Marianne

'And probably will not see him again until the next chance encounter – in ten years time!' Marianne had sighed.

But she was mistaken. Francis not only called on his old friend in the house she had taken for the season in Bath but, in September, he actually came to Selton Hall.

These visits plunged the young girl into an ecstasy of excitement. To her romantic imagination, Francis became Tristan, Lancelot, the Swan Knight come from distant shores to break the spell which held her captive. No legendary hero could live up to him. Francis was a hundred times more wonderful than all the knights of the Round Table put together, Merlin and King Arthur included. She began to day dream about him, basing an infinity of delight on a look or a smile, and building up reserves of happiness on which to live until his next visit. Francis behaved, in fact, charmingly to her. To her great surprise he would even sit by her now and then and talk to her. He asked her about her life and her amusements and, thinking of his life in London where he kept company with the noblest and most brilliant of the realm, she was ashamed that her conversation was all about dogs and horses and the countryside. She was so greatly in awe of him that one day, when Lady Ellis begged her to sing for Francis she was unable to produce a single note. Her mouth was so dry that no sound came. By nature lively and unselfconscious, in his presence she became shy and gauche. It was true that on that particular evening, Ivy had accompanied her cousin and her fragrant presence was not calculated to boost Marianne's confidence. The lovely cousin with her sophisticated elegance and unfailing sweetness was a sore trial to her nerves. She was like the fairy Vivien – but Marianne had never been fond of Vivien.

Her day of triumph had come out hunting when, for a whole day, she had galloped at Francis's side across muddy fields and through autumnal woods. Ivy, who disliked horses, had followed with Lady Ellis in the carriage. Marianne had Francis all to herself and she thought she would die of happiness when he complimented her on her faultless horsemanship.

'I know few men who ride as well as you,' he told her, 'and no women.'

There was a genuine warmth in his voice and in his eyes that flooded the girl's heart with joy. At that moment he really sounded like a lover. She smiled at him with all her heart.

'I love to ride with you, Francis. I feel as if I could go on like this to the end of the world.'

'Do you really mean that?'

'But – of course! Why should I say it if I did not?'

He made no answer. He merely leaned from his saddle and looked into her face and, for the first time, she was able to meet his gaze without embarrassment. Still he had said nothing but as he moved away he smiled briefly.

'Good,' was all he said. Then, apparently forgetting all about her, he gave his horse its head, leaving Marianne to wonder whether or not she had said something stupid.

After that day's hunting he had vanished for some time, and in any case her aunt's sudden illness had to some extent driven him from Marianne's mind. Then, one evening, two days before her death, Lady Ellis had sent for her niece.

'I know I am dying, child,' she told her, 'but I shall go in peace knowing that I shall not leave you alone.'

'What do you mean?'

'That Francis has asked for your hand and you shall marry him.'

'Mine? But – he has never spoken to me—'

'Stop babbling. I have not much time – he is a man who cannot fail to make you happy. He is twenty-eight now and will be able to give you the guidance and support you need. Besides, in bestowing you on him, I am remedying an unjustice on the part of fate. Francis has no fortune of his own, now he will have ours – he will join you as the master of Selton – and when I am laying there, across the park, I shall be glad to think of my beloved home in your hands, both of you. That way, I shall never really leave you—'

Exhausted from the effort of speaking, Lady Ellis closed her eyes and said no more. Marianne left the room torn between a curious mixture of terror and delight. It seemed fantastic that Francis should want to marry her, a simple country girl, when there were so many women all anxious to please him. It gave her an odd sense of triumph. She felt at the same time very proud and very apprehensive.

'I shall never be worthy of him,' she thought. 'I shall always be doing something improper, and he will think how silly I am—'

It was this fear which returned, intact, to plague Marianne during her wedding dinner. She gazed with mingled joy and pride at Francis, sitting opposite her in the high-backed chair, long empty, that belonged to the master of the house. He sat in it so carelessly and naturally that the young bride was filled with admiration. For her own part, Marianne was all too conscious that she was now occupying the mistress's chair where, all her life, she had been used to seeing her aunt.

Ivy's soft voice broke in on her thoughts.

'I think it is time for us to withdraw, Marianne, and leave these gentlemen to smoke and drink in peace.'

Marianne jumped, realizing suddenly that everyone was looking at her and that the servants had already placed decanters of port and brandy on the table. She got to her feet, blushing in confusion for forgetting the time.

'Of course,' she said. 'We will leave you – I – I think I shall retire – a little tired—'

Already she was beginning to panic. Visibly unsure of herself, she went to bid farewell to the abbé de Chazay who kissed her tenderly, unable to conceal his emotion. Inclining her head to the rest of the company, she let her eyes dwell a little appealingly on Francis as though begging him not to stay too long with his guests. Tonight was her wedding night and it belonged to her alone and no one had the right to rob her of even the smallest moment of it. But Francis merely smiled.

The two women left the room, Marianne feeling that her billowing silk dress sounded like a small typhoon. She could not wait to get it off, to be herself again. When they reached the foot of the stairs she turned to Ivy and found the other woman's blue eyes observing her while a thin smile twisted one corner of her lovely lips.

'Goodnight,' she said with nervous abruptness. 'Forgive me for leaving you so early but I am very tired and—'

'And you want to go and prepare yourself for the most important night of your life!' Ivy finished for her with a little crow of laughter which the bride found extremely irritating. 'You are right; Francis is not an easy man—'

The directness of this remark brought the colour flooding into Marianne's face but she said nothing. Picking up her wide skirts, she ran upstairs, her lace veil floating comet-like behind her. But Ivy's light, mocking laughter pursued her all the way to the door of her room.

CHAPTER TWO Duel

The room was like a miniature archipelago with lace panniers, the great satin gown, wicker hoops and inumerable petticoats strewn about like a succession of pale islands. Marianne, now wearing only a simple bedgown made of fine lawn edged with lace and trimmed with narrow green satin ribbon, found herself gazing once more at her own familiar image mirrored in her glass. She saw a tall girl regrettably dark for an age which liked its women fair, and with a figure not yet fully rounded out. She had long, shapely legs, small hips and the neatest waist in all England. Her neck was long and slender, supporting an unusual heart-shaped face with high cheek bones and strong, proud features. The eyes, curving a little upwards at the corners to meet the sweep of delicately arched brows, were an elusive sea-green flecked with gold, and, almost as striking as their strange colour was their wilful, challenging expression. Even so, odd as it was, Marianne would have liked her face if it had not been for the big, soft mouth and the pale amber colouring of her smooth skin which gave her a faintly gypsy-like appearance and, in her own opinion, ruined everything. The canons of beauty of the day demanded cheeks all lilies and roses and Marianne was made miserable by her gipsy complexion for which not even her faultless hands or the heavy mass of silky black hair that fell below her hips could make up. Marianne's looks came from her father. Her mother had been all fairness but there was too much of the old stock of Auvergne in the girl's blood, with its occasional reminders of the Moorish knights of Abd-ar-Rhaman, joined to that of a Florentine ancestor. Gentle Anne Selton's British looks had been submerged.