Chapter 21
MARIANNE
Marianne made her way up to her chamber and was met almost immediately by Juliet.
“Goodness, you are developing the senses of a proper lady’s maid,” she said. “My mother’s lady’s maid seemed to always sense whenever she returned from an engagement.”
Juliet laughed and helped her take off her cloak.
“I shall tell you a secret. It has nothing to do with having the sense of a lady’s maid.
It has everything to do with having Mrs. Greaves as your mentor, and she has already drilled into me to keep my ear out for the sound of your carriage whenever you are out, so I can appear as if summoned by magic.
” She made a poofing sound and waved her hands through the air, fingers wriggling as if performing a magic trick.
“I see. You’re thoroughly disillusioning me of all of my preconceived notions,” Marianne said.
She wanted to sound light, as though nothing at all was the matter.
As though she hadn’t just spent an exhilarating carriage ride with Lucien, only to feel as if cold water had been poured onto her upon arrival home.
But her voice betrayed her, and Juliet, being a good friend, noticed at once.
“What has he done now?” she asked.
Marianne didn’t like the phrasing, as though Juliet had already determined that Lucien was someone who was perpetually up to no good and could be trusted to do something to upset Marianne no matter what.
“Nothing,” she said. “He was pleasant. He was… We had a good evening.”
Juliet picked up Marianne’s hairbrush and set about brushing her hair out.
“But?”
“Why must there be a ‘but’?”
“I can hear it in your voice,” Juliet replied. “Do you recall the time Sister Mary Agnes caught you taking a slice of plum cake from the convent kitchen so you could share it with me as a late-night snack?”
“Yes,” Marianne said weakly.
“And what happened?”
“I was caught.”
“And what did I tell you?” Juliet prodded, removing the remaining pins from her hair.
“You told me not to attempt to lie because any dishonesty could always be written upon my visage as though I were an open book.”
“Faith, you do remember. So why are you trying to do it now? Trying to lie and conceal things from me. I spent six months sharing a tiny bedchamber with you, Marianne. I know you.”
“Yes,” Marianne agreed ruefully. “It is true. All was indeed well at the start. I thought we forged a bond, and then at the ball, he was kind and attentive, and then in the carriage—” She paused.
“Well, he was in his cups.” She turned to her friend and clasped her hands.
“He rested his head in my lap, and it was the most glorious feeling, even though I knew that he was only doing it because he was as drunk as a wheelbarrow and might regret it once he was sober again.”
Juliet tipped her head to one side. “And then what happened?”
“We returned home, and he was formal again. I could see in his eyes that something had changed, that whatever happened between us was once again evaporating. He is so changeable, I do not know from one moment to the next who he is. Sometimes he takes me to places that are precious to him, and I feel as though maybe there is something more between us, but then he changes again. He’s different. ”
“You need to remember why you married him,” Juliet said, brushing her hair. “You each had a plan. You each wanted something out of this match. Do not mistake his occasional kindness for something more.”
“But I cannot help feeling that it is more, but that somehow he cannot allow himself to let go beyond the boundaries we established. Maybe it is his past that holds him back.”
“From what I hear, he has let go of the past entirely. He did not truly mourn his wife, do you know?” Juliet asked.
“I do not. We have not spoken of her in detail. He told me how she died. In a terrible carriage accident.”
“I have heard all manner of rumors,” Juliet said. “About that so-called accident.”
Marianne spun around and pursed her lips.
“I do not wish to hear gossip from below stairs, Juliet.”
“Gossip from below stairs? Is that all I am now? One who delivers gossip from below stairs? I thought we were friends. He is changing you, Marianne.”
“He’s not changing me,” Marianne replied, stung by the accusation. “Not in the least. I have never enjoyed gossip. You know this from the convent. Do not accuse me of treating you as though you are less than. You know it isn’t true.”
“It is what you were afraid of when you brought me here. And I told you not to fret. Perhaps I was wrong,” Juliet said. “If you need a maid who agrees with you at every turn, I am afraid you selected the wrong one.”
Marianne sighed and shook her head. “I do not wish to quarrel with you, Juliet. You are my friend.”
“I am,” Juliet said, placing the brush down.
Marianne motioned with her chin to the chairs by the fire, and the two sat down.
“I suppose I simply wish to protect you as much as I can. People talk, and I want to share with you what I hear because I want to know that you walk into whatever it is with open eyes. That is all. If you think that there is something more between the two of you, then you ought to speak to him. You ought to tell him that you wish to resolve any uncertainty between the two of you.”
“Perhaps I ought to do that,” Marianne replied. “Speak to him, and if he reacts ill, then I shall know.”
“Indeed,” Juliet said, nodding. “And then you can continue making your plans for when the season’s over.”
“Our plans, Juliet.”
Juliet chuckled. “Yes, our plans indeed. And I know you told me not to share gossip from below stairs with you. However—”
“Juliet!”
Juliet raised her hand. “There is no need to get upset. But I wanted to tell you that, apparently, Mrs. Greaves has a connection to our convent. She told me that she once worked for a lady who went there. One of the nuns used to be a highborn lady. Can you believe it?”
“Who do you think it was?” Marianne mused. “Oh, I know! It must be the Mother Superior. She was always so regal.”
“Perhaps. But I heard that she was brought to a convent when she was a very young girl, nine or ten years old. Mrs. Greaves’s lady was already grown.”
“Sister Bernadette,” Marianne suggested. Juliet burst out laughing. “I think not. I cannot see her as a high society lady. Perhaps Mary Agnes?”
“I can see it. She has such a gentle quality. A quality a lady must possess if she wants to reign over a drawing room,” Marianne said.
As their conversation continued, Marianne began to feel much more at ease.
It was almost as though they were back at the convent, just the two of them talking and sharing sweets.
But still, after her friend had gone to bed and she had likewise retired, she lay awake for some time, staring up at the canopy above her bed as she thought back to the events of the evening.
She had wanted him to kiss her. She had wanted there to be more, but she simply didn’t know if she was fooling herself or if there was something that was holding him back. Something he hadn’t yet been willing to share.
The following morning, Lucien woke with his head pounding.
He closed his eyes. The morning light streaming through the curtains he had forgotten to close the night before was too much.
It was as though knives were poking directly into his eyes, penetrating his very brain.
He groaned and turned, hands pressed in front of his face.
He had had too much to drink. He knew it. Ideally, he would’ve liked to have just stayed abed, like back when he was a young bachelor, when he, Rhys, and Gideon had visited every public house in London, but he knew that was impossible. Henry was waiting for him.
With a groan, he shoved the blanket off and placed his feet down on the floor.
The floor felt warm because the sun had been out for some time and warmed the wooden boards.
He got up, his head spinning. He paused at the windowsill, placing his hands down flat to keep himself upright.
His stomach rolled, and bitter bile pushed up his throat.
This had been a mistake. A mistake, a terrible—
“Goodness gracious,” he said, remembering the carriage ride home in an instant. He had curled up on Marianne’s lap like a child. He’d known he was doing it at the time, but hadn’t been able to stop himself. Alcohol had that effect on him sometimes. Curse the spirits…
And then back in the house, he had wanted to kiss her. The urge had been almost overpowering. Fortunately, his better senses had prevailed, and he had walked away. Still, this was getting too dangerous. He had to find a way to put distance between them.
But right now, he had to focus on getting down to the breakfast room without walking into a doorway or throwing up.
He dressed himself without calling for his valet, not wanting the man to see the sorry state he was in. Then he tumbled down the stairs.
To his surprise, three place settings remained at the breakfast table. It was already nine in the morning, long past the time when Marianne usually got up. And Henry rarely ever slept this late either.
“Have you seen my wife and son?” he asked the footman, who shook his head.
“They have not yet come down.”
Lucien thanked the man and made his way back up the stairs, his joints aching as though he were a man of seventy rather than a young man of seven and twenty.
He heard voices coming out of Henry’s room. He could hear Henry, quiet and muffled—quieter than usual—and Marianne’s. She was reading him another story. This one wasn’t the Frog Prince. This one was a different story, one he knew all too well. Goody Two-Shoes.
He listened, and to his delight, Marianne sounded as though she was actually enjoying herself.
She made the voices of the characters much better than before.
They weren’t perfect, but she was trying.
He smiled, his stomach feeling warm with this revelation.
She was really trying with Henry. It couldn’t be denied. She cared for his son.
But there was something giving him pause. Henry’s replies were quiet. He wasn’t as excited as he usually was when somebody read to him. And then he heard it. A series of coughs.
Instantly, he burst into the room. Marianne looked up, and he noted that she was still in a simple morning dress, her hair pinned up, but some strands had come loose haphazardly.
When their eyes met, he caught a worried expression.
“Lucien. I did not want to wake you because I know you had a very long night,” she said in a way that could only be described as diplomatic. “Henry has not been feeling well, so we did not go down for breakfast. The governess let me know when I was on my way down.”
He was at Henry’s side in a moment. Quickly, Lucien placed his hand on Henry’s forehead. It was warm, and he looked sweaty, but it wasn’t so warm as to cause alarm.
“What troubles you?” he asked his son. “Does your throat hurt?”
Henry nodded. “And my ears. And my nose runs like a river.”
Marianne produced another napkin just then and held it to his nose, and Henry obediently blew.
“I ordered fresh orange juice for him and a plain porridge.”
“It was awful,” Henry whined.
“But it is good for you,” she said.
“But you did not eat it,” Henry said. Marianne pressed her lips together.
“Well, that is true. But I wasn’t hungry yet, so I will have some later.”
“Salty porridge?” he asked with a squeak of amusement in his voice. “You’ll eat it?”
“Will that make you feel better?” Marianne asked.
“I think so.” Henry grinned.
“Very good. In that case, I shall,” she replied.
“You really, truly, truly do care about him, don’t you?” Lucien said, feeling somewhat relieved.
“Enough to eat one of the meals I dislike,” she said. “Indeed. Henry, you should feel very honored.”
“I do,” he said, but then another coughing fit overtook him – and suddenly the little bit of peace Lucien had felt disappeared as quickly as it had come.