‘Perhaps we could endure it for some new clothes now and again and you could learn to endure the capital for a week or two to look suitably ravishing to enchant this beau you have been dreaming about meeting one day, I suppose? My mother has always insisted the London dressmakers are literally a cut above the rest.’ Marianne thought Juno was trying to joke her out of her sadness and was touched. The girl had depth and character far beyond that of the usual debutantes and in a few years’ time the polite world could be in for a shock when the Honourable Miss Defford finally came out of her shell.
‘Not dressmakers, Mrs Turner, modistes,’ Juno corrected primly. Marianne laughed at her imitation of a fine lady astonished anyone could even speak about such distinct branches of the craft in the same breath. ‘And now there is Paris to outdo them all, since they say the finest modistes in the world live there and set the fashions everyone else is forever trying to catch up with,’ Juno added.
‘And what does Miss Defford say about Paris and all the finery she might find if only her uncle would consent to her going there?’
‘That they are still only clothes and she is very happy as she is. I do not think I will care if I never see another fashion plate in my entire life.’
‘Hmm,’ Marianne mused. ‘I expect you were always dressed in white as a debutante. With your dark hair and creamy skin you would look much better in colours and even I love the luxury and fine texture of silks and good velvet as I move, as long as I do not have to wear them all the time and be forever worrying about getting dirty.’
‘I cannot imagine you sitting in state all the time in order to keep your gown from harm,’ Juno said with a rueful smile.
‘No, neither can I,’ Marianne said and shook her head at a fantasy of being Lady Stratford, dressed in silks and satins to please her lord and make her feel more of an aristocrat. That was a fantasy that could turn into a nightmare when it rubbed up against the day-to-day reality of trying to be someone she was not, so it was just as well it would never come true.
‘You never did tell me how you know when a man is the right one for you, Marianne.’ Juno interrupted her reverie, thank goodness, so she owed her another try at explaining the unexplainable.
‘When he makes you forget any differences of rank and fortune and expectations between you. He may be a gallant fool who thinks he ought to put you first and walk away, even if it hurts you to even think about not being there to share his life with him from that moment on, but he is your fool nevertheless. Because he lights a fire in you that refuses to go out and maybe because he is uniquely himself. In the end it is simply because you love him and if he loves you back there is no better feeling on earth. Where he walks is where you want to go, too. Where he is going is the place you need to be.
‘But although we were so certain we loved one another and it was right to have risked everything for him, there were days when I wished I had never met him, Juno. Sometimes I longed for safety and certainty and home when I was with Daniel in Portugal and Spain, but I would still rather have been with him than sit safely in Lisbon waiting for him to come back, or not. There were days when I wanted to weep with fatigue and hunger and Daniel wanted to send me away so I would not suffer the privations he had to endure so we could be together, but I am so glad I am a stubborn woman and I would not go, because that way we had so much more time together than we would have done if I was a biddable sort of person who does as she is told.’
‘I will be sure I feel that much for a man before I risk everything for him then, but could a person love like that more than once, do you think?’ Juno added so casually Marianne eyed her with suspicion. The girl could look so innocent she made lambs seem cynical.
‘Maybe,’ Marianne replied tightly and hoped that was enough to let Juno know there was some ground she should not tread on.
‘I fear the poor old place has not been lived in for decades, Your Lordship.’
‘I can see that for myself,’ Alaric replied absently.
‘It was a splendid old house in my grandfather’s day. He often spoke of the fine company and days of feasting and dancing here when old Miss Hungerford was young and engaged to marry a baronet.’
‘What happened?’ Alaric asked, still staring at the uneven shamble of roofs added piecemeal when the owners wanted more room for guests or family and what looked like a long gallery tacked on to the roof of the west wing when fashion dictated every house with any pretensions to grandeur should have one.
‘He ran off with a serving wench and was never heard of again. It was the scandal of the county and the locals swear Miss Hungerford’s father caught up with the rogue, ran him through in a fury then buried his body so deep in the woods nobody will ever find him.’
‘And the maid?’
‘I suppose she ran away,’ the lawyer said as if it had never occurred to him to worry about a servant girl. ‘A runaway maid would soon find work in a city and it is not far to Gloucester or Hereford or even Bristol from here. The locals claim to see
