Keeping the Castle (24 page)

“So, if I marry you, Mama can marry the man she loves and Alexander will have a future, even a rather exalted future?”

“That’s it,” he said, nodding.

“And I will have a rich husband?”

“One of the richest in England,” he assured me. “And of quite
reasonably
good birth. If I should perform a few services to the crown here and there, you might even find yourself being hailed as ‘Lady Fredericks’ in a few years.”

“But . . . wait! The servants, and the tenants!”

Mr. Fredericks looked bewildered. I explained.

“All my life I have known that the fate of everyone at Crooked Castle depended upon me, and upon my marriage. I cannot abandon them. If Mama marries the Marquis, she and Alexander will leave Yorkshire.”

He thought about this. “Yorkshire is going to be a center for industry,” he said. “Coal, steel, and textiles. Not here on the coast, perhaps, but in the West Riding. We could buy this property from your brother, rebuild the castle
away
from the cliffs, and keep it as a summer residence, if you like. Would that do?”

“Admirably. And what,” I enquired, perhaps hoping for a lover’s declaration, “will
you
get out of this arrangement?”

He looked at me, and smiled, a sweet and shy smile. “D’you know? When I first came here, they told me you were one of the most beautiful women in Europe.”

I smiled and dropped my gaze to my hands, which were clasped in my lap, waiting.

“Quite frankly?” he said, shaking his head slowly, “I could never see it.”

“I
beg
your pardon!”

“I won’t be marrying you for your much-vaunted beauty, Miss Crawley.” Here he paused and eyed me thoughtfully. “Tho’ now I think of it, it may come in handy in the future, at least once we get you some decent clothes.”

“
Me!
Get
me
decent clothes?” I stared accusingly at his faded waistcoat and ink-stained jacket.

“Your portrait appearing in the exhibition will help, of course. It will mean my coming out into the open, becoming an ‘English gentleman.’ And a beautiful wife will help to establish me in society.

“But no, I won’t be marrying you for your looks, just as I suspect you won’t be marrying me
entirely
for my money.”

“As I did not know you had any, sir, you are in the right
there
. And I beg your pardon, but I have not yet said I
would
marry you.”

The smile dropped from his face. “Then . . . do you mean you won’t?” He looked so desolate that I began to feel quite cheerful.

“You say it is not for my beauty, and it cannot be for my fortune. Once again, therefore, I ask:
why
do you want to marry me?” In truth, I would have married him
whatever
the reason, but still, I wished to understand.

He looked acutely uncomfortable. “Really, I don’t know. I suppose it is because I like quarrelling with you. When I went away to London I meant to forget about you, but I couldn’t—I found I kept arguing with you in my head. I couldn’t concentrate on my work. I made a fool of myself in a meeting with a foundry owner—
you
were there, inside my brain, putting up some utterly ridiculous objection to the terms of the agreement. The man must have thought I was mad.

“In the end I wrote to my mother. She’s a clever woman, my mother. She explained that I was so miserable because I was in love with you. And she said I had better get back to Yorkshire before you married Boring. So I thought I would, just to see if she was right.”

“And was she?” I asked.

His eyes searched my face. What he saw there seemed to hearten him, because a half-smile formed on his lips. “I expect so; my mother generally
is
right.”

I could not help it. I returned his half-smile.

Encouraged, he added, “And
you
like quarrelling with
me
as well, you know you do.”

I abruptly covered my face with a hand to hide a laugh.

“Let us agree that we are marrying so we can go on quarreling in the greatest possible comfort and convenience. Oh, please, Althea,
look
at me. Do say yes.”

I relinquished any attempt to control my amusement at this unconventional declaration of devotion, and laughed aloud. “Oh, very well then, yes! I accept. Yes, sir, I will marry you.”

An expression like the dawn breaking over the moors transformed his face. “Excellent!” he cried. “Let me have your hand on it,” and he proceeded to pump it with great vigor.

“And now that
that
is settled,” he said, sounding very cheerful, “what about something to eat? I’ve the very devil of an appetite.”

“So have I,” I agreed. “Fido! Come along! It’s time to go.”

I took Mr. Fredericks’s arm and, turning our backs on the ruins of Crooked Castle, we wound our way down the hill towards breakfast, and our little dog ran along behind.

FIN

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PATRICE KINDL IS THE author of
Owl in Love
and
Goose Chase
as well as other award-winning novels. She has shared her 1830s home in a small village in rural upstate New York with a wide variety of creatures: monkeys (she trained them to be aides to quadriplegics), birds, cats, dogs, hamsters, and a son. Her current household contains a singing, dancing, talking parrot, a faithful little black and brown dog, an old tiger cat, and a very tolerant husband.

Visit her Web site at www.patricekindl.com.

Books by PATRICE KINDL

Owl in Love

The Woman in the Wall

Goose Chase

Lost in the Labyrinth

Keeping the Castle