Love Among the Spices Page 16

  “We shall send you a present of gooseberry jam,” said Miss Eliza. “Mrs. Greerson was thoughtful enough to give us ample supply indeed before we left Kent. You will find its flavor incomparable to any other you have tasted, I assure you.”

  Mariane’s eyes were blurred with tears as she stood with her back to the genial speaker addressing her aunt. Her fingers were twisting the reticule in which lay her letter from Adam Nimbley.

  Her harsh words were unnecessary, she realized, with a pang of guilt. It had been her own coldness which had strained the connection between herself and Adam Nimbley. From her first offense over his proper manners to their final encounter upon his proposal.

  But would she have wished him to spend his life unhappy in the law merely to marry her? Cheeks flushed with indignation, she denied it vehemently. It would have made her unhappier still to accept him–for would not the letters he sent her, the sketches of the unknown species have remained but fragments of their imaginations?

  “We have lately made the acquaintance of a Colonel Hendricks,” said Miss Eliza. “He and his wife are staying with General Phelps at his house in Grace Church Street, where we were invited to drink tea but four days ago.”

  Marianne trembled slightly at the mention of this name, but did not turn around.

  “Hendricks?” repeated Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “Upon my word, I do recall something of a Hendricks in connection with the Phelpses, but I cannot recall an acquaintance with such a man. Is he a gentleman of good character? Of note in society?”

  “Of good character, most assuredly,” said Miss Eliza. “Of fortune, but little, I think, although his regiment is very splendid in Surrey.

  “He would be an acquaintance of my eldest daughter, Mrs. Sotherby,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “If so, then I shall meet him ere long, for Myrah is much in society now that they are come to London. Perhaps we have mutual friends and will meet ere long.”

  “We would be happy to introduce you, for we shall have them to our supper next week,” said Miss Eliza. “There will be a few officers of his command also, who are upon leave and in London I was informed, so I bid him to include them in the invitation; for we have hopes of a large party.”

  Marianne’s heart was beating quickly, anticipating a connection to be made by Mrs. Fitzwilliam at any moment. Was Captain Lindley among the party? Was he in London even now, perhaps planning upon seeing her?

  She was not ready; no, she could not answer him. Not yet.

  “We shall invite Sir Edward and Miss Marianne, also,” said Miss Eliza, directing the remark towards Marianne in a piped-up voice. “We had so hoped to ask Lord and Lady Easton, but they shall decline, I feel sure, since they are away to the countryside so soon.”

  Marianne turned towards her hostess, her face calm once again. “I thank you for your kindness,” she said. “I’m sure it is proper that–that I will accompany my aunt if Sir Edward must decline.”

  This would please Mrs. Fitzwilliam, she knew. The good woman’s face was alight in response to her niece’s consideration of such a plan. “Indeed,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam, “it would be best if I were your chaperone for the evening. I should send the carriage for you both, so Sir Edward need not be troubled with his own horses.”

  The Miss Bartons continued on from the account of their new friends to the praise of the good Mrs. Greerson’s butter and eggs. Marianne’s fingers folded the letter in her reticule beneath the folds of fabric in a movement of agitation, her tea growing cold as it sat untouched.

  “I am greatly pleased that the Miss Bartons are hosting such a party,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam on the carriage ride home. “They have become quite out of society–a pity, since they were both such eligible young ladies but a few Seasons ago.”

  “Perhaps they are content as they are,” ventured Marianne. “They might prefer to make acquaintances based upon their character or their interests, instead of their value in society's connections.” She did not say this in a pert manner, but gently, as if waiting to see what her aunt’s response would be.

  “They have made acquaintances enough to find many both interesting and marriageable,” retorted Mrs. Fitzwilliam, “had either of them the good fortune to have such an acquaintance propose. I am quite certain neither of the Miss Bartons would ever have refused the hand of the likes of Lord Hepperly merely because they disliked his laugh or his preference for stylish cravats.”

  To this, Marianne had no reply. She was silent for the rest of the ride to Evering House, her fingers pressed tightly over the two folded pages in her handbag.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mrs. Sotherby had come to London in May, slightly later than originally planned, owing to a sudden decline in health of her niece’s newborn child. Once this infant was upon the road to health once again, the good lady felt it was safe for her to take her family into society and join her husband in their fashionable lodgings.

  Her arrival was a relief to Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who dreaded Flora’s departure as signaling Marianne declining any engagements which her aunt must decline.

  “But,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam was wont to say now that her daughter had come, “Myrah is so much in society that there is no worry at all now. For she shall take Marianne wherever she goes, and Charlotte and Julia shall be such good company for her!”

  Marianne did not see it quite in the same light. Mrs. Sotherby in London was the same as Mrs. Sotherby at Norland Park. In satin and silk stockings, she still marched with the same intractable tread of purpose, leading forth her charges into society like a general must lead troops into a field of campaign.

  “Those feathers are not quite becoming, Marianne,” she said, lips pursed as she studied the effect of two parrot feathers pinned to one side of Marianne’s curls. “They are altogether a shade too light.”

  “Letty said they looked quite nice,” defended Marianne –who had chosen them after recalling Adam Nimbley’s description of a bird in one of his letters.

  “Julia, kindly watch your slippers amidst the filth on the road,” warned Mrs. Sotherby. Free from the carriage, her party was making its way towards the brightly-lit windows of Flora’s Mayfair townhouse.

  Again, Marianne regretted the absence of her father. Feeling the onset of a cold, Sir Edward had regretfully declined his daughter’s invitation, or so he claimed; although Marianne suspected it was merely an excuse for avoiding another evening of cards. He was no doubt dozing before the library’s fire, while his daughter was being safely escorted across town by a guardian worthy of any challenge to a young girl’s virtue.

  The number of guests present was large, since this was the last party of Lord and Lady Easton’s invitation before they should leave London. Marianne glimpsed familiar friends among the crowd, along with acquaintances which were those of Roger during his venture into London for the Season.

  “I do wish there was to be dancing,” said Julia. “I am such a dunce at cards, as you know; I suspect Lady Easton shouldn’t like to have me make her guests miserable as such a partner.”

  “Why should Flora care?” asked Marianne. “It is not a game for money, nor even for chances, so there is nothing to be had but the sport of defeating another.” Unaware of the slight shock this produced in her cousin's expression, she wandered towards the nearest table to observe the game at hand, where Flora was sitting down with two gentlemen and another lady.

  One of the gentlemen was an attorney distantly related to Roger’s mother, the other a stranger to Marianne. She believed the woman was a stranger also, until the figure seated with its back to her began speaking, the scarlet feather headdress bobbing in lively fashion.

  Mrs. Hendricks, the wife of the colonel. At the sound of her voice, Marianne froze in her forward motion, although her cousin Julia had the opposite reaction.

  “Mrs. Hendricks,” she declared, with a curtsy of greeting as she stepped forward. “We did not know you were in town this Season. This is a surprise indeed.”

  “Julia! Dear Julia–I did not kn
ow you were to be here tonight! Why, what a merry surprise for all of us–it shall be as if we were all at home together in London’s society,” declared the woman. “Is your mother here also? And your charming sister?”

  “Mama is but two tables from here, engaged to play cards with Mr. Russell and Lady Easton,” said Julia, “and Charlotte is conversing with Sir and Lady Seldham close by.”

  “It is but too delightful!” Mrs. Hendricks replied. “My lord and master is here as well– he is engaged in conversation with Lord Easton yonder–and you shall be pleased to know that Dennick is here also.”

  All this while, Marianne had stood by at a distance, listening as if her feet held her rooted without means of moving. She could see Flora’s perplexity when her sister glanced at her, then pretended to take an interest in the game again as the cards were drawn out.

  The hand had begun, the players intent enough for the first few minutes that Julia turned to her cousin again to converse. Marianne could not listen; her eye was fixed upon the bobbing blue feathers of Mrs. Sotherby’s elegant hairstyle as the only means of maintaining her composure.

  One of the players rose from the table early; the attorney excused himself and offered his seat to Julia. Marianne was forced to linger by, since Charlotte had vanished from sight momentarily. She felt Flora’s fingers touch her arm.

  “Are you all right?” Flora whispered.

  “Quite,” Marianne answered. The fan in her hands was an object useful for toying with at this moment as her mind approached the possibility of meeting Captain Lindley. Her eye glanced about the room, but she did not see the scarlet of regimental uniforms among the guests, nothing to rival the shades of Mrs. Hendricks’s splendid dress and ornaments.

  Flora observed her cards more attentively, although her eye moved towards Marianne more than once during the game until her sister was seated on a nearby sofa. A reticent Marianne was better than a pale one, she decided; and as no public inquiries could be made, her anxiety must remain private until after she could speak to Marianne alone.

  When Flora rose to speak to a servant, Julia encouraged her cousin to be seated.

  “We shall be too short if you do not come,” she said.

  “I do not care for cards,” said Marianne, in protest. “That is,” she continued, recalling Mrs. Hendricks’s card party, “I am not good at them–even Julia who claims to be a dull player is much better than I. I cannot be attentive to my hand for long.”

  “Then who shall we have? Who shall take it?” said Mrs. Hendricks. “Oh, Mr. Wilkins, do be seated? No? Then surely we must have someone–oh, where is Captain Dennick?”

  “If he will not come, then I shall oblige you, Ma’am.” Captain Lindley was there, bowing to his commanding officer’s wife.

  “Oh, Lindley! Lindley, you have saved us! I beg of you, pray be seated and take this hand before Mr. Sanderton carries all.” She motioned with the flap of a bejeweled wrist for him to be seated across from her.

  He took the vacant chair; he was within clear sight of Marianne, who was endeavoring to look the other way as if she did not notice he was present. Her fan flickered in a steady motion, a stream of air which stirred her curls and cooled the flush in her cheeks.

  If he should demand an answer–what would she say? What could she say, even if he gave her the promise that a life together would not be the grind of society life to which even clever and hoydenish Flora was confined now?

  She felt him look at her; then she was sure he looked away again. The cards were dealt and the hand was played, marked by an occasional mistake by Julia, who protested she was no card player at all. The conversation was light and lively, mostly carried by Mrs. Hendricks, except for Julia’s inquiry as to the whereabouts of Captain Dennick, whom even Lindley could not find.

  Flora was engaged in conversation with Mrs. Sotherby and Mrs. Fitzwilliam across the room–both of whom were facing away from the sight of Marianne in close proximity with Captain Lindley. Flora had observed it, however; and her gaze was fixed upon them, even as she tried to look elsewhere.

  When the hand was almost finished, another figure approached the table. The delayed Captain Dennick greeted his friends at the table warmly and gave a great deal of attention to the players’ progress. He bent low to Captain Lindley’s ear when his fellow officer spoke. After a moment’s conversation, the two men changed places.

  It seemed at first as if Captain Lindley merely meant to stand by and observe the game as Dennick carried all and Julia echoed Mrs. Hendricks’s protest that all the players were too light. He withdrew as additional cards were produced and approached the sofa where Marianne was seated.

  He bowed. “Miss Stuart,” he said, a playful smile tugging his lips with this formal address.

  “Captain Lindley,” she answered. She did not trust herself to say more, for the urge to laugh in response to his look was tempered by the fear of what he might say to her.

  When he was seated beside her on the sofa, he spoke again. “I was hoping to see you while I was in London,” he said. “I did not know that the Hendricks were an acquaintance of Lord Easton’s friends; else, I should not have had the pleasure of seeing you in your sister’s home this evening.”

  “I thought you might be among the guests at the Bartons’s supper,” she said. “They spoke of the Hendricks as their guests and said that many of the officers were included in the invitation.”

  “Then we share many mutual friends,” he said, with a smile. “That is the best means of acquaintance, I think. When two people share so many connections that they can scarce find a stranger among them.”

  For a moment, they were both silent. Each thinking of what might be said next, no doubt, although Marianne could not help but be aware of Flora’s glances in her direction.

  “General Phelps has been kind enough to recommend me for a post in the East Indies,” said Lindley. “It is a chance to make my fortune, as I had hoped. Although it shall be a rather long chance, for I shall not return to England before five years, perhaps. A rather hard way to make a fortune,” he added, with a laugh. "But what must be done, shall be done."

  “So long,” murmured Marianne. “But it is such a place of beauty, I have heard. And such a place of adventure.” She glanced at him as she spoke.

  “It is indeed,” he answered. “But a place of great loneliness, even for a gentleman with ambition. So that his mind is rather fixed upon his return and the rewards which await him at home.”

  “Many of the officers have wives,” said Marianne. “Do they not go with them? Do they not find the lives of their husbands equal in value to the life of society in London?”

  He laughed. “In such a climate, few women feel themselves at home,” he said, “and those men who plan to make the most of their careers do not go with the encumbrance of a wife. They marry when they return home; and have something which makes a marriage of more equal terms than before.”

  His reply disappointed her, although she endeavored to hide it. “There are some who prefer happiness over fortune,” she ventured. “Not every woman finds such a climate detestable–for there are many women living in such places already, no?” She smiled playfully.

  “A few. But native women and English women are not the same, are they?” he answered, laughing. “In the case of my fellow officers, their best hope always lies in making their career as short and successful as possible. Except for those who had the good fortune of another means. More than one has found a friend in society willing to advance his rank all the more swiftly or recommend him for a foreign secretary’s post, perhaps.”

  The color in Marianne’s cheeks vanished momentarily. “And of the officers who cannot find a friend to help them?” she asked. “What is their recourse?”

  It was possible he might not answer; that he, understanding her reasons for such a question, might rise from the sofa with the understanding that her father’s title was worth little in such matters.

  “They must be patient,” he ans
wered quietly, “and hope that their prize is worth the pains.”

  When she looked at him, it was with an open countenance which held his gaze for a long moment. What she read in his eyes was difficult to fathom, but it did not give her a dislike or disgust for him. A feeling of pity for this confession of weakness, far different from the indignation she felt for Adam Nimbley’s clumsy attempts to explain his reaction to her social connections.

  “At length, I shall return and perhaps take a place in the country,” he said, “away from the trials of London life. Perhaps a quiet cottage somewhere in the beauties of Surrey.”

  “It is a very pretty county,” said Marianne, whose feelings at this moment would not allow her to say anything else.

  They were both silent for a time. Marianne's thoughts were fixed upon a vision of his life in foreign lands, of strange perfumes blown on a wind which fanned strange plants of beauty. Would she be happy there? In a place she had only dreamed up from the pages of a geography book.

  “I offered you my heart once, as you no doubt remember,” he said. “I suppose my reasons for saying time was not of importance are easy to comprehend,” he added, softly. “But I am still waiting for your reply, Miss Marianne. If you have had the goodness to consider my offer.”

  “I know,” she answered, her voice quiet. “I will not have you leave the city without an answer. For it would not be right. But I would wish–” She hesitated, fiddling with the fan in her hand, its ornamental tassel fraying beneath her fingers’ persistence. "But I would wish to know...that you would be content to share all of your life with the woman who held your heart."

  He leaned closer. "I would share as much as I could," he answered. "As much I could without limiting myself, that is." She met his eyes, the dark orbs without the mirth and merriment she was accustomed to seeing in their depths.