The Marquis of Westmarch (4 page)

“I could never be all you desire.”

“No? As a friend only, perhaps.” He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and glowered.

“I hope so, be sure,” said Auriol.

Meriel looked away. “Yes, yes. Still, you are my choice. Have you anyone else to suggest?”

Wychwood paused, and raised his head. “You have no ideas of your own, Westmarch?”

“None. I thought only of you. I am devilish ignorant, you know, I’m a shockingly idle fellow! No one I could think more eligible has come forward — that’s all I know.”

“You want an honest man,” said Auriol, “but what to your mind ought he to do?”

Meriel thought for a moment. “Chiefly, I want him to put an end to the farming of taxes. It’s a vile system, but entrenched, you know.”

“Ah,” said Auriol. “It sounds to me as though you’d make your own best Warden, Westmarch, if it were possible.”

“I’ve no head, no resolution,” said Meriel, recrossing his legs.

“No, perhaps that ain’t it. I have sense, but when one man tells me one thing, and another the opposite, I end by washing my hands of the whole affair. Only if I am perfectly sure of my ground can I act! Or even argue, indeed.”

“Well, you have done some good things in your time.”

“I hope so, indeed. But my hands are so often tied.”

“Yes … Westmarch, what would you say to Mr Philemon Thomazin?”

“
Thomazin
? Philemon — why, why ain’t he the one that quitted Castle West to serve with the Eastern Regiment of Horse, when my father was a boy? I never heard he was venal, and what he did was not wrong, but a Thomazin, you know — it’s not so very long ago that they were Marquises here.”

“Three hundred years, Westmarch. But he’s the only man I can think of.”

“Well, you know how it is! There’s Mistress Dulcinea calling herself the rightful Marchioness to this day — not but what she’s always been addle-brained, and she drinks too much — she’s as bad as Tancred Conybeare. Whether I ought to advance one of them, I don’t know.”

“But he’s a man of parts — Mr Thomazin, not Conybeare — he rendered your great-uncle excellent service in the Eastmarch Quarter. And he understands fiscal matters, I believe, which is more than I do.”

“Did he! Yes, of course, I told you I’d no head, I remember
now. A thousand pities he lives retired. Though he must be sixty if he’s a day.”

“No, rather younger, I think.”

“Well,” said Meriel, “I shall write to him, though I don’t doubt he will very likely refuse.”

“I met him not so long ago. He’s ambitious in his own fashion — but too proud to seek advancement, I think.”

“Then that’s a settled thing. I’ll do it to oblige you.” The Marquis wished this conversation were not over. “I am glad, sir, at all events, that you find yourself able to join me at Longmaster Wood.”

Auriol bowed, smiling.

“What a strange creature you are!” said Meriel without thinking.

“
I
am?”

“Why, do you think me stranger still?” said Meriel gruffly, much confused.

“Perhaps,” said Auriol. “Do not think me impertinent if I say you are well — still very young.” He thought it odd that the Marquis was at once obstinate and reasonable, prejudiced and easily swayed. He was a modest man, given to blushes which were ridiculous in a man of his age and size, and he wondered at Meriel’s not only liking him, but thinking him wise.

“Don’t put on airs, sir, I’m no more than four years your junior!” Meriel did not look in the least offended as he observed Auriol’s deepening colour: only rather intrigued.

It’s true enough I feel young in the best sense in your company, thought the Marquis, who knew far better than Wychwood how unusual was the talkativeness he had shown this afternoon. He had a clear mental image of himself as he usually was: given to holding himself very straight, looking keen-eyed, pale, and full of authority, making only quick remarks and very brief replies. To talk freely made him feel tipsier than drink ever did.

Suddenly, Meriel wanted to go, to go out and run through the snowy courtyards and perhaps take out his horse. He turned his face to Auriol and said: “I’m glad I shan’t have to do without … Well, I must not detain you now, though I should have liked to have a comfortable prose. But come very soon to Longmaster Wood.”

“I shall,” said the other, rather bewildered as Meriel got up to go, looking remarkably cheerful despite his disappointment, and as though he would indeed have been glad enough to stay.

They shook hands, and this time each was surprised by the strength of the other’s grip.

Maid Rosalba Ludbrook stepped back from the mirror and gazed at herself. Trying to see a beauty in the glass, she sucked in her lips and anxiously adjusted the bow at the end of her long heavy plait.

She was very fashionably dressed, but she knew that she was rather swamped by her primrose silk frock with its heavy, hanging, lace-filled sleeves. Her small bosom was pushed up by a wide pink sash. The skirt of her dress came down to the ground at the back, but was raised in front to the knees, and on her pretty legs she wore white stockings with gold clocks.

Meriel's mother, the Marchioness Saccharissa, had only recently decided to allow ladies to wear shortened skirts at her parties. They were considered indecent by most older women, but when Saccharissa learnt that her brother's wife, the Marchioness of Eastmarch, refused to allow the new skirts ever to be worn at Eastmarch Castle, she had altered her own rule and said that only stupid persons liked to be out of the mode.

Maid Rosalba was not yet accustomed to the Marchioness's ways, though she was one of her Maids of Honour and lived in apartments above Saccharissa's own. She had come to Castle West to take up her post only a few weeks ago but, already, she was in love with the Marquis of Westmarch.

“For my part, Rosalba, I wonder why you think it signifies, what sort of a figure you cut tonight,” said Maid Dorinda Udall, coming up behind her and making Rosalba jump. At twenty, Maid Dorinda was the eldest and plainest of the six Maids of Honour, and she was supposed to be Rosalba's guide. “Didn't I tell you that the Marchioness's parties are the flattest, most insipid squeezes at Castle West? Do but let
me
use the glass for a moment, child.”

“I beg your pardon,” murmured Rosalba, quickly sitting down.

She felt she would die of shame if anyone were to discover her high, pure, ludicrous love for Meriel Longmaster. Even if they did not laugh, it would kill her.

No announcement had been made yet, but most people considered it settled that the Marquis would marry his second cousin once removed, Lady Berinthia Winyard, who was the Marquis of Southmarch's granddaughter and had three hundred thousand crowns. Marchioness Saccharissa had invited Berinthia to spend the season with her at Castle West out of, she said, the purest affection for the girl's lately dead mama.

Rosalba herself had become engaged only a few days before her guardian aunt had received a charming letter from Saccharissa, telling her that she would be delighted to receive her old friend's niece, as one of her own girls, Maid Merelinda Tovey, had recently died of galloping consumption. Aunt Philoclea had previously despaired of obtaining a place for Rosalba, whom she could not afford to support at Castle West without a Maid of Honour's salary and free lodging, and so she had encouraged her neighbour Mr Valerian Marling to offer for the girl. It was a good match, and she meant her niece still to make it. But Rosalba knew that if the Marchioness's letter had arrived a week earlier, she would have come to Castle West looking for a young and handsome husband. Often the Marchioness helped arrange excellent marriages for her young Maids of Honour; Rosalba still dreamt of finding a truly splendid suitor to eclipse Mr Marling, a Warden or a Marshall or a Longmaster.

Only last week the Marquis had said, “Maid Rosalba, has something happened to distress you?” when she blinked away a tear. He is all sensibility, he is everything that is kind and gentlemanlike, thought Rosalba. To her, Meriel's white face and excessive delicacy of build were beautiful, wholly unthreatening.

“My dear, whom do you hope to see tonight?” said Dorinda in an amused voice.

“No one,” said Rosalba, drawing herself up. Her voice was quite calm, even dignified, and she looked straight at the other girl. “How should I be wishful to see anyone, in that way? Mr Marling is not to be present, you know.”

“Oh, stuff! My dear.”

*

“Dearest Berinthia is not yet down,” said the Marchioness to Meriel, as soon as he had kissed her hand. “So naughty of her.”

“New dress not quite to her liking, ma'am?” said Meriel, who was in a bad mood and did not want to marry Lady Berinthia.

“If,” said Saccharissa, “you mean to imply that your cousin is
vain
, or frivolous, or foolish, let me tell you that you are talking a great deal of nonsense.” Quite suddenly, she gave a brilliant smile, and her little, painted old face looked sweet as Rosalba's for a moment. “But I won't scold. There! Sit down, and let us have a comfortable cose.”

“Yes, Mamma.”

The Marchioness pursed her lips, looked her son up and down, and decided not to comment on his frayed hair-ribbon and ill-polished boots. Half the company was looking at them, and as the room was not yet full, several people would be able to hear what she said. It was not typical of Meriel to dress untidily on a formal occasion.

Saccharissa, who was lying down on the sofa, slipped another cushion behind her back. “Where is Knight Auriol? I sent him a card at your behest, I expected him to come with you.”

Meriel smiled, and Saccharissa thought his face became bewitching like her own. “Have you a tendre for him, ma'am?”

“Foolish boy!” said the Marchioness, tapping his knee with her fan. “A woman of my years ought to have by far too much sense to have a
tendre
for any man.”

“Ah.”

Marchioness Saccharissa was sixty-five years old. Years ago, she had injured her back in a carriage accident, and the effects of that had been made much worse by giving birth to Meriel. Now, whenever she went outside her rooms, she had to use a sedan-chair, and she found walking very difficult even indoors. The Marchioness was brave and cheerful about her disability, and she still found time for all the various minor ailments which had given her occupation before Meriel was born. She was Castle West's authority on proprietary medicines, and people said that in addition, she had had thirty-seven different doctors to attend her in the course of her life. Of these, Juxon had been the only one to remain in her favour for more than a year; and to be adopted
afterwards by her husband, who had later made him Governor to Meriel against her will.

“I see you're in high bloom, at all events, Mamma,” said Meriel, knowing that this would make Saccharissa talk about her health at length, and not about Lady Berinthia.

“No such thing! I have the headache, and these wretched new skirts are vastly unbecoming to a woman of my age.” Saccharissa's legs, boldly displayed, were long and shapeless as a stork's. “If your aunt Eastmarch were not so odiously
stuffy
, Meriel, I declare I should — well, that's neither here nor there. Ah. My dear, I think I see Berinthia, coming through the door. Yes. Do you go to her.”

“No, ma'am.”

Saccharissa was extremely displeased to see Maid Rosalba coming in behind Berinthia, carrying the other's reticule. Immediately following was Knight Auriol Wychwood.

“You are an odious, disobliging creature, Meriel.”

The Marquis laughed, seeing Auriol, who would certainly draw off Berinthia when he had the chance. Grateful as he was for this help, the thought of Auriol's amusing the girl was a little painful to Meriel. He had no success with women in spite of his rank and his interesting face, while Auriol seemed to him to charm quite a number of those who did not look on him simply as a great clumsy creature.

“Dear ma'am, I am so very sorry not have been here first of all,” said Berinthia to Saccharissa. She was a big, black-haired, full-bosomed beauty with an unusually deep voice, deeper than Meriel's. “But there was no help for it, you see, the rosette for my right shoe was nowhere to be found. Maid Rosalba was so good as to help me to search for it. It required the three of us,” she said to Meriel, “Maid Rosalba, and myself, and my abigail.”

“Who found it?” said Meriel, bowing to her.

“My love, it's of no consequence,” said his mother. “Meriel, do you take Berinthia, and fetch her a glass of negus?”

The Marquis offered his arm to his cousin, and they walked over to the other side of the room through a mildly interested crowd.

“You were so good as to take an interest in my rosette,” said Berinthia. Fiddles were creaking in the background, and Meriel tried to look amiable. “It was I who found it.”

“Ah.” Meriel took a glass of negus from a passing footman's tray, and handed it to his cousin, who gave a tiny curtsey. Auriol came up to them, and said something polite with a smile.

“Maid Rosalba,” said the Marchioness, “you are not Lady Berinthia's abigail, you know, to be carrying her possessions! You put yourself forward in a very unbecoming way in doing so, let me tell you, attracting the notice of everyone — though no doubt you think the case is just the opposite. I had thought you a pretty behaved young female. Do you know that false modesty is a distasteful quality, in anyone, even in persons of consequence?”

“M-marchioness, I —”

“Pray, don't interrupt. Listen to what I have to say.”

The Marchioness was then silent as she looked at Rosalba. The girl was sixteen and plump, but she looked a child. She had a quivering round mouth in a round, soft face, light chestnut hair and large sherry-brown eyes. Her nose was undistinguished and her forehead too square. Her hands were little, red and rough. She could not compare with Berinthia in point of beauty.

Saccharissa was afraid of her, because she thought that pity for the child and a liking for her freshness would prompt Meriel into doing something foolish. It was high time he took a mistress, but he could not seduce an unmarried girl, and to escape Berinthia he might actually marry Rosalba. It had happened before.

Saccharissa herself was a Quarterman, daughter of the old Marquis of Eastmarch's eccentric youngest brother, but she had been poor and unhappy, and Marquis Elphinstone had married her out of compassion, and out of distaste for a better match. The Marchioness considered that Meriel was unnecessarily like his father in nearly every way. It was almost as though the imitation were conscious.

“There is nothing more vulgar than an excess of sensibility, as I am sure your aunt must have told you. Stop crying, child!”

Over by the wall, Meriel turned and saw his mother with Rosalba.

“She's scolding that child,” he said, interrupting an amusing remark of Berinthia's. “Pray excuse me one moment, cousin. She's no business to do it in the middle of a party.”

Saccharissa, who did not notice her son's approach, now considered that it was time to soften towards Rosalba. “My dear, your aunt told me that you live always in alt, and you see this is what comes of it. Up in the attics one moment, and down in the cellar the next. There is no need to cry merely because I was obliged to give you a little scold. Come, come, dry your eyes.”

“Maid Rosalba, I neglected to greet you. Do I see you well, ma'am?” said Meriel harshly, glancing at his mother and driving one fist into his palm.

For a moment, Saccharissa lay still in her rubies, looking magnificently unaware. Quickly she waved an acquaintance to her.

“Quite well, thank you — Marquis,” stammered Rosalba. The Marchioness would never forgive her for this.

Meriel was so nobly perfect, now, that the candles seemed to be casting a peculiar glow over his white face, his swooping eyebrows, his glittering eyes, and over them alone. Everyone else was dirty yellow in their light. “Will you let me sit beside you?” he said, although Rosalba was not yet seated, but standing in front of the Marchioness. “Come.” He took her sleeve and led her away in front of everyone. He had never done anything so bold in his life.

At the other side of the room, Berinthia said, “My cousin has a gallantry all his own, has he not? She is a dear girl, Maid Rosalba.”

“He has indeed,” replied Auriol, who admired his friend's conduct, but he also wanted to laugh, because Meriel was so very obvious, and because he could see as few people could quite how annoyed Berinthia was. Her self-control was admirable, and she was only nineteen. He decided that he felt as sorry for her as he did for Meriel, and he said with delicate seriousness, “Maid Rosalba seems a nice enough little thing, as you say, but a — well, a silly widgeon — in comparison with yourself, ma'am.” He smiled down at her. “And as to beauty, no one could call her a diamond.”

“Well, perhaps her understanding is not of the first order! But whose is, Knight Auriol? I must tell you how
very
much I enjoyed your
Adventures
in
the
Polite
World
.” This was a pamphlet which Auriol had succeeded in publishing six months ago, a little satire on life at the Island Palace which had caused a final breach with the Marquis of Southmarch. Berinthia spread her fan. “Are you intending to write another, with Castle West for its object, sir?”

Auriol reddened. “No, no. I am not a man of letters, you
know; what induced me to write that poor squib I don't know. I shall never try anything of the kind again.”

“And you like Castle West?” said Lady Berinthia.

“Indeed, ma'am.”

“And my cousin? But of course you do! I like him very well myself.” She brushed against his sleeve as she moved round him, tilting her head back in order to get a good look at his face.

Seated under a window, Meriel and Rosalba talked.

“My mother has some odd humours, ma'am, in fact her temper is uncertain to say the least. Don't take it to heart! This music is agreeable, is it not?” said Meriel. He was watching Auriol and Berinthia through a gap in the crowd, and he longed to grip Rosalba's chilblained hand.

“Vastly, Marquis.”

“I prefer the noise of fiddles to flutes.”

“So do I, indeed!”

“And as for the noise of a spinet, I find it detestable.”