Lord Lennox had just come in and was pulling out his chair. ‘Actually, I have but two minutes ago received a message from the inn. Argyle is still alive, and she is ensconced in a private parlour. Everything is all right—but I do wish she would write.’
‘Yes, it has been four days.’ Her face was creased with worry.
‘Perhaps today…Ah!’ He took a small pile of letters from the silver salver the butler placed in front of his plate, and his face lit up as he recognised his daughter’s handwriting. He quickly broke the wafer and scanned the sheet. He said to his wife, ‘I have good news, my love. Argyle is much improved—it seems he will make a full recovery…’
‘That is indeed good news!’ Lady Lennox beamed. Two pink spots appeared in her cheeks.
Lord Lennox motioned to the butler to pour him some coffee and read on ‘… but of course that will take time, and our daughter is planning on staying on at the inn to look after him. He is not allowed to move.’
Lady Lennox put down her cup of tea, frowning. ‘Oh dear, is that wise? There will be such talk. And she is hardly qualified to be a nurse.’
Her husband, noticing the butler’s interested face, waited until he had left the room—then he smiled. ‘She has decided to marry him, after all. They are betrothed—she says we can announce it.’
Lady Lennox clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, quelle bonne nouvelle!She is to be a duchess, then. It is quite a brilliant match.’
Her husband smiled. ‘You know she does not care a jot for all that, do you not? I believe she has fallen in love with him.’
Lady Lennox sighed. ‘Je l’espère.I confess I seldom know what my daughter is thinking, but she did say she loved him before she left, and I hope she has made the right choice.’
‘Well, I have the feeling I will get on famously with my future son-in-law. Here, my dear, take the letter, she has put a few lines for you at the end.’ Lord Lennox passed the sheet to his wife, then poured himself a cup of coffee and unfolded the newspaper. He rang the bell for the butler and asked him to bring some foolscap and a pen, so that he could answer Marguerite’s letter.
Chapter 18
After reading her father’s letter, Marguerite said to Argyle, ‘You know, my father approves of you. He always has, which I found so strange.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Strange? And why is that, pray? Am I so unlikeable?’
She grinned at him. ‘Yes, you can be. But no, it is not that. He thinks you are intelligent but more than that—he likes you.’
‘Well, I am glad he does. I have much respect for him. I wish he had been able to influence you more, when I first made you an offer.’
‘Oh, no, that would never have worked. I didn’t like you at all, then, and he would not have forced me. Anyway, even if he had, it would have been a society wedding, not a love match.’
‘What fustian. I would have changed your mind on our wedding night.’
‘I must admit that you might have. I would have discovered your hidden…attributes, then. But it wouldn’t have been as wildly romantic as what actually happened.’
‘It would have been less scandalous. And less dangerous.’ They smiled at each other. Argyle was still in bed, in a fresh white shirt, having his breakfast on a tray. Marguerite had finished hers in the parlour, and had come up to keep him company. The letter had just arrived, and she read it out to him.
They settled in at the inn, with Flossie and Curtis watching over them and tending to their every need. Curtis gradually lost his initial stiffness and Marguerite, going to the kitchen to fetch a hot drink for Argyle, caught them chatting away over glasses of ale.
‘In fact,’ Marguerite said, when she came back up to the parlour with the hot toddy, ‘they are getting on like a house on fire. Do you think there could be something going on there?’
Argyle, lounging on the sofa, raised an eyebrow. ‘Why must you concern yourself with the servants, my dove?’ He took the mug from her hand and drank a little.
She mocked him. ‘They are people, Your Grace. Just like us, or hadn’t you noticed? They are doing so much for us—I want them to be happy.’
Argyle looked at her for a moment. ‘You must be right. I have never thought of it this way.’
‘Because you are self-centred and conceited. Oh, and spoilt. You only think of yourself, and your own view of things. Your Grace.’
He laughed and that made him wince. ‘Do not make me laugh, you wretch, my ribs are killing me.’
Marguerite frowned at him. ‘It is not funny.’
‘But surely you are a little unfair: now I also think of you. And don’t forget I fell for you when you were helping that woman in the street, so there might be hope for me yet.’ He pulled on her hand, and she sat down beside him.
‘I’m sure there is, if I have anything to do with it. I will uncover your good side, for you must have one. Most people do.’
