When It's Perfect (16 page)

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Baybridge House

22 November 1854

…
The weather has been most dreary, and Exeter has made
himself busy with the miners. I haven’t seen him in almost two
weeks. My mood has been strange of late, as well. I had the most
unusual dream last night
—
that I was alone in a blizzard,
without direction, calling to a faceless form in the distance. I
thought it might be you, dear Marcus, but at the point when I
needed you to show me direction, you weren’t anywhere to be
found
…

W
ith a deep frown, Marcus stared out the library window to the garden fountain—the one where just last night he had been swept away in a sweet kiss that had shocked his senses and filled him with heat to his bones.

“Where the devil is your mind today, Renn?”

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his black morning jacket and

turned to his brother, who relaxed with tea on the small red brocade sofa.

Red, like silk…

“My mind?” he repeated gruffly.

George snickered, bringing his cup to his lips. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

That was probably true, he decided. It had been a hell of a night.

“I’ve been thinking, George.”

“Clearly.”

Marcus ignored that snide comment offered with good humor. Such a contradiction in delivery was so like his brother.

He stepped away from the window, out of the beam of sunlight that had been resting on his shoulders, keeping him warm. Although it was early still—not quite nine o’clock—he’d been up and moving about the house since five, reading, catching up on paperwork, taking breakfast in the dining room. Yet he hadn’t seen a sign of Mary.

“I asked you if you’ve made any definite plans regarding your return to Egypt. I’ve got issues to settle at the mines, and I can’t have the villagers begin speculating on why we’re both in Cornwall when one of us could be serving in the Crimea. Times are hard here as well.”

Marcus hid a smile. For all his grumbling, George was no more fit for war than he was. George was a business and property manager; he was a researcher and… what? An adventurer, he supposed, though some people in this country didn’t seem to understand that, or his desire to enrich lives and expand horizons of the mind through history. Still, his expertise with foreign dignitaries and ancient, unique civilizations and their languages could come in handy with the war effort, and there were many in the House of Lords, including him, who did nothing but contribute financially.

“Ready to get rid of me, George?” he asked wryly, sitting hard in a burgundy winged leather chair across from him.

George placed his empty teacup on a polished walnut end table beside him and grinned sheepishly. “Of course not. It’s been rather pleasing to see you again, brother.” He sighed with a bit of exaggeration, interlocking his fingers and resting his palms on the back of his head.

“It’s just that production has slowed, and certain wives and widows are wondering why we’re not out there fighting to get their men home and back to work.” He sank lower into the sofa. “War is beastly.”

“I won’t argue that,” he replied somberly.

“Physically and economically,” George added.

Marcus rubbed his chin. “How is Exeter managing?”

George shook his head, frowning a bit. “About as we are, I suppose.

He’s been able to keep his shipments moving better than we have, though he’s down in production as well. But most of what I hear about Baudwin is gossip. He’s been rather tight-lipped about business details lately.”

“No doubt,” Marcus replied, though he wondered about that. “How were he and Christine getting on?”

George’s eyes clouded over as his face fell, though Marcus couldn’t be certain if that was because he’d brought Christine into the conversation, or because she and Exeter had been having more negative interaction than a few pre-wedding jitters.

George gazed past him, out the window to the cloudless sky. “They got on fine, I suppose.” He shook his head twice, harshly, then looked down to the extravagant floral carpeting. “Before her accident she was reluctant to visit him, though.”

He’d said that so casually, and yet Marcus found it to be riveting news. He sat forward in his chair, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean by reluctant?”

George rubbed his eyes harshly with his forefinger and thumb before turning his attention back to him. “Just… I don’t know, exactly. I suppose it was more of my impression, really.” Suddenly his brows pinched in frown. “Why?”

Marcus leaned back again, regarding his brother with newfound questions—and suspicions. “I’m not sure,” he said. Tapping his fingers on the thickly padded armrests, he amended, “I’m not sure, but I felt such despair from her in her letters to me. You felt it, Miss Marsh felt it—”

“What are you saying, Renn, that something was amiss between them?” George scoffed. “Christine had known Exeter all her life, more like a brother, I expect, than a lover. It’s my belief that she trusted him implicitly.” His voice dropped. “And besides, there was no indication that Exeter had anything to do with her death.”

He’d said that so quietly, Marcus had barely heard the words. The mere idea of Exeter being involved in Christine’s turn of fate was not only shocking and potentially scandalous, but pure speculation. George was right, to a point. On the surface, Christine’s death had been an accident. Exeter wasn’t even on the property, and nobody in this house would want to cause her real harm. But after seeing Baudwin again last night, Marcus felt even more assured that something very new and strange had played a part in his sister’s growing anxiety and ultimate

demise. And Exeter seemed likely to be at the center of it.

“His drinking is pronounced,” Marcus said, watching his brother closely.

George waved his wrist through the air. “The strain has gotten to him, too, and he wasn’t himself last night, certainly. What he said shocked even me. I couldn’t respond.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

George raised a brow. “I suppose you don’t need to walk as fine a line,” he said contemplatively.

Marcus understood what he meant. George had to relate to Exeter frequently, and always would, where the mines were concerned.

George blew out a long breath. “Exeter’s the same man, Renn. Just…

more like his father as the years pass. But he’s just lost his betrothed, and he’s taking it hard.”

Marcus suspected this as well, but it had been more than a decade since Wallace Fife, Baudwin’s father, had succumbed to an aging body with an unspecified heart condition. Still, he didn’t remember the elder Fife ever acting as Exeter had last night.

“He drinks more than his father did,” he said, feeling an irritating twinge of regret and failure seep in that perhaps this overindulgence had been noticed by Christine. But it made no sense that she wouldn’t tell her brothers so, especially in private letters to him. No, whatever her fears, they were far worse than marrying a man who occasionally imbibed too much but whom she otherwise trusted.

“Maybe he does overindulge,” George agreed. “He irritates me from time to time as well. But we need him; our families are connected and always will be. You know that.” He paused, then asked, “Have you spoken with him yet?”

“No, but I will. He’ll want to keep the provisional agreement.”

George continued to stare at him. Then slowly one side of his mouth turned up in a grin. “But we’ve got better production than he has this year.”

“Really?” Marcus hated talk of the mines. It bored him and always had.

“What is it with you and the lovely spinster?”

Marcus blinked, then felt his heart start pumping fast. “What’s that got to do with mining?”

George laughed. “You always get this absurdly dour look on your face when I bring the mines up. I thought I’d change the subject to something you seem to enjoy thoroughly.” He controlled himself and

leaned forward a little. “The lady’s a dove, isn’t she?”

A dove? He wasn’t quite sure how much an agreement on his part would give away his thoughts. “Indeed,” was his staid yet simple reply.

George didn’t accept that for a second. “Oh, come now, Renn. I’ve noticed how you stare long and hard at her.” His brows shot up as pure delight flared from his eyes. “I’ll bet Egyptian ladies are nothing like her, eh?”

Marcus snorted, then actually grinned. “Egyptian ladies are a lovely diversion in their own right,” he said mildly, explaining nothing.

“But not so refined and beautiful as our seasoned guest.”

Marcus didn’t want to question what he meant by
seasoned
. Instead, he asked, “How did she and Christine get along?”

George’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “They got on excellently, I should think. Christine adored her, talked about her frequently when they weren’t together. Miss Marsh, for her part, seemed to take Christine under her wing, show her things, explain things.”

“What things?”

George pulled a face. “Oh, I don’t know. Miss Marsh is from the city, and I know that intrigued Christine.” He glanced to a bookcase for a second or two, then back again. “She and Miss Marsh had some interesting discussions, now that I think about it. Lord, I shouldn’t have overheard, but one of them was… rather risqué.”

Marcus rubbed his chin, less shocked than he knew he should be.

“Risqué?”

George chuckled again, though this time he seemed almost embarrassed.

“By risqué, I mean that it was talk for ladies, between ladies. One day they were sitting together on the bench atop the cliffs, when I came upon them. Of course, they didn’t know I was there, but…”

“But what?” Marcus pressed, intrigued.

George shifted his weight a little on the sofa. “Oh, I don’t know. I stumbled upon some discussion or another about the wedding night.”

He had no idea what to say. “And?”

“And what? I left.”

Marcus’s hopes fell. “You just left? Without learning what they were talking about?”

“I heard a moment’s talk about the color and cut of fabric, and how easy it could be to unfasten a corset with the new designs today.”

George’s lips hardened. “When it got to more intimate details, it wasn’t

my place to stop and listen, although it was fairly… accurate, from what I
did
hear.”

So Mary Marsh knew what to expect on her wedding night. He wasn’t sure how to take that tiny bit of fascinating information. She might be a virginal spinster, but she wasn’t young and naïve. Suddenly, for the first, time, it occurred to him that she might not even be a virgin.

She kisses like a virgin…

Marcus crossed one leg over the other, annoyed with himself for letting his thoughts stray to feelings. “How did Christine take it?”

“Take what?”

“Their talk.”

“I’ve no idea.” George tossed his hand up with exasperation as he sank lower into his seat. “What does all this matter anyway? It was just silly talk between ladies, and I left when I heard all I could stand.”

He was right. It probably didn’t matter in the least. Mary and his sister liked each other, and if Mary was in any way able to help Christine in her final months, from her concerns about her upcoming marriage, to whatever fears she kept secret, Marcus was thankful.

“Where is she, by the way?” George cut in, shifting his gaze to the wall clock above the mantel. “Usually, I see her up and taking tea before now.”

Placidly, Marcus replied, “I couldn’t begin to guess.”

“Hmm.” Slowly, George placed his palms on his thighs, stood with effort, and moved to Marcus’s side. “Well, I’m off to the trenches.” He hesitated, placing a hand on Marcus’s shoulder, his tone subdued. “Try not to worry so much about this, Renn. It’s a difficult situation for all of us. I’ll never forgive myself for many of the disagreements Christine and I had before she died, but the hardest part is knowing she was closer to you than she was to me, and I lived under the same roof. That she was hurting so deeply in her final weeks, without my knowledge, will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

Marcus nodded, though he never looked up.

George drew a deep breath and stepped back, clasping his hands behind him. “There are so many things in life that one cannot explain. I only wish I had been a better brother.”

With that, he turned and without a backward glance, quit the room.

Marcus sat where he was for a long while, deep in thought, before rising with the conclusion that it was time to talk to Mary Marsh about the intimacies of her position and what exactly she had “taught” his sister. It was also, he supposed, time to accept the fact that he wanted to

get to know her much,
much
better.

With determined effort, he walked from the empty library, trying to calm the absurd nervousness he felt at such a challenge. It had been a long time since he’d decided with finality that he was going to pursue a woman.

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Baybridge House

27 December 1854

…Christmas dinner was the same as it always is, I suppose,
although an argument in the parlor during dessert left me quite
unnerved. Baudwin challenged George again about mine
property and land rights, and George got angry and bopped
Exeter in the nose! Oh my, what a sight! I almost laughed, but I
think they were both a bit foxed. They were speaking again this
morning, so I suppose all is well. I know it’s not proper for me to
say so, but I intend to have the upper hand in this marriage…

M
ary walked along the cliffs, staring out to sea and down to the bay below, watching as the wind produced rather large, foaming waves, tossing the various fishing boats and their occupants about. It occurred to her how determined these fishermen were. In her very sheltered world, she had been somewhat pampered. Her life, aside from her involvement in the making of provocative lingerie for distinguished ladies, had been routine for a lady of relative wealth and means. How different life must be for simple folk who are forced make a living in such trying physical conditions. She supposed a clay miner’s experience was much the same. She wondered for a moment if the earl had left his duties because of his desire to live away from such physical labor, but then decided that wouldn’t have been his reasoning. It certainly had to be physically demanding to live and work in a barren land. If there was