Chapter 14
Lord Lennox, sitting at the breakfast table reading a letter from the pile set before him by the butler, let out an exclamation of surprise and said to his wife and daughter, ‘By Jove! You know Marguerite’s rejected suitor, the Duke of Argyle? My friend Fitzroy writes he’s had a serious accident.’
Marguerite had been buttering a piece of toast—she dropped the knife with a clatter, her face drained of colour. Her mother said, ‘Mon Dieu, that is terrible. What happened?’
Her father lifted his head to look at her, then continued reading. ‘It seems…he was driving his curricle too fast, and he could not avoid a deer that ran across the road. The curricle overturned…they think he must have knocked his head. He is unconscious…they are not sure he will live.’
Marguerite said, her voice taut as a violin string, ‘When did this happen?’
Her father read on, pushing his spectacles up his nose while ineffectually trying to stab a piece of devilled kidney, ‘Yesterday. Fitzroy was on his way to Ascot—he saw the curricle by the side of the road and inquired. They had already taken the duke away. He thought he would inform me at once, because of our purported…connection. I have no idea what he knows about that.’ He looked at Marguerite again, his face impassive.
Lady Lennox said, ‘Enfin, people are such gossips, and they love to be the first to pass on bad news. C’est horrible.’
Marguerite leaned forward—she picked up her knife again, and her knuckles were as white as the ivory handle. She asked, ‘Where is he?’
Lord Lennox, lowering his eyes from her anxious face, peered at the sheet of foolscap. ‘…let me see…they put him in a nearby inn, where he is being treated by a doctor from London. He is too ill to be moved.’ He read further. ‘It is called The Lion, near Richmond.’
Pushing back her plate, Marguerite rose and turned to go.
Her mother asked, ‘Where are you going, ma chérie?’
‘I must go to him, Maman.’
Her mother gaped at her. ‘But why?’
‘I love him. I cannot bear to lose him.’
‘Mais…I thought you hated him.’
‘Non, je l’aime. I have just realised. I hope it is not too late.’ Her voice caught.
Lady Lennox was still confused. ‘Well…yes…but…but…you cannot go alone.’
‘I will say I am betrothed to him. He keeps asking me to marry him. You can send my maid with my clothes as soon as possible. Please.’
She rushed out, leaving the door open. Her mother looked after her open-mouthed, but her father chuckled. ‘Well, well. I cannot say I am displeased—he is the man I always wanted her to marry. Let us hope he will recover.’
Lady Lennox found her voice. ‘And I was about to say, it is a good thing she did not accept him, if he is going to die.’ She sighed. ‘My dear, I do not understand. She is always saying he is détéstable. They are forever at odds.’
‘Well, it probably would not be the calmest of marriages, but he is strong enough to keep her interested. She would get tired of Charles within a year. He is too nice for her. We have brought her up to have opinions.’
‘You mean you have, mon cher,’ said Lady Lennox, raising her eyebrows at him. ‘I would have wished her to be more ladylike. It would have been much easier if we’d had a son.’
‘I have never wished it, my dear. I think she is perfect.’
‘Mais voyons, to rush off by herself like that—it is not seemly. And it could be dangerous.’
‘I will keep an eye on what she does, my love. And it will do her good to deal with this—it will mature her. I have confidence in her judgement.’
‘But if he dies, it will break her heart.’
‘If she does not go and he dies, she will feel even worse that she did not try to help him. We can only hope he won’t die.’Lady Lennox, who was a devout Catholic, crossed herself. ‘I will pray for them both.’
* * *
Marguerite sent to the stable for her mare to be saddled immediately, then ran upstairs to change into her riding habit.
She put some money in her pocket and when her mare was brought around, she told her groom to accompany her.
He asked where they were going, but when told the answer, he said, ‘Oh, my lady, are you sure you do not want to be driven in the phaeton? It is a fair distance.’
‘No, no, this way will be faster.’ The look in her eye told him not to question her further. He mounted his own horse which he had brought out, thinking they were to ride in the park.
He said, ‘I know of a couple of short cuts.’
They rode hard and in silence for what seemed to her a long time, during which she stopped herself from imagining what she would find upon her arrival.
She put herself into a trance, keeping her eyes on her mare’s ears, and praying.
They passed through a village and the groom made her stop at the pub to bait the horses and let them rest a short while.
Marguerite drank a glass of cider and paced the small garden until she could prevail upon him to set off again.
They rode through woods whose beauty she did not even notice and at last they came to an inn of grey stone, set back from the road, and passed under an archway into a large, square courtyard, paved with flagstones.
Marguerite jumped off her mare and, giving the reins to the groom, strode inside, to be met by the landlord, a thick-set man with a shock of brown hair. ‘My lady—how may I be of assistance?’
‘I have come to see my betrothed, the Duke of Argyle—take me to him at once.’ Her voice had risen with impatience and anxiety.
The man was taken aback. He said, ‘My lady, the doctor is with him now.’
She hesitated, then raised her chin and said, ‘All right. Then prepare a bedchamber for me, and a private parlour. I will stay as long as is necessary. My maid is to follow with my luggage.’
‘Very well, my lady.’ He was surprised by so imperious a manner in one so young and pretty. ‘To whom do I have the honour of speaking?’
‘I am Lady Marguerite Lennox, sir.’
The landlord perceived she was holding back tears and said gently, ‘This way, my lady. You can wait in the parlour for the doctor to finish. Would you require some refreshment?’
‘I would love some tea,’ said Marguerite, reverting to her usual manner and thus causing the landlord to smile indulgently. ‘And please can you ask the doctor to come and see me before he leaves? I am so anxious about His Grace, you see.’ Her voice faltered.
‘Yes, it is a terrible thing, my lady. A man so young, so strong. He dines here often, on his way to Ascot. He is in a bad way—let us hope he can be saved.’
He turned to lead the way to the back of the inn and let her into a pleasant room. He was about to close the door behind him when Marguerite remembered the horses.
‘Could you please tell my groom to lead my mare home after he and the horses have eaten and rested, since I might be staying for some time. I will send for him when I need him.’ The landlord nodded and left the room; a short time later a young servant came in carrying a tea tray.
The landlord’s words had struck a poisoned arrow into Marguerite’s heart.
She paced up and down the parlour, oblivious of her surroundings, taking occasional sips of her cooling tea, but leaving the slice of cake that had come with it untouched.
The door opened again and the landlord came in, followed by the doctor.
She froze, trying to decipher the look on the doctor’s face.
The landlord said, ‘Here is her ladyship, Doctor Peel. I will let you explain the situation to her.’
The doctor, a spare man with thinning hair, bowed and said, ‘I fear we are not out of the woods yet, my lady. The trauma to the head was severe, and His Grace is still unconscious. He has also suffered serious bruising to the body, but thankfully no bones are broken—possibly a couple of ribs are fractured. I have done what I can to make him comfortable, but the longer he sleeps, the better his brain can recover. He needs complete rest.’
Marguerite felt tears flood her eyes, but she blinked them back, and said, as firmly as she could manage, ‘Can I stay with him, doctor? I will be very quiet. No hysterics, I promise.’
The doctor looked at her for a moment. ‘I can see you are a sensible young woman. I think your presence by his side could be a good thing, but you must be patient. All we can do now is pray.’