Tallie's Knight

Magnus lashed at the nodding snowdrops with his whip, sending them flying. He stared unseeing at the carnage.

The chit was playing games with him! Make no irrevocable arrangements. There’d been a malicious kind of pleasure in the way she’d said it, sweet smile notwithstanding. He strode on, frowning.

For almost the whole of the house party the girl had been quiet, docile and obedient. He was convinced it was her usual state—it must be—how else had she survived living with Laetitia? And she lived here with the children all year round without complaint.

No. He must have imagined her anger. He’d taken her by surprise, that was all. He should have given her a little more warning of his intentions. And perhaps he’d been a little clumsy—he had never before offered marriage, and his unexpected nervousness had thrown him a little off balance.

He should have made a flowery speech and then a formal offer, instead of rushing into his plans. Females set store by that kind of thing. She was quite right to put him off for a time. It was what every young girl was schooled to do, pretending to think it over, as a true lady should.

His mouth twitched as he remembered the way she’d held her chin so high. For all the world as if she might refuse. Cheeky little miss! The small flash of spirit did not displease him. A spirited dam usually threw spirited foals, and he wouldn’t want his children to be dull. Not at all. And he’d seen the mettle in her when she’d flown to little Georgie’s side, like a young lioness defending her cub.

And spirited defiance was permissible, even desirable in the defence of children. It was a little disconcerting for it to be directed against himself, perhaps, but he was not displeased, he told himself again.

So why could he not shake the feeling that he’d reached to pluck a daisy and had grasped a nettle instead? He savagely beheaded another clump of his cousin’s flowers and strode on, indifferent to the damage the wet grass was doing to the shine on his boots.

‘Magnus, what on earth are you doing to my garden?’

Laetitia’s voice jerked Magnus out of his reverie. He glanced back the way he’d come and flinched when he realised the havoc his whip had wrought.

‘Sorry, Tish. I didn’t realise—’

‘Oh, never mind that. I need to talk to you at once, but do come away from that wet grass; it will ruin my slippers. Here, into the summerhouse, where we can be quite private.’

Laetitia settled herself on a bench and regarded her cousin severely. ‘How could you, Magnus? In front of all my guests! I could just kill you! You have been extremely foolish, but I think we can pass it off as a jest—not in the best taste, of course, but a jest all the same. In any case, I have got rid of the girl—for which, I may add, you owe me your undying gratitude. Although, knowing you, you will be odiously indifferent as you always—’

Magnus cut to the heart of the rambling speech. ‘What do you mean, “got rid of the girl”? You cannot mean Miss Robinson, surely?’

‘Miss Robinson indeed!’ Laetitia sniffed. ‘She is lucky I even acknowledged her as cousin. Well, that is all at an end now. She will be gone within the hour!’

‘Gone? Where to?’

‘The village she grew up in. I forget its name.’

Magnus frowned. ‘What? Is there some family emergency? I understood she was an orphan.’

‘Oh, she is. Not a living soul left, except for me, and that’s at an end after her base ingratitude and presumption.’

‘Then why is she going to this village?’

Laetitia wrinkled her nose. ‘I believe she spent virtually all her life in some stuffy little school there. Her father was in the diplomatic service, you know, and travelled a great deal.’

Poor little girl, thought Magnus. He knew what it was like to be sent away, unwanted, at a young age. ‘And she wishes to visit this school? I suppose she must have friends there whom she would wish to ask to her wedding. I did not realise.’

‘Magnus, what is wrong with you? What does it matter where the wretched girl goes?’

‘Tish, of course it matters. Do you not realise I asked Miss Robinson to be my bride?’

‘Of course I do, and it will be a long time before I will forgive you for making such a fool of me, Magnus! But that wretched little nobody plans to make a fool of us both, and that I will not allow!’

Magnus frowned. The uneasy feeling he’d had ever since he’d spoken to Miss Robinson intensified. His whip tapped a sharp and fast tattoo against his boot. ‘What do you mean, “a fool of us both”?’

‘She plans to refuse you!’

‘What?’ The instant surge of temper caught Magnus unaware. He reined it in. ‘How can you know such a thing, Tish?’

‘She told me to my head, not fifteen minutes ago. Boasted of it!’ Laetitia noted his stupefaction, nodded smugly and laid a compelling hand on his arm. ‘You see now why she must be got away from here at once. I will not have a Robinson crow to the world that my cousin, Lord d’Arenville, was not good enough for her!’

‘Are you sure?’ Magnus was flabbergasted. He had not expected any girl to refuse his offer…but a penniless orphan? Boasting? If it was true, it was more than a slap in the face.

‘She actually said so? In so many words?’

‘Yes, Magnus, in just so many words. First she gloated of her success in cutting all my friends out to snare you, and then she boasted of how foolish we would all look when she refused you. The ungrateful trollop! I would have her drowned if I could!’

Magnus stood up and took a few jerky paces back and forth across the small summerhouse, his whip slapping hard and fast against his boot. ‘I…I must consider this. Until I speak to you again, do nothing,’ he said, and stalked off into the garden, destroying the herbaceous border as he passed.

No, no, dearest Tallie, you cannot leave us…it was a foolish misunderstanding…What would we do without you? What would the children do? And George and I—oh, please do not let my wretched cousin Magnus come between us—he is nothing but a cold, proud Icicle! You are family, dearest Tallie, and you belong here! Oh, do not leave us, we need you too much…

‘I…I’ve been sent up to make sure you’re packed, miss.’ The maidservant hovered uncomfortably, wringing her hands in distress. ‘And John Coachman has been told to ready himself and the horses for a long journey…I’m that sorry, Miss.’

‘It’s all right, Lucy,’ said Tallie shakily. Reality crashed around her. Laetitia had not changed her mind. Tallie truly was being thrown out of her cousin’s house.

She got off the bed where she’d been huddled and tried to pull herself together, surreptitiously wiping her eyes. ‘There’s a bag on top of that wardrobe—if you could put my clothing in that…I…I must see to other matters.’ She rushed out, her brimming eyes averted from the maid’s sympathetic gaze.

Moments later she slipped out of the side door, across the south lawn and into the garden maze. Tallie knew the convoluted paths by heart, and unerringly made her way towards the centre. It was a favourite spot. No one could see over the high, clipped hedges, and if anyone entered it she would have plenty of warning. She reached the heart of the maze, hurled herself down on the wrought-iron seat and burst into tears.

She had lost everything—her home, the children. She was about to become a pauper. She’d always been one, she supposed, but now she would truly be destitute. Homeless. Taken out and dumped like an unwanted cat.

She sobbed until there were no more tears, until her sobs became hard, dry lumps stuck in her chest, shuddering silently out of her with every breath she drew. Eventually they subsided, only coming every minute or so, in an echo of the distress she could bear no more of.

What would she do? This very night, unless some miracle intervened, she would find herself deposited in the village square. Where would she go? Where would she sleep? Unconsciously her hand crept to her mouth and she began to nibble at her nails. No one in the village would remember her. The vicar? No, she re-called—he’d died shortly after she’d left. A churchgoer might recall her face amongst the dozens of schoolgirls who’d filed dutifully into St Stephen’s each Sunday, but it was unlikely. It was two years ago—vague recognition was the best she could expect from anyone in the village. And no one would be likely to take her in.

There was not a soul in the world she could turn to.

The sharp, clean scent of the close-trimmed cypress hedges was fresh in the damp, cool air. Tallie drew her knees up against her chest and hugged them to her. In the distance she could hear the haunting cry of a curlew. It sounded as lost and alone as she felt.

She’d been happy at Laetitia’s, but her happiness had been founded on a lie. She had deluded herself that she was part of a family—the family she had always yearned for. In fact she was little better than a servant. Worse—a servant was paid, at least. If Tallie had been paid she would have had the wherewithal to pay for a night’s lodging or two. As it was, she had nothing.

Enough of self-pity, she decided at last. There was a way out of this mess. It was the only possible solution. She knew it, had known it all along; she’d just been unable to face the thought until she’d explored every other option. But there were no other options. She would have to marry Lord d’Arenville.

Lord d’Arenville. Cold-eyed, cold-voiced, handsome Lord d’Arenville. A cold proud Icicle, who simply wanted a brood mare for his heirs. Not a wife. Not a loving companion. A vessel for his children. A sturdy vessel! Tallie’s mouth quivered and she bit down hard on her nails to stop herself weeping again.

There would be no love for Tallie now—the love she’d dreamed of all her life. But there would be security. And with the thought of sleeping in the village churchyard that night, security was suddenly more important than love—or, if not more important, certainly of more immediate significance.

No, there would be no Prince Charming for Tallie, no Black Knight galloping to her rescue, not even a dear, kind gentleman who was no one in particular. Nobody for Tallie to love, nobody who would love her in return. There was only Lord d’Arenville. Was it possible to love a statue? An Icicle?

Oh, there would be children, God willing, but children were different. You couldn’t help but love children. And they couldn’t help but love you back. Children were like puppies, loving, mischievous and endlessly thirsting for love.

Tallie knew. She’d thirsted all her life, ever since she’d turned six and had been sent away to school.