Tallie's Knight (4 page)

She was no
needlewoman, and even if she were she could not make larger that which was too
small in the first place. After some experimentation she managed to fill in the
neckline with a piece of old lace, so that it covered her decently at least,
even if it was still too tight. She tacked a frill along the hem. It looked
quite ridiculous, she knew, but at least it covered her ankles.

Finally she draped
herself in a large paisley shawl to disguise the tightness of the dress. It
would surely suffice to get her through dinner. She glanced at herself in the
glass and closed her eyes in momentary mortification. The green colour did
bring interesting highlights to her brown hair and eyes, and her curly hair was
neat for once, but —she looked a perfect quiz! Still, she told herself bracingly,
Laetitia was right. No one would take any notice of her.

She was just an extra
female —the poor relation— and she would slip away the moment dinner was over.
In any case, she didn’t like her cousin’s guests, so what did it matter what
they thought of her?

Taking a deep breath,
she headed downstairs to check on the arrangements for dinner.

Magnus took another
sip of
Armagnac
and wondered how much longer
he could endure the girlish flutterings going on around him. His temper was on
a knife-edge and he had no one to blame but himself. The house party had been a
disaster.

Ten days of the
unalleviated company of high-bred young women would have been bad enough —he’d
nerved himself for that ordeal. But he should have realised that Laetitia would
select a gaggle of young ladies most like herself —spoiled, vain, vapid and
silly. Magnus was almost rigid with boredom.

And exasperation —for
he’d hoped to observe the young ladies unobtrusively, make a discreet selection
and quietly arrange a marriage. Ha! What a joke! His wretched cousin had about
as much discretion as a parrot! That had been made plain to Magnus within days,
when he’d realised he was being hunted —with all the subtlety of a pack of
hounds in full pursuit.

Creamy bosoms were
made to heave and quiver under his nose at every opportunity. Well-turned
ankles flashed from modest concealment. And every time he entered a room
eyelashes batted so feverishly there was almost a draught. He’d been treated to
displays of virtuosity on harp, pianoforte and flute, had folios of
watercolours thrust under his nose, his expert inspection bashfully solicited.
His superior masculine opinion had been sought and deferred to on every topic
under the sun and his every reluctant pronouncement greeted with sighs,
sycophantic titters and syrupy admiration.

They accosted him
morning,
noon
and night —in
the garden, in the drawing room, in the breakfast parlour— even, once, behind
the stables, where a man had a right to expect some peace and quiet. But it was
no use —eligible misses lurked, apparently, in every corner of the estate.

Yet, despite his
overwhelming aversion to the task in hand, Magnus was still determined to
select a wife. The house party had convinced him it was best to get the deed
over with as soon as possible. Any courtship was bound to be appalling to a man
of his solitary tastes, he reasoned, and if he did not choose now, he would
only prolong the process. And this collection of girls seemed no different from
any others currently on the marriage mart.

The trouble was,
Magnus could not imagine any of them as mother to his children. Not one had two
thoughts to rub together; each seemed completely devoted to fashion, gossip and
male flattery —not necessarily in that order. And, like Laetitia, they despised
rural life.

That was a problem.
He had somehow assumed his wife would live at d’Arenville with the children.
Though why he should expect his wife to live in the country when few women of
his acquaintance did so, Magnus could not imagine. His own mother certainly had
not. She hadn’t been able to bear the country. But then he didn’t want a wife
like his mother.

Freddie’s wife lived,
seemingly content, all year round in the wilds of
Yorkshire
with her husband and children. The children’s obvious happiness had made a
profound impression on Magnus —his own parents had been virtual strangers who
had descended on his home at infrequent intervals, their visits the bane of his
youthful existence.

But Freddie’s wife
truly seemed to love her children. Magnus’s own mother had appeared to love
Magnus —in company. So Freddie’s wife could have been fudging it, but Magnus
didn’t think so. Freddie’s wife also seemed to love Freddie. But Freddie was,
Magnus knew, a lovable person.

It was not the same
for Magnus. He had clearly been an unlovable child. And was therefore not a
lovable man. But he would do everything in his power to ensure his children had
the chance to be lovable. And therefore to be loved.

Magnus glanced around
the room again. He supposed it was possible that some of these frivolous girls
would settle into motherhood, but it was difficult to believe, especially with
the example of his cousin before him.

“Oh, it is such a
delightfully mild evening,” cried Laetitia. “Let us stroll on the terrace
before dinner. Come Magnus, as my guest of honour, you shall escort the lady of
your choice.”

A dozen feminine
gazes turned his way. There was an expectant hush. Magnus silently cursed his
cousin for trying to force his hand.

Clearly she wished the
house party concluded so that she could return to Town and the myriad
entertainments there. Magnus smiled. He danced to no female’s tune.

“Then, as a good
guest, I must look to the care of my charming hostess,” he responded lightly. “Cousin,
shall we?” He took her arm, allowing her no choice, and they stepped through
the French doors onto the terrace. The other guests followed.

Tallie trailed
awkwardly in their wake. She felt most uncomfortable.

Several of the young
ladies had eyed her gown, whispering and tittering with careless amusement.
Their mothers had totally ignored her and two of the gentlemen guests had made
improper suggestions. The guests had taken their tone from Laetitia —Tallie was
an unconsidered encumbrance, little better than a servant, and in the current
mood of thwarted ambition she was a convenient target.

Tallie was angry, but
told herself sternly that there was little point in expressing her feelings —they
would be gone soon, and she would be left in peace again with the children and
Brooks and Mrs. Wilmot. It should be simple enough for her to ignore the spite of
a few ill-bred aristocrats.

The pale young
marquise held her chin high, ignoring the vile insults flung at her by the
ignorant canaille, as the tumbrel rolled onwards. She was dressed in rags, her
lovely gowns stolen by the prison guards, but her dignity was unimpaired.
Tallie slipped unobtrusively to the edge of the terrace and looked out over the
stone balustrade to the closely scythed sweep of lawn and the woods beyond. It
was a truly lovely view.

“Aaargh! Get down,
you filthy beast!” Laetitia’s screeches pierced the air. “Get it off me,
someone! Aaargh!”

Tallie hurried to see
what had occurred. She wriggled between some of the gathered guests and let out
an exclamation of distress.

Her cousin’s small
son, Georgie, had obviously escaped from the nursery and gone adventuring with
the puppy that Tallie had given him several weeks before. He stood in front of
his mother, a ragged bunch of snowdrops held pathetically out towards her. His
shoes and nankeen pantaloons were covered in mud, as was the puppy. It was the
cause of the trouble —muddy paw prints marred Laetitia’s new jonquil silk gown.

Laetitia, unused to
dogs, screeched and backed away, hysterically flapping her fan at the pup, who
seemed to think it a delightful game.

He leaped up, yapping
in excitement, attempting to catch the fan in his jaws, liberally spattering
the exquisite gown in the process.

Tallie was still
attempting to wriggle through the press of guests when Lord d’Arenville grabbed
the pup and handed him by the scruff of its neck to the little boy. Tallie
reached the child just as his mother’s tirade broke over him.

“How dare you bring
that filthy beast near me, you wicked boy! Do you see what it has done? This
gown is ruined! Ruined, I tell you!”

The small face
whitened in distress. Mutely Georgie offered the wilting bunch of snowdrops.
Laetitia dashed them impatiently from his hands.

“Do not try to turn
me up sweet, Georgie! See what you have done? Look at this dress! Worn for the
first time today, from the finest of
London
’s
modistes, and costing the earth… Ruined! And why? Because a wicked boy brought
a filthy animal into a civilised gathering. Who gave you permission to leave
the nursery? I left the strictest orders. You will be punished for such
disobedience! And the animal is clearly dangerous! It must be shot at once!
Someone call for a groom—”

The little boy’s face
paled further. His small body shook in fright at the venom in his mother’s
voice. His face puckered in fear and distress and he clutched the puppy tightly
to his chest. It whimpered and scrabbled for release.

Magnus watched, tense
in a way he hadn’t been since he himself was a small boy. He fought the
sensation. His eyes darkened with sympathy and remembrance as he observed the
frightened child and his puppy. He felt for the boy, but it was not his place
to interfere with a mother disciplining her child. And anyway, he supposed it
was how it had to be. It was certainly how his own childhood had been.

It would be hard for
the boy to lose his beloved pup, but it was probably better for Georgie that he
learn to toughen up now, rather than later. Pets were invariably used as
hostage to one’s good behaviour. Once the boy learnt not to care so much, his
life would be easier. Magnus had certainly found it so, although the learning
had been very hard. Three pets had died for his disobedience by the time he was
eight. The last a liquid-eyed setter bitch by the name of Polly.

Polly, his constant
companion and his best friend. But Magnus had taken her out hunting one day
instead of finishing his Greek translations and his father had destroyed Polly
to teach his son a lesson in responsibility.

Magnus had learned
his lesson well.

By the age of eight
Magnus had learned not to become attached to pets.

Or to anything else.

“I am sorry for the
unfortunate accident, Cousin.”

It was the shabby little
poor relation. Magnus watched as she interposed her body between the cowering
small boy and his infuriated mother, her calm voice a contrast to Laetitia’s
high-pitched ranting.

“You are sorry?”
Laetitia continued. “Yes, I’ll make sure of that! The children are in your
charge, so how was it that this child was allowed to escape from the nursery? I
gave strict instructions…”

Magnus leaned back
against a large stone urn, folded his arms and coolly observed the scene. He
noted the way the dowdy little cousin used her body to shield the child,
protecting him from his own mother.

It was an interesting
manoeuvre —for a poor relation.

The little boy
pressed into her skirts, the muddy pup still in his arms. Magnus watched as the
girl’s hand came to rest unobtrusively on the nape of the child’s neck. She
stroked him with small, soothing movements. Magnus noticed the little boy relax
under her ministrations, saw his shivers die away. After a few moments Georgie leaned
trustfully into the curve of her hip, resting his head against her. She held
him more fully against her body, all the time keeping her cousin’s rage focused
on herself. Her words were apologetic, her body subtly defiant.

Fascinating, thought
Magnus. Did the girl not realise what she risked by defying her cousin? And all
to protect a child who was not even her own.

“The accident was my
fault, Cousin,” she said. “You must not be angry with poor Georgie, here, for
he had my permission to be out of the nursery—”

The little boy’s
start of surprise was not lost on Magnus.

“And I am sorry for
the soiling of your gown. However, I cannot allow you to have the puppy
destroyed—”

“You? You cannot—”
spluttered Laetitia.

“No, for the pup
belongs neither to Georgie nor to you.”

The child stared up
at the girl. Her hand soothed him, and she continued.

“The pup is mine. He…
it was a gift from… from the Rector, and I cannot allow you to destroy a gift
because of a little high spirits…”

“You cannot allow—”
Laetitia gasped in indignation.

“Yes, puppies will be
puppies, and small boys and puppies seem to attract each other, don’t they?
Which is why I was so very grateful to Georgie here.” She turned a warm smile
on the small boy.

“Grateful?” Laetitia
was astounded. Georgie looked puzzled. Magnus was intrigued.

“Yes, very grateful
indeed, for I have been too busy lately to exercise the puppy, and so Georgie
has taken over that duty for me, have you not, Georgie dear?”

She nodded
encouragingly down at him and, bemused, Georgie nodded back.

“Yes, so any damage
the puppy has done to your gown you must lay at my door.”

“But—”

The girl was not
paying attention. She bent down to the child.

“Now, Georgie, I
think you and my puppy have had enough excitement for one night, but would you
do one more thing for me, please?”

He nodded.

“Would you please
return… er… Rover—”

“Satan,” Georgie
corrected her.

Her eyes brimmed with
amusement, but she continued with commendable control.

“Yes, of course,
Satan. Would you please take, er, Satan, to the kennels and wash the mud off
him for me? You see, I am dressed for dinner, and ladies must not go to the
kennels in their best gown.”