“Bertha.” Marianne hurried into the musty-smelling attic room of the manor house. “We are home for the summer.” As she knelt by the heavy upholstered chair where her old nurse sat, her voluminous skirts puffed with air and then settled about her. There, light beams from the single window shone on airborne dust particles, sending them into a swirling tempest.
“Lady Marianne.” The nearsighted woman dropped her knitting to her lap and reached out to take Marianne’s face in her soft, wrinkled hands. “Oh, my child, how I have missed you.” Tears slid down her lined cheeks, but her smile was radiant.
“And I have missed you, my darling.” Marianne’s heart ached at the thought of the sorrow Bertha soon would feel. Once Marianne left England, it was doubtful they would ever see each other again this side of heaven.
“Now, you must tell me all about your season.” Bertha picked up the woolen scarf she had been knitting and resumed her work. “Did you meet any fine young gentleman worthy of my little girl?”
Marianne laughed. “No, dear, I did not meet anyone new.” Her nurse had asked the same question for the past four years upon the family’s return from London. But despite her gift of discernment, she had failed last year to realize Marianne’s heart had been claimed.
“Ah, no one new.” Bertha’s eyebrows rose in thick gray arches. “But there is something you are not telling me.”
Marianne seldom did well at keeping secrets from Bertha, who was more like a grandmother than a servant to her. But this time she must hold her own counsel.
“What I will tell you is that the orphans at St. Ann’s were delighted with the wonderful mittens and scarves and hats you knitted for them. Many a child keeps warm because of these hands.” She reached out to envelop and still the busy fingers that had cared for her since birth.
A glow softened the wrinkles on the old woman’s face. “God is more than generous to permit me to perform this service in my last years. One longs to be ever useful, you know.” Her gaze, while a bit unfocused, settled on Marianne’s eyes. “You have not diverted me, my little lady. But I am so pleased to see you that I shall not press you.” She reclaimed her hands and set to knitting again. “When you are ready, I will be grateful to hear it all.”
Marianne leaned close and nudged aside the woolen scarf, laying her head on Bertha’s lap and closing her eyes. How good it would be to have a confidante in her plans. But Bertha’s loyalty extended beyond Marianne to Mama and ultimately to Papa, whose generosity provided her a home for as long as she lived. She would be bound by honor to report such a scheme as an elopement. Well, not exactly an elopement. A runaway? Marianne’s insides quivered at the thought of what she was planning.
“Shh, my dear one.” Bertha must have set aside her knitting, for she placed both hands on Marianne’s head as she always had when praying for her. “Seek God’s wisdom, and let Him guide your path,” she whispered.
Even through her thick coiffure, Marianne felt the tender touch of those guiding hands. Warmth spread through her like the blessing of a biblical patriarch, sweeping aside her embattled emotions and replacing them with peace.
This is the man you will marry. Thus had her prayer been answered two long months ago, and thus she continued to believe. She had searched the Scriptures for some example of what to do, but none was to be found there. With no other recourse but to stow away aboard Jamie’s ship so that honor would require him to marry her. How else could God’s will be accomplished?
She permitted herself a few tears, enough to dampen Bertha’s gray muslin skirt. But she would not burden the woman with her secrets. Lifting her head and brushing away the moisture from her cheeks, she patted Bertha’s hands.
“Take up your knitting, for I have many stories to tell you.” Marianne rose and fetched a straight-backed chair to sit beside her nurse. “Now, do not be alarmed, but Robert had quite an adventure. In the company of Papa’s guest, a Captain Templeton from America...”
For the next half hour, Marianne recounted to Bertha the long winter’s many happenings. She took care not to mention Jamie’s name too often, but when she did, she noticed Bertha’s eyebrows wiggling. Could the old dear discern her feelings for him? If so, Marianne feared that her heart might give away her plans.
“A common sea captain.”
A woman’s harsh voice brought Jamie to a halt outside the open door of the manor house’s drawing room.
“And not even in His Majesty’s navy.” The voice continued within the chamber. “A merchant and an American. Really, Bampton, could your father not choose someone of rank, or at least an Englishman for his current pet?”
As quietly as he could, Jamie inhaled a deep, calming breath. So far Lord Bennington’s friends had viewed him as just that, a powerful aristocrat’s “pet,” whose acceptance in their society was due to his sponsor’s influence. He had an uncomfortable feeling he would not find that same acceptance from the earl’s oldest son and heir.
“Now, now, my dear,” a languid male voice responded. “We must let the old boy have his fun. And after all, the man did save Robbie’s life.”
“Humph.” The woman sniffed. “Whatever else should a servant do? ’Twas his duty.”
“He could have run.” Moberly’s voice. “As your good friend Mr. Pincer did.”
Jamie ground his teeth. He’d been summoned to the drawing room to meet the viscount and his wife, but he would have difficulty managing his temper if they treated him with the contempt he now heard in their voices.
“Jamie?” Marianne appeared beside him and touched his arm. “We should go in.”
He recoiled, moving several feet away from her, then regretted it when dismay covered her lovely face. “Forgive me, my lady,” he whispered, “but we cannot enter together.”
She winced but nodded. “Of course not.” She moved past him and walked into the room. “William. Lady Bampton. How wonderful to see you.”
A painful ache tore through him. He couldn’t bear to hurt her, yet couldn’t avoid it. Nor could he fail to notice the differences in her address to her oldest brother and to his wife. In her life of so-called privilege, Jamie’s ladylove was forced to play many games.
He leaned against the wall and gazed around the vast entry hall. As grand as the Grosvenor Square town house was, this vast hundred-year-old mansion outshone it by far. Daylight streamed in through tall, narrow windows onto pale green wallpaper framed by dark oak woodwork. The requisite life-size ancestral portraits lined the wide, elegant front staircase, and brass candlesticks and delicate figurines sat on every table. The air smelled of roses, fresh from Lady Bennington’s gardens. Jamie looked forward to touring the grounds, for Moberly had hinted at the many interesting sights and activities the Park afforded.
A footman walked past carrying a tray of refreshments, and cast a curious look in his direction. Jamie shrugged and rolled his eyes, playing on the camaraderie he’d established with that particular rank of servant. The man puckered away a smile. Waiting a few seconds, Jamie followed him into the drawing room. Or, rather, he followed the aroma of coffee wafting from the carafe on the tray. Although he rarely chose that drink, a good jolt of the dark brew should fortify him against the coming interview.
“Ah, here he is.” Moberly rose from a brocade chair and strode to greet Jamie, shaking his hand as if it had been a week since they’d seen each other instead of merely since breakfast not an hour before. “Come, my friend, I want to present you to my elder brother and his wife.”
Moberly’s voice held a hint of strain along with its jollity. Could it be he feared his older brother because one day William would hold the title and the power? Jamie pasted on a smile, but not a wide one. He must perform a delicate balancing act in this company.
“Lord and Lady Bampton.” Moberly guided Jamie to where the others sat in a grouping of furniture in front of a great stone hearth. “May I present Papa’s...and my particular friend, Captain James Templeton.”
“I am honored, Lord Bampton, Lady Bampton.” Jamie bowed to each to the same degree he would to Lady Bennington, and cast a quick glance at the viscountess’s hand to see if she would lift it to be kissed. She did not. Jamie tried to recall Reverend Bentley’s instructions about such things, but nothing came to mind to indicate an error on his part. So he bowed to Marianne, who was seated in a nearby chair. “My lady.” He then moved to stand by the hearth until invited to sit, though he guessed such an invitation would not come. He didn’t want to sit, anyway, but rather to walk out into the fresh air and be away from all this stuffiness.
“Well, I must say...” Lord Bampton stared at Jamie up and down through a quizzing glass. “These Americans do grow tall.” Though seated, the viscount appeared not to have inherited his father’s height nor his slender frame. Like Moberly before his stabbing, he owned a well-rounded form and a pasty complexion.
“La, such height seems unnatural to me.” The viscountess was her husband’s mirror image in feminine form, although her round, smooth face did hint at the beauty she must have been in her younger days.
“Why, Lady Bampton, whatever do you mean?” Marianne held out a cup of coffee to her sister-in-law. Again, her use of the woman’s title told Jamie much about their relationship. No wonder she wanted to go to East Florida and meet Rachel, who would be a dear sister to her. If only he could grant her desire.
“Why, nothing, Lady Marianne.” Her voice edged with disdain, the viscountess used her quizzing glass to study Marianne before accepting the coffee. “What a question.”
This couple was quite a pair. Jamie could only guess what tortures they put the earl’s younger offspring through. He could not keep his gaze from straying to Marianne to see if the other woman’s tone had hurt her feelings. Marianne wrinkled her nose so quickly Jamie thought he might be mistaken. He had difficulty not laughing. His sweet lady would take nothing from this pompous woman. All the more reason to love her.
“Well, then.” Moberly moved closer to Jamie rather than sit back down, but he addressed his brother. “What shall we do today?”
“Oh, la,” the viscountess said. Jamie wondered if that was her favorite word. “I must rest from the journey. Swindon is entirely too far from Hampshire. I shall be glad when we take up permanent residence here.”
Marianne’s jaw dropped, and Robert choked on his coffee. Yet the woman seemed not to realize what she’d said. Nor did her husband, if his approving nod indicated his attitude. Even Jamie comprehended that they would not inherit Bennington Park until Lord Bennington died. Yet how could they act as if the patriarch’s death counted for nothing?
Jamie bowed his head as guilt crowded judgment from his chest. Was betrayal a lesser sin than wishing someone dead?