Читать книгу Wayward Widow - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 8

1802

Lady Juliana Tallant had no memory of her mother. She had been only four years old when the Marchioness had run off with a lover and the Marquis of Tallant had banished his errant wife’s portrait from the blue saloon. These days it lay swathed in sheets in the attic, gathering a layer of dust and dead spiders. The Marchioness’s warmth and vitality, captured so accurately by the young artist who had been another of her lovers, was quenched by the shadows.

When matters in the house were particularly grim, Juliana would creep up to the attic and pull back the sheet that covered her mother’s disgrace, and stand for hours staring at that pretty, painted face. There was an old spotted mirror in the corner of the attic and she would pose before it in her too-small gowns, her slippered feet stirring the dust as she tried to trace the resemblance between her own features and those on the canvas. The eyes were the same, emerald green with specks of gold, and the small nose and the generous mouth, too wide for true beauty. The shape of Juliana’s face was different and she had what she thought of as the Tallant auburn hair, although she had heard her father say that she was none of his begetting and so it was hard to see how she could have inherited his hair.

‘It is difficult for the girl to be without her mother,’ Juliana had once heard her aunt Beatrix say to the Marquis, but Bevil Tallant had given his sister a look that said she was a simpleton and told her that the child had the servants and a governess, and what more could she want?

On that particular summer’s afternoon, Juliana had grown bored with the French lessons that Miss Bertie had been trying to drum into her and had begged and begged to be released into the sunshine. In the end the beleaguered governess had agreed and Juliana had skipped downstairs, ignoring Miss Bertie’s instructions to take a parasol and behave with decorum. Young ladies always wore bonnets; young ladies did not run through the wildflower meadow, young ladies never spoke to a gentleman without first being introduced…Even at fourteen, Juliana knew that being a young lady could be a tiresome business. Even at fourteen, she was a rebel.

The door of the blue saloon was ajar and she could hear her father’s voice above the clink of the teacups. Aunt Beatrix was making one of her infrequent visits to Ashby Tallant.

‘I found Marianne living in Rome with Count Calzioni,’ Juliana heard her spinster aunt say, in answer to a question from the Marquis. ‘She asked after the children, Bevil.’

The Marquis grunted.

‘I do believe that she would like to return to England to see them, but it is impossible, of course.’

The Marquis grunted again. There was a pause.

‘I hear that Joss does very well at Oxford,’ Beatrix said brightly. ‘I am surprised that you do not send Juliana away to school as well. I am sure that she would blossom this time. You know she is eager to please you.’

‘I’d be glad to send her away but it is all a waste of damned time,’ the Marquis said. ‘Did as you suggested last time and look what happened, Trix! The girl’s wild to a fault, just like her mother.’

Beatrix tutted. ‘I do not believe that one can condemn Juliana so harshly, Bevil. The incident at the school was unfortunate—’

‘Unfortunate? Reading French pornography? Outrageous, more like. I ask you, Beatrix—’

‘It was scarcely pornography,’ Beatrix said calmly. ‘Some naughty cartoons smuggled in by one of the other girls…Besides, if Juliana wished to read that sort of book, she need look no further than your own library, Bevil!’

The Marquis grunted a third time in a very bad-tempered way. Juliana checked that there were no servants lurking, then leaned more closely towards the half-open door so that she could hear more clearly.

‘There is always marriage,’ Beatrix was saying thoughtfully. ‘She is a trifle young yet, but in a couple of years…’

‘As soon as she is seventeen,’ the Marquis said crossly. ‘Married off and an end to it.’

‘Let us hope so,’ Beatrix said drily. ‘It was not an end for Marianne, was it, Bevil?’

‘Marianne was a wanton,’ Bevil Tallant said coldly of his estranged wife. ‘She lost count of her own lovers. Aye, and the child is cut from the same cloth, Trix. You mark my words. She will come to a bad end.’

The voices continued, but Juliana turned away and traipsed across the black-and-white marbled entrance hall and down the wide stone steps at the front of Ashby Tallant House. The heat struck her as soon as she was out of the shadow of the portico, bouncing up from the white stones and burning her face. She had forgotten her bonnet. And her parasol. There would be more freckles tomorrow.

She walked across the drive, taking the path that ran between the lime trees and away across the meadow towards the river. Her footsteps were slow and her thoughts dragged as well. She did not understand why her father always wanted to send her away. Every day he would endure a painful quarter-hour with her when she told him what she had learned at lessons that day, but with a child’s instinct she knew that he was not really interested. When the clock chimed he would send her away without a backward look. On a larger scale, he had been pleased to pack her off to school at Miss Evering’s Seminary and was awesomely angry when she had made her unscheduled return. Now it seemed that if she wanted to please him, she would have to marry as soon as possible. Juliana thought that she could probably do that. She knew that she was pretty. All the same, a little voice told her that she might do that and more, and her father would never be pleased with her. He would never love her.

Juliana took the path through the reed bed that bordered the river. Here the water flowed sluggishly in a series of bends as it approached the village of Ashby Tallant, and there was a big pool by the willow trees where the ducks preened and the fish sunbathed in the shallows. Juliana pushed the willow curtain aside and slipped into the golden darkness.

Somebody was already there. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Juliana saw a boy scramble hastily to his feet, rubbing the palms of his hands on his breeches. He was tall and gangling, with straw-coloured hair and a face pitted with the cruel spots of adolescence. Juliana stopped dead and stared at him. He looked like a farmer’s son, or perhaps a blacksmith’s boy. For all that he was the taller of the two, she still looked down her nose at him.

‘Who are you?’ She spoke with the cut-glass condescension she had heard in Beatrix’s voice when she addressed the servants, and she expected it to have the same effect.

However, the boy—or perhaps he could more accurately be described as a young man since he must be at least fifteen years old—merely grinned at her tone. Juliana noticed that he had very white, even teeth. He sketched a clumsy bow that looked incongruous with his grass-stained shirt and ancient breeches.

‘Martin Davencourt, at your service, ma’am. And you are—?’

‘Lady Juliana Tallant of Ashby Tallant,’ Juliana said.

The boy smiled again. He had a most engaging smile. It made two deep creases appear in his cheeks. It drew attention away from the disfiguring spots and made Juliana think of the brightness of sunlight on water.

‘The lady of the manor herself!’ he said. He gestured to a jumble of stones, the remnants of an old mill, which were scattered in the long grass. ‘Will you take a seat with me, my lady?’

It was only when Juliana looked down at the grass that she saw the book lying there, its pages riffled by the slight breeze. There were diagrams and pictures, and beside it lay some paper and a pencil, where Martin Davencourt had evidently made sketches of his own. Bits of wood, string and nails were scattered in the long grass between the stones.

Juliana stared. She had evidently been embarrassingly wide of the mark when assessing his social status and now she felt at a disadvantage.

‘You are not from the village!’ she said accusingly.

Martin Davencourt’s eyes widened. They were beautiful eyes, Juliana thought, greeny-blue, with thick dark lashes.

‘Did I say that I was? I am staying at Ashby Hall. Sir Henry Lees is my godfather.’

Juliana came forward slowly. ‘Why are you not at school?’

Martin smiled apologetically. ‘I have been ill, I am afraid. I go back at the end of the summer.’

‘To Eton?’

‘Harrow.’

Juliana sat down in the grass and picked up one of the oddly shaped pieces of wood, turning it over in her fingers.

‘I am trying to build a fortification,’ Martin said, ‘but I cannot get the angle of the wall quite correct. Mathematics is not my strong point—’

Juliana yawned. ‘Lud, mathematics! My brother Joss was the same as you, always playing with his toy soldiers or building battlements. It quite bores me to death!’

Martin squatted beside her. ‘What sort of games do you enjoy then, Lady Juliana?’

‘I am too old to play games,’ Juliana said scornfully. ‘I am fourteen years of age. I shall be going to Town in a few years to catch myself a husband.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Martin said, his eyes twinkling. ‘All the same, it seems melancholy not to play any games. How do you spend your time?’

‘Oh, in dancing and playing the piano, and needlework and…’ Juliana’s voice faded. It sounded quite paltry when she listed it like that. ‘There is only me, you see,’ she added quietly, ‘so I must amuse myself.’

‘In playing truant by the river when the sun is shining?’

Juliana smiled. ‘Sometimes.’

She stayed for the rest of the afternoon, sitting in the grass whilst Martin struggled to fit together the pieces of wood to form a drawbridge, with frequent recourse to the book and a certain amount of mild swearing under his breath. When the sun dipped behind the trees she bade him farewell, but Martin barely looked up from his calculations and Juliana smiled as she walked home, imagining him sitting in the willow tent until darkness fell and he missed his supper.

To her surprise, he was there the next afternoon, and the next. They met on most fine afternoons throughout the following fortnight. Martin would have some peculiar military model that he was working on, or he would bring a book to read—philosophy or poetry or literature. Juliana would prattle and he would answer in monosyllables, barely raising his head from the pages. Sometimes she chided him for his lack of attention to her, but mainly they were both content. Juliana chattered and Martin studied quietly, and it suited them both.

It was on a late August afternoon, with the first hint of autumn in the air, that Juliana threw herself down in the grass and moodily complained that it was foolish for her to go up to London to catch a husband, for no one would ever want to marry her, never ever. She was ugly and unaccomplished and all her gowns were too short for her. No matter that it was another two years before she would be able to visit the capital. Matters would get worse rather than better.

Martin, who was idly sketching two ducks that were flirting in the shallow pool, agreed solemnly that her dresses would be much shorter in two years’ time if she carried on growing. Juliana threw one of his books at him. He fielded it deftly and put it aside, picking up his pencil again.

‘Martin…’ Juliana said.

‘Hmm?’

‘Do you think me pretty?’

‘Yes.’ Martin did not look up. A lock of fair hair fell across his forehead. His brows were dark and strongly marked, and they were drawn together a little in concentration.

‘But I have freckles.’

‘You do. They are pretty, too.’

‘Papa says that I will never get a husband because I am a hoyden.’ Juliana plucked at the blades of grass, head bent. ‘Papa says that I am wild just like my mama and that I will come to a bad end. I do not remember my mama,’ she added a little sadly, ‘but I am sure she cannot be as bad as everyone says.’

The pencil stilled in Martin’s hand. Looking up, Juliana saw a flash of what looked like anger on his face.

‘Your papa should not say such things to you,’ he said gruffly. ‘Was he the one who told you that you are ugly and unaccomplished?’

‘I expect that he is right,’ Juliana said.

Martin said something very rude and to the point that fortunately Juliana did not understand. There was a silence, whilst they looked at each other for a long moment, then Martin said, ‘If you are still in want of a husband when you are thirty years of age I shall be glad to marry you myself.’ His voice was husky and there was shyness in his eyes.

Juliana stared, then she burst out laughing. ‘You? Oh, Martin!’

Martin turned away and picked up his book of philosophy. Juliana watched as a wave of colour started up his neck and engulfed his face to the roots of his hair. He did not look at her again, concentrating fiercely on the book.

‘Thirty is a very great age,’ Juliana said, calming down. ‘I dare say that I shall have been married for years and years by then.’

‘Very likely,’ Martin said, still without looking up.

A slightly awkward silence fell. Juliana fidgeted with the hem of her dress and looked at Martin from under her lashes. He seemed engrossed in his book, even though she could swear that he had read the same page time and time again.

‘It was a very handsome offer,’ she said, putting a tentative hand out to touch the back of his. His skin felt warm and smooth beneath her fingers. Still he did not look at her, but he did not shake her off either.

‘If I am unmarried at thirty I would be happy to accept your offer,’ Juliana added, in a small voice. ‘Thank you, Martin.’

Martin looked up at last. His eyes were smiling and his fingers closed around hers tightly. Juliana felt a strange warmth in her heart as she looked at him.

‘You are very welcome, Juliana,’ he said.

They sat for a little while holding hands until Juliana started to feel chilled with the breeze off the water and said that she must go home. The next day it rained, and the next. After that, Martin was no longer to be found in the pavilion beneath the willow trees. When Juliana asked, the servants said that Sir Henry Lees’s godson had gone home.

It was almost sixteen years until Juliana Tallant and Martin Davencourt met one another again and, by then, Juliana was well on the way to the fate that her father had predicted for her.