Page 5 of An Amiable Foe
I should think the answer would be obvious to you, Miss Edgewood. I came to look over the property. And this spoken in a faintly ironic, condescending,infuriatingmanner.
Well, best of luck to him in learning the workings of a crotchety, beloved castle, whose personality took a lifetime to know intimately. She had never allowed herself to imagine this day coming. Against reason, she had hoped the baron would leave her alone—that he would forget all about this castle that did not have much to recommend it in the way of income or comfort.
Marianne stood and walked to the window, placing her hands on the cool gray stone ledge where the window was set back in the wall. She absently picked up the candle holder that sat there, the candle now a mere stump, and then set it down again before pacing away.
Mr. Osborne may have rightfully come to take charge of what was his, but it didn’t make it fair. How could her uncle have left her castle to a stranger? Had not his letters over the years promised she would be well taken care of? True, she did not know her uncle well—had no recollection of his visit when she was a small girl. But they had corresponded for the ten years after her parents’ death, and he knew how important Brindale was to her. For him to disregard what mattered without a word of explanation was a betrayal of the highest order. This was why she preferred her home to people. A solid, centuries-old stone structure could not betray her. Stones did not change.
It didn’t signify that her uncle had carved out a tiny parcel from the estate and bequeathed it to her, along with the cottage that sat on it. Nor did it signify that her mother’s dowry had also been kept aside for her and she possessed a modest amount of coin to live upon—Marianne had never had the least desire to move. Now, the decision had forced itself upon her as one she could no longer avoid. It was nearly impossible to imagine taking a house within eye’s view of the castle that had someone else living in it, a home which she would always feel in her heart was hers. Of course, if she did not wish to live in the cottage, there was always the possibility of residing with the Vernons, who looked upon her quite like family.
But living with the Vernons would provide her with little relief. She would still have to cross paths with Mr. Osborne in the village—a thought that left her cold—unless he were simply looking over the property with a mind to sell. That would be just like a man such as him. What need had a stranger of an out-of-the-way castle in Kent? The attorney had never hinted at whether Lord Steere was pleased to have received the deed to the castle or not. He must not have been if he could so easily hand it over to his nephew.
Marianne continued to pace until she nearly tripped on the woven cloth rug. Its position must have shifted when Sarah last cleaned her room. She lifted the nearly empty wooden chest that was set against the wall and tucked the corner of the rug underneath to secure it.
Perhaps the nephew was just as loath to acquire a castle that could not bring him much satisfaction. It wasn’t a particularly harmonious structure, and one loved it the way one loved a mongrel. There was no denying that the castle needed an influx of money for restoration. She had done what she could with her uncle’s sparse instructions from India, sent with small allotments of money, and she had even used some of her own small income. But as the steward Mr. Mercy had reminded her, that had only fixed the minor issues. The roof still leaked in places.
Marianne gave up pacing and went over to peer at herself in the glass, studying her set chin and glowering eyes. Her initial thought had been to take dinner in her room, but she now saw how impossible it was to remain closeted up here while Mr. Osborne roamed her castle at will. She needed to walk its halls and breathe in the scent of the ages, to trail her fingers over the cold stones and give them warmth, to place her hands on the quilted tapestries that had been put in place to keep the chill out. Her mother had begun restoring some and creating others with considerable talent, but Marianne had never learned. Therefore, the tapestries remained unfinished needlepoint landscapes, reminiscent of happier times.
She grabbed a warm shawl and left her room to seek solace in the lower-level apartment that always had a small fire burning. The apartment in question held a sitting room she was fond of, with bedrooms adjoining it that were not quite fit for use, as they were in a passageway and gave little privacy. She had long learned to view the bedrooms as places of storage, unfit for the public eye. Not that anyone visited her, except Robert and his mother.
The sitting room there was papered in yellow with faint silver scrolls, and there was a waist-high dark wooden sideboard that ran along the edge of the room. Above it hung soothing pastels with touching scenes of the countryside in gilded frames, warm and unlike anything else in the castle. Once inside the sitting room, Marianne set down her candle and went to stand in its center, hugging her arms to her chest. She turned slowly, taking the room in, checking that everything was in place as her mother had left it, although not a single servant would think to displace the items here. Despite the sacred nature of the room, Marianne had not allowed it to become a museum, untouched and dusty. It was a life-giving space that held clues to how her mother had been able to live so joyfully, if only Marianne could decipher them. It was a room that brought peace to her still, ten years after her mother’s last embrace.
The close of day meant there was no longer any sun to stream into the room, but the diamond-shaped window panes gleamed in the flickering light of her candle. The book on the table was set exactly where her mother had always left hers, but it was a different book, replaced regularly with the one Marianne was currently reading. This one, published anonymously and entitledMarriage, was a gripping tale of a woman who had married for love and repented of it heartily when she discovered she was not suited to live as the wife of a penniless man. Once Lady Juliana came to this belated realization and took steps to alter her destiny, it could not be denied that the ill-fated heroine’s life grew increasingly sinful and foolish.
Foolish.Marianne tore her eyes from the book that had, until now, brought her diversion. That was precisely what she was. To have believed that she might live out her days in this castle—after the death of her parents, perhaps, but even after the death of her uncle? It was nothing but the unobtainable dream of a foolish girl. She was paying for her naïveté now.
It was not long before Marianne let out a long sigh and turned to leave her haven of peace and tranquility. This was not the time to gather wisdom from her gentle and unassuming mother, who would probably have advised Marianne to give up a battle she could not win and set her sights elsewhere. No, now was the time to see what might be done about the dilemma of Brindale’s new heir and then set about doing it. She could not lose her home—such a thing was impossible to contemplate, even if it meant living with Mrs. Malford in the servants’ quarters.No, Mama, of course I could not do such a thing, but it is a sore temptation, let me tell you.
She crossed over to the wooden door, fitted into the thick stone wall that peaked at the arch, and lifted the metal latch. It was time to seek wisdom from her father, and that was found in a different part of the castle.
Marianne would have to proceed cautiously in the event that Mr. Osborne had already begun his appropriation of Brindale Castle and was wandering liberally about its halls. The drawing room must be free of the unwelcome presence of the heir if she were to ask her father what to do. Of course, her father was not bodily in the drawing room. There were no specters to be found, and the castle was not haunted—although the thought struck Marianne as funny. Would it scare away Mr. Osborne if he thought the castle haunted? Could she conjure up such a farce and have it be believable? Probably not. Even if he did believe it, he would be more likely to attempt to frighten the ghosts into submission with that dour face of his than run away quaking himself. There were no phantoms, though. It was just that her father’s presence was there all the same if one knew what to feel.
She traversed the adjoining corridor from her mother’s apartment into the bedroom and antechamber beyond, where they stored household linens and various trifles under lock and key. There was also a tall stack of books that she had read and cast off that needed to be returned to the library, but which remained another unfinished task the castle’s few servants had no time for. She crossed the antechamber and put her ear to the door to listen if Mr. Osborne was in the drawing room, but was instead greeted from behind.
“Marianne, there you are. I’ve not seen you since breakfast.”
It was the feeble, petulant voice of Miss Fife, who had never earned the more familiar appellate of her Christian name. In fact, so scant was the affection between them, Marianne had planned to search for a new companion as soon as she reached her majority in three months’ time. Over the years, her appeals to her uncle to find someone new had met with deaf ears, so the task must fall to her. If only she had an idea of where to begin.
Miss Fife’s gray curls escaped from her cap at odd angles, and she was wearing the same faded spencer she always wore over a nondescript dress, a shawl of a most unfortunate green draped across her shoulders. At all times, Miss Fife’s presence was something to be borne rather than sought. But right now, with such emotions swirling through Marianne, it was nothing short of a bother. For one thing, she still had no wish for Miss Fife to meet Mr. Osborne, although such an event must be inevitable. Once he’d met her companion, he might decide that it was a simple matter to take advantage of her, or he might push her to quit the castle without delay. For another, she was too tense to deal with Miss Fife’s irritated nerves or flights of fancy. She could barely deal with her own.
“I have been here all along,” Marianne replied, retracing her steps toward her companion, wondering where she could stash Miss Fife before the woman fell under Mr. Osborne’s keen eyes. “Of course, I did spend some time in the rose garden, as I told you I would do at breakfast.”
“Did you tell me so?” Miss Fife reached up and adjusted her cap, sending it positively crooked. “I cannot recall you saying such a thing. But, Marianne, you should not wander about the rose garden at this time of year. You will catch your death of cold.”
This was word for word what Miss Fife had said this morning when Marianne told her of her plans. It was also coming from a woman who never left off her shawls, even at noon on a hot summer day.
“The fresh air does me good,” Marianne repeated for the hundredth time, attempting a cheerful tone as she turned back toward her mother’s sitting room. “I think I would go out of my mind if I had to stay inside the castle walls all day.”
It struck Marianne that perhaps Miss Fife was losing her wits early for that very reason. She spent all of her time within doors.
“Nevertheless,” Miss Fife said, attempting to scold as Marianne took her by the arm. “Were you going into the drawing room? It’s so cold in there. You should have tea laid out in the yellow room.”
It was perverse, perhaps, but as little as Marianne wished for Mr. Osborne to meet Miss Fife did she also wish for her companion to catch wind of Mr. Osborne’s arrival. If a stranger inserted himself upon Miss Fife’s notice, the shock might change her into the model companion, attempting to admonish and curtail all Marianne’s activities as she had done in fits and starts in the past. Miss Fife was wholly unpredictable, at times demonstrating an alarming lack of reason, and at others, showing behavior that was so petty as to be almost spiteful. And at the most inopportune moments she became acuity itself—or guile. It was impossible to tell. Her meeting Mr. Osborne would likely snatch what little peace Marianne had managed to carve out for herself.
“I think tea is a wonderful idea.” In the yellow sitting room, Marianne drew Miss Fife to a comfortable chair she knew the spinster loved. “Why don’t you settle here with a book? Here is the one on wildflowers that I’ve seen you looking at before. I will call for tea.”
“That is good of you, dear.”
Miss Fife looked up at her with a smile while patting her arm, and Marianne almost felt guilty for her perfidy. She would get tea sent to the woman as a diversion, hoping and expecting that her companion would forget all about her once she had some tea and cake in her and there was a book she could read—or pretend to read. Marianne was not sure if any of the words remained in her companion’s head. She had rarely seen her turn a page.
