Marjorie Farrell (20 page)

Gareth had decided that they would stop at Thorne on their way south. He wanted to visit with his aunt and he needed to begin his acquaintance with the estate.

He realized that it was no longer necessary to keep up the pretense of being only a sheep farmer. Arden had had the whole summer to come to love him. If she didn’t care by now, then it was foolish to keep Thorne a secret, for it mattered not a whit whether he was a marquess or not. He had to admit that a small part of him wanted to see her surprise and wanted to see regret on her face: regret that in rejecting Captain Richmond she had rejected a respectable marriage. He wanted to see some sadness on her face, even if it was only for the material loss.

When he told Arden when they were leaving, he requested that she only pack what she needed for a few weeks. “I will send the rest of your belongings on to Stalbridge later,” he explained. “I don’t want to involve us in explanations or final farewells now. I’ll tell Janie the truth when I return.”

Arden agreed quickly. She had become very fond of Janie and had not been looking forward to their good-bye. When the day finally came, however, it was all she could do to give Janie a quick hug and not fall weeping into her arms. She had already given Guinevere a farewell embrace, and earlier that morning, had found herself laughing and crying as she attempted to pack.

Every time she turned away from the neatly folded clothes on the bed to pull something out of the wardrobe, Mott settled himself down on top of them. She would pick him up, drop him, add another night rail or shift to the pile, only to find him back, purring contentedly when she turned her back. At one point, when she was poised to drop him, she suddenly buried her face in his fur and cried. “I will miss you, you pesky animal you,” she muttered. He just looked at her when she lifted her face, his golden eyes as opaque as agates.

* * * *

It took them two days to reach Thorne, which was south of York. Arden tried to draw Gareth out about his aunt. “Why is she known as the Methodist Marchioness?” asked Arden on their second day of travel. “Is she a religious fanatic or wont to go preaching in the open fields?” Without realizing it, Arden was using her old sarcastic tone. Although she had met “Aunt Kate” outside the church, she had made no connection with that small, plump woman and the mental picture she was drawing of a thin-lipped old woman with scraped-black hair, a religious version of her Aunt Millicent.

Gareth smiled to himself at the thought of his rather shy aunt preaching to a crowd. “Actually, the name is a misnomer. She did meet John Wesley before he died and was very impressed by his sincerity. But he never formally broke with the Church and neither did she. But she has been greatly influenced by the Evangelicals and believes that attendance at church is not all it takes to live a Christian life.”

“And what does she do?” inquired Arden in a slightly waspish tone, a little annoyed that Gareth so clearly admired this “saintly” aunt. “Take soup and bread to the local workhouse? Or distribute religious tracts to the poor?”

Gareth had been going to make some sort of general reply about how his aunt worked directly with poor women, but annoyed by Arden’s tone, decided to tell her the truth.

“Well, actually, she discovered her calling in London.”

“Yes?”

“One night, coming out of the theater she was accosted by a whore begging for money and carrying a child who was quite obviously infected with the pox. Instead of just giving her money and pushing her aside, Aunt Kate started questioning the woman about the circumstances of her life.” Gareth almost laughed out loud at the expression on Arden’s face. “The Fashionably Impure are better educated, it would seem, in the methods of preventing disease and conception, but your street whore is usually illiterate and lacking any sort of hygienic information.”

“Your Aunt Kate, whom we met outside the church, she is the marchioness?”

“Yes,” answered Gareth, waiting for Arden to draw conclusions, since it was now clear that Aunt Kate was also a marquess’s widow. But Arden was far more caught up in his aunt’s activities to begin asking herself who the new marquess was.

“And so your aunt tries to rescue girls from this life?”

“Sometimes, if a girl is clearly new to the life of the street, my aunt will ask her if she wishes an opportunity to learn another, uh, trade, and sends her to Thorne. But Aunt Kate is nothing if not a realist. She does not try to convert. She does give out pamphlets, but they are about hygiene and not religion.”

“Hygiene?” said Arden, almost afraid to inquire.

“Well, that is a general term, isn’t it? Actually, her tracts describe in words and drawings, just how to prevent conception and the pox. Her concern, you see, is primarily for their bodies, riot their souls.”

“You said she questions them. Does she do so personally?”

“Oh, yes,” grinned Gareth. “But she’s not stupid, my aunt. She hired an ex-pugilist to accompany her. He knows the foulest parts of the city like the back of his hand. And she is known now, at least in some districts. And so the people themselves protect her.”

“And did your uncle approve of her activities?” Arden found it hard to imagine a peer of the realm putting up with such behavior.

“Oh, he was worried for her safety, but as soon as she hired Absolution…”

“Absolution?”

“Absolution Grimes. Her bodyguard. Now
he
is one of your ranting Methodists, my dear. In fact, my aunt had to make him promise he would do no preaching on her time. But I fear she hasn’t been able to keep him from slipping a religious tract or two in amongst her pamphlets.”

Gareth’s spirits lifted considerably as he spoke of his aunt. He had taken her activities for granted for so long that he no longer thought them odd. But the expressions that flitted across Arden’s face were worth the recitation of the eccentricities of his relative.

* * * *

By the time they reached Thorne, Arden hardly knew what to expect. Would the estate be overrun by prostitutes and their children? And what would the marchioness be like? And would the new marquess be in residence? Gareth had not mentioned any cousins, but surely the new heir would be present to support the dowager in her bereavement.

They went through the village quickly, passing the inn where they had shared a bed. The countryside was different from Sedbusk, for Thorne was surrounded by wetlands that were in the process of being reclaimed from bog. The drive up to the house was not long, and on either side of them, Arden saw the ever-present sheep.

The house was impressive. Although nowhere near as large as Stalbridge, it was all one style and , therefore, more aesthetically pleasing. The right wing looked a bit newer than the main part of the house, which clearly dated back to the early seventeenth century.

Gareth handed her down from the chaise, and as they walked up the front steps, the dark oak door swung open and two footmen appeared to fetch their luggage. Behind them appeared a surprisingly young-looking butler, quite dignified, but with an air of suppressed energy.

“It is wonderful to see you, my lord,” he said, “and to welcome the new Marchioness of Thorne,” he continued as he turned and bowed to Arden. “Let me inform your aunt of your arrival.”

The butler turned on his heel and walked briskly ahead of them. Instead of following Gareth in, Arden stood in the doorway, trying to make sense of the butler’s greeting. Perhaps Gareth had never mentioned his cousin because there
was
no cousin? Was it possible that Gareth was his uncle’s heir and the new Marquess of Thorne? Surely she would have heard of it through London gossip? And surely he would have told her himself, if it were true, in the hopes of reconciling her to their marriage?

“Arden?” Gareth’s voice broke in on her musings and she quickly walked to his side, propelled by a growing indignation, which was mixed with sadness.

“Is this indeed true?” she demanded. “Did the butler just greet us as the new marquess and marchioness?”

“I am afraid it is true, my lady,” admitted Gareth, wondering how she would respond.

“Why did you never tell me?” she asked quietly. “Wasn’t it enough that you and Father determined my fate between you? Was my ignorance supposed to make me look a fool at the end?”

Gareth had imagined this scene more than a few times. In his favorite fantasy, Arden would have come to love him as Captain Richmond, the sheep farmer. His announcement of his real status would have come as her reward for her unselfishness. As her husband, he would give her a title and a position higher than the one she was born into and she would be suitably touched and grateful.

Unfortunately, he had never pictured it quite this way. He was not bringing home a loving wife, but an unhappy one, and only for a short visit before he returned her to her father’s house. She was clearly not overwhelming him with humble gratitude, but looking at him with an anger reined in by good manners and pride. To her, his secretiveness looked like an insult, further evidence of how he and her father had manipulated her.

“I never meant to make you look foolish, Arden.” But even as Gareth said the words, he wondered. Had his own pride been wounded by Arden’s dismissal of him as a “Captain Rudesby” and had he wanted not to make her look foolish exactly, but to make her grateful to him for his condescension? Had he wanted the tables turned neatly at the end, with the Insufferable Arden come to her senses?

He now marveled at his own stupidity. He
had
wanted her to love him for himself, despite his rank, or lack of it. He had not really wanted her humiliation, yet he feared that was precisely what had happened.

“Gareth, my dear, it is good to have you here at last.” The strained silence was broken by a sweet clear voice and Arden saw the small lady she remembered from her wedding day approaching with both her hands out. Gareth took them and let himself be pulled into her embrace.

The dowager marchioness was dressed in black, of course, but the silk dress she wore softened her rather than making her appear stiff or remote. She was motherly, and Arden could hardly imagine this sweet woman amongst the whores and thieves of London.

When the marchioness turned to her, Arden was still standing stiff with anger. She was disarmed, however, when she felt her tall self also drawn into Lady Thorne’s arms. Although a piece of her still stood outside and watched with amusement, more of her was touched by Lady Thorne’s genuine affection for her nephew’s new wife. Considering that she was to be replaced by Arden, her response was generous indeed. Of course, she had no way of knowing the state of things between Arden and Gareth.

Here Arden was wrong. Lady Thorne had not survived Seven Dials because of naive innocence. She had a natural instinctive sense of what people were feeling. She knew exactly which prostitutes were open to her approach, which groups of people to avoid and when to leave immediately before a fracas broke out. She knew, as she embraced her nephew and his wife, that something was wrong between them. Whether it was a momentary quarrel, or a more lasting hostility generated by the circumstances of their marriage, she did not know, but intended to find out.

“You must be exhausted, my dears. Gareth, show Arden up to the main bedroom. I have had my things moved out and done a little redecorating, in honor of the new lady of the house.”

Arden and Gareth glanced at each other over his aunt’s head. For once they were united, sharing embarrassment and even a little shame at their unwitting deception.

“And you, Gareth, are in the adjoining chamber. Now go up with Parry, both of you,” she continued, summoning the butler, “and take all the time you need to rest and wash up. I have ordered supper for a little later than usual this evening, since I wasn’t sure when you would be arriving.”

Arden was quite relieved that Gareth’s aunt and uncle had not shared a bedchamber. As angry and hurt as she was, she didn’t think it would be enough to protect her from her desire for him were they to sleep in one bed.

The room was charming: light and airy and hung in a pale green and white. The bed was covered in a darker shade of green, and Arden, having dismissed the butler, lay back on it, relieved to be able to stretch out her legs at last, after all the hours in the carriage. She was asleep before she knew it, and found herself dreaming she was out on the fell, climbing toward a figure in an old black coat, clearly Gabriel Crabtree. Yet when she reached him, he turned, and she saw that it was Gareth’s face under the battered old hat. She was bringing him his lunch and a bottle of ale. She placed the food on the ground and was about to return to the old hut, when Gareth swept her into his arms, arms now clad in the softest superfine. He had been transformed instantly, as happens in dreams, and she awoke distressed by the swift change and by a feeling of disappointment. Perhaps the old Arden found she missed her “Captain Rudesby.” She had come to admire and appreciate the hard-working sheep farmer she had married, as well as to love him. Could she love him in his new guise? And what did it matter, since he did not love her? Arden stretched like a cat, and looking out the window, saw from the fading light that it was later than she had thought, and she had best dress for supper.

She needed help, and since she had no maid and did not care to wander an unfamiliar house in search of one, realized she would have to ask for Gareth’s assistance once again.

She knocked softly at his door and heard him say “Come in.” She was happy to see that he was almost dressed, and only putting the finishing touches on his cravat.

“You gentlemen are luckier than ladies,” she said lightly. “You can survive, if you have to, without a valet, while we are oftener in need of assistance. I fear I must again ask for help, since I cannot fasten this particular dress on my own.”

“Gladly,” said Gareth. He tried very hard not to brush her neck, but it was impossible to do the job without touching her, however fleetingly. Arden shivered as she felt him, and resolved that for the rest of their trip she would only wear dresses that she could fasten herself. She knew she could no longer stand this false intimacy when what she wanted was a true marriage. Her anger at Gareth’s deception was still there, but so was her love.