Marianne sighed regretfully, thinking of the languishing eyes of Ivy St. Albans. She tried to restore her confidence a little with the thought that Francis had chosen her, had asked for her hand and surely that must mean beyond doubt that he liked her. Only, he had never told her that he loved her, had never even shown any disposition to make love to her although it was true there had been scarcely time. It had all happened so quickly. All the same, Marianne faced the night with trepidation, as though she stood on the borders of an unknown land, filled with half-suspected pitfalls. The books she was so fond of were generally rather reticent on the subject of wedding nights. The young bride would appear afterwards, blushing with her eyes modestly downcast, but with an invariable inward glow which, for the moment at least, Marianne was at a loss to explain.
She turned from the mirror to smile at Mrs Jenkins who having roundly refused to allow anyone else to attend her 'baby' on this great occasion, was now picking up the scattered garments. She smiled back.
'You look lovely, Miss Marianne,' she said comfortingly, 'and everything will be all right. So don't look so dismal!'
'I am not dismal, Jenkins – only nervous. Do you know if the gentlemen have left the table yet?'
'I'll go and see.'
Mrs Jenkins went out, her arms filled with lace and petticoats, while Marianne drifted aimlessly over to the window. The night was still and black with not a star in sight. Long trails of mist rolled wraith-like across the park. There was practically nothing to be seen but Marianne did not need sight to see in her mind's eye the vast, sweeping dark green lawns of Selton Hall, barely touched as yet by autumn. She knew though that they lost themselves in the distance beneath the heavy shade of centuries-old oaks. Beyond lay the quiet hills and deep woods of Devonshire where she could gallop for days at a time on the track of fox or deer. This was the time, before the onset of winter, that Marianne loved: the misty mornings and long evenings spent around the wood fire roasting chestnuts and, later on, skating on the frozen ponds, silver blades flashing with the exhilarating rush of speed past reed beds white with frost. All these had been the simple joys of her girlhood. Marianne had never known, until tonight, how much she loved the old house and grounds and the English countryside, the red earth and soft hills which had closed like strong arms round an orphan child. Standing on the brink of the night which would give her to Francis, she wished that she could run out once more into the wood, because the trees seemed to communicate to her some deep power against which fear and worry broke in vain. And, just at this moment, she knew that she was dreadfully afraid, afraid of disappointing him, of being thought plain or stupid. If only Francis had taken her in his arms once, just once. If he had only murmured some words of love to give her confidence and overcome her modesty – but no, he had always been polite, even affectionate, but Marianne had never yet glimpsed in the grey eyes of her betrothed that flame of passion she so longed to arouse. No doubt tonight would bring her all these things. The words to sweep her off her feet and the overmastering caresses. Meanwhile, she waited in a state of feverish anticipation which left her mouth dry and her hands icy cold. Surely, no girl was ever half so ready to become her husband's adoring and submissive slave, for Marianne admitted secretly that there was nothing she would not do for love of Francis.
She was, of course, largely ignorant of what was meant by the phrase, 'belonging to someone'. Aunt Ellis was no longer there to tell her, even supposing she herself had ever known, and old Mrs Jenkins certainly could not but she had a vague idea that its effect would be a transformation so complete that her whole being would be altered by it. Would she love the trees and the countryside tomorrow if Francis did not love them too?
A slight creak as the door opened broke into her thoughts. It was Jenkins coming back and Marianne turned quickly from the window to meet her.
'Well' she asked. 'What is happening? Have our guests retired yet?'
Mrs Jenkins did not answer at once. She took off her spectacles and began wiping them carefully. Marianne knew instantly that something was wrong. Jenkins always did that when she wanted time to think before she spoke.
'Well?' Marianne asked again.
'Most of them have gone up, my lady,' the housekeeper said at last, restoring the spectacles to her nose.
'Most? Who is still down there?'
'Your husband – and that foreigner, the man from America.'
Marianne's lips tightened ominously. What business had this American to keep Francis downstairs at an hour when all his thoughts should have been for his young bride? Certainly Jason Beaufort was the last person she wished to hear of just at that moment.
'Are they still at their port?'
'No. They are at cards.'
'At cards! At this hour?'
Mrs Jenkins spread her arms in a gesture of helplessness at Marianne's incredulous expression. The girl opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind. Slowly, she turned on her heel and went back to the window. Not even to old Jenkins who had brought her up would she show her disappointment. How could Francis dawdle over a stupid game of cards while she waited for him, trembling with an excitement that tied her stomach in knots and made her feel sick.
'Cards!' she said between her teeth. 'He plays cards while I wait for him!'
A spark of anger had begun to mix with her disappointment. Aunt Ellis had set great store by good manners and she would never have tolerated Francis's playing cards with a friend on his wedding night. It was not done in novels either. It was a small thing, perhaps, but the incident brought home to her just how much she missed her aunt.
'Now he is all I have,' she thought bitterly. 'Surely he must understand that? I – I need him so.'
She shut her eyes tightly to force back the tears. Her anger rose. Patience was never her most shining virtue and now it made her so cross to think of her husband wasting his time with Beaufort that she had to fight back a sudden impulse to rush downstairs and drag him away. It was bad enough that the man had been invited to spend the night in the house at all. It seemed to Marianne that his presence hung over it, if not exactly as a threat, certainly as an incubus. This may have been due simply to her dislike of him but, however much she tried to talk herself out of it, the sense of a shadow looming over Selton Hall remained.
'Won't you let me put you to bed?' Mrs Jenkins spoke hesitantly from behind her. 'It would be best – well more fit for you to be in bed when your Francis comes.'
'When will he come?, Marianne blurted out angrily. 'Will he come at all?'