Love Among the Spices Page 8

  “Forgive me,” he began, turning his face apologetically to hers. Marianne was encountering yet another familiar face on this evening–that of young Adam Nimbley.

  “Miss Stuart,” he stammered. “This is indeed a surprise.” His glance flickered from her face to that of Mrs. Fitzwilliam, whose indignation was surfacing with this latest encounter.

  “Mr. Nimbley,” she answered, surprised. “I was not aware that you would be present at this party.”

  A shy smile emerged on the young man’s face. “I have come on my father’s behalf,” he answered. “He seldom accepts such invitations at this, but he wishes me to honor his friend’s kindness.”

  His evident discomfort softened Marianne’s manner, although she felt herself pressed into difficulty at this moment. Mrs. Fitzwilliam had scarce recovered from the presence of Captain Lindley, only to be confronted by yet another inappropriate acquaintance.

  “My aunt,” said Marianne. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Allow me to introduce Mr. Adam Nimbley of London.”

  “I do not know your family, Mr. Nimbley,” began the good woman, stiffly. “Pray tell how you came to be acquainted with my niece.”

  Adam’s face turned a deep red. “Well, we were not properly introduced,” he ventured. “So I am not acquainted with the family...” His words trailed off beneath the gimlet stare of Mrs. Fitzwilliam.

  “Then you will do me the courtesy, perhaps, of having a proper introduction made to Miss Stuart,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “If you are so acquainted with our friends as you claim.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” ventured Adam. At this moment, they were joined once again by Captain Lindley, who offered them both an apologetic smile.

  “If I might be so bold, Miss Stuart,” he said, “then I should like to claim your hand for the next dance. If you are not ... otherwise engaged.” He glanced at Adam Nimbley, whose glasses were now being cleaned in a most violent effort to hide his agitation.

  “I am not, sir,” she answered, with a curtsy. Perhaps it was for this reason that Mr. Nimbley withdrew, stammering an apology. Captain Lindley, however, only retreated a respectful distance in response to Mrs. Fitzwilliam's cold gaze. A cold curtsy followed, then a retreat by aunt and niece into the safety of Lady Sanford's crowd of guests.

  “What is the matter, aunt?” Marianne protested, turning to her aunt. “Why is your manner so cold in their company? Had not Captain Lindley produced a proper introduction? I know that Mr. Nimbley had not–”

  “Have you no sense of propriety, Marianne?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam demanded. “A girl of your position should not dance with the same gentleman twice together –moreover, she should not be making acquaintances with young gentleman without her friends present to assure that they are suitable connections!”

  “It was merely by chance that we met,” said Marianne, although to which gentleman she referred she was not quite sure. “There is nothing unseemly in our acquaintance, for it is perfectly harmless.”

  “To your mind, perhaps,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam muttered. “But you shall remain among suitable friends for the rest of this evening, I assure you. Now, you must beg the pardon of Captain Lindley, for you shall not engage yourself to dance this evening. Is that quite clear?”

  No doubt Sir Edward would not be long in receiving another speech from his headstrong relation, Marianne surmised, even when she was safely removed from the two gentlemen in question. She did not cast a glance of any sort, longing or otherwise, in the direction where they had once stood, for she was not certain of her own feelings upon the matter.

  Except that she regretted the loss of the second dance more than she would have imagined possible.

  Chapter Nine

  “Your father, I hope, will appreciate a gift of fine tobacco. The best in all the plantations of Jamaica,” boasted Walter Nimbley as he placed a packet on the table before his nephew.

  “He has always believed your taste is the finest, sir,” his nephew Adam answered, with a smile. “Any gift which you have given is appreciated to the utmost degree, I assure you.”

  His voice was tempered in its enthusiasm, not for any want of affection for his uncle, but for the fatigue of mind and spirits which he had suffered since the Sanford’s ball. His state was noticed by the kindly eye of the merchant, who chose not to speak of it rather than distress his nephew further.

  “Well, now that I have been in the presence of a friendly face in London,” said Walter Nimbley, taking his coat from its hook, “it is time that I set forth upon business again. I must be off to one of my ships, for there is some trouble with its captain and his port of call upon this last venture. I shall not see it repeated, so it must be my hand at the till, so to speak, which ensures my goods are safely transported. Give my compliments to your good father, Adam.”

  “I shall, sir,” Adam answered, bowing as his uncle departed from the room, leaving only his eldest cousin Terrence. The young man was attempting to study with considerable hope for a future term at Oxford, despite the distraction of clerks entering the office frequently and his neglect of his father’s accounts upon the nearby desk.

  “I suppose I must be off as well,” said Adam, after a moment’s time. “Father will wish to hear my uncle’s account of the ships in harbor and the news from Brighton.”

  “It is an unseasonable time for Brighton,” was all young Terrence remarked. “When everyone wishes to be away to London, it is nothing but a despondent place with a great deal of rain.”

  With his packet tucked beneath his arm, Adam betook himself to the shop’s main floor. Where he paused in the doorway at the sight of the young woman who had plagued his thoughts for the past few days.

  A large map of India and China stood an atlas upon a stand, a pretty display and object of curiosity for the shop’s patrons with its splendid pages of foreign geography. Standing before it, examining its pages intently, was Marianne Stuart.

  Even without her face inclined towards his own, he knew her; the dark hair curled beneath a blue winter bonnet, a blue pelisse and gown more proper than the plain muslin of her adventure in the woods.

  Perhaps it was her fixed gaze upon the book which gave him courage; or his own conviction that this might be the last occasion on which he would speak to her. Either way, his voice emerged after a moment’s time.

  “Do you seek a proper road to the Orient, Miss Stuart?” he asked. She turned at the sound of his voice, her dark eyes upon him with dismay.

  “No, sir,” she answered. “I merely admire the volume’s splendors. It is a very fine one indeed; finer than any in my father’s library.”

  He approached, feeling slightly emboldened by her reply. “My uncle is a great admirer of books,” he said, joining her before the open pages. “He is a great reader–as is my own father. But the atlas holds additional value to my uncle since its geography is intimately familiar to him as a result of his travels.”

  “Does he tell you stories about it? Of what the people are like, the plants and animals?” she asked. “He must see a vast deal of strange and beautiful things while he is abroad.”

  Nimbley gazed upon her face instead of the pages of the book, tracing the look of wonder in her eyes. “He has told me that the smell of spices is like a perfume of unimaginable quality when one strolls across the land where they are grown,” he answered. “That he has seen fabrics of brilliant shades in the form of native dresses, the free end of the silk flying like a banner in the wind when one of the women strolls forth with her basket or pitcher.”

  “In India,” guessed Marianne. “I have heard of their unusual dresses which wrap around them. And in the Orient–” she looked away from him, at the surface of the map between them, which was open to the realm of China painted in colors of green and grey. "In the Orient, the silks are sewn like robes with sashes. And such strange buildings, unlike any castle of stone in England."

  “My uncle has seen splendid palaces guarded by fierce statues of dragons and mythical beasts,” said Adam. “I hav
e seen a drawing he made; and confess myself to be rather frightened by the fantastic image of one such creature.” His laugh resembled a stammer in its shyness, but it did not produce the coldness of manner which his apologies awakened at the ball.

  Let the subject not be raised, he prayed silently, for Marianne’s countenance held a smile which encouraged him greatly in his advances.

  “He had undoubtedly brought back strange and wondrous insects for you to admire,” said Marianne. “I should wonder at you missing such an opportunity, otherwise. To see what the great explorers of England have neglected in the smallest in exotic specimens.

  His cheeks reddened. “I must confess I have never asked him,” said Adam. “My father, you see, has only a little patience for my hobby. He believes dabbling in the sciences is not as proper for a gentleman as dabbling in the law, for instance. Such an eagerness for the native species of foreign lands would only disappoint him, I fear.”

  His finger traced the line of a river on the map, as he spoke– inadvertently brushing against the gloved hand of Marianne resting upon its surface. Their eyes met at this moment; in Marianne’s, a light of warmth flickered in their depths for a moment.

  “I purchased a little volume today,” she ventured, “at the book shop. I’m sure you have one like it already, but I found its contents fascinating. The thoughts of Mr. Paley upon Natural Theology. When I saw it, I confess I thought of you a little; for it reminded me of your remarks upon the hidden moth.”

  As she spoke, she drew the little book from her reticule and held it out to him. He turned it over in his hand, pretending to admire it although he possessed an older copy nearly like it in his own chambers.

  “It is a handsome addition to your library, Miss Stuart,” he ventured, with pleasure. “I have always found it to be an interesting study. And I daresay that no other young lady of my acquaintance has one like it–nor would have been courageous enough to purchase it from a shopkeeper,” he added, with a hesitant laugh.

  “Why should I think a shopkeeper would have any question of it?” asked Marianne, with a laugh far more easy than his own. “I should think him happy to make the transaction with any willing patron and to be pleased there is one less book on his shelf.”

  “Miss Stuart, you think too little of others’ fearful opinions,” began Mr. Nimbley, with a smile. “You must take care, for your friends would not have you–” He got no further, for the shop door opened to admit Mrs. Fitzwilliam.

  “Marianne,“ she said. Her voice was stern as she spoke, her countenance exhibiting distress at the sight of her niece and the young gentleman. At this moment, Grovner the clerk interrupted.

  “There is no more of the Oriental leaves you desired, Ma’am,” he said, returning from the shop store-room, his pencil tucked behind his ear, “but I have your other purchases ready for you.”

  “Thank you,” Marianne answered.

  Nimbley accepted the two bundles from the clerk only to have Mrs. Fitzwilliam relieve him of them.

  “Come, Miss Stuart,” she said. “We have no further business to attend in this place. Good day, sir.”

  “Good day Ma’am; Miss Stuart,“ he said, with a bow which ill-concealed his feelings at this moment as Miss Stuart was escorted away. He gazed after the young woman ushered through the shop door with regret. A regret he half-convinced himself was mirrored in her own eyes when she glanced back at him once, although he suspected it was his own feelings deceiving him.

  This reflection lasted longer than he realized, keeping him frozen in place before the atlas stand despite the curious glances of Grovner the clerk. When he moved, his glance fell on the little volume in his hand, where Marianne Stuart’s purchase still lay.

  *****

  “Willful deceit, Marianne.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s voice was cold and sharp. “That is what I should suspect if I did not know you better. To think that a daughter of Sir Edward Stuart would meet a gentleman by appointment–no, it is but too evil for me to speak aloud, even.”

  Across from her in the carriage, Marianne glanced at her aunt with shock. “I have done no such thing, aunt,” she protested. “The visit to the shop was merely to procure more tea for you, since you seemed so touched by the previous gift. I had no other motives, I assure you–I did not even know Mr. Nimbley would be there, for it is not his shop, but his uncle’s.”

  “Enough,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “I thank you not to trouble me with the details of Mr. Nimbley’s situation. Shopkeepers and bold young men indeed! To think I should live to see this. Whatever shall we do to protect you from yourself, Miss Marianne?”

  Her cheeks flushed with rage, Marianne did not answer. Instead, she flounced her skirts impatiently as she turned to face the carriage window, its shade raised enough to afford her a swift glimpse of the passing scenes.

  “Kindly do not fidget, Marianne,” her aunt reproved. “It is not dignified behavior.”

  At home, Marianne betook herself upstairs to her chamber without further comment. As for Mrs. Fitzwilliam, she insisted upon seeing Sir Edward in his library, much to the gentleman’s discomfort.

  “She must be sent away, Sir Edward,” she declared. “There is no possible means of avoiding it. It is early in the season, so it will not matter for her chances–and it will mean a great deal more to them if she avoids scandal.”

  Sir Edward’s voice was weary. “Perhaps we make too much of this business, Ma’am,” he answered. “Perhaps it is merely harmless as Marianne suggests; for there is no indication that anyone has mentioned these young gentlemen as suitors–”

  “She was seen with them,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam interjected. “Seen in public–in a common shop! And in the park, of course, by more than one lady and servant who could tell tales about Miss Marianne walking with a gentleman of the regiment if they so chose. No, there is nothing for it. She must be sent away directly to some place where these suitors will not be among her society.”

  “Lady Easton is not returning to Donnelly Hall for a matter of weeks,” Sir Edward answered. “If you will entertain to be patient, I am sure Lord Easton would be happy for Marianne to be one of the party.”

  “But that will be too late,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “My dear sir, a girl of such eager and open countenance as Marianne is in danger of falling prey to an inappropriate suitor at every moment. There is no time to lose. She must be sent away directly and I have just the place in mind.”

  She seated herself upon the nearest chair. “My daughter– my eldest–is yet at home in Norland Park in Esher; she has three daughters herself, the eldest lately engaged and the middle one newly out, as you know. With her Marianne would be perfectly safe and would receive every scrupulous correction and care of a mother–she will be improved, perhaps, when they come into town at the end of March or April. If nothing else, she will be safely beyond the reach of unwanted attention.”

  Sir Edward was silent for a moment. “Then I suppose she must go,” he answered. There was something in his tone which suggested it grieved him to say so, but only the words held any importance to Mrs. Fitzwilliam.

  “Then I shall write her directly and tell her to send a servant to the post–on Wednesday, shall we say?” Having retrieved her packages and her umbrella, she departed straightaway to put pen to paper at her own writing desk.

  “But why, Papa?” Marianne asked.

  Sir Edward had informed her earlier that evening of the engagement he made on her behalf, putting off Marianne’s protests and pleadings until the very last, when she crept downstairs with her candle after bed.

  “Please tell me, Papa, for I cannot bear not knowing the reason for this. I shouldn’t like to leave London now; for Flora is here and all the little ones whom we only see at Donnelly once or twice a year.”

  “There is little else to keep you here at this point in the Season,” her father answered. “Lady Easton is very much engaged on behalf of her mother and sister; and it would please your aunt if you should see something of your cousins a
t Norland.”

  At this, Marianne’s face darkened. “Then it is my aunt’s doing that I am sent away,” she said. No doubt Mrs. Fitzwilliam's concern for her had influenced Sir Edward's decision, for her father was usually reluctant to curb her behavior by such dramatic means.

  With a sigh, Sir Edward touched her shoulder. “It will not be so unpleasant as you think,” he said. “You shall see, Marianne.” He ascended the stairs to his chamber, leaving an unhappy figure in night-dress and shawl to sit forlornly upon the sofa with her thoughts.

  The plan was carried out, despite Marianne’s protests. Gloomily, she gazed through the windows of her father’s carriage as it journeyed towards Surrey. In her trunk, the garments preferred by her aunt were neatly folded and packed, with every trace of nature books and insects in jars removed. A fine box of butterfly wings collected from the fields of Brawley Court had been mercilessly removed; along with the bird’s nest from the Park.

  What stories must have convinced her father to send her away so suddenly? Her head was troubled with thoughts of this kind as it rested against the carriage walls. Did everyone believe she had behaved wrongly–had somehow disgraced her family merely by speaking pleasantly to others?

  In her mind, she reviewed the encounter between herself and Adam Nimbley, her speech to the merry William Lindley when he approached her at Lord Sanford’s ball. There was something there which she could not see, but others apparently did; and there was the reason why she was carried away despite her longing glances towards Evering House. Her first time to deeply miss it in all her life.

  A day after her departure, Adam Nimbley rang the bell of Evering House with a request that he might be admitted to speak to the lady of the house and return a certain volume she had mistakenly left in a London shop. His request, however, was denied.