Page 32 of An Amiable Foe
“Don’t scold,” she had told him wearily. “My heart cannot take it.”
He fell silent, but his disapproving look followed her into the castle. His disappointment did not weigh on her as heavily as Mr. Osborne’s did.
Marianne needed a full night’s sleep to restore her body and soul, but she did not get it. Just as she was dropping off to sleep, the humiliation of the night’s events would rouse her again and cause her breath to quicken even as her throat closed in. It seemed that dawn would never come, and when its purplish light finally did bring the features of her room into relief, her only wish was for many more hours of night because she was not nearly well-rested enough to face the day. Nor did she wish for time to drag her inexorably to the point where she must face Mr. Osborne and the other gentlemen, who were certainly laughing at her—or disgusted by her.
She lay on her side, staring with dull eyes at the washstand in the corner. What had come over her, to set aside her practice of avoiding all formal gatherings and agree to attend a ball, when she had long known that such a thing wasn’t for her? Life had taught her early on that the only refuge to be had was found inside Brindale and the people who lived in it, even if they were considered inferior by others due to their status as servants. Sanctuary was not found with uncles who lived at the opposite end of the world and then died without warning, or in mingling with Kent’s upper crust. She had been too flattered by Mr. Osborne’s invitation and lulled into thinking she would acquit herself well. Vanity, which she had never thought to be one of her besetting sins, had led her to wish for Mr. Osborne’s approval, and to think for the first time in her life that she might have a chance of gaining it. How wrong she was.
The memory of falling on her face sprang up again in her mind, causing Marianne to roll over and bury her head in her pillow, wishing she could die. And then! Oh, and then—there was the mortification of not knowing how to dance the minuet. She had told him she could not. Why had he insisted? And why had she not remained staunch in her refusal, but instead thought she might somehow be swept along by the crowd and able to perform complicated steps she had learned a decade ago? The reality hit her like a dousing of cold water the moment it was her turn to move in the steps of the dance, but her feet stayed frozen to the ground. The crowning addition to her misery was the sight of Mr. Osborne’s livid face as he curled his fingers to summon her again, as inflexible as though it were their first encounter and he was looking down at her from his massive horse.
Then she had run.
Marianne sat up in bed. There was no point in reliving the tragedy that was her life. She could not be sure if there were any whispers about the fact that she was living in a house with gentlemen. Mrs. Vernon’s presence provided her with a certain degree of protection—even more so than Miss Fife’s. However, as she had gone from almost no reputation in society to now an unfavorable one, she could take no risks. She did not need anyone else. She had been perfectly content living her life in the castle with just the servants to talk to, the garden to tend, the rooms to live in, and the books to read.
She wasperfectly happy.
Tears slid down her cheeks. It was still dim in the room, but there was no sense in staying in bed. Marianne dried her tears, dressed in one of her usual gowns that was the right length, and pinned her hair up. As soon as she was certain her face had retained no trace of her distress, she reached for the door and pulled it open, nearly stumbling over a large burden that lay at the threshold. She gave a sharp intake of breath when her foot came into contact with something soft.
“Ouch!”
To her astonishment, the large bundle moved, and it was Mr. Osborne looking up at her. He blinked as though shaking off sleep, then scrambled to his feet when he registered her presence.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded in a loud whisper, torn between surprise and embarrassment. And…something else. Something that felt like a refuge.
Now standing before her, he adjusted his coat so it was straight, but his neckcloth was untied. “I…I thought it prudent to see to it that your sleep was not disturbed in any way.”
She stared at him, attempting to decipher what could have led him to think her sleep might be disturbed. Part of his neck was visible, and she stared at the bare skin, her mouth agape.
His movement to hastily retie his neckcloth shook her from her stupor at the same time that a blush heated her cheeks, and she remembered his unfriendly face from the night before. His punishing eyes. It was all she needed to stir her emotions from embarrassment to temper.
She placed one hand on her hip. “You need not make yourself uncomfortable on my behalf, sir. As you know full well, my door has a latch. I was in no danger. And who could hurt me here? I am living in a house full of gentlemen, and I am guessing there is not one of you who is not armed.”
The way he closed his lips and looked at her oddly sent a bolt through her middle. He seemed to be aware of a circumstance she was not, but it didn’t feel like the same danger as she had faced at the cottage.
“Besides”—he reached down and grabbed the cloak he had used as a bedroll—“I wish to speak with you.”
Tears of humiliation pricked the backs of her eyes, and she blinked them away. “What could you possibly have to say to me? After last night, I think we both know it is best I find my own way as soon as possible and avoid society at all costs, including yours.”
She moved forward quickly and he hurried to keep up, his cloak now tangled in his legs.
“Do wait.” Mr. Osborne stopped her with a gentle touch on her arm. “I don’t want you to avoid me. I merely wished to apologize for insisting that you dance last night. It was wrong and misguided of me.”
Marianne faced forward, not looking at him. She did not remember anyone ever apologizing to her who was not a servant.
“Your apology is accepted, of course,” she said, moving forward again. “But it does not lessen my humiliation, or my determination to move back to the cottage.” She descended the stairs at a quick pace, and he was forced to keep up with her.
“I understand. But I do not think you should dwell too much upon what you call humiliation. Truly, what need is there to care about society in a small village? If this were in London—”
She rounded on him. “Thatis why you do not belong here. Of course you do not care. You plan to lease this castle out to strangers. But Brindale is my home. This village is my home, and I have nowhere else to go. There is nowhere else I want to go.”
Silence fell after her impassioned words, and she heard only the sound of her breathing. He stared at her without speaking in that odd way of his—that keen scrutiny as though he were trying to read something in her. For the first time, his silence led her to guess that he might be wishing to tell her something but had not made up his mind to do so. It made her drop her gaze and speak with quiet resolve.
“It is best that I move back to the cottage as soon as possible, no matter what danger there might still be. In truth, I don’t think there can be much.”
She glanced up at him. “As soon as I have a male servant there, I will go. We have not heard of any other disturbances, and you have already sent the carpenter to repair the shutters. I will be sure to bolt every window and entrance before I go to bed. I will see to it myself.” Her words came spilling out, and she couldn’t tell if she was trying to convince him of the wisdom of her idea, or if she was challenging him to contradict her and beg her to stay.
Sounds came from the direction of the kitchen, and soon the door opened. Sarah walked by carrying bread into the dining room. After murmuring a good morning and darting a glance at her mistress, she curtsied and continued on her way, leaving them in peace.
“It is not because I wish to rent out the castle that I think you need not worry about village society.” Mr. Osborne exhaled and looked at the ceiling. “I just think they are more forgiving here, and therefore you need not worry overmuch. And…I like you, Miss Edgewood—Marianne.”
