Miss Marianne's Disgrace (5 page)

‘Your mother isn't the first woman to pass her child off as her sibling,' he replied at last.

‘You're not stunned?' She was.

‘No.' He turned back to his desk and slid a book off of the top of the stack, an ancient tome with a cracked leather cover and yellowed pages.

His movement left the path to the music room clear. Marianne could bolt out the door, leave him and her foolishness behind, but she held her ground. She wouldn't act like a coward in front of a man who'd been to war.

He flipped through the book, then held out the open page to her. ‘Lady Matilda of Triano did the same thing in 1152.'

Marianne slid her hands beneath the book, running them over the uneven leather to grasp it when her fingers brushed his. She pulled back, and the tome wobbled on her forearms before she steadied it. It wasn't fear which made her recoil from him as she used to the men at Madame de Badeau's. It was the spark his touch had sent racing across her skin. She'd never experienced a reaction like this to a gentleman before.

She stepped back and fixed her attention on the beautiful drawing of a wan woman holding a rose, her blue and red gown a part of the curving and gilded initial, trying not to entertain her shocking response to Sir Warren's touch. She stole a glimpse at his hands, wondering what they'd feel like against her bare skin. She jerked her attention back to the open book, wondering what she was going on about. She'd spent too many years dodging the wandering hands of Madame de Badeau's lovers to search out any man's touch now.

‘She hid her son to keep her brother-in-law from murdering the child when he seized the Duchy of Triano,' Sir Warren explained, his voice soothing her like a warm bath. ‘The truth came out ten years later when the uncle lay dying and Lady Matilda revealed her son's identity to secure his rightful inheritance.'

She returned the book to him, careful to keep her fingers away from his. ‘A lovely story, but my mother's motives weren't so noble.'

‘You're not to blame for what your mother did.' He set down the open book on the desk.

‘You're the first stranger to think so. Lady Cartwright and the others are determined to believe I'm just as wanton and wicked as Madame de Badeau and they only think she's my sister. I'm not like her. I never have been.' It was a declaration she wished she could make in front of every family in the country and London, one she wished deep down even she believed. She was Madame de Badeau's daughter, it was possible her mother's sins were ingrained in Marianne and nothing would stop them from eventually coming out.

‘I can see you're not like her. Not like most women. I recognised it the moment you insisted I help Lady Ellington and then refused to leave her side.'

‘What I did was nothing,' she whispered, as unused to compliments as she was to embraces.

‘It was everything. I've seen men sacrifice themselves for their fellow sailors, hold down their best friends while I sawed off a mangled limb. I've also watched cowards leave their comrades to suffer while they steal provisions, or hide in the darkness of the surgeon's deck with a minor wound to avoid fighting. I doubt Lady Cartwright or any of her other guests would have done half as much as you did for your friend.'

She stared at him, amazed by this near stranger's faith in her and how freely he offered it to her. It frightened her more than her belief in her own weakness. If it was easily given, it might easily be revoked. She eyed the door to the music room, wanting to be through it and at the keys of the piano and away from this uncertain familiarity. She'd revealed too much already, foolishly making herself vulnerable. ‘If you don't mind, I'd like to play now.'

‘Of course.' He pulled open the door, revealing the stately black instrument dominating the area in front of the large, bowed window at the far end of the room.

She strode to it, relief washing through her. Music was her one constant and comfort, though even this had threatened to leave her once. ‘It's beautiful.'

She slid on to the bench and raised the cover on the keys. Flexing her fingers over the brilliant white ivory, she began the first chord. The pianoforte was as well tuned as it was grand and each note rang true and deep. They vibrated through her and with each stanza she played, her past, her concerns, Sir Warren and everything faded away until there was nothing but the notes. In them the only true happiness she'd ever known.

* * *

Warren didn't follow her into the room. He leaned against the door jamb and watched as she drew from the long-silent instrument beautiful music laced with a strange, almost effervescent melancholy. Lancelot came to his side and leaned against Warren's leg as Warren scratched behind the dog's ears.

The pianoforte faced the window overlooking the garden. She sat with her back to him so he couldn't see her face, but the languid way she moved in front of the keys, her arms losing their stiffness for the first time since she'd happened into his study, didn't escape his notice. The intensity of her focus and the graceful sway of her body in time to the music told him she was no longer here, but carried off by the piece to the same place he drifted to whenever a story fully gripped him. He was glad. She was too young to frown so much or to take in the world, or his compliments, with such distrustful eyes. He wished he could have brought her as much peace as her playing but, like him, her past still troubled her and she had yet to conquer it.

It wasn't the past facing him today, but the future. No matter how much he wanted to stand here and listen to her, he had to return to work. He needed the money. He left the door open to allow the notes to fill the study. As Warren settled in at his desk, Lancelot stretched out on the hearthrug and returned to his nap. Warren picked up his pen, dipped the nib in the inkwell and settled it over the last word, ready to write, to create, to weave his tale.

Nothing.

The deep notes of the piano boomed before sliding up the scale into the softer, higher octaves.

He read the last paragraph, hoping to regain the thread of the story. It wasn't so much a thread as a jumble of sentences as dull as the minutes of Parliament.

The higher notes wavered, then settled into the smooth mid-tones like water in the bottom of a bowl.

He dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. Today wasn't going any better than yesterday, or last week or the past year.

He glanced over the top of the pages to where the medieval book lay open. Lady Matilda's sad yet determined stare met his from the vellum. He reached out and ran one finger over the black lines of her face and eyes. The pensive notes of the pianoforte slid beneath the image, the despair in the lower octaves contradicted by the hope ringing in the brief tinkle of the higher ones.

He chewed the end of his pen as he listened to Miss Domville playing, his teeth finding the familiar grooves as a new story began to separate itself in his mind from his worries and frustration. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The image of a regal lady wearing a fine blue kirtle over a red-velvet dress slid through the mist blanketing a thick forest. Lady Matilda, one slender hand on a damp and knotted oak, paused as if finally ready to reveal what she'd been keeping from him. He rolled the scarred wood of his pen between his thumb and forefinger as he watched the elusive lady threatening to vanish into the mist-covered trees.

‘Come on, out with it,' he growled, frustrated by her coquetry. He needed her to guide him and help release the steady stream of ideas being held back by this interminable block.

Behind the teasing curve of Lady Matilda's smile, the melody of Miss Domville's playing curled like smoke around him and the woman. In the vibrating notes, Lady Matilda's tale suddenly revealed itself.

He opened his eyes, slid a clean sheet of paper on to the blotter and began to write. The words flowed as fast as the notes of first one piece and then another as page after page took shape beneath his pen. He was so engrossed in the story, an hour later he failed to notice when the music faded into nothingness, the cover pulled down over the keys and soft footsteps left the music room.

The only things which remained were his story and the faint scent of peonies.

Chapter Four

M
arianne played the section again and frowned. The last note wasn't right. She tried the C instead of the D, then nodded. Taking up her pen, she dipped the nib in the inkwell next to the stand and drew a quarter note on the staff. She played the section again, smiling as the stanza fell into place, the first half of her composition nearly complete. Reaching the end of it, she held her foot down on the pedal, allowing the chords to resonate off into the air.

Lady Ellington's Broadwood was a gorgeous instrument, but not as grand as Sir Warren's Érard. She wondered how rich and full the piece would sound on his instrument.

Excellent, I'm sure.
She picked up the pen and changed the half note at the end to a whole one. She wasn't likely to play at Priorton Abbey again. Her skin prickled beneath the netting of the fichu covering her chest as the memory of Sir Warren listening to her story about Madame de Badeau came rushing back. She shouldn't have confided in him. She'd been in a panic for days over her mistake, waiting for any hint of the truth of her parentage to make the rounds. There'd been nothing but silence on the matter. The only gossip she'd heard had concerned Lord Malvern's near indiscretion with a maid at Lord Cartwright's hunting party.

She replayed the stanza, holding the end longer to reflect her correction, contemplating Sir Warren's silence more than her music. With no word from anyone at Priorton since their visit, it was plain the incidents from two weeks ago had been forgotten. It irritated her as much as a missed note, even though she should be glad. She'd allowed his kindness to trick her into revealing her ugly secret. Heaven knew what other mistakes, or deeper weakness, might have been revealed if she'd had the chance to know Sir Warren better.

‘Beautiful, as always, my dear.' Lady Ellington applauded as Marianne ended the piece. The pianoforte didn't face the window at Welton Place as it did at Priorton Abbey, preventing the blooming roses in the garden from distracting Marianne while she worked. ‘It's a shame I'm the only one who ever gets to hear it.'

Marianne closed the red composition book, leaving it on the stand. ‘You're not the only one. Lady St Onge used to listen to me play before she decided to return to London for the winter.'

‘You know what I mean.' She sat down on the bench beside her. ‘A letter from Theresa arrived for you.'

Marianne took the missive and flicked the edge with her fingernail, in no mood to read about her friend's happiness. It only made her lack of it more obvious. Theresa was at Hallington Hall, the estate on the other side of Falconbridge Manor, with her young son, husband and his family. It wasn't far to travel yet Marianne had barely seen her this summer. She shouldn't have stayed away. As much as she loved Lady Ellington's she'd been restless lately for no good reason. The shortening days and cooler weather and the isolation of Welton Place added to her disquiet.

‘This also came for you.' Lady Ellington handed her a package wrapped in brown paper. A prong holding a diamond in place on one of her rings snagged the securing twine before she freed it. ‘It's from Priorton Abbey.'

Marianne gripped the package tight, crinkling the smooth paper.
He hasn't forgotten about me.
She eased her hold on the slender package, refusing to get her hopes up about Sir Warren's interest in her or to pine after a man. Her mother had obsessed about Lord Falconbridge and look how that had ended. ‘It must be from Mrs Stevens. Sir Warren wouldn't send me anything.'

‘Perhaps you charmed him with your playing.'

‘It would be a change from what my presence usually inspires in people.' The knot came loose and she tugged off the twine.

‘Don't be so hard on yourself. You inspire more than gossip in many people.' She squeezed Marianne's arm. ‘Now open it. I want to see what it is.'

Marianne tore off the paper to reveal the back of a journal. She turned it over and read the handwritten title on the white cover plate. ‘
Lady Matilda's Trials
, by Sir Warren Stevens.'

She opened the front cover and a note slipped out from between the pages. She plucked it off the rug then unfolded the card and read aloud the words printed on the thick paper.

Dear Miss Domville,

Enclosed is a copy of my latest manuscript. Your lovely piano-playing was invaluable to the creation of this story. I hope it's to your liking and I would very much appreciate your thoughts on it before I send it to my publisher.

Your faithful scribe,

Sir Warren

‘My goodness.' Lady Ellington laid one sparkling hand on her ample bosom, rainbows from her diamonds spraying out over her dark blue dress. ‘I didn't think the two of you were so well acquainted.'

‘We aren't. I spent more time with his Érard than I did with him when we visited.' The spine cracked as she opened the journal. She tapped her toes against the floor, as puzzled as she was flattered by his gift.

Lady Ellington rose. ‘Hurry and read it so you can give him your thoughts on it when we visit them tomorrow.'

Marianne brought her toes down hard against the parquet, leery of another meeting with him. ‘Can't I simply send him a note?'

‘Not for something like this.' A wicked twinkle lit up her pale blue eyes before she strode to the door. ‘You'll have to play for him again and see what else you might inspire.'

Marianne frowned, not quite as amused by the situation as Lady Ellington, but certainly intrigued. She ran her finger over the title on the front of the journal, the one written by Sir Warren. He was asking her, a person he barely knew, to critique his work. It would be like her giving him one of her compositions to play. For all the flowers and stupid poems Lord Bolton had sent her, none had touched her as much as Sir Warren's simple request.

Leaving the pianoforte, Marianne wandered through the double French doors overlooking the garden, past where the aged gardener, Walker, knelt in front of the rose beds. The heady scent of the summer blooms no longer hung in the air. It had been replaced by the crisp chill of autumn and wet dirt. She strolled along the gravel path, passing the fountain in the middle of Zeus and a nymph in an evocative embrace.

Too evocative
. The same could be said about most of the statues scattered throughout the garden. Marianne passed by them without a second look. The peculiarities of Lady Ellington's brother, the prior Marquess of Falconbridge, and his taste in statuary, didn't interest her. Instead, with the journal clutched to her chest, she wondered if maybe Lady Ellington was right and it was time to stop hiding away from the world at Welton Place. If a famous man like Sir Warren could see the value in an acquaintance with her, perhaps some other gentlemen who weren't Lord Bolton might do the same. It was almost enough to convince her to accept Lady Ellington's offer of a Season in London, but not quite.

She reached the far side of the garden and followed the path winding up through the copse of trees to the brick orangery hidden among the oaks. Arched and latticed windows marked the front-left side while those to the right had been bricked in. She stepped through the double doors and into the comfortably furnished garden building. Sets of
bergère
chairs with generous cushions all done in the Louis XV style dominated the window side of the room. A tall screen embroidered with a mythic scene of Apollo seducing Calliope, as shocking in its depiction of love as the garden statuary, shielded a wide sofa situated in the darker half. The gaudy gilding reminded Marianne more of her mother's boudoir than it did an outbuilding. Like the garden, the orangery owed its decorations to the old Marquess, a bachelor rake she'd heard so much about from Madame de Badeau she'd often wondered if the woman hadn't bedded him too.

The orangery, despite its gaudy and erotic decorations, was, for Marianne, a small retreat from the dower house and a good place to be alone. She'd come here after more than one afternoon party to fume over the whisperings of Miss Cartwright or Lady Astley.

She chose a comfortable chair near a window and settled in to read Sir Warren's note again. His handwriting was bold, each letter crafted from slashing lines and thick strokes. It was a stark contrast to the small flourishes and graceful twirls which filled her composition book.

She read it a third time, but nothing about the words changed. Like the Smiths' daughter, who used to pore over each ‘good morning' from the farmer's son hoping there was more to the salutation, Marianne was looking for a deeper meaning which wasn't there. It was silly of her to do so. She'd learned long ago at Madame de Badeau's that when a man said something it was what he meant and little more. If Sir Warren was thanking her for inspiration, then he was thanking her. It didn't mean she'd sent him into raptures. She stuffed the note in the back cover, glad not to arouse a grand passion in a man. Other people's passions had already caused her no end of troubles.

She set to reading, focusing on Sir Warren's work instead of him, determined to be worthy of his faith in her. However, with each turn of the page, each paragraph outlining Lady Matilda's story, disbelief and dismay began to undermine the peace of the orangery. By the time she reached the end of the manuscript, Marianne wanted to toss the journal in the fountain at the bottom of the hill and watch the thing turn soggy and sink. She couldn't. It was too good a story. Too bad it was hers.

* * *

‘I didn't work so hard to gain Priorton to sell it off piece by piece the moment things get difficult,' Warren insisted, his boots coming down hard on the stone of the cloistered walk in the garden. Lancelot trotted beside him, panting lightly. The garden ran wild in the current fashion, leading from the back of Priorton to the tree line beyond. In the centre of it, weathered stone statues lounged between the beds of dying summer plants and wildflowers.

‘Then you must let some of the field labourers go,' Mr Reed, Warren's bespectacled man of affairs warned, on Warren's heels as they returned to the house after surveying the fields. The harvest had been good this year, but not nearly as profitable as either of them had hoped, or counted on.

‘No, not with winter coming. I won't see families suffer because of my mistakes.' He, his mother and Leticia had suffered because of his father's financial mistakes. His father had been a good man, but he'd been careless in the management of his school, never charging enough or collecting what was due and leaving his family near destitute when he died. After refusing to apply for relief in the very parish where his father had preached, they'd been forced to rely on Warren's reluctant bachelor uncle for support. It had been his uncle's brilliant idea for Warren to enlist and save the time and money required by a lengthy apprenticeship. At sixteen, the clean, comfortable life Warren had known had been ripped from him and replaced with gore and filth, and the need to support his sister and mother. He still hated the old salt for forcing Warren into it and resented his father for failing to leave his family with means. He wouldn't visit the same misery on other families, especially those under his care.

‘The second half of the payment for your next book will cover current repairs, but after they're complete, you must stop for a while,' Mr Reed instructed.

Warren slapped some dirt off of his breeches. The payment wasn't coming any time soon. He didn't tell Mr Reed, not wanting to send the little man into an apoplectic fit. The costs of the house were forcing him to live from one payment to the next as he'd done in the Navy. This time the sums were more considerable and the chance of ruin, starving and having nowhere to live much greater. The risks would soon be eased by the publication of
Lady Matilda's Trials
and the payment of the second half of his advance. The money would help, but it wasn't enough. Even if he received Miss Domville's thoughts on the story today, it would be some weeks before the novel's release, and more after that before money from the sales began to arrive.

Warren's feet came down hard on the stone walk as he and Mr Reed approached the house. He'd taken a chance sending Miss Domville his manuscript and asking for her opinion, but he suspected she'd be blunt in her assessment it. He hoped she was. With his mounting doubts, and Leticia no longer here to read his work, it was growing more difficult for him to judge if his tales were accomplished or piles of rubbish. He wasn't about to send Mr Berkshire a second-rate novel.

How the devil did I get myself into this predicament?

Through the arched sides of the cloister separating the garden from the wild field, he admired the peaked and turreted roofline of Priorton and the hazy sky behind it. This was everything he'd ever wanted, his dream and his sister's too, the one they'd shared in childhood. He'd achieved it for both of them, but at times it seemed more crippling than magical. For all the money he spent on Priorton, he didn't enjoy it as he should. In the spring he went to London. The rest of the year was consumed with stories, bills and repairs. It was difficult to spend an hour wandering in the garden when he must toil to pay for it all. During the long, dark hours on the orlop deck, this was what he'd imagined, what he'd strived for and now he stretched to achieve it. He hoped it didn't break him, the way his father's dream of running a vicarage school had broken him.

‘You could seek a loan,' Mr Reed suggested as Warren held open the back door and waved Mr Reed inside. ‘To tide you over until you receive your advance.'

‘No, I've never taken money from anyone before, I won't start now. We can sell off some of the sheep.'

‘With wool prices falling, it won't gain us much.'

‘At least we won't have to spend money to feed them.'

They strode down the long front hallway. Through the diamond-leaded front windows Warren caught sight of Lady Ellington's carriage in the drive. He tugged open his slack cravat, then struggled to retie it, wondering if Miss Domville was with the Dowager. Last night, the memory of her flowery scent and the gentle tone of her voice had disturbed his sleep more than new story ideas.