The Honorable Marksley (17 page)

Breakfast at Penham consisted of a bountiful buffet
that could not tempt Hallie in the slightest, and, by the
time their few guests had departed, she had been ready
to take to her bed with a very real, painful megrim. But
Richard Marksley had no intention of remaining another minute under the same roof with his sullen aunt and
Hallie’s overbearing uncle. He had whisked her away
to his home at Archers.

Recalling all of it now, Hallie shifted her shoulders
against the tree trunk and basked in the warm sunlight on her arms and face. Today’s return of good
weather had brightened her mood considerably, as
had a good night’s dreamless sleep. She had not seen
Richard Marksley after their flight from Penham the
previous day. She had excused herself to nurse her
headache only to find that she slept through supper.
Marksley had gone out, just where she did not
inquire, and this morning he had left for a ride when
she came down to breakfast. Hallie wondered
whether this would be the pattern of their daysdetermining just how little time they need spend in
each other’s presence.

Yet he was working on The Tantalus. Hallie knew
that, and indulged her curiosity. He had said he would be unable to continue, yet he seemed to be addressing
the last days of the journal with energy.

At some point in the future, he would be pressed to
leave Archers and remove permanently to Penham. But
in this interlude, however brief, Hallie could enjoy the
manor’s quiet charms and the lovely old orchard where
she had secluded herself.

The relief she felt now, after weeks of strain, was substantial. That morning she had written out carefully, in
Henry Beecham’s larger and less legible hand, the poem
she had begun at Penham. The sentiment had been true
for days. Her thoughts on the matter at last had shaped
themselves so clearly that mere words flowed easily.
With this poem, she thought, Richard Marksley would
know that Beecham had not betrayed him; Beecham had
never left him. No one could express such confidence
and joy in one person yet seek out another.

She had folded the single sheet and sealed it with a
wafer, addressing it to R.E. Marksley, Archers, Surrey.
Hallie planned to ask Jeremy to post it once he returned
to town. Beecham’s bond with Marksley had not yet
suffered. Some still hopeful part of her dreamed that
Marksley need never know how close he was to his
reclusive poet. Then she might continue writing poemsand writing poems to him.

She fingered the letter between the pages of her journal. She had brought her writing box outside with her, but
the sunlight and comfortable temperature, the serenity
and low chirping of sparrows, were all so heavenly she
had scarcely written a word. She untied the ribbons of her bonnet, slid it from her hair and raised her face to the sun.
Her shoulders relaxed. She would bake all worry and distress into something deliciously sweet… honeycake or-

“My lady,” she heard Gibbs say tentatively,
“Ahem … my lady”

She opened her eyes to find the elderly butler standing respectfully to the side.

“Yes, Gibbs?”

“You have a letter from the post, my lady. Forwarded
from Penham. I thought you might wish to see it right
away”

“Thank you, Gibbs. You are very thoughtful” She took
the letter without rising and watched Gibbs depart before
breaking the seal. She had recognized Jeremy’s hand.

Dearest Hallie,

I start myself tomorrow, but wanted you to
know as soon as possible that I have found your
partridge. Together we have seen to the little matter that concerned you. Do not expect a small fortune, but I assure you it will suffice.

George proposes to accompany me as far as
Denhurst, where a gypsy band long familiar to
him is now encamped. Expect me then, with the
bounty, on Saturday.

Yours,

Jeremy

P.S. I enclose one of Richard’s letters held at the
General Post Office in London. Though you now need never tell him a thing, I urge you to do so.
Surely you owe him that? I do not care to remember you as craven, Hallie.

The note trembled in her hand. Jeremy had every
right to admonish her. He was right to give his sympathies to Richard Marksley, who deserved so much of
what she did not: respect and friendship.

But now she had to think. Today was Saturday.
Jeremy might arrive at any moment. And he would be
shocked at just how craven she had proved to be.

The new gold band on her finger felt strangely
weighty. Thought of a precious, perfect Caroline
Chalmers rose unbidden. `She walks in beauty like the
night …’ Ah! Why had Archie Cavendish cursed her
with Byron’s idolizing imagery?

Marksley was unlikely to have forgotten such a
paragon. Yet here he was, bound by laws of church and
crown to a most imperfect substitute.

Her gaze fell to the letter Jeremy had enclosed. It had
been posted in London. The familiar and unexpectedly
dear hand clearly spelled out `Henry Beecham.’ She
wondered again what devilish ambition or yearning had
possessed her to perpetrate this fraud. With trembling
fingers she broke open the seal:

Dear Beecham,

It is difficult to encourage another when one is
discouraged, but that is the task before me. My low
spirits result from the necessity to limit my rela tionship with The Tantalus, perhaps even to discontinue its publication altogether. Thus the circumstances entail some disruption for you. The
journal may yet live, but at this point I dare not
pledge. As I have described to you in the past, the
labor has largely been one of love-a burden not
easily surrendered, however eagerly assumed.

I will attempt to relay any news. For now, publication will be suspended after the next number.
Should you have any difficulty placing work elsewhere, be assured I shall not leave you stranded. I
have only ever encountered enthusiasm on your
behalf.

As always, I urge you to continue along those
lines that most appeal to you. With ability as promising as yours, I am reluctant to direct it in any
manner. The sole encouragement your talent needs
is to be permitted to grow.

Beecham, I have told you how greatly I admire
your artistry. I am too practical a man to spend
much time on regrets-the future will demand
enough concentration-but I do know that I regret
never having met you. Should you ever find occasion to redress that lack I would be most honored.

As ever yours & c.

R.E. Marksley

He had signed it without reference to his title. Hallie
reread the letter several times, searching, ironically, for
some evidence of those new responsibilities of which she was so much a part. But the tone of it was no different
from any other letter Beecham had ever received. That
she now found it frustratingly remote and unrevealing
was less a measure of any alteration in Richard Marksley
than in herself. He had, after all, no reason to suspect that
in writing to Beecham, he was now writing to his wife.

She carefully placed the letters inside her journal,
tucked against her new poem, and leaned back once
more against the old apple’s generous bole. It was, she
thought, suitably an apple tree, for she was tempted to
absolve herself of responsibility. After all, the roguish
Reginald Marksley had brought her to this impasse.
She should instead be blessing her good fortune: in ridding herself of her uncle and Millicent, in ascending to
position and privilege, in marrying the man she loved.
But even as she admitted as much she knew there was
something drastically wrong.

She was frowning when a shadow blocked the sun.

“You look like a dryad,” he told her and watched her
eyes open. “Siphoning sunlight instead of moonlight,
playing truant rather than tending to your tree.”

“You are being fanciful,” she murmured, sitting up.
She brushed her skirts and looked about her. When her
gaze fell upon a thick notebook, Richard noticed it as
well.

“I wonder,” he said, leaning to pick it up, “what you
record in your journal?”

“Words,” she said quickly and held up her hands to
receive the book from him, “just words”

He had an intense desire to open the book, to read
her hand and perhaps a bit of her heart. The desire was
so strong that he had to force himself to release the volume to her eager fingers. He was reminded of another,
equally strong and troubling desire, one that had persisted from the time he had kissed her so chastely in the
church. He had been ceaselessly drawn by the thought
of kissing her again.

His spouse seemed overly relieved to have her journal in hand. The fact engaged his curiosity. Perhaps she
kept mementos of some sort inside. Then he scowled as
he wondered if any were of Reggie.

“I suppose you saw many of your acquaintance in
London last week?” she asked him.

“I did,” he responded, surprised by the question.
“Naturally, with the impending changes at The Tantalus
and the alteration in my circumstances there was much
to which to attend”

She seemed uncertain, even troubled as she played
with a blade of grass and looked away from him. “And
did you inform them of our marriage?”

“I did,” he repeated, puzzled by the direction of her
questions. “Those few whom I wished to inform. As I
mentioned, our alliance was cause for some sensational attention amongst the ton. We are better out of it.” He
examined her face. “There is no need for you to prepare
correspondence, if that is what concerns you”

“Did you tell Caroline Chalmers?”

At once he understood. But he did not answer as
quickly. Instead he moved to sit down on the ground beside her, and attempted to find a comfortable position
for his long legs and booted feet.

“There is no Caroline Chalmers,” he told her again,
resting his arms on his raised knees. “Only Lady
Wrethingwell-Drummond, the Dowager Marchioness
of Wrethingwell-Drummond. And pray,” he smiled at
her, “do not force me to say that mouthful too often.”

“You told me that you had cared … I mean, the
accepted thinking seemed to be-”

“The accepted thinking is nonsense. I am not in love
with the woman, although many years ago I inanely
believed myself to be. She was, in fact, almost the
death of me. Had I been even an ounce more reckless,
my days might have been considerably shorter.” As her
eyes widened, he explained, “Miss Caroline enjoyed
the affections of many. Her preference seemingly settled on me, to my great joy, until one of my thickwitted rivals took it into his head to demand a duel.
When I realized that Caroline thrilled at the prospect
that one or both of us might die for her, my attachment
suffered a sea change. I purchased my commission
that day and left for the Peninsula even before my
affairs were settled. Caroline spurned the bloodthirsty
fool, who, by the way, now has a wife and two children. He lives in Richmond, my dear,” he added, looking directly at her, “you might have occasion to meet
him. Not a scar on `im, whereas I have several.
Anyway,” he looked away as his wife’s cheeks turned
pink, “Caroline wrote that she would wait for me,
though we were never pledged. But within three months she had wed old Bellis, a man with little to recommend him, apart from an ancient title and a fat
purse.”

“You were not bitter?”

“Oh certainly. I was young, besotted with a woman
whom independent observers termed one of the most
beautiful in the land. But Caroline had always been too
free with everything fortune bestowed on her-feeling,
friendship, favors-and managed to devalue them all. I
consider myself well away from her. My only regret is that
my name continues to be bandied about with hers. Even in
places like Squire Lawes’s dining room,” he added pointedly, “though she has been widowed mere months”

“And now you have been compelled to this.”

“I have compelled myself. It was and is the right
thing to do” He looked at her very steadily. “You may
hear the lady’s name again. I hope that will not distress
you. You are now my wife, which fact should silence
any further speculation. You may be spared what I was
not.”

He read more in her gaze, but whatever the thought,
she did not voice it. Perhaps she did not believe she
could trust him to preserve her from speculation of a
different nature.

“Hallie,” he said. “We have not discussed one aspect
of this arrangement that may concern you. A wife’s
obligations-”

“My lord,” she interrupted quickly, “Miss Binkin has
explained.”

“Miss Binkin has?” How astonishing, then, that his wife was not pale and trembling. “The formidable Miss
Binkin has unanticipated talents,” he said mildly. “But
let me assure you that I have no intention of claiming
anything you have no wish to give. And that until you
are ready, if ever you so choose, I will conduct myself
discreetly.”

She looked away from him and continued to play
with the grass. “Thank you, my lord.” Her reserve bothered him.

“Please call me Richard. `Twould please me”

“Thank you … Richard.”

His name still sounded like “my lord” He was pondering, still disturbed, why she should discomfit him
so, when she surprised him by saying, “Mrs. Lawes
tells me there is a gypsy encampment just beyond
Denhurst. Should it not be a great trouble to you …
Richard … I would very much enjoy a visit to see it.”

“Gypsies?” he asked. “They interest you?”

“Yes” She tilted her chin as though he had challenged her. “They live so differently. And a friend of
mine, and of my late father’s, has studied them. But I
have never seen them.”

“Then we shall most definitely visit. That may be a
couple of days from now, however, as I have some business to see to”

“Thank you” She again looked away.

“Hallie,” he said, then paused. Something in him
chose to savor the name. “Hallie, if possible I should
like to share my home with more than a polite stranger.
Is it possible we might make an effort?”