Maulever Hall (20 page)

“I intend to adore you, always and forever. Always provided we neither of us catch pneumonia in the meantime.”

X

The rain was still falling steadily when they rode into the stable yard twenty minutes later, but they were too warm with happiness to notice it.

“What you need”—Marianne was slightly in the lead and leaned back to speak to
him
over her shoulder—“is a shrew of a wife, to keep that temper of yours in order.”

“And you will be my shrew?”

“I mean to tame you.”

“How?”

“Why, by cruelty of course, as Petru
c
hio did. I shall wear you away with my moods and exhaust you with my tempers.” Her laugh belied her words. “But, look, there is poor Jim Barnes with the hangdog air of a man condemned. Tell him he is not dismissed.”

“Your first co
mm
and?”

“My first petition, my darling.”

He jumped from his horse and turned to hand her down, then called to Jim Barnes who was being very busy with his back to them in a corner of the yard. “You—Jim—here a moment.”

“Yes, sir?” The groom came forward reluctantly and Marianne suspected she could detect the traces of tears on his grimy and weather-beaten face.

“You have served me how long?” Mauleverer had kept Marianne’s hand in his and now pulled her gently to his side. She saw Jim Barnes’s faded blue eyes flicker with sudden comprehension before he answered: “Twenty years, sir, and your father thirty before that.”

“Too long to be learning new tricks, eh? Well, Miss Lamb here says it was all her fault and I must forgive you. Indeed,
I do not see how I can help it, since she has merely had her way with you, as she does with the rest of us. If I cannot resist her persuasion, why should I expect you to? So, it is all to be forgotten, but if I ever catch you letting her risk her life again, I’ll not dismiss you; I’ll break every bone in your body.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jim Barnes, “and I’m sure I wish you very happy, sir.”

Mauleverer laughed and turned Marianne to guide her toward the house. “I seem to be very transparent,” he said.

“Happiness is transparent.” She smiled up at him. “That is its virtue.” And then: “Do you know, Mark, you look quite different when you laugh like that.”

“Like what?”

“Why—happily, without the bitterness. Was she very beautiful?”

“Who?”

“The girl you were engaged to.”

His arm went round her waist in an embrace that was very nearly shaking. “Surpassingly! The Cleopatra of her time. Men shot themselves daily for her love; I do not know how I managed to survive her faithlessness.” And then, laughing: “And you, my dear, are merely a hussy to remind me of her. I have remembered her, it is true, with bitterness, but it is all over now. You are my happiness, my life
...
Marianne, if you should fail me
...”

“I shall stick like a burr—Oh
...
” They had climbed the stairs still arm in arm and now paused, confronting Martha who stood at the far end of the long upstairs corridor. Her black eyes seemed to snap at them, then she curtsied respectfully to Mauleverer and turned to disappear into Mrs. Mauleverer’s room.

He smiled down at her ruefully. “It is fortunate that we do not intend to make any mystery of our happiness, my love. Now, hurry and change your wet clothes before we give rise to any more scandal—and before you catch a chill, which I care much more about, while I go and interrupt Martha in breaking the good news to my mother. But first, even if the whole household should be watching, one kiss.”

“I do not care if the whole world is watching.” She raised her face to his.

At last he let her go. “We will be married next week,” he said, his voice shaking slightly on the words. “For the time being, I am master, and that is my decree. Yield in this, and afterward you shall rule me with reins of gossamer.”

She smiled at him tremulously, shaken, herself, by the passion that had roused in her to meet his. “I am glad you are master.” And then, with a recovery of her lighter touch: “And as to the reins of gossamer; I will believe in them when I feel them tried.”

“Infidel! Unbeliever! I intend to be the mildest of husbands.”

“Naturally. Always provided that you get your own way in everything.”

“You shall pay for that, little shrew.” He reached to pull her to him again, but this time she escaped him, still laughing, closed the door of her room behind her, and stood for a moment, leaning against it, savoring the strange rich taste of happiness.

It continued all evening. Mrs. Mauleverer was first amazed, then, characteristically, lachrymose, and finally, delighted, and they all dined together in an atmosphere of enthusiastic planning. From time to time, she would look from her son to Marianne and murmur all over again: “Never been so surprised. I was perfectly certain it was to be Lady Heverdon,” And Mauleverer would catch Marianne’s eye with one of the familiar, sardonic smiles she had grown to love and say, once more: “Disappointed, ma’am?”

“No, no.” Dinner was over and they were sitting on, talking in the flickering light of the candles, low now in their sockets. “To tell truth, Mark, lovely though she is, I was always a little somehow afraid of Lady Heverdon.”

“I think you were right to be.” He caught Marianne’s eye and said no more.

When his mother rose to move to the drawing room, he accompanied them: “Will you play to me, Miss Lamb?”

“With all my heart.” She was grateful for his quick instinct that avoided an apparent repetition of those tete-a-tete evenings with Lady Heverdon, and grateful, too, for the chance to let her skilled hands finger their way through his favorite Beethoven sonata while her freed mind went on roaming about the fringes of unfamiliar happiness.

Mrs. Mauleverer was soon nodding over her embroidery, and Marianne too felt herself exhausted with all that the day had held. Was it really only this morning that Mr. Emsworth had proposed to her? She finished her sonata and sat for a moment, slightly drooping at the piano.

“You are tired.” Mauleverer crossed the room to take her hand. “Best go to bed. There will be time to be happy in the morning.”

“A lifetime to be happy.”

“Happy?” Mrs. Mauleverer woke with a jerk. “Yes, my dear children, most happy, but wonderfully sleepy too. Come, Marianne, it is time for bed. We must think about your trousseau in the morning.” And she chattered gaily about silks and gauzes as he escorted them upstairs, and hovered enthusiastically close as he bent to kiss Marianne’s hand. “A lifetime of happiness,” he repeated her words. “Sleep well, my love.”

She wanted to lie for a while, and continue the exquisite tasting of good fortune, but fatigue had its way with her, and it seemed no time before she was roused by a low, furtive tapping at her door.

“What is it?” She sat up in bed and looked around her. It must be early still, for the room was full of shadows.

“May I come in, Miss Lamb?” Martha’s voice. Why?

“Yes?” Her voice questioning, Marianne sat up in bed and pulled a shawl around her.

Martha was fully dressed. “There is some one who says he must see you, Miss Lamb. At once. Alone.”

“Who? Where?” She was still dizzily rousing from sleep.

“A man—a stranger. I never saw him before. I was out with the child—there’s no keeping him in bed these mornings. He awaits you in the wilderness. Must see you, he says, on a matter of urgency—and secretly. ‘Ask her,’ he said, ‘if she wants to know who she is.’ ”

“Who I am?” Marianne was out of bed in a flash. “Thank you, Martha. I will go to him as soon as I can dress.”

“Let me help you.” They had spoken throughout in whispers.

Marianne’s hands trembled so much that she was grateful for Martha’s surprising offer of assistance. “Why the secrecy?” she asked.

Martha looked up from the buttons of her dress. “He did not say. No doubt he will explain.”

“Yes
...
What kind of a man?”

The sharp black eyes met hers for a moment. “A gentleman. There. You are ready. Best lose no time. The servants will be stirring soon.”

“Yes. Thank you, Martha.” She ran downstairs, her heart high with anticipation. She would be able to tell Mark her true name, to marry him without the shadow of a doubt hanging over her. And yet—why the secrecy? Her spirits dimmed a little as she let herself silently out at a side door and hurried across the dew-drenched grass of the walled
cutting garden and through the little gate into the wilderness.

Closing it behind her, she looked around. Ornamental trees and bushes grew thickly on this side of the wall in a well-ordered simulation of wilderness. Scarlet berries hung thick on the berberis, and here and there leaves were beginning to turn. Birds, interrupted by her coming, were taking up their morning song all around her. There was no one in sight. Could this be some strange practical joke on Martha’s part? There had seemed, surely, something odd about her unwonted friendliness—and at the same time more than a
h
int
of malice in those bright black eyes. But what possible purpose could she serve by sending her on such a wild goose chase?

Marianne started forward down the winding, flagged path that twisted and turned this way and that through the bushes, making the wilderness seem larger than in fact it was
...
In its very center, a rustic bench was sheltered by an arbor of traveler’s joy or, more accurately at this time of year, old man’s beard, which trailed its long silvery tassels down almost to the ground.

A man was sitting on the bench his back turned toward her, and oddly muffled, considering the mildness of the autumn morning, in a capacious black traveling cloak. A twig cracked under her soft shoe and he rose and turned to meet her, his cloak still held protectively around his face
...
Then, at sight of her, he let it drop and came forward, arms outstretched in greeting.

“Marianne; my love, it is really you.”

She stepped back, eluding his grasp, and gazed at him with dilated eyes. Surely she had never seen that sallow face, nor heard the curiously lisping voice before? Or—had she? Suddenly horribly, she was not sure. Was there, after all, something familiar about the shrewd gray eyes under colorless brows? Was this, perhaps, and, somehow, horribly, the beginning of memory?

His hands had dropped to his sides. “You mean—you still do not remember? I had hoped that the sight of me, the sound of my voice would bring memory back to you. Marianne, you
cannot
have forgotten it all.”

“Forgotten what, sir?” Her voice shook a little and she took another step backward, away from those white, pleading hands.

“I could not have believed it. Do you remember nothing—nothing, Marianne?”

She looked at him steadily. “I am sure that I never saw you before in my life.” But it was not true. More and more, she was tormented by near-memory. She had heard, and, surely, hated that melodious, lisping voice before. But when? Where? Well—he was telling her. She fought down terror, and listened.

“Oh, my God. To have to tell you.” His voice shook with emotion. “Try, think, listen to me. The little church on the
hill,
Marianne, and the rector who took snuff during the ceremony? Surely you must remember how we laughed about it afterward? Oh, that day I had such hopes, such happiness
...
Marianne, how could you forget?”

Her hands, cold as ice, clasped each other for comfort. “What ceremony, sir?”

“Our marriage, my love, what else?”

“Our—” She swayed where she stood and he moved to steady her, but she sprang away from him and leaned, hard, against the back of the bench. “I do not believe it.” The feel of the rough wood under her hands gave her confidence, and she faced him more resolutely. “It is true that I have lost my memory, but I could not have forgotten that.”

He looked at her ruefully. “That is what I thought. You do not remember walking down the hill together after the ceremony? It was spring, and the hawthorns were in full bloom. You leaned on my arm, which now you will not touch, and spoke, so sweetly, so simply of your happiness, your gratitude
...
And then, later, do you not remember the nightingale that sang under our window? You lay in my arms, Marianne, and smiled up at me: ‘It is my heart singing,’ you said.”

Her hands clutched the back of the bench so tightly that the rough wood bruised them. “I don’t believe it.”

“They warned me I might not be able to make you remember.” Slowly, almost regretfully his hand went to an inside pocket and he brought out a paper. “You left this behind, that terrible night. Look, Marianne, your marriage lines.” He held them close, so that she could read the crabbed writing. Her name leaped out at her: “Marianne—Loudon?” she whispered.

“Yes. Odd, was it not, that when, as I suppose, you found yourself compelled to choose yourself a name, you should pick one with the right first letter.”

She was still staring with huge eyes at the document which recorded the marriage of “Marianne Loudon, spinster, of
this parish” and “Paul Rossand.” She looked at him enquiringly. “Paul Rossand?”

“Your humble servant. Your husband, Marianne.”

“I don’t believe it,” she said again, but now she was trying to convince herself.

“My poor darling.” He put the paper away. “I had so much hoped, when I learned where you were, that I would be able to make you remember. And yet—I do not wonder, cannot blame you for wanting to forget. Oh, Marianne, if only I did not have to tell you, but how else can I save you?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Oh, do not call me sir.” It seemed a cry from the heart. “You, who have lain in my arms. Call me Paul, my love, and forgive me for what I have to tell you.”

“Forgive you? Why?” She paused, wrestling with unbearable belief. Then a new thought struck her. “The child?” she asked. “Thomas?” He must be lying. If he claimed that the child was hers, she would be sure of it.

But he was shaking his head sadly. “If only he were ours. But that is the heart of the matter, my poor love. They told me you were cured, or at least that marriage would complete your cure, but then, when you failed to conceive the child you longed for, I began to see the dreadful symptoms return. You began to forget things, Marianne, and to imagine them, and I saw that strange, wild look in your eyes again. And then, one night—I shall never forget it—I woke and found you gone. And next day there was worse still; the vicar’s adored little grandson was gone too. I kept quiet for your sake, covering your absence as best I might, but in my heart I knew what must have happened. I have been searching for you ever since. Thank God I have found you at last, and, I hope, before it is too late. If we return the child unharmed, I am hopeful that they may let me keep you with me. You must fetch him, Marianne, and come away with me, quickly. We have lost too much time already, talking here.” And then, on a new note of urgency, “Hurry, Marianne, I cannot risk the madhouse for you.”

“The madhouse?”

“Of course—you do not remember. And it was only for a few weeks, before I persuaded them to release you to my care. Only trust me, Marianne, and all will be well. I cured you once; I am sure I can do it again. But, hurry
...
And tell no one at the house. We cannot afford to be questioned.
You must fetch the child and come away with me now, before anyone is stirring. If your story once becomes talked of, it will be impossible to keep you out of the madhouse. Do not trouble to bring any clothes—your own await you at home. Just run, fetch the child and return to me here. The carriage awaits us beyond the park. I dared not come openly to fetch you, for your host’s sake as well as your own. Only think what it must do to his career if it were to become known that he had been harboring a married woman—a kidnaper. For everyone’s sake, you must leave as mysteriously as you came. Your disappearance will be a nine days’ wonder, no doubt, but no more so than your arrival.”

Almost, against her will, against her heart convinced, she stood for a moment gazing at him. “Married?” she said at last. “Your wife?”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “How can I convince you?” His hand went out to touch the light shawl she had thrown over her shoulders. “You have a mole, here.” He touched a point just below her shoulder blade. “How often, when we were still happy, I have kissed it, and called it your beauty spot. Surely you must remember that, my dearest?”

She did not remember, but now, at last, in anguish, she was convinced. “Very well,” she said. “I will fetch the child.”

“Good. But make haste, Marianne, for your own sake.”

She turned and ran back through the shrubbery, through the gate in the wall and across the cutting garden. Her skirts were heavy with dew now, and her thin shoes soaking, but what did it matter?
Married!
She stopped at the entrance of the cutting garden and gazed for a moment at the house. It seemed a bitter lifetime since she had run hopefully out into the morning, but closed shutters and drawn curtains along the front of the house told her that it was still very early. Last night, this had been her home, her happiness
...
Today
...
She shivered and drew her shawl more closely round her shoulders as if its light warmth could help the chill about her heart.