Fortune's Mistress Page 3

  There was something more, though. The gentleman looked . . . alive. That was the only word for it. His eyes smiled, his color was high. When he moved, it was with true purpose, rather than mere achievement of effect. The impact of his presence, of his eyes on her, was almost palpable, so very different from that of the indolent rakes who had until recently comprised her male acquaintance.

  He stepped forward, smiling pleasantly, as he placed one hand dramatically over his breast, “‘Most sure the goddess on whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my prayer may know if you remain upon this island and that you will some good instruction give how I may bear me here; my prime request which I do last pronounce, is, 0 you wonder! if you be maid or no?’”

  “‘No wonder, sir,’” Marianne replied, recognizing Shakespeare’s lines from The Tempest, “‘but…’”Her voice trailed off as she recalled the remainder of the speech, but certainly a maid. That would never do, for she had been anything but a maiden these five years. As the words died on her lips, she felt the color rise to her cheeks.

  When the gentleman stood before her, he executed a deep bow and, despite her chagrin, Marianne felt a smile tug at the corners of her lips. It had been a long while since she had enjoyed even the smallest gallantry. She refrained, however, from returning the gesture with a curtsey, although the instinct to do so felt altogether natural, here on this greening hillside. Instead, she hastily pulled the coronet from her hair, and merely nodded at the gentleman.

  “Forgive me,” he laughed. “I hope I have not dismayed you into silence with my ill-chosen whimsy! Whenever I come into the circle, though, the fairy folk seem to take hold of my good sense. For the most part, it is only Caliban here who must usually endure my ravings.”

  “Do you suppose yourself to be Ariel, then?” she asked with mock incredulity.

  “Alas, no,” he returned, “a mere creature of flesh and bone. A very Ferdinand, I am afraid— which must, perforce, make you Miranda!”

  “Perhaps,” she replied, at last allowing a smile to form, “but I am very much afraid it is Miranda in later years.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said speculatively. “I can see you are a veritable crone.”

  “I should have thought the realms of faerie would have taught you to distrust appearances,” she replied. “For aught you know, I am a cruel hag, who will by my enchantment bind you to the circle.”

  He laughed at this, his eyes crinkling as he did so. “I do not fear unkind enchantments here— good Caliban would never let me fall prey to such.”

  At the mention of his name, the dog panted up at his master and wagged his tail.

  “Caliban—an unusual name for an unusual animal,” Marianne remarked. “How came he to lose his limb?”

  The gentleman’s brow furrowed. “I confess, I do not know. I found him thus, cast aside in a ditch where he had crawled to die, I suppose.”

  “Poor Caliban,” she murmured. “It was good in you to take him—and see him mended.”

  He shook his head. “I had no choice— do but look into his eyes. To resist his appeal was beyond my poor powers, I assure you! And it was as much my good fortune as his, for it is an unhappy circumstance to be without such a boon companion.”

  Marianne glanced down at the black folds of her garment, then back up at him.

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” the gentleman sputtered abashedly, his eyes seeming for the first time to take in the evidence of her mourning. “Your gown ... I had not considered . . .”

  “Do not worry yourself,” she said softly. “You intended no offense.”

  He shook his head. “I find I must worry whenever I discover I have been a boor!”

  “You have hardly been that!” she protested. “Merely a. little . . . blind, shall we say?”

  “You are too kind, madam.”

  Marianne realized with a sudden regret that all vestiges of whimsy and lightness of humor had deserted him, and the stiffness of formal manners cloaked him now. Such was the effect of widowhood, she realized. Such it should be, too, and she would have to live with it. Besides, the very notion of engaging in a flirtation, however fleeting or innocent, ought to have appalled rather than attracted her. Where was her good sense now? To cover her embarrassment, she knelt beside the dog and scratched him about the throat and behind the ears.

  “Come, Caliban,” the gentleman said stiffly, “before we disgrace ourselves further.”

  He bowed again and bid her good day, then left her to her solitude among the rocks and sky.

  * * * *

  When Marianne returned home, she made her way at once to her chamber. She had become accustomed to resting in the afternoon, but today, though a weariness had settled over her, she felt too restless to lie down. Images of her encounter on the hillside circled about her head, and she knew sleep would not come to her. She was annoyed with herself for allowing fancy to take possession of her. Was it not just such romantic notions which had once before led her to destruction? She could have no time, no thought for such things, she told herself sternly. The sooner she forgot the episode, the better.

  She turned her mind with an effort toward other things. There were still one or two trunks she had not unpacked, which she might attend to. She had avoided the task really, for they contained the only mementos of her former life she had brought with her. It had been her intention to store the trunks away in the attic until some later, indeterminate time, but she had delayed consigning them there and told the maid she would eventually deal with them herself. The smaller of these drew her eye, and she knew she must look into it, if only to rejoice that its contents no longer bound her to the past. Perhaps, now she had made her escape, the spectre of yesterday would have lost its power.

  She took a small key from a box on her dressing table, turned it in the trunk’s lock, then paused. It was, she knew, the sound of her past on a stranger’s lips which had prompted her in this endeavor. How strange to think she had come all this distance and still met with an experience that mirrored all she had abandoned, all that had abandoned her.

  Though she had not disturbed the contents since she had packed them away those many years ago, the clasp sprang to easily, and the perfume of lavender filled the air. What an odd sort of girl she must have been, she sighed, to trouble with sweet scents as she packed away her painful little tokens.

  Several objects wrapped in tissue lay on the top layer, and she unwrapped them one by one. The first proved to be a little silk fan. The ivory sticks had yellowed somewhat, but when she opened it, the painted scene was still clear:

  Daphne pursued by Apollo. She had forgot that image, but how ironic it had proved to be. If only, when she had found herself importuned and without power, some kindly god had troubled to change her into a laurel tree, when she cried out for aid.

  If only.

  Sometimes she felt her whole life were made up of regrets beginning with that phrase, and any wisdom she had gained, purchased with it.

  She set the fan aside and unwrapped another piece. It was her tuzzy-muzzy, a small mother-of-pearl cone which still bore the dry remnants of a floral tribute. She had worn it pinned at her shoulder that last ball of her only season, her heart a-flutter at having received such a lovely nosegay from a gentleman well beyond her reach.

  She had met the Marquis de la Roche the previous evening at a musicale, and flattered herself that she had charmed him a little. She knew, however, that she was but a green girl, and he a bored French aristocrat— or so she had thought—one of the lucky ones whose family had fled the Continent with fortune intact. It was enough that he had danced with her, requested another, and retreated with an ironic half-smile when her mother had denied him that honor. The next morning brought the little bouquet, tied up with pale pink ribbons: lady’s slipper, jonquil, a few buds of China rose.

  What, she had fretted, was she to make of such choices? She had knit her brow as she pored over a small tract entailing the language of flowers, as she and her schoolmates had termed it. Wh
en she looked into it that morning, the little book offered several intriguing interpretations of such a floral message. The China rose was clear enough: beauty always new. The jonquil, however, implied that the sender begged a return of his affections, even his passion. The lady’s slipper meant fickleness. Surely he did not think of her thus. It was her mother, not she, who had denied him further dances that evening.

  What a silly little innocent she had been! Marianne set the tuzzy-muzzy aside and unwrapped a dance card. The names were still clear, too clear. She tossed the card aside and pressed her hands to her eyes. The scene appeared before her as bright, as sharply defined as a waking dream. White-gowned maidens stepped their way through the intricate figures of the Boulanger like snowflakes fluttering among rows of stiff dark trees, her own gown was white as well, overlain with a demi-skirt of silver tissue, embroidered with dragonflies. The flowers she had received did not really suit the ensemble— the white roses and lily of the valley sent by another admirer would have done much better—but she would wear them anyway. She remembered looking down at her little silver slippers peeping from beneath her skirts, feeling her toes curl with anticipation.

  When the first set was done, a collage of faces had greeted her as a host of young men approached to seek introductions. Before any could be accepted, however, she had heard a voice behind her:

  “Good evening, my dear Miss Gardiner.” Marianne felt a rush of emotions as she recognized the lilting accent of the Marquis de la Roche. Her mother stiffened and briefly nodded her head at the gentleman. Marianne bit her lower lip with vexation. Mama’s rudeness was not to be borne— even if she did not view the marquis as an eligible parti, there were other ways she might discourage his attentions.

  “I have come to claim your daughter, Mrs. Gardiner,” he continued, bowing over the older lady’s hand. Marianne fought back the smile that twitched at the corners of her lips, as she watched a flush of annoyance flood her mother’s countenance at the marquis’s double-edged statement. “She was kind enough to promise she would stand up with me for this dance.”

  Marianne knew she had done no such thing, but before her mother could form a protest, she took the marquis’s arm and followed him onto the dance floor, feeling somehow triumphant, even though she knew a whispered scolding would greet her when she was done. For the moment, it was enough that a handsome older man had claimed her hand, and that her mother could do nothing about it without causing a to-do.

  The marquis led her out to the center of the room, and she felt the eyes of other women turn to her. He was tall and slim and elegant, his dark eyes lazy. Though her hands were, of course, gloved, his own curled around hers in a way that seemed intimate and proprietary. As her heart began to pace faster than the music, she charged herself sternly to be calm. Her finishing school manners were no match for his worldliness, she knew, but what harm could possibly come of a dance?

  Before long they were weaving their way through the complicated figures of the set, meeting from time to time in promenade, then parting again as the lines divided. It was a good thing, she reflected, there was so little occasion for conversation, for she needed to concentrate on the steps of the dance. There was a great deal of difference between dancing with a master under the eye of her governess and elder sister, and performing for the starchy crowd that surrounded her now.

  When next the line brought her to the marquis, he whispered, “Hold a moment.”

  Just then, an enormous crash came from across the ballroom. “Come with me, quickly.”

  The dance had brought them close to the French doors which led to the garden and, as the rest of the assembly turned to see what had caused the disturbance, Marianne felt the marquis take her arm and twirl her out into the night. Above, a few clouds floated past the full moon, and the sky was spangled with stars. Beyond those luminaries, however, there was no light.

  “I must return at once,” she whispered hesitantly. “My mother will miss me directly.”

  “Let me look at you a moment in the moonlight, ma petite. You are so lovely in your silver gown— like some pretty trinket dropped from the moon’s watch fob.”

  He took her face between his long elegant fingers and held it up. “So very beautiful.”

  “Please, my lord.” She shrugged away from him, her heart beating wildly.

  “Your mama has taken me in dislike, it seems, so I must steal my moments where I may. Be still a moment— I shall take you back. But I must watch for an opportunity so we shall not be remarked upon. Our escape I could arrange easily enough by bribing a footman to be clumsy— “

  “You arranged … ?”

  He laughed softly in the darkness. “You have caught my eye, cherie, and made me mad for you. There are other arrangements I have made as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Meet me tomorrow, and you will see.”

  She did not immediately answer— such a request, of course, flew in the face of all she knew was proper. Still, she could just catch the glint of his eyes in the moonlight. Never before had she felt such excitement. Through the window she could see that the sedate groups of dancers had reformed themselves and continued. She and the marquis would soon be missed.

  “Tomorrow, at four o’clock. The rose garden at St. James Park,” he said urgently, then swept her back among the crowd.

  * * * *

  Marianne flung shut the lid of the trunk and turned to the window to watch the sun sink lower in the sky. She might flee to the ends of the earth, but there were some things she would never escape. Memory had not lost its razor’s edge, nor had her heart learned not to bleed.

  Chapter Four

  Though the next days continued blue and warm, Marianne did not again seek the stone circle. It was unlikely that another such encounter would take place, for surely the mysterious gentleman had found the meeting as uncomfortable as she. Despite her efforts to guard against thinking on it, she could not help but wonder who he was, and what had brought him to this remote district. There were neither estates nor lodges nearby which might attract parties for the hunting season, and certainly the district boasted no other diversions. Perhaps, she mused, the fairies had conjured him up out of memories they had read on her countenance. In any case, she was determined not to allow another such encounter, and stayed close to her house and garden.

  Her mind, however, continued to wander, to find its way back to the magic of the stone circle. The thought of the gentleman’s chivalry, however mistaken, often brought a small smile to her lips, as she sewed little gowns for her baby, or gathered the last of the roses. It could not hurt to dream a little, she told herself, as long as she reminded herself that was all it was. She had changed since she was a romantic girl, and knew the difference.

  In her meandering dreams, she had no past, and she drew on childhood tales which sprang to mind these days as they had not done in many years. She was a part of the earth and air, got with child by some mysterious deity of the circle, and held there by a spell. Her enchantment might be broken only when some honest gentleman carried her beyond its domain. At night, before she fell to sleep, she turned to a worn volume of Shakespeare, and reread the magical words of The Tempest. When she shut her eyes to sleep, the image of the smiling gentleman in the circle arose before her, and the words of Miranda echoed, How beauteous mankind is! 0 brave new world, that has such creatures in’t!

  Still, dreams were dreams. By day she was Marianne and not Miranda. It was Marianne who pricked her finger as she pruned the roses, whose back ached, who wore drab colors and called herself a widow.

  She was engaged one afternoon in the task of dividing some lily bulbs, when along the gravel path she heard the uneven approach of one of her servants.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am,” a soft voice came. “There’s callers. Reverend and Mrs. Waller be asking if you’re at leisure to receive.”

  Marianne looked up at the shy housemaid who stood at her side, and forced back a frown. She was indeed at her leisur
e, but receiving would definitely break up her peace. Nonetheless, the country was not the city where the thinly veiled lie of “not at home” might keep visitors at bay. She would not turn them away.

  “Oh, dear, Annie,” she sighed, running a hand through the tresses which had escaped their pins. “I must be looking quite wild.”

  Annie shook her head diffidently, shifting from one foot to another. “Wild as a rose, and just as pretty, ma’am,” she said with a blush.

  Marianne arose slowly and brushed the dirt and grass from where it clung to her black skirts. “I declare, you will make me quite vain!” Glancing up, she smiled at the girl of whom she had already grown quite fond. Annie was herself a pretty little thing, but it was a great pity about her twisted leg. Thus encumbered, odds were she would never find a husband. No, she would spend her days in service in such houses as would overlook her infirmity. Perhaps, if all her plans continued to go well, Marianne could offer her a permanent position.

  “Just give me a moment to steal up the back stairs,” Marianne sighed, “then show them to the garden off the drawing room. Order tea, and I shall be down as quickly as I may.”

  Entertaining callers had not been part of Marianne’s design when she first envisioned her country retreat, nor was it a common occurrence. Reverend Enos Waller and his wife, however, had taken it upon themselves to call almost every afternoon to see how she fared. When winter came, she knew she would be glad enough of their company, but for now she longed to savor her home and solitude— and the sense of privacy so indispensable to her as she embarked on this new life. Still, it was altogether possible they might let drop some hint as to who the gentleman of the circle was, and the truth—which experience had taught her was bound to be mundane— might help her tame her thoughts.

  In her chamber, she untied the strings of her broad garden hat and flung it on the bed, then scrubbed the soil from her hands and bathed her face. It was still strange for her to see the plain furnishings reflected behind her in the mirror. Her simple bed was covered with a white counterpane. A bunch of daisies sat on the nightstand. Unlike the more ornate chamber she had used in London, the room looked modest and clean, almost like a nun’s cell, she imagined.