The Captain's Lady (11 page)

M
arianne ached for the pain in Jamie’s eyes. Perhaps she should not have read the sonnet. But this was the closest she could ever come to announcing her love for him to her family. After everyone retired for the night, she lay abed as usual, reexamining all her plans. Tomorrow she would begin that sampler. And perhaps one day soon, everyone would know that Lady Marianne Moberly loved the American sea merchant, Captain Jamie Templeton, for he had her heart, and she had his.

Upon waking the next morning, she learned from Emma that Papa had arrived late the night before and retired to his apartment. As she expected, the morning atmosphere in the manor house became formal, almost somber. The housemaids hastened to clean common areas, then scurried out of sight, no doubt to avoid encounters with their early-rising employer. Footmen wore blank expressions rather than pleasant ones. The children stayed out of sight with their nurse until such time as their grandfather should summon them, an annual family ritual everyone dreaded. Marianne hoped this year their good behavior would win Papa’s
approval, but they often misbehaved in front of their parents. But her greatest concern was that Papa would somehow notice the unplanned, affectionate gazes she sometimes traded with Jamie. Of all the denizens of Bennington Park, it seemed only Mama was happy to have Papa home.

Jamie, Robert and William went out riding, a custom they had acquired of late and one which generally pleased Marianne. She hoped her eldest brother’s better nature might show itself when he was away from Lady Bampton. But today she would find Jamie’s company reassuring, and missed him terribly. As it was, Mama and Lady Bampton slept late, and even Papa did not come downstairs as early as usual. So Marianne and Grace ate a quiet repast in the breakfast room before taking up their needlework in the bright light of the south parlor.

“Bother.” Marianne searched her sewing basket. “I have used all of my blue.”

“Hmm.” Grace held out a small ball of thread. “Will this do?”

“Thank you.” Marianne laid the twine next to the indigo stitches on her sampler. “’Tis a bit too light, do you not think?”

“Indeed, yes.” Grace could always be counted on to agree.

Marianne studied her new project, but last night’s inspiration eluded her. In truth, she did not want to sew, and longed to be out riding with the men. Or out anywhere. “Nothing will suit but to take the carriage down to Portsmouth and shop.”

“Or we could go to the village, which will not take as long.” Grace’s eyes twinkled. “We want to be back to welcome Lord Bennington.”

“I suppose so.” She truly loved Papa and always tried to
please him. Never before had she feared or avoided him. But now she began to understand some of her brothers’ foolish behavior in their vain attempts to satisfy their patriarch.

She looked at Grace, seated in the adjacent chair wearing a peaceful smile as she concentrated on her sewing—the very picture of serenity, much like Mama. She would be content with whatever God chose for her, even if it meant giving up Robert and breaking her heart. Yet, just as Marianne knew God had spoken to her about marrying Jamie, she believed Grace and Robert should be married. But how could either couple be wed when Papa stood before them all like the angel with the flaming sword who had kept Adam and Eve from reentering the Garden of Eden? In her own case, if she could not persuade Emma to help her board Jamie’s ship, what other recourse did she have? Dress as a sailor? Hide in a barrel?

“Ridiculous.” What a mad course her thoughts had taken.

“What is ridiculous?” Grace’s fair face creased with concern. “Are you unwell?”

“I am well, thank you.” Marianne released a long sigh. “But I shall be much better after we take our walk to the village.” She set aside her sewing, grasped Grace’s hand and stood. “Why waste a lovely day by staying indoors?”

Returning to her chamber, she summoned Emma to bring her walking shoes and shawl in case the day grew overcast and cool. As her maid helped her tug on the heavy leather shoes, a thought occurred to Marianne. At sea, this lace shawl would not keep her warm. She must have a new hooded cloak, heavily lined and black. A nervous thrill swept up from her heart to her throat at the idea of doing something tangible for her “flight.”

Outside, the sun shone brightly, and a fresh breeze carried the fragrance of roses from Mama’s garden to the
narrow village road. Soon the musty smell of sheep became the stronger scent, and Marianne and Grace covered their noses with linen handkerchiefs. John the footman followed behind in case last year’s gypsy band had again set up camp in the woodlands.

The small settlement of thatch-roofed cottages and businesses had been tidied up, probably in anticipation of Papa’s arrival. Shop signs had been repaired and painted, and the single, rutted lane through the center of the village had been raked clean of debris and evidence of animals. Although Papa seldom went there, the citizens always took pride in being prepared in case their landlord varied his routine. Like a feudal thane, Papa served the king while his own tenants worked his land. Marianne had never considered such a thing before, but in truth they all were descendants of that time long ago when a serf could never leave the land of his birth, and daughters of the wellborn grew up to become bargaining tools in the world of politics. While these villagers were still dependent upon Papa’s goodwill, at least he had never tried to force her into an unwanted marriage.

As though wafted on the wind, news of Marianne’s approach must have carried from one building to the next, for in each doorway men bowed and women curtsied, all smiling their greetings. She waved and called each by name, stopping to inquire about a newborn infant or a child’s progress in reading or the health of an aged parent. Each tenant seemed as pleased by her interest as if Father Christmas had paid a summer visit.

In the tiny mercantile shop, which sold a surprising array of fabrics, buttons, stays and needles, Marianne found her indigo thread, and Grace a card of buttons. Marianne also found a set of shiny brass shoe buckles engraved with three-
masted ships, but resisted the temptation to buy them for Jamie. Then, while Grace chatted with the shop owner, Marianne gave whispered orders to his wife for a hooded black cloak made of wool from Papa’s large flock of sheep. The woman, comprehending Marianne’s need for secrecy, discreetly wrote down the order, her eyes twinkling. “A gift for yer mum’s birthday, eh, milady?” she said. “Never you mind. We’ll make it up good and proper and deliver it on the sly.”

Marianne smiled and tilted her head in a noncommittal gesture, but felt as if she had just told a lie. Swallowing back her guilt, she thanked the woman. “Shall we go, Miss Kendall?”

As she and Grace walked back toward home, several children skipped along beside them. Marianne promised sweetmeats after Sunday services for any who could recite their catechism, and a party for them all one day soon. She thought one or two of them might have followed all the way to the manor house if their parents had not called them back.

“What an invigorating walk.” Marianne inhaled the fresh spring air. “We must bring Mama next time.”

“And perhaps Lady Bampton.”

Marianne cast a glance at Grace, then a quick look over her shoulder. John the footman followed at a discreet distance, so she could be free in her conversation. “I doubt my sister-in-law would care to walk so far.” She did not intend to be unkind, but the viscountess could make life insufferable, especially for Grace, whom she treated as a servant instead of Mama’s poor but wellborn companion. Grace’s inclusiveness of the woman revealed her sweet spirit.

Yet while Marianne admired Grace’s Christian charac
ter, she could not help but think there were times when a person, even a woman, did not have to accept so submissively the pains and disappointments life meted out to her. Grace might find such thinking a sin, but Marianne was not so certain. Having ordered the cloak, she felt more than ever that her plan was right.

“How’s this?” Jamie stood tying his cravat before the long mirror in his bedchamber, a larger, sunnier room than the one he’d inhabited in London.

Quince lounged in a brown leather chair. “You’re getting better. Make it look good, because my reputation as a valet is at stake.” He yawned and rolled his head and shoulders, as if waking from a long sleep.

“Get up, Aaron.” Jamie took his gray jacket from the bed and shrugged it on. “You know how these servants come in to tend their duties with barely a scratch on the door. If one of them caught you sitting down while I’m dressing myself, it’d be all over the house in five minutes.”

Quince groaned. “How much longer do we have to play this game? I’m ready to marry my Emma and take her home.” He stood and stretched, then found a clothes brush and began to whisk nonexistent lint from Jamie’s jacket and breeches.

A familiar ache throbbed in Jamie’s chest. He longed to wed, too, and take Marianne back to East Florida, but that could never be. “Saunders’ll send word when the
Fair Winds
is ready to sail. I’ve been thinking. Instead of our returning to London, I’ll tell him to gather the crew and sail over to Southampton.”

“Sounds pretty risky, if you ask me. After François delivers the muskets, do you really think Saunders should sail past Portsmouth and the Royal Navy docks?”

“Under the Union Jack and Bennington’s flag, we shouldn’t have a problem.” Jamie pointed to his shiny black shoes with their large brass buckles. “Don’t forget the footwear.” He smirked at his friend.

Quince rolled his eyes but bent to brush the shoes. “I must confess I’m tied in knots now that the earl has shown up. Lady Bennington told Emma she would speak to the old man about our getting married. Of course, we’ll get married with or without his consent. But if he gives permission, it might mean he’ll give Emma a wedding gift.” Aaron finished his job and rested an elbow against the mantel. “Of course, I don’t need the money, but she doesn’t know that, and it’ll give her a measure of pride to bring something to our marriage.”

“That’s decent of you, my friend.” Jamie punched his shoulder, then took a final glance at himself in the mirror. “How do I look?”

“Ready for an audience with the king, milord.” Quince grinned.

Jamie chuckled. “From what Moberly and the viscount have said, it’s very much like a king holding court when Bennington gathers his family here at the Park. Apparently the old man sits in his high-back chair as if it’s a throne, and makes personal comments to each of his offspring. Bampton likened it to a whaler in the midst of a pod of whales. Harpooning, he called it.” Jamie shook his head. “And not one of his sons escapes the lance.”

A scratch on the door brought their conversation to an end. John the footman entered. “Captain Templeton, sir, the earl has summoned the family and requests your presence.”

Jamie almost sent a knowing look to Aaron, but stopped himself in time. Gentlemen, Reverend Bentley had taught
him, did not engage in such camaraderie with their servants. Instead, he nodded to John and strode from the room as if summoned before a king.

As with his bedchamber, the drawing room on the first floor was larger than the one in town. Jamie had enjoyed the evenings he’d spent there with Marianne and her family for these past few days as they waited for the earl’s return. Her reading of Sir Philip Sidney’s sonnets would always be a fond memory, and Jamie thought he might have liked that noble Elizabethan courtier. Lady Bampton cooled their laughter somewhat, but all in all, it had been a pleasant start to the summer.

What was he thinking? He’d become entirely too relaxed while he lived with this ruling class. He had a duty to perform, and the success of the Revolution, or at least his small part in it, depended upon his completing that duty. And yet the niggling sadness over his approaching separation from Marianne would not cease.

The afternoon sun beamed through the tall west windows and heated the drawing room, which would doubtless intensify the misery of the coming assembly. Only the fragrance of the long-stemmed red roses in six or seven vases around the chamber mitigated the closeness of the air. Jamie could only conclude that the earl liked to see his children sweat.

“Ah, Templeton, there you are.” Moberly entered and strode to Jamie, his hand outstretched. “Well, here we go. The dreaded annual judgment day.”

Jamie pumped his moist hand, an unmistakable sign that Moberly was already nervous. “Surely it can’t be that bad.” He clasped his friend’s shoulder. “Buck up. You know what you have to do.”

“Yes. My father’s agreed to speak privately with me after
he’s finished with the family.” Moberly’s eyes gleamed a bit too brightly. “You cannot know what your support means.”

“Three others are praying for you, friend.” Jamie moved to the hearth, his usual perch. “And don’t forget God Himself cares deeply about this. It is He whom you desire to serve.”

Moberly’s expression softened. “I have felt your prayers
and
the Lord’s touch.” He tapped his chest. “I must admit that feels far better than the ‘touches’ of brandy I’ve depended upon these many years.”

Footsteps sounded outside the door. The younger members of the family entered in a group, all wearing solemn faces. Marianne sent Jamie a sweet smile, causing a swirl of emotions to churn through his chest. He put on a sober expression and gave her a formal nod, stopping himself in midwink. He really must drop that habit, at least in this company.

Everyone took their places, each seeming to know where they were expected to sit. Lord and Lady Bampton were more subdued than Jamie had ever seen them, and he was surprised to see the usually active children sitting primly on a settee, their hands folded in their laps. Even he felt his chest tighten in expectation, and for the first time in weeks, he worried that Bennington might have found him out. To ease such groundless speculation, he struck a careless pose, resting a foot on the pedestal of a five-foot statue of Zeus standing sentinel beside the hearth, and his elbow on the Greek god’s shoulder.

Some minutes passed without a word among them, until at last the earl entered, a scowl on his noble visage, while the countess followed close behind, dispensing a beneficent smile to each person in the room. Facing the rest of the furniture, the earl’s ornate wooden chair had a red leather cushion and a high back with a wild boar carved in the
center, presumably to force its occupant to sit absolutely erect. Jamie wondered why a person would choose such a seat when he could have any of the comfortable chairs in the room. But the ways of these English nobles never ceased to perplex him. Did the man prefer to be as uncomfortable as he made his children?