Chapter Fourteen
The days following their breakfast spat were not comfortable ones, and Kit was fairly chafing with the desire to be away from the place. Marianne was everywhere and looked at him with coldness, if she looked at him at all. They spoke very little to each other, but when they did it was with forced politeness and with the same unaffected air he’d heard dozens of couples in London use with each other. Why that should perturb him, he could not have said, but so long as he and Marianne were not arguing, he supposed that was an improvement.
She seemed to be taking up her responsibilities in the house with much more enthusiasm and energy, and Mrs. Dinstable was very keen on every project. Kit hadn’t thought it, but the house seemed to be in need of some change and repairs, though the exterior and the grounds, which were his responsibility, were well enough off. His tenants, on the other hand, had needed quite a bit of help, as he had expected from his solicitor. Much of the troubles had already been addressed, but there were still many to see to, and a firm relationship of trust to establish and maintain.
For the moment, he could only pore over the accounts again, though his estate manager had not found anything out of the ordinary, and pray something would come to him. Mr. Jennings was very capable and highly thought of, but as he was not the landowner, very little power rested with him. He was gathering reports that would help them prepare for the harvest, and Kit was strangely glad to be alone today. There was far less pressure to be decisive and maintain authority when one was unobserved.
He shook his head as he set aside the accounts and rubbed his hands over his face. There was nothing here, which meant there would be no quick and simple solution. He would have to do some unconventional thinking and planning with Jennings when next they met, or else they would struggle to have any sort of profit from the estate at all this year.
And what would that say about the master of the estate?
There was a firm rap against the door of his study and it opened before he could respond. Marianne entered, looking every bit the lady of the house in her pale blue day dress, and the dark pinstripes along the fabric made her seem taller and thinner than she was. Her hair was back to her usual elegance, which was strangely comforting to him, and he smiled as she absently fidgeted with the lace fichu at her modest neckline.
“The post,” she said without preamble, looking at the letters in her hand and not at him. She shook her head and a ringlet near her ear hooked itself on the delicate lobe. “I cannot make out much on this one, so I must presume it is from Colin.”
She came forward and handed it to him, still not meeting his eyes.
What was this, he wondered. She’d been defiant and willful at every turn since they quarreled, and yet here she was being almost demure. Almost, because he could still see the muscles in her throat and neck tightening, so there was some spirit and resentment in her. That, too, was comforting, in a way.
He took the letter, and could not help but to laugh a little. “Yes, this is Colin’s hand. He never did have patience for legible writing.”
“I know,” she replied, setting another letter on his desk. “I remember trying to discern his attempts to write Duncan when you all were away with Aunt Agatha. I always just assumed he was drunk.”
Kit looked up at her and raised a brow. “At thirteen?”
Finally, her rich blue eyes met his and her full lips spread into a small smile. “Why not?” she said with a light shrug. “It’s Colin.”
Somehow, he forgot to breathe, and when had he taken notice of the fullness of her lips or the richness of her eyes or how her figure looked in certain gowns? He must be more fatigued than he thought. Still, he had to smile back. “You have a point there.” He saw she held a letter herself and indicated it. “One for you as well?”
She nodded and looked down at it. “I cannot think who it is from. I’ve already had letters from Lily and Gemma, and this is not in either of their hands.” She returned her gaze to his, tilting her head slightly. “Does Colin share London reports with you?”
He broke the seal of his letter and opened it. “Sometimes. But in this case, he would have very little to say. They are in Hampshire at the moment, staying at Amberley House.”
“They removed to Hampshire?” she asked in surprise, still standing before his desk.
He nodded as he scanned the lines before him. “Susannah decided the remainder of her confinement would be better spent in the country. I understand several of the ladies have sworn to attend her at a moment’s notice, so they would not let her venture too far from London.”
Marianne was quiet for a moment, though he could see her fingers toying with various items on his desk. How elegant her hands were, how long and fine her fingers. Her nails were always so perfectly manicured, and she never wore rings, which allowed anyone with an appreciation of hands to savor any glance they could of such a sight free from the concealment of gloves.
“I would have thought she would go long before this,” Marianne was saying, drawing his thoughts away from her hands. What in heaven’s name was coming over him? He moved his gaze to her face, which surely would be safer territory. “She certainly ought to have, in her condition.”
Kit frowned and readied a response, but as he looked into her face, he could see no malice in her words. Just an honest, forthright admission of her opinion.
Well… in that case…
“Susannah is not one to be persuaded one way or the other,” he heard himself reply in resignation. “I know Colin suggested it some time ago, but she was not of a mind to. Now that we are gone, and her time is closer, she found herself wanting to be away.”
Marianne nodded, a bit of a furrow between her brows. “Did they take the children?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes widened. “All of them?”
Kit offered her a curious hint of a smile. “You think they should have left some in London? With your aunt, perhaps?”
She shuddered delicately. “Heaven forbid. No, I am only surprised. I cannot see how her confinement, or her recuperation, will be very restful with the house filled with children. Between Rosie and Freddie alone there will be chaos, and Bitty would want to know everything about the baby and will drive Colin mad with questions, and Ginny…” She frowned a little. “Ginny, I think, they could manage. She’s quiet enough.”
Kit hid a smile at the mention of his youngest, and most mysterious, sister. “For you, perhaps.” He took in the sight of his wife with a new sort of appreciation. Her predictions were fairly aligned with his, and that she should be so intuitive about them, having never before taken an interest, was deeply surprising. Not troubling, just surprising.
“They do have Mrs. Creighton,” he reminded her as he folded the letter back. “She is more than capable of handling them.”
Marianne nodded again, seeming lost in thought. “Quite right. I’d forgotten about her.” She shook herself and looked back at him, her cheeks looking pale against the sable darkness of her hair. “Will you go to them when her time comes?”
Kit sighed and nodded, rubbing his head. “Yes, it seems. Despite having four friends ready to ride at a moment’s notice, Colin has requested that I be there.” He shrugged a little, helplessly smiling. “And I must admit, I have a certain degree of interest in seeing how he handles the whole thing.”
That drew a smile from Marianne, a true smile that brightened her countenance so it fairly took his breath away. “Now that is a sight I would pay a great deal to see.” She shook her head and tapped his desk once. “You shall have to tell me all about it,” she said a bit airily as she turned and exited the room, her attention now fixed on her own letter.
For the briefest of moments, Kit considered asking her to stay. Why, he did not know. What he would have done if she had, he hadn’t even thought about. But seeing her, speaking with her, without the strain and tension of resentment between them, had been a breath of fresh air.
And he hadn’t breathed that in such a long time.
Marianne suddenly made an odd moaning sound of distress, keening as if in pain, and she gripped the wall.
He was on his feet in a moment. “Marianne?”
She held out a shaky hand to stop him and he heeded it, waiting on the balls of his feet in his study, watching her back carefully.
Her head was bowed over the letter, but he could see a flush of distress rising on her neck and her shoulders were suddenly tense. He heard the letter crinkling in her hold.
“What is it?” he asked in a low voice.
She drew in a slow breath and half turned towards him. The color in her face was gone, but the pink flush continued to rise upwards. “It is a letter from Edward Hayes. Fanny’s brother.” She swallowed with great difficulty, wet her lips, and straightened a little. “Fanny has run away from home. With Mr. Marksby.”
It was as if the floor had vanished beneath him. His breath suddenly felt hot, and burned his lungs and chest with every exhalation, and his pulse began to pound in his head.
“He asks me to prevail upon you,” Marianne half whispered, still reading, “to aid him and his brother in finding her and stopping him. They are for Gretna, as is expected, and given my… history with the man, they assume they will take a less direct route. If you agree, they request that you meet them at the family home in North Oxford as soon as possible.”
The letter, and the hand that held it, fell to her side. She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. “Damn you, Marksby,” she rasped.
“My sentiments precisely,” Kit muttered in clipped tones, running a hand through his hair. He exhaled a short breath and shook his head. “The Hayes family will never recover from this.”
Marianne looked at him, her eyes dull and flat. “Will you go?”
He hid a shudder and shook his head again. “No.”
The letter in her hand suddenly crumpled as she balled her hand into a fist. “Kit, they have asked for your help.”
He shook his head more firmly, leaving no doubt. “No, Marianne. I am not going to go chasing after him again. I have no desire to reacquaint myself with him or his damages.”
Marianne pushed off of the wall and turned fully towards him, folding her arms over her chest. “Kit…”
He took her arm and led her back into the study, shutting the door behind her.
“You have to go, Kit.” She stepped towards him, her hands shaking as she brushed back a stray tendril on either side of her face. “Are you really going to let another woman be subject to him?”
“Why am I to be the deliverer of justice for all things Marksby?” he asked, desperately trying to ignore the part of him that was enraged by her distress. “She has brothers, and they have friends, all of whom are more than capable of mounting a rescue.”
“They asked for you!”
“Why?” he demanded, as if she would know. “Why me? Why not Colin or Duncan or literally anyone else?” He shook his head again, whirling away from her. “I cannot see that man again, I swore that the last time I put my fist in his face.”
“I have not told you all that I suffered at his hand!” Marianne suddenly cried, her voice cracking.
The utter silence was deafening and he was suffocated by it. Slowly, and with more fear than he’d ever felt in his entire life, he turned back to face her.
She was pale as death, still as the marble in the great hall, and her hands were clenched tightly before her. The only thing that moved was her chin as it quivered with unshed tears.
“What?” he managed in a broken, hoarse voice.
She closed her eyes and a tick of a wince flickered across her face. “There was so much more to it, Kit, than anything you saw. What I endured, what he… promised in my future, the violence, the threats, all that he anticipated from me…” She shuddered and put a fist to her mouth, fighting for control.
He ought to take her into his arms. He ought to sweep her up and promise that she was eternally safe and nothing would ever harm her.
“Marianne…” he managed roughly, willing his feet to her side, though they ignored him.
How could he bear hearing more?
“How I managed to escape without actually being ruined is a miracle,” she managed, sounding stronger, if only just. She met his eyes at last, and the fire in them seared his soul. “Fanny is not me, Kit, and I am afraid for her. There may not be anything left to save, and I know that, but please try. For her sake, for her family’s sake… For me, please try.”
A lesser man would have fallen to his knees at such a request. Anyone else would have immediately taken up the charge.
But Kit could only stare at his wife, heart pounding furiously in his chest.
She had no air of superiority or expectation of reward. She was a tower of strength and yet exuded humility. This was not the woman he married. This was the girl he fell in love with.
And he could never refuse her anything.
He exhaled heavily and a great weight came off his shoulders and settled in his chest. He came forward and gestured for the letter, which she gave him, eyes wide.
He scanned the pages for pertinent details, then nodded. He handed it back to her, unable to speak. Equally unable to leave her without anything, he took her hand in his, squeezed it in what he hoped was a gesture of comfort, and then brushed his lips over her brow quickly.
The faint whisper of a gasp that escaped her would have unmanned him had he not already released her hand and started away. As it was, his lips tingled with the feeling of her skin, and his thoughts were awhirl as the subtle fragrance of her flooded his senses. He was utterly mad to be going after the foolish chit, especially considering Marksby. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to face the villain again, but for his wife, he would try.
He called for his horse to be readied, and he was gone within a quarter of an hour. He did not see Marianne again, for which he was grateful. He would rather remember her as he left her than see her change into the wife he had known.
But all that rested on his mind was the picture she had presented when he’d ridden to the inn at Leeds, when Marksby had done with her.
And a cold fear began to grow within him.
It was a strange thing to be at Glendare without Kit, but Marianne managed well enough. She continued with the refurbishing of a few rooms, but pointedly left the horrid marble statues where they had been in the great hall. Despite her adding the carpets and softening the great marble overload of the room with tapestries and some plants, the room was still oppressive, and until the statues were removed, it would be so. But Kit hated them, and she was not ready to give in yet.
She wandered the house and the grounds at length, within reason, and found herself feeling rather at home here, despite being in solitude. There were no neighbors in residence, and she was not yet brave enough to go into the village on errands. But she did let the estate manager introduce her to some of the families under their care, and she had never been more grateful for her ability to read people and sway them into liking her. She had never been a lady with real responsibility, let alone responsibilities involving other people, but she found a sort of affinity for it. There was something to be said about people being in need and being the one to whom they could turn for solutions and relief.
According to Mr. Jennings, she had quite a knack for this, despite her initial doubts, and he thought her husband would be quite pleased with the progress she had made. It seemed that some of the families she had visited had been some of the more troublesome ones, and she may have gone a long way to smoothing over some rather ruffled feathers.
Well, if she could do something to be of use to Kit when he was doing so much for her at the moment, she would be quite content.
She could not have said what had persuaded him to go, but she was so grateful for it. She hardly slept while he was gone, worrying over Fanny and her fate. And if she were being entirely truthful, she was worried about him as well. He had never told her all that he had done to Marksby, but considering what depth of feeling he once had for her, and the responsibility he had felt to her, it was no wonder he had taken it upon himself to thrash the man. Seeing him again, knowing that she had not told him all…
She would be surprised indeed if Marksby lived much longer.
But she could not tell him all of the horrible whisperings that Marksby had laid upon her, the vulgar and base illustrations he had created with his words, the physical beatings, chokings, indecent touches… He had been determined to ruin her entirely before he ruined her in truth. He had been so very persuasive, and she had been tempted more than once to give in, but pride and a firm resolve had preserved her.
If Kit knew all that she had suffered, in detail, he would always feel guilt and pain. He would always see her with pity. He would never be the same sort of man again. She could not bear that.
There was no word from him, or either of the Hayes brothers, but she hardly expected any. There would not be time, and they certainly should not have made communication with her any sort of priority. Not when Fanny’s fate was hanging in the balance.
Still, wandering the house and playing the pianoforte and examining the gallery could only be done so many times before she was like to go mad with wondering. She was never very good at being helpless.
But the time in the house alone with the servants had given her opportunity to get a better feeling for the flow of the house and the sort of energy that resided here, and she quite liked it. She spent a good deal of time with Mrs. Dinstable and the cook, Mrs. Paul, and they regaled her with all sorts of stories, some of which gave her a very interesting insight into the man she married. She thought she knew him very well, but the man they knew was kind and considerate, remembered details with exactness, and cared about the welfare of his estates and tenants with a veracity that endeared him to everyone.
This was the man who treated her with coldness and disdain?
That was the Kit she had known in her youth, not the one she was married to.
Not the one she had wounded.
Marianne had gone to bed troubled, suddenly desperate to find something she could do to attempt to mend this mess of a marriage they had created. Their odd moments of harmony and companionship had been flanked rather soundly on either side with some rather vehement spats, which did not reflect well on either of them.
But she knew one thing: her husband was a good man, despite his complicated and confusing feelings towards her. And despite her attempts to prove to the world the contrary, she had a heart, however infrequently she had used it.
Perhaps if they stopped hiding so much, they might actually get somewhere.
Sometime in the night, she found herself coming awake, which was highly unusual for her. She usually slept like the very dead without any interruption. But tonight, something had roused her. She turned over and gave a little start as she made out a shape by her bedroom door. Blinking quickly, she peered more closely, and was further shocked to see her husband there, leaning against the wall, his eyes on her.
“Kit?” she murmured softly, sitting up against the headboard and rubbing at her eyes.
He did not respond, but continued to stare at her, his expression almost fearful.
She took in the state of him, faintly illuminated from the dying light of the fire in the hearth and the candle in his hand. His cravat was gone, his jacket and waistcoat were open, his linen shirt wrinkled and crumpled, his hair was windswept and disorderly, which left him looking very young, despite the growth of whiskers on his face. His corded throat worked in a swallow, and he looked utterly exhausted.
If he had just arrived, surely he needed to rest and could see her in the morning.
Unless…
She swallowed and considered him with newfound concern. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.
His head jerked in an uneven shake of his head. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he replied, his voice hoarse and unsteady. “It can wait.”
Yet he did not move, and he barely breathed. He watched her still, steadily, as if he were afraid she would disappear. Obviously, whatever it was could not wait. Not for him.
A surge of tenderness enfolded her, and she held out a hand to him. “Come here, Kit.”
He moved so quickly it almost startled her, and he seized her hand at once. The contact seemed to shake him and he sank onto the edge of her bed, his grip tightening.
“What’s wrong?” she asked again, squeezing his hand as she took the candle from him and set it on the nightstand beside her.
He stared at her face for an uncomfortably long moment, his eyes tracing her features. Then he looked away, his hold on her clenched, and started speaking. In quiet, controlled tones, he spoke of meeting with the Hayes brothers in Oxford and making plans for the direction they would head. They had been hopelessly lost as to how to proceed and where to go, and he’d been able to advise them as to a proper plan. They’d used several resources, both monetary and informational, to finally track the elopers down in Carlisle, just before the border. It was unfathomable that they had stopped so close to Scotland, but once they had found them, they understood why.
Kit inhaled slowly and closed his eyes, swallowing again.
Marianne sat up a bit more and rested her other hand on his arm, giving him a gentle squeeze.
“She was worse off than you had been,” he said flatly. “Far more bruised and battered, particularly in her face, but she clung to Marksby as if he were the one who should protect her. She loves him, despite everything. Even with the evidence of his brutality upon her, she turned to him like a dog to his master, with adoration and eagerness. They had already been to Gretna and back, man and wife, for better or worse. And she is… She is carrying his child. Already confirmed by physician. I believe that is what convinced Marksby to settle for her fortune, which her brothers have no choice but to confer upon him. They plan to live at his house in Staffordshire until the child comes, and then…” He shrugged and shook his head. “Who knows what will happen after that.”
They sat together in silence for several long moments, as Marianne tried to digest the information. She should have seen it, how devoted Fanny had always been to Marksby, and how little she wished to believe her when she told her the truth. She ought to have been more emotional about it, and she felt the odd burning of tears in her eyes, but most of what she felt was a hollow sort of emptiness, and a great deal of pity.
“Poor Fanny,” she sighed, absently stroking Kit’s hand and forearm. “She has no idea what she has gotten herself into.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t save her,” Kit murmured bleakly, his free hand rubbing at his head.
Surprised, Marianne tugged his hand, forcing him to look at her. “Save her? Kit, I told her what happened to me. Everything. She knew exactly what she was doing, so there was nothing to save. And if my calculations are correct, she was already carrying his child when he carted me off. And she knows that.”
Kit swallowed and shook his head. “It could have been you,” he rasped. “That was the thought that tortured me the whole ride. It could have been you and I couldn’t save you.”
Realization now dawned on her and she clung to his hand tightly, holding it against her. “It reminded you of looking for me.”
He shuddered a little. “Every blistering second of it. I’ll never be able to forget it. From the moment I had heard you were gone, I was beside myself. I could barely rein in my emotions. Could you see that?”
Had she seen that? Had she seen any of it? Reluctantly, wishing she could answer any other way, she shook her head slowly. “All I remember from that moment was my shock at seeing you there at the inn. That you had come for me. I’ve never known shame like that before, wondering what you thought of me.” Her voice broke a little, but she swallowed it back.
Kit stared at her with such intensity that she could barely draw breath. “I was tormented the entire time we searched for you, furious that you’d run away, terrified you were in trouble, desperate to throttle you…” He shook his head, his eyes still fixed on her but somehow distant. “Then I saw you, the state you were in and the terror in your face… and all I could think of was killing him, and holding you.” He blinked hard, his face tensing at the memory. “My mind was filled with images of hauling you into my arms, carrying you out of that place, looking over every inch of you just to assure myself that you were well and whole… My hands literally itched to touch you. But I couldn’t. So I did the only thing I could do.” A dark, satisfied sneer broke across his face. “I thrashed Marksby until my hands bled, and then I threatened him with worse if he ever came near you again. And as much as I hated to admit it, I knew you were mine from that moment on. More than that, I knew that I belonged to you.” He suddenly focused on her again, pinning her in place. “I’ll never regret coming after you, Marianne. Seeing Fanny Hayes, and learning that I don’t know everything you endured… It makes me ache in places I didn’t know I could.”
His tortured whisper ripped at her heart and she found herself suddenly choked up, her eyes swimming with the tears that would not fall for Fanny. She pulled him closer, and to her surprise, he came. She tucked his head under her chin, wrapping her arms around his neck and broad shoulders, and he curled against her like a child.
“I am right here,” she whispered, softly stroking his thick hair. “I am safe and here with you. I’m sorry to have given you cause for such worry.”
His arms suddenly latched around her waist tightly. “I am so sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner. I’m sorry you had to marry me, I’m sorry we have had such trouble together…”
“Shhh,” she scolded, shaking her head and holding him tight. “I’m far happier than I would be otherwise. Now be quiet and hold me.”
He stilled at her command, but did not lift his head. “What?”
She sighed, wishing she had a better talent with words where her husband was concerned. She ran her fingers through his hair, and felt some of the tension leave him. “We have had a rough start, Kit,” she murmured, “but we were friends long before any of that. We can be friends again.”
He settled against her for a long moment, sighing heavily, wearily. Then he pulled back a little, his eyes wary, but in all other respects looking utterly exhausted. “Do you… want me to leave?” he asked carefully, his voice a mere echo of his usual tones. “I can, if you wish.”
Marianne shook her head, smiling softly. Even now, with all he was suffering, he was controlled and polite. A gentleman to his very core. The hint of hesitation in his voice told her all she needed to know. “Did you hear me?” she asked with a mock exasperated sigh. She leaned forward and took his face between her hands, meeting his gaze firmly. “You are distressed. You need to be held, and you can only reassure yourself if you hold me. So stop being so polite, Kit Gerrard, take your boots off, and come hold your wife for as long as you like.”
His eyes suddenly glinted and he laughed briefly, nodding. He stepped away from the bed and stripped his boots, coat, and waistcoat, and then he hesitated, looking back at her.
There were a hundred emotions she could have read in his eyes and expression, but she chose not to. Tonight, she was in charge, and pride had nothing to do with any of it. She gave him what she hoped was a stern look, then smiled and held out her hand. “Come here, Kit,” she said as gently as she could.
He came to her at once, put out the candle, and slid into bed beside her. Immediately, Marianne moved into his hold, and he gripped her tightly against him. “Don’t ever leave me,” he whispered harshly, his hands stroking her back and hair.
She peered up at his darkened face in surprise. “Why would I?”
He shook his head and pressed his mouth into her hair. “It’s not a love match, everybody knows that, but…”
His frantic breathing and more frantic words concerned her. She rested a hand over his erratic heart and rubbed soothing circles against his chest. “Kit, I’m not going anywhere. I am yours now.”
Again came the quick shake of his head. “I don’t want you to think you are a possession.”
She smiled at his words. “I don’t,” she said softly, “but you need to stop worrying that I will run, or that I resent this marriage. I’m not that girl anymore. I am your wife, and I will stay your wife forever.”
She hadn’t meant for it to come out so earnestly, such a heartfelt vow at such a moment. But neither could she regret having said them, nor would she take them back. She felt him swallow, press a kiss to her hair, and heard a relieved sigh that made her throat tighten again.
“I’m sorry you doubt me, though I know I deserve it,” she whispered, tucking her face into his chest.
“Shhh,” he soothed, finally sounding more like himself, even with the evident drowsiness. “That’s enough. Just let me hold you now. We’ll be all right.”
Whether those last words were meant for her or not, they brought her a measure of comfort. Something had changed between them, something rather significant. The next few days would tell all, but she would not worry about that now. She could not. Wrapped in the protective embrace of her husband, and protecting him herself, she felt nothing but satisfaction and a little flame of hope that had sprung to life once more.
Relaxing completely against him, she sighed, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep once more.