The Honorable Marksley (8 page)

“Is everything in its proper place?” he asked suddenly.

“I … certainly. Pardon me” She shivered and
glanced away.

“Are you cold, Miss Ashton?”

“No,” she said, again turning to him. Her own gaze
challenged his reversion to `Miss Ashton.’ To her irritation, he seemed all too aware of her reaction. Those
eloquent lips were amused.

“The air tends to be chill in this hollow, Miss Ashton.
On many a warm summer’s day we have fog in here at
noon.”

“You frequent the spot then, Mr. Marksley?”

“Excessively” But now he was smiling. Hallie had
thought him an attractive man before; now the smile
persuaded more than her thinking.

She grasped the rail on her left and settled her reticule on her lap. She reminded herself of her strategyto talk to Richard Marksley about his Tantalus. If she
were destined to betray herself, she would do so
because of what she knew and might unthinkingly
reveal. She was a reader; she knew his journal. How
natural, then, to speak with Richard Marksley about his library and his work. She would, she thought, confuse
him-to the extent that she reasonably might be
assumed to know most of what Henry Beecham knew.

“You are the editor of The Tantalus,” she ventured.
The opening gambit made her feel small. “I should like
to know more about your work.”

“In the sense of how I occupy my time?”

“Yes. I … have seen most recent numbers. You
write a letter introducing each”

“That letter is all that I do write, as I have little talent for the craft. I have prided myself, however, on
selecting work of interest to readers”

Jeremy, posting alongside, brought his horse closer.
“It is a talent in itself to recognize and foster it in others, do you not think so, Miss Harriet? Indeed, Richard
is supremely talented-when I think of all he has
brought to the rest of us” He winked at her, which
made her blush.

Marksley frowned. “Thank you, Jeremy,” he said, but
his swift look at his friend was guarded. At the look,
Jeremy dropped back again to Millicent’s side.

Hallie was grateful for Jeremy’s removal. He was an
annoying reminder of her duplicity.

“And do you approach your authors with requests for
stories and criticism?”

“They are not my authors, Miss Ashton, although
there are those few upon whom I can rely. Yet to answer
your question-it would be foolish for me to await
material in the post. The serendipity involved in doing
so would make a regular bimonthly printing quite impossible. Subscriptions are our largest source of
funds, after all”

“And the other sources?”

He glanced quickly at her. She had forgotten that
ladies did not discuss finances with gentlemen. As
Henry Beecham she had never had a qualm.

“I myself am one source, Miss Ashton. Along with
the occasional gift. I am afraid The Tantalus must qualify as a gentleman’s hobby, as it rarely returns any
monetary profit.”

And now I shall use your precious money, Hallie
thought, to flee you. But he must have construed her
silence as criticism.

“My hands may be stained by ink, Miss Ashton,”
Marksley added, “but, as I never trouble to pay myself,
I avoid the stigma of engaging in trade. Such distinctions affect the standing of an Earl’s nephew, no matter
how material his more gentlemanly duties.”

There was a tight line to his lips. Hallie would have
pursued the nature of his other duties, and learned just
how he felt about his aunt and uncle, but that bitter
expression intimidated. Ironically, The Tantalus presented the safer subject.

“My uncle is not a subscriber to your journal,” she
said, “but I read it at the circulating library in Tewsbury.
It is extraordinarily popular. I have always enjoyed the
mixture of articles and stories.”

“Thank you, Miss Harriet. And do you have a
favorite? Do you prefer a story or commentary?”

“I … have no favorites,” she said, working her shak ing fingers into the folds of her skirt. “Although I
appreciate the selection of poetry”

“Ah, yes. We have published some excellent poetry”
Now at last on a clear, flat stretch of road Marksley
loosened the reins, encouraging the team to a brisker
pace. Hallie’s glance at Jeremy noted his relief at the
change. He had surrendered in patience to Millicent’s
inconsequential remarks. Now he coaxed his mount to
keep pace with the carriage.

Richard Marksley, with the team well in hand,
glanced her way again. “Does a particular style of poetry appeal to you, Miss Harriet?”

“All poetry,” she said and chanced a smile. But
Marksley was no longer looking at her. His brow was
furrowed.

“Perhaps you have seen some of Henry Beecham’s
poems.”

“I am … not certain.”

“Quite” It was a very chilly little word. Apparently
engrossed in managing the team, Marksley lapsed into
an extended silence.

Hallie thought Jeremy had heard that last exchange;
she thought she heard his impatient snort. Or perhaps
that was from his now straining steed.

She pointedly kept her gaze on the road ahead.

She knew why she had declined to discuss Henry
Beecham; she was wary of divulging too great a familiarity with the poet. Yet she had managed instead to
sound witless. Surely her greatest protection from discovery was her sex, whether or not she claimed any knowledge of Henry Beecham. And she did not like
Marksley’s silence. She did not like it at all.

“I do recall reading something recent by Henry
Beecham,” she said. “About the ocean-‘a wash of
blue, sweet surge of sea, earth’s answer to eternity….’
Well, I forget the rest. But it was very nice.” This time
she was certain it was Jeremy who snickered, not his
horse.

“Better than Byron, eh, Richard?” Jeremy suggested
wickedly.

Marksley, concentrating on the horses, was frowning. But Hallie sensed he was thinking of Beecham, not
the team. She wondered whether Marksley published
the poems merely to gratify an insatiable, indiscriminate public. Perhaps he needed only to fill his pages.

“Did you not like it?” she asked, at once uncertain.

“Yes, I liked it. I liked it very much indeed, confound
the man.”

Jeremy laughed.

“What is it, Jeremy?” Marksley snapped. “Have we
chanced upon some of your butterflies?”

“Unfortunately not, my friend, although a trap of
sorts has most certainly been set”

Marksley favored Jeremy with a scowl, than looked
over his shoulder at Millicent. Hallie’s cousin had managed to fall asleep, her chins nestled comfortably into
her shawl.

“Would you care for a turn at the ribbons, Miss
Harriet?” he asked. “This stretch of road affords a fine,
smooth run.”

She nodded and took the reins from him, feeling at
once all thumbs as his warm, gloved hands temporarily cradled her own. There may not have been butterflies
about the road, she decided, but some had apparently
settled along her midriff.

“Loose them, Hattie,” Jeremy urged, and she needed
no second prompting. The grays had responsive mouths
and glorious, balanced strides. They flew ahead, fulfilling her own need for freedom, flashing along
unchecked and powerful. She was conscious then only
of the bright, encompassing afternoon light-a light
that reflected from the fields and the open road and the
very earth itself. The pounding of the horses’ hooves
delighted her. She wanted to take in and swallow the
speeding air.

Her bonnet slid behind her, the wind bringing a
sharp sting to her cheeks.

They must have run two miles before Hallie at last
pulled them up. Flushed with the flight, she restored the
reins to Marksley, then attempted to resettle her bonnet
atop her windblown hair.

“Well done, Miss Hallie,” Marksley said. She considered it a victory of sorts that he condescended to call
her Hallie once again. He was examining her face with
curiosity. “They were bred for speed and are not easily
slowed. Who taught you to drive?”

“My cousin Tolly. He was very good”

“Tolliver Ashton was a splendid hand, Richard,”
Jeremy said. He was out of breath as he reached them.
“You’d have liked him.”

“Undoubtedly.” But Richard Marksley was studying
Hallie’s high color with an intensity she found disconcerting. She told herself it was absurd-absurd to
believe the name `Henry Beecham’ might be branded
upon her forehead.

“You will … kill us … all … Harriet,” Millicent
gasped from the back. “She should not … be
allowed … to sport with … your team, sir.”

“Why ever not, Miss Binkin? You yourself claimed
she is a remarkable hand. Your cousin is as skilled as
any man I know.”

“She is not a man, Mr. Marksley.”

Hallie wanted to laugh aloud. To Richard Marksley
she was a man, in the person of Henry Beecham. But
that unhappy grimness had settled again upon
Marksley’s face. He directed the horses down a winding section of road.

“She is not a man, Miss Binkin. And all of us are
here precisely because she is not. Should you truly wish
her to refrain from driving you must raise the matter
with her uncle. Until he indicates otherwise, his
niece-my betrothed-is welcome to handle this team.
She has demonstrated her competence.”

Hallie blessed him silently. Her eyes must have mirrored something of her pleasure in rebellion because
Richard Marksley lent her a smile.

They discussed books. While Millicent settled, sulking, in back and Jeremy amused himself with enthusiastically pronouncing on every humble roadside weed,
they discussed what Hallie had most recently read and intended to read. In such conversation she found little
reason for subterfuge; there seemed small likelihood
that one’s reading might reveal clues of too singular a
nature. If Marksley sometimes met her gaze with a puzzled one of his own, Hallie attributed it to the usual
amazement that a woman might appreciate more than
the fashion plates.

When they at last returned to Penham, Hallie
believed she had acquitted herself well. He could not
have found her all that tedious. And heady with the
thought that her secret was now safe-that she could
mention The Tantalus or even poetry without inviting
detection-she smiled as Richard Marksley helped her
down from the high seat. She dared hope that the time
spent awaiting the Viscount’s return might at least be
companionable. She did not wish to be at war with
Richard Marksley.

Watching Jeremy haul Miss Binkin from the
barouche, Hallie belatedly remembered her note for
George Partridge. As Marksley moved to speak to the
groom, who was steadying the horses up front, she
drew the letter swiftly from her reticule. When
Millicent looked down to straighten her skirts, Hallie
handed the note to Jeremy.

In her scratch across the vellum he clearly recognized the addressee; he glanced at her expectantly. But
Richard Marksley had already turned back towards
them. He had most certainly noticed Jeremy’s questioning glance at her. And Jeremy was slow to pocket
the letter.

Marksley’s look stung. Hallie knew that she was
once again suspect. But to her surprise, Jeremy drew
the open rebuke.

“I see I have been de trop this afternoon, my lord,”
Marksley said. The words were light, but his expression
was not. “Perhaps you have not been entirely honest
regarding your reason for visiting Archers. If either you
or Miss Ashton chooses to release my family from this
arrangement, I should be much obliged.”

With a dark glare at Hallie he bowed stiffly and
strode for the stables.

“A very rude young man,” Millicent commented
with a sniff, and started up the steps toward the door.
Hallie looked pleadingly at Jeremy.

“You must find George,” she urged softly. “I need his
help.”

“For what, m’dear? A translation of Urdu?”

She frowned.

“This is not a joking matter, Jeremy. He must sign
for me as Henry Beecham at the bank”

“Sign for you? Hallie, you must permit me-”

She shook her head. “You are known everywhere.
The Duke of Blythe’s family! `Twould be like asking
the Regent himself to pose as Beecham”

“Then at least take the funds?”

“No, Jeremy. You know I cannot. Someone would
hear of it, and I would trade one form of notoriety for
another. ‘Tis best to find George. I have explained all
in the letter. I believe he was heading west with his
gypsies.”

“Then I go west as well, m’dear. Especially now that
Richard threatens to bar the doors to me. Though I do
hate to leave this promising situation.”

“Promising?” Hallie’s voice rose. “What can you
mean?”

“Why-I do believe the Honorable Richard is jealous.” At his slow, suggestive smile, Hallie’s face
warmed.

“Harriet,” Millicent commanded from the door and
Hallie gratefully fled.

Richard slowly sipped his tea and stared out at the
rain. The fine weather had ended last night. The drive
had puddled and the road would most probably be
worse. As he anticipated the visit to church that morning, he thought a difficult trip would prove fitting. It
would be his first attendance at a service in months, and
all for publishing the banns.