Alice put a hand on her arm for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, I did not mean to pry. But know you can talk to me if you need to.’
‘I know, thank you.’
‘Anyway, you know I have a personal interest in this whole affair.’ Alice smiled mischievously and winked at Marguerite, who reached across and squeezed her hand. She envied Alice her lightheartedness.
Should she confide in Alice? Upon reflection, she decided against it, fearing it might confuse her further. A small part of her regretted her father’s liberal attitude: at nineteen, it was hard to make a decision that would affect the rest of her life—in a way, it would have been easier to be told what she should do. Then she recalled a girl of her acquaintance, who had been forced to marry a man much older than herself and very unappealing, because he was titled and rich and it was considered a ‘brilliant match.’ She was ashamed of her thoughts.
Marguerite knew there was a deadline to her decision, and she spent many a sleepless night, vacillating between feelingshe couldn’t live without Argyle and hating him for putting her in a position where she was forced to choose.
Her uncertainty made her short-tempered, and her mother remarked upon it.
‘Is anything the matter,ma chérie?’
‘Non, maman. Tout va bien.’ She saw her mother looking at her strangely, unconvinced, and was remorseful for causing her to worry; but she did not feel able to confide in her.
She then came upon the idea that perhaps she could insist on a long engagement, during which she could get to know Argyle better—while being allowed to kiss him—without the decision being entirely final; but feared he was too impatient, and obstinate, to agree to such a scheme. However, what was there to be lost by asking? She took a sheet of paper and started writing a letter to him, but tore it up twice, uncertain of how to express her feelings. She decided to talk it over with her father first but, before she could do so, something happened which took matters out of her hands.
Chapter 14
Lord Lennox, sitting at the breakfast table reading a letter from the pile set before him by the butler, let out an exclamation of surprise and said to his wife and daughter, ‘By Jove! You know Marguerite’s rejected suitor, the Duke of Argyle? My friend Fitzroy writes he’s had a serious accident.’
Marguerite had been buttering a piece of toast—she dropped the knife with a clatter, her face drained of colour. Her mother said, ‘Mon Dieu, that is terrible. What happened?’
Her father lifted his head to look at her, then continued reading. ‘It seems…he was driving his curricle too fast, and he could not avoid a deer that ran across the road. The curricle overturned…they think he must have knocked his head. He is unconscious…they are not sure he will live.’
Marguerite said, her voice taut as a violin string, ‘When did this happen?’
Her father read on, pushing his spectacles up his nose while ineffectually trying to stab a piece of devilled kidney, ‘Yesterday. Fitzroy was on his way to Ascot—he saw the curricle by the side of the road and inquired. They had already taken the duke away.He thought he would inform me at once, because of our purported…connection. I have no idea what he knows about that.’ He looked at Marguerite again, his face impassive.
Lady Lennox said, ‘Enfin, people are such gossips, and they love to be the first to pass on bad news. C’est horrible.’
Marguerite leaned forward—she picked up her knife again, and her knuckles were as white as the ivory handle. She asked, ‘Where is he?’
Lord Lennox, lowering his eyes from her anxious face, peered at the sheet of foolscap. ‘…let me see…they put him in a nearby inn, where he is being treated by a doctor from London. He is too ill to be moved.’ He read further. ‘It is called The Lion, near Richmond.’
Pushing back her plate, Marguerite rose and turned to go.
Her mother asked, ‘Where are you going,ma chérie?’
‘I must go to him,Maman.’
Her mother gaped at her. ‘But why?’
‘I love him. I cannot bear to lose him.’
‘Mais…I thought you hated him.’
‘Non, je l’aime. I have just realised. I hope it is not too late.’ Her voice caught.
Lady Lennox was still confused. ‘Well…yes…but…but…you cannot go alone.’
‘I will say I am betrothed to him. He keeps asking me to marry him. You can send my maid with my clothes as soon as possible. Please.’
She rushed out, leaving the door open. Her mother looked after her open-mouthed, but her father chuckled. ‘Well, well. I cannot say I am displeased—he is the man I always wanted her to marry. Let us hope he will recover.’
Lady Lennox found her voice. ‘And I was about to say, it is a good thing she did not accept him, if he is going to die.’ She sighed. ‘My dear, I do not understand. She is always saying he isdétéstable.They are forever at odds.’
‘Well, it probably would not be the calmest of marriages, but he is strong enough to keep her interested. She would gettired of Charles within a year. He is too nice for her. We have brought her up to have opinions.’
