Love Climbs In, page 4
Valeta lifted her chin a little higher as if she longed to tell him to mind his own business.
Then, as he was obviously waiting for her answer, she replied slowly,
“I have my old Nanny with me who has looked after me since I was a baby. We will manage one way or another.”
“What does that mean?” the Marquis asked bluntly.
“We can grow a great deal of what we need to eat,” Valeta replied, “and perhaps I can earn a little money.”
“How?”
There was silence and he had the feeling that she was not going to answer him.
“I want to know,” he said after a second or two.
“Why?”
“Because, as it happens, I have a right to know.”
“A right?”
“That is another reason why I came to see you. Before your father left my house on the night of the race he made a will.”
“A will?”
There was no doubt that Valeta was astonished.
“Some of my guests,” the Marquis explained, “made wills as a joke, but your father made his in all seriousness and what is more it was witnessed by the men sitting on either side of him at dinner.”
Valeta was looking at him suspiciously as if she did not really believe what he was telling her.
Then she asked,
“What – did this will – contain?”
“It appointed me your Guardian until you married or reached the age of twenty-five.”
Although the Marquis had seated himself, Valeta had remained standing.
Now, as if she felt that her legs would not support her, she sat down on a chair opposite him and her eyes fixed on him seemed almost to double in size.
“My – Guardian?” she murmured beneath her breath.
“You can therefore understand,” the Marquis declared, “why I think I have a right to be concerned in your future.”
“You cannot take this – seriously?” Valeta said. “My father, I think, made a will which was deposited with his Solicitors and which left me everything he possessed.”
“Which I gather,” the Marquis remarked dryly, “is not very much.”
“It is all I need,” Valeta flashed defiantly.
“That is not true because if it was sufficient for your needs you would not need a reduction in your rent.”
His logic was inescapable and Valeta affirmed,
“What I want, my Lord, is to continue to live here and be left alone.”
“I should have thought that was a somewhat unnatural life and a very uninspired ambition for a young woman.”
“It is what I want to do.”
The Marquis leaned back a little further in his chair.
“The question is,” he said, “whether I will allow you to do it.”
If he had meant to be provocative, he had succeeded and he saw the surge of anger in Valeta’s eyes.
He thought with a feeling of amusement that at least he was getting his own back for her rudeness and after a moment in a very much smaller voice she asked,
“Could you really prevent me from – doing anything I want?”
“I am assured that your father’s will is legal,” the Marquis said, “in which case as your Guardian I am responsible for you and if you went to the Courts I think you would find that you had to obey me.”
Valeta thought for a moment and then she suggested,
“The best thing that can possibly happen, my Lord, is to forget about this absurd will, which my father made obviously after he had enjoyed a very good dinner.”
The Marquis did not miss the inference that Valeta was making that her father had been under the influence of alcohol and he demanded bluntly,
“Did your father often drink to excess?”
“No, of course not,” Valeta replied hotly. “He was very abstemious and always so before he rode in any race.”
The Marquis smiled.
“In which case your father obviously intended his will to be taken seriously because he believed that he was doing the best thing for you. What is more he could have had a premonition of what might happen to him.”
He thought as he spoke that he had made a point and felt almost as if he had been arguing with Freddie and, as they would have said to each other, ‘that is round one to you’.”
Valeta was silent for a moment and then she said,
“You cannot really wish to – concern yourself with me?”
“Naturally I am finding it rather a nuisance,” the Marquis answered loftily, “but it is obviously my duty to carry out your father’s last wishes.”
“I should like to see this will before I am convinced that it is actually valid.”
“Mr. Chamberlain, my Comptroller, will show it to you any time if you would care to call at the house,” the Marquis replied, “but, as several people saw your father writing it and two eminently respectable gentlemen witnessed his signature, I think you would find it very difficult to prove that it was a forgery or illegal.”
Again Valeta was silent and now she looked down at her linked hands as if she was striving to find something to confront the Marquis with.
As he looked at her bent head, he was aware of how long and dark her lashes were against the pale skin.
The sunshine coming through the window seemed to dance on her hair, which, although it was not fashionably dressed, was, the Marquis thought, a more attractive colour than he had seen for a very long time.
On an impulse he bent forward in his chair.
“Suppose, Miss Lingfield,” he suggested in a tone that most women found irresistible, “we stop duelling with each other and get down to hard facts.”
She glanced at him and he knew by the expression in her eyes that she was still hating him, but he went on,
“You have no wish to be my Ward and, I assure you, I did not seek the post as your Guardian. But I will certainly try to make it as easy as possible for us both if we can co-operate over the matter.”
“In what way?”
“Shall we start with the problem of your future?”
“I have told you that I want to stay here with my Nanny.”
“I think that might be possible for the time being until we can find you a suitable chaperone.”
Valeta stiffened.
“A chaperone?” she repeated. “Why should I need a chaperone?”
“I should have thought that was obvious,” the Marquis replied. “It is not usual for an attractive young woman of your age to live alone with only a servant to keep her company.”
“Nanny is more than that!”
“She was an employee of your father and mother’s.”
Valeta pressed her lips together.
“I don’t want a chaperone.”
“I cannot believe you would want to be the subject of ill-natured gossip.”
She made a little gesture with her hands and then smiled.
“There are not many people who are likely to talk about me. My neighbours, who were fond of my father and mother will, I am sure, quite understand my predicament at having lost them both and will not be inclined to be critical.”
“That might have been true in other circumstances.”
He saw that Valeta did not understand and he explained choosing his words with care.
“You are my tenant, but I am also your Guardian.”
For a moment the implication of what he had said did not penetrate Valeta’s mind. Then for the first time since he had entered the room, she realised that he was a young and handsome man and the colour swept into her pale cheeks.
After a moment she said in a hesitating voice,
“I-I suppose you could not – tear up Papa’s will and just – forget about it?’
“That might have been possible if I was the only person who knew that he had written it.”
Valeta looked down again at her hands.
“What do you – want me to – do?” she asked him.
“I want you to stay here for the moment and think if you have any relative or friend who could come and live with you. If not, I suppose I must find someone.”
He knew as he spoke that this was a most unlikely contingency.
In the smart, pleasure-seeking and rather raffish Society he moved in in London there was certainly no woman who would wish to bury herself in the country in a small unimportant Manor House.
As if his thoughts communicated themselves to Valeta, after a moment she said,
“I will try and think of someone, I promise you, because I want so much to – stay here.”
“Most girls of your age,” the Marquis pointed out, “would want to be in London meeting eligible gentlemen to whom they might be married.”
“That is – impossible where I am concerned.”
“Why?” the Marquis enquired.
“Because I cannot – afford to live in London,” Valeta replied as if speaking to a rather stupid child.
“No, I can understand,” the Marquis agreed, “but perhaps something could be arranged.”
Her eyes widened and she asked him,
“What do you mean by that?”
“I was just thinking that as your Guardian I ought perhaps to find someone who would introduce you to the fashionable world.”
“That will be quite unnecessary,” Valeta answered. “I have already told you that I want to stay here. I would like to make this quite dear – even if you are my Guardian I will not accept anything from you nor will I ever forgive you for being responsible – for my father’s death.”
The anger was back in her voice and because the Marquis could never resist a fight he retorted,
“That, if I may say so, is a very stupid attitude. You know as well as I do that your father was warned not to exert himself unnecessarily and he must have known the consequences of riding in a very gruelling steeplechase in which most of the riders were years younger than he was.”
“I can quite see,” Valeta replied, “that you are trying to exonerate yourself from all blame, but, when people are tempted beyond endurance, we blame the Devil not the temptation!”
“So that is how you think of me,” the Marquis murmured.
“You can hardly expect me to think anything else, my Lord, and this is not the first time you have tempted men into injuring themselves simply, I suppose, so that you can while away an idle hour.”
“Who are you referring to this time?” the Marquis enquired.
“A young man who was not a particularly good rider broke his leg in the last steeplechase you arranged,” Valeta replied, “and he is still partially crippled.”
“Who was that?”
“Nigel Stone.”
“The General’s son?”
“Yes.”
“I knew that he had broken his leg, but I had no idea that he was not restored to health by now.”
“I expect those who participate in your ‘fun’ are easily forgotten once the Circus is over.”
The Marquis looked at her and then he said slowly,
“You have a very unusual way of saying what you think, Miss Lingfield. Perhaps you are wise to bury yourself in the country. Such frankness might cause a furore anywhere else.”
He thought that once again he had scored a point, but Valeta replied in what he knew was a deliberately demure voice,
“Papa always said that when a contestant resorts to personal abuse it means that he has lost the argument.”
Unexpectedly the Marquis found himself laughing and saw as he did so that Valeta was looking at him in surprise.
“I came here,” he said after a moment, “expecting after I had offered you my sympathy and condolences to have to wipe away your tears and that you would be grateful for any generosity I could show you in the future. I find I am mistaken.”
“Very mistaken, my Lord! As I have already said, I have no intention of accepting anything that you might give me.”
“I should not be too sure of that. As I have already pointed out, as your Guardian you legally have to obey me.”
As he spoke, he saw Valeta put up her chin and make a little movement as if she would have tossed her head.
He told himself that the interview had certainly been unexpected and in a way more amusing than he had thought possible at first.
Now that he was no longer angry he found it incredible that this small lovely creature should defy him and look at him with a violent hatred in her expression that he had never before known, at least from a woman.
He rose to his feet.
“I will bid you good day, Miss Lingfield. I think we both should have time to consider where our conversation has led us. I shall take the opportunity of calling on you tomorrow or perhaps the next day when we can discuss your future more thoroughly.”
“I assure you that is quite unnecessary,” Valeta answered. “If I think of anything I wish to say I will send you a note by hand.”
“I find it easier to talk than to write,” the Marquis replied, “so I shall call in person.”
Knowing that his insistence annoyed her, he walked towards the door with a faint twinkle in his eyes.
When he reached it, he looked back to see that she had not followed him.
“Goodbye, Miss Lingfield or, as that sounds rather formal, perhaps owing to our new relationship I should call you ‘Valeta’.”
There was no mistaking the anger in Valeta’s eyes and the way her lips parted as if to refuse him the privilege.
But the Marquis had already gone, closing the door behind him and there was only the sound of his footsteps crossing the hall.
As he swung himself up into his phaeton which was waiting outside The Manor House and drove his horses with a remarkable expertise down the small drive and out onto the road that would lead him back to Troon, the Marquis was smiling.
*
As she heard the wheels of the Marquis’s phaeton drive away, Valeta, her hands clenched, stood where he had left her, aware that she was trembling with fury.
“How dare he treat me in such a cavalier fashion?” she shouted aloud. “How could Papa have made him my Guardian?”
She knew that the only thing she wanted at the moment was to be sure that never again would she set eyes on the Marquis and never again listen to his drawling voice which seemed somehow indifferent to any insult she might hurl at him.
She had felt when he rose to say ‘goodbye’ an insane impulse to strike him, perhaps to scratch his face or to behave in a manner which she knew would have horrified both her father and mother and indeed herself.
But never in her life, she told herself, had she met a man she hated more.
Everything she had heard about the Marquis had made her despise him, except, of course, for his record in the war.
When her father had spoken of his gallantry and his courage she had felt a respect for the young man whose father had shown her family quite a considerable amount of kindness.
The old Marquis had been an autocrat who thought that few people deserved his interest and who could count his personal friends on the fingers of one hand.
Yet because he had liked Sir Charles Lingfield, he had often asked him to shoot and once or twice a year he and his wife had dined at the great house.
When the old Marquis had died, Sir Charles had been genuinely sad at losing him, but when the new Marquis had left his Regiment the whole atmosphere at Troon had altered overnight.
The parties he gave in London and in the country lost nothing in the telling.
The servants in both houses in the majority came from the estate, and their relatives were regaled with stories that Valeta knew made the older folk feel as if their hair was standing on end.
Her father had tried to find excuses for the new Marquis.
“It is the reaction from war,” he said. “After all he has been abroad fighting for a number of years and that takes its toll on every man.”
“You don’t behave in such an outrageous way. Papa,” Valeta had said.
Her father had smiled.
“I am too old and I cannot afford it.”
“I just don’t believe, even if you could, that you would ever do such things and the Marquis’s money could be better spent in many other ways.”
“Give him a chance,” her father had pleaded good-humouredly. “He has generations of ancestors behind him who served their country in time of war and in time of peace.”
It did not appear, Valeta thought, as if the young Marquis had any idea of serving anyone except himself.
She heard of the presents he gave to the young women who graced the boards at Covent Garden and Drury Lane and of the wild daring exploits undertaken because he had been challenged to prove himself a better rider or a finer pistol shot than another man.
The whole estate learned of a phaeton race from London to Newmarket which involved a collision between two of the competitors and resulted in three horses having to be shot.
“I have never heard before of a man of that age behaving in such a ridiculous fashion,” Valeta had stormed.
Her father had sighed.
“He has certainly proved a disappointment so far,” he agreed, “but I expect he will settle down sooner or later.”
“The sooner the better,” Valeta had exclaimed. “It is time he took an interest in the estate. Andrews is too old to be the Agent and he does not like listening to stories of trouble or hardship.”
“That is true,” her father had answered, “and it would be an excellent thing if the Marquis could only see for himself how much needs to be done here.”
“Perhaps you could suggest it to him, Papa.”
“You don’t suppose that I ever see the Marquis alone?” her father replied. “He is kind enough to ask me to his parties, but that is a very different thing.”
“Very different,” Valeta agreed.
When her father was brought back dead the morning after the Marquis’s steeplechase, she thought that she would have rejoiced if she had learnt that the Marquis had broken his neck at the same time.
‘I hate him! I hate him!’ she repeated to herself now ‘and somehow, someday, perhaps I will be able to get even with him.’
Then she told herself that it was the wishful thinking of a child. The Marquis was impervious to anything she could do to him and what was more, he was her Guardian.
