Court of Foxes by Christianna Brand Page B

notion of a wedding day, my lord?’ He began to speak but she overrode him; despair and frustration raged within her, the Marchesa Marigelda acting outrage became Miss Marigold Brown in a genuine temper. ‘Why not fly to the Fleet outright, where some unfrocked wretch may mumble our lines for a guinea and hustle us off? A fine marriage, I declare: and I in my servant’s sac, I daresay, the better to disguise my identity? — creeping out of town as though I were — as though I were—’ But she remembered what in fact she was and, with all her indignation and despair, was hard put to it to prevent herself from bursting into laughter. A muffled sound, hastily hushed, from behind the door, reminded her that the footmen doubtless had their ears pressed against it, reporting all that went forward to the rest of the family, hanging over the banisters; and probably in much the same half-hysterical condition as herself.
    Lord Tregaron stood staring at her in dismay. ‘But — it’s you who wished for discretion; and in my case — as in your case, for I think you little know how much talked about you are — discretion must involve absolute secrecy, or be useless.’ He stood, indecisive. ‘For my part I care nothing of the how or the where or who’s present or who is absent — so that you marry me as soon as may be.’ He came to her, holding out his hand. ‘Come, tell me what it is you wish and it shall be as you say.’
    ‘I wish nothing. A respectable church, a decent hour of the day, at least to wear my own gown—’
    “Who suggested anything different? — be reasonable!”
    ‘—and not to go jolting off like an escaping criminal to Cheltenham.’ Let the newly coroneted head, she thought, at least lie one night upon the pillows of the mansion in town: by the time she returned to London, it was too likely that the truth would be out and she a pensioner on her husband’s bounty, doled out because, she being his countess before all the world, he could do no less. ‘Let the marriage be arranged for Monday evening — if you wish it so. I will sleep that night in Hanover Square and come with you next day to Carmarthenshire.’ She had retreated to the cool emotion of the Unattainable, standing quiet and composed in the doorway, not taking his outstretched hand. It was, after all, for the Marchesa to make her own terms.
    His hand dropped to his side. He bowed. ‘As your ladyship commands.’
    ‘You ride back to Wales tomorrow then?’
    ‘And shall return by Monday.’
    She was a little alarmed at the chill in his tone, afraid lest she had gone too far, betrayed herself perhaps, in the frankness of her outburst. She threw a new warmth into her voice. ‘Not before then?’
    He bowed again. ‘You have warned me that until we are married I must — keep my distance.’
    ‘But needn’t do so literally?’ she suggested, smiling.
    ‘If I am to do the one, I had better do the other also,’ he said, still coldly.
    She left the door and came to him and stood close against him, not touching him, her hands behind her back: and lifted up her face to his. ‘Perhaps you’re wise. We are — neither of us — so strong that we should take foolish chances.’ And as he remained stony-faced, braced back from her, she came closer, leant upon his breast but still with her hands behind her back, not touching him; and put her lips against his lips and whispered: ‘But let us take just one more foolish chance, to say goodbye…’
    And he caught her in his arms and held her close; and she knew, with a triumph tinged with shame, that there was a magic strong in her, that henceforward would work her will with him.
    Upon the Wednesday evening after his departure a man came to the door, a messenger: a hard, brown, sturdy man, his Welsh accent so thick as hardly to be understood. He wore a sort of jerkin of natural coloured frieze, buttoned to the waist over trousers of the same rough wool, and a round black beaver hat: and he