Chapter 13 #3
When her parents returned, Marguerite persuaded her father to walk with her about the garden and made what she thought was a discreet inquiry. Lord Lennox raised his eyebrows and laughed at her: ‘Changed your mind, have you, puss? I thought you might.’
His daughter reddened. ‘I’m not saying I have, Papa. I am just asking you for an opinion.’
‘Well, my sweet, Argyle is a clever man, and he has worked for what he has. He is still working by the looks of it and, I assume, always will be. It is in his character not to be idle, and I like that in a man. He could easily have led a frivolous life, letting debts accumulate, like so many of his kind.’
‘It his character, his manner, that I find…difficult, even intolerable, in many ways.’
His eyes mocked her. ‘So, as I understand it, you like Barnfield and a certain Crampton who I hear was smitten by you at Harwick, but you cannot love them—on the other hand, it seems to me you love Argyle, but you do not like him much.’
Marguerite had to laugh. ‘The way you put it, Papa, it sounds like a theatrical farce!’
‘Life often is, my sweet. As for Argyle, I suspect his manner is due to the fact he cannot bring himself to tolerate society and its foibles. He considers himself superior—and, in many ways, he is. But everyone has their shortcomings and you, my love, are very headstrong yourself. I confess that to be my own fault, because I wanted your true character to develop despite society mores. You would soon get bored with a lamb for a husband—you would be much better off with a wolf.’
She laughed at the comparison. ‘Dear Papa, you are so wise. And so silly.’
‘I find you strangely indecisive, my dear. As a rule, it takes you all of two minutes to make up your mind, and never sway from your decision—much to your mother’s dismay, I might add. I do suspect you might be in love.’
‘Pray do not make a joke of it—it is my whole life we are talking about. It is true, I am finding it hard to decide what to do.’
‘The answer will come to you in good time, never fear,’ said her father, taking her arm in his.
* * *
Argyle sat at his desk, amid piles of papers, staring at a map of India.
It was, it had to said, a fascinating country, and this impression was reinforced with each conversation he had with people who were there.
However, his heart was not in the planning of his journey, although he had always had a yearning to travel.
He felt restless and out of sorts—angry and frustrated, emotions he was not used to having, and whose cause was a slip of a girl, who was not even of age yet.
He could not fathom her behaviour, in giving herself to him so freely, and then still refusing him.
Making love to her exceeded every one of his expectations—they had both been a little mad that night, that was sure, and he had been more than a little drunk, although he had denied it—but at least his intentions had been honourable..
He had offered marriage before even touching her hand, except in a dance.
He was sure she must be in love with him, else why would she respond with such abandonment?
But there was something stopping her from yielding to his will, and he had no idea what it could be.
And that made him furious, with himself as well as with her.
He pushed the map away, rubbing his eyes then dragging his hands through his hair.
What was he thinking of? He was a peer of the realm, with a place in Parliament, and no need to increase his already considerable fortune.
Would he drop it all because his life in England had become unbearable?
His threat to Marguerite was in fact but a threat, to try and sway her—but he could not go on like this.
He decided to stay away from her and see if it would help him get over his obsession—he could not keep hoping endlessly that she would change her mind.
* * *
In the next week, Argyle did not appear during their rides in the park, causing much comment amongst Marguerite’s group of friends.
‘Where can the duke have got to? We have not seen him for a sennight.’
‘Is he avoiding you, Marguerite? You seemed so taken with him at Harwick.’ This from Alice.
Another girl added, ‘Did you fall out with him?’
‘No, of course not.’ She reddened, causing Alice to send her a sharp look.
One of the men said, ‘I heard he was thinking of doing business in India. He talked to my uncle, who has just returned from there.’
‘Oh, he will become a regular nabob. He is sure to succeed at anything he puts his hand to.’
Marguerite felt a stab of pain in her heart and knew how dreadfully she would miss him if he left. She gritted her teeth and put a slight, indifferent smile on her face.
When Charles went ahead to canter with a friend, Alice rode up next to her and said in a low voice, ‘What is going on with you, Marguerite? When he took you out for a drive, I was sure he would propose.’
‘He…I…I do not want to talk about it, Alice—especially not out here.’
Alice put a hand on her arm for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, I did not mean to pry. But know you can talk to me if you need to.’
‘I know, thank you.’
‘Anyway, you know I have a personal interest in this whole affair.’ Alice smiled mischievously and winked at Marguerite, who reached across and squeezed her hand. She envied Alice her lightheartedness.
Should she confide in Alice? Upon reflection, she decided against it, fearing it might confuse her further.
A small part of her regretted her father’s liberal attitude: at nineteen, it was hard to make a decision that would affect the rest of her life—in a way, it would have been easier to be told what she should do.
Then she recalled a girl of her acquaintance, who had been forced to marry a man much older than herself and very unappealing, because he was titled and rich and it was considered a ‘brilliant match.’ She was ashamed of her thoughts.
Marguerite knew there was a deadline to her decision, and she spent many a sleepless night, vacillating between feeling she couldn’t live without Argyle and hating him for putting her in a position where she was forced to choose.
Her uncertainty made her short-tempered, and her mother remarked upon it.
‘Is anything the matter, ma chérie?’
‘Non, maman. Tout va bien.’ She saw her mother looking at her strangely, unconvinced, and was remorseful for causing her to worry; but she did not feel able to confide in her.
She then came upon the idea that perhaps she could insist on a long engagement, during which she could get to know Argyle better—while being allowed to kiss him—without the decision being entirely final; but feared he was too impatient, and obstinate, to agree to such a scheme.
However, what was there to be lost by asking?
She took a sheet of paper and started writing a letter to him, but tore it up twice, uncertain of how to express her feelings.
She decided to talk it over with her father first but, before she could do so, something happened which took matters out of her hands.