The Marquis of Westmarch (15 page)

“No. Well, yes, after a fashion, but she will never forgive me.”

“She’ll be finding another bride for you soon, I’ve no doubt,” said Dianeme, shrugging her shoulders as she closely watched Meriel’s face.

“I have forbidden it.”

“Oh.”

Meriel smiled. “I daresay that sounds hatefully pompous.”

“Masterful, my lord.”

The fiddles on the balcony struck up another tune, a quick, rustic but currently fashionable air which Meriel much preferred to the more formal music of before. “Come,” she said, for she was not engaged for this dance, and took Dianeme on to the floor.

From opposite sides of the hall, Auriol and Juxon watched tenderly over her as she spun round with her stout and unsuitable partner. She was the only dancer in white, and the only person in
the room with bright red hair, hair which had always disturbed Juxon, because he thought it both ugly and too noticeable, Meriel’s only physical flaw.

Though Meriel was drawing attention to herself tonight, showing off her vigour and beauty under the chandeliers in a way which might be thought dangerous, Juxon and Auriol grew increasingly certain as they watched her that she was safe now, secure in her happiness, established for life in her masculine part. Both felt a twinge of regret that they did not understand: Auriol thought that perhaps his was a fear that she would not always need him, whereas he, poor as he was, would always need her. Hackneyed metaphors came alive when he looked at her. She had swept him off his feet and woken him from sleep, and how could he not be grateful? He did wish, with a strength that surprised him, that it were possible to dance with her.

The music came to an end and those on the floor parted, smiling, with flourishing bows or curtsies. Juxon had turned away to speak with an old man before the dance finished, but Auriol, still attentive, saw Meriel walking off in the direction of the bench reserved for Saccharissa’s Maids of Honour. On impulse, he followed her.

Meriel was a little put out to find that Maid Rosalba, with whom she had been wanting to dance all evening for the sake of past emotions, was not in her place. Auriol’s appearance at her side surprised her.

“I wished to ask Maid Rosalba to stand up with me,” she explained. “Did you observe her in the last set? I didn’t, and you know she is obliged to remain here if she is not dancing. Penalties of office.”

“Do you know, I had the same notion. I’d like to dance with her.”

“Would you? Oh, but you must yield to me! She is my —” Meriel stopped, knowing that Rosalba was nothing. With great difficulty, she refrained from touching Auriol’s hand.

He smiled and at that moment, Rosalba arrived on the arm of an ugly young man, who kissed her fingertips and murmured something complimentary before quitting her. Both Meriel and Auriol, seeing her, decided that her pink dress and chaplet of roses did not become her: simultaneously, they moved towards
her. As soon as she set eyes on the Marquis, the smile on Rosalba’s face became fixed.

“Maid Rosalba, are you engaged for this dance? May I have the honour?” said Meriel.

Rosalba curtsied, and her expression did not change.

Auriol wished to partner Maid Rosalba now because a little while earlier, he had overheard her saying to one of her friends that for her part, though everyone was in transports over the Marquis’s new dress, she could not think white an eligible colour for a man. She had added that if he were not of such exalted rank, everyone would think that the Marquis had a good deal of self-consequence, despite his casual manners. Auriol had been very much shocked. He wished to save Meriel from the girl’s impertinence, and from possible hurt.

Rosalba’s adoration of an ideal Meriel had turned in the last few weeks to dislike and fear. Under the influence of Mr Marling’s rough affection, Meriel’s neglect, and the other Maids’ gossip, her fantasies of becoming a Marquis’s sophisticated mistress had first disappeared and then come back as evil memories of herself and of vanished horizons. Rosalba blamed Meriel for the disillusion and shame she felt, not herself, or Mr Marling, with whom her worldly interest lay. She had persuaded herself that the Marquis had gone some way at least towards deceiving her, and Auriol, guessing this, thought she was not the nice child Meriel imagined her. He thought her a spiteful little hypocrite.

How could I have thought red hair and those eyebrows fascinating? said Rosalba to herself. He is more like a woman than a man, and no one could say that of Mr Marling.

“But I too wish to beg you for the honour, ma’am,” said Auriol. He did not acknowledge to himself that one of his reasons for wishing to dance with her was causeless, frightening jealousy, a desire to separate her from Meriel. It was unmanly to be jealous of a girl like Rosalba Ludbrook simply because long ago, Meriel had pitied her.

“Oh,” Rosalba said. She had seen the two of them pretending to be rivals over Maid Belvidera Urquhart, and remembering that pretty scene, she tightly clutched her fan. “Do you, sir? How very k-kind you are.”

“Come, Maid Rosalba, will you not favour me above this great gaby here?” said Meriel, with a good deal of warmth in her eyes. She was delighted that the girl was obviously reconciled to her marriage: a week ago she had seen Rosalba voluntarily tuck her hand into the crook of Mr Marling’s arm, and smile up into his face. When she saw that, Meriel’s vague guilt about her former feelings had quite disappeared.

You think to impress me, sir, but you do not! thought Rosalba, looking at the Marquis. She said, “Yes, Marquis, for it would so add to my consequence to be seen standing up with you and not with Knight Auriol!” and looked flirtatiously at Auriol.

“Why ma’am, you are learning to be quite a woman of the world,” said Meriel, raising her eyebrows. “I should like very much to add to your consequence.”

The smiling glance she gave Auriol made it clear to him that she knew he did not want her to dance with Rosalba for some reason of his own, but that she intended to do so all the same. Auriol walked off and tried to think of some woman whom he would not find repulsive as a dancing partner; he did not mean to spend the whole evening watching Meriel and wanting her.

The next dance was slow and stately; Rosalba performed it gracefully, and the Marquis with competence. Their conversation was as efficient as their dancing; and so was that of Berinthia and Hugo, two places up in the column.

“What a vastly agreeable ball this is, Marquis,” said Rosalba.

“I confess I am enjoying myself vastly more than I’m in the habit of doing.
You
are my partner, after all.”

“Why Marquis, how absurd you are, to be sure!”

“No, indeed!”

They were separated then by the movement of the dance, and crossing over towards each other again, satin coat and dress skirts billowing behind them, they felt very far apart. What ought I to have done if I
had
been all she supposed? thought Meriel, touching Rosalba’s damp hand in passing. The qualm was brief but unpleasant. Looking at the formal little face in front of her, coming up again, she thought that profoundly believing herself to be a man at heart, she did indeed quite naturally find certain women attractive. The problem was merely that not being ostensibly a man, she could do nothing about her desire, could
not do justice to women, which was a thousand pities. Never would she revel in the knowledge that she was of the same sex as her love if a pretty girl were actually to kiss her. In fact, she would be terrified of such a woman, and might even feel disgust. Meriel had not fully realised this till now, and she supposed her awareness was all due to Auriol.

At that moment, she passed within eavesdropping distance of Hugo and Berinthia.

“You quite put me to the blush, sir,” said Berinthia loudly, perfectly pale-faced, and Meriel wondered at the ability of women to lie and be cold just as and when it was demanded of them. It was demanded of them all their lives, and then men mocked or criticised them for it, just as they criticised them when they told the truth.

Berinthia was weary. She had danced twice with Hugo, and would do so a third time in order to cause satisfactory speculation. Meriel would be made to wait until the last quadrille to lead her out. In another two weeks the comedy would be over: Castle West would be persuaded that theirs was a case of passion, and the announcement of her betrothal to Hugo would be sent to the
Westmarch
Gazette.

She was wishing to herself that something very disagreeable would happen to Meriel when the music came to an end.

*

When the Moon Gallery grew so hot with candle-flames and overdressed bodies that the paint on several faces began to shine and smudge, Meriel had three of the long windows flung open despite her mother’s protests about dangerous night air. Saccharissa hinted at worse dangers to her Maids of Honour, but would not be precise, though Meriel understood her, and laughed. There were yew hedges in the unlit courtyards outside, tall and elaborate enough to seem as good as a maze to couples wishing to hide themselves; but for fear of being noticed, few chose to slip away. The Marquis did choose to leave her ball for a few minutes.

The moon was only just short of the full, but it was hidden by a drift of cloud, and glowed faintly in the blackness like a pallid streak in a painting. Together with the Gallery windows, it cast just enough light to show up the courtyard’s hedges as thick, impenetrable walls. At last alone, Meriel breathed deeply,
enjoying the mixture of hot human scents and the smell of invisible lavender, dry lawns and yew. The air out here was soft and warm as fur.

She did not want to be observed, and remembering this, she quickly walked deeper into the garden. When she was out of sight behind a piece of topiary, she cast an affectionate and conscious glance over her shoulder at the building’s yellow-lit arches crowded with life. Meriel sighed, exuberantly hugged herself, and closing her eyes sat down on the grass.

The noise of the fiddles pulsed over her, and they sounded far more enchanting out here than they could ever do inside. So very much alive, and yet I could fall asleep and cause a scandal, she thought, preparing to lie down for a moment.

“Marquis — Meriel!”

Her shoulders jerked. “Oh, is it you sir?” she said, turning her face up and smiling as she recognised Auriol. The sharp line of his falling hair as he bent over her would have been enough to tell her who it was, if she had not known his voice or noticed his size. “Did you come upon me by accident? I thought you might, indeed, somehow.”

“No, I saw you step out. I’m exceedingly glad you had the windows opened, Meriel, we may dance together out here with impunity,” he whispered, looking over the hedge at the ballroom windows. “There’s no one about just now.”

“Yes, perhaps. You wish to dance with me?” She admired his dim profile, the short nose and heavy chin she remembered once thinking underbred.

“Come!” Auriol helped her up, and she stumbled, then yawned and straightened herself, still a little puzzled by his evident need to dance with her.

“But I do not know the woman’s part, her steps,” she said. “And neither do you, so that won’t answer.”

“It’s a minuet, the parts are as similar as makes no odds. I hope you may not have ruined your coat sitting on the grass like that, Meriel. Such a pretty coat!” He rubbed her arms and nuzzled her neck, and she gripped him by the thigh, running one hand up, over his buttocks and tensed back.

“Fustian. Ah,” she whispered, kissing him on the mouth.

“Let’s dance, come,” said Auriol, laughing and breaking free.

“Do you think we might not better employ ourselves? Such an opportunity as this maze affords!” Her face looked blue-grey in the night, but her eyes could be seen to sparkle and her lip curled with desire.

“No, I do not.”

“Why, I have never had to deplore a want of spirit in you before, sir.”

“Oh, have you not?”

She decided to indulge him.

Trying not to make a noise, yet provoking each other to giggles, they trod a few inaccurate measures. And then they froze, ducked, and fled from each other at the sound of some other lover’s voice beyond the hedge. One minute after it was over, their brief minuet became an odd and frightening experience in memory. Panting at opposite ends of the garden, both longed for the security of the day after tomorrow, when they would be a hundred miles away at Longmaster Wood.

In the Moon Gallery, Hugo Longmaster went over to the Marchioness’s sofa to report that he had overheard two men say that he and Berinthia made a very handsome couple, and would likely make a match of it. This was a toned-down version of their remarks on Meriel’s incompetence.

“I beg of you, do not be telling all the world! Lower your voice. Well, I am obliged to be pleased — what fools some persons can be, to be sure!” said Saccharissa. An important ball usually had a tonic effect on her, and this evening she was feeling well enough to sit upright, and even to move about a little.

Heavy-set diamonds frosted her hair and her bare wrinkled arms, her neck and her thin bosom. They took away her usual puppet-look and turned her into a hard little idol, an impression of which she was aware. Only a sense of what was right kept her from using her diamonds all the time.

“Mr Juxon, I thought, looked on our last little display with complaisance. I thought it as well to kiss Berinthia’s hand in the supper-room, aunt.”

“Mr Juxon, my dear Hugo, fears a wife’s influence over Meriel above all else in the world. One has merely to look at him to guess that. Ignorant jackanapes.” She was not concentrating on Juxon: her mind was on the amusing fact that both Hugo, whom Meriel
detested, and Wychwood, whom she now privately accepted as her son’s true love, had chosen to wear exactly the same shade of gold-braided dark olive silk.

“I wonder where he can be? In general, at these affairs, he seems to be forever hovering where he is least wanted,” said Hugo.

“I have no notion. He will be insufferable for weeks hereafter, he does so enjoy this wretched election-nonsense! Where is Meriel? It is too bad, he cannot have absented himself from his own ball?” Saccharissa had been impressed by Meriel’s appearance and behaviour tonight, and felt quite loving towards her son, despite Berinthia.