The Tudor Signet (18 page)

Their feet crunching on the gravel, they turned the corner of an ilex hedge, down a walk Mariette had not traversed before. Ragamuffin brushed against the hedge and was showered with mushy snow. He shook himself vigorously, transferring the slush to Mariette’s borrowed cloak. She brushed it off, noting how fast it turned to water.

Another turn or two and they came to a formal garden, laid out in an intricate pattern of squares. Snow-capped Classical statuary stood about, looking so chilled--what with white marble and exiguous draperies--and so lifelike that Mariette almost expected the gods, goddesses, and heroes to shiver.

Poor Uncle George, struggling with his pig-badger!

On the far side of the garden, facing south with its back to a steep-sloped spur of Wicken’s Down, stood the orangery. From up on the moor Mariette had seen the vast expanses of glass glittering in the sun and wondered what it was. Close to, it was still more impressive. Some seventy feet long and two stories in height, the façade was all windows from the ground up, separated and supported by unadorned Doric pilasters. The roof, too, was of glass, upheld by a tracery of ironwork.

“My brother-in-law’s grandfather built it,” Lord Malcolm said, “at the same time as the house. Corycombe was the furthest south of his estates. Now, of course, the produce is all Lilian’s though I believe she occasionally sends a gift of oranges to the present viscount.”

Because of reflections, little of the interior was visible from the outside. “May we go in?” Mariette asked.

“Yes, I have brought the key. It’s kept locked so that the door is not left ajar by accident. The place is heated, as you will feel.” He took a key from his pocket and opened the French door.

Mariette went first, Ragamuffin at her heels. His claws clicked on the stone floor. Dry heat; she pushed back her hood. A sweet, exotic fragrance.

Despite all the windows, after the glare of the snow outside Mariette’s sight took a moment to adjust. Then she saw the trees, ranked along the back wall in huge terra cotta pots. Against the glossy dark-green leaves, the orange globes of the fruit seemed to glow, while clusters of snow-white blossom sent forth their aromatic, sensuous perfume.

“Oh, beautiful! I did not know they bloom at the same time the fruit ripens.” She looked up at Lord Malcolm to share her delight.

“This is the best time,” he said in an odd voice. And then he kissed her.

His lips brushed hers, feather-light. His arms went around her, pulling her close. He had unbuttoned his greatcoat and his body was hard against hers, his mouth now firm, insistent, demanding. Mariette put her arms round his neck and clung to him as a wave of shuddering warmth flooded from her lips to her toes and back to the centre of her being. The world was lost; the only reality was his touch, his....

“Woof!”

They sprang apart. Mariette’s face burned as if Lilian, not Ragamuffin, had interrupted the embrace.

“Woof?” He had found an orange and brought it to lay at Lord Malcolm’s feet, in the clear belief that the dearest desire of his lordship’s heart was to play catch.

Lord Malcolm obliged, his cheeks as fiery as Mariette’s felt. She crossed to the nearest tree and buried her face in its blooms. So that was a kiss, she thought dizzily. No wonder the heroines of romances lost their heads as well as their hearts!

What did it mean? In books, villains as well as heroes kissed, and even gentlemen did not always reserve their kisses for their beloveds. Lord Malcolm was no villain. He was too much the gentleman to wish to take advantage of her, as his discomfiture proved. But had his embrace been a casual gesture such as gentlemen were prone to, or had it shattered his world as it had shattered hers?

Her outward composure regained, she turned to observe him as he threw the orange for the indefatigable dog. Though his colour was still heightened, that might easily be from heat and exercise. The heat and the blossom’s perfume were becoming overpowering.

He glanced at Mariette and smiled, but she was too far away to be sure of his expression.

Ragamuffin returned once more with the orange. “Enough,” cried Lord Malcolm, laughing. “Slobber is one thing, but now you have punctured it and it’s sticky with juice as well.”

He went to the door, opened it, and hurled the revolting object into a snowdrift. Ragamuffin eagerly plunged after it.

Lord Malcolm scrubbed his hand with a handkerchief, put his gloves back on, and buttoned his coat. Apparently studiously intent on each action, he did not look at Mariette until he had finished.

“Shall we go?”

She nodded, unsure of her voice. Raising her hood, she moved at her most ladylike glide past him and out into the cold. The stiff breeze no longer felt balmy. She shivered.

Turning from locking the door, he offered his arm and she took it, just as if nothing had happened between them.

“I must beg your pardon,” he said softly as gravel crunched once more beneath their feet. “That was unconscionable, unforgivable of me.”

“Not unforgivable.” Mariette had to clear her throat. “I fear the fault was not entirely yours.” After all, she had not pushed him away, had not struggled, let alone slapped his face. In fact, she admitted, once he was well embarked upon kissing her she had positively encouraged him.

“I assure you, gentlemen are permitted to assume the entire blame.” Stopping, he looked down at her with a smile. But his eyes were full of warmth with no hint of teasing laughter. “You won’t tell Lilian?”

“No.” For a moment she thought--hoped?--he was going to kiss her again, but he resumed walking. Mariette sighed. “It seems her insistence on a chaperon is vindicated.”

“Yes.” Now he was laughing. “Ragamuffin performed that rôle most excellently, do you not agree?”

And she had to laugh, too, and once more they were on the easiest of terms.

As Ragamuffin emerged backwards from the drift, looking like a snow-dog, heavy raindrops began to fall. After a good shake, he pranced forward, very proud of himself, and laid the squishy orange at Lord Malcolm’s feet.

“Not a chance, old boy! After the orangery it’s cold out here, and wet, and we are going back to the house. Though, come to think of it, the stables are undoubtedly the place for you at present. If you’ll excuse me, Mar...Miss Bertrand, I shall desert you and take him to be dried.”

Mariette was quite glad not to face the others with him at her side, and also glad of a little time to think before she faced them. At the next corner they separated and under an increasing downpour she hurried towards the house.

To return to their old, friendly footing was better than to wallow in embarrassment until she returned home. Yet how she wished he had declared his love, offered his heart, begged her to marry him. It had been a casual kiss after all, the result of mild affection meeting the luxuriant scent of orange blossom. She was indeed at fault for responding with such fervour. He was a true gentleman to take the blame upon himself.

She stopped stock-still on the terrace steps as a thought struck her. He was a true gentleman, and a gentleman did not offer for a lady without her father’s or guardian’s permission. Was he waiting to speak to Uncle George?

It was almost too much to hope for--but not quite.

* * * *

“Is this land your uncle’s?” Lord Malcolm enquired as the bays trotted sloshily along the muddy lane.

“Yes, the Bell-Tor Manor estate begins where we drove out of the woods back there.”

From the high seat of the curricle, Mariette could see over the bare hedges, neatly pruned down for the winter. On either side spread dun meadows grazed by red Devonshire cattle, interspersed with ploughland already hazed with green winter wheat. The rain had stopped in the night; the sun shone, and the snow was gone except for streaks on the north side of hedgerow and copse. Spring was definitely in the air in this favoured south-western corner of the realm, though gales and storms might yet be on the way.

Ragamuffin, sitting on Mariette’s feet, snuffed the air with an expression of bliss.

“The farms look to be in good heart,” said Lord Malcolm, sounding surprised.

“Mr. Taffert is an excellent bailiff, as I told you, and Uncle George does not begrudge the expenditure necessary to keep things running smoothly.”

“Very wise.”

“Ralph grumbles that it is all run on shockingly old-fashioned lines.”

“Your cousin is interested in farming?” Now he sounded astonished.

“Well, no,” she confessed reluctantly. “He talks grandly of modernization, but I fear it is no more than a word to him. If he were to try, I doubt Uncle George would oppose him.”

“Mr. Barwith must be the most easy-going of men.”

“Oh, he is. He’s a dear.”

“It’s a pity your cousin don’t make the effort, for the new methods of agriculture, new breeds of animals and varieties of crops, often produce impressive results.”

Mariette turned her head to stare at him. “You know about agriculture?” she asked.

“Very little. I’ve had no cause to study but I grew up on a great estate. My father owns a vast number of acres, and he and my eldest brother are both progressive landlords. It’s interesting and one cannot help learning a bit.”

“I know what you mean. Simply talking to the tenants and Mr. Taffert I have learned a little. Like living in a house with a library full of history, it is inevitable--except that Ralph has succeeded admirably in avoiding any interest in either history or farming. Oh, I do hope he has not fallen into the suds while I was away!”

“You are not responsible for rescuing him from his difficulties.”

“Perhaps not.” Yet she still felt guilty for abandoning the notion of marrying him and devoting her life to taking care of him. “I suppose it has become a habit. When he was little it was things like tracking mud into the house and stealing jam tarts. I used to intercede with Cook or Mrs. Finney on his behalf. Then with Jim Groom, when Ralph left the paddock gate open and all the horses wandered off up to the moor. And the dairymaid, the time he used milk churns as giant skittles and knocked over a full one.”

“Giant skittles!” Lord Malcolm exclaimed. Lilian’s groom Benson, sitting up behind, gave a snort of laughter.

“He thought they were all empty. It was a mistake. He was never naughty on purpose,” she said earnestly.

“I daresay.”

She tried to make him understand. “Ralph was only nine when he came to live with us. His parents had just died and he was dreadfully unhappy. I had already been there for some time so it was natural to do what I could to....Oh, slow down a minute! Ragamuffin wants to get out.”

Lord Malcolm reined in the bays and Ragamuffin took a flying leap. Mud spattered in all directions.

“Oh bother! I shall have to bath him.”

“Surely your groom...”

“Jim is an old man and sadly rheumaticky.”

“Begging your pardon, m’lord, but if you was to stay a half an hour to rest the hosses, I c’d wash the dog for miss afore we leave.”

Mariette smiled at him over her shoulder. “Thank you, Benson, I shall accept your kind offer. It is not one of my favourite tasks!”

The groom flushed. “My pleasure, miss,” he muttered.

Ragamuffin, having thoroughly investigated the enticing smell, returned to the curricle, quite prepared to launch himself into the moving vehicle.

“Oh no you don’t,” said Mariette severely. “You are filthy. You’ll have to run the rest of the way.”

They drove on up the valley, through a village which was no more than a few rows of whitewashed cottages, a tavern, a forge, and the tiny church of St. Elwyn. No resident vicar--a curate came over from Plympton once a fortnight. Mrs. Finney had taken Mariette and Ralph to services for the first year or two, until they started to disappear on Sunday mornings and she gave up. Mariette had attended once when she was older. The curate’s hurried sermon and evident anxiety to be gone disgusted her, and now she only went to tenants’ christenings and weddings.

She had no intention of explaining this to Lord Malcolm. From their discussion of Voltaire she suspected he was no faithful churchgoer, but she knew Lilian attended St. Bride’s every Sunday. As the curricle approached St. Elwyn’s, she waved to the blacksmith on the other side of the street and told Lord Malcolm how he had shod the ponies free when she and Ralph were children.

“Welcome home, Miss Mariette!” he bellowed, a huge grin splitting his grizzled beard.

Heads popped out of doors and windows. Women and children and old men waved, the bolder calling out, “Welcome home, miss!” “Glad you’m better, miss!”

Mariette waved and smiled, blinking back tears. “How lucky I am to have so many friends,” she said to Lord Malcolm.

“You have made your own luck, I should say,” he responded.

While she was puzzling over this, they left the hamlet behind. As the valley narrowed, the lane ran through woods, close to Bell Brook, now a swirling torrent in flood. They drove over several stone bridges across the stream’s windings, and Mariette pointed out the one from which she had caught her first fish.

Lord Malcolm laughed. “D’you know, I don’t believe I have ever met anyone who ever forgot the precise spot where they caught their first fish. I certainly have not. How about you, Benson?”

“Like it were yesterday, m’lord.”

Now the manor was visible through the bare trees, huddled under the steep slopes of Bell Tor and Grevin Moor. No sign of life but the smoke rising lazily from the chimneys into the clear air. Mariette clasped her hands tightly, suddenly nervous.

What if Lord Malcolm and Uncle George took each other in dislike? What if Ralph, instead of thanking his lordship for the return of the ring, took it into his head to accuse him of being a Captain Sharp? What if Lord Malcolm turned up his nose at a household with neither butler nor footman, none of the elegancies to which he was accustomed?

She stole a sideways glance at him. No, he would not turn up his nose. He was too courteous and too kind, never starchy, never toplofty.

In fact, he was nigh on as perfect as a man could be.

The curricle drew up before the front door. Benson jumped down to take the reins and Lord Malcolm handed Mariette down. Ragamuffin arrived, panting.