Chapter Thirty
The morning after the most intense erotic encounter of her life, Scarlett Perkins sat in the quaint little Parkhorne church.
Her core was still sore from riding Malcolm the night before.
And her heart felt, if not bruised exactly, then tender.
They had exposed so much in their assignation.
She was not sure what his professed love meant or what her own even meant.
She only knew that, in her own case, it was true. And that in his, she hoped it was.
After they had finished on the chaise last night, they had righted themselves, resolving that they must return to the festivities before they were missed.
Scarlett had stopped at the retiring room to make sure she did not look as wrecked, as crazed with lust and feeling, as she felt.
Besides a few mussed curls, however, she looked much as she always did. It had almost disappointed her.
And, as it turned out, they needn’t have worried so much about their absence being conspicuous. When she reentered the ballroom alone, where dancing had recommenced after supper, no was looking for her.
Tilly was on the dance floor with George.
Vera had gone to bed. And who else would be particularly concerned about her movements?
It had been a relief to realize that no one would discover her absolutely indecent, personally ruinous behavior.
But it did make her wish she hadn’t been so hurried in her private goodbyes to Malcolm.
Now, she sat in church, and he wasn’t here.
Of course, it was perfectly reasonable that the morning after a ball, a young, single gentleman would not come to church.
Men had more leeway in such matters than women like herself.
The marchioness was not here either—rank buying her similar leniency.
But still, part of her felt slightly deflated in the face of his defection from a ritual that he had not neglected the three Sundays previous.
She was glad, however, for the time to turn her—their—circumstances over in her head.
After last night, the prospect of parting felt excruciating.
Could it be possible—if they really loved each other—for them to marry?
He had proposed twice before. She knew that he would marry her as a matter of honor.
That she had a claim on him if she wanted to use it.
And she believed that now, of course, she was more to him than just that.
Even if his confession of love had only been said in the heat of lust, she knew he cared for her to some degree.
She did not think that, in marrying her, he would only regard it as a sacrifice to honor.
No, what gave her pause now respecting a potential union was much more quotidian. And yet, it was the most common thing keeping couples apart.
Money.
She had none. And he seemed to have little, if any, of his own.
Would the Salisburys consent to have her and Malcolm live together in the hunting lodge as man and wife? She tried to imagine that future. Surely, when Tilly married George and was living in the hall, they would do what they could to help her and Malcolm wed.
She glanced over at Tilly, who sat beside her in the pew. Her sister certainly looked tired, although that was hardly surprising after an evening of dancing. Nevertheless, she was still worried about her sister, especially after the scene yesterday before the ball.
After she had witnessed Tilly kissing Severn, she had been prepared to tell her sister that she needed to end her engagement with George.
But Tilly had broken down in tears, sobbing and apologizing to Scarlett.
Alarmed, she had consoled Tilly, who had insisted that she loved George, that she wanted to marry him, and that what she had just witnessed happen with Severn was nothing.
Of course, Tilly had also taken this opportunity to accuse Scarlett of having fallen in love with Malcolm. She even insisted that Malcolm had fallen in love with Scarlett. She said she wasn’t a fool and could see it with her own eyes, and that she, Tilly, wasn’t the only one of them hiding things.
She wasn’t wrong, of course. But Scarlett couldn’t reveal the truth to Tilly.
So she had admitted she had some feeling for the man, yes, but she doubted his own feelings.
Luckily, Tilly had been so overwrought over her interaction with Mr. Westmore that she hadn’t pressed much further once Scarlett had relented a little.
After this confrontation, Scarlett hadn’t known what to do.
She didn’t understand what was happening with Mr. Westmore and her sister.
But she also knew that sometimes, in these matters, young ladies had to make choices, and those choices weren’t always easy.
It was evident that there was something between the rake and her sister.
But it did not appear to be the sort of connection that led to matrimony.
She knew something of that herself, after the past few weeks.
And she had seen George glaring at Miss Wallington and Severn as they danced at the ball. Perhaps Tilly wasn’t the only one choosing between multiple attachments.
But Tilly had apparently made her decision. Just as George had seemingly kept his word to her sister.
Scarlett returned her thoughts to her own affairs. As appealing as a vision of a future in the hunting lodge might be to her, she had a feeling that Malcolm would not accept it. That he would want to offer his wife a true establishment.
Still, she thought, he might accept it if she made clear that what she wanted had changed. His honor, at least, would demand it.
The service came to an end, and they filed out of the church into the sunshine. Once more, most of the party wanted to walk back to Parkhorne Hall, given the fine morning, and Scarlett felt the same. The walk would give her more time to think.
Unfortunately, as she began to walk, Miss Marburry fell into step beside her.
She hadn’t spent much time with Miss Marburry at this house party. She did know, however, that while timid amongst the gentlemen, with the other ladies the girl had a tendency to talk just to fill the silence.
But the first words that she spoke surprised Scarlett. “Mr. Brown was not at church this morning,” she said tentatively. “I hope he is not ill.”
Scarlett very much doubted that the man was ill. He was probably lying abed and contemplating the decisions he had made the night before—with her.
But that would not do for Miss Marburry, so she merely said, “I had not noticed, Miss Marburry. But I suppose you are right. I hope that he is well too. But it is not unusual for people to rise late the night after a ball, especially the gentlemen. You will notice a few are missing this morning.”
“Yes, it is true,” Miss Marburry said, all good nature. “Although I am surprised you did not notice his absence, Miss Perkins. You have spent much time in his company as of recent.”
Scarlett startled at this insinuation. Was the girl suggesting that more existed between her and Malcolm than anyone else knew? Why would she intimate such a thing? It could be nothing to her.
“Ah, I suppose,” she said uneasily. “We have often been seated together at dinner.”
She wished she could say the obvious, which was that both of them were loose ends at the party and made a natural match for that reason.
But she couldn’t very well say to Miss Marburry that she, Scarlett, wasn’t one of George Salisbury’s quarries.
Miss Marburry supposedly was and was about as likely to marry him as she was.
“That is exactly why I asked you if you noticed his absence. I thought you might know, you see, whether he was feeling poorly or not. Since you are so often with him.”
Her logic was certainly pointed. She gave a little smile—perhaps Miss Marburry had acquired a preference for Malcolm. Scarlett could understand why, of course. And the girl had certainly had plenty of time alone to notice that George’s eldest brother was exceedingly handsome.
“Is there a particular reason you are concerned for Mr. Brown’s health?”
“Oh no, nothing of import. It is only that he promised to take me on a walk this afternoon. And now I don’t know if I should expect it or not.”
That was curious, Scarlett thought. Why would Malcolm have promised to take Miss Marburry on a walk? Perhaps Mrs. Salisbury or his sister had asked him to offer to entertain the girl. Certainly, Malcolm would do it under those circumstances.
They walked on for a few minutes in silence. Scarlett had returned mentally to the problems that had preoccupied her in the church, when Miss Marburry startled her once more by speaking.
“He is rather eligible, don’t you think? Mr. Brown?”
Dear God, Scarlett thought, perhaps the girl did have a tendre.
“I suppose,” Scarlett said guardedly. “It depends what is meant by the word.”
“Mrs. Salisbury certainly seems to think so, although I suppose she has a reason to be partial to him. Having known him for so long, I mean.”
This information was interesting, Scarlett thought. She had little insight into what Mrs. Salisbury thought of Malcolm or how likely she would be to help facilitate his marriage. Perhaps, she thought, here Miss Marburry could be useful.
“Does she hope that Mr. Brown will find a wife?”
To her surprise, Miss Marburry faintly blushed. “She has told me so herself. And she has—expressed the hope that he will find a lady of good birth and adequate fortune.”
An uneasy sensation came over Scarlett. While this description wasn’t very precise, Miss Marburry’s conscious look suggested she knew more about who Mrs. Salisbury hoped Malcolm would marry.
“Those qualifications sound very reasonable,” Scarlett said, thinking that perhaps she did not want to know more of Mrs. Salisbury’s opinions.
“I do think,” Miss Marburry said with an air of confidentiality, “that Mrs. Salisbury hopes that I might fill the post.”
Scarlett was surprised. She looked over at Miss Marburry. The girl was perfectly attractive and perfectly nice, and she did have a modest dowry, from what Scarlett recalled. More than sufficient for Malcolm’s station in life.
“I believe she has spoken to him of the matter,” Miss Marburry said. “And that is why he has asked me to walk with him this afternoon.”
Scarlett nearly stumbled. Her first reaction was no, that cannot be true. She had never seen Malcolm express interest in Miss Marburry.
But why would the girl lie? She was not malicious. And she seemed to suspect nothing of her own connection with Malcolm.
“I do think he would be a suitable husband. And I would accept him if he asked for my hand. And under the circumstances, I believe that is his intent. If he is well enough for the excursion, of course.”
It was highly improper for the girl to be speaking of it. Unless she was really certain. It dawned on Scarlett that Miss Marburry really must believe that such an offer was nigh.
“I will wish you joy, then,” Scarlett managed in a strangled voice. “On such an occasion.”
Parkhorne Hall loomed in the distance. Thankfully, Miss Marburry said no more for the rest of the walk. But in the time it took for Scarlett to travel the last quarter mile toward Parkhorne, she decided a great many things.
The first was that Miss Marburry must be correct—after all, she was a close friend of the family, of Mrs. Salisbury, and had been since girlhood.
Mrs. Salisbury would have every reason to want to settle her favorite near Parkhorne.
Miss Marburry certainly seemed struck with Malcolm—and there was no denying that she had no hope with George.
And Mrs. Salisbury must be in the position to give Malcolm much patronage, as the mother of the owner of the estate.
He would want to please her. Yes, he had told Scarlett that he planned to never marry, that he would make any woman miserable, but Miss Marburry certainly did not seem demanding.
She wanted only, Scarlett had to reason, a comfortable home in a familiar location and a husband who was acceptable to her personal tastes.
If his family wanted the match, she could understand why, given his strong principles and his position, he would feel honor-bound to accept it.
Scarlett realized that she had been indulging a fantasy. She had been imagining that this man would choose her. That Malcolm would choose her over all others, because he had touched her nicely and whispered some sweet nothings to her in the dark.
With all the force of horrible logic, it hit her.
The truth that, as a woman of her class, she had always been taught and warned again and again that to forfeit her virtue would be fatal.
Men did not marry women they tupped furtively in corners.
They did not marry women who held secrets from their relations.
And she only had herself to blame for her position, for her own heartbreak.
She had thrown herself at him without heeding what she knew about their world and how marriages actually took place.
She, Scarlett Perkins, plump, plain, and penniless, had been delusional.
She would never be chosen by a man like Mr. Malcolm Brown. Or any man, for that matter. She would never be chosen—never mind chosen first.
Second, given that Malcolm and Miss Marburry might soon be announcing their engagement, Scarlett had to take action.
She needed to leave Parkhorne Hall at once.