Tallie's Knight (15 page)

“Mrs. Farrow says
there is cold pork, fowl, or some mutton pie still remaining from last night’s
dinner, if you should prefer that —I know many gentlemen prefer meat at
breakfast,” persisted Tallie.

Magnus rolled his
eyes and took another mouthful of dark, bitter ale.

“I must say,” she
continued, “dinner last night sounded quite delicious. Why did you not awaken
me? I was extremely hungry, you know. It was most unkind of you to forget me!” she
finished indignantly, licking honey off her fingers.

Forget her? Magnus
stared at her in stupefaction. He opened his mouth to respond, but she hadn’t
finished.

“I would very much
have preferred to be woken. So in the future, if you please, remember to do so,
should I happen to take a little nap before dinner.” Tallie smiled to soften
the impact of her demand, resolving to be more tactful with him, especially in
the morning. He seemed to be one of those people whose tempers did not
appreciate conversation in the morning.

It occurred to her
that he might not have slept very well last night.

“Did you not sleep
well, my lord?” She smiled sympathetically at him. “Some people do not sleep
soundly, I believe, if they are in a strange bed. I do not myself. I remember
when I first came to my cousin’s house it was days before I could accustom
myself to the new bed. Was your bed not sufficiently comfortable, my lord?”

Magnus could barely
speak. Indignation and outrage choked him. He searched his mind for something
sufficiently pithy and cutting to say.

A drop of honey
quivered on the corner of her mouth and the sight of it distracted him
considerably.

She continued.

“Mine was quite
comfortable, although I woke up a little cold.” She blushed, and did not meet
his eyes. “I gather Mrs. Farrow put me to bed. I must thank her, though I don’t
understand how she could have missed my nightgown —it was on the top of my
valise. And she must have taken my —er— some things to wash, because I could not
find them anywhere.”

Magnus’s ears turned
slightly pink. He walked over to the fire and kicked some of the burning logs
with his boot. Smoke gushed into the room.

“My lord—”

“Oh, for God’s sake
let us have done with all this “my lord” nonsense!” Magnus exclaimed. “You are
my wife. You may call me Magnus and I will call you Thalia. Agreed?”

Tallie wrinkled her
nose.

“I would prefer not
to be called Thalia.”

“What else should I
call you? Lady d’Arenville, perhaps?”

“Good gracious, no,”
she said, vigorously scrubbing the honey off her lips with a napkin. “I should
never remember to answer to that.”

Magnus frowned.

“Never remember to
answer to your title?” He was stunned. He’d expected the title to be the very
first thing his wife would learn to use. That and his wealth.

Tallie perceived she
had mortally offended him and smiled placatingly.

“I suppose it is all
still so new to me. I cannot seem to think of myself as a countess yet.” She
smiled brilliantly, with false confidence. “I am sure I shall soon grow
accustomed to it.”

“But in the meantime
I am not to address you as Thalia. You would prefer Miss Robinson, perhaps?” he
finished acidly.

“Of course not. It is
just that I have always disliked the name Thalia.”

“Well, there we are
agreed —it is an appalling name to inflict on someone.”

Tallie suddenly found
herself annoyed. It was one thing for her not to like her own name; it was
quite another to have him criticising it with such enthusiasm.

“Well, at least I am
not called Euphrosyne or Aglaia!” she snapped.

Magnus blinked.

“Why on earth should
you be?”

“Euphrosyne and
Aglaia were Graces.”

“Good for them. But I
don’t see—”

“And Thalia was a
Grace, too.”

“Grace is a perfectly
unexceptionable name.” He shrugged. “I have no objection to calling you Grace.”

“But I don’t wish you
to call me Grace!”

“Well, what the devil
do you want me to call you? Euphro-what or Agalia?”

Tallie’s lips
twitched.

“Thalia, Euphrosyne
and Aglaia were the three Graces —the daughters of Zeus and servants to the
other deities,” she explained severely. “My mother thought it romantic to name
me after one of them.”

“Romantic! She must
have been a hen-wit,” he said frankly. “I suppose she wanted more daughters to
complete the set. You must thank your lucky stars you were born first.”

Tallie giggled.

He smiled down at
her, feeling more in charity with her.

“So, if you do not
wish me to call you Thalia, what is my alternative —Lucy?” he said, pleased
with himself for recalling her second name.

Tallie pulled another
face and shook her head.

“No, I don’t like
Louise either.” She hesitated. “My friends from school and my cousin’s children
call me Tallie, so you could call me that —if you wish it.”

“Tallie… Tallie,” he
said thoughtfully, then nodded. “Yes, it suits you. So, you shall call me
Magnus and I call you Tallie —agreed?”

“Agreed, my lor —Magnus.”
She found her hand enveloped in his and looked up at him, smiling shyly.

He looked down into
her shining amber eyes and his hand tightened its grip.

“Come then, Tallie,
for we depart within the half-hour.”

“Where to, my lor —Magnus?”
she asked breathlessly.

He couldn’t help but
smile at her excitement.

“Paris!”

“What is that most
uncommon smell, my lor —Magnus?” Tallie called from the window of the coach.

They had come to a
steep hill. The horses slowed to a walk, and, for the first time in several
hours, Magnus was close enough for conversation.

Magnus frowned,
inhaled and shook his head.

“I smell nothing
untoward.”

“Oh, you must,” she
said, sniffing the air vigorously. “It is… it is… Oh, I cannot explain it, for
I have smelled nothing like it before…” She sniffed again. “It is a little…
tart, but vastly refreshing.”

Magnus inhaled and
shook his head again.

“I can smell nothing
—the wretched sea drowns all other smells.”

“The sea?” Tallie
exclaimed. “It is the sea I can smell? Oh, how very exciting. I have never seen
the sea and have always longed to do so.”

She bounced up on the
carriage seat and craned her neck as far as she could out of the window.

Magnus regarded her
thoughtfully for a moment.

She turned her head.

“Pray tell me, my lor…
I mean Magnus, in which direction is the sea?”

“You cannot see it
yet,” he said, “but once we are over this hill you should be able to catch a
glimpse of it.”

Tallie’s eyes avidly
scanned the approaching horizon. Sure enough, within a few moments she saw a
sparkling blue line stretching between the dip of green hills.

“Ohhh,” she breathed.

She fastened her gaze
on the horizon for the next forty minutes, catching tantalising glimpses of
blue and silver, until the coach breached the final crest and the English
Channel lay spread out before her in an endless gleaming expanse.

“Ohhhhh.”

Amused by her naive
enthralment, Magnus signalled the coach driver to stop. He himself dismounted
and opened Tallie’s door.

“Come,” he said,
holding out a hand. “Alight for a moment or two and gaze your fill.”

Eyes shining, she
hastened to do his bidding, almost tumbling into the road as she did so. She
hurried up a small rise and stood there, drinking in the incredible sight.

“It is not the true
sea, you understand. This is just the Channel.”

She turned to stare
at him in amazement.

“Truly? But it is
enormous. I cannot see to the other side at all.”

He shrugged.

“Nevertheless…”

She turned back and
gazed in silence for several minutes, her hands clasped to her bosom.

“The English Channel…”
she breathed reverently. “It is so much bigger than the maps would have you
believe… And just over there is Europe.” She clapped her hands. “Oh, I cannot
wait! Come! Let us delay no further.”

She hurried back to
the coach and scrambled back up the let-down steps, oblivious of the groom
waiting to assist her.

Magnus sighed and
made a mental note to find someone to teach his wife how a lady should step
into and descend from a carriage.

The town of Dover was
not particularly prepossessing, in Magnus’s opinion, consisting, as it did,
largely of cheap, unsavoury taverns and inns kept by retired rum-soaked sailors
for the benefit and entertainment of other rum-soaked sailors. There were but
two decent hostelries in which a gentleman could safely repose his bride —the
Ship Inn and the King’s Head. The Ship Inn being the more fashionable of the
two, it was there that Magnus naturally made his way.

To his annoyance,
however, the inn was full. The landlord explained. It seemed there had been no
wind, not even a breeze for days. The Channel lay smooth and glassy and the
boats’ sails limp, and so the inn —the whole town, in fact— was crowded with
people waiting to leave for France. The landlord was extremely apologetic, but
every single room was taken.

“Check again,” said
Lord d’Arenville, laying several shining coins on the counter. The landlord regretfully
shook his head. Lord d’Arenville added several more to the pile.

Lord d’Arenville’s
name was not unknown. Nor was it The Ship’s practice to turn away titled
gentlemen. The landlord hesitated a moment, then leaned forward.

“All I can offer your
lordship is accommodation to share, I’m afraid —for a small consideration, of
course. There are several young gentlemen who would be pleased to accommodate
your lordship for a reduction in their tariff, and your lady wife would, I am
sure, be welcome to sleep with Mrs. Entwhistle, an elderly widow of the utmost respectability.”
His fingers crept towards the money.

“Share?” exclaimed
Lord d’Arenville, outraged, sweeping up the coins.

His wife to share
with some old woman —a cit, no doubt! The notion was preposterous. His countess
did not share her bed with strange old women! She shared it with him —or she
would as soon as he could manage it. He had waited quite long enough as it was.

The memory of her
naked softness had stayed with him the whole day, and each sight of her, each
movement, had caused him the sort of discomfort he had not had to endure since
he was a green youth. It was a ridiculous situation for a man of his age and
experience, and he was determined to remedy it immediately —all he needed was a
bed and his bride.

The landlord spread
his hands in a gesture of helplessness and shrugged. “Tis all I can offer you,
my lord. Without the wind, the ships can’t leave, and until they do we must all
make the best of things.”

“Well, then,” said
Lord d’Arenville coldly, “be so good as to recommend some respectable private
accommodation where my wife and I can stay.”

The landlord shook
his head.

“Nothing left, I’m
afraid, my lord. The ships have been stuck here for six days already, and the
whole town is full up —as tight as a tick, if you’ll forgive the expression.”
He paused, then added doubtfully, “You might find something in one of the
taverns near the waterfront, but I’d not wish a lady there, myself.”

“Quite!” said Lord d’Arenville
crisply. He pondered the situation. It was far too late to retrace their steps
and find some other town. His bride was waiting in the carriage, tired and no
doubt hungry, though she had not complained. Repressing his frustration, he
accepted the landlord’s terms, hiding his chagrin behind an icy demeanour.

Mrs. Entwhistle was,
as Magnus had feared, a cit. A wealthy widow, she currently owned several large
woollen mills and manufactories —a fact of which she did not hesitate to inform
them, much to his disgust.

She spoke with an assumed
air of refinement, which intensified when she found the exalted company in
which she was to mix. She was also garrulous to the point of strangulation.
Magnus was in her company no more than ten minutes before he had formed an
understanding of why all three of her husbands had died young —seeking the
peace and quiet of the grave. She was, however, intensely respectable, and only
too delighted to share her chamber with a youthful countess, so Magnus was able
to leave his bride to dine on a tray in the woman’s chamber with no doubts
about her safety.

He himself passed a
most frustrating night. It took him hours to get to sleep, images of his naked
wife being the chief cause. Then, when he finally fell into a fitful sleep, the
young blades with whom he shared the room stumbled in, foxed to the eyeballs
and talking at the tops of their voices. He bore it as long as he could, then
sat up in bed.

“If you young
gentlemen do not put yourselves to bed with the utmost speed —and silence— I
will be forced to get out of this bed,” he said, in a voice which froze the
young men in their tracks. “I do not believe you would enjoy the consequences.”

After that, the only
noise in the room was furtive breathing.

Magnus lay wide
awake, wondering what malignant twist of fate had caused him to end up sharing
a room with three drunken sots while his wife was curled up in bed with a
vulgar old woman. He had never been so uncomfortable —nor so frustrated— in his
life. Except for his wedding night.

Nothing had gone
right for him since he’d offered for the girl, he thought sourly. Why had he
ever been so foolish as to consider marriage? It was all Freddie’s fault. One
of the young blades started to snore. Magnus turned over in bed, attempting to
block out the sound. A second set of snores joined the first, then a third,
making a loud and inharmonious din. Magnus pulled the pillow over his head.