Page 36 of An Amiable Foe
Marianne couldn’t believe Buttercup had escaped again. The new footman had come running to tell her, having learned the hard way that he was no match for the large pig. She discovered the sow in the eastern lawn and had pushed and shoved her back toward the pighouse, but that effort on the slippery hillside had only caused Marianne to glide out of control and fall face-first in the mud…much in the way she had done on the dance floor. Only this time it was with less embarrassment because there was no one to see her.
“I swear, Buttercup…” she muttered.
Marianne had stayed out of sight the whole of the day. She did not desire to be there when the gentlemen took their leave, learning from Sarah that Mr. Raife had departed first, and that Mr. Wilmot and Neck-whatever-his-name-was had not yet surfaced by noon. That made her more determined to remain invisible.
She had not ceased to ruminate over Mr. Osborne’s declaration that morning, which she still had trouble believing could be meant for her—had trouble thinking of him as Perry, despite the thrill of being given such intimate use of his name. She had not expected him to feel anything toward her, inconsequential creature that she was. Although she had sometimes allowed herself to wonder whether those light touches coming from him were entirely on accident, not once had it occurred to her that he might feel a degree of attraction toward her.
She’d thought of him as an interloper, a foe, someone to battle against. In hindsight, she had been deceiving herself, convincing herself he meant nothing more to her than any other stranger. But she could not fool herself for long. The particular attentions he paid, and his coming in the guise of a rescuer, had softened something in her heart.
After she’d left him on the stairwell, Marianne went to see Miss Fife, who had not attempted to try to walk, likely enjoying the way the servants were forced to wait upon her. They were under orders of both Marianne and Mr. Osborne to do so, and Miss Fife seemed in no hurry to lose her privileged position. In order for Marianne to ease her conscience for the increasingly belligerent spirit she harbored toward her companion, she spent a full hour with her before claiming tasks outdoors which could not wait.
She kept least in sight, meeting no one until she crossed paths with Mr. Mercy at the stables, who had said he’d just finished his meeting with Mr. Osborne. The steward gave her the good news that Mr. Osborne had overseen the hiring of a footman for her, and he was to begin work the next day.
Mr. Osborne again. The feelings he evoked were stronger than she felt capable of examining, and she was glad to be leaving the castle the next day. As she went through her tasks, she thought about when and how she should return to the cottage, testing in her heart how it would feel to be there again. She would not need to importune Mr. Osborne any longer, which could only be a good thing. Surely, if she stepped away, he would forget those feelings he’d expressed. Did she want him to?
These and all other thoughts fled the moment she’d discovered the pig’s whereabouts and she tried to wrestle her the long distance back to her pen. She wrinkled her brows as she gave Buttercup another shove, her thoughts still on Perry. With a pang, she wondered if he would indeed forget her.
The sound of someone clearing his throat broke through the mist of her cogitation, and she froze in place. Her heart thumped at the thought of having Mr. Osborne witness her second disgrace, and she turned slowly to confirm her fears. It was worse.
Not only had Mr. Osborne witnessed how truly unfit she was for society, a gentleman stood beside him who, if the age and slight resemblance indicated correctly, could be none other than Lord Steere, although she had not been informed he intended to visit. Mr. Osborne had an unfortunate habit of not apprising her of visitors. If he had warned her of his uncle’s, she would have taken pains to be more presentable. The irritation of that thought gave her courage, and Marianne lifted her chin.
“Uncle, may I present Miss Edgewood. She is the only person at Brindale who has any success with Buttercup. That is, the uh…the pig. Miss Edgewood, may I present the baron, Lord Steere?” Mr. Osborne’s voice was tight with what could only be disapproval.
Holding herself stiffly, she curtsied. “Good day, my lord.”
“Not always successfully, I see,” Lord Steere replied in a dry voice. Unlike Mr. Osborne, who occasionally revealed a hidden well of humor, the baron appeared to have none.
Marianne stood for a moment, unsure of how to repair the situation. In the end, she decided not to try.
“If you’ll excuse me, I will finish my work and see to the menu for dinner. I understand from Mr. Mercy I cannot return to the cottage until tomorrow.”
When she dared to meet Mr. Osborne’s eyes, she found his gaze understanding and almost apologetic. Maybe he didn’t disapprove of her.
“I would not wish you to do so tonight, at any rate. Without a man to see to your safety, I cannot recommend your leaving the castle.”
She nodded, suddenly recalling her immediate task. “If you’ll excuse me then.”
She discovered Buttercup hiding next to the old smithy. The pig was suddenly docile, though whether it was shame at having put her mistress in such a predicament, the threat of bacon, or the hope of a meal, Marianne could not be sure. She opened the gate to the pighouse and Buttercup went in willingly enough. She closed the gate and left without a word.
The slight lift from earlier in the day as she thought over Mr. Osborne’s declaration was now dissipated. Her spirits plunged again, reminding her of how she felt since he’d come to take possession of the castle. It appeared she was to suffer one reminder after another that the life she had known since birth was no longer hers. And as if that were not enough, she was doomed to remain on the outskirts of polite society.
Marianne returned to the castle with heavy steps, and Sarah, having spotted her from one of the windows, came running out. Mrs. Malford must have done the same from the kitchen window, because she exited from there at the same time. Both came toward Marianne, and without heeding the mud, they each put an arm around her, Mrs. Malford clucking affectionately and Sarah promising to bring hot water and get her cleaned up in a trice. Marianne could not remain disconsolate at such displays of affection. Truly, Mrs. Malford and Sarah were more like family than they were servants, even if she could not say such a thing to them. What more could she ask for than such kind devotion?
She allowed them to ready a bath for her in her parents’ room, and Sarah washed and brushed out her hair, then plaited it as best she could. As Marianne pinned it up and dressed, she decided she needed to leave the castle for a walk before dark. She was too agitated to sit idly after her humiliating encounter. Perhaps she’d go for a walk into the village—or to visit Robert? But no. Strangely enough she did not want to see him just then.
Struck by an idea, she turned to Sarah. “I wish to visit Joe Dobson and bring his children some food. Do we have anything in the kitchen?”
“Yes, miss. If ye’d like, I ’ull go with ye.” Sarah turned her clear gaze toward Marianne, and it prompted a rush of affection—a sense of how pretty Sarah was, made more so by her loyalty and steadfastness. The feeling pushed Marianne to follow her impulse and step out of the mistress-servant relationship.
“Sarah, do you ever wish you could marry?”
“Me, miss?” Sarah looked down. “’Course, I do. I’ve always dreamed of having children of my own. But maids are not to marry, miss. Not unless they’m looking to be dismissed. I’ve no wish to leave my position.”
Marianne nodded in silence, the newfound confidence between them dying at birth. She knew maids could not marry, but why was that? Who had made that rule? She sensed that Sarah did not feel comfortable saying more, and she did not wish to pry. Marianne stood, seized by a rebellious desire to thumb her nose at the rules.
“Let us go, then. I believe we have time enough before it turns dark. I will lace up my boots, and if you can gather things from Mrs. Malford, we may set off.”
A short while later they left, Sarah carrying the basket under her arm that contained bread, cakes, and even a bit of soup that Sarah had made herself. Although Annabel was the designated undercook, Sarah had learned to cook from her own mother and Mrs. Malford never resented her presence in the kitchen when she asked to use it. Marianne had grown grateful for that skill when they were alone in the cottage. In no time, they turned onto the muddy lane that led to the smithy.
