Marigold's Marriages (18 page)

Grabbing her skirts, she scrambled inelegantly up to where she’d left her mount, and hauled herself with difficulty onto the sidesaddle. There was no sign of Robin and Jenny as she urged the mare back to Avenbury.

When Marigold arrived back at Avenbury Park and handed her mount to a waiting groom, she saw Rowan leaning on the bridge at the bottom of the formal gardens. He did not seem to have heard her return, for he was gazing pensively down at the water, his top hat swinging idly between his hands. There was something unapproachable and remote about him in that moment, and she hesitated.

What absorbed him to such an extent? The curse? His confrontation with Falk? Or the fact that his mistress would soon be nearby? Whatever it was, his wife needed to speak to him about what had just happened at Romans. Hoping that what he said would allay her fears about Alauda, if not about Falk’s connection with the curse, she smoothed her rather rumpled riding habit, and walked toward him.

Two peacocks moved out of her way, their beautiful tail feathers dragging through some sweet-smelling herbs, so that the fragrance was released. Bees hummed drowsily in the roses, and beyond the bridge and the gently sloping lawns, the lake shimmered in the summer heat. The waterfowl were peaceful, floating upon the waveless surface, or sleeping contentedly at the reedy margins.

As she drew closer to the moat, she became acutely conscious of the dark, looming silence of the standing stones, and when she walked between two of them in order to step onto the bridge, she felt as if they were waiting to pass judgment on her. It was an odd notion, and she ticked herself off for becoming ready to believe absolutely anything.

Suddenly a peacock flew to the top of the stone to her right, and began to call loudly. It gave Marigold such a fright that she cried out, and Rowan immediately turned. He dissembled as he saw it was she, but not before she saw the shadow of brooding irritability on his face. It was gone in an instant, and he smiled. “And did my lady enjoy her ride?” he asked, coming to meet her.

“Yes, thank you,” she lied.

He drew her gloved hand to his lips, and then noticed the grass stains on her clothes. “What happened? Did you fall?”

She didn’t want to admit her inelegant scramble down the slope behind Romans, and so told a white lie. “Yes, but it wasn’t much, just a lack of concentration.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I assure you.”

“You should not have gone without a groom, anything might have happened to you.” He smiled again, and led her to the parapet.

She looked down at the channel of cool, deep water. The banks on either side were cloaked in flowers, from lupines and delphiniums, to sweet williams, pinks, and nasturtiums. At the water’s edge there were exotic rushes and yellow flags. Water lilies, pink and waxy, floated on the moat, and large dragonflies whirred above the surface.

It was such a pleasure to the eye, that she did not want to recall that two hundred and seventy-three years ago, fleeing druids had drowned in these watery depths. But the recollection
was
there, and because of Falk, she had to speak of it now. She wanted him to broach the subject of the tenant at Romans, and so tried to prompt him. “Did you accomplish your tasks?”

“Tasks?”

“The overturned wagon, and then the estate business.”

“Oh, yes.”

She waited for him to mention Falk, but he didn’t say anything more. So she tried to prompt him again. “Was the carrier really brandishing a shotgun?” she asked lightly.

“With great vigor, but I managed to soothe him. The wagon was righted, the spilled load collected, and I should imagine he is delivering it all at Romans at this very moment.”

Why didn’t he mention Falk? Clearly a direct question was required. “Who is the new tenant?” she asked.

“No one I know. His name means nothing to me. Carruthers, I believe.”

Her heart sank like a stone. It wasn’t Falk’s presence he was trying to keep secret, but Alauda’s! Why else would he be so unforthcoming?

“How strange,” she said, “I thought this morning that Beech believed you were acquainted with him. Why else would he think the situation was delicate?”

“I didn’t realize you could hear what we were saying.”

“Only some of it. Wasn’t I supposed to?” She glanced at him.

“It was hardly a secret conversation. Actually, I have no idea why Beech thought it would be delicate.” He pointed along the water. “Look, a kingfisher,” he said in a deliberate ploy to divert her.

Such determination not to say anything reconfirmed her suspicion about his intentions regarding Alauda. Salt tears burned Marigold’s eyes, but she kept them back as she watched the bright blue-green bird dart from the bank into the water, and emerge with a silverfish in its bill. She was hoist with her own petard. How could she now tell him what she’d learned at Romans? To do so would be to expose his lies! Oh, how she wished she’d brought the whole business up at the outset of the conversation, but it was too late now. In a quandary, she leaned over to look at the water again.

Rowan had been watching her profile. “Is something wrong, Marigold?”

“No, of course not. What could possibly be wrong?” Summoning a smile, she faced him again. “You seemed very preoccupied when I got back. What were you thinking about?”

He drew a long breath. “Actually, I was considering your former brother-in-law.”

The reply caught her off guard. Was he about to tell her after all? “Falk? Why?”

“It seems we were right to connect him with Aquila Randol.”

“Oh?” I know, Rowan, for I have heard it from Falk’s own lips...

“Yes. This morning I received a missive from his lawyers, informing me that he is laying claim to my title and estate.”

She looked away, and bit her lip. So that was why he’d raised his voice in the orchard. She thought for a moment. “Rowan, don’t misunderstand what I’m about to say, but is it possible that there is an inkling of truth in the claim? I only ask because Falk seems so amazingly fortunate with the law at the moment.”

“The claim is baseless as far as I know, but I’m certainly not laughing it off. Legal clarification after a span of nearly three hundred years won’t be easy, and the minutest detail will be examined over and over again.”

He put his hand over hers on the parapet. “But whatever happens, you and Perry will remain secure. I can say this because my title and the Avenbury inheritance are not my only income, so I am well able to provide for you. Falk cannot steal everything from you a second time, I promise.”

“Oh, Rowan ...” In spite of her wretchedness over Alauda, her fingers curled in his.

“This is one case Falk Arnold will not win,” Rowan said softly as he pushed a stray curl of her hair back beneath her riding hat. Then he bent his head to brush his lips tenderly over hers.

But tender or not, she knew the gesture meant nothing. He had studiously omitted to say he’d spoken to Falk at Romans less than an hour ago, and thus had not been obliged to mention Alauda’s imminent arrival either. The reason seemed painfully manifest. She drew unhappily away, and glanced back toward the house. “I—I ought to write to Perry. He wants to know all about Avenbury Park.”

“I have things to attend to as well, so I’ll escort you,” Rowan said, and offered her his arm. As they left the bridge, the peacock that had startled her earlier, flew noisily away from the standing stone. Rowan gave a rather forced laugh. “Maybe it fears that the stone is about to do a jig,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s a local nonsense. At certain times of the year, all the stones are supposed to uproot themselves and dance around the village. Then they go down to the water to slake their thirst, before returning to their positions.” Rowan halted, and so she had to as well. “As a matter of curiosity, touch the stone, Marigold.”

“Touch it?”

He nodded. “Some people claim to feel ancient forces. Randol did. I’ve tried, but nothing happens at all, in fact, I’ve never come across anyone who actually experienced anything!”

Slowly she reached out. The stone felt cold and unyielding, just like any stone, but just as she was about to take her hand away again, suddenly a sensation of great heat struck through her fingers. She tried to snatch her hand away, but couldn’t.

The stone seemed to tilt and move, as if the entire henge were revolving. She heard a commotion on the lake as all the waterfowl rose simultaneously. The birds’ noise seemed to thunder through her, and everything began to spin. She saw Robin and Jenny, but they were people, a beautiful young Tudor woman in a russet gown, and her dashing lover in a scarlet doublet and brown hose.

Jenny extended an imploring hand. “You must help us, Marigold! We need you to save us, save us, save us ...” Darkness began to close in from all sides.

Rowan’s arm was strong around her waist as she swayed. “Marigold?”

The darkness retreated, and the world slowly steadied. It was just a warm June day again. Her frightened eyes fled toward the lake, and she saw the waterfowl settling quietly once more. She remembered what Falk had said.
You may have the power, Marigold, but it is as nothing compared to mine.
Was what had just taken place an example of the power he was referring to? If so, he would certainly be amused—and relieved—that she had no idea how to use it!

“Marigold?” Rowan turned her to face him. “What happened?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

“You felt something, didn’t you?”

“Yes. The stone suddenly became intensely hot, and then everything began to turn, like one of those merry-go-rounds at fairs. I heard the birds on the lake ...” Remembering his vulnerability the night before, she made no mention of Robin and Jenny.

“The waterfowl? Yes, something startled them.”

It was me, it was what I did when I touched the stone, she thought, recovering apace and deciding to make light of it. “Anyway, I’m all right now. Maybe it had nothing to do with ancient forces, and I just felt a little faint because I didn’t eat enough breakfast,” she said.

“That must be rectified immediately, come on.” He put his arm around her waist again to support her, but then paused to make her look at him. “I didn’t frighten you with this business of the stones, did I?”

“No, of course not.”

He didn’t seem quite convinced. “Are you really sure?”

“Yes.”

As they continued toward the house, she glanced back over her shoulder. For a moment it seemed the stones were moving again, but it was only an illusion.

Marigold’s wretchedness over Rowan’s untruthfulness was made all the worse that night, because she slept on her own. She had cried herself to sleep, and now awoke just before dawn to find he’d never come to her bed. She lay gazing at the mantelpiece clock, wondering if he was still out, or if he’d returned and gone to his own apartment.

He’d left shortly after dinner the evening before, saying something about assisting his gamekeepers to lie in wait for an organized gang of poachers, and he told her not to stay awake waiting for him. She didn’t believe the story about poachers, for she was convinced that Alauda had now arrived, and somehow had sent a message to him. He and his mistress were keeping a tryst, while his heartbroken wife lay on her own in the marriage bed.

As always in the hours before dawn, all problems assumed monumental proportions. Some of them
were
monumental, of course. The curse, for instance. It was surely impossible to overcome, and even though she now knew she possessed an ability of some sort, not only did she have no idea how it could be employed, but there was no one she could ask.

Then there was her love for Rowan, which second by wretched second seemed increasingly fated to remain unrequited. There were lesser things too, such as the fake note at Berkeley Square, and the false message from “Lady Crane” at Vauxhall Gardens. Alauda had clearly realized about the latter at Vauxhall Gardens, but until now hadn’t yet had a chance to tell Rowan.

As to the matter of the note, the first thing Alauda would demand at the tryst would be why Rowan hadn’t delayed his departure from London and met her as requested. He would cite the second note, of which Alauda would deny all knowledge, and from there it would be a simple matter to deduce that the forger and the mimic were one and the same! Marigold’s stomach churned anxiously. Rowan didn’t want his wife meddling in his private life, but meddle she certainly had. What would he have to say to her when he returned?

Suddenly she felt too unsettled to lie there any longer, so she got up, put on her slippers and the pink muslin robe that lay over a chair, then went to the window. It was misty outside, and she could only make out half the garden. The bridge and moat were obscured, and everything was silent. She turned restlessly back into the room.

When she couldn’t sleep, some hot milk usually worked. Why shouldn’t she do the same here? It would certainly give her something to do, and might take her mind off the endless circle of worries. After dragging a hairbrush through her hair, she left her apartment.

The kitchens were deserted, but she soon found the pail of milk standing in water in the stone trough under the sink. Soon she had a relaxing hot drink to take back to her room, but as she emerged into the hall, the dining-room door caught her attention. It stood slightly ajar, and the night light on the hall table reached faintly as far as Jenny’s portrait. Marigold hesitated. Had she and Rowan missed something vital the other night? Maybe now, when everything was quiet, she could concentrate more. Catching up her skirt, she went into the room.

The longcase clock ticked slowly as she cradled the glass of hot milk in her hands, and gazed at the painting. “Oh, Jenny, I wish I knew what is wanted of me,” she murmured. “I know my help is needed, and I know I have a power, but that is
all
I know! How can I save you and Robin if I don’t know what to do?”

Her attention was drawn to a French window that had recently been installed in the wall, between Jenny’s portrait and the one next to it. The sound that made her look was the familiar tapping of tiny bills upon the glass. With a gasp, she put down the milk, and went to pull back the heavy green velvet curtains.