Loving Lady Marcia (7 page)

“Thank you.” Marcia toyed with the pages of the poetry book. “There’s nothing I like better at Oak Hall than turning sadness to smiles, even if it’s only to give a little girl a hug when she skins her knee. And if it’s something bigger, if someone feels despair about something”—she couldn’t help wincing, thinking about her own despair—“I like to give them hope.” She swallowed hard. “It’s important work. I miss being part of it.”

Kerry paused, her hands holding a long blond lock of Marcia’s hair. “It’s
very
important work, my lady. I admire you for taking it on, and I’m sad for you”—she hesitated—“that you’re no longer there.”

“Well,” Marcia replied briskly. “Every day I’m
here
I want to speak with you about the school and my plans for it. All right? Even if I appear to be all about parties and beaus with my sisters.”

“I won’t let you forget.” Kerry’s tone was earnest, almost stern.

“I already know you won’t,” Marcia told her. “And thank you in advance for being willing to listen. I’ll feel less … undone.”

“It’s my pleasure, Lady Marcia.” The maid’s smile was serene.

She reminded Marcia a bit of Deborah.

In the breakfast room, Daddy stirred his tea and looked at her with unusually somber blue eyes. “It’s good to have you back here with me in the mornings, missy,” he said in his satiny brogue.

“I’m glad to be with you, Daddy.” And she meant that.

He set his spoon down. “I know what happened hurts deeply, but remember that you can’t allow anything to defeat you. Take another day to feel sad, but then put it behind you.”

“Don’t worry.” She sliced into a broiled tomato. “I already have. I’ve got plans this morning.”

“Is that so?”

She nodded, chewing. “It’s been ages since I’ve been to London. I’d like to see the Tower.”

Although truthfully, she was pondering ways to get around Lysandra, who was clever and cruel, which made her a dangerous foe.

But she’s no match for me,
Marcia thought as she stirred sugar into her tea, took a sip of the scalding hot liquid, and tried to appear every inch a lady resigned to her fate. She couldn’t take it too far, however, or Daddy would suspect she was up to something. She’d never been particularly docile and mustn’t look so now.

“The Tower’s a popular attraction,” he said. “But are you sure you wouldn’t like to go to the museum instead? They’ve some pretty paintings of flowers your mother enjoyed seeing last week.”

Marcia put down her fork. “This might seem a juvenile way to count my blessings, but I need a stark reminder of how lucky I am. The Tower, with its grim history, will remind me.”

She
wasn’t locked in a tower. She had a second chance … to do anything she wanted.

“Besides,” she went on, “I’d like to look at the Crown jewels. They’ve outlasted all the people who’ve worn them, which is a good lesson about pride, isn’t it? Mine certainly took a wallop yesterday.”

“You’re a clever girl.” Daddy eyed her with approval. “And after the Tower, you’ll come home and play something soothing on the pianoforte. Or paint. Or write a poem. A long, sad, lyrical poem, the Irish kind. It will exorcise any remaining demons.” He popped a piece of egg in his mouth and chewed with gusto.

“I’ve thought of that, too,” Marcia said. “But I believe I’d prefer to work in the back garden.”

He leaned toward her and whispered, “Yanking out weeds by the roots is good for the soul. You can imagine it’s Lady Ennis’s hair. And my climbing roses may need some pruning, too.” He chuckled heartily. “We’ll sharpen the shears for ye, darlin.’”

“Thank you, Daddy.” Marcia allowed herself a giggle. Daddy always became
very
Irish when he was worked up over something.

Now he slapped a light hand on the table. “Marcia, my girl?”

“Yes, Daddy?”

“You’re your mother’s daughter. You’ve shown me this morning that beneath that sweet countenance is a warrior if there ever was one.”

Marcia smiled. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Of course,” he said slowly, his gaze shrewd, “a clever warrior knows when one battle is over and the other begun.”

Marcia blinked. Did Daddy know what she had planned? She did her best to look the dutiful daughter, which meant she said nothing and sipped gently at her tea.

The silence grew thick.

And then suddenly Daddy pushed back his chair, came over to her, and kissed the top of her head. “You know of what I speak, silent as you are. Yesterday, you lost the battle to stay headmistress. Today you can wring your hands, if you so choose, but tomorrow you’ll put the school behind you and take on London society. Janice and Peter are off to Vauxhall tonight with friends. We’ve no idea what Gregory’s planned yet, but your mother and I would like nothing better than to take you with us to the Livingstons’ ball.”

Trolling for a husband on the dreaded marriage mart—that was where Daddy and Mama wanted her. And by the end of the Season, they’d expect her to be engaged.

Marcia swallowed. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for that,” she said in a thin but firm voice. “But thank you, Daddy.”

She’d never be ready. Not that she would confess. At least not yet. She was hoping her parents would deduce that fact on their own. It wasn’t very sporting of her, perhaps, but if other women were allowed to slip into spinsterhood, why couldn’t she?

Daddy patted her shoulder. “Perhaps Lord and Lady Davis’s card party would be more amenable then. Their gatherings tend to be dull, but I can tell my secretary to send round a note that we’ll attend that instead and send our regrets to the Livingstons.”

“I—I don’t think so, Daddy. If you don’t mind.” She gave him a tentative smile.

“All right. I’ll understand this time.” His tone was gently chiding. “But I won’t much longer. And
that
”—he put his ring finger on the side of his nose and winked at her—“is a fact. A fact you’ll do well to remember.” He grinned and pointed that finger right at her, as if she were ten years old, not twenty.

“Yes, Daddy.” She forced herself to smile again.

He laughed out loud, a hearty laugh.

But that was Daddy. He still meant what he said.

Chapter Six

Marcia was relieved when Janice and Cynthia came into the breakfast room, their faces freshly scrubbed and their gowns light and pretty. Daddy told them how lovely his three girls were—almost as lovely as their mother—and kissed them all good-bye, making the discussion about the card party thankfully moot, at least for the time being.

Janice, eighteen, green-eyed, with shimmering blond tresses similar to Marcia’s, pulled out the chair across from her. “Kerry woke us up early. She said you’re feeling better, and we’re to go to the Tower with you.” She bit her lower lip. “I’m so sorry about what happened.”

“Me, too,” piped up Cynthia. She was the most golden haired of them all, and at age fourteen-almost-fifteen looked the most like Mama. “But I must admit, I’m glad to have you back. I love you, Marcia, and if they don’t appreciate you at that school, then I
hate
it on your behalf.”

“Oh, dear girl.” Marcia actually chuckled. “You don’t have to hate the school, although I appreciate your caring. It’s only one person who ruined things, and she doesn’t even live there. She lives here in London. But she’s our benefactress, and we need her financial support, rude as she may be.”

“All right, then,” said Cynthia, “I won’t hate the school, but I must admit that after what happened to you, I’m doubly glad I decided to stay home with a tutor until I make my come out.”

All the girls in the family, with the guidance of Mama and Daddy, had set their educational courses at age thirteen. No one had been surprised in the least that Cynthia, the youngest of them all, had decided to stay at home with a tutor. Janice, who’d always been the most adventurous of the three, had forged her own path and chosen to attend a Swiss boarding school, where she’d been top in her class but had come back lacking the confidence the international experience should have given her.

They might be all sorts of different in the manner that sisters—even ones like they, who looked very much alike—should be. But they shared a love for their family and a zest for life that bonded them through thick and thin.

On the way to the Tower, they talked animatedly of books they were reading, which led to a discussion of the Greek gods and goddesses, Cynthia’s latest obsession.

“I prefer the Roman gods and goddesses,” Marcia said. “After all, my name comes from the god Mars.”

“The god of war,” said Cynthia thoughtfully. “I wonder why Mama gave you that name?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Marcia.

But it was apt. She held tight to her anger, allowing it to embolden her thoughts even as she did her best to appear reconciled to her new situation, the one she’d tried to avoid for so long. She was once more an eligible daughter of the House of Brady with the leisure time to find a husband.

Mama’s lady’s maid sat quietly next to her, but Marcia sensed the servant was watching her to gauge her mood. So were her sisters, almost as if they depended on her to set the tone, which had often happened in her life, long before she became a teacher and headmistress. She was the oldest girl in the family, after all, and before Mama had married Daddy, the oldest child.

She’d had to grow up early, Mama once said with regret.

It was rare that they talked about the spartan days after her father died and before the Marquess of Brady and his sons entered their lives. But Marcia remembered that time well. She especially recalled how much Mama had needed her to be strong for Janice and Cynthia.

So at the Tower, she asked brisk questions of their guide and laughed when he made jokes, all because she couldn’t let her sisters know that her foundations had been shaken.

“Shall we get some ices at Gunter’s?” Janice suggested when they were done ogling the Crown jewels.

The Tower usually swarmed with gawkers, but it was early in the day and not a single person they knew was there, which is what Marcia had hoped. She wasn’t prepared quite yet to explain to any of her acquaintances why she was in Town. “It’s a bit early for an ice, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” said Janice. “And you haven’t been to Gunter’s this age. Perhaps we’ll see—” She abruptly stopped speaking and blushed.

“See who?” Marcia asked.

“Some of Janice’s beaus,” Cynthia chimed in, grinning. “She’s always looking for them.”

“Not true.” Janice rolled a weary eye at her older sister. “I only meant that perhaps we’ll see”—she hesitated—“some of
your
old friends.”

“She means your old beaus.” Cynthia giggled.

“No I didn’t,” snapped Janice.

“Yes you did,” Cynthia retorted.

Janice attempted to send her younger sister a discreet warning look, but Marcia saw it, plain as day.

Poor Janice. She was trying to protect Marcia’s feelings.

Cynthia looked puzzled. “Who
are
your old beaus, Marcia?”

There was a long silence.

Marcia swallowed and shrugged. “I have none.”

Janice made a face at Cynthia, and Cynthia bowed her head. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s perfectly all right.” Marcia sent a reassuring smile to them both.

“But you can acquire some beaus by going to balls,” Cynthia said with enthusiasm. “Mama, Daddy, Janice, and Gregory go to them often. Peter avoids them at all costs, of course.” Her face brightened. “I think there’s one tonight at the Livingstons’.”

“It’s a bit too soon for me,” Marcia said. “But thanks for letting me know. Do you really want to go to Gunter’s?”

“Yes, let’s do,” Cynthia said. “I especially love the lemon ice.”

Marcia loved ices herself, but indulging in one seemed a paltry thrill at the moment.

Janice linked arms with both her sisters, and with the maid trailing behind them, they began to stroll toward Daddy’s best carriage. “We’ll go,” she said, “even though you don’t want to, Marcia. It will cheer you up. You look much too serious.”

“But I’m fine,” she answered. “And now that I think about it, Gunter’s sounds lovely.”

Janice stopped, and they were all forced to stop with her. “You can’t fool us.” She gazed at Marcia with knowing eyes. “For once, lean on your sisters. Let us take care of
you
.”

“Yes.” Cynthia’s eyes were shiny with tears. “That’s what sisters are for.”

Marcia said nothing for a moment. The girls were so concerned and kind. She had to make a supreme effort not to believe, along with them, that she was a victim of a tragedy.

Not yet, at any rate.

“Very well,” she said, with an appreciative smile.

*   *   *

Some minutes later, after another carriage ride, Janice and Cynthia grabbed Marcia’s hands and pulled her into the interior of Gunter’s, where she immediately came face-to-face with one of Mama’s friends.

“Why, it’s Marcia Sherwood!” the lady crowed in delight. She was with two other stylishly dressed matrons, all of whom let loose with a barrage of questions:

“Where have you been, Lady Marcia?”

“Are you here for good at last?”

“You’ll not sit out any dance, I’m sure, my dear. Are you going to the Livingstons’ ball?”

She did her best to answer, but then she caught a glimpse of Lysandra, of all people, and her stomach seemed to fall through the floor. All those terrible feelings she’d had last night threatened to come back, full force.

She wasn’t ready to see the widow so soon.

Lysandra sat at a corner table with two elegant women and gazed at Marcia with ill-concealed disdain. Marcia’s face instantly heated as she remembered the horrible things the viscountess had said about her yesterday.

But she couldn’t afford to indulge in despising Lysandra, could she?

No.

She needed to win her over. How to do so was the unanswerable question at the moment, one that she would delay pondering until later.

“
Will
you be there?” one of Mama’s friends asked her in pointed fashion.

Oh, dear. She’d been caught off guard. “Yes. I think so … what was the question?”