The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) (16 page)

‘Not now, Mary. I could never forgive myself.’

‘I am willing.’

‘I know; but I want you and your family to know that I am an honourable man, not a rogue who will even seduce his young cousin. I know what they say about me ...’

‘They
love
you, Brent.’

‘I know, but they still think I am a rogue. I want to win you, Mary. Show them I am worthy to be your husband.’

He could feel her stiffen in his arms and he turned her face and saw the expression in her eyes, the tears that lurked in the corners. ‘That is, if you will have me, Mary?’

‘I have you! Oh, Brent, can you mean it? What can I give you? I am a simple country girl, completely unused to the ways of the world, inexperienced. How can I be a fit wife for you?’

‘Then neither of us thinks we are worthy of the other. Capital! ‘Tis a good start.’ Brent broke the charged atmosphere by sitting upright and slapping his knees with laughter. ‘’Tis the oddest proposal I have heard.’

‘Did you make many?’ Mary said slyly, echoing his mood.

‘Not of this kind. Not honest proposals. In fact,’ Brent looked mildly astonished at his own admission. ‘I have never asked the hand of a woman before.’

The laughter went out of his eyes and he looked at her again, noting how her hair stirred in the soft breeze that came from the lake, saw the grave look in her eyes, the sweet dimple of her upturned mouth. She looked a picture of English womanhood at its best in her soft blue dress enhanced by the wonderful background of the lakeland scene. At that moment Brent Delamain who had never hitherto doubted himself, his prowess or his abilities as a lover did wonder if he was fit for her, good enough for her. Could he possibly deserve such a creature?

The look in her eyes told him that whether he deserved her or not she was his. He bent towards her again, sliding his hands once more under that bodice still enticingly unlaced, cupped the small breasts in his big hands and drew Mary towards him, seeing her parted mouth and feeling beneath his palms the warmth of her skin, the pounding of her heart.

As they kissed the breeze from the lake grew stronger and a cloud obscured the sun. Mary trembled and Brent, unsure whether it was from fear or cold, broke from her, solicitously covering her with her cloak. He drew her up to her feet and held her for a long time in both his arms to warm her, until they turned to go back together to the house.

7

Susan Delamain and her daughter, Emma, were among the first to come over at the news that Brent and Mary intended to be married. In all her wildest dreams Susan had never dared hope that her tempestuous wild rogue of a son would be taken by his cousin’s delicate beauty. She loved her niece almost as much as her own daughter and had tried to take the place of a mother to her in the years since Sarah Allonby had died.

Susan was glad to get away from Delamain Castle and the cramped dower house where she had lived since the death of Sir Francis. Her eldest son had immediately left for London; but even his welcome absence did not quite compensate for the loneliness and unease she felt without Brent. And there had been the terrible suffering while he was ill, and her inability to travel to his side because Emma had developed a fever that the doctor feared might be the pox and, although it was not, she had taken a long time to recover.

Brent went in the boat over to Keswick to welcome his Mother, leaving Mary to supervise the preparations for the feast that was to solemnize the betrothal that night. Sister Sarah – named after her mother – and her husband Ambrose Rigg were also due to arrive with their young son Henry and the baby Elia just six months old.

It was the longest trip Brent had made since his recovery and he was glad of the presence of Stewart because he still felt nervous, in case he should falter on his left leg which was still lame. Each day, accompanied by Mary, he walked a little further but nearly always they stood at the spot where he had asked her to marry him, first awakened her woman’s desire, and they embraced all over again.

Brent and Stewart waited by the Moot Hall in the old market place for the coach to arrive from Penrith. It would be put up in the town while they made the journey across the lake. There was still no proper road, or one big enough for a coach and four, from Keswick to Catspaw. Transport was either by horse or boat and the latter was both the fastest and the prettiest way.

Although it was only two months since he had parted from his mother, in the interval he had nearly died, his sister had been ill, and it seemed an eternity to Brent as he anxiously paced up and down waiting for the coach to appear. Stewart laughed at his impatience.

‘Why, Brent, you would think you had not seen your mother for years.’

‘It seems like it Stewart. Think what has happened. I have nearly died and I have got myself a bride.’

Stewart, nearest in age to Mary and close to her, like her too to look at with his clear deep blue eyes and very curly blond hair, grew suddenly solemn and the laughter abruptly ceased. Brent knew why. Stewart thought he was a philanderer and unfit for his sister. Neither of the brothers had been very enthusiastic at the news, but Stewart the least. Stewart had been taciturn and had not offered Brent his congratulations. Brent wanted very much to convert his cousin whom he so much admired, to have his approval. Stewart was a solid countryman, an expert in wood and tree felling. He was close to the soil and his values were good earthy ones. He smiled seldom and, like his brother John, seemed bent with the cares of the last years.

Fortune had rarely smiled on the Allonbys since anyone could remember. John’s wife had died with her baby after an agonizing birth and soon after that their father, stricken with grief at John’s bereavement, so like his own. His wife had died giving birth to Mary. The brothers toiled and hoped for better times, praying that the Stuarts would one day return, restore their lands and recompense them for their losses. It was their only hope. That and, maybe, a good match for Mary. And now Mary had decided to throw her heart at her cousin, a man they loved but whose attitude to life was so unlike theirs, so casual and reckless. For the last thing they had wanted when Tom had brought the stricken Brent with him was to have him end up betrothed to Mary.

‘You like it not, Stewart, do you?’ Brent said quietly. Stewart shrugged and looked away.

‘I like you well enough, Brent, you know that. But as a husband for Mary ...’

‘I have no fortune.’

‘Oh, it is not that ... well, not only that. It is ...’ Stewart avoided his cousin’s eye and banged his hands against his thigh.

 ‘You think I am not steadfast?’

‘Well, Brent, up to now ...’

‘True, I have used women ill, Stewart – or they me, I know not quite which. I have played with them, and dallied with them. But Mary I love truly. As I have no woman before ...’

‘Brent, you hardly know her ...’

‘Hardly
know
Mary! Of course I know her. I have known her since she was born!’

‘Yes, but as a wife ... I mean you did not think of Mary like that before.’

‘She was young.’

‘She has been a maid for many years now, but you never looked at her before, Brent, as other than a friend.’

‘Is it so wrong that I learnt to love her?’ Brent said defensively. ‘No, of course not. But in such a short time, and most of that you have been ill ...’

‘And not in my right mind, is that what you want to say?’ Brent said harshly, now stopping his pacing and staring at his cousin.

‘I don’t say not in your right mind, of course not, but emotionally. Mary has nursed you and you have become dependent on her. I say you should wait ... to be sure, Brent.’

The pleading look in Stewart’s eyes moved Brent as no words had done. He was well aware of the misfortune that had dogged the Allonbys; of the suffering of the brothers and the concern for their youngest sister. The only one who had done anything was Sarah, and it was doubtful if she was really happy with the pugfaced, pompous Ambrose Rigg. She had married beneath her and she had married for money, for security and possessions and all the things she had been without for so many years. And now she had a fine house and her own coach, and a personal maid and a nursemaid; but whether or not she was happy no one knew. Sarah was a woman who kept her own counsel. In many ways she was more a Delamain than an Allonby, shrewd and calculating, like George.

Brent’s thoughts were distracted by the thudding of horses’ hooves, and the coach with the Delamain arms blazoned on the doors swept into sight. His heart filled with joy at the thought of seeing his mother and, as the coach stopped and the groom jumped down, Brent bounded ahead before him to open the door for his mother and sister. When Susan saw him she remained in her seat and Brent saw that tears were cascading down her face as she reached out her arms for him. He leapt into the coach and sat beside her, folding her in his arms, hugging her to reassure her all was well. Beside her mother Emma stared at Brent, her great brown eyes filled with tears. She looked pale and thin. Thank God it had not been the pox, but she had been very ill.

‘I am here, Mother, all is well.’

‘Oh, Brent, they told me you were dying and I thought I would never see you again. God is good, God is good.’

‘God is good, Mother. But for my left leg which moves a trifle slower than its fellow I am in good health, and in love Mother! The best tonic for recovery.’

Susan gave her son a wry look and offered him her hand. ‘Of that I am not so certain. Help me out, Brent, and take care with Emma. She is delicate, too.’

Outside the carriage Stewart bowed and kissed his aunt’s hand and then gallantly that of his little cousin, a year younger than Mary and her equal in good, though very different, looks. Emma was dark like the Delamains, brown hair, brown skin and eyes that were an enticing tawny colour like those of a wild bird. Even her recent ill health had not dimmed her beauty and Stewart, who had been smitten since she was fourteen, once again felt his heart turn over.

But Emma, unaware of these emotions, and certainly not reciprocating them, smiled at her cousin and pecked him on the cheek in sisterly fashion. Emma liked exciting young men like Anthony Webber or Lord Borfield, whom her brother occasionally entertained to dinner or invited to escort her to balls. They danced well and spoke entertainingly and made bold glances as she partnered them in the quadrille. Stolid cousin Stewart was too silent, too clod-hopping to attract such a one as Emma Delamain. The trouble was he knew it, but he continued to hope and his devoted gaze followed her as she tripped out of the carriage and instructed the maid she and her mother shared to unpack her things, and help the boatman load them into the boat.

It was a merry party that took to the boat for the short journey to Catspaw. Brent sat in the stern with his mother while Emma tried to draw the taciturn Stewart into a conversation on the prow. She was vexed at having to come to Furness Grange which she considered the most boring of backwoods, and her earnest cousins the Allonbys were very hard going. But her mother had insisted it was good for her health and as Emma hoped to persuade George to give a season for her in London, the restoration of the colour to her cheeks was essential.

Besides, Emma was intrigued at the speed with which Brent had declared himself for Mary and wanted to know what was behind it. The quiet and serene Mary was the last person Emma would have expected her dashing, wilful brother to be attracted to. She knew all about the sort of things he got up to – the servants who had to leave suddenly, to say nothing of the story about the mysterious gypsy who apparently nearly caused his death. Mary Allonby of all people ... Emma was agog with interest.

‘You also think I am not fit for Mary, Mother?’ Brent enquired as the noise from the oars and the prattling of Emma on the prow drowned his voice.

‘Of course I think you are fit, Brent. In every way a desirable husband.  But for
Mary,
Brent?  She is so quiet and docile, so serious. The last person I would have supposed you to be attracted to.’

‘She is an angel Mother. Sitting by my bedside ...’

‘That is what I was afraid of,’ Susan said, pursing her lips in the Allonby fashion of being sensible. ‘I wish I could have come to nurse you. You grew dependent on her, saw her in another light. Brent, is it wise? Shouldn’t you wait?’

That was the second time someone had said the same thing to him in an hour, Brent thought, the excitement suddenly draining away. He felt tired and uncertain. Of course they were related, his mother and Stewart; both sober and careful Allonbys. But they had both asked him to wait – until he was sure. Was he being fair to Mary?

‘The future is so uncertain, Mother. We thought we should have some happiness before ...’

‘In case there is war?’

Brent nodded.

‘I might die, like Uncle Robert ...’

Susan’s eyes flew shut in a spasm of grief for the premature death of her gallant brother on the scaffold beside Lord Derwentwater in 1716 – a young man so full of charm and promise.  Now to think of her son, not unlike Robert in looks and temperament.  She wrung her hands in an involuntary gesture of despair and looked over the lake, her eyes scanning the high peaks crowned by Glaramara that crowded together at the end of Borrowdale and stretched as far as the eye could see.  How different, how serene the mountains were from a distance than when you were close to them or cowering under them, attempting to climb them as she had when a girl, with her father and boisterous brothers.

Happy days of her childhood in the red house on the lake surrounded by the protective fells and woods. It had seemed to pass too quickly, and to give place to uncertainty and anxiety as she reached womanhood and had waited for the war to come, dreading what it would do to her brothers and to her husband Guy.

Only they had been wed, they had some years of happiness together. Was it right to deny Brent and Mary? Was it right to deny
Mary
the happiness for, in her lonely solitary life away from civilization, she scarcely met any young men at all, let alone suitable ones? She could see Brent’s attraction for Mary quite clearly; but Mary for Brent ... it was as she had feared, an infatuation based on need and, being Brent, it would not last once the need was past. They were very different people.