Chapter Thirty-seven

That afternoon, Marguerite found herself alone with Lady Penworth. They were in the small parlor where Ned had once fed her tea and cakes. It was still a pleasant room with a warming fire, but Lady Penworth did not look as if she was planning on a cozy chat over the teacups.

Ned’s mother was a formidable woman, still beautiful though she must have been near sixty and did not pretend otherwise. There were lines on her face, but there was no stooping in her posture. Her dark hair was shot with silver but becomingly arranged. Her gown, of deep red silk faille trimmed with black velvet, was the acme of the dressmaker’s art. The bustle was more pronounced than anything Marguerite owned, and she felt quite shabby in her black wool.

That momentary reaction made her stiffen her own posture. Why should she be embarrassed by her unfashionable gown? She was not some languid daughter of wealth who had nothing to do all day but change her clothes. She owned a few gowns that she wore for performances, and the rest of her dresses served for all other activities. They had been chosen for practicality, not style.

But at the moment, she would have traded them all for a gown a tenth as stylish as Lady Penworth’s.

The maid brought in a tea tray and placed it in front of Marguerite. It reminded her that here she was acting as hostess. Lady Penworth accepted a cup from her—milk first, one sugar—and one of the small cakes called madeleines. Then she waited.

Lady Penworth took a small bite, barely a nibble. “Delicious,” she said.

“Yes,” Marguerite agreed. “The vicomte has an excellent chef.”

Lady Penworth looked down at her tea as she stirred it and then looked up at Marguerite. “I notice that you refer to the vicomte by his title, and not by his relationship to you.”

Marguerite lifted her shoulders and offered a French moue. “That is a matter of courtesy. It is a distant relationship. He is my what, great-great-uncle? Or should there be another great? In any case, his family disowned my mother, so I do not feel any particular kinship.”

“Yet here you are, living in his chateau.”

“Here I am,” Marguerite agreed. “And I am very grateful for his invitation, which came at a difficult time for me, after my father died.”

“Very fortunate. And now you are to marry my son.”

“Is that what he told you?” Marguerite permitted herself a small smile.

Up went Lady Penworth’s brows. “Was he mistaken? Has he not asked you to marry him?”

“He has. But I told him I would hesitate to marry him if his family disapproved.” Marguerite sipped her own tea, proud of the fact that her hand did not tremble.

The silence was growing uncomfortable by the time Lady Penworth spoke again. “Tell me, Miss Benda, is there some reason why his family should not approve of you?”

The corner of Marguerite’s mouth lifted in what might be considered a half-smile. “You have met my cousin Delphine, have you not?”

Lady Penworth nodded.

“She is my responsibility, and she seems to be sinking further into madness.” Marguerite abruptly stopped. She had not put that realization into words before, and the truth of it came as a bit of a shock.

“Many people have relatives who…need to be cared for.” Lady Penworth spoke carefully. “There are hospitals…”

Marguerite cut her off with an abrupt gesture. “No. I promised my mother, as she promised Delphine’s mother, that she would not be put in an asylum. But that is not the main problem, is it?”

“Is it not?”

“Let us not pretend, Lady Penworth. I am a professional musician, from a family of professional musicians. You and your family are aristocrats. We both know that while aristocrats often patronize artists and musicians, admire them, and even befriend them, they do not marry them.”

Lady Penworth put down her cup and sat back in her chair. “Well, that is plain speaking.”

Marguerite lifted a shoulder. “I have not lived in aristocratic households, as you have, but I have encountered aristocrats over the years. They generally consider themselves a higher order of being, as if the fact that they know the names of their ancestors for half a dozen generations confers special privileges on them. Those privileges entitle them to whatever they want, whenever they want it. Are you telling me that your family is different?”

“A somewhat jaundiced view, one might say.”

Another shrug. “Or perhaps simply realistic.”

“Yet the world is full of people who would be more than happy to join the ranks of those privileged aristocrats. After all, if you marry my son, you would no longer be obliged to perform on the stage.” Lady Penworth’s smile, though cold, was a trifle smug.

It was Marguerite’s turn to sit back in surprise. “Obliged? You do not seem to understand, my lady. I am a musician. I play and I compose. That is what I do. I could no more stop doing it than I could stop breathing. Ned understands this, even if you do not.”

“Well, of course many ladies play…”

“Pftt.” Marguerite made a face. She was growing seriously angry. How could a woman of so little understanding be the mother of a man like Ned? “They play for guests who chat or sleep. Oscar Villoteau, the impresario, is arranging a concert tour for me that Liszt himself will sponsor. And I will play my own sonata, that I have composed and that Liszt has praised. Do you think I do this because I am obliged?”

She stood up and stared down at Lady Penworth. “Think about it, my lady. If Ned marries me, you will not be getting a decorative little daughter-in-law who can be brought out to entertain the company.” Suddenly Marguerite was furious. “I am a Benda. My family have been musicians, known and honored for well over a hundred years. My father was the famed Matthias Benda, the most brilliant violinist in all of Europe. You think I am not good enough for your son? What has your family done that makes you think you are good enough for me?”

With that she flung out of the room, head high.

Left alone in the room, Lady Penworth sat immobile for a moment, then picked up one of the madeleines, dipped it in her tea, and took a bite. As she chewed, she thought. She considered the uncomfortable possibility that she had misunderstood the situation.

No. It was not a possibility. It was a certainty. She had made insulting assumptions about Miss Benda, and she had seriously underestimated Ned. She grimaced. Apologies were uncomfortable, but it appeared they would be necessary.

Then she smiled. A musician. She had attended innumerable concerts over the years, and had learned quite a bit about music from the listener’s point of view. And while she had on occasion shaken hands with the performers and murmured a few words of thanks, she had never actually known any musicians. Now she would have one right in the family.

This would be interesting.

A whole new world was opening up for her.

Ned took his father up to the tower where the archives were stored. He spoke enthusiastically about the incredible resources he had found here, the letters he planned to edit, the light that would be shined on the attitudes of the lesser aristocracy, all the while noting with amusement that his father was paying no attention at all.

“And then,” he said, “I thought I might take the remaining papers, fashion them into wings, and fly out over the ocean.”

His father nodded. “Very interesting.”

Ned sighed. “Suppose you just say what it is that’s on your mind.”

Lord Penworth looked slightly embarrassed. “I don’t want to interfere in your life…”

Ned grinned. “Of course you do. At least, Mother does.”

“Well, she worries about our children. As do I, of course.” He seemed to be avoiding his son’s eye. “And we couldn’t help noticing that while you mentioned this young woman in your letters, you did not actually say very much about her.”

“Young lady,” Ned said. His grin vanished. “Miss Benda is a lady.”

“Of course.” Lord Penworth looked at his son then. “She is a lady who appears on the public stage.”

“You make it sound as if she is some music hall performer.” Ned glared at his father. “She is a brilliant musician. Her father was Matthias Benda, who was the finest violinist of the century, and her mother was the daughter of French aristocrats. Her birth is at least equal to mine, if not better. I’ll not have you sneering at her.”

“Is that what I was doing? I thought I was simply endeavoring to get my facts straight.”

Ned paced over to the window and stared out while he collected himself. When he turned back to face his father, he spoke, he thought, quite calmly. “I intend to marry Miss Benda, and I need you and Mother to approve and welcome her into the family.”

“Are you asking my permission?”

“No. Your approval. Marguerite says she will not marry me without it.”

“Ah.” Lord Penworth smiled slightly. “She is worried about her acceptance in society.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ned snapped. “That does not matter in the least to either of us. But her mother was disowned by her parents when she married Benda, and Marguerite says she does not want that to happen to me.”

“We could never disown you.” Penworth looked horrified. “We could never disown any of our children!”

“I know that.” Ned did smile now. “But Marguerite’s experience of her mother’s family has left her…distrustful. And there is a long distance between welcoming acceptance and disavowal.” Noting the uncertainty on his father’s face, he added softly, “She is not a fool, you know.”

“No, I understand that. Indeed, I begin to think she is very clever.”

Penworth’s dry tone was not encouraging, but Ned refused to consider it definitely discouraging.

“You must try to understand,” Ned said. “No one has ever needed me, not really, but she needs me. She does not realize it, but she does. Just as I need her. She can take care of herself, just as she has always done, but I can protect her, make her life easier in a dozen different ways.”

A light of understanding grew in his father’s eyes.

“And I need the fact that she needs me,” Ned continued. “She has no family to take care of her, only people who depend on her, so she needs me. I know that you and Mother and all my family love me, but you do not need me. Marguerite does.”

Lord Penworth stood still, saying nothing for a long moment. Finally he nodded. “I think I understand, but speaking of family, I don’t quite understand her relationship with her cousin.”

“Ah, yes.” This was probably going to be a bit difficult to explain, but it couldn’t be avoided. “I have a plan for that,” Ned said.

Penworth was waiting when his wife returned to their room. Waiting was perhaps not quite the correct term. He was wandering around, picking things up—a statuette here, a small vase there—not really looking at them, and putting them back down again, rarely in their original place.

“There you are,” she said. She sat down in one of the chairs flanking the fireplace and held out her hands to the warmth of the flames. “I think we may have misunderstood the situation.”

“Misunderstood? After talking to Ned, I can assure you that he is quite determined to marry Miss Benda. And he seems to have put quite a bit of thought into how to deal with the various problems.” Penworth smiled wryly. “Indeed, he is far more practical about the whole thing than I thought he could be.”

“Practical? Ned?” Lady Penworth thought about it for a moment. “Well, I don’t suppose he has ever had to be before. But I was thinking about Miss Benda. She is not quite what I expected.”

“No?”

She waved a hand. “Yes, I know you said he wasn’t a fool and wouldn’t fall in love with an avaricious little harpy. But I couldn’t help worrying. And a performer, practically an actress.”

“Well, as to that…”

“I know, I know. I exaggerate. And when I saw that pretty little blonde lunatic, I was sure he had just decided to ride to the rescue. I am not precisely enamored of Miss Benda, but at least she seems to be sane. And she certainly isn’t spineless.” Lady Penworth did not precisely shudder, but she felt some discomfort as she recalled their interview.

“Yes, about Miss de Roncaille.” When his wife looked momentarily blank, Penworth said, “The lunatic.”

She nodded. “I had forgotten her name. What about her?”

He took a deep breath. “Well, it appears that Miss Benda considers herself responsible for her cousin.”

“Commendable, I’m sure. And I am sure no one would wish to see the girl consigned to a public madhouse. But surely a place for her can be found in some private hospital. Don’t the Quakers have some sort of establishment that is quite highly thought of?”

Penworth shook his head. “No. It seems that Miss Benda promised her mother that she would not let her cousin be locked up in an asylum.”

Lady Penworth was taken aback. “Promises are all very well and good, but surely it is obvious that something has to be done about the girl. I mean, she is clearly under the impression that she is living during the ancien régime. She cannot be allowed to simply wander about. And I hope Ned doesn’t expect to have her live with us.”

“I told you he was being very practical,” Penworth said, with a slight smile. “No, he does not intend to foist her off on us like one of those wounded animals he used to acquire. He thinks to buy a place in the country, perhaps somewhere between Oxford and London, with enough land to have a cottage for the cousin, where she can live with people to take care of her.”

“Keepers, you mean.”

“Well, yes. But where he and Miss Benda can keep an eye on her.”

Lady Penworth looked skeptical. “Keep an eye on her so that she isn’t abused, or keep an eye on her so that she doesn’t harm anyone?”

“Both, I suspect.” He cleared his throat.

“There’s more?”

“In addition to the girl, there is also an elderly relative, Mme. d’Hivers, and a young man, somewhat simple, who will have to live with them.”

Lady Penworth’s eyes widened. “A simpleton? An elderly relative, yes, that’s ordinary enough, but where on earth did the simpleton come from?”

“He’s an orphan. It seems her father rescued him from some boys who were tormenting him and he somehow ended up part of the family.”

“And Miss Benda considers herself responsible for all of them?”

Penworth nodded.

Lady Penworth stared at the fire for a moment, and then began to laugh. “I must say our children never seem to marry into boring families!”

That evening, Marguerite was not in bed when Ned came to her room. She was sitting by the fire, wrapped in a shawl, and gestured for him to sit in the chair opposite her.

He did so and waited. She kept her face averted while she seemed to be trying to decide how to say something.

“I have been thinking,” she said.

There was a long pause. She did not seem to have finished thinking, so Ned sat there and watched her. She looked dreadfully serious. Serious enough to make him worry about the direction of those thoughts.

“I lied to you, and I lied to your mother as well,” she finally blurted out.

“Did you?”

“I did not mean to do so. At the time, I thought it was the truth. I think perhaps I was lying to myself as well.”

“Really?” This sounded more promising. He was finding it difficult not to smile.

“Yes. I told her what I told you—that I would not marry you unless your family approved.” She looked at him them. “I have changed my mind. I am too selfish, not as honorable as I should be. I want you too much and I will not give you up.”

“Thank heaven!” He fell back in the chair. “It’s about time you realized that. I was beginning to think I would have to keep you in bed until you were too dizzy to think and then drag you in front of a priest before you could recover your wits.”

She could not repress her smile, but still shook her head. “You are a fool, you know. I will be a very bad wife. I get lost in my music and forget everything else. Meals will not be on time, and I will neglect to order the coal.”

He stood and pulled her up into his arms. “I have been known to forget meals too when I am working, and the housekeeper will order the coal.”

“Ah, I keep forgetting.” She laughed softly. “You are an aristocrat and don’t have to worry about such things.”

“And you are an artist, and don’t worry about such things.”

Suddenly serious again, she said, “I do love you, you know. I cannot seem to help myself.”

“That is all that matters.” He kissed her and a future full of promise lay before them.