Chapter 18
After reading her father’s letter, Marguerite said to Argyle, ‘You know, my father approves of you. He always has, which I found so strange.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Strange? And why is that, pray? Am I so unlikeable?’
She grinned at him. ‘Yes, you can be. But no, it is not that. He thinks you are intelligent but more than that—he likes you.’
‘Well, I am glad he does. I have much respect for him. I wish he had been able to influence you more, when I first made you an offer.’
‘Oh, no, that would never have worked. I didn’t like you at all, then, and he would not have forced me. Anyway, even if he had, it would have been a society wedding, not a love match.’
‘What fustian. I would have changed your mind on our wedding night.’
‘I must admit that you might have. I would have discovered your hidden…attributes, then. But it wouldn’t have been as wildly romantic as what actually happened.’
‘It would have been less scandalous. And less dangerous.’ They smiled at each other.
Argyle was still in bed, in a fresh white shirt, having his breakfast on a tray.
Marguerite had finished hers in the parlour, and had come up to keep him company.
The letter had just arrived, and she read it out to him.
They settled in at the inn, with Flossie and Curtis watching over them and tending to their every need. Curtis gradually lost his initial stiffness and Marguerite, going to the kitchen to fetch a hot drink for Argyle, caught them chatting away over glasses of ale.
‘In fact,’ Marguerite said, when she came back up to the parlour with the hot toddy, ‘they are getting on like a house on fire. Do you think there could be something going on there?’
Argyle, lounging on the sofa, raised an eyebrow. ‘Why must you concern yourself with the servants, my dove?’ He took the mug from her hand and drank a little.
She mocked him. ‘They are people, Your Grace. Just like us, or hadn’t you noticed? They are doing so much for us—I want them to be happy.’
Argyle looked at her for a moment. ‘You must be right. I have never thought of it this way.’
‘Because you are self-centred and conceited. Oh, and spoilt. You only think of yourself, and your own view of things. Your Grace.’
He laughed and that made him wince. ‘Do not make me laugh, you wretch, my ribs are killing me.’
Marguerite frowned at him. ‘It is not funny.’
‘But surely you are a little unfair: now I also think of you. And don’t forget I fell for you when you were helping that woman in the street, so there might be hope for me yet.’ He pulled on her hand, and she sat down beside him.
‘I’m sure there is, if I have anything to do with it. I will uncover your good side, for you must have one. Most people do.’
‘I wonder. I regret my behaviour, but you made me so angry.’
‘Stop reminiscing about all that. You are so ridiculous.’
He grinned at her. ‘So, you love someone who is stupid, ridiculous and an imbécile?’
‘Yes. I must be insane.’ She gave him her sweetest smile.
She teased him, trying to get him to laugh at himself. She ran her hand over his shoulder and upper arm, feeling the muscles under the thin linen of his shirt, and said, ‘Ooh, Your Grace—I can see why my friends called you a Corinthian. You must spend hours boxing.’
He laughed. ‘Indeed—and fencing, and riding. Do you disapprove?’
‘No, of course I do not. I – er – appreciate your body. As long as you also read a few books occasionally.’
He set his mug down then put his arm around her and quoted, ‘If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, ‘twas but a dream of thee…’
Marguerite opened her eyes at him. ‘John Donne? I am impressed.’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘You inspire me. I wish you would wear your hair down, while we are here.’
‘Flossie does not allow it. She says it is not proper.’
‘Damn Flossie,’ he said, pulling the pins out, and twisting his hand in the long tresses.
* * *
Flossie was doing her best to watch over her mistress, ensconcing herself in a corner of the parlour with a basket of sewing. Marguerite laughed at her.
‘Don’t tell me you remembered to bring your sewing with you!’
‘Oh, no, my lady, Mrs Mowatt gave it to me. I am hemming her tea towels.’
‘Very nice for her, I’m sure, but why don’t you go and do it in the kitchen?’
Flossie put on a dignified air. ‘I am chaperoning you, my lady.’
Marguerite laughed again. ‘You really do not need to do that here. His Grace and I are engaged, remember?’
‘Still, it is not proper. And we cannot leave the door open.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Argyle, who had been watching this exchange with an amused look on his face. ‘People would start wandering in, asking for tankards of ale.’
Flossie threw him a grateful look. ‘You see? Your mother would not like it.’
‘My mother is not here. And I should not think detailed reports of my doings will reach her, will they? Oh, do go away, Flossie, I wish to be alone with His Grace. We have things to discuss.’
Flossie gathered up her sewing, curtsied with a raised chin and a disapproving look on her face, and left the room.
But she did not give up. She found endless excuses to come in, bringing tea, the newspapers, letters, or a book.
She bent severe looks upon them if she found them sitting too close together, with Argyle’s hand on Marguerite’s leg as she read aloud to him, or his arm around her waist.
Marguerite, in turn, found endless tasks for her to do—sending her down to the kitchen with requests for Mrs Mowatt, or off to the village with various errands to accomplish.
She had found out there was a circulating library, from which many books were procured, and a tea shop from which pastries and tiny iced buns were purchased, to tempt Argyle’s appetite.
Flossie enjoyed these outings, and sometimes persuaded her mistress to come with her, saying the fresh air would do her good.
They wandered down the street together, admiring the flowers in the small front gardens, and looking into the windows of the few shops.
Flossie would find the opportunity to ply Marguerite with questions.
‘Do you love him, my lady?’
‘Of course I do, Flossie, I would not be here otherwise. But I didn’t think I would, in the beginning. Life is strange.’
‘Things will always turn up for the best, my mum always says,’ said Flossie wisely, swinging her basket.
* * *
The days went by as though in a dream; it was as if their past confrontations had never been. Argyle was still not well, being plagued by headaches and an aching body—his bruised and cracked ribs made him uncomfortable even when he was in bed.
In the mornings he hobbled downstairs and spent a good part of the day half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa in the parlour, propped up by an assortment of cushions, with Marguerite reading aloud from the books she had sent for until he dozed off.
If he was feeling up to it, they played cards, endless games of piquet and gin rummy.
When they tired of those, Marguerite asked, ‘How about chess? I saw you play in the library, that afternoon you would not speak to me.’
‘You disturbed me. I kept thinking about you, after the drive, and when I saw you, I became tongue-tied. You made me lose my game.’
‘What fustian—you are never tongue-tied, only grumpy.’
Argyle ignored this. ‘I don’t think they will have a board here.’
‘We can send for one. And meanwhile, what about backgammon? My father taught me. I’ll wager they have a board in the tap room. I will go and see.’
‘You are not going anywhere in that indecent dress.’ Marguerite’s bosom was only thinly veiled by a transparent gauze fichu.
‘I wore this gown because you said you liked it.’
‘The fact that I like looking at your bosom does not mean I want every ruffian on this earth staring at it, too.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It would be nice to be admired by someone else for a change. I miss my prétendants. And the tap room is always lively, enfin.’
Argyle scowled but refused to be drawn. ‘Just tell Curtis to go, will you? Please?’
Marguerite made a deep curtsy. ‘At once, Your Grace.’ She turned to go and found herself face to face with Flossie, who had just come in. ‘Have you come to supervise us, Flossie?’
Flossie put an offended look on her face. ‘I have come to ask if you wanted tea, my lady.’
‘We do, don’t we, mon c?ur? But can you also ask Curtis to see if there is a backgammon board in the taproom. His Grace will not allow me to go myself.’
‘I should hope not,’ said Flossie, going out. ‘The taproom is a den of rapscallions.’
Presently Curtis appeared with a backgammon board made of rough wood. The paint on the points had faded, as it had on the draughts, but it was serviceable.
Argyle said, ‘Thank you, Curtis, this will do very well.’
He put the board on a small table, and he and Marguerite sat facing each other.
Since their card games were played in an atmosphere of fun, he was astonished to discover that in this instance Marguerite was so determined to beat him that, when things were not going her way, she slammed the draughts down on the points and muttered French oaths under her breath.
This amused him so much that, for the first time in his life, his own competitive spirit waned.
He sat back, rolling the dice languidly, his eyes hooded but his lips curling up at the corners.
‘May I remind you, my love, that the stakes are not too high today. We are playing to pass the time, are we not?’
Marguerite lifted her eyes briefly and focused on the board again. ‘I never play backgammon to pass the time, pardieu.’
‘Yes, I noticed. You have been swearing like a trouper. Where did you learn those words—I hardly think your mother talks like this.’
‘Mais non, but I was allowed the run of the library. Pirate tales, probably,’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Are you letting me win?’
‘No, but you are a distraction—making me lose as you did in the library. It must be your language—or your décolleté.’
Marguerite rolled the dice vigorously.
* * *