The Marquess and Miss Davies (25 page)

The poet looked a bit disappointed at this, but agreed.

“And let us hope that Mr Coleridge has a sense of humour.”

Lord Brabury gulped.

The next morning, for the first time that she could remember in many years, Isolde was the first to awake. Puzzled at the quiet in the room—Isa had half-expected her twin to be bouncing on the bed in anticipation of Lord Leighton’s visit, or at least fussing, for once, about which gown to wear—she looked over at her sister’s bed.

Yes, Carys was still sleeping, and the expression on her face made Isa smile. It spoke of someone who was at utter peace with her world.

But that peace was not to last.

* * * *

‘Twas a warm morning. Isolde decided she was hungry, and could wait no longer for breakfast; she padded barefoot down to the morning room, to find her brother and sister-in-law already at table. Taliesin was with them, sitting—to Isa’s amusement—on his father’s lap. Talfryn was feeding him, rather absentmindedly, small bits of his own toast.

And something was wrong.

Isolde realized that Tal and Reggie were both upset, but were speaking in low tones, so as not to disturb the child.

“My mind is made up on this matter. In time, Carys will realize—”

“I do not understand your objections. If the man made a regular habit of it, yes, but he is by all accounts—”

Lady Regina broke off, and looked up in distress at Isa.

“No,” said Isolde, who had heard just enough. She stared at her brother. “No, you cannot.”

“Isolde—”

“What can you possibly object to? That he’s a marquess, that he’s rich—”

“In time—”

“—or that he
adores
our sister?” Isa’s voice had begun to climb; she took a deep breath.

“Your sister met this gentleman for the first time when he was drunk on our front lawn.”

“‘Twas the morning after Lady Josephine’s wedding!”

“He has frequented Jackson’s establishment—”

Isa frowned. “The boxer?”

“Yes, and—”

This was too much for Lady Reggie. “You have fought there yourself!”

The viscount was undeterred. “As a younger man, perhaps, but—”

“One year ago!”

Taliesin watched the discussion intently, his little head bobbing back and forth from one adult to the next. He appeared to be edging close to tears, and Lady Reggie pushed back from the table to pick him up. She held him on her hip, murmuring soothing words, as she walked around the room.

“Look at the pretty tree,” she said to her son, pointing out the window. “
Isn’t
that a pretty tree?”

“Bee,” said Taliesin, who had progressed to the point of syllables.

“Moreover—” Talfryn had stopped for a moment. “
Moreover
, his temper seems to get the better of him at regular intervals. Your sister would have been the talk of London for months if things had gone on much further last night—not to mention the threat of a duel. I will not have Carys associated with such havey-cavey nonsense.”

Isolde had begun to cry softly. “You
cannot
,” she whispered to the viscount. “You will crush her. And she will
never
accept anyone else.”

“Oh, come now. Carys is not yet nineteen. There will be plenty of time—”

“No,” said Isolde, flatly. “There will not be.”

Talfryn’s face showed its first shadow of doubt. Neither he nor Lady Regina had any question that Isa understood her twin.

“My dear,” Lord Davies said finally. “I know this will be a disappointment. But I care about you and your sister too much to allow her to be tied—forever—to a man of whom I cannot be entirely sure. Now, I will speak to Carys and explain—”

“No,” said Isolde. “I will.” She turned on her heel and left.

* * * *

An hour later Isolde returned downstairs, and was sitting with Lady Regina in the morning salon when the Marquess of Clare arrived. Lord Leighton was ushered immediately to the viscount’s study.

“She is refusing to leave the room,” Isa told Reggie.

“That doesn’t seem like Carys.”

“No, it doesn’t, does it?” Isa was thoughtful.

They could hear, very faintly, the sound of male voices in the study. Both of them were waiting for some outburst, but it never came. After a few minutes they heard footsteps in the hallway, and the front door closing. The marquess had left.

Isolde jumped up and began pacing; she stopped after several agitated passages and turned to her sister-in-law.

“Reggie, do you think—truly think—that Lord Leighton would make my sister a poor husband?”

Lady Regina sighed. “I do not. I understand Tal’s concerns, but—”

“Then you must do something!”

“You know your brother. Let him sleep on it. Tomorrow, I promise you—I will try.”

Isolde thought that she could at least return to the bedroom and give Carys that shard of hope. But before she could leave, the dowager viscountess opened the door to the morning salon. Isa’s mother looked around curiously.

“I understand the Marquess of Clare has been here. Why was I not informed?”

Oh, dear, thought Isolde. This will not help.

“Mother,” said the viscount, now entering the room as well.

Lady Davies turned to him. “And I understand that you spoke with him in your study. What is this about, Talfryn?”

Their mother, despite hardly stirring from her own suite before noon, despite sometimes giving the impression that she barely had her wits about her, was often frighteningly well-informed about the goings-on in the household.

Isolde and Lady Reggie were watching Lord Davies. What would the viscount say?

“Lord Leighton came to request ... my permission to pay address to Carys.”

The viscountess brightened immediately. “Excellent. Well, can we prevail upon him for a special license, do you suppose? The banns are such an inconvenience.”

“Mother ... I have refused his request.”

Some time later Lord Davies decided to make his way over to White’s for a brandy. He was feeling rather unwelcome in his own home, as there was not a lady in it who was happy with him.

Gods, the servants would find out soon enough, and then he would be lucky to get a meal.

So brandy it was. Gentleman Jackson’s might have made a more satisfying choice, but he could only imagine the uproar among the Davies women if he ever set foot in
that
place again.

I am not wrong, am I? Young men and women fancy themselves in love over and over again; surely Carys will, too.

Forgetting that his own affection for Lady Reggie, once it had been kindled, could never have been replaced.

Benjamin Harcourt was already in the club, sunk deep into his favorite armchair. The viscount knew that Lord Harcourt was a good friend of the marquess, of course, but that gentleman was not currently present, and Talfryn was in need of a sympathetic ear.

“Good heavens, who died?” was Benjamin’s first comment.

A large glass of brandy was already in hand. The viscount paused for a deep breath and a long sip. “Lord Leighton wishes to marry my sister—”

“—and you have refused him, it seems,” finished Lord Harcourt.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The question seemed more curious than accusatory.

“He is ... not right for her.”

“Ah.”

Faced with Benjamin’s calm acceptance, Lord Davies felt he needed to explain. To blame a gentleman for being drunk on the occasion of his sister’s wedding seemed somehow unsporting, and so Talfryn started in on what he felt would be firmer ground.

“He is a marquess, and therefore in the highest
ton
. He will make his life here, and Carys much prefers the country. She is half miserable already, in London.”

“I imagine she could spend her married life at Claresholm, should she choose.”

“The marquess’s estate? Yes, but I do not believe that this ... this ridiculous habit society has embraced—couples living apart—would suit my sister. A man should know his children. A marriage is
important
.”

The viscount had been drinking more quickly than was his habit. Lord Harcourt was such a fine fellow. Lord Harcourt was
exactly
the person to follow his reasoning. “And ... and Lord Leighton has sisters himself. He should understand.”

“Yes, I suppose he should. He refused me.”

This was confusing for a moment. Refused Lord Harcourt? Refused him what?

“I wished to marry Lady Josephine.”

“Ah. Oh.”

“As it happens, he was right to do so. But you are wrong about the marquess.”

* * * *

And so, as a second brandy appeared in Talfryn’s hand, from somewhere, Lord Harcourt explained.

“He hates London,” said Benjamin to the viscount. “He is here as little as possible.”

“But—”

“I daresay he’d have returned to Suffolk weeks ago if not for Miss Davies. His crofters count on him for much, and the marquess takes those responsibilities greatly to heart.”

“But—”

“His true passion is his horses, did you know? Lord Leighton has one of the finest stables in England.”

The doubt in Talfryn’s heart flared suddenly. Horses? A fine stable? Carys would love ... Carys would be ...

“I believe we should get you home,” said Benjamin Harcourt. “Or ‘twill be you lying in someone’s front garden tomorrow morning.”

Isolde stood in the middle of the bedroom and bit her lip, thinking furiously.

Carys was not in the room. Nor in the study, the library, or belowstairs.

Isa had a good idea of where she was.

* * * *

It had been much easier than Miss Davies expected. She requested that Jeffers saddle Alcaeus—refusing his suggestion of a sidesaddle, and saying something vague about the park—and rode off in the direction of Clare Manor. If asked, the groom would explain, of course, but no-one would ask, at least for some time. The rest of her family was in the morning salon, and from the sound of it—several cries of female indignation, which could be heard even upstairs—her mother had recently joined Isolde, Talfryn, and Lady Reggie.

Carys sighed. She did not wish to distress anyone, and certainly not Tal. But she had never caused problems; she had followed her brother without complaint to Pencarrow, followed him back to London, and had fit in as best she could. She had been dutiful and accepting long enough.

The stallion moved easily through the late afternoon bustle and noise of the London streets, and within minutes Carys was staring at the marquess’s front door, suddenly shy. But Lord Leighton wished to marry her. She was sure of it.

* * * *

“I’m sorry, my lady, he is not here.” The butler—one assumed—looked at her a bit curiously.

“I am Miss Davies,” she corrected. “I believe he may be expecting me.”

“Ah?”

“I will wait.”

Carys was shown into the library, a beautifully-appointed room which she remembered from her previous visit to Clare Manor, on the occasion of her fall from Alcaeus. If Lord Leighton was much delayed, thought Miss Davies, at least she would have something to read. The butler withdrew, murmuring about tea and shortcakes, and Carys was momentarily alarmed when she found herself, alone, face to face with an enormous mastiff.

“Odysseus?” she said, remembering that was the name of Lord Leighton’s dog.

Oddy began wagging his tail furiously. He followed Carys as she walked around the room and perused his lordship’s collection of books. The mastiff sprawled on the floor each time she stopped for more than a few seconds.

“You’re not a terribly energetic beast, are you?”

Odysseus seemed to agree.

The butler returned with the tea service, and some smallish cakes which gave off a delicious aroma. Two cups—

Carys’s heart jumped, but just then the door opened again, and she heard a female voice. ‘Twas the dowager Marchioness of Clare.

* * * *

Lady Leighton poured. Carys watched the steam rise from her cup, an exquisite piece of porcelain that she was almost afraid to touch. She didn’t remember this tea set; perhaps the laudanum, on that previous occasion, had affected her memory.

The dowager marchioness was dressed less oddly than before. Her day gown was a deep rose cambric, lightly embroidered and typical of any such, and her slippers matched.

Her hair, on the other hand, seemed to be fixed once again with a paintbrush.

“I understand,” said the dowager, “that you have formed a certain association with Lord Brabury.”

Carys stiffened. She had thought the misadventure of the dedication put to rest; was she now to be berated by Lord Leighton’s mother?

But she would not lie. “We are friends, yes.”

“
Friends
—with a gentleman?”

“I do not think it impossible.”

Lady Leighton nodded. “I quite agree. And you are loyal, which is an admirable quality in a girl so young.”

“Are we less steadfast, then?”

“Some are decidedly unreliable.” The marchioness took a second shortcake. “Although what is this faradiddle about Coleridge?”

Carys blushed. “‘Twas to stop gossip. The dedication was not ... well-considered.”

The marchioness nodded again. “I suppose. But hardly necessary, I should think. A poet is an
artist.
Artists must be allowed to take their inspiration where they will.”

After this, their talk turned—somehow—to Botticelli, and here Lady Leighton seemed able to carry on an entire conversation without much assistance from Miss Davies. The dowager left a short while later, and Carys had the impression that her ladyship was somehow satisfied with what she had seen.

* * * *

Lord Leighton had thought to go to White’s, but brandy held no appeal. He found himself walking Tantevy through Hyde Park, headed in no particular direction.

Turn-about is fair play, Benjamin might have said.

‘Twas Viscount Cardingham’s right to refuse his suit. ‘Twas his right—until Miss Davies was twenty-one. The marquess could wait—the marquess was willing to wait, but even then, to take a young woman from her family, to marry her without the approval of a beloved brother—