“Daisy? Daisy?”
Marguerite sighed. The die was cast. She had known last evening from the smug look on Mama’s face that her mother had prevailed over Papa. Marguerite would soon be leaving to work for the Dragon of the North.
“Where are you, girl?”
Marguerite took a deep breath, pulled her shoulders back and entered the drawing room. “Here, Mama.”
Her mother patted the sofa. “Sit down and tell me all about John Trewbridge.”
Oh no! What should she say? “Uh...”
“Mr. Berry told your Papa that you sometimes visit the farmers’ wives over at Corrigan’s. It is good that you have a social conscience, Daisy.”
What? Her mother approved of her visits to Corrigan’s? Not that she was thrilled at her mother’s interpretation of Marguerite’s ‘condescension.’ She bet that neither Mr. Berry nor her father had told her mother the truth about her visits to Corrigan’s.
“Now Daisy, we’ve heard that young Lord John Trewbridge is the new owner of Corrigan’s, so—”
“What?!” Marguerite jumped to her feet.
“Sit down, Daisy. Why must you jump around like a jack-in-the-box?”
“He-he never said a word!”
“So you do know him,” her mother pronounced with satisfaction. “Mr. Berry said he thought the two of you might have met.”
Thank you, Mr. Berry. Marguerite cast her eyes down and curled her hands into tight fists. If Lord John Trewbridge was here right now she’d—how the wretch must be laughing to himself! She had been trespassing on his land.
She could never go there again. Never traipse over the hills covered in crisp hoarfrost in the chilly dawns or listen to the steady munch, munch as the dairy cows chewed their cud. Never help scruffy old ewes deliver their lambs or stand on the crest of a hill so that on a fine day she could see clear into the next county.
Oh, what did it matter? What did anything matter? In a few days she’d be on her way to Norwich.
“Your Papa has invited Lord John to dinner, so I shall see what this young man is made of,” her mother warbled on. “He would make a very eligible match for Helen or Chloe. Very eligible indeed.” Mrs. Ninian nodded. “And so comfortable to have one of our daughters living close by. Just imagine. We might all dine at Trewbridge on occasion.” There was a pause while Marguerite presumed her mother was entertaining visions of social advancement. Then Mama added, “For once your father has come in handy.”
Marguerite flinched.
“And I’d like to know, young lady, why you didn’t tell us you’d met this man.”
Marguerite had anticipated the question. She shrugged. “Mama, I had no idea who he was.”
“He didn’t introduce himself?”
Traducing John Trewbridge’s character, Marguerite murmured, “Not really.”
“Tsk. He will have to be licked into shape if he’s going to marry one of my daughters,” Mrs. Ninian said, a gleam in her eye.
Marguerite closed her eyes. Sorry, my lord. But if she found out I’d deliberately neglected to mention you in order to avoid this very thing, my life would not be worth living. Marguerite shuddered as she envisioned her mother descending on Trewbridge in all her fine feathers to presume upon an acquaintance that did not exist.
“By the way, Daisy. My sister and I have decided that you will leave for Norwich on Tuesday of next week.”
****
What the hell had he done to deserve this?
John had found it impossible to refuse Mr. Andrew Ninian’s importunate invitation. They were going to be neighbours after all, and he had no wish to be at outs with his nearest neighbour, but he wished he’d had the forethought to plead a prior engagement.
He was shown by Mrs. Ninian into an over-furnished drawing room, obviously decorated for the use of women. As he edged past dainty figurines on spindle-legged tables he drew himself in, trying desperately not to send any of the knick-knacks spinning on to the rug. He expected to be met by Mr. Ninian, but Mrs. Ninian was lurking in the foyer when he arrived. John had the unpleasant sensation of being delivered into the slavering jaws of a predator. Talking nineteen to the dozen she nudged him further into the room.
He soon saw why. The lady had her own agenda. Lined up to meet him were two marriageable daughters, and one not so marriageable daughter. The not so marriageable one eyed him mutinously, and in spite of the situation, John was hard put to it not to laugh out loud at Miss Marguerite Ninian’s disgruntled air.
He bowed. “Good evening, ladies.”
Mrs. Ninian, all fuss and feathers, tottered past him and grasped the young woman he presumed was her eldest around the waist. She urged the girl forward, talking all the time.
“This is Chloe. Her special accomplishment is the harp. She is very skilled. Is she not a darling?”
John smiled politely at the simpering young miss in front of him. Lord, she was the spitting image of her mother. Too large and too...just too much. Her teeth were huge which gave the poor girl the look of a horse. Not, however, a thoroughbred. Still, he was not one to criticize. He was no oil painting himself.
Then the rotund Chloe caught a clear glimpse of his wound and recoiled.
One down. One to go.
“And this is the family beauty, m’lord. This is Helen.”
“Such nice Greek names,” he murmured. At first glance he rather liked the look of Helen. She was very pretty, but gave the impression that she had not heard her mother’s words. She had an ethereal, die-away air, as if she were not quite of the same world as everyone else. Wise girl. But at least she had not recoiled from him. In fact, he doubted she’d even noticed he was there, let alone cringed from his scar.
He turned towards Marguerite, his eyebrows raised. It seemed her mother did not intend to mention her.
“And of course you know Daisy. She is our youngest.” But Mrs. Ninian did not say it with the indulgent air most mothers used when referring to their youngest. On the contrary, John could have sworn the introduction was made through gritted teeth.
‘Daisy’ bobbed an unsteady curtsy and refused to raise her eyes to his.
“Well, we’ve not been properly introduced, Mrs. Ninian. Just met in passing, you understand.” He took ‘Daisy’s’ hand and was rewarded with the most stupendous smile.
He blinked. And found himself smiling back.
“My lord! Sorry to be late. Come into the library. I’ve a nice Madeira that’s been awaiting a discerning palate.”
John glanced up, still holding on to Marguerite’s hand in order to steady her. Mr. Ninian at last. John wondered if the man had been loitering, waiting for his wife to do the pretty so he didn’t have to involve himself in pushing his daughters forward. Then he cursed himself for being a cynical, doubting Thomas. He followed his host into one of the most comprehensive libraries it had ever been his privilege to see. “Sir, what an excellent collection of books! This fair rivals the library at Salisbury.”
John realized he could not have said anything to please Mr. Ninian more. The man waxed lyrical about his reasons for collecting certain first editions, then went on to name others who shared his passion. He was interrupted by the dinner bell.
At dinner John was seated between the two marriageable Misses Ninian.
“So, my lord, when do you intend to take up residence?” Mrs Ninian quizzed him.
“I am uncertain, Mrs. Ninian. I am still attached to the 71st, so before I can return to Westbury, I must sell out.”
“Lord John has been on the Peninsula,” Marguerite struck in suddenly. John wondered how she knew where he’d been stationed. Had she made inquiries? He would have preferred her to avoid what was, after all, an unsuitable topic for the dinner table, but he had to hide a smile as all heads turned towards her. Up till now she had remained silent and it seemed that was expected of her.
Then four heads swivelled back his way and four pairs of eyes scrutinized what they could see of his wound. Mac had made sure the cravat covered as much of it as possible. John felt like a dead insect being examined by men of science through an achromatic lens.
“Could you not be invalided out?” Andrew Ninian asked.
“No, sir. It’s not much more than a scratch. Also, I have been seconded as an exploring officer, so I need to advise Hope first of all.”
Mr. Ninian shook his head. “Corunna was a bad business—”
“Mr. Ninian!” his lady interrupted without compunction. “The dinner table is not the place for a discussion about war.”
John saw Marguerite flinch as her mother’s voice rose. The lovely Helen remained oblivious. Chloe seemed to be in agreement with her mother. She glowered at her father much the same way as Mrs. Ninian was doing. John was not surprised that when Chloe joined the conversation at her mother’s instigation, her voice was an echo of her mother’s. Strident. Irritating.
With his over-sensitive hearing he could never marry a woman like that. He would go mad within a week. Just as well he had no designs on Chloe.
On the other hand, Marguerite’s voice was pleasant and did not grate upon the ear. He could see why she had become depressed about her crippled leg. Anybody who had to listen to Mrs. Ninian’s continual harping about his shortcomings would become depressed. Thank God his own family’s obsession with his wound stemmed only from concern, not disgust.
“Do you not think so, my lord?” Mrs. Ninian’s voice broke into his reverie.
Oh, damn! He had gone into a brown study and hadn’t heard the question. Noticing Chloe simpering at him again, he presumed he was required to admire the young lady. A non-committal “hmm” and a raised eyebrow in Chloe’s general direction did the trick. She simpered even more. How she deemed his patent lack of interest to be encouragement, he had no idea.
He was rewarded by a hastily smothered grin from Marguerite. Keeping his face solemn he let his eyes laugh at her down the length of the table. Her expressive brown eyes swam with amusement, then she cast her glance demurely downwards but her shoulders quivered. Unlike her sisters and mother, she had a sense of humour.
Then Mrs. Ninian commented, “By this time next week Daisy will be in Norwich, my lord. I daresay we shall miss her.”
Such a spasm of grief and despair crossed Marguerite’s face that John was shocked at the contrast of only a moment ago. What the hell awaited ‘Daisy’ in Norwich?
At that moment Andrew Ninian rose, nodding to him that it was time to leave the ladies. With gratitude John followed him to his library. Listening to Mr Ninian’s passionate descriptions of first editions was less stressful than dealing with a couple of women who behaved as if he were their last prayer. He could acquit Marguerite of trying to attach him, but Chloe definitely had him in her sights. He was not sure about Helen. He suspected her die-away airs were adopted to make her look ‘interesting.’ He’d seen it done before. Serena had been partial to smoothing arsenic paste on her face and hands in order to appear pale and ethereal.
“Sorry about that, m’boy,” Andrew Ninian said as they seated themselves before a roaring fire. “It will be a scene you’ll have to face again and again until you make your choice amongst the young women of the ton. It appears you are extremely eligible, or so my wife informs me.”
Mr. Ninian passed John the decanter. John splashed a small amount into his glass in order to be civil. He found the heavy, sweet ports so beloved by the English to be cloying after the rough but light Iberian red wines he had become accustomed to. The easy-to-drink country wines did not leave an after-taste like port did. And depending on the amount consumed, they did not leave a man with a heavy head or sick stomach on the following day.
Mr. Ninian glanced at John’s glass and smiled. “I’ve a fine claret here that will be more to your liking,” he said in understanding. He reached for a second decanter and handed it over. John noticed that the man took no wine himself, choosing to drink only water.
“Sorry I cannot join you. I no longer drink wine or spirits,” Mr. Ninian explained. “I have an inflammation of the stomach and port and brandy give me considerable pain. My physician informs me I have very little time left in this world.” He shrugged and stared at John from beneath shaggy brows. “I am ready to meet my Maker.” He gulped a mouthful of water.
“Ah, sir, I’m very sorry to hear that.” John had noted the yellow tinge to the man’s skin and the fact that Mr. Ninian had scarcely touched his dinner, but he had not realised how ill the man was.
“My only concern is for my family,” Andrew Ninian continued. “I have no living male relatives, or indeed any relatives at all. The estate will revert to the Crown as I bought it from the Crown in the first place. They may offer it to you or to the people at the Grange. Who knows?” He gazed into the fire. “I married in haste for two reasons. I wanted a son to carry on my name. Oh, I know the name is besmirched, but I had hoped that we could start afresh. And the other reason I married in haste was to recoup enough money to purchase and run an estate to leave to my son. Well, I’ve certainly paid for my sins.”
John wondered what would become of Marguerite when her father died. With that harpy for a mother...
Echoing his thoughts, Andrew Ninian said, “I’m worried about young Marguerite. Her mother regards her as a personal affront. After she was born it was a long while before my wife would stay in the same room with her. The doctors and I have tried to explain that it was a simple accident of birth, but...” He shrugged. “And now she has hatched this scheme to send Marguerite to Norwich as a skivvy for her sister. A bad business.” He shook his head. “All-in-all I have failed my family miserably, though the money they will inherit might console Amy. She is desperate to reside in London. But therein hangs a problem. If anyone chooses to investigate, I have a suspicion my second marriage will not be considered legal. Scottish divorces are not recognized in England. And if Amy continues on her present course to marry the girls off as highly as possible...” He stared into the fire and took another gulp of water. “A prospective groom will naturally make inquiries about his bride’s family.”
John said nothing, mentally thanking his mother for apprising him of the situation.
“I have never been partial to London, but Amy will be happy there. She is not well liked around here.” Sir Andrew’s hand shook as he put down his water glass.
This was very embarrassing, John thought. He had not sought these confidences from a stranger. He did not want them. “Shall we join the ladies?” He rose to his feet.
“Just a moment, m’boy. You come from a long line of trustworthy and honourable men.”
John thought fleetingly of Spencer.
“I would ask a favour of you. Do you know of a businessman or reputable solicitor who can keep an eye on my ladies when I am gone—in particular, someone who is strong enough to put a brake on my wife’s ambitions? I have explained to her that if she makes enemies, those enemies could sabotage our daughters’ futures. She understands that, but she cannot let go her ambitions.” Mr. Ninian shook his head.
John swallowed hard. Oh dear.
“Before you ask why my own solicitor won’t do, I must tell you that the man is too much like myself. He would never stand up to Amy. I cannot ask your father for assistance since my lady has upset your mother, which is a great shame.” He looked John in the eye. “Can you help me?”
“Sir, I...” John did not know how to answer. “Umm, let me think it over,” he finished weakly. He wanted no part of this, yet he could feel only pity for a man who was coming to the end of his life saddled with regrets.
Mr. Ninian waved his hand. “I understand you do not wish to become involved, but I have nobody I can rely on.”
“I will do my best to find you someone trustworthy,” John promised.
“That will suffice. Thank you.” Andrew Ninian stretched out his hand to John. A bargain had been struck.
Hearing the strains of music, they rejoined the ladies in the music room. Marguerite was sitting at the piano, attacking it as if it were a wild beast that had to be tamed. Startled, John thought he had never heard such passion. Then she changed into a jaunty caprice that he had only heard played on a violin before. He rather thought it might be an early Paginini composition. Had she transposed it herself?
He settled into his seat to listen. There was a lot more to Miss Marguerite Ninian than met the eye.