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Chapter 15
Since the assassination attempt on Victoria, it seemed to Portia that she had not had a moment to herself. The queen was more demanding than ever, as if punishing her for not being there on the day it happened. She spent every moment on tenterhooks, awaiting a summons, and when it didn’t come, worried she might have missed it.
Consequently, she felt limp, her head aching, and at night she wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. But even that was denied her, because when she tried to sink into blessed oblivion, there was someone waiting for her in the shadows.
Marcus.
It was as if he was there, in her bed, smiling his lazy, sensual smile. She wanted him with a fierceness that unnerved her, she ached for him. And while night after night he still came to her in her thoughts and her dreams, he wasn’t really here.
She hadn’t heard from him. Not even a letter she could tear up and return to him. Not even his uninvited presence at the latest opera or ballet. He had vanished as if he’d never been. And although she refused to admit it to herself, she missed him dreadfully. Not just for his body and his kisses. She needed him to make her laugh, to allow her to see the ridiculous side of life.
And now the statue of Lord Ellerslie, commissioned by the queen when he died, was finished. It stood on a plinth at the entrance to Green Park; Lord Ellerslie in his great coat, his shoulders in their characteristic stoop, as if he were contemplating some invisible battlefield.
It was as if he had never died, she thought, knowing she was being unfair and unkind, and yet unable not to feel suffocated by the memory of a man she’d hardly known. But the statue had to be unveiled, and she knew she had to be there, beside the queen, in her role as the angel in widow’s weeds.
Oh yes, she knew what they called her. She had once been flattered by it, but now found it a sign of how little the public understood her. She was no angel, she was a flesh and blood woman, and she made mistakes and felt sad and happy and afraid. Why wouldn’t they let her be herself?
And why did it matter to her these days so much more than it used to?
Marcus stood at the head of the causeway and gazed across the flat Norfolk landscape at Duval Hall.
The house seemed to crouch on its island, as if it might spring at any moment and capture anyone foolish enough to be within reach. He could never have imagined such a place, and he knew that if he had come here at any other time, he would have been horrified and probably turned around and gone straight back to London.
But not now. At this moment he was at rock bottom, and not even a building as hideously deformed as Duval Hall could drive him away.
Looked at in a practical and less fanciful light, the house was run-down and in need of repairs, but the basic structure was solid. It was very old, and had been added to in such a hotchpotch of styles over the centuries that it was difficult to know what architectural era it fell into. The hall stood on an island, or what became an island at high tide, when the waters of the sea came seeping in over the marshes and cut off the causeway. At low tide the marshes were laid bare, and the causeway could be used to travel back and forth to the house.
It was more like a ship than a house, really, and the wall that surrounded it resembled the hull. At night, with the sounds of creaking timbers and the wash of the waves, he could imagine himself out at sea. Yes, the house was a wreck, just as his brother had warned him, but it was salvageable. And he’d developed a fondness for it that seemed bizarre in the circumstances, or perhaps it was just that it was his.
As for his tenants and the people of the nearby village, they had been overjoyed to see him. It was many years since they’d had anyone of Duval blood in residence at the hall, and they treated him like a prodigal son. At first their enthusiasm amused him, but as the days wore on and he sensed their genuine liking for him…Well, he began to enjoy it.
Marcus Worthorne of Duval Hall. It had a ring to it. And the people here were desperately in need of a good landlord. Uncle Roger’s land manager had done little more than drink all the best wines in the cellar. When he’d heard Marcus was coming, he fled with the blacksmith’s pretty daughter to parts unknown.
Marcus could see why he might wish to make himself scarce.
The marshes had once been separated from the encroaching sea by fortifications that held back the tides. They were then drained by a system of channels and sluice gates so the land could be reclaimed and used for farming. Now, the waters had retaken much of the pasture, and repairs were needed to regain man’s upper hand over nature. A great many repairs.
It was certainly not a project for the weak. Any sensible man would sell it and take what he could get, or else run back home and forget all about it.
Perhaps, Marcus thought, he wasn’t a sensible man.
Since arriving here, he had walked for miles, following his tenants and the smaller farmers who were his neighbors, paying attention to what they had to say. He sat down with them at their tables and ate their food and drank their ale as if he were one of them. He laughed with them and laughed at himself when they gently teased him for his London ways.
By the time he was ready to return to London, he felt like one of them.
But it wasn’t only repairs and a possible future he’d been thinking of as he walked his land. He’d been thinking of Portia, too, and all Minnie had said to him. He’d known as soon as he heard about the queen that Portia would make her choice; duty would be the winner, and he would be the loser.
That was because she’d been taught to put her own personal happiness last.
He stood at the head of the windswept causeway, the smell of the salty marshes filling his head as the birds wheeled and shrieked.
If he wanted Portia enough to fight for her, then he had to have something to offer her. After all, he was setting himself up against the Nation’s Hero, and although such audacity would be frowned upon by the queen and the country, Marcus knew he could make Portia happy if only she would let him.
But she was a great and wealthy lady. He could hardly expect her to agree to throw in her lot with a man who had nothing to recommend him but a great technique in lovemaking. At least Duval Hall gave him a home, and in time it would give him an income. Somewhere to bring her to live; for them both to live.
Because he knew now what he wanted. He’d come to terms with it here in faraway Norfolk. He had missed London, but not as much as he’d expected. Duval Hall offered him challenges that were new and exciting, and he could see a future for himself here. But there was one thing he missed that could not be substituted or replaced.
Portia.
