Page 119 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
THE ROCKING HORSE
HOLLY NEWMAN
CHAPTER1
"Bayneville Castle estate ahead, miss!" called out the jehu.
Miss Jocelyn Maybrey drew aside the heavy leather curtain covering the coach window. Beside her, Lady Maybrey stirred and looked over her shoulder, each woman seeking her first glimpse of the legendary estate.
Just ahead, massive stonework marked the entrance to the property.
Lady Maybrey touched her daughter's hand and gently squeezed it. Jocelyn turned her head and smiled. For all her London beau monde savvy, her mother was excited. Well, Jocelyn wryly admitted, so was she.
Christmas at Bayneville! Memories for a lifetime!
The coach turned right to pass between cream stone walls surmounted with snarling lions that overlooked the roadway. Dry, ash-brown leaves swirled upward as they passed, sailing into the air. Chiseled in the Roman style into the stone wall below the lions was the legend BAYNEVILLE, stark and arrogant. Reading it, Jocelyn felt a shiver of anticipation. She turned her head and stared down the drive and across a half-mile expanse of scythed winter-browned grass to the massive stone structure known as Bayneville Castle, the seat of the Marquess of Tarkington, scion of the Bayne family.
Bayneville Castle—for all its size and name—was not an actual castle. The current structure had been built over the long-ago ruins of an earlier, smaller building more deserving of that sobriquet. Nonetheless, Bayneville was more than a country estate with pretenses to importance. So vast were its holdings and outbuildings, its tenantry and craftsmen, that the estate was a self-sufficient village.
But as impressive as the entire estate was, all agreed it was the house and its immediate grounds that commanded attention. From a guidebook she'd purchased at Hatchard's Bookshop, Lady Maybrey had learned that the main building was constructed around three separate courtyards. At either end of the house, wings jutted away from the main body, with each wing ending in a tower topped by a cupola.
". . . And," she told her daughter as their carriage bowled down the long drive, "there are two formal gardens, a maze, a topiary garden, and an orangery. All worthy of investigation, it says in the guidebook, as the finest examples of their kind,"
"In December?" Jocelyn absentmindedly asked as she rocked gently with the carriage.
"Yes, even in December. Imagine. It does sound too fantastic to be real. . . . And to think your Charles stands heir."
Jocelyn frowned at her mother's presumption of a betrothal between her and Mr. Bayne and at her consideration of Mr. Bayne's position as Tarkington's heir. "Only if his cousin does not remarry and sire sons," she carefully reminded, "and I think it macabre to dwell on that possibility."
"Well, naturally one does not wish ill for Tarkington, but they do say the Marquess has not been himself since his wife's death. Why I don't believe he's visited his London house at all!"
Jocelyn sighed. Her mother considered all events in light of London society. "Mama, the gentleman has been in mourning the past year. It would not do for him to have lived a social life. And, as you have often stated to me, if one cannot go to London entertainments, why be in London at all?"
Lady Maybrey nodded the tall apricot plumes in her bonnet swaying. "But don't forget Lord Tarkington's involvement with politics. That should not have been disrupted by mourning. Maybrey says he was extremely active and vocal before his wife's death. His presence has been sorely missed in the House of Lords—by his peers and by those in the House of Commons who saw him as a peer for the people."
"Perhaps his notion of what is proper for mourning is stricter than most," Jocelyn suggested.
Lady Maybrey nodded and stared at the manor, a pensive expression on her finely drawn features. She worried her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, then: "I do hope overly circumspect behavior does not put a damper on the festivities. What a dreary visit we should have, and how unfortunate it would be for dear Lady Mary."
Jocelyn laughed. "Lady Mary is the liveliest of creatures. I cannot imagine her easily acquiescing to sober entertainments—especially as the Christmas Eve ball and the subsequent house party are to celebrate her betrothal to Lord Killingham. No. Whatever her elder brother's disposition, she'll run her way, as shall all the guests. Mark my words."
Lady Maybrey took her eyes away from the manor house and leaned back against the velvet squabs. "If that is true, this may well prove the social event of the year. And prove your highlight as well if Charles should come up to scratch. . . . Wouldn't that be lovely? I can think of a few mamas whose noses would be good and tweaked," she finished with relish.
"Oh, Mama," Jocelyn gently chided, shaking her head in loving exasperation though a faint blush of embarrassment tinted her cheeks.
Sir Jasper and Lady Maybrey more than enjoyed the social milieu. They thrived upon it. It was their life. The Maybreys were invited everywhere. Jocelyn could recall very few times when their house wasn't filled with guests. Her parents had always been socially active and socially conscious. Consequently, they had not been surprised when Jocelyn was readily accepted into society as she made her social bow. Though her fortune was only modest and her appearance pleasant rather than beautiful, she quickly found herself with a handful of dedicated, worthy suitors.
Her favor fell upon Mr. Charles Bayne, for she felt the most at ease with him. They became friends, and Jocelyn supposed that was adequate for a good marriage. She knew her parents smiled and nodded approval. Charles Bayne was socially active, well connected, interested in government, possessed a modest though adequate competence, and stood heir to a Marquess. What more could a young woman require in a husband? And, though she may blush at her mother's verbalization, Jocelyn did expect Mr. Bayne to solicit her father for her hand in marriage during their visit at Bayneville Castle. What a fitting finale that would be to her first season. Everyone said so. She could be serene in the knowledge that her life was secure and mapped out to continue in the mold created by her parents. Hers would be a familiar and comfortable existence.
But how could she account for the little mental gremlin who wouldn't leave her alone, the imp of mischief that searched for something else than an ordered existence? In the lonely hours of the night when she lay abed, sleepless, staring at the shadowy folds of the bed hangings, Jocelyn wrestled with a sense of deep disquiet. It felt like an itch that had no source and therefore could not be scratched.
Something was wrong. Desperately wrong. She was not content, and she did not know why. She wanted to dismiss the odd feelings as hesitancy to leave her family, to commit to marriage, but somehow that explanation was too simplistic. Nonetheless, she wouldn't—couldn't—guess at an answer. She had to know.
She hoped this trip to Bayneville, away from familiar, everyday events in London would help her grasp what this odd feeling might be and therefore help her discover a cure or at least an acceptance.
She sighed and turned her head to look at Bayneville again. The nearer the carriage came, the grander the estate's appearance seemed. It went on forever, a formidable beauty. Odd to even consider finding simple answers in such an ornate backdrop. Looking at the vast property, Jocelyn felt a strange prick of curiosity for the man who held it, the eighth Marquess of Tarkington. She'd yet to meet him, even though he was the elder brother of her best friend. She did know him by sight, though, for she'd seen him from a distance at the theater and about town.
Lady Mary's mother preferred London to the country; consequently, after the requisite mourning period following her widowhood, she took up residence at the Tarkington London house, bringing Lady Mary with her. The Marquess and Marchioness remained at Bayneville for most of the year, coming to London for the height of the season and when Parliament sat.
