Beauty in Black Page 2

  In her guest room Marianne tried to convince herself that it would indeed be diverting to have a younger companion for several months. “ ‘Old’ people need such young things around them,” she told herself dryly, glancing into the looking glass as she changed into a dinner dress.

  “The black with the silver trim?” her maid had inquired when Marianne came into the room.

  Marianne shook her head. “Tonight, the lavender, I think. There is a concert after dinner at Sydney Gardens, and I know Louisa is set on going.”

  Her maid hurrumphed at the idea of her mistress’s actions being directed by the younger woman’s wishes, but she took out the other dress.

  Louisa’s comments had stung more than Marianne cared to admit. So she still owned several gowns of somber shades; gray and even black were perfectly becoming colors, and she was not so wealthy that she could replace her entire wardrobe every Season.

  Did she look old? Her dark hair, which curved smoothly past her cheek, was not yet streaked by gray, and her gray-blue eyes had only a few laugh lines about their edges. Her complexion was clear.

  If she had had a husband still, and a family, perhaps she would have given the passing years little thought. After her husband’s death, when she had been only a few years older than Louisa was now, Marianne had had the appalling image of her life as a rosebud destined never to fully open, a bud not allowed to bloom. Sometimes in the middle of the night when she lay alone in her bed, the idea recurred, to be pushed away along with the self-pity that followed behind it like a doleful ghost. All those dreams she had had. . . . Not just the happy marriage, the children that would now never be born, but the other ambitions she had aspired to . . . musings she had rarely dared admit. Ladies of quality did not have such thoughts.

  After all, she was luckier than many widows. She had a modest but adequate income; a small house in London; and the quiet pleasures of her books and her friends; as well as frequent visits to see Caroline and her family, and Marianne’s brother and his brood, who with Marianne’s widowed mother lived farther west in Devon.

  Old.

  Sighing, Marianne told her lady’s maid about their new charge.

  “She’ll lead you on a merry dance, that one will,” Hackett warned, her tone dire. But then, her abigail, who had been with Marianne’s family even before Marianne herself had let down her skirts, was always a pessimist. “She hasn’t the wits God gave a gnat, I sometimes think.”

  “Please don’t make unpleasant comments about Miss Louisa, Hackett,” Marianne responded, her tone firm. All she needed was to see a feud set off between the girl and Marianne’s small household staff.

  Her abigail sniffed, her long face twisted into a frown, and brushed her mistress’s dark hair back into a smooth French knot at the base of her neck.

  When Marianne went down to dinner, she found her brother-in-law already apprized of the plan.

  “And we shall start for town at once,” Louisa volunteered, her voice eager.

  “That depends on your uncle,” Marianne warned. “It is his carriage we shall have to beg the use of, you know, unless you plan to take the common coach.” Marianne did not have the funds to keep her own carriage, so her visits were always planned to accommodate someone else’s comings and goings from London to the west. Fortunately, Charles Crookshank was a noted Bath barrister who often had business in the larger city, so it was easily enough done.

  Louisa made a face and looked toward her uncle, who had become her guardian after her father’s death. The amiable Charles laughed.

  “I think we can manage that, on Friday or Saturday, if not tomorrow.”

  Louisa pouted at having to wait three whole days, but then she returned to her plans for her coming-out, which seemed to become more ambitious with every hour.

  “I shall need a whole new wardrobe, of course,” she assured Cara, who looked sympathetic.

  “I hope I can have a coming-out in London, too, when I am of age,” the child declared, throwing a glance toward her aunt.

  Marianne bit back a rueful laugh, but the comment reminded her of more practical matters. A coming-out would require substantial expenditure. Apparently, her brother-in-law had already considered the problem. After dinner, when Charles rejoined them in the drawing room, and the children, emitting their usual clamor, were brought down from the nursery to say good night, he drew Marianne aside.

  “I shall have funds made available to you to cover the cost of Louisa’s Season, of course,” he told her. “She has a comfortable allowance, and you must make use of any sums you need, for your own wardrobe as well as hers, and for the cost of extra entertaining.”

  Marianne gazed at him with affection. “I do not wish to profit from this temporary guardianship,” she protested.

  He waved her qualms away. “Of course not; you know I trust you implicitly. But I do understand that such an upswing in social activity must increase your sartorial needs as well as Louisa’s.”

  “Such wisdom from a mere man.” She teased him gently.

  “A mere husband! I have not been married for so many years for nothing,” he assured her.

  Marianne laughed.

  Then the two boys barreled into their papa, begging for a ride on his knee before the governess took them off to bed, and Charles allowed himself to be led away.

  It seemed that her in-laws would give her no excuse to change her mind about this plan, Marianne thought, just a wee bit cynically. She might as well put her mind at ease and enjoy the new charge.

  It also appeared her chaperonage would begin at once, as Louisa was determined to attend the concert, and Caroline, yawning again, just as obviously wanted only her bed. So it was Marianne and Louisa who donned light cloaks and set off, in the Crookshanks’ carriage, for the musical evening. Charles had volunteered to accompany them, but since Marianne knew that he had a tin ear and did not care for opera tunes, she waved away his polite offer.

  So he saw them off with obvious relief, and Louisa chatted about her wardrobe plans all the way through the short drive into Bath, until Marianne thought that if she heard any more discussion of pleated sleeves and lace trim, she might scream. And she enjoyed fashion as much as anyone, anyone except perhaps a young lady on the brink of her long-delayed coming-out.

  By the time they had crossed the bridge and the horses were straining to climb another of Bath’s famous seven hills, Marianne was more than ready to be handed down in front of Sydney Gardens, the location of the night’s concert.

  Louisa, who had been discussing how much Bath’s popularity, and thus its fashionableness, had declined over the years, seemed eager to step down, too, despite the “sad lack of the presence of people of real importance,” which, she had just explained to her aunt, made Bath inferior to London.

  They walked past the white columns and into the garden, where they found seats. Louisa sat for only a moment until she saw a friend, a younger lady with whom she was eager to share the exciting news about her imminent visit to London.

  “Oh, Aunt Marianne, do you mind if I go over and chat with Amelia until the concert begins?”

  “Not at all,” Marianne said.

  So Louisa moved away, and Marianne fanned herself and looked around her. The musicians were tuning their instruments, the famed soprano had not yet appeared, and the seats gradually filled with men and women. Many of them were somewhat inclined toward graying heads and paunchy silhouettes. Of course, Louisa would consign Marianne into the same category, she told herself, trying to laugh about it. Perhaps chaperonage was all she had left to enjoy, since her own girlhood was well behind her. Bad enough to feel the years slipping away, but to know her innermost dreams would never be realized . . .

  This thought was so melancholy she gave herself a mental shake and turned to see who sat on her other side. She found two older women, one short and stout and gray, the other a tall, still-erect lady with lovely silver hair and a lorgnette.

  Marianne smiled. “Good evening,” she said
to the shorter woman. “I believe my sister-in-law, Mrs. Charles Crookshank, introduced us at the Pump Room?”

  “Yes, indeed, I remember.” The other woman beamed at her. “I noticed the two of you when you sat down just now, and I thought I recognized your companion, the Comely Miss Crookshank.”

  Marianne managed not to laugh. Louisa would have been gratified to hear herself praised, but she was on the other side of the assembly at the moment, giggling and bending her head toward a short girl with reddish hair.

  “I am Mrs. Knox, as you no doubt remember. This lady is Miss Sophie Hill, who has lately removed from London to Bath.”

  The silver-haired matron gave a slight inclination of her head. “How do you do?”

  Marianne returned the greeting. “I reside in London, myself,” she said. “But I enjoy Bath’s quieter pace.”

  “Do you plan to stay long, then?”

  “I had meant to,” Marianne explained. “But I have been given the task of playing chaperone to my niece by marriage, so I find that I will be going back to town sooner than I had planned. She is eager to be presented in London.”

  Miss Hill gave a ladylike snort. “I have sustained that fate, myself,” she said. “With a pretty girl, and one of means, you will find your time never your own and too many simpletons aspiring for her hand. Of course, my niece was well worth the inconvenience, but I am happy enough to have her safely married at last.”

  “I am sure that Louisa will not want for suitors.” Marianne agreed.

  “Many of them a bunch of vain popinjays.” The older lady frowned. “One hopes she will not be disappointed in what she finds.”

  Obviously a lady of strong opinions. Marianne couldn’t completely suppress her smile even as she gave a discreet signal with her fan in Louisa’s direction. The concert was about to start; it was time to take a seat.

  Louisa whispered one last comment into her friend’s ear, then made her way back to Marianne. “I have told Amelia all about my wonderful adventure,” the girl said, her clear voice easily heard even above the first notes from the orchestra. “And about the marquess of Gillingham, and his plans to take a bride, a design which I intend to aid.”

  “Hush,” Marianne told her. The girl subsided at last into her chair with an expression of respectful attention on her lovely face as she gazed toward the musicians, although Marianne had no doubt her charge’s expression simply concealed more daydreams of titled suitors and splendid new wardrobes.

  “The marquess of Gillingham, you say?” The silver-haired lady on her other side inquired, for some reason frowning at the mention of the name.

  “Yes,” Marianne said in surprise. “Do you know the gentleman? I understood he comes seldom to London.”

  A pause as a violin trilled, then the other woman pursed her lips. “For good reason. You have undertaken a greater responsibility than you know, Mrs. Hughes.”

  Marianne blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Your charge had best take care,” Miss Hill murmured, so low that Marianne was not sure she caught the words. “The marquess is not a man to be taken lightly.”

  Two

  In the spacious library of the large gray edifice that crowned a low hill in the southern reaches of Kent, John Sinclair, marquess of Gillingham, gazed out the window. He stood very still, his broad shoulders squared and his hands clasped tightly behind him, and although the view from the window was pleasing, he did not see it.

  He had made up his mind; it was a necessary and logical course of action. Anyone would have said so, and he had put it off for months already. When his father had died, John had known that this must be done.

  So why did his heart sink at the thought of the trip and the social scenes that awaited him at journey’s end?

  Some fears had to be faced, and he had no choice. But even as he told himself so, he paced up and down the room, his tall, long-limbed frame seeming to fill even this room of handsome proportions. As he passed one of the smaller bookcases, its glass doors standing open since he had removed a book earlier, he glanced up to see the small portrait, a miniature in a gold frame, that graced its top shelf.

  And the pain of that sight made him utter an inarticulate, almost savage sound. Without conscious thought he swung his fist hard. The small painting went flying, and, too late, he heard the splinter of breaking glass and felt the piercing pain.

  The shattered glass had sliced the skin. Blood dripped down the side of his hand and stained his white cuff.

  Blinking against the sting, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped his hand in the cloth to stop the bleeding. The slight wound ached, but nothing like the misery that lingered deep inside him.

  And still, he must go to London. . . .

  The women’s departure was delayed for a few days, as Charles found he had need of the carriage. In the interim, Marianne’s mother posted up from Devon for a brief visit with her daughter.

  She had not been pleased by the letter announcing the news of Marianne’s newly assumed responsibility. “Why on earth did you agree to do this?” she asked as soon as she and her daughter were alone.

  “What, Mama?” Marianne asked cautiously.

  “You know perfectly well what!” Mrs. Lambert, who was petite and only slightly more rounded than she had been as a bride, tried to glare at her only daughter, but the effort was not successful. She crossed the room and gave Marianne an impulsive hug. “Agree to chaperone this spoiled child, of course!”

  “Louisa is quite sweet, really,” Marianne argued. In the face of her mother’s doubts, she felt compelled to push aside her own. “I’m very fond of her. She suffered the loss of her father hardly more than a year ago, so I’m sure this change of scenery will do her good. And she is certainly overdue for her coming-out; she has only enjoyed Bath society, which is somewhat limited in scope. It’s time for her to meet more young people and have the chance to look for a possible suitor.”

  “And what about you?”

  Marianne tried to look blank. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What about your chance for another marriage? You deserve more than the role of duenna,” Mrs. Lambert insisted, sitting down and regarding her daughter with a stern gaze.

  Marianne shrugged. “I think I am past the age—”

  “Oh, pooh! You are hardly in your dotage, and you are still most attractive. However, I fear that if you spend all of your time in the company of someone so young, who possesses such potential wealth—”

  “Not to mention such ravishing good looks,” Marianne murmured, but her mother affected not to hear.

  “I am afraid that your own particular charms and sweet beauty could be overlooked.” Mrs. Lambert gazed at her daughter with anxious affection.

  Marianne went to kneel beside her mother and press her hand. “I am quite happy as I am, you know.”

  Her mother looked skeptical. “You cannot relish a solitary life, Marianne. I know how lonely widowhood can be. Since your dear papa died—”

  “I miss Papa, and Harry, but I am content,” Marianne tried to argue. “I am not languishing alone in some attic, unable to go out into company. I have my friends and my family.”

  Her mother made another rude noise. “As do I, and I have your brother’s adorable offspring, who are a blessing, to pamper. But I wish to see you with your own children—I hate to think that you will be deprived of such a joy. Perhaps it would not be the same as it was with poor Harry, but marriages come in many forms, from giddy passion to quiet companionship. I’m quite sure you would receive an offer if you would just make the effort to meet more eligible gentlemen—”

  Marianne shook her head. “Mama, please.”

  Her mother sighed, but she pressed her lips together. “Very well. But I speak only out of concern for you.”

  “I know that.” Marianne reached for her mother’s hand. “Let us go down—tea will be ready.”

  And as she followed her mother to the staircase, Marianne tried not to d
well on how depressing she found the thought of a marriage made for the sake of “quiet companionship”!

  Marianne said good-bye to her mother two days later as Mrs. Lambert left for home. Then the following day Marianne and Louisa embarked for London, with their trunks tied onto the back of the carriage and with a dozen last-minute reminders from Caroline.

  “Do not forget the heated bricks for their feet,” she instructed her butler. “I know the day is mild, but there is a brisk wind blowing. Louisa, tie your bonnet strings securely, or your hat will fly away before you are over the first bridge!”

  “She is not riding on the driver’s seat,” her husband pointed out. “I’m sure they will have a safe and uneventful journey.”

  He added more quietly to Marianne as she drew on her gloves, “If you need extra monies, just let us know. I have sent the letter of credit to your bank—there should be no problem drawing on Louisa’s trust.”

  “Thank you,” Marianne told him. “You have been very thoughtful.”

  “No, thank you for relieving Caroline of a burden she is not physically, or emotionally, able to bear just now,” he said. His forehead creased with concern as he glanced toward his wife.

  Marianne nodded. Caroline was easily tired and often overwrought these days as her pregnancy made its demands on her. She was certainly not up to sponsoring a young lady into the social fervor of a coming-out. “I’m glad I am able to do it,” Marianne said, meaning her words.

  Embracing Louisa for one last farewell, Caroline burst into tears. “Oh, dear, I shall miss you.”

  Louisa hugged her aunt. “Do not worry, I shall write you very often, and I hope to have such lovely tales to tell of parties and walks and balls that you will be amused, too.”

  Her cheerfulness was contagious. Caroline smiled as she gave one last sniff into her handkerchief. “No doubt,” she agreed.

  Charles gave Louisa a hug and patted Marianne’s hand as he helped her into the carriage. Marianne’s maid, Hackett, was already sitting primly in the opposite seat with her mistress’s small jewelry box in her lap. Brown eyes big with excitement, Louisa’s maid, a young girl named Eva, sat beside her. Charles nodded to the coachman, and the carriage lurched forward as the driver slapped the reins.