Page 50 of An Amiable Foe
“You seem happy,” Marianne observed with a smile. Her spirits could not help but lift at the sight of her. “I don’t suppose it has anything to do with Joe Dobson coming to Brindale? I saw the two of you outside talking for quite a while.”
Sarah blushed. “Oh, miss. Do ye not mind? Joe, he…” She stopped and put her hands to her face, covering her cheeks.
Now Marianne was curious. “What? Do not tell me that Joe has made you an offer of marriage already?”
Sarah pulled her hands away. “How did ye know? ’Tis exactly what he did, and us having so little time to be acquainted, apart from the visits when I was with ye, and the times Mrs. Malford sent me to him with a basket of food. We did find it easy to talk then.”
Marianne laughed. “I would not be surprised if Mrs. Malford knew what she was about when she sent you. What answer did you give Joe when he asked?”
The maid raised apprehensive eyes to her. “I said as I’d have to speak to ye first, miss, but that I should like it above all things.”
Marianne smiled. “On the matter of marriage, you don’t answer to me. You answer only to your own heart. And I hope you will tell him yes. Beth and Anthony need a mother, and I think Joe would be much happier to have a wife—especially if the wife is you.”
Sarah lifted the corner of her apron and used it to wipe her eyes. “Well, miss, I did say as he ’ud jest have to wait if Ididmarry him until I found someone who could take good care of ye in my stead.”
Marianne took Sarah’s hands in hers. “No one will ever replace you. But I would be very unhappy if that should stop you from marrying him as soon as you may desire. Perhaps in the meanwhile you can continue to come during the day and work here.”
The next morning dawned bright, calling for Marianne to put off her disappointments and begin turning the cottage into a well-run home. However, this lofty ambition deserted her by the time she had eaten her breakfast. Her thoughts turned continually around Perry, and she simply removed to the drawing room to indulge in them. She knew she was waiting in expectation—in hopes of hearing the sounds of a horse riding up, hoping it would be only one gentleman.
Despite the lethargy that had come over her, last night had been mostly agreeable, free from worry that they might suffer a break-in. She had been able to temper her disappointment in Robert Vernon with her happiness for Sarah. Miss Fife, she tried to avoid unless strictly necessary.
She was not entirely able to do that at the moment as Miss Fife entered the room with the help of Jack, whom she seemed to regard as her personal servant. Marianne was not convinced her foot truly bothered her, and she was resolved that Miss Fife would at least help with some of the mending of the curtains. She herself had never learned to sew but that was something Miss Fife could do if she was determined to sit there.
“You have promised to help hem and mend the curtains. May I fetch your sewing box for you?”
Miss Fife sighed. “I suppose so. You will find it on the writing table in my room, I believe.”
Marianne stood, already anxious to escape from her presence. How could she bear the remaining two months until she reached her majority and could take control of her own life?
She went into her companion’s bedroom, but did not see the sewing box on the small desk. There was a stack of papers on the smaller table beside the window, and without seeing anything resembling the sewing box elsewhere, she went over to it. As Marianne lifted the papers, a letter slid out, catching her eye. It was her uncle’s handwriting—unmistakably his, though shakier than usual.
She slid the letter out, her breath catching. She had corresponded with her uncle for ten years. It had been regular even if it had not been frequent. The front of the letter was addressed to her, but she was sure she had never read it. The shock of it caused Marianne to turn it over and open the flap where the broken seal was to look at the date. It was days before her uncle had supposedly died. She skimmed her eyes over its contents greedily.
Dear Marianne,
I am coming to the end of my days, I fear, and I wished to take a pen to write to you before the illness makes such a thing too difficult. As you will soon learn, it is an illness that causes a wasting disease, and I have yet to see any Englishman get up from his sickbed once he has caught it. I have no expectation that I will be any different.
There is a particular matter that weighs upon my mind, and I feel I must explain it to you. I have never been a wealthy man. I believe you know this. However, I always thought I might leave something behind that would set you up in the world, and I have made investments to that end. Two months ago, my man of business made a ruinous investment with my money, along with that of several other gentlemen.
One of those gentlemen, the baron, Lord Steere, invested a significant sum upon my recommendation and encouraged others to do the same. In exchange for his bringing in other investors, I signed a promise that the original sum of his investment would be returned to him, even if the venture did not prove profitable. As you can guess, it did not. As a result, I found myself indebted to Lord Steere, and I could not allow my reputation as a gentleman to suffer—not even after my death. I hope you can understand such a thing.
This is why the baron was given the deed to your beloved castle. I have managed to carve out the cottage as your own property, with a small bit of land attached to it. Forgive me, my niece. I have not been the uncle you needed. There is a reason I am still a bachelor—I was never meant to be responsible for a child. I have written in my will that the remaining assets in my name, amounting to close to two thousand pounds, also be given to you. It will take time, perhaps up to a year, for the attorney to tie up all these loose ends, but he will contact you when he is ready.
As for your companion, Miss Fife, of whom you have spoken much over the years in something of a lament, I suspect—no, let me not dissemble—I know she is not what you have needed in your tender years, but I felt it beyond me to provide someone more suitable, especially from such a distance. It was far easier to allow her to stay in her position since your laments did not speak of outright abuse. When you are twenty-one, I am sure you will do as you see fit. You need have no obligation to her.
Here, the writing became shaky and barely legible.
My dear Marianne. I have not been a perfect uncle, but I do send you my love. I hope you will manage to find a way to remember your poor old uncle with some affection.
Yours most devotedly,
Joseph Edgewood
Marianne’s breath grew unsteady, and she dropped the letter to her side as she stared through the window, attempting to still her whirling thoughts. A sharp noise of something hitting the floor made her jump. It was Miss Fife’s cane.
“I knew it when you did not return right away. You were going through my things.” The spinster strode forward with more energy than Marianne had ever seen and attempted to snatch the letter from her hands.
“This is mine.” Marianne put it behind her back, then pushed past the companion to leave the room. When she was at the doorway, she turned to face Miss Fife. “How could you? How could you keep this from me? Openmyletter?”
