Page 1 of An Amiable Foe
CHAPTERONE
March, 1810 - Kent
It was the first true day of spring, and Marianne Edgewood stood, at present, the sole occupant of the rose garden on the southern lawn of Brindale Castle. Her late uncle had employed—through the expedience of a new land steward who had the courtesy to take orders from her—a gardener and an outdoor servant who acted as groom. She’d sent both of them to scythe the eastern lawn. This left her in perfect peace to skim her fingers over the rosebushes’ thick, thorny stems and pluck the browning leaves that must give way for the budding green ones. Her mother had loved these roses, and spending time in their company was one of the few ways remaining to Marianne to spend time with her mother, a loss now going on ten years.
She glanced at the garden fork beside her and left off her pruning to tackle the more robust task of airing out the earth around the base of each plant. As she worked, her blood pumped and a smile came naturally to her face. Loosening the earth and pulling the fledging weeds before they could fully take root brought the satisfaction of instilling order to an estate that otherwise refused to be tamed.
The wind picked up, cooling her cheeks and sending a chill along her back where a trickle of perspiration collected. The gust of air whistled through the branches of the dogwood trees, carrying with it the unexpected sound of hoofbeats. This was not unheard of, as the Brindale property was bordered on the west by a public road. The distraction was, however, noteworthy—and most unusual when the sound of those hoofbeats grew louder until a rider emerged through the western gate of the castle grounds and entered the estate. The sun had peaked three hours earlier and was now on its downward path, and Marianne squinted at the uninvited guest until he drew near and she could discern more than a dim outline.
“You.” The gentleman sitting astride a stallion of an impressive size pulled up along the path—herpath—that intercepted the row of Lancaster and York roses on one side and yew hedges on the other. A few rogue curls sprang out from underneath his top hat, and the muscled thighs encased in calfskin breeches, along with the tight-fitting coat visible under his folded cape, proclaimed him a man of no paltry size and breadth.
“Run and fetch your mistress and inform her that Mr. Peregrine Osborne, nephew and heir to the baron Lord Steere, has come and requests an audience with her.”
Marianne thrust her garden fork into the pliable soil and lifted her head to better appraise the man, her heart beginning to beat a fearful rhythm. The news of her uncle’s death six months prior brought with it the information that she had not inherited the castle, as he had all but promised. Instead, an unknown baron, Lord Steere—the thought of whose visit she had trembled over in the months following her uncle’s death—was given possession of the deed to Brindale Castle. And now, it appeared she must welcome his nephew—a man who had not seen fit to give notice of his visit. Her hour of reckoning had come.
With her forearm, she brushed a lock of hair out of her face in time to catch the look of surprise that flitted across his expression, followed by hesitation. She had taken her time to answer, and her attitude showed nothing of the submissive servant he must have expected, although she could hardly blame him for assuming it of her. She was garbed in her oldest dress and wore the grass-stained work apron that even a lady’s maid would have disdained. Her soft bonnet was hidden on the bench behind the boxwood shrub.
In an effort to delay the inevitable, and perhaps seized by an uncharacteristic flash of devilry, she dipped into a brief curtsy and responded in the unrefined speech of a servant.
“Ye’ll find the stables on the north end of the castle, jest beyond the pond, milord. I’ll inform the mistress.”
Leaving her gardening tools in place, Marianne turned without another word and went at an unhurried pace to the closest entrance to the castle. This happened to be the kitchen, tucked on the near edge of the southern tower. There was an absence of movement behind her—what seemed like a puzzled silence, as if the gentleman wondered whether he should take her to task for having dismissed him—before she heard the sounds of the horse turning and walking in the direction she had indicated.
She stepped inside the kitchen and went past the stillroom, her eyes adjusting to the sudden decrease in light. Mrs. Malford set down a bundle of apricots in the sink and wiped her hands on her apron as she came over.
“Oh, no, please don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Malford. I am not in need of anything.”
Marianne pulled her own apron over her head and draped it across her arm as she rounded the wooden table in the direction of the door that led to the narrow corridor. She pinched her lips together, flustered. “Although, perhaps I will require refreshments to be sent to the drawing room. We have an unexpected visitor, and I suppose I shall have to offer tea or brandy or some such thing. Do we even stock brandy?”
“Brandy? ’Haps there’s a bottle or two in the cellar. A visitor, ye say? A gentleman?” Mrs. Malford’s voice held a note of curiosity, and Marianne indulged her.
“The heir has sent an envoy at last, after all these months of my dreading it. It is not Lord Steere, who we might have expected since the property is his, but rather his nephew. And Mr. Osborne has not left me with a favorable impression, I must own, with his imperious command that I summon my mistress.”
“Summon yer mistress?” Mrs. Malford had followed her to where the kitchen met the servants’ corridor, her brows raised in confusion and very likely outrage. She was as protective of Marianne as her own mother had been.
Marianne gave a weak smile. “I did not look the part of a gently bred lady, and he did not see one in me. I merely…encouraged his prejudice by not revealing anything to the contrary.”
“Miss Marianne—” Mrs. Malford shook her head, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She turned to the kitchen maid who had stopped to stare. “Annabel, don’t jes’ stand there. Put a kettle on to boil.”
Mrs. Malford had held the position of cook since Marianne was born and knew her better than anyone alive. She merited more than the meager salary the castle provided her, but she had made it clear her devotion to Marianne kept her from searching for another position. In truth, Mrs. Malford was better suited to the role of confidant and advice-giver than Marianne’s actual companion could ever hope to be, although such was not her official title. The aged Miss Fife was one of the banes of Marianne’s existence—along with the loss of her parents, the death of her uncle, and now the arrival of the handsome and most unwelcome Mr. Osborne, come to snatch Brindale from her and hand it over to his uncle.
Marianne sighed. That was a lot of banes.
“Ye must let Miss Fife know of his arrival, so she might sit in the room with ye,” Mrs. Malford insisted.
Marianne shook her head wearily. Miss Fife would somehow find a way to make things worse. “I believe the less Mr. Osborne sees of Miss Fife, the better it will be for me. I would rather speak of my having a companion than let him meet her, for he might think as unguarded as I am that I’m a chicken for plucking.”
She stepped into the hall, and Mrs. Malford followed her out. “Yer not unguarded, Miss Marianne. We’re all looking out for ye. I’ll have the tea made ready and ask Charlie to see about the brandy.”
“Very good. But don’t bring it to me until I ring for it. As Mr. Osborne has not had the courtesy to write and inform me of his visit, I will not attempt to make his welcome more salutary than I must. I wonder how long he plans to stay. I saw a traveling portmanteau, which does not bode well for me.”
Marianne continued along the corridor, following the rounded edges of the castle walls until she reached the circular staircase leading up to where her bedroom was located. Only the southern wing had been fully refurbished, holding some element of protection against the chill of spring air, or the icier drafts of winter. She mulled over in her mind, should Mr. Osborne expect to be put up for the night, whether she should consign him to the worst-kept wing where he would not be inclined to remain or whether she should have an ounce of humanity and place him in the wing adjacent to hers that had at least been partially restored.
She opened the door to her room and went to her tall wooden armoire. There was no need to summon a maid to dress her, as there were only two on the estate and she was accustomed to dressing herself. Annabel was preparing the tea, and Sarah had been set to beating the smaller rugs. Marianne wondered how much of this activity Mr. Osborne had seen and what he would make of this partly rundown castle his uncle now owned—a dwelling to which he had no more connection or attachment than any other set of stones in all of England. That was not the case for her.
She selected her finest day dress, although it was faded and several years old—the one she wore only to attend church. Made of thin white muslin, it had corded lace trimming in a darker blue that perfectly matched Marianne’s eyes. Her hair needed styling, but she had plaited her hair more neatly and pinned it up, and it would have to do. In this encounter, she would look every inch the lady, despite the fact that she shook like a girl.
Standing outside of the door to the drawing room, Marianne smoothed her dress in front and glanced at the mirror in the broad hall. From the echoing stairwell, she had heard the knock at the front entrance and the sounds of Charlie ushering Mr. Osborne into the drawing room, where he now awaited her, likely with impatience at having been left to cool his heels.
