Chapter 17
“He who stands at the threshold of love must first shed the garments of fear.”
Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner
Marco faced a towering white marble wall carved with images.
He stared at his reflection in the polished surface, and his reflection moved with a life of its own, gesturing to him as if to question his past choices and urge him to contemplate the future.
And as he stood there, attempting to make sense of his gesticulating self, Marco became aware of a heavy weight upon his back.
Realizing he was carrying the stones of his indecision, he peered about in search of an exit from this transitional place.
He did not belong there, for he had every intention of reaching a decision and earning his place at Molly’s side.
With great relief, he noted a narrow pathway leading toward a cliff, and he hurried in that direction, eager to leave and find the gates of paradise …
Marco awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented until he realized he was in his new bedchamber, smaller than the one damaged in the fire, yet comfortably and tastefully appointed.
He rolled onto his back as the pale light of morning filtered in and groaned softly.
Perhaps it was a mercy that the landscape of his dreams had shifted from hell to purgatory, a sign that his fears had changed now that immediate danger no longer lurked in the shadows.
Even so, the vision unsettled him. It was some comfort to know that guards had been stationed belowstairs at the baron’s insistence.
The marble wall had made plain that he had not yet earned his place as Molly’s husband, and he knew he must rise and seek a course by which he might reclaim his own esteem, having disappointed her too often with his vacillation.
A knock at the door announced the arrival of the baron’s valet, come to assist him in preparing for the day, and Marco rose at once to wash and dress.
An hour later, after having breakfasted with the baron, who had been in fine spirits regarding the resolution of the MacNaby situation, Marco had gone to the baron’s study to sit at the desk and peruse Simon’s notebooks concerning the estates once more.
It would not be such a terrible thing to pursue a new life here.
The notes regarding the tenants and their circumstances had proved unexpectedly thought-provoking, as their recent visit to Elmstead had demonstrated.
It was no small thing to relinquish the life one had known, the ambitions one had long entertained, but Florence lay a long sea journey away, and he must now seriously consider his place in England.
Perhaps before he attempted to resolve the matter of his worthiness to offer for Molly, he might take a modest step regarding the barony, something tangible that would allow him to assume responsibility as the baron’s representative.
Staring down at the notebooks, he attempted to discern what action might reasonably fall to him.
No tenants were due to renew their leases until the following year, leaving nothing to negotiate.
Rents would be collected by the stewards, and the same was true of servants’ wages, all matters were already ably managed.
A knock at the door interrupted his reflections, and he called out permission to enter.
Duncan stepped inside, faint shadows beneath his eyes betraying the late hour of their return, yet Marco found comfort in the familiar sight of him.
“The coffee you requested, sir.”
The head footman was neatly attired despite his fatigue, his livery immaculate as ever.
He carried a large silver tray bearing a tall, tapered coffeepot and cups, crossing the room to set it down.
Marco dimly recalled having asked for the tray earlier in the breakfast room.
Rubbing his tired eyes, he inhaled the rich aroma with pleasure, his appetite stirred anew.
Rising to pour himself a cup, he watched as Duncan prepared to withdraw and was struck by a sudden clarity of purpose.
He could take hold of the reins of this new role with a single, meaningful decision.
Perhaps he ought to consult his uncle John …
but perhaps not. Perhaps this was a choice he must make for himself, addressing any objections after the fact.
Would it not strengthen his confidence and affirm his place here if he acted as his own man?
“Duncan, I would like to speak with you.”
The footman halted. “Sir?”
“Close the door, if you please.”
Duncan obeyed and returned to the desk, where Marco indicated a chair before reclaiming his own. The servant appeared uncertain, perching on the edge of the armchair.
“I was impressed by your conduct last night, Duncan.”
“Thank you, sir. Miss Carter is much liked belowstairs, and it did not seem right what Mr. MacNaby did … though I confess I do not fully understand the matter, only that it concerned Miss Carter.”
Marco inclined his head, appreciating the delicacy of the servant’s position. Duncan’s assistance the previous night, his readiness to act and his guidance to the gamekeeper’s cottage, had not been expected. He had proved himself a man of principle, worthy of trust.
“How long have you served in the baron’s household?”
The footman cleared his throat. “More than ten years, sir.”
“And how would you regard a promotion to the position of butler?”
Duncan’s eyes widened. “I … sir, are you quite certain I am equal to such a post?”
“I believe you are. You already oversee the footmen and have undoubtedly assisted MacNaby with the silver and china. You know our suppliers. And should there be any skill you feel you lack, I would see that you receive proper instruction. The Duke of Halmesbury would, I am sure, permit you to spend some weeks observing his own butler, if you wished.”
The footman hesitated, likely weighing the gravity of the offer, but Marco noticed a glint of excitement in his blue eyes.
The promotion would be a significant increase in status, responsibilities, and wages, and Marco gave him the courtesy of reflection, allowing the servant time to consider the ramifications of accepting the post.
“Yes. I would greatly appreciate the opportunity, Mr. Scott.”
Marco nodded. “The role is yours. I shall prepare a note to summon our man of business to finalize the particulars.”
Duncan rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Scott. You will not regret this.” He dropped a bow and left the room, but despite his usual reserve, Marco caught the unmistakable hint of a smile playing about his lips as he exited into the hall.
Sipping his coffee, Marco located a page and quill in the drawer of the walnut desk and wrote a brief summons to the agent who handled the family’s business affairs, as Simon had outlined in the notebooks.
It was high time he made the man’s acquaintance, and he requested a meeting for the following morning before folding the note and ringing for a footman to deliver it.
With that matter settled, Marco felt a quiet swell of confidence, the steady assurance of a man who had at last accepted the role placed before him and begun to shape it as his own.
He would fill the boots of his uncle Simon.
And now there remained another matter to set right.
Simon had erred in one respect, an error Marco had long recognized, and he intended to correct it, to offer redress to the wronged party.
With purpose in his stride, he ascended to the second floor.
As he approached the door to Molly’s chambers, he paused at the sound of a plaintive French voice raised in complaint. Pressing closer, he listened without compunction, sensing that he had arrived at precisely the right moment.
“You could ’ave got me in very great trouble, disappearing like zat! It could affect my chances to secure a respectable position in ze future.”
As Marco had suspected, Miss Dubois’s distress stemmed not from concern for Molly’s safety, but from anxiety over her own prospects. His irritation sharpened. The chaperon’s priorities were plain enough.
“I assure you, I never intended to cause you inconvenience.” Molly’s voice was cool and impeccably polite, her English composure firmly in place.
It made Marco smile despite himself. He suspected she longed to answer more sharply, but her circumstances, and her innate courtesy, kept her restrained.
How awkward it must be to quarrel with one’s appointed shadow.
Molly might have defeated a pistol-waving madman with a convincing argument, but she had yet a dragon to slay.
And it would be he who slayed this particular dragon on behalf of the woman he …
shutting his lids for a moment, Marco finally confessed the truth to himself …
the woman he loved. The admission was unexpectedly freeing.
“Very selfish of you, truly! So inconsidérate!”
Reaching the limits of his patience, Marco knocked. Silence fell at once. After a moment, the handle turned, and Miss Dubois’s pretty but sharp features appeared through the opening.
“Meester Scott? May I be of azzistance?”
His mouth curved into a courteous smile. “I wish to speak with you … and with Miss Carter. If you would step into the hall?”
The chaperon looked perplexed but opened the door fully, revealing Molly, dressed though her hair remained unpinned. Her expression brightened with unmistakable hope, and for the first time, Marco accepted her admiration without hesitation or reserve.
They had not yet completed her morning preparations, but Marco gestured for them to step out into the passage. As Molly passed him, he offered her a quiet, reassuring glance, one meant only for her.
They entered the corridor, and Marco’s gaze followed the graceful fall of her hair down her back before he deliberately reined in his thoughts, anchoring himself once more in purpose and restraint.