Mariel (2 page)

His retirement should have come as a relief, but instead she would be saddled with this new, more irritating minister. That she had backed down during this first encounter must not have any bearing on their future meetings. She was so exhausted and was burdened with the task of writing to her uncle to inform him of the damage to his home. Otherwise her usually sharp wits would have found a way to send the new parson back to town after ordering him to leave her in peace.

She stormed into her room. It was situated across the hall from the master suite where her uncle slept when he resided in the Cloister. Her rooms were almost as grand, for she had had all the suites of the massive house to use in shopping to select the furniture she wanted.

The sitting room, in its pale shades of blue, was empty as she swept through it. She ignored the quiescent fireplace and the shelves of books. Too often had she seen the comfortable chairs and large desk to notice them when she was lost in her outrage.

Her bedroom overlooked the ocean on the western side of the house. She loved this room because she was never without the changing temper of nature. Wind, rain, and sun struck uncompromisingly on this side of the house. She reveled in the difference of each day.

Throwing her hat on the clean covers of her tester bed, she caught her reflection in the cheval glass and scowled. Stamping past her dressing table and the couch where she often read late into the night, she glared at her own dirty face. That she had met the new minister while she looked as if she had been cleaning chimney pots added to her fury. She rubbed some of the ashes from her cheek, but succeeded only in making a wider streak across her face.

She shouted for her companion Phipps as she stripped off her gown. Only by getting this aggravating, social obligation completed could she be rid of Reverend Beckwith-Carter. She forced his handsome face from her mind and concentrated on his officious attitude. Already she could tell the man would prove to be intolerable. Grimacing at her image in the dressing-table mirror, she winced while trying to brush the ashes from her tangled hair.

She paused in mid-stroke as the gray flakes dropped around her like dirty snow. Sorrow dimmed the rage within her. Uncle Wilford, who bore the title of Lord Foxbridge, loved this house as she did. So often when she was younger, he would lead her by the hand and point out the beauty of the ancient house. Together they had frequently stood on the parapets. Leaning on the machicolations between each tooth of stone, they would watch the sun disappear into the ocean at their back door.

Where was Uncle Wilford now? She reached for a well-read letter. The postmark had been blurred by its transatlantic journey: United States of America. She hoped he liked it better than he had Panama. He wrote of mosquitoes and humidity that left him drenched. She was glad to know he was away from there. With the tense situation between Spain and the war-hungry United States, Central America was not safe for travelers.

Tonight she could not delay writing to him at the British embassy, which would forward any correspondence to him at his most current address. She could not soften the news. Her uncle had known such sorrow in the past decade. She did not want to augment it, but she had no choice.

Her frustration with the situation fueled her rage with the new parson's impertinent assumption that she gladly would set aside time in her day for him. She smiled wickedly. There were ways of dealing with such problems. She had done it before. Reverend Beckwith-Carter might be surprised with the result of his presumption.

Walking slowly across the beautifully trimmed lawns of the estate, the object of Mariel's rage simply enjoyed the perfection around him. This lush garden did not resemble the crowded yards of London or even the green carpet of his family's country home. Established here at the time of the birth of the Church of England, it had become one with its surroundings, like the Cloister itself.

He admired the lines of the house, trying to ignore the scorch marks on the stones. Stained glass twinkled at him in the sunshine. Three floors high, the building had weathered over time to match the color of the sea on a cloudy day.

Steps led up from the drive to a pair of plain-looking doors. A servant opened one as the new minister approached it. Curiosity emanated from his elderly face as he asked, “Did you find her, Reverend?”

“Yes, thank you.” He stepped into the foyer, noting what he had seen before. A thick, oak banister wove its way up the stairs to showcase an intricate window on a landing. From the first floor, he could not determine its exact pattern, but he suspected it was a depiction of the family crest. “Will you direct me to the front parlor? Lady Mariel asked me to meet her there.”

The butler could not hide his shock. “Are you sure you understood her correctly?”

Ian laughed shortly. He did not need to tell the impeccably dressed man that he had been forewarned by many about the headstrong Lady Mariel Wythe. Those who had spoken to him had exaggerated neither her stubborn nature nor her incredible beauty. He did not intend to let her waylay him from doing the work he had come here to do.

“The front parlor she said,” he answered.

Dodsley, the butler, nodded. He appreciated the parson intentionally misunderstanding
him
. It would not be proper to show that Lady Mariel seldom bound herself to such normal conventions of behavior. “Please follow me, sir.”

The room to which he led the auburn-haired man was warm with spring sunshine. After the butler said he would see to the tea tray, Ian sat on a green upholstered sofa. He glanced at the fine collection of antiques. Some of the pieces looked as if they had been purchased at the time the house was built. Heavy with wood and dark with age, they clustered in the corners of the huge room. Near the center, where he sat, the furniture was of a more current style, with horsehair upholstery and carved rosewood arms and legs. To one side, a huge piano waited with its keyboard exposed. He smiled as he noted it had not been draped to hide its legs, as society dictated was proper. He should have guessed Lady Mariel's family would not accept such prudish practices. From her outspoken reaction at their meeting, he was sure that she did exactly as she wished.

The musical instrument sat beneath a portrait of a woman dressed in the Elizabethan style. Her coloring matched Lady Mariel's enough for him to guess this must be some distant ancestress of hers. He dismissed the portrait as he glanced at the ceiling. A plaster ceiling medallion was surrounded by designs he could see needed refurbishing. Like the weathered stone on the outside of the Cloister, the interior showed signs of its many centuries. He rose politely as Lady Mariel Wythe entered the room accompanied by another woman and, surprisingly, an enthusiastic spaniel. He ignored the black and brown dappled dog as he regarded his hostess. Although his face remained serene, he was shocked by the transformation. The dirty-faced scamp had become the archetype of a titled lady in this sixtieth year of Queen Victoria's illustrious reign.

Her gown of deep green perfectly accented the decor of the room. Black lace hung from the high collar and draped across the front to hide the curves of her body. Matching lace at the cuffs accented the glistening sable of her hair, now demurely pulled back in a perfectly coiffed bun. The one thing that had not changed were her snapping eyes. They looked at him and away, obviously dismissing him as nothing more than a pest.

“Reverend Beckwith-Carter, please sit down,” she said with what he knew was mock warmth. “Tea should be here soon. I anticipated that you would like refreshments before your journey back to Foxbridge.”

“Assuredly, my lady.” He hid his smile and his glance shifted to the other woman in the room. Her position as companion to the irascible Lady Mariel Wythe was proclaimed by her severe dress and the conservative style of her iron-gray hair.

“This is Amanda Phipps,” Mariel said offhandedly. “She wishes to join our conversation, for she has wanted to meet you.” She did not add that she had been disgruntled to have Phipps announce she was attending this meeting. Having her companion with her would mean she must watch her tongue. She did not want to distress Miss Phipps again by being impertinent to a man of the cloth.

Ian shook the older woman's hand gravely. “Miss Phipps.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Reverend,” she said in her scratchy voice.

“Reverend Beckwith-Carter?” Mariel asked sharply. “I meant to ask you before. Are you related to the family at Beckwith Grange?”

He returned his attention to Lady Mariel, and willingly. She was lovely, and he admitted to himself that he enjoyed looking at her. He was glad others had prepared him for facing this adversary.

“Distantly. I do have cousins at the Carters's home of Avelet Court to the north of Foxbridge. As they are related to your neighbors, I assume I must be as well.”

“Do sit,” she repeated. When she saw he would not until the ladies did, she dropped to a settee. Her lips tightened as he sat next to her. To rise and choose another chair would be too impolite.

Mariel shook her head absently as Phipps asked if she wanted to pour. Such rituals did not appeal to her today. All she wanted was to have this meeting over so she could escape to the privacy of her room and the pain burning as hotly as the fire which had destroyed the old Cloister. She glanced down at the dog lying by her side and wondered how people could not understand her anguish when the spaniel did so readily.

She glanced up to see the minister watching her with an amused expression on his face. Tightly, she stated, “This is Muffin.”

“Muffin?” Ian could not halt his laugh. The idea that the coldly correct Lady Mariel Wythe had given her dog such a charmingly sweet name was amusing.

“Is there something wrong with that? I don't believe it's a curse unfit for the ears of a godly man.” A glare from Miss Phipps warned her to be silent, but Mariel felt rebellion bubbling within her. After all, she had not invited the minister to the Cloister. That she must suffer his mockery simply because he wore an ecclesiastical collar seemed the worst kind of foolishness. She refused to be intimidated by her companion. Passing a filled cup to her guest, she did not look at him. Crisply she asked, “What do you want with me, Reverend?”

“Lady Mariel,” he said quickly as he heard Miss Phipps's sharp intake of breath. He saw a scowl aimed at her charge. It was evident his hostess was more bothered by his presence than he suspected. With a silent chuckle, he wondered what had been discussed upstairs. “I have come simply to make your acquaintance. I had understood you were at home on Thursdays.”

“You could have delayed a day or two.” She did not meet his eyes as she stirred her tea endlessly.

He said in a hushed tone, “I was very sorry to hear about the fire. I had no idea the damage was so extensive until I walked through there myself. Can you salvage any of it?”

“I don't know.” Her voice softened again as she spoke of the house. “It doesn't seem possible the old Cloister is gone. It has weathered so much and watched all the changes of modern England. Now it is gone.”

Her blue eyes rose to meet his. As he expressed his sympathy for her loss, he saw something other than rage in her volatile eyes. He could tell that for her the old Cloister was more than a building. A bit of her had died with its destruction.

This side of Mariel Wythe he had not been told about by those eager to introduce him to all the gossip of the shire. He had listened with half an ear to what was said, for he liked to form his own opinions of people.

“Will you rebuild?”

“Why? The building was an anachronism.” She shrugged. “It is Uncle Wilford's decision.” When he regarded her with confusion, she explained, “Wilford Wythe is the name of the current Lord Foxbridge. He is abroad now.”

Miss Phipps spoke when the silence swelled to eat at them. Her questions of how he liked Foxbridge and his new position were ones he had answered often since his arrival.

He gave her the appropriate replies—he had honed them to perfection—while his eyes strayed again and again to the woman next to him.

She did not taste her tea or take a cake from the plate offered by Miss Phipps. Such a rigid stance he had seen taken by those who tried to mask the mourning for a family member. Never for a pile of stone. When he inadvertently cut off Miss Phipps in mid-word by turning to the younger woman, he noticed nothing but the sorrow billowing out like a dark cloud from Lady Mariel.

“I understand you are very involved in community projects, Lady Mariel.”

Starting, she looked up at him in surprise. Lost in her grief while she mentally composed the letter to her uncle, she had forgotten Reverend Beckwith-Carter sat next to her. Drawing a shade over the vulnerable openness of her face, she straightened and said, “Yes, I am. It has long been the policy of the Wythes to be concerned with the welfare of the shire. I am simply continuing that tradition.”

“I would be intrigued to hear about it.”

“Would you?” She bit back the words she wanted to hurl at his perfectly composed, too handsome face. If only his hair did not curl so correctly across his forehead or his collar fold exactly as style commanded. Then she might not have made every effort to unruffle him to repay him for invading her home during her grief. She did not like people who made her feel inadequate.

“Yes, my lady. I have heard—”

“I am sure you have.” She rose, forcing him to do the same. She smiled coldly. Sometimes convention could be used to her advantage instead of being simply a prison. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation at a later date.”

Ignoring Miss Phipps's hissed displeasure at his hostess, Ian nodded. He lowered his untouched cup of tea to the tray. He picked up his cane and dark hat. When he offered her his hand, she pretended not to see it and became involved with rearranging the tea table.

“When would be convenient?” he asked.