Sitting on what had become their habitual bench in the garden, Arthur and his hostess watched the master of Chatton Castle pace up one path and down another. He walked quickly, head bent, hands clasped behind his back. Though he’d greeted them when he first appeared, he seemed to have forgotten them almost at once. “I’ve rarely known Roger to be so preoccupied,” said Lady Chatton.
“When I bid him good day at breakfast, he said, ‘That remains to be seen,’” replied Arthur. “Then he refused my company on a ride and rushed out.”
“Oh dear. How rude.”
They eyed the subject of their speculations.
“His solitary expedition doesn’t seem to have pleased him,” Arthur observed.
“No, I would say he’s…brooding. Yes, that’s it.” She nodded.
“A problem, do you think?”
“He seems to think he has one,” Lady Chatton answered.
“I have a notion it’s to do with Miss Fairclough.”
“Perhaps we should ask him about it.”
“I don’t think he’d like that very much.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Arthur rose and offered his arm. Roger’s mother looked up at him. Then, blue eyes twinkling, she stood and joined him.
Roger kicked at a pebble that lay in the middle of the garden path. It flew off the toe of his boot, struck the trunk of an elm, and bounced back. Fenella hadn’t appeared for her ride today. Granted, she hadn’t promised to come. And she’d told him from the beginning that the demands of her father’s illness might keep her in sometimes. Understandable. But he longed to see her. Alone, as they’d been at the raspberry thicket, not surrounded by servants and lads with snakes and her gloating father at Clough House. Mr. Fairclough would gloat. There was no doubt about that.
He turned, and started in surprise. His mother and his noble houseguest were standing in his path, looking brightly inquisitive. Like foxhounds testing a scent, he thought. And then nearly said nonsense out loud.
“Did you have a pleasant ride?” asked Macklin.
“No,” said Roger.
“That’s too bad,” replied his mother. “Why not?”
He should have said yes, Roger realized. Now he had to think of a reason to fob them off. He flailed about mentally, until it occurred to him that excuses weren’t really necessary. His intentions were clear. He had no nefarious plan. And he could trust the discretion of these two absolutely. Perhaps he should simply ask their advice. He met his mother’s interested gaze, then Macklin’s. A man couldn’t ask for more sympathetic listeners, or wiser ones. “You like Fenella Fairclough, Mama.”
“I do indeed,” she replied.
“You wanted me to marry her five years ago, when Papa was urging it.”
“I did at first, but it would have been a mistake.” She shook her head. “The people you were then wouldn’t have gotten on well together.”
That was true. Mainly because of him, Roger thought. But Fenella, too. “We’re different now,” he said. “Both of us.”
His mother nodded, watching his face.
“So the case is altered.”
“Are you saying you want to marry her now?”
“Yes. You’ll say I made a great fuss about nothing in that case,” Roger replied. “And wasted a deal of time and…emotion.” Mr. Fairclough certainly would. He knew Fenella dreaded that.
“I won’t.” Her eyes were sympathetic. “We can only do our best at any given time. Hindsight is deceptive.”
He hadn’t known much five years ago, Roger acknowledged silently. A load of difficulties had educated him since then.
“She seems a very appealing young lady,” said Macklin.
“I’d be delighted to welcome her into our family,” said Roger’s mother.
They spoke as if the match was settled just because he desired it. “I’m not sure what she wants though.”
“But you have some reason to think she feels the same?” asked his mother.
He couldn’t tell them about the kisses. He wouldn’t expose Fenella that way. “I believe so, but…circumstances intervened before I could ask her.”
“What sort of circumstances?” asked Macklin.
“Her nephew. Snakes.”
“Snakes!” his mother exclaimed.
“The pursuit of snakes.” Roger strove to recall the conversation that came after their embraces. He’d been muddled by desire. And anger at the interruption. “She said I should take time to think. And be certain.” She’d mentioned Arabella. Roger winced.
“And have you?” asked his mother.
“Have I what?”
“Thought? Now that the situation has…cooled.”
Could she read his mind? Of course not. But Roger flushed at the memory of lying with Fenella in the grass. “I’m certain she’s the bride for me.”
“Well then, you must ask her, and find out if she feels the same.”
“She might appreciate a formal offer,” suggested Macklin. “On your knee, you know. Ladies like that.”
“Do we?” said Roger’s mother with a smile. “You seem to know a good deal about it.”
“Pure hearsay,” answered Macklin. They smiled at each other like firm friends.
This was a good idea. He could do that. “I’ll go to Clough House now.”
“No time like the present,” said Macklin.
Scarcely seeming to hear, Roger rushed off.
“There seems to be no need for a push,” Macklin added when the younger man had disappeared into the castle.
“Not at the moment.” Lady Chatton shrugged. “We must see how he does.”
“You think there will be problems?”
“Roger isn’t eloquent. His tongue can get in the way of what he wishes to say.”
“Sincerity counts for a good deal in these matters,” said Macklin.
“When did you become an expert on matrimony?” She laughed at his wry expression. “I shall love having Fenella for my daughter-in-law. How odd that it should come out this way. Raymond would—”
“Laugh?” Macklin suggested.
“No. He’d be odiously smug. As will Mr. Fairclough. I hope he can restrain his gloating until the match is secure.”
“Surely he couldn’t spoil it?”
“You might be surprised.”
* * *
Simpson came hurrying down the upper corridor of Clough House toward Fenella. “Your father’s asking for you again, miss.”
He’d had a bad night. He’d tried to get up and go outside three times. And when he couldn’t manage to move from the bed, he’d filled the air with shouted profanity, convinced that an enemy had imprisoned him with invisible bonds. Fenella had helped the valet and William grapple with him, and been excoriated for her trouble. It was lowering to be so roundly cursed by one’s own father.
The struggle had left her tired and made her feel that tears were hovering at the back of her throat. It was so difficult to watch Papa’s vitality and understanding draining away with each passing day. She often felt alone with the melancholy and helplessness, despite the staff in the house. They counted on her to be in command, to react with calm good sense. There was no one to confide in, no place to take her worries and doubts.
Roger would listen, she thought suddenly. If she told him, he’d concentrate all his attention on her concerns. He would tell her she was doing splendidly, that the estate was in prime shape under her management, that her father was fortunate to have her at his side. And then he would urge her to rely on him. She could almost hear him becoming tangled in words, trying to convey these two different sentiments at once. The idea made her smile. He was a man of action rather than speech.
Which took her back to the raspberry thicket and the brief time she’d spent in his arms. Too brief. She’d mused on it, dreamed of it. When she saw him again, they would find some time to repeat those dizzying kisses.
He would call today, surely? He’d been so eager to speak. A cold chill went through Fenella at the possibility that he’d changed his mind. But of course she didn’t want him if he’d changed his mind. Except she did want him, desperately.
“There you are,” her father said when she entered his room. “Where do you get to? I’ve been wanting to speak to you.”
She’d been with him not half an hour ago. But he didn’t remember such things these days.
“You must do something about Nora’s temper, Mary.”
He thought she was her mother. Fenella didn’t even resemble her. Greta looked much more like their departed parent.
“She was screaming with rage in the stables,” he continued. “Over some triviality about her pony. You must take steps to curb her. She was truly excessive.”
Like you, Fenella thought silently. Many had noticed this similarity between her father and sister. She didn’t remember this particular instance, but Nora’s capacity for anger was famous. Or infamous.
“This is your area, Mary,” he said. “You produced all these daughters. You must do something. Get them in hand!”
“I’m Fenella, Papa,” she said. “Mama has been dead for eight years.”
He blinked at her, eyes bleary. For a moment he looked frightened and confused; then his mouth tightened and turned down. “Of course I know that. Third daughter. Not the charm.”
And so they were back to the somber present.
“A good shot though,” he continued, to Fenella’s surprise. “Greta wouldn’t hold a gun, and Nora was too hotheaded to take proper aim. But you were a different matter. Used to tell them at my club how you shot the pip out of the ace of spades. Twice, so it wasn’t a fluke.”
Had he actually been proud of her skill? Fenella didn’t remember him saying so to her. But it warmed her to know that he’d praised her to others.
“Had those two decks put away somewhere. What’s become of them?”
Fenella had no notion. Had he actually kept them as proof of her marksmanship? She blinked back the hovering tears.
“It was almost like having a son,” her father finished.
And thus he spoiled the moment, she thought. Why must he always do so?
He was frowning at her. “If you’d just been born a boy, all would have been well.”
Something in Fenella snapped. “All?” she repeated. “What does that mean, precisely? Mama wouldn’t have sickened and died so young? Nora would be meek as milk? Last year’s grain harvest wouldn’t have been spoilt by a hailstorm? You wouldn’t be ill now?”
His head wobbled in a sort of half negative. His good hand twitched on the coverlet. Feeling guilty for her outburst, Fenella saw the thread of the argument leave him. His eyes grew vague. “Where’s Chatton gone?” he said.
“He died last—”
“Not him,” her father interrupted. “The younger one. His son. The one you were meant to marry. He was here.” He gave her a defiant look, daring her to contradict him.
Fenella nodded. Her father’s memory was erratic. He forgot so much, but then he remembered things one wished he would forget. Could he have sensed that her thoughts were full of Roger?
“I cannot believe you’re making the same mistake twice,” he went on in a fretful tone. “If you would just put forward a little effort, you could have him. He’s out there for the plucking. Why not grasp your chance? You’d outrank your sisters as a marchioness. You’d like that.”
Fenella was surprised. She didn’t think he’d noticed the friction with her older sisters. She was even more surprised to find that the idea had an appeal. She almost told him that she thought she would marry Roger. But she couldn’t quite give him the satisfaction after his criticisms about her sex.
“You’re less stupid than I used to think,” her father went on, destroying her impulse to confide in him. “Your grandmother did that much for you. And you’re not bad looking.” He surveyed her as if she was a brood mare. “Not as pretty as Greta or as lively as Nora, but well enough.”
He’d always had an instinct for the low blow. Lively as Nora who shrieked at her pony? “I don’t wish to talk about this, Papa.”
“Why not? There’s no impediment now. Everyone’s forgotten that stupid story Chatton spread about. Saying you killed his wife by encouraging her to go out riding in a storm.” He snorted.
She’d thought he hadn’t heard that, shut up in his sickroom as he was.
Her father gazed at her. “You didn’t, did you?”
“Are you seriously asking me that question, Papa?”
“You’re right. Don’t tell me.”
“Of course I did not!” Fenella exclaimed. “I tried to persuade her not to go.”
“Well, that was foolish.”
How could this be her father, Fenella thought. Was he really advocating murder? This must be his illness speaking.
“It was too much to send her out into the storm,” he continued. “I see that. But why argue with her? It wasn’t your idea. Let the chit soak herself.”
“Because it was the right thing to do!”
He made a derisive sound. “She was no great loss. Pretty, I’ll give you that. Deuced pretty. But cold. Hoity-toity marchioness. She wasn’t liked, you know.”
“Please don’t say such things, Papa.” His attitude and tone saddened her. She’d thought him a better man than this.
“You always were a wet goose.” He spoke with a kind of contemptuous fondness that grated on Fenella more than anger.
“Promise me you won’t talk about this with anyone else,” she said. “Not Simpson. Not anyone.”
“I have no one to talk to,” he complained.
She started to press him. But her father’s promises held no weight these days. He forgot.
“You’re doing this just to spite me, aren’t you?” He picked at the bedclothes.
“Doing what?” Trying to keep him from ruining his reputation?
“You refuse to admit that I was right about Chatton. You’ll throw away your future rather than do so. You’re that stubborn!”
His mind drifted irresistibly back to his grievances. Nothing else stuck any more. Fenella looked at the prominent bones of his hands, the overly thin body under the bedclothes. Once, she’d wanted to prove her father wrong about many things. Suddenly, that seemed less important. She wondered if there was any chance of a better understanding between them before he was gone forever.
Fenella was diverted by the sound of horses through the open window. She went to look out. A carriage had arrived in front of the house. A footman had sprung down and was helping an older lady out. As she stepped onto the gravel, hoofbeats heralded a rider, and Roger came riding down the drive toward the front door. The lady turned. The footman handed another older female from the carriage.
Roger pulled up at the sight of them. He paused, spoke to the ladies, then turned his mount away and trotted off.
Fenella watched him go with a keen sense of disappointment. She needed to see him, for a number of reasons. Roger’s expression, insofar as she could see it from this distance, had been odd. “I must go, Papa,” she said. “We have visitors.”
“To see me?”
Perhaps they had come to cheer her father, Fenella thought as another older lady emerged from the coach. She couldn’t think of another reason for this group to arrive together. “I’ll bring them up to you after a bit.” She went to receive them.
Fenella found four women of her mother’s generation in the drawing room, standing in a group that had the distinct feeling of a delegation. They included the leading female figures of her neighborhood. Colonel Patterson’s extremely correct wife was there, and Lady Prouse, the spouse of the local baronet. Mrs. McIlwaine, whose husband was the largest landowner in the area after Roger, stood next to Mrs. Byrne. These latter two were the mothers of Roger’s old friends. Fenella wondered that the vicar’s wife was not among them. She usually formed part of their distaff cabal.
The callers looked serious when she greeted them and asked them to sit down. Fenella had ordered refreshment to be brought on her way downstairs.
“We felt it best to come and speak to you,” said Mrs. Patterson.
“To me?” So they hadn’t come to see her father.
“Because of something that has begun to happen in the neighborhood,” said Mrs. Byrne.
Fenella tried to imagine what could it be. If the estate’s cattle had broken loose and ravaged a farmer’s fields, he wouldn’t send these grand ladies to protest. If they wanted her help in some charitable endeavor, they’d send a note. And expect her to cough up a donation. Which she would. There was no need for a formal request. These ladies ran local society without her help.
“Some very strange letters have been arriving,” said Lady Prouse. “Disturbing. Each of us has received one.”
“Delivered by hand,” said Mrs. Byrne. “Not by the mail.”
“Anonymous letters,” said Mrs. Patterson. “Which are a despicable thing.”
Fenella stared at the four venerable faces confronting her. A tremor went through her suddenly. “What kind of letters?”
“Outrageous ones,” replied Mrs. Patterson.
“Dreadful,” declared Mrs. McIlwaine.
“Reviving that ridiculous story about the young marchioness’s death,” said Lady Prouse.
“Story?” But Fenella knew the answer.
“These letters claim that you egged her on to ride out in the storm,” said Mrs. McIlwaine.
“And that you were well aware that she had weak lungs,” added Mrs. Byrne. “And was particularly susceptible to chills. Had been all her life.”
Was there a hint of relish in her voice, Fenella wondered. No, she was imagining it.
“Of course none of us ever believed you were at fault,” said Colonel Patterson’s stately wife. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but the young marchioness was a headstrong girl.”
“Very modern manners,” said the baronet’s spouse. “No one imagined you could suggest anything to that young woman.”
Yet all four ladies were looking at her, waiting for something. “Of course they’re not true,” said Fenella, humiliated by the need to deny. “I begged Arabella not to ride out.”
“You went with her,” said Lady Prouse.
“When I saw that she wouldn’t be convinced, I did. To make sure she got home safely.” Arabella had been in such a reckless mood that day. Fenella had worried about a fall from her horse.
Mrs. Byrne looked reluctant, but it didn’t keep her from asking, “Did you know that she had a history of lung complaints?”
“I did not. She said something about it after she became ill.” Did they not believe her?
“Miss Fairclough is not required to defend herself,” said Mrs. Patterson. “We didn’t come here for that. We all know her and admire her character.” She met Fenella’s eyes with a grave glance. “We thought you should know, however.”
Fenella supposed she appreciated the information. This was better than whispers behind her back.
“And decide what to do,” said Mrs. McIlwaine.
“It’s difficult to counter anonymous accusations,” said Fenella. Indeed it was nearly impossible. There was no one to confront, no forum to declare the truth. Some would assume that the writer knew secrets. “But I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Byrne.
“If there were a way to track down the source,” said Mrs. Patterson.
All four ladies looked at Fenella. “I have no idea who would send such sneaking letters,” she said. Hand delivery suggested they came from nearby. “The idea that a neighbor would do this is simply horrible.” It made her want to cry.
There were murmurs of agreement from the others.
“We’ve inquired about how they arrived,” said Mrs. Byrne. “But no one seems to have seen anything.”
A silence fell. What did they expect her to do? Fenella wondered.
“It’s just, the timing is rather awkward, as you and Chatton are…renewing your childhood friendship,” said Mrs. McIlwaine.
The sentence descended on Fenella like a smothering blanket of fog. Of course people had noticed her outings with Roger. They had undoubtedly passed numerous unseen observers on their rides. Clandestine was not really a possibility in a small country neighborhood. Color flooded her cheeks as she wondered if anyone had seen them at the berry patch.
“We thought we might offer to help, as you have no mother of your own,” said Mrs. Byrne.
“You’ll tell everyone that the accusations are untrue,” Fenella said.
Her callers nodded, but they didn’t look satisfied.
“We could give Chatton a push,” said Lady Prouse. “We’re all well acquainted with Lady Chatton, of course. We could enlist her in the cause. An announced engagement would show this letter writer that his, or her, slanders were futile.”
“I don’t want—” began Fenella.
“And a fine match it would be,” said Mrs. McIlwaine, speaking at the same time.
Fenella looked at her visitors, leaning forward, a cadre eager for action. What made them so ready to arrange younger people’s lives? This was just what had happened to Roger before, when he’d been manipulated into marriage. That couldn’t happen. She’d rather return to Scotland. “I would prefer to manage matters myself,” she said. She needed to speak to Roger.
Her guests looked doubtful.
Fenella set herself to convincing them that she was quite able to deal with her own affairs. And after a good deal more conversation, accompanied by tea and Madeira cake, she thought she’d done so. The ladies departed with expressions of goodwill and promises of support. And at last Fenella was free to contemplate her situation in private.
A clandestine courtship had been a ridiculous idea, she thought as she went upstairs to her room. They weren’t children any more, to be meeting by an oak tree and roaming the countryside. She’d let herself be carried away by Roger’s enthusiasm. And more than that, she admitted.
In her bedchamber, Fenella looked in the mirror and saw the person her grandmother had called forth gazing back at her. Features firmed by intelligence and resolution. Eyes that saw reality. Which brought an ironic smile to her reflection’s lips.
The last week had felt like removing a corset pulled far too tight. After so much denying and suppressing, suddenly there was no need to pretend she was indifferent to Roger. All sorts of memories and feelings had come bubbling up.
She’d been drawn to him all her life, she admitted now. She’d followed his antics as a child, admired his courage and sheer effrontery. She’d longed to be one of his cronies, careening over the countryside, wild and free. And when their fathers had first suggested marriage, right at the beginning, she hadn’t been opposed. Here in the privacy of her room she admitted it to herself. She’d been seventeen! She’d concocted a brief, romantic fantasy of being Roger’s wife and a marchioness, living in Chatton Castle, the neighborhood at her feet.
That had gone up in smoke at his reaction. “Sodding sheep,” she said to the mirror. Of course she’d rejected him after that. She’d had some spirit, even then. She’d gone away, and then he had, and come home married to someone else. The past had to be buried. She’d had to do what was right. Fenella had applied a thick veneer of correctness, and avoided him.
And then to top it all off, Roger had blamed her for Arabella’s death, loudly and publicly. Fenella frowned at the mirror. She’d understood some of what he’d felt, but that was no excuse. He’d created a wretched tangle, and no doubt inspired this sneaking letter writer who had popped up at just the wrong moment.
She turned away from her reflection. What to do now? She didn’t think anyone had believed that she’d encouraged Arabella to ride out into a storm. But if she was sneaking out to meet Roger, some might wonder what they had to hide. Which was nothing! She’d done nothing wrong. She’d tried to be Arabella’s friend, difficult as that had been. And in return she’d received a load of unpleasantness.
She wasn’t suddenly free, Fenella thought as she left her room. That had been an illusion, born of an exhilarating gallop and some delirious kisses, and now destroyed by a few lines of malicious ink.