The Danbury Scandals (2 page)

The curtains
were almost fully drawn across the big windows and the room was in
semi-darkness, so that it was a moment or two before Maryanne’s eyes became
accustomed to the gloom. She could not see the occupant of the bed, because the
doctor’s broad frame was in the way. On one side stood a young man in his late
twenties, a handsome man, tall, upright and unsmiling. He was so like Lord
Danbury that she guessed he must be his son, the Honourable Mark Danbury. The
young lady sitting on the other side Maryanne knew to be the Honourable Caroline
because she sometimes came to Church with her father and could be seen
occasionally riding out in one or other of the family carriages, or galloping
across the downs with a groom endeavouring to keep up with her. Today her
fashionable pink-striped open gown over a satin petticoat in a darker shade
made Maryanne feel dowdy and out of place.

‘I do not think
this is a good idea at all, Your Grace,’ the doctor was saying, as he moved
round to take the patient’s wrist in his hand, allowing Maryanne a view of the
tiny figure in the bed. ‘You should not become excited.’

The Duchess’s
white hair, under a snowy cap, was spread about an equally snowy pillow, making
her lined face look even greyer than it really was. She lay so still that, for
one shocked moment, Maryanne thought she was dead. But then her eyes flickered
open and they were as clear and blue as forget-me-nots.

‘Tarradiddle,
you old fool! I shall become more excited if I am thwarted, as you well know.’
She turned her head slowly and looked directly at Maryanne. ‘Come forward,
child.’

Maryanne moved
slowly towards the bed, conscious of everyone’s eyes watching her, the young
man with curiosity, his sister with disdain.

The old lady
attempted to sit up and Lord Danbury hurried forward to plump up the pillows
behind her. Once she was settled, Maryanne was subjected to a scrutiny which
made her feel like a farm animal at market. No one spoke and Maryanne,
self-conscious and uncomfortable, swallowed hard and resisted the temptation to
speak first and shatter the silence.

‘The likeness
is there,’ the old lady said at last, to the room in general, and then to
Maryanne in particular, ‘I am sorry, my dear, so very sorry.’ She stretched out
her hand and Maryanne moved forward to take it and drop a curtsy.

‘Sorry, Your
Grace?’ she asked.

But the Dowager
Duchess did not appear to hear. She dropped her hand and turned to her nephew.
‘James, you must make... amends.’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

‘And don’t
leave it to Henry; you know what he is like.’

‘It will be my
pleasure to look after her myself, Aunt,’ he said.

The old lady
smiled. ‘You always did have a soft spot in your heart for Helena, didn’t you?
When we condemned, you connived...’ She sighed. ‘But then we could hardly
expect anything else from you, could we? Baked in the same mould, the pair of
you.’

‘Aunt...’

‘Oh, do not try
to hum your way out of it. It is of no consequence now. Just make sure she is
brought out and makes a good match. Now, I am tired.’ She turned to Maryanne.
‘I’m glad to have met you, my child. Go now, I must sleep...’ The voice was
weaker, breathless. Her head sank back into the soft pillow. ‘We will talk
again when I feel stronger.’ Her last words were almost inaudible and the
doctor brushed Lord Danbury aside to go to her.

Maryanne felt
herself being taken by the arm and propelled towards the door. Once outside,
she turned to look at the young man who had escorted her from the room. He
smiled easily, although behind his smile was a certain wariness.

‘I am sorry you
had to be subjected to that, but once Her Grace gets an idea into her head
there is no gainsaying it.’

‘But I don’t
understand. Why am I being treated like some prize horse? I thought someone
would ask to inspect my teeth next.’

He chuckled.
‘I’ve no doubt my father will enlighten you shortly. I’m Mark Danbury, by the
way.’ He escorted her down to a small reception-room and turned to smile at
her. ‘Please wait in here; my father will come to you soon.’

‘Mr Danbury,’
she said, turning on him with anger flashing in her violet eyes. ‘I insist on
being told why I have been brought here and inspected just as if I were some
chattel to be bargained for. I am me, Maryanne Paynter, and no one’s property.’

‘Of course, But
you did agree to come.’

‘Did I have a
choice?’

‘You could have
refused.’

She smiled. ‘I
can just imagine what my guardian would have said if I had tried that, and
besides...’

‘You were
curious.’ He chuckled. ‘Now admit it.’

She found
herself laughing. ‘Perhaps, but now I have had enough and I want to go home.’

‘And if this
were your home?’

She looked up
at him, startled. ‘I don’t understand; am I to be offered a post here?’

He laughed
aloud. ‘I doubt that was in Her Grace’s mind, though since she’s been ill she
has been a bit queer in the attic. Please wait until my father comes; he will
tell you.’ He smiled easily. ‘Now, I must go back to the family. I shall look
forward to seeing you again later.’ He turned and left her, shutting the door
behind him.

She stood quite
still, listening to the sounds of the house: scurrying footsteps, subdued
voices, the soft shutting of a door. She moved to the window and looked out.
Because the house was built on a hill, the room had a fine view over the
surrounding countryside. Beyond the wood, she could see a village nestling in the
valley, a row of cottages, the inn and the church; it reminded her of Beckford.
Why was she standing here, alone and bewildered? Why was she not in her safe
little world at Beckford Rectory, teaching the village boys their letters?

Her Grace had
instructed Lord Danbury to find a good match for her. Did they intend to marry
her off without so much as asking her what she had to say about it? Once she
had overheard her guardian talking to his wife on the subject. ‘How it is to be
brought about, I cannot imagine,’ he had said. ‘She cannot marry into the
gentry, no one will have her with her background, and yet she is too genteel to
become the wife of a commoner.’ He had sighed. ‘I had done better not to have
taken her in, but there, I have a soft heart...’

Maryanne’s
mother had been a gentlewoman in the best sense of the word, anyone with eyes
in their head could have seen that, so why had he made it sound like a barrier?
And why had he involved Lord Danbury and the Dowager Duchess? If that was what
they were about, then they were going to find her outward meekness hid a will
of iron; she would not be mated like some farmyard animal. She would live in
poverty first. And she would not wait on their convenience a moment longer. She
went and flung open the door.

There was no
one about except a footman standing beside the front door; she stopped,
wondering if he had instructions to prevent her leaving. She turned and went
back along the corridor, intending to find another exit, but was brought up
short when she heard her own name being spoken by Caroline Danbury on the other
side of a closed door.

‘Send her back
where she came from, no one will ever know the truth.’

‘I cannot, the
Reverend Mr Cudlipp is not expecting her to return.’ This was Lord Danbury.
‘And, besides, I do not want to; she has been ill-used enough. All I ask is
that you be kind to her...’

‘Kind to her!’
The girl’s voice was a squeak of outrage. ‘She’s one of your by-blows, isn’t
that it? Papa, how could you insult us by bringing her here? And taking her up
to Her Grace. I can’t think what Great-Aunt was thinking of to allow it. It’s
enough to make Mama turn in her grave.’

Maryanne did
not wait to hear more. She turned and ran towards the front door. The startled
footman sprang to open it and she hurtled down the steps and away across the
lawn.

Her flying feet
took her across the park between the tall cedars which gave the mansion its
name, to the wall which enclosed the immediate grounds, where she found a small
gate which led into the woods. Here it was quiet and cool and she stopped
running to catch her breath. She did not know where she was going; all she
wanted was to get away from that great house and people who made hateful
insinuations which made her blood boil.

But she could
not help remembering a titbit of gossip told to her by the housemaid at
Beckford Rectory. ‘They say ‘is lordship left his wife and ran off with a
kitchen maid. They say he went abroad with ‘er, but ‘e came back a year or two
later all by ‘isself and settled down as if nothing ‘ad ‘appened. Though they
do say there was a bebby...’

She had scolded
the girl and dismissed it as nonsense, but could there have been some truth in
it after all? She remembered, too, that when she first came to Beckford as a
ten-year-old there had been some gossip about her which concerned her mother,
but her guardian had soon silenced it and she had never learned what it was. He
always referred to her mother, when he spoke of her at all, as ‘that poor
misguided lady’ in condescending tones which infuriated Maryanne. There
couldn’t be a connection, could there?

She stumbled
on, with her head in too much of a turmoil to notice where her feet were taking
her, unaware of anyone else on the path until she found herself imprisoned
against a broad chest. She let out a squeal of terror and began to struggle.

Six feet and
more of bone and rippling muscle, he held her in a grip so powerful that she
could not pull herself away until he chose to release her. ‘Let me go!’ she
shouted, trying to beat on his chest with her fists. ‘Let me go!’

He put her
gently from him, but still retained her hand. ‘Your pardon,
mam’selle
.’

Startled by his
accent, she looked up at his face. His hair was thickly curled and he had a
small scar over his left eyebrow which made it look as if it were lifted in a
permanent expression of doubt, but it was his eyes she remembered most of all;
fringed with enviably long dark lashes, they were like brown velvet with a
sheen of gold and now regarded her in a way which made her blush to the roots of
her fair hair. ‘Why, it’s you... the gypsy... the poacher... the man I saw...’
She stopped suddenly, wondering why she had been such a ninny as to let him
know she remembered him.

She had
encountered him only three days before on her way back from a walk across the
downs, when she had been taking a short cut through Lord Danbury’s woods.
Unlike today, when he was dressed in riding breeches, he had been wearing a
rough labourer’s coat and had no collar or cravat, except a spotted
neckerchief, tied flamboyantly beneath a firmly jutting chin. Strangers in
Beckford were a rarity and until the interview with Lord Danbury had driven
everything else out of her mind she had been much occupied wondering where he
had come from and what he was doing in Beckford woods. He could have been a
poacher or one of the gypsies who were camping on the downs. On the other hand,
when he had bidden her good-day, he had sounded French. She had wondered if he
was a spy or had escaped from one of the many French ships which had been captured
and brought to Portsmouth as prison hulks. But he had not been doing any harm
and the war was so nearly over, so it hardly mattered. If the reports from the
Continent could be believed, the Prussians, Russians and Austrians had, at
last, decided to work together and Napoleon was near to defeat. She had said
nothing of the encounter to anyone, but now she wondered if she had been right
not to do so. To meet him twice and both times on land belonging to the Danbury
family seemed more than coincidental.

‘Why, it is
ma
petite duchesse
,’ he said, with a tiny twitch to the corner of his mouth
and a slight lifting of the scar above his eye.

‘I am not a
duchess,’ she retorted. ‘And you must know that or you would not be so forward.
Please release me.’

He smiled, but
showed no sign of doing as she asked. ‘
Eh bien
! It is not often a
beautiful young wood nymph throws herself into my arms.’

‘I did nothing
of the kind. Please let me go.’

‘If you tell me
your name.’

‘Maryanne
Paynter.’ Why had she answered him? She should have put her nose in the air and
insisted on being allowed to pass, but it was difficult to stand on her dignity
with her eyes full of unaccustomed tears.

He looked down
at her small hand imprisoned in his and noted the absence of a ring. ‘
Mam’selle
Paynter, I am
enchante
to make your acquaintance.’ He lifted her
hand to his lips and added, in a voice that was surprisingly warm and without a
trace of an accent, ‘Forgive me, I did not mean to make you cry.’

‘I am not
crying. I have some dust in my eye.’

‘Then let me
remove it for you.’ He took her face in his hands, tipping it up towards him.
His eyes, searching hers, were like soft brown velvet, belying his strength and
masculinity. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek and shivered
involuntarily.

‘Tip your head
up,’ he commanded, taking a handkerchief, which was miraculously clean and
soft, from his pocket. ‘Which eye is it?’