Chapter 8
Sometime later, there was a house party at Harwick Castle, a country mansion belonging to the Earl of Shale and his much younger wife.
They both liked to entertain there, treating their guests to a full display of their wealth and status.
The opulence of the house, filled with priceless furniture, paintings, and statues, the perfection of the grounds and gardens, the large stables full of prize bloodstock, the refinements of their table and cellar—nothing was left to the imagination.
They had even assembled a small menagerie of exotic animals in a collection of large cages and enclosures near the stables.
Argyle accepted the invitation, although he thought them conceited fools and, moreover, hated being cooped up with the same people under one roof for several days.
His reasons were threefold: firstly, he had got rid of his current mistress, a beautiful but capricious and bird-witted woman, wife of an elderly nobleman, finding she wearied him beyond tolerance—and it had proved a frustrating task, because she was unwilling to give him up, a duke being difficult to replace.
A spell away from London would be timely.
Secondly, the hunting, which was always one of the main attractions at Harwick, was excellent, and Argyle was a devil in the saddle.
He proposed to put them all to shame, although competition was not supposed to be the aim of the exercise.
The third reason, which he tried to pretend to himself was not the most important one, was that he had been told Marguerite had been invited.
On the appointed day, Argyle set out in his curricle since the weather was clement. His valet was to follow with his luggage. He made good time and reached his destination in the early afternoon.
Harwick Castle was a large Queen Anne mansion of grey stone. The ostentatious frontage featured rows of windows on each side of a columned portico and the beautiful park had been landscaped, years before, by Capability Brown.
Upon his arrival, Argyle found to his dismay Marguerite was not there, although most of the guests were already assembled. He spent a boring evening restraining himself from asking his hosts about her—there was enough speculation already as to his intentions.
In the morning it was raining, and after a late breakfast he retired behind a newspaper in a corner of the enormous drawing room, trusting people would not dare to interrupt him, and striving to conjure up an excuse which would allow him to cut short his stay, when he heard the door open.
He looked up to see Marguerite come in with her hostess, together with a few other guests amongst whom he recognised her cousin Alice; Marguerite gazed around the room and met his eyes, and he saw her surprise betray her into a genuine smile.
He expected her to regret it and continue to avoid him, as she had been doing; but, to his astonishment, after her hostess had introduced her to a number of people, she made her way to him and said, ‘I did not expect to see you, sir. What are you doing here?’
He was getting used to her direct, frank manner, so he said, mildly, ‘I did get an invitation, you know, ma’am. I can show it to you, if you wish. But won’t you sit down?’
He had risen to greet her, and she sat down next to him on the sofa—he found her lovely in her gown of dove grey figured sarcenet, but forebore to pay her a compliment. Instead, he said, ‘I was expecting to see you last night.’
She said, ‘My aunt has relatives living near here, and we took the opportunity of spending the night with them. But how did you know I would be coming?’
‘I did not. But I hoped you would.’
‘Well, I was not expecting to see you—I would imagine this is not the kind of thing you enjoy.’ She smiled mischievously at him, appearing unembarrassed by the memory of their kiss—in truth, she would never cease to surprise him.
‘I don’t, but the hunting here is excellent and, since I heard you might be coming, I hoped you could be persuaded to give me a lead.’ His face remained grave. ‘You do hunt, don’t you?’
She burst out laughing. ‘You really are abominable, Argyle. I know full well you pride yourself on being the fastest man over timber in England.’
‘Precisely. I thought you might help to slow me down. I am getting older, you know, and should not take such risks anymore.’
‘You are twenty-five!’ She paused and looked at him suspiciously. ‘Have you suddenly acquired a sense of humour? Enfin, you seem to have lost your sneer.’
He smiled faintly. ‘Hopefully I will regain it soon. But we need a way to entertain ourselves in this - er - milieu.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, is your beau here as well?’
‘Mr Barnfield, you mean? No, he is visiting his uncle in Dorset. Do not look so pleased, it is nothing to do with you.’ She spoke easily, but her words annoyed him.
The sneer returned. ‘I do not like to see you with a Tulip, however pretty he might be. He is beneath your touch.’
Her colour had risen, and she got up. ‘This has ceased to be amusing, sir. I have not given you permission to monitor my choices.’ She turned her back and crossed the room to sit with a girl she must know, since they at once began to chat.
Argyle abandoned any plans of leaving, and tried to think of ways of avoiding confrontation with her.
* * *
It was not easy. One of the guests was a slim young man with a mass of curly auburn hair, a classical nose and a charming smile, the son of a Viscount vaguely known to Argyle.
The Honourable Felix Crampton had taken an instant shine to Marguerite, hardly leaving her side all day.
When the weather cleared late in the afternoon, some of the men went shooting, but Crampton, together with other young men, joined the girls in a bout of archery.
Argyle took his gun and walked off into the woods.
Crampton managed to sit next to Marguerite at dinner and afterwards, when she accepted to take her turn at the pianoforte, stood by to turn her pages, gazing at her in open admiration.
This, combined with the presence of her cousin Alice and the other young ladies who surrounded her, chattering and laughing, made it hard for Argyle to approach her—especially since, following their earlier exchange, she again appeared to be avoiding him.
He sat apart and fixed his eyes on her face, but she never once glanced in his direction.
He was angry: did she not appreciate that he was successful, wealthy, and noble?
But it seemed she did not care about any of that.
He realised he was obsessed with her, and for the first time in his life was at a loss as to his strategy.
To add to his annoyance, his hostess noticed his aloofness and did her best to draw him into conversations with others.
As was usual, a few mothers tried to interest him in their daughters, and the girls themselves vied to attract his attention; he found it all intolerable.
* * *
The next morning, after another protracted breakfast, those guests who wished to hunt gathered in the stable courtyard.
Looking for Marguerite amongst the horses and people milling about, Argyle saw her about to mount her pretty little grey mare who was already fussing around on her toes, eager to be off.
She was dressed in a dark green riding habit with black trim and a black velvet collar, and a masculine top hat with a short veil; the severe cut of the coat accentuated her curves and slender waist, and her snowy white cravat set off her rosy cheeks.
Argyle left his horse with his groom and approached her. With a nod to the man who was holding the mare, he said, ‘Let me help you up.’ He took her foot and threw her up in the saddle, then kept his hand on her boot for a minute.
She smiled at him and said, ‘Thank you, sir. I am looking forward to today’s sport.’ She appeared to have forgotten her annoyance.
‘Well, if you want to see good sport, follow me.’ He pressed her ankle over the boot and saw her blush.
She took up the reins, turned her mare away, and, by the time he had mounted his own horse, had joined Felix Crampton, who looked dashing in his top hat, stock tie and white-topped boots. They smiled at each other.
Argyle’s irritation grew. He knew he looked elegant himself—his coat fitted him like a glove, and Curtis had polished his boots to a high shine, using his special bootblack—but she obviously preferred a pretty face.
He rode off, passing to the front, his face set, determined to enjoy the sport and ignore her.
The hounds set off, barking in unison, the Master blew his horn and for a while he was content to feel the power of his horse under him.
However, Felix proved to be an indifferent rider and fell at the third fence.
Marguerite, after pausing to make sure he had come to no harm, rode up close behind Argyle.
He turned to glance at her and galloped on, and they jumped most fences neck to neck—her little mare managing to keep up with his long-striding bay hunter with ease.
From time to time they looked at each other, flushed with the thrill of the chase.
The party returned at dusk, muddied and tired and satisfied.
Marguerite and Argyle walked side by side, a little behind the rest of the field, their horses quickening their steps at the thought of their mangers, necks stretching on a loose rein.
He said, ‘I confess you have impressed me. I was not sure a Parisian lady would hunt.’
‘My father is English, remember? He has a fondness for the sport and, as he has no sons, I accompanied him from an early age.’
‘So, as it happens, you would have been useless at slowing me down.’
She grinned at him. ‘I never agreed to! My mother thinks me reckless, but it is as a result of hearsay, because she does not even ride. She is a true Parisian.’
‘Your aunt does not hunt either, I assume.’ In fact, this well-endowed, amiable lady had hardly been seen since her arrival.
‘No, she does nothing much but play cards. She is obsessed by this…er…pastime, which suits my cousin and me very well. She is a kind woman, but a dreadful bore, I’m afraid. Oh dear, I should not have said that.’ She had a mischievous look on her face which enchanted him.
‘I heard nothing. But tell me, why are your parents not here?’
‘Although my father loves to hunt, my mother hates being left alone all day with people she doesn’t know well. My aunt is chaperoning me and my cousin—she is my father’s sister.’
‘Does she not have a husband?’
‘She does, but he is a scholar—he spends his time in his library, and abhors social gatherings, preferring academic circles.’ She looked at him with some suspicion, frowning a little. ‘Why are you so interested in my family, may I ask?’
He did not like to say, I am indifferent to them, I am only interested in you, so he shrugged. ‘I am just making conversation. Here, try this, and tell me what you think.’
He passed her his hip flask, and she took a sip, choking a little at the taste. ‘What is it?’
‘My own mixture. It keeps one warm, doesn’t it?’
She coughed. ‘I am warm already, with all the galloping we’ve done. But I think on a very cold day, it would do the job admirably.’
He took off his glove and, reaching out, touched her neck above her cravat, under the jawline. It was an intimate gesture, but she did not recoil. He said, ‘Yes, you are warm enough. You do not need my brandy.’ She gave him back his flask, looking him in the eyes. Her cheeks were flushed.
He said, annoyed that his heart was beating faster than usual, ‘Well, your Pink did not last very long, did he? I noticed he barely managed three fences.’ His lip curled in the familiar sneer.
Marguerite scowled at him. She said, ‘Why do you always have to spoil everything?’ She picked up her reins and, urging her mare into a trot, joined her cousin Alice, who was riding a little ahead of them. Argyle bit his lip.