day’s shopping. I can walk with just a bit of discomfort and there is no need to cancel our dinner party, but I fear the hills of Bath would be too much for my knee today.”

  “Should you try to entertain at all tonight, my lady? There is a chance, you know, that the knee will stiffen up a bit after a few hours. Would you not be better advised to postpone the dinner for a day or two until you are quite recovered?”

  “That’s what I told her but she refuses to listen to good advice.” This from the scowling marquess.

  “Now, Justin, do not be making too big a thing of this stupid accident.”

  The eyes of the two young persons met in the first look of complete understanding they had ever shared, but their combined protests were sweetly but firmly set aside by her ladyship whose daintiness and gentle manner attractively concealed a will every bit as strong as her son’s.

  “As I told Justin, Lord Melford and Miss Carstairs are due to pay a house visit of at least a fortnight to friends in Kent. They may not return to Maplegrove much before Christmas. It would be a pity to deny you this opportunity of becoming better acquainted with your cousins.” She sighed. “It is unfortunate we are not of a size, so I might lend you something for tonight.”

  “It does not signify, Ma’am,” Marianne assured her kind hostess smilingly. “I can wear the green velvet.”

  “As far as today’s proposed excursion to Bath is concerned,” the marquess put in smoothly, “why should we not ask Miss Carstairs to deputize for you, Mama? I shall willingly offer my services as driver and escort for the girls.”

  “Oh, I don’t think...” began the marchioness, then bit her lip as she saw the swift pleasure light Marianne’s face, and the rather mocking lift to her son’s brows. “A splendid idea,” she managed gamely, “if Miss Carstairs has no other plans.”

  A message was dispatched forthwith to Maplegrove, and it seemed Miss Carstairs did not have other plans and was, according to the reply that arrived less than an hour later, delighted to put herself at her cousin’s service for the day.

  And so the small party set out for Bath in high spirits. To the initial amusement of the marquess, his impossible ward displayed a rather endearing shyness in the presence of her pretty cousin, seemingly content to follow Claire’s lead in conversation. On the other hand, Claire’s attitude to her newfound cousin, though affectionate in the extreme, struck the marquess as having more than a touch of patronizing charm. He waited in uneasy anticipation for fireworks, but Marianne showed none of that quiet resistance with which she had greeted most of his sorties over the past few days. However, with a fine perversity he discovered he was not grateful for her almost humiliating eagerness to please her cousin. Did the chit have no instincts for danger where her own sex was concerned? She was quick enough to take umbrage at any supposed slight on his part. Could she not sense that Claire was cleverly reinforcing an image of a country mouse that no more fitted his spirited ward than the awful black dress she had worn that first night? Although false, it would be convincing in company that had not spent much time with her. He became increasingly thoughtful as they neared Bath. If indeed Marianne’s only association with another female was with the essentially simple and direct Margery, it was providential that her period of mourning precluded any rash attempts to pitchfork her into the Ton before she had learned something of the nature of womankind. Ultimately, of course, his mother would hint her into the way of things, but for the moment he would do his possible by engaging Claire’s attention.

  In this exercise he proved so successful that Marianne received a bare minimum of attention from her cousin for the remainder of the drive. Perforce, she witnessed her first lesson in genteel flirtation from two whom she shrewdly guessed to be experts in the art. Although aware that both relished the thrust and parry of extravagant compliments and equally extravagant disclaimers, she wondered how Claire could endure his attitude of lazy amusement. His very air of patent willingness to play games to amuse a pretty child was an insult in itself. Though puzzled not for the first time by this, she soon gave up wondering about their relationship as the scenery attracted her attention. The air was crystal clear and the view over the rolling hills quite lovely.

  And suddenly they were in Bath. Marianne was suitably impressed by the scale and sweep of the Royal Crescent and the Circus, and approved the light effect created by the extensive use of the honey-colored Bath stone for buildings. The marquess set down his passengers outside an unpretentious establishment on Milsome Street with somewhat the air of a man deprived of a treat.

  Marianne was unsure whether the laughing regret in his eyes was due to the necessity of parting company with her lovely cousin for an hour, or disappointment at being unable to witness her own awkwardness in a situation that no doubt formed an integral part of the existence of all the women of his acquaintance. Once again she schooled her features to blank politeness as she thanked him for his escort and followed Miss Carstairs into the creative arena presided over by that expert on the latest fashions, Madame Louise. She glanced about the clean but bare interior with no little disappointment, although she could not have put into words just what she had expected. Fortunately her preoccupation with the physical setting caused her to miss the comprehensive glance of disdain that crossed the haughty countenance of the proprietress, emerging from a curtained alcove, as her eyes fell on the black-clad figure. Her expression became one of polite inquiry on catching sight of Miss Carstairs, delightfully
attired in an emerald green pelisse trimmed in black fur with a matching cap. Marianne did note the quick interest and speculation in the shrewd black eyes as Claire made her cousin known to Madame Louise, however, and her own deep blue eyes became a trifle guarded. Evidently the disclosures of the earl’s will were already common knowledge in Bath.

  Certainly she could not fault Madame’s manner, which nicely blended formal courtesy with pride in her own position as one of the leading modistes in Bath. From the moment of hearing Marianne’s name, Madame Louise became blind to the obvious sartorial deficiencies of this new source of potential income. She hastened to show the young ladies to surprisingly comfortable chairs while she begged to know how she could serve them. Claire rushed into a sweetly apologetic explanation of the spur-of-the-moment dinner party that demanded an immediate purchase of a gown for her cousin to wear that very evening. Marianne observed the slight dimming of Madame’s suppressed excitement with an amusement she hoped was better concealed than Madame’s hopes of good custom.

  The modiste was explaining regretfully that there were, alas, but two suitable gowns in an advanced stage of construction that might be expected to fit Lady Marianne, but she trusted one might be made to suit admirably. A young girl of fourteen or fifteen years was summoned from the inner recesses and ordered to fetch the appropriate gowns. In the interim the dressmaker laid stress on the fact that she created original designs to flatter her customers, as well as being able to reproduce any costume featured in La Belle Assemblée in strictest detail. Before she could produce any of the aforesaid designs, however, the minion returned, carefully carrying a sapphire blue velvet gown draped over one arm and a stiff yellow silk over the other. She was so tiny it was necessary to hold her arms high to prevent the garments from dragging on the floor and her sweet little face was flushed with the effort required. Madame herself condescended to assist her newest patroness to try first one and then the other, adjuring Miss Carstairs to remain seated and pronounce judgment on the results. Marianne, whose fingers could not resist stroking the heavenly velvet, elected to try this first, and obediently followed Madame behind the curtains to the dressing alcove. She stoically bore the measuring look the seamstress cast at her chemise clad figure and allowed her to arrange the folds of the gown more becomingly.