Love Among the Spices Page 4

  Marianne was supposed to be among them, following the graceful turns of the waltz as if being guided across the floor of a London ballroom. But Marianne had retreated temporarily from the sight of her instructress, concealing herself in a corner behind the red velvet drapes as Lucy Easton-Sanford's fingers trilled a steady melody from Mrs. Ashford's pianoforte.

  Lessons in waltzing were among the many activities of genteel young ladies anticipating the Season and all the charms of private ballrooms and the breathless possibility of an Almack's sponsorship. It was also among the activities which Marianne despised, from her lace-trimmed muslin gown to the dancing slippers of silk selected by Mrs. Fitzwilliam's flattering eye.

  Lucy glanced at Marianne more than once, a slight frown furrowing her brow. When the song reached its conclusion and the young ladies made their curtseys, she slid forward from the pianoforte's bench.

  "Come, Marianne, I would see you dance. You cannot hide for all of these lessons, you know," she whispered, encouragingly. "The waltz isn't so hard; I confess that the first one I ever danced with Alec convinced me it was quite easy." This was confessed with a blush at the mention of her husband's name.

  In the years since her own debut and marriage, Lucy was largely unchanged in her warm nature and innocent ways; a close friend of Flora Stuart, she found Miss Marianne a more challenging companion, since the youngest of the Stuart daughters was less inclined to sympathize on matters of society engagements or forthcoming balls.

  "It isn't the difficulty, Lucy," Marianne answered, keeping her voice hushed to avoid Lady Ashford's eye. "It is ... feeling silly in this dress, pretending to dance with an eligible gentleman when I do not care if I ever dance with a gentleman. Unless perhaps he is less vain than the ones which I meet at dinner and card parties." She spoke this last line with a movement of impatience, a look which was noticed by Mrs. Ashford and her daughter, who both agreed Miss Marianne Stuart had an air of conceit which did not become a young lady of her age and rank.

  "And why might that be?" asked Lucy. "You are as charming as your sister, who never wanted a partner but was engaged constantly whenever attending a ball. Is it ... perhaps ... the remarks of others which make you feel so?" She spoke this gently, as if afraid repeating the tales of Marianne's tomboyish ways would hurt the young girl.

  Marianne laughed, softly. "It is not anything anyone else might say, dearest Lucy. It is how I feel that matters to myself and I do not feel inclined to learn the art of dancing."

  "But you shall become accustomed to it if you will only try," said Lucy. Reaching across, she pressed Marianne's hand between both of her own, the large stone from Africa glinting in its engagement band setting.

  "I would see you happy there," Lucy said, "if only for dear Flora's sake if you will not have it for your own. For your unhappiness would only make the rest of us who love you feel it keenly, Miss Stuart. You know how your papa must feel about your debut–he should wish to see you with a bright career ahead of you. An equal to your own sister in friends and admiration."

  Sir Edward had been disappointed in seeing his son take a career to support his wife, unable to live on the small fortune endowed to him by his mother and the promise of an equally small estate upon the passing of his father. He had been consoled in the fact that Flora's writing career became unnecessary with her successful marriage–but what was he to think of his youngest child? Even Marianne's willful pride could not be persuaded that he was indifferent to the future of his last child to the point of indulging her wish to escape silk dresses and the parade of propriety and calling cards.

  Biting her lip, Marianne did not answer Lucy's question with words. With a sigh of defeat, she rose from her seat and drew her hand free from the young woman's clasp.

  "It is all for the best," Lucy whispered, as Marianne slipped past her and rejoined the circle of young ladies attired in similar afternoon elegance. The first strains of a lively Mozart air followed as Mrs. Ashford's charges performed the necessary steps under her command.

  Marianne was far from the plainest girl in the circle, for her dark hair and bright eyes gave her a spirited animation which the plainer Miss Rutherford beside her lacked in her pasty complexion and dull conversation. But Miss Rutherford possessed a sizeable dowry and would stand to inherit a pretty piece of property upon her father's death–and so we discover the charms of said young lady in her society debut.

  "Marianne Stuart is handsome enough," said Miss Ashford, as she watched the young girl in motion. "What a pity she is such a wild little creature. Such tales about her from governess to greengrocer."

  "I fear it does not matter," Mrs. Ashford answered. "For Sir Edward has hardly anything to give her upon her marriage. And everyone knows that the estate is already left to the son–who is in trade. What else is left to such a family in decline?" Lips pursed with grim assessment as she flicked her fan impatiently, awaiting the end of the dance.

  While Mrs. Ashford had this assessment of Marianne's chances, Mrs. Fitzwilliam had a very different one. One that perceived Marianne as having the necessary charm and beauty to make a success in society, something the good lady had endeavored to make possible in her constant interference in the Stuart household.

  In the weeks following her visit to Kent, Marianne was ushered through a flurry of activity in preparation for being "out" in society for the Season. In accordance with Mrs. Fitzwilliam's effort, she was fitted for an elegant dress surpassing anything ever before in Marianne's wardrobe, endured pinching and prodding as her hair was styled and donned with a headdress of feathers before accompanying Lady Easton in a receiving line of other fashionable young ladies presented in the Queen's Drawing-Rooms.

  "Thank heaven that Lady Honoria had the kindness to stand up with you since Flora is in confinement," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam afterwards. "I must confess I felt apprehensive at the thought of young Lady Easton escorting you thither–not that Flora has given us cause to fear any more scandalous acts."

  Whether Mrs. Fitzwilliam knew something of the little book in Flora's past or referred generally to her sister's former reputation as a tomboy, Marianne did not know; nor did she care. The experience of the reception line did not seem to her anything more than a tiresome experience which seemed to last forever in terms of her aunt's fixation on the subject.

  "Roger's mother was very kind to accompany me," said Marianne, as if reciting a lesson. "But I do not think Flora would have let me make a scandal of herself had she been my sponsor. I think you are unfair to her on the subject of my character–for Flora hasn't done anything to disgrace herself anymore than I have."

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam set her cup of tea upon the tray. "Marianne," she began, somewhat sternly, "A young lady should not argue with those senior in rank in the insistent manner that you do–"

  "But I haven't done anything wrong," Marianne protested. "Everyone insists that I have, but there is nothing wrong with conversation or taking an interest in the world."

  "A young lady's interests should not include discussing the battle of Waterloo in graphic detail with seatmates at dinner–or astronomy with gentlemen in Lady Easton's drawing room."

  "But I had read such an interesting volume on celestial science that Giles's tutor left in the schoolroom," said Marianne. "Mr. Elson's possession of a telescope made the subject seem perfectly reasonable. And I was only shocked that the Misses Humphreys had never even heard of St. Elba–"

  "Enough, Marianne," scolded Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "Refrain from such subjects with me, if you will. It is not proper for a girl of your age to know of such things; moreover, it is not proper for a lady to discuss them at all with gentlemen. A lady's mind is meant for subjects of the home, not the fields of reason belonging to men."

  Marianne sighed. "I think it is hard that I am never to learn of anything interesting," she answered. "Merely to be thought proper for my empty mind."

  "It isn't empty, dearest; it is merely meant to be filled with the right things," Mrs. Fitzwilliam retorted. "Suc
h as your embroidery, which is the only feminine art you possess. If only I had managed to make Sir Edward see the importance of the pianoforte." This last part was spoken with self-reproach, sending a slight shiver of guilt through Marianne's frame.

  Marianne had detested the pianoforte; had utterly refused her sister's offer of the harp and Mrs. Easton's kindly suggestions regarding the subject of voice lessons. Marianne's dismal attempts at embroidery had resulted in a half-finished cushion which was better than nothing at all–for Marianne's sketches were deemed "too scientific" by her aunt to be of any use.

  "I suppose in this matter, Flora had the advantage," said Marianne, not rueful of this truth at all. "But Flora cared a little for society, you know; and I do not. So that is why I preferred Giles's history books over the long sonatas which Lucy Easton was forever recommending to me."

  "You should be grateful that Lady Sanford took an interest in you at all," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "As little encouragement as you offered her for her troubles. The same might be said of her mother or half of the kind souls who have attempted to steer you into polite society."

  Marianne directed her moody gaze towards the rainy street view through the window, where carriages could be seen en route to morning calls among the fashionable. "But there are so many interesting things which polite society ought to allow, since 'accomplished' young ladies seem very unaccomplished to me."

  Setting her teacup on the tray, Marianne continued with her line of reason. "Anyone can paint screens or pound out notes on a pianoforte–oh, look, there she is again!" With these words, Marianne sprang from her chair and hurried from the morning room.

  "Marianne? Marianne, what on earth is the matter?" Mrs. Fitzwilliam rose and bustled after her niece, who had left the front door to Evering House open as she hurried down the steps, bonnet-less and with her wrap dangling around her shoulders.

  The rain beat steadily upon Marianne, drenching the shoulders of her dress and flattening her mane of curls against her head as she crossed to the other side of the street, where a woman could be seen crouched behind the steps. A dingy, grimy figure dressed in layered skirts of rags, her bodice poorly fastened and obviously altered to fit a figure more trim than its current owner. Strings of grey hair beneath a bedraggled bonnet–in short, a beggar woman.

  "Good day." Marianne was breathless as she reached the woman, who looked up from her hunched position over her ware basket, an expression of wariness visible at the sight of the girl.

  "Please, Miss, I'll move along after the rain," said the haggard figure.

  "Oh, no," said Marianne, taken aback. "That's not why I spoke. Here," she opened her reticule and removed several coins. "Take these, please. And God bless you."

  The astonished woman was none too overcome to ignore the gift held out to her. Gloveless fingers closed over the coins, the woman's ragged head bobbing in obeisance.

  "Thank ye, Miss," she answered. "Thank you indeed."

  Marianne smiled in response, her lips moving to form an eager speech in response, but the woman had caught sight of Mrs. Fitzwilliam hurrying in their direction through the rain. Scrambling up painfully, she seized her basket and hobbled hastily towards the end of the lane, ignoring Marianne's cries for her to wait until the rain had passed.

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam seized her niece's elbow. "What is the meaning of this foolishness?" she demanded, gasping for breath between words. "This is a fine piece–a young lady running about in the streets to chat with strangers of heaven knows what repute–"

  "She was begging upon the streets when I returned from the Miss Bartons," said Marianne, "only I did not have any coins and the maid was afraid to stop the carriage. I did not think I would see her again–"

  "For heaven's sake, child," Mrs. Fitzwilliam hurried her niece towards Evering's doorway, as if afraid the surrounding occupants of this street might be observing them from behind drawing room curtains. "You must learn that there is a proper place and time for charity–"

  "But why?" Marianne argued. "When a poor village boy came begging at the Miss Bartons's door last week, they gave him a coin and promised to come see his widowed mother. I think they were a vast deal more kind than sending him away to someone richer or to the Rectory, where no one might be home since the reverend goes often to visit his brother in Derbyshire."

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam ushered her niece inside and closed the door. "Don't talk of these matters in such a wild way, Miss Marianne," she said. "The shame of a young lady running about in the streets and conversing freely with beggars–"

  "It was only a few coins," pleaded Marianne, "and to one less fortunate in such unhappy circumstances–"

  If your father could hear you defending such recklessness–"

  "If Papa knew, he would be glad to know that I cared something for the Miss Bartons's example!" Marianne's retort was more heated than she realized; her cheeks flushed in response beneath her aunt's indignant gaze.

  "I see your temper is not improved by the Miss Bartons's example!" was Mrs. Fitzwilliam's reply.

  Marianne mumbled something–an excuse, an apology, her own lips and ears were not certain–before turning and hurrying up the stairs to her room. Below was the sound of Mrs. Fitzwilliam's voice echoing in the main hall as she sent for her carriage.

  Upstairs, Marianne threw herself across the white counterpane, not caring about the rain and mud upon her shoes, nor the damp condition of her hair and dress. Her impact jostled several volumes to the floor, including the much-maligned one on celestial science and a little volume on Julius Caeser's death.

  She had spoken rudely to her aunt; unfairly, she knew, despite the justification of her argument. Mrs. Fitzwilliam was well-meaning, even if she was wrong. If her father heard about this incident, which he no doubt would, then the response would be one of disappointment for Marianne's lack of patience.

  Her eyes burned with tears of indignation as she burrowed her face in the embroidered folds. Why must everything be done with such difficulty in society? Why was she at fault merely for speaking to someone at the wrong place and time? A moment's hesitation might have missed the opportunity–and what harm could there be in speaking kindly to anyone?

  Flora would have understood. She would not have scolded her sister for a little rain on her dress and mud on her boots–Flora, who bravely tended her herb and kitchen garden herself, despite the presence of neighbors whose degraded fortunes in the peerage had not encouraged them to economize in a similar manner.

  A single hot tear escaped, followed by another. Marianne did not brush them away as the feeling of loss occupied her mind. The absence of Flora's companionship, the loss of the mother whom she could only recall faintly from her earliest memories.

  It was not fair that she should be scolded. But there was no helping it. Mrs. Fitzwilliam meant to do well by her, since there was no one left to take her in hand. If Marianne did not follow the example set for her, she would be sent away–to Donnelly Hall, which would be a pleasure–but there was no escaping the return to town for a Season of standing up with the young Lady Easton at balls and parties.

  She sat up, wiping her eyes and noticing for the first time the damp marks upon the counterpane. She slipped off her wet boots and opened the closet where her second-best afternoon dress hung in its blue and white sprig pattern.

  "I am going out, Letty," she said, as the maid curtseyed in the hall. "I have to pay a call to my aunt, if Papa returns and asks." Plunking her bonnet on her head, she tied the strings as she inspected her reflection in the mirror. No freckles, which pleased her aunt in comparison to Flora's once-tan complexion–but did she not look too pale, her curls still a trifle too wild from her unhappy episode?

  "Yes, Miss," answered Letty, whose cheeks bore a telltale blush proving she was aware of the reasons why.

  With no rain to impede her–and no umbrella, having forgotten it–Marianne set out from the doorstep of Evering House in the direction of Mrs. Fitzwilliam's townhouse in St. John's Wood.

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sp; Chapter Five

  The lure of Chapman's Bookshop held strong appeal for a mind like Marianne's, with its fine display of leather bound volumes and stout books on all subjects lining its shelves. Like a young lady's eye is drawn to the milliner's finest feathered bonnet or the silk train beckoning from a fabric warehouse, Marianne's gaze became fixed upon its entrance as she passed.

  It was but a moment of hesitation, a thought of Mrs. Fitzwilliam possibly paying a call upon another before returning home, which turned Marianne's steps in the direction of its doorway.

  Inside, she nodded politely to an acquaintance of higher rank before drifting in the direction of the travel volumes. Her fingers drew a new book of an explorer's account of the North Atlantic from the shelf, perusing it before abandonment in favor of a philosophy volume on the Roman Republic.

  A small brown book caught her eye, something about it seeming familiar to her. As she lifted it from the shelf, she recognized it as a volume she had spotted in the possession of the young naturalist she encountered in the woods. Once open, she caught a glimpse of a butterfly etching across from a paragraph on its habits and life span.

  "Good day, Miss Stuart," the shop's clerk greeted her. "Would you like to see one of the new volumes of interest to fashionable ladies? A little book on travel for ladies–Advice for Young Ladies On Proper Etiquette Abroad– quite popular with the peerage, it is."

  "No thank you," Marianne answered. "I am quite satisfied with this one." She held up the little book in hand as the clerk cast a dubious eye at the section from which it was removed.

  "Of course, Miss," he answered, with a polite bow. "I shall put it on your account straightaway if you wish."

  "Thank you," she answered, with a frank smile. She knew he was questioning her taste inwardly, no doubt confused by a genteel young lady selecting a volume which only his gentleman customers preferred–especially when offered a proper little book of feminine subject matter. How proper, Marianne suspected she already knew without opening its cover.