Mariel (43 page)

Heedlessly she ran down the stairs. Her outstretched hands were grasped, and she was twirled into a loving embrace against a coat covered with a layer of dust. For only the shortest second did her uncle hug her before he put his hands on her face and tilted it back.

“As lovely as I remembered you!” he murmured in a choked tone, which disguised his normally ringing voice. “Have I ever told you how envious I was of your father for discovering your mother before I did?”

“Once or twice,” she replied lightly. Her fingers went automatically to touch his face. “Oh, Uncle Wilford, it is so wonderful to have you home again.”

He did not respond to her teasing or to her welcome. His hands settled over hers as he asked, “How are you doing, Mariel? When Phipps wrote to me and told me about your accident, I thought my heart would break. My lovely Mariel blinded. It is too cruel. There must be something we can do.”

“No, there is nothing,” she whispered with sudden seriousness. “Do not feel that way, Uncle Wilford. I am alive. I know how lucky I am that I did not die in the accident. It doesn't matter anymore.”

“Doesn't matter? Lamb, how can you say that?”

She heard the footsteps behind her and drew out of his arms. “Uncle Wilford, there is someone here I would like you to meet.” Her smile lit the cloudy day as her hand unerringly reached for Ian's. “This is my fiancé, Ian Beckwith-Carter. Ian, my Uncle Wilford.”

Ian stepped down from the last stair. He held out his hand to the startled man. He would have guessed immediately this was Lord Foxbridge after viewing the family portraits in the gallery by the solarium. Like the men in those paintings, Wilford Wythe's gray-tinted hair once must have been ebony. Clear brown eyes regarded him with the same lack of compromise as those stern ancestors of the Wythe family. For all his eccentric behavior, Mariel's uncle embodied the aura of power she had inherited in such large quantity.

“Lord Foxbridge, it is indeed an honor to meet you.”

Wilford's eyes noted the clerical collar as he ignored the proffered hand. “Reverend Beckwith-Carter?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You plan to marry my Mariel?”

“Uncle Wilford—” she started, but he hushed her.

Ian repeated, “Yes, my lord.”

“Why?” When the younger man gazed at him in bafflement, Wilford continued, “Why do you want to marry her? Do you feel sorry for her? Do you see wedding her the act of a good man who will guarantee she is taken care of?”

Seeing the pain on Mariel's face, Ian reached for her hand and drew her into his arms. “You insult your niece, my lord, by insinuating that she is of less value since the automobile accident. I admit you do not know me and, therefore, cannot judge my motives for wanting to marry Mariel. You know her well, however. You should know that she would never accept pity as a recompense for love.”

Expecting a fiery retort to his cold words, Ian stared openmouthed as the lord laughed. He glanced at Mariel and saw her lips twitching. When the peppery lord extended his hand, Ian put his in it and shook it.

“Do not look so confused, Reverend Beckwith-Carter,” he stated in a much more jovial tone. “You have convinced me of your sincere devotion to Mariel. Only a man who loves a woman strongly would leap to her defense so quickly. I just wanted to be sure you were not taking advantage of her in order to gain your son a title.”

“A title?” Instantly he wondered why he sounded so stupid. His hopes of making a good impression on Mariel's uncle were being undermined by his own idiotic statements.

“Mariel is my only living relative. She will inherit the Cloister to pass on to her children. If she has a son, he will gain the title. This is a proud peerage coming down through this family in an unbroken line from the time of the War of the Roses. You did not think of that, Reverend?”

“Stop it!” ordered Mariel with a laugh. “Uncle Wilford, you will be convincing Ian you are going to halt this wedding. Give us your blessing, Uncle.”

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “You know you have it, my dear. Long overdue it is. Now, as you are the lady of this household, why don't you act as a good hostess and invite a cold man into the Cloister for a serving of brandy?”

Mariel slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and did the same with Ian. Walking between the two men she loved most, she listened as they spoke over her head. Once Ian became accustomed to Uncle Wilford's eccentric humor, he would feel more comfortable with him.

They stopped on the front steps while her uncle greeted Muffin, who adored the man nearly as much as Mariel did. In the foyer, she paused to give Dodsley a whispered message. He nodded automatically before remembering to answer her, also quietly. As he watched her hurry to catch up with the two men, who were discussing the lord's latest travels, he shook his head. So often he found himself forgetting Lady Mariel could not see. When she had been so desolate after the accident, he did not suspect she would recover so fully. Even as he was calling for a servant to send on this errand, he breathed a prayer of thanksgiving for the reverend and the love he brought to Lady Mariel.

Mariel's ears caught the furtive footsteps before the men noticed. With a smile, she rose and went to the stairs at the entrance to the solarium. When a trembling hand slipped into hers, she bent to kiss Rosie's cheek. The child's skin remained cool after her carriage ride from Foxbridge.

“Did Mr. Knowles mind you leaving early?” she whispered.

Rosie giggled. “You know he never minds me being gone.”

“Come, darling. I have someone I want you to meet.”

“I know.”

The solemn words warned Mariel that Phipps had been giving the little girl a list of rules on how to behave when she met Lord Foxbridge. Not wanting to undermine her companion's lessons, but knowing the child had nothing to worry about, she decided the easiest thing would be to get this meeting over quickly.

Leading the child across the wide room, she gauged the location of the chairs by noting where the carpet began on the stone floor. She heard the men rise as she approached. She squeezed Rosie's hand to give her courage.

Softly, she said, “Uncle Wilford, this is Rosamunde Varney. The last name is temporary, however. Within a few weeks, it will be Wythe.”

“Then Beckwith-Carter,” the older man said with a chuckle. He leaned over to look at the little girl dressed in a red plaid school dress. White stockings covered her skinny legs. She wore heavy black shoes, and her two braids gleamed with brushing. “You are going to have many names, young lady.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, my lord,” she added hastily, remembering Miss Phipps's many admonishments. Her blue eyes regarded the smiling face before her. Lord Foxbridge was not the ogre she had expected. She had imagined someone as cold as the portraits in the gallery. The twinkle in his eyes reminded her more of the woman holding her hand.

“Why don't you call me Uncle Wilford, Rosamunde?”

“Rosie,” she said quietly. Her eyes widened as she realized her impertinence in correcting a lord.

He grinned. “What a perfect name for you with your cheeks as pink as a rosebud! I am glad you are going to be a part of our family, Rosie.”

When she smiled, revealing the wide gap where her top front teeth barely peeked into her mouth, he laughed. Holding out his hand, he suggested she come and sit next to him. She giggled when he teased her about being his escort while Ian stayed for supper and sat with his future wife.

Mariel smiled with joy as she heard her uncle joke with Rosie as he had with her when she was little. When all three children lived in the Cloister, he had divided his attention among all of them. After Lorraine's death and Georgie's incarceration in the insane asylum, Uncle Wilford had lavished his love on the only child left with the Wythe name.

An arm slipped around her shoulders. She leaned her head against Ian. “I told you everyone worried needlessly,” she said softly. “Uncle Wilford will adore Rosie.”

“And she him,” he agreed.

Their light conversation lasted through dinner. Uncle Wilford kept them entertained with all he had seen in America. Time after time, he used his favorite description of “fascinating.” He found Central America and its remnants of Indian culture fascinating. He thought the plains of the middle of the United States were fascinating. Even the stockyards of Chicago with their pungent odors and earsplitting noise were deemed fascinating.

As predicted, Rosie captured her great-uncle's attention. He roared with laughter when Ian continued to tease her with all the different flower names except her own. Mariel kept to herself her amusement with Phipps' changed behavior. Not once during the meal did she reprimand Rosie for being too boisterous. When Lord Foxbridge told the loudest jokes, she could hardly scold the child for laughing.

While Mariel went with Phipps to put the child to bed, Wilford took the time to draw Ian to one side of the solarium. Without preamble, Lord Foxbridge asked, “Is Mariel speaking the truth? There is nothing that can be done?”

“Nothing. We went to the best man in England. He said the damage is irreparable.” Ian sighed into his glass of brandy. “She is far more accepting of it than the rest of us. Sometimes I think she has adjusted so well, she forgets the truth. We still find ourselves watching each word we say.”

“After all she has suffered, it seems so unfair.”

“I have noticed she speaks of the past so much more easily now. She talks about the good times she shared with Lorraine and Georgie.”

The old man flinched. He lowered his glass to a table and walked to the long windows of the solarium. On the grass, moonlit sparkles of the fallen rain danced. He turned and said in a pleading voice, “Take care of her, Ian. I know she has always feared that the sickness that took Georgie from us would inflict her or her children. Other suitors could not understand why she would not let them court her. She has been afraid of marriage for this simple reason. Yet what she fears is impossible. Her cousin suffered from a horrible series of convulsions before she was born. Those unbalanced his mind.”

“Doesn't she know that?”

“Here.” He pointed to his head, then to the center of his chest. “In her mind, but not in her heart. She adored her cousin. None of us thought Georgie would harm the girls, although he could not hide his dislike for Lorraine. When Ambrose and Emma died in the epidemic shortly after the twins turned three, we saw nothing strange with their childlike cousin playing with them.”

Ian put his hand consolingly on the man's arm. “I am sorry, Wilford. If it helps, I know Mariel mourns deeply for her cousin.”

“As he did for her. The whole time he lived in that horrible place, he never once asked for me or anyone else in the Cloister. Only for Mariel. The staff told me that often in the reports they sent here. When he began to appear well, they urged me to bring her to visit him. I could not take her to that place.” His dark eyes showed the memories that haunted him. He recalled the rooms where the inmates were bound, to protect themselves and others. The scent of human waste and sickness could never be washed from his memory. Softly he said, “That was no place for a sensitive child like Mariel. Then the fire destroyed any chance of my son becoming normal again. I regret so much I did not let Georgie see her one final time.”

“You never told me that, Uncle.”

The two men glanced over their shoulders to see Mariel standing on the steps of the solarium. Deep in conversation, they had not heard her dainty footsteps on the silent stones. She walked to her uncle and reached for his hands. He put his much larger ones in hers.

“I'm sorry, Mariel. I should have known you were strong enough to see the hell where your cousin lived his last years.”

Tears brightened her eyes. “For the past year, I feared Georgie died hating me for what I said to him that night when he lost control.”

“What you said?”

She shook her head. “You would not understand, for it was something only children can share. I did not hate him, even that night. I hated what he could become, but I never stopped loving Georgie. I am glad to know that he forgave me.”

“If it comforts you, my dear, I am sure he did not remember anything you said to him while he was in the midst of his mental aberration. He listened only to the ‘voices,' as he called them.” In explanation for Ian, he added, “Georgie was haunted by demons, which spoke only to him. At first, when he was small, we thought he was using those ‘voices' as an excuse for childish misdeeds. Then we learned how wrong we were.”

“Poor soul,” murmured Ian. “I hope he has found peace.”

“I hope so, too.” Wilford shook himself physically to push aside the thoughts. “Enough dreary talk of the past. I understand we will be having a wedding soon. Let us talk about that instead.”

Mariel smiled as they worked to forget the past that haunted them. She listened to the men talk and added her convivial comments. As she had guessed, everything would be wonderful when her uncle came home. For the first time in many years, she did not fear the future.

Mariel wanted to refuse the suggestion that Reverend Tanner marry them in the small church in the village. No one mentioned that most previous Wythe brides had been married in the chapel in the old Cloister. Now, only a pile of tumbled and scorched stones, it would never be used for such services again.

“Ian, I do not want that old hypocrite reading our wedding rite.”

He laughed as he turned the carriage onto the well traveled road leading south. Reverend Tanner had retired to a small cottage overlooking the ocean which infected all who lived near it with a lifelong devotion. “What do you suggest, sweetheart? That I marry us?”

“You two aren't the only ministers in this area. There is Reverend Allen, and Reverend Eckert.”

“Reverend Allen is busy with another wedding that day. Eckert is in Bristol on a well deserved vacation.” He squeezed her fingers. “We could delay the date for a few weeks if you wish.”