Miss Marianne's Disgrace (10 page)

‘Why do you stand by Miss Domville instead of joining with Lady Cartwright and the others?' he asked, needing to discuss something else.

His mother clasped her hands in front of her stomach as she used to do when explaining the rules to a new pupil at his father's school. ‘In all my years at the vicarage, more than one young lady in a difficult circumstance came to me for advice. When I used to listen to their stories, I could always tell which ones had eagerly gone to the man and which ones had genuinely been led astray. The ruined young ladies, despite their unfortunate experience, lacked a worldliness which the eager ones couldn't hide. Miss Domville has the same innocence as those misled young ladies. Whatever she'd been accused of, she hasn't done it. I'm as sure of it as you and the Falconbridges.' His mother turned to him, as serious as the day she'd sat him down in the vicarage garden when he was fourteen to tell him of the weakness invading his father's lungs. ‘Be very clear about what it is you want from her. If you break her heart, she won't recover like one of your London widows.'

Warren blanched. ‘What London widows?'

She wagged one finger at him. ‘Don't think I don't know what you get up to when we're in town.'

He crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to discuss his non-writing activities with his mother. ‘I want nothing more from Miss Domville than her inspiration. She's well aware of it and expects nothing more from me. Maybe in a few years I'll consider taking a wife, but I won't ask a young lady to wait on my whims to see herself settled.'

His mother shook her head in disappointment. ‘You're work isn't everything, Warren.'

The muscles in his neck tightened as the peace of Marianne's presence faded. With her, for a short while, he'd been able to forget all the demands pressing down on him. They returned now with as much potency as the afternoon sun on the lawn. ‘It's everything we have to live on.'

He left the tranquillity of the front garden and went back inside, passing the dull armour and swords adorning the hall as he returned to his desk. He'd vowed long ago to work hard and make enough so he and those he loved would never be in poverty, or forced to endure the same horrors he had as a young man. He couldn't allow a pretty face or some misguided need for sympathy to deter him from his goals. Even if the lady had money, if he didn't, it meant nothing. He wouldn't depend on others. He'd discovered what a mistake it was to do so during the year they'd lived with his uncle.

He entered his study and stepped over Lancelot where he lay in the centre of the room. Seating himself at his desk, Warren took up his pen. He'd had been distracted enough by Marianne already. It was time to write, even if it took him a full hour to stop tilting his head to listen for Marianne's playing. The lingering scent of her perfume kept convincing him she was mere feet away.

* * *

‘We've been invited to Lady Astley's musical evening next week,' Lady Ellington announced as the carriage carried them to the Girls' School on the far side of the village.

‘Must we go?' Marianne sighed. ‘It's bad enough I have to face her this afternoon as a school patroness, but at her house? The woman isn't much better than Lady Cartwright. Why must she and the others always be so rude to me?'

‘Lady Cartwright is one of those unhappy people who, instead of looking for ways to build herself up, rips others down. All is not well between Lady Astley and her husband and I believe Lady Preston is ashamed of her past. She might be a baroness, but I don't think she's ever been comfortable with the change from merchant's daughter to titled lady. It's difficult enough at times for those of us born to it. I can only imagine what it must be like for her, and Sir Warren.'

‘He seems to have taken to it well enough.' With the exception of the Falconbridges, it was yet another argument for ignoring the society of toffs, of which Sir Warren was a part, though not really. He'd raised himself up from humble beginnings and filled his coffers every day through his work. She admired him for his accomplishments. It was more than most men she'd encountered were willing to do.

‘He's sure to be at the musical evening which is a good reason for you to attend.'

‘Is it?' She wasn't so certain, especially not after their time alone together today.

‘Or as a reason to purchase a new dress, something to play up your less musical talents.' Lady Ellington circled her hand at Marianne's abundant chest hidden beneath her fichu and the restraining influence of her stays. ‘I saw the most beautiful pattern for a blue ball gown in my lady's magazine. It would bring out your eyes.'

Her eyes weren't the only thing a more revealing dress would bring out. In the past, the few men who'd seen her wear the single gown she owned which accentuated her décolletage had lost their ability to speak. Unfortunately, they had retained excellent control of their pawing hands. Yet it wasn't so much them she imagined seeing her in the dress as Warren. It was almost enough to make her agree to having it done up. ‘I can't. If I wear anything too revealing, everyone will call me a tart.'

They called her one anyway, even while she dressed like a nun. Warren didn't. When he'd stood over her in the cloister and today when he'd held her hand in the drive, he'd viewed her as if she were the most magnificent thing he'd ever seen. Marianne rubbed the palm of her hand, the pressure of Warren's skin against hers still vivid. She'd arrived at Priorton this morning determined to be friendly with him, but during their time together, something more than comfort or companionship had curled between them. It was something she was hesitant to consider. He was no more interested in courting than she was, and if she allowed her emotions to run away with her, who knew what mistakes it might lead to, or what weaknesses in her it might reveal.

‘We're here,' Lady Ellington announced as the carriage rocked to a stop in front of a modest two-storey brick house.

With a sigh, Marianne followed the Dowager out of the carriage, wishing she could forgo this meeting, but she couldn't. To do so would mean giving the other patronesses complete control of the school and she didn't trust them to be generous to the orphan girls being trained for service. She and Lady Ellington had helped re-found the school last year after it had almost faltered due to a lack of funds. In doing so, they'd been forced to take on other patronesses such as Lady Preston and Lady Astley who were as free with their censure as their financial help. At least with Lady Ellington involved, the other ladies were forced to maintain a touch of decorum where Marianne was concerned.

Marianne followed Lady Ellington into the school, nodding and smiling to the little girls lined up on either side of the front walk to greet them.

‘Welcome, Lady Ellington and Miss Domville,' Miss Speith, the slender assistant headmistress, sang out as they stepped inside. Beside her stood Mary, the oldest girl of ten with wildly curly hair.

‘Good day, Mary. Here's the sheet music I promised you.' Marianne handed her the new sheet music recently arrived from London.

‘Thank you, Miss Domville.' Mary clasped the music to her chest as if it were a gold sovereign. The reaction warmed and saddened Marianne. Like her, Marianne had fed off small kindnesses as a child too. There'd been few people to offer them to her. Not even Mrs Nichols, who'd had so many girls to take care of at the Protestant School, had been attentive enough.

Marianne and Lady Ellington proceeded into the dining room in the centre of the house. Like every other room it was sparse, decorated for purpose rather than pleasure. With books needing to be purchased along with food and material for clothes, there wasn't much reason to spend money on pictures. Some day, when the school was financially secure, Marianne would see it more cheerily done up.

‘Good afternoon, ladies,' Mrs Croft, the long-faced headmistress with pince-nez glasses on the bridge of her nose, greeted. Marianne and Lady Ellington took their seat at the table across from Lady Menton, Lady Preston and Lady Astley.

Once everyone was settled, Mrs Croft picked up the pen beside her and looked over the list of topics in the journal before her. ‘The first item to discuss is—'

As Mrs Croft led the meeting, Marianne braced herself against the other women's narrow-eyed stares, doing her best to ignore them. She'd heard enough rumours from the servants, especially about Lady Preston, to know they were no saints and yet they dared to sneer at her. If only she had the fortitude to meet their derision by calling out their sins directly to their faces. She'd catch hell for being so bold, but it might be worth it to see Lady Preston go pale beneath her overly red hair.

‘Miss Domville, if you're to be a part of these meetings we need your full attention,' Mrs Croft chided as though Marianne was one of her students.

She sat up straighter in her chair, refusing to be rebuked. ‘I'm part of these meetings because my money helps fund this school.'

‘And we thank you for your generosity,' Mrs Croft mumbled before returning to her list. ‘As I was saying, I think it best to forgo the Christmas boxes this year.'

‘No, we can't do away with them,' Marianne protested. ‘Not every girl has a family to send her presents.' If it hadn't been for Mrs Nichols giving her the gold pinky ring the Christmas she'd turned ten, Marianne never would have received one yuletide gift during all her years at the Protestant School.

‘I realise it will be a disappointment...' Mrs Croft peered over her pince-nez ‘...but our duty is to prepare these girls for their futures. For most of them, life won't be pretty boxes of sweets at Christmas.'

Marianne gripped the arms of her chair as she struggled to remain polite. ‘Some of these girls have suffered enough hardships without being denied a little treat at a festive time of year. I'll pay for the boxes myself to ensure they have them.'

‘That's very generous of you, Miss Domville, but I think—'

‘It's a wonderful idea,' Lady Ellington cut off Mrs Croft. ‘Don't you agree, Lady Menton?'

Lady Menton paled, but was prudent enough to agree, especially with Lord Falconbridge backing her son, and Theresa's husband, for MP. ‘I do.'

‘I do, too,' Lady Astley mumbled, following Lady Ellington's none-too-subtle hint. The Baron's wife didn't possess so pressing a reason to align herself with Lady Ellington except the pleasure of having more illustrious guests than the local farmers and tradesmen at her musical evening. Lady Preston nodded as if it physically hurt her to agree, too awed by the Dowager's lineage to openly defy her.

‘Then it's settled. Mrs Croft, you may continue with the meeting,' Lady Ellington instructed.

The headmistress scratched the item off her list with a flick of her bony wrist. ‘The next issue concerns the reading-book selection.'

While she spoke, Marianne silently seethed. Despite all Marianne's hard work on behalf of the school, if Lady Ellington weren't involved, Marianne would be driven away, her money and help rejected because of rumours and suspicions. It didn't matter what good deeds she did, all of these people were determined to tear her down, except Mrs Stevens and Warren. She wished she could face her critics and prove to them once and for all she was more than the wicked woman they believed her to be.

You could publish your works
.

Warren's suggestion came rushing back to her as she plucked a piece of Lancelot's red hair off her dress and dropped it on the floor.

She might have scoffed at his idea, but there'd been no deriding the sincerity behind his offer or his desire to encourage her like Lady Ellington always did. She wished it didn't mean playing her pieces for him. It was one thing to distribute music to anonymous people. Everyone played the way they wished, despite all the allegros and fortissimos written in the staff. It was quite another thing for an artist to perform their own composition exactly as it was meant to be done. It revealed the true intention behind each note, the real feeling underlining every stanza. However, he must hear them if he was to judge the quality of her work and whether it was worthy of his endorsement.

She caught Lady Preston staring at her and met her hard eyes until the woman looked away first. If everyone was so determined to condemn her no matter what she did, then she might as well do what she wanted. Warren believed she should and she was sure Lady Ellington did too. Her success would defy these women's low expectations of her and prove to them she was more than a whore's relation.

Fear slipped in to undermine her determination. For them to know she would have to publish under her real name and risk society's reaction. If Lady Preston and her surreptitious glares were any indication, it wouldn't be good, but Warren was right, London was not the centre of the world. Her success as a composer was in the future. This was now and he was giving her an opportunity she might never have again. She knew how quickly everything which she believed was sure and good and constant could change. Anyone or anything might swoop in to snatch Warren and his offer away from her. Until then, she'd seize this moment and take full advantage of it. Tomorrow she'd take her composition book to Priorton Abbey.

Chapter Seven

W
arren listened to the notes drifting through the open library door. The tone of Marianne's playing was different today. It wasn't continuous, but paused here and there before starting back a few stanzas and beginning again.

She's playing her own composition.

He set his pen in the stand and grasped the arms of his chair, ready to rise before he stopped. She was working with a focus he recognised. To disturb her would mean upsetting her progress as she tried one note and then another until the succession seemed right. He settled back in his seat and struggled to follow the rhythm and predict where it might go. Then, when she played it all together, it flowed like the thread in one of his stories.

He returned to his work, his progress matching hers with words coming rapidly and filling page after page. He was so engrossed, he didn't notice the music had stopped until a voice startled him.

‘Warren?' His name on her lips was even prettier than her playing.

He stood as she approached his desk, moving like a dream in the cream-coloured dress. The sleeves were sheer, revealing the curve of her arms. The high neckline covered her chest, but didn't rise to her neck, leaving a hint of her glorious cleavage visible above the gold trim of the bodice. Its colour matched the tone of her hair and the small gold bracelet encircling her wrist.

She stopped in front of his desk. Lancelot stretched and trotted over to her. She scratched behind his ears, making the dog tilt his head in delight. While her fingers mussed his hair, she peered at the book lying open on Warren's desk. ‘Am I disturbing you?'

‘Not at all. I heard you composing.'

‘Piano concertos. They're my speciality, but difficult to write when one forgets to bring enough ink.'

So it wasn't curiosity which had drawn her in here. He was a touch disappointed as he opened a desk drawer and took out a fresh bottle. ‘Lucky for you I keep a great deal on hand.'

He held out the glass jar and she reached for it, her fingers curling over his. She didn't jerk away at the meeting of their skin, but allowed the tips of her fingers to caress the back of his as she slid the bottle from his grasp. Red spread along the arches of her cheeks and a faint surprise flicked through her blue eyes. They stayed as they were for a few moments, the crackle of the fire in the grate punctuating the heavy silence.

He waited for her to make an excuse and slip away from him like his stories sometimes did if he didn't write them down fast enough. She didn't and he was the one who drew back first, fingering the edge of the top book in the stack next to him. His mother's warning to be cautious with her rang in his ears. He should take up his pen and send her into the other room. This was a distraction, a very lovely one, but he didn't need it.

He was about to suggest they both return to their work when she leaned forward and peered at the half-filled paper on his desk. ‘What are you writing?'

‘My version of a Robin Hood story.'

‘You enjoy the myths about him?'

‘Not as much as Leticia used to.' He touched the yellowed pages of the book on castles lying open on the desk. The place was well marked from all the times Leticia had studied the illustration of the Locksley keep as a girl. It had been one of her favourites. ‘She shared my love of medieval stories. When we were children, we used to dream of living in a castle some day. At least one of us achieved it.'

She rested her hand on Lancelot's head. ‘How did she die?'

He patted his thigh and Lancelot left Marianne to lean against Warren's leg. He stroked the dog, not wanting to relive the morning. He already did every time he thought of his sister. Maybe silence wasn't what he needed, but to talk about it the way he used to discuss the Navy with Mr Berkshire or some of his old seamen friends. They'd listened to him and recognised what it was like to be in the midst of battle, scared for your life but still doing your duty. Yet when it had come to losing Leticia, they hadn't been as sympathetic about the trials of childbed and what it had been like for Warren to lose the most important patient he'd ever cared for. He took a deep breath, drawing on his courage the way he used to before battle. Under Marianne's gentle gaze, he couldn't hold back. ‘She and my poor little niece did not survive her confinement.'

‘And there was nothing you could do for them.' It wasn't an accusation, but a statement of support and tenderness which almost crushed him. He didn't deserve her or anyone else's pity for what he'd failed to do.

‘No. I'd stitched captains back together, saved unconscious seamen from being pitched overboard by proving they were still alive, but there'd been nothing I could do for my sister or her poor babe.'

‘It's not your fault they died,' she offered as if hearing all the regrets and second guesses which continued to torture him.

He'd spent too many nights contemplating if he should have done something different, tried some procedure he'd read about. He still wondered if he could have saved one or the other, or both of their lives if he'd been less cautious in his treatment. ‘I'm not so sure. Neither is Rupert and sometimes, I suspect, my mother.'

‘Not her. She's too kind.'

He closed the book on castles and the gilded title caught the sunlight from the window behind him. ‘She never talks about Leticia.'

‘Most mothers do so love their daughters. It must be difficult to realise she's gone.'

‘It is, for both of us. Leticia was my greatest supporter. She was the one who first found Mr Berkshire. She pursued him for weeks, begging him to read my manuscripts, the ones she used to critique and edit. He finally gave in to her just so she'd stop pestering him.' He smiled at the memory of Mr Berkshire blustering on in faux outrage during their first meeting while Warren had been on leave. Leticia had beamed at the publisher's compliments about her tenaciousness and Warren's gratitude for it. The humour in the memory left him and he pressed his fingertips into the top of the desk, bracing himself against defeat. ‘She believed in me when I needed it the most. Then, when she needed me, I failed her.'

‘You told me the night you helped Lady Ellington there's very little medical men can do except patch people up and hope they survive.'

‘Most of the time they don't.'

‘But sometimes they do. I'm sure there are many sailors who are still alive because of what you did for them.' Marianne studied him like the apparition he'd once seen aboard ship in the middle of a fever—an angel of strength with a hint of vulnerability beneath her gossamer silk. A vision like Miss Domville was the reason why men believed in mermaids. They were peace.

‘Yes, there are.' The faces of seamen who'd left his sick bay to return to their lives or their stations trickled through his thoughts. He had made a difference to some men, and in the end, through his hard work, to his and his mother's lives. He smiled at Marianne, amazed at how, when he'd been so determined to help her, she was the one helping him. Whatever man she decided to finally reveal her full self to would be lucky. Despite all his protestations about avoiding distraction, at this moment he very much wished to be the one she chose.

‘Enough of my tales of woe.' He shoved his experiences into the dark hold in his mind and beamed at her like he did his admiring readers, refusing to ruin their time together with all his misery. ‘It's your beautiful music I want to hear today.'

She cocked her head at him as if to say she wouldn't forget what he'd told her, or allow him to evade revealing more of himself in the future. ‘Weren't you listening to me play while you wrote? Isn't it the whole reason I'm here?'

No, not the whole reason
.

It was becoming more difficult to lie to her and himself. ‘May I see your composition book?'

She clutched the ink tighter, as if he'd asked to peek under her petticoat. ‘Why?'

‘I'm curious. I've been listening to you all morning. I want to see what you've accomplished.'

‘What have you accomplished?'

He picked up his manuscript and held it out to her. ‘Five chapters. Not an entire novel, but it soon will be. I'll let you read it when it's done if you'll let me see your composition book.'

She waved away his manuscript and with an ‘as you wish' shrug made for the music room, making it clear he was to follow. He didn't mind. From behind, he caught the faint outline of her figure from the light coming in the window filtering through her dress. It emphasised the tempting curve of her hips and the slenderness of her waist. She approached the Érard, set the ink next to the composition book on the stand and sat at the keyboard.

He stopped in the middle of the room. Lancelot rested at his feet while Marianne posed one foot over the pedal. Her bearing was as alluring as the arch of her neck beneath the loose blonde curls brushing the nape. He trilled his fingers on his arms where he crossed them, wanting to sweep her skin with his lips and savour the sweet melody of her sighs.

Unaware of the desire for her more than her talent making him shift on his feet, she spread out her long fingers over the keys. Her hands slid across the black and white, drawing from the instrument something of her soul. The beauty of it drowned out everything—his story, his grief, even his desire for her. Her music was no longer something to fill the background while he worked. It was everything and each note wrapped around him like he wished her shapely arms would do.

The complexity of the composition reminded him of her experiences with the world. She'd suffered more of its ugliness than she deserved, just as he had in the Navy. Her loneliness rang in the mournful bass beneath the treble. It reminded him of the creaking timbers and snapping sails during the dark nights when he used to stand at the balustrade staring out at the darkness. The overwhelming solitude of the sea crept into a man's soul like the damp did everything aboard ship. Even now, late at night when he rose to stare out at the dark gardens or stood in the midst of a London crowd, he sometimes shivered with the memory of it.

She hadn't shaken her isolation either. She knew what it was like to be alone among many, to carry sadness like buckets of seawater, never able to scrub away the past. Someone so young and innocent didn't deserve to suffer the way he had during his first days in the Navy. He would make her happy, see her smile not with stoic reserve but the unrestrained joy of a young lady. In freeing her from her past, he might forget his too.

* * *

Marianne never once turned to look at Warren, confident he was there. She couldn't tell him how difficult it had been to be torn from the Protestant School and Mrs Nichols. She couldn't express how much it seared her heart when the letter from the Smiths had arrived after Madame de Badeau's scandal. If it hadn't been for Lady Ellington holding her while she'd cried, the piece she played would be darker and uglier.

Marianne moved into a more chilling stanza, her fear even this great lady would eventually leave her echoing down the length of the piano wires. There was nothing binding Lady Ellington to her any more than there had been the Smiths or the Nichols. Unlike them, Lady Ellington wasn't paid to care for her, she just did. Marianne feared Lady Ellington's regard would one day turn to disgust and she'd be as alone and wretched as she had been in Madame de Badeau's house. Lady Ellington was the one bright light in her life, until she'd met Warren.

Moving to a softer portion of the piece, she threw a subtle glance over her shoulder. She could see nothing more than the silhouette of Warren near the windows at the edge of her vision. He listened in respectful silence, not interrupting or intruding into the undefined space which enveloped her while she played. Even without seeing his expression, she knew he didn't listen with leering amusement as though she were an overly adorned Cyprian, but because he wanted to hear what she couldn't express in words.

She almost snatched her hands off the keyboard and ceased to play. Even without seeing his expression, she knew he heard the deeper meaning beneath each carefully chosen note just as she'd empathised with his pain over his sister and all he'd endured in the Royal Navy. She might not have witnessed the smoke and bloodshed of battle, but she'd fought her own war against the vile men and women who'd demeaned her for years. Like him, she'd experienced the grief of being ripped away from someone who'd cared for her. Mrs Nichols hadn't died like Leticia, but after the Peace of Amiens had failed and the blockade had ended all correspondence with France, it was as if she had passed away.

Marianne played for his anguish and hers, but with a hope they could overcome it. She drew strength from his presence and touched each key with passion, putting all of herself into the music until at last she reached the end and the final note vibrated into nothing.

He didn't clap or compliment her, but came to sit beside her on the bench. Lancelot remained where he was on the rug. The cold tones of her piece faded under the heat of Warren's arm next to hers. She turned to him and admired the serenity which softened the lines at the corner of his mouth. They didn't speak, as raw and open to one another as if they were naked. The vulnerability didn't frighten Marianne or make her raise her defences like some kind of drawbridge to shut him out. He laid his hand over hers where it rested between them on the bench. His pulse beat a steady tune against her skin, drawing her to him like the Érard did every day.

She turned her hand over and curled her fingers around his. The peace and safety which filled her at Lady Ellington's swept through her. There was no reason to fear Warren, not with her person or her heart. With him, she wouldn't be alone. It was as terrifying as it was exhilarating, like his leaning towards her. She titled her face up to his and closed her eyes.

The meeting of their lips struck her as hard as the first time she'd heard an accomplished organist perform Beethoven's
Fifth Symphony
. She'd never willingly surrendered to a man's affection, determined to remain in control of her urges and her body in a manner Madame de Badeau had failed to master. Today, she tossed it all aside as Warren slid his hand along her jaw. She shifted closer to him, raising her arm so his free one could wrap around her waist and pull her tighter against him. The press of his chest against hers and the weight of his breath across her cheeks was as glorious as the fine silk of a new dress.