The Wicked Guardian (28 page)

3
1.

That night, Clare, unaware of Lady Lindsay’s train of thought, wrestled with her own. To give up her love for Benedict, just when she had found it, tore at her more than she could bear.

But the Penryck resolution, so often deployed in a losing cause, now came staunchly to her rescue. If I must confess to him, she thought, best I do it while I can, before Marianna comes to stir everything into a worse muddle!

The next morning, before her courage could turn tail, she descended to the parlor where Benedict sat, bundled warmly, to his disgust, in coverlets, his feet up on a stool, looking every bit the invalid he was. His mood, never tranquil, was exacerbated by the necessity of allowing others to do the simplest offices for him. He could not even beguile the devil’s own black mood by the ordinary actions of the day.

His descent into the parlor the day before had done him no apparent harm, and he demanded as his right the assistance to get him dressed in a brocade dressing gown, the sleeve folded neatly over his broken arm, and helped downstairs to sit in the parlor.

Clare had not come to help him this day, as she had previously, It would be hard enough to screw her courage to the point, she knew, so she waited until she saw Lady Lindsay leave the private parlor. She stood a moment outside the door while she swallowed the unaccountable lump in her throat, and then slipped inside the door and closed it softly behind her. The man in the armchair sat with his back to the light, so she could not see the expression on his dark countenance. But she could see that the heavy black eyebrows were drawn together, boding ill for the success of her mission.

“Sir?” she quavered.

His head came up immediately, and for the space of a breath there was a queer hungry look in his thin face. Then, as though erased, it was gone.

“What is it?” he demanded. His voice was harsh, as though he had decided to keep Clare at an unhappy distance. She did not flinch, though she quailed inwardly.

“I ... trust I see you better?”

“You do,” he said. “I believe that my sister plans to carry us to Shenton tomorrow.”

“Truly?” cried Clare, her eyes shining. “I am so glad. You cannot believe how dreadfully you looked when I first saw you.”

“If it were parallel to the way I felt, I could believe it,” he said, less severely. “I know I have you to thank—”

“Well, you see,” said Clare carefully, “that is why I came ... that is, why I waited until Lady Lindsay had left ... I know there’s nothing I can say that will make amends.”

Choate had thought he could never be harsh to this child again, knowing how tightly she had wound herself into his heart, but his weakness, coupled with long habit, betrayed him. “Try,” he recommended sternly.

Her chin quivered. Must he make it so hard? Trying to think of his coldness as a penance, she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I’m more sorry than you will ever know,” she said in a low voice. “I never truly thought you wicked. I just wanted you to
notice
me!”

She was looking with apparent concentration upon her folded hands held tightly before her. She did not see the wry twist to Choate’s sensitive mouth.

“I noticed you,” he said. “But you know—”

She scarcely heeded him. “I must not intrude myself upon your affairs any longer. But I just simply could not let you wed me to someone I didn’t even know!” Her voice rose with the force of her emotion. While she had decided that she must ever be submissive to Benedict’s wishes, it was proving more difficult than she had imagined.

“Wed you to some...?” queried Benedict. “What is this? More of your wild imaginings? What could I have possibly said that could have suggested any kind of marriage to your fevered brain?”

“Don’t be angry,” begged Clare in a forlorn voice that smote Benedict with force. With more experience than Clare, he knew precisely what had happened to his own emotions, and also, he knew that his strongest urges, his most ardent wishes were impossible to fulfill. There was Marianna...

To his surprise, his ward, having come to stand directly before him, echoed his thoughts. “Marianna—that is, Miss Morton—told me about your plans for me. If she shouldn’t have betrayed your confidence, I am sorry to tell you she did. But you see it was her cousin and ... and, all of it, and I just couldn’t ... And even Sir Alexander was better, for you see, I know him...”

Her little broken phrases, while not explicit, still had enough of the facts in them so that he could shrewdly guess the rest. Marianna had meddled once again, and the details could wait. He himself felt vastly weary, no longer in control of his thoughts or his speech. He closed his eyes.

Clare said. “Oh, I’ve tired you! I’m sorry. I’m just as you said I was—a child, not old enough to know
anything
!”

“Did I say that?” said Benedict, a one-sided smile on his face, his voice unexpectedly gentle.

Clare was overcome. Dropping to her knees beside him, she rested her hands on the coverlet and gazed earnestly into his face. “I’ll do anything you say, Benedict, even go back to the abbey with Mrs. Duff. Just say you forgive me for all the trouble I’ve made!”

That lopsided smile still transforming his face, he reached out to touch her hair. “Forgiven,” he said softly.

Overcome, Clare buried her face in the coverlet and wept. He stroked her golden curls tenderly, while a dark expression settled on his bold features. When Lady Lindsay opened the door and saw them thus, Clare kneeling and Choate’s caressing fingers entangled in her ringlets, she withdrew without a sound. Neither had noticed her, she knew.

But what a coil! Primula Lindsay was conscious of a sudden relief that Lindsay was not at hand to keep her from doing what she thought best. He was a good man, but he would never countenance her meddling in her brother’s affairs.

However, Primula, knowing her brother well, and loving him far more than he knew, was determined not to stand by and see two people who meant much to her insist upon a headlong descent into a life of misery.

What could she do? Lindsay would say: Mind your own affairs, my love! But that was one thing above all that she could not do.

The picture of Clare and Benedict troubled his sister through lunch. Although Clare had bathed her face, and showed little sign of her recent storm of weeping, yet she was unnaturally quiet. Primula glanced at her brother, eating what he called “pap for infants,” and thought the haggard look of strain on his features was not all owing to his injuries.

Primula was exercised to such a point that, immediately after the table was cleared, she sent Clare upstairs.

“For you bore the brunt of the nursing before I came, and I am quite sure you have had little sleep even now. But I shall keep the invalid company while you rest.”

Clare stood doubtfully, torn between a longing to stretch out and sleep, and a wish to stay with Benedict. But in truth she was exhausted, and the lure of the soft bed upstairs, furnished with Lady Lindsay’s sheets and down comforter, was irresistible.

After Clare had left, Primula began to wish she had thought out her approach to her irritable brother. But she saw his eyes linger on the door through which Clare had disappeared, and taking a deep breath, she plunged.

“What are you going to do about her, Benedict?”

“Do, Prim? I suppose she will come to Shenton with us?”

“She says not.”

A frown creased Benedict’s brow. “She will do so if I...” He stopped short. He did not meet his sister’s anxious eyes. “That’s what led to all this, you know,” he resumed with a little laugh. “I was too inexperienced to avoid the blunders I’ve made all along the line.”

“You? Inexperienced?” Primula laughed. “With three sisters, a fiancée, and who knows how many—”

“Never mind how many! You make me sound like the Grand Turk! Which I am not, you know.”

“Too much trouble,” agreed Primula. “Monogamy is much easier.” She was returning to her usual playful manner, seeing that Benedict did not flare up at once. ‘The only questions is, dear brother—monogamous with which one?”

He was silent so long that she thought he might have slid into unconsciousness. His dreadful condition of only a few days before was still too new in her mind for her to accept silence from him. But he was fully awake.

“With my duty,” he said at last, his voice harsher than she had ever heard it. “I cannot do else.”

Primula regarded him with affection. “It goes hard for me to see my dearest brother riding breakneck into a most wretched existence. For you know, I cannot like your betrothed. Nor, I think, do you, else why would you have postponed your wedding so many times?”

“I cannot break off, with honor.”

Primula talked on, but made no headway. At last, taking pity upon his drawn face, she rose and kissed him on the forehead. “Very well, Benedict. You may be miserable, with honor. I do not myself think honor is that important, but I do know what store you set on it. But I warn you, Benedict, I shall keep Clare with me as long as I can, and my home will be hers.”

“And I must stay away?” Benedict quirked one black eyebrow in a quizzical manner. He was indeed recovering, thought his fond sister.

“Your honor will no doubt guide you,” said Primula dryly, “and I trust it will be of some comfort.”

Suddenly Benedict turned ashen, and so desolate that Primula longed to take back all she had said. But the fact remained that Clare was in love with Benedict, and if she was not mistaken, Benedict had, for the first time she could recall, fallen in love himself.

Benedict spoke then, more to himself than to her, and she leaned forward to hear better. “I was warned. Oh, yes, all took it into their heads to warn me—too much heat in me for the degree of irritation that brat caused. But I had no idea of what they meant. How wrong I was, not to see where I was heading!”

Primula held her breath, not knowing what would come next, but believing that her brother was in such sad straits that talking might provide at least some ease.

“It was jealousy that brought me here,” Benedict said at last, a lost look in his eyes that she had never seen before. “Not that she disobeyed me, Prim. I simply could not see her go off with Ferguson.”

“I agree.”

“Or,” added Benedict, as though she had not spoken, “with any other man. Prim,
what am I going to do
?”

Cry off
was the cure that sprang to Primula’s lips. But she dared not suggest it again. She considered a long time. Finally she said slowly, “Perhaps Clare will get over it. She’s young, and surely, next year, I shall be free to divert her into other channels. You are a very personable man, Benedict, and it is only natural that she should develop a
tendre
for you.”

“Do you believe that?”

She did not deign to answer, for the truth would take away the force of her arguments. She did not know how to extricate Benedict from his unhappy betrothal. But she had to try. She needed time now to think of some scheme. Temporize, her common sense instructed her. “I should feel it best that you send her to Penryck Abbey with Mrs. Duff. And I’ll take you to Shenton to regain your health. Clare could well be on the way to forgetting you if you are out of sight.”

“She might forget,” said Benedict in such a low voice that she was not sure she heard aright. “But
what about me
?”

32
.

The answer to Benedict’s question came sooner than anyone expected. It was only a couple of hours later when there arose a scurrying in the innyard that heralded the arrival of a person of some importance.

“I can’t see out of the window,” complained Benedict, snatching at straws to beguile his mood. “Come, Prim, tell me what’s going on.”

“In the innyard, I suppose you mean,” said Primula testily. She was still irritated over what she considered her brother’s illogical stubbornness, and only his wan face and the tragic look in his dark eyes reconciled her to pity him. “Some merchant, I suppose. There’s hardly been any travel to London, you know. There’s nothing going on in town.”

Obediently she crossed to stare out of the window. Her eyes widened as she beheld the occupants of the chaise descending. The young lady who emerged first was known, without pleasure, to Primula.

“What does she want?” queried Primula, nettled. Benedict made a movement as though to rise from his chair, but she waved him back.

Marianna’s eyes flashed anger that Primula could see even from the window. She paid no heed to the stouter woman who descended the chaise steps in her daughter’s wake. Benedict, his curiosity awakened by his sister’s posture at the window, exerted himself to turn his chair to afford him a better view.

“Good God! Marianna!” he exclaimed.

“Exactly,” said Primula. “Now, Benedict, let’s get this encounter done with.”

“Primula,” said Benedict in hollow tones, “I wish you will not let your impulsive temper—”

“Pooh!” said Primula. “Sit down. You’re in no state to be marching around the room.”

“I wasn’t marching!” said Lord Choate indignantly. With a swift alteration in his mood he said, with appeal in his voice, “I can’t see that woman! Prim, get rid of her, do! Tell her I’ll see her in London. Tell her—”

“Anything?” said Primula quizzically.

Too late Benedict saw the opening he had given her.

“Now, Primula...”

But it was too late for either of them to set their ideas in motion. Marianna Morton had swept into the inn, her mother following slowly, as though reluctant to bear any share of her daughter’s actions.

At that precise moment, Clare, having failed to find refreshment in her troubled slumber, was descending the stairs from the upper floor, and came face to face with Marianna.

“So!” cried Marianna Morton in a carrying voice. “Harry Rowse was right! How is it I find you here?”

“Perhaps because for once Rowse told the truth,” said Clare, stung to retort. “Although how he knew we were here passes my understanding.”

“No thanks to you that I learn that my betrothed is lying at death’s door.
You
did not see fit to send word to me. I find that most inexcusable.”

Mrs. Morton had come in behind Marianna, and heard the last of this exchange. She had the darkest fears of the probable outcome of her daughter’s temper. In spite of the strongest representations she had made only a few days ago to Marianna, her daughter was in no way attempting to bridle her tongue.

“Marianna...” said Mrs. Morton, without effect. Marianna had eyes only for Clare. “You little schemer!” she accused. “To find you here in an inn, with Lord Choate, alone, passes all decency. Let me tell you, my girl, that your devious, deceitful plot will not get you what you want.”

“All I want,” interrupted Mrs. Morton, realizing that more strenuous measures were necessary, “is for you to lower your voice and not shout your affairs to the world.”

Marianna did not respond, but when she spoke again her voice was a degree lower. “A likely tale Rowse told—that you had eloped to Gretna Green with Ferguson! A mere excuse! I warn you that you cannot deceive me as to your true purpose.”

Clare was past the point of caring about what she said. She had lived through a strenuous few days and nights, watching at the bedside of her guardian, rocked to the core by the realization that she loved him totally, hopelessly. Now Marianna Morton appeared, bothersome as a buzzing fly, and no more important. Clare even made a small gesture, as of brushing away a gnat, before she said in a quiet voice, “I think you are mistaken, Miss Morton. Once again. I had no plan in coming here, except—”

“Except to bring Benedict to think he had compromised you so that he must marry you. I warn you that he will not change his mind. He loves me, and he has given his word—”

“As to that,” said Clare meticulously, “I could not say. Whether he loves you or not must be his affair. But I do venture to wonder whether you are in fact as attached to him as you would wish people to think.”

“What!”

“You have come rushing out from Bath, under the impression that he was injured, and yet,” pointed out Clare, “you have not yet asked how he is faring.”

Marianna said shrewishly, “He was not hurt badly. Rowse said so!”

Clare said reasonably, “Since Rowse was responsible for Benedict’s accident, then you must be sure that the truth is not in him. But I think you said ‘lying at death’s door’?”

Just then the outer door opened and Ned Fenton stepped in from the yard. So Marianna and her mother had brought an escort with them!

“Oh, Miss Penryck!” exclaimed Ned. “Glad to see you’re here. How’s Benedict?”

Mariana, probably ashamed of her own lapse in the matter, turned on Benedict’s friend. “Not very badly injured, after all,” she cried. “For this young person was here to beguile his convalescence!”

“Marianna,” said Mrs. Morton severely, “that is more than enough.”

Clare had been too sorely tried. She burst into tears.

“He was nearly d-dead!” she said tearfully.

“I doubt it!” said Marianna stoutly, even though she was beginning to think she had in truth made a mistake.

“But no matter what you say, the fact remains that you and Benedict have spent several days together in an inn, unknown to your friends, and without anyone to lend you credit.” She eyed Clare carefully, as though deciding where to plant the mortal dart. “I wonder what Lady Lindsay will say to this escapade of yours!”

During this last speech, Lady Lindsay appeared silently in the doorway from the private parlor. None of the others saw her, nor had they seen the parlor door open just after their arrival. But Ned Fenton, not so bent on watching Clare, now caught sight of Primula. “Then Benedict
was
in danger!” he exclaimed.

Lady Lindsay stepped into the room. “Oh, yes, he was,” she said calmly. “And he has dear Clare to thank that he is alive now.”

Her remarks worked powerfully on Marianna, reducing her to openmouthed astonishment. Mrs. Morton found her tongue. “Well, miss, you see how right I was. Your tongue has at last got you into trouble that you can’t smile your way out of.”

Marianna recovered her speech. “How long,” she demanded of Lady Lindsay, “have you been here?”

Primula, enjoying herself and taking advantage of the opportunity so neatly handed to her, smiled sweetly and said, “I confess, Marianna, your preoccupation with the seamy side of life gives me cause to wonder. Your upbringing, I know, has been of the best, for I have the greatest respect for your mother. But I cannot help but wonder at you! It is beyond imagining that there could be anything of impropriety in the situation here. Benedict at death’s door, his life saved by his ward.”

Ned turned to Marianna and said with unaccustomed bluntness, “What an opinion you have of Choate! I wonder you want to marry such a man, if you think him capable of such ramshackle behavior!”

Primula, not relenting at the sight of Marianna’s appalled features as she realized the grave mistake she had made, added, “In response to your question, although I do not admit your right to ask it, I have been here with Clare almost from the start. And—I tell you this only for my dear Clare’s protection against your malicious tongue—during the hours before I came, the physician will bear witness that Benedict was totally unconscious, incapable of moving a finger.” She surveyed Marianna with a calculated look. “I don’t look forward to calling you ‘sister,’ I must tell you.”

Marianna tried valiantly to regain her position. “Had I known, Lady Lindsay, that
you
were here—”

Benedict’s voice interrupted her. He was leaning against the doorframe, and his pallor spoke eloquently of his trials. But his drawl was strong enough as he said with a trace of amused contempt, “I had never realized until now, Marianna, how very vulgar you are!”

Marianna blanched as though he had struck her in the face. She had whistled him down to the wind, she knew, and a chill descended on her. She searched wildly for words that would mend all, but her mother forestalled her.

“Choate, I cannot say how glad I am to see you so much recovered. We were informed falsely on several counts, but
my
faith in you—little though you may regard it, and I could not blame you—never wavered.” She shot a dark glance toward her daughter.

Marianna lifted her chin. “I shall give you no cause in the future, Choate, to question my devotion to you—”

“No!” Mrs. Morton delivered herself of the monosyllable with force. “I shall no longer countenance this marriage. Marianna, I have watched you riding roughshod over everyone who comes within your sphere, and while I am inured to such treatment, I feel that I must make amends to Choate, and to Miss Penryck, for your behavior. I shall not agree to a union with so little prospect of success. Come, Marianna. I am thinking that we might tour Italy this winter...”

Mrs. Morton ushered her stunned daughter out of the inn. She did not look back. Ned Fenton, reading Mrs. Morton’s mood correctly, disappeared to order the coach readied for the return journey. Those Mrs. Morton had left in her wake stood in a way dazed, as the waves of the affair subsided slowly. From the outside floated back to them the final word from Mrs. Morton. “It will be
my
decision, Marianna, and you will remember that I shall brook no further impertinence from you...”

Lady Lindsay breathed a huge sigh, composed of satisfaction and relief. But Clare’s eyes were on Benedict. “Oh, my dear sir, you must not stand so long. Here, lean on me, let me help you back to your chair. You have recovered so marvelously that you must not jeopardize your health...”

Shute sprang quickly to Clare’s aid—Lady Lindsay suspected rightly he had been hovering just out of sight, but not at all out of hearing, in the hall—and together they got Benedict to his chair. His bloodless features told the cost of his exertion. Clare dismissed Shute and watched Benedict. She poured a glass of port, and urged him, “Mr. Otten says you must drink a lot of this to replace the blood you lost.”

“He said nothing about the effect on my head,” complained Benedict. But the look in his eyes softened.

After a long time, she ventured, “Are you heartbroken, sir? Your betrothal...”

“Not so much that I can’t be cured.” His smile was sweet and tender, and she read a light in his eyes that, this time, she interpreted aright.

“Will you, my dear ward, provide my cure?” His gaze was quizzical, and oddly uncertain. He was rewarded by the sight of tears slipping down her cheeks. “Now, my dear watering pot, if you do not wish it...”

“Oh, no, Benedict, I wish it above all things! I just c-can’t stop crying, that’s all!”

Lady Lindsay, lingering with purpose in the hall, heard what she had longed to hear. She closed the parlor door and left them alone. Remembering the
glowing
look on her brother’s face, an expression she had never expected to see, she smiled to herself. This wedding would not be postponed, she would wager.

Clare’s year of mourning would be over next June ... Lady Lindsay chuckled. It was going to be a long, long year!