The Wicked Guardian (22 page)

“He must deal with your paltry affairs,” seethed Marianna, “and put aside our affairs until you are settled. And I warn you, Miss Penryck, that I shall not abide the outcome of this. I intend to marry Lord Choate, and I intend to set a date before Christmas, and, believe me, he will not postpone the marriage again.”

Clare looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. There seemed to be nothing to say. She held her breath, letting the words flood over her.

“I shall see to that,” Marianna continued. “I have a cousin who would be most eligible for you. We scarcely see him. In fact, I have not seen him for a twelvemonth, so you see he would be just the thing. For I shall not allow Benedict to be belabored by you, harassed until he doesn’t know what is best for him.”

“Marianna, don’t meddle,” warned her mother.

It was then that Marianna, full of her own resentments, left the truth to fend for itself. Mendaciously she informed Clare, “I hadn’t wanted to tell you, for I thought you might resent my knowing so much of Benedict’s plans for you, but I have already broached the subject to him, and he agrees. The arrangements are already in train, you know, and Benedict assures me that the moment your year of mourning is over, your betrothal will be announced. And we’ll not have you on our hands anymore.”

She glared at Clare in triumph. Mrs. Morton was appalled, but not so much so that she did not see the spark of emotion that welled up in Clare’s eyes as she looked up at Marianna. She was struck, at that moment, by a most unexpected idea. She was stirred to protest, believing rightly that Marianna , was lying, but the look in Clare’s eyes—the look of complete abject misery—was too strong for Mrs. Morton to do aught but gasp inwardly in compassion.

Her own breeding, unlike her daughter’s, was impeccable though, and now was the time to put an end to this impossible situation. She rose to her feet and shepherded her daughter to the door, brooking no delay, and saying quite proper and meaningless things to Clare.

Her last look, as she closed the door to the maroon salon behind them, was of Clare sitting where she had been, her face buried in her hands, and her shoulders shaking as though racked with sobs.

“Well, Marianna,” said Mrs. Morton astringently, “now you’ve outdone yourself.”

24
.

Clare believed she had touched the very bottom of existence—Mrs. Duff on her way, jingling jailer’s keys, so to speak, heralding ten months of close confinement at Penryck Abbey.

Clare was full of self-incrimination. Why hadn’t she let well enough alone? Her thoughts boiled as they accused her of all her sins. Why had she decided to loosen the ceiling plaster? If she had not, Benedict would not have thought she was incorrigible. Besides, Clare had mischievously pretended to encourage Harry Rowse. And that had brought disaster upon her. Not only was she to return to the abbey, but she also now had a marriage to look forward to.

Her own marriage was even now being arranged, without even consulting her, to a cousin of Marianna Morton’s! She could not have expected much else, she decided, remembering how Benedict had always overridden her wishes, even if he had done her the courtesy of asking what they were.

But to hear it from Marianna! That was debasing! Why hadn’t Benedict told her himself? Surely she would have taken it better from his own lips. But perhaps he did not dare to face her with it?

That was wrong. Benedict would face anything, and even take pleasure in inflicting hurt upon her. She was now past reasoning, and let instinct take over. But instinct played her false, because no slightest doubt crossed her mind that Miss Morton had lied, for reasons of her own.

The only reason Benedict had not told her about his plans to arrange a marriage for her was that her wishes, her thoughts, her likes were of no possible concern to him.

She was a duty, an onerous, troublesome millstone around his neck, and, being a direct man, he was taking the earliest possible steps to rid himself of her care.

He could not even wait for a seemly time to elapse after her mourning. There were eight years yet to go before she would be free of her wicked guardian. For seven of them, if he had his way, she would be wed to a man she did not know, and Benedict’s guardianship would be early terminated.

Her sobs at length subsided. She sat a long time, devoid of thought, not moving. She had not yet turned the corner to look into the future. There would be nothing there, she knew, and what was the use!

But at the bottom, there was no place to go, and one cannot live in the limbo of desperation forever. When Mrs. Bishop came in to light the candles, she roused from her lethargy.

"Come, now, miss, sitting here in the dark like this! I don’t know what Dawson was thinking of to let the curtains go like this, with the fog drawing in, and the mist so dark and all!”

Clare roused herself and was forced to look outside following Mrs. Bishop’s bustling figure as she pulled all the draperies closed. “It’s only three o’clock!” she marveled, thinking that at least the time must have gone on into the next week. “And already dark?”

“It’s the mist rising from the river, miss,” explained Mrs. Bishop. “The rain will set in by nightfall, you mark my words.”

It was just the weather for Clare’s mood, she decided. She longed to go for a walk, but of course she could not without Lady Melvin with her. She moved to the window and drew the curtains apart, to gaze out upon Laura Place.

The traffic was almost nonexistent. Probably the weather had reduced all the ailing to huddling by the fireside. The cobbles glistened in the fine mist. But there was one pedestrian along the street, a woman, and as she drew near, looking up at the buildings to mark her way, Clare recognized her. With a gasp, she breathed, “Mrs. Morton! Whatever can she want now?”

She hoped that Mrs. Morton had thought of a call to make elsewhere in the street, and she dropped the curtains so as not to be recognized. But in a moment, Marianna’s mother was ushered into the maroon salon.

Mrs. Morton crossed the room, holding out both hands to Clare. “My dear,” she said kindly, “I could not reconcile my conscience at leaving you so downcast an hour ago. I have come to talk to you, my dear, knowing that you have no mother to comfort you and Lady Thane, alas, is out of the city.”

Clare regarded her with sturdy defiance. She considered Mrs. Morton as bad as her daughter, since she had stood by and let Marianna say such wounding things. But in this she was mistaken.

“My daughter is sometimes very thoughtless,” said Mrs. Morton, sitting on the sofa next to Clare. “And I doubt not that some of the things she said wounded you deeply.”

The Penryck pride stirred. “Miss Morton overstepped her authority, that is true,” said Clare. “She has nothing to say to the purpose when she tries to instruct me in my duty.”

“I know this,” said Mrs. Morton. “But I came to tell you that Marianna is not so harsh as she seems. She has been, in most cases, exceedingly thoughtful of me, and while I cannot approve of every action she takes, yet I am persuaded that she means well. But that is not to the purpose. I should like to hear, my dear, of your plans for the future.”

“Do you not know them?” said Clare. “I am to return to Penryck Abbey at the end of the week. I am still in mourning, of course, and my guardian felt it wise for me to live a more retired life.”

Until, she thought, he can marry me off to Marianna’s cousin! Her bitter thoughts were reflected in her face for all to read, and it was not Mrs. Morton’s fault that she did not read them aright.

“You must agree that this is wise.”

“Of course, ma’am. But I am not quite used to having my wishes so ignored, and I do not think I shall be able to accustom myself to such a life.”

Mrs. Morton was startled. She had thought to come to console Clare for her unhappiness. Mrs. Morton was quite sure she knew the source of Clare’s misery—the girl had developed a schoolgirl passion for her guardian. This was most understandable, for Lord Benedict Choate was an exceedingly personable man, with exquisite manners, when he chose, a great deal of address in dealing with females, and an air of intriguing aloofness. In fact, Mrs. Morton thought, he was just the kind of man to appeal to a mere child with her head full of romantic notions. Or, to tell the truth, he was the kind of man to appeal to many a settled matron, such as Mrs. Morton herself!

“It is too bad,” she soothed Clare, “to have one’s hopes so dashed! But I must tell you this, my dear. It is not everyone who can have all she desires, you know. There are arrangements already made, don’t you know, that cannot with honor be changed.”

And it would be best, thought Mrs. Morton, if Benedict could marry Marianna at once, instead of these unsettling postponements. If Clare could see that Benedict was beyond her reach, being already wed to the dashing Miss Morton, then she might the more readily recover from her mistaken hopes.

“No arrangement should be allowed,” said Clare resentfully, “that cannot be altered. I mean, ma’am, that there is enough unhappiness without deliberately asking for more.” Clare was still in her dark mood, thinking of Benedict’s arrangement of a marriage for her with Marianna’s cousin. It was kind of Mrs. Morton to try to soften the blow, but Clare was, at times, a realist, and if the arrangements were already made, as she hinted, then nothing either Mrs. Morton or Clare could do would change them.

Unfortunately, her thoughts were running along a different road from Mrs. Morton’s. Since Mrs. Morton was aware that Marianna’s threat of a marriage to her cousin was empty, since there was in actuality no cousin at all, she overlooked the possibility that Clare believed every word that Marianna spoke. There was no way for Clare to know that Marianna lied, but Mrs. Morton, bent on telling Clare how hopeless it would be to dangle after Benedict, was unaware of Clare’s real fear.

After Mrs. Morton had taken her leave, Clare began to reflect. Mrs. Morton had been kindness itself, but still, she had come only to reconcile Clare to a marriage in the next few months with a man whose existence had not been known to her until this afternoon.

Clare had rarely felt so alone. She had been encouraged to think for herself, during the years at the abbey when her grandmama had left things to her, but never had she had such strong wishes that she could lay the entire problem of her life in someone else’s hands.

The only possibility—to turn her life over to Benedict—had, in spite of Grandmama’s best intentions, gone awry. And all that was left was Clare herself. It was her life, after all, and if it went wrong for her, at least it would be her own fault.

There were two things she could do: one was to go along with her guardian’s wishes, and marry someone she had never heard of. Before even seeing him, she had taken an intense dislike to him, for anyone of Marianna’s kin could not be eligible for Clare.

The second thing was to refuse the marriage. And then, when Marianna became Lady Choate, to live under her rule. And that was even more ineligible.

But eventually a third prospect presented itself. It was not what she would have liked, but her likes were no longer of any moment.

Clare pounded with her clenched fist upon her knee. By this time, she had retired for the night. A maid had lighted a fire in the grate to chase away the damp of the rainy night, and she huddled in a wing chair before the fire.

“If Choate wants me wed,” she said aloud, “and off his hands, I can oblige him. He need not be put to any straits over it, and I am not bound by any arrangements he may have made with
her
cousin.” The fire at length burned low. “If he wants me wed,” she continued eventually, “I shall arrange it myself. Why not? It’s my life!”

So by Thursday night, with Saturday and Mrs. Duff looming threateningly on her horizon, Clare, her mind made up, slept like a baby.

Friday morning, she awoke and, lying in bed waiting for Budge to bring her tea, she went over every detail of her scheme. Seeing no fault with it, she tossed back the coverlet and rang vigorously for her maid.

“Land sakes, miss,” said Budge. “I was coming all the time, but—”

“Never mind that, Budge. I must go out this morning. Pray set out my dove-gray walking suit, and be ready to accompany me by ten o’clock.”

Budge demurred. “But, miss, was you expecting to go out before Lady Melvin comes? I don’t think—”

‘That’s all right, Budge. Take this tea away, and bring me some toast. I’m starved!”

“But—”

“No buts, Budge. Do as I tell you. And not a word to Mrs. Bishop, mind!”

Budge, balked of giving vent to her feelings in the servants’ hall, turned mutinous. “Now, I have my orders, miss,” she said unwisely.

“And I’ve given you some new ones, Budge. Come, now, don’t let’s quarrel. I can’t do without you, that’s the
truth. “Somewhat
mollified, Budge hastened to follow her instructions, and thinking darkly, “I wonder what young miss is up to now, and I don’t think I’m going to like it at all!” she made ready to accompany Miss Penryck at ten in the morning, as Miss Penryck deliberately left the house in defiance of all instructions to the contrary.

Putting off the somber tones of her thoughts of the night before, and donning, like a new frock, an expression of anxiety, she tripped along the Crescent and onto the Parade.

She strolled slowly, with an air of preoccupation, searching the crowd out of the corner of her eye. At ten in the morning, only the gouty, those in wheelchairs, and those attending them were to be seen. One or two exceptions were known to her, and soon she espied the one face she was looking for.

“Sir Alexander!” she cried, prettily putting out her hand to greet him. “Just the one man who can help me out of this great fix I find myself in!”

Sir Alexander bowed over her hand. “My dear, you must tell me how I can be of service to you.”

“N-no,” she said abruptly, “it is too bad of me to worry you with my troubles.”

Beguiled by the sidelong glance bestowed upon him, he insisted, “Believe me, Miss Penryck, nothing would please me more than to be of whatever help I can. You must learn to trust me, for I hope you know I am always at your service.”

Allowing herself to be coaxed, she burst out in a confiding way. “You know that Lady Thane has left Bath?”

His jaw dropped in surprise. Clare rushed on. “She was called away—to London. I simply must get to her. Her protection is vital to me.”

“But your guardian?” objected Sir Alexander.

“Oh, he is no help, you know. He is engrossed with Miss Morton, and I have not been able to talk to him at all. But I must go to Lady Thane, and I thought you would be able to tell me just how to go on. Shall I hire a post chaise? Or, if I took my maid, could I go on the stage? I am persuaded that I shall be safe, even though uncomfortable, but I shall be much more miserable if I stay in Bath alone, I promise you.”

He said heavily, “It is surely not what I would expect from Lady Thane to leave you alone in a rented house. Why did she not take you back to London with her?”

She had no answer ready. She looked into the distance and bit her lower lip. “Please, Sir Alexander, don’t press me for reasons. I simply wish your advice. How shall I go about hiring a post chaise?”

“It is completely ineligible for you to travel to London in such a fashion. I should take a very strong position against it, I must tell you.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, how I wish I were wed!” she cried. “I would not feel so unprotected, so ... so very much alone!”

“Wed!” cried Sir Alexander, startled. “I should hope that you would not wish to be wed for a few months yet. At that time, the proper time after your bereavement, I should like to speak to your guardian for your hand. I did not wish to speak of it to you until I had spoken to him. Even though it would be most improper in me to speak too soon, yet I confess that it much alarms me to see you in such distress, when I do not have the right to take your burdens upon my shoulders. On the other hand, since in a few months I shall be possessed of that right, then I do not see any real harm in helping you out of your fix at this time.”