Anything but Love (The Putney Brothers Book 1) Page 2
“Damned heathens can’t even speak English, after all,” yawned Cuthbert Headley. “The government should just demand that they speak a proper language, or it’s their own fault if we decide to take what we want rather than negotiate.”
“Quite right, my darling,” said her Aunt Headley as she continued to spin her wool. “It’s a pity you could not join the party alongside your dear cousin Gordon, for I’m sure Lord Amherst would have benefited from your counsel.”
Stab. Stab. Stab.
“I considered it, of course, but I have too many duties here to take care of,” said Cuthbert with a vague wave of his hand. “Not all of us are able to galivant off abroad at the drop of a hat, after all.”
Stab. Stab. Stab.
“Very true, but then Gordon is doing our country a great service in helping the Earl,” said Aunt Headley with a glance at Marianne.
“Naturally, naturally!” said Cuthbert with the pompous laugh that Marianne had come to associate with a desire to stab things. “But I stand by my assertion that going to the trouble of learning the language of these heathens only encourages them to think of themselves as our equals. I mean, look at India! Better for us to put them in their place and save all this time and aggravation.”
“Gordon would have learned the language regardless,” said Marianne without looking up from her embroidery. “It’s one of his passions.”
Cuthbert chuckled. “Always said he was an odd duck! As though we need any language other than English!”
“French?” Marianne muttered. “Spanish? I’m sure those languages helped considerably during the war.”
“But think how much simpler it would be if everyone spoke English!” declared Cuthbert, thumping the arm of his chair for emphasis. “It seems ridiculous to me to have so many ways of speaking when just one will suffice!”
He continued to expand on this theme for at least half of an hour, his mother encouraging his idiocy while Marianne did her best to ignore them both. Thankfully, embroidery gave her an excuse to keep her head down and a reason not to engage with the conversation.
Stab. Stab. Stab.
Her thoughts wandered to the letter she’d sent to Charles Putney earlier that week. Her stomach turned over as she considered how much of her fate depended on that single sheet of paper, and how powerless she was over what happened next.
To begin with, Marianne had no idea if it had even been sent, let alone what reaction it would be met with. When it had finally been made clear that Aunt Headley had no intention of letting Marianne leave the district before the return of her brother (which could be years, knowing Gordon!), she’d begun plotting a way to escape her confinement. She was a wealthy young woman, but that meant nothing when her odious cousin refused to forward her any money.
“If there’s anything you need I can pick it up on your behalf, or you can put things on our account at the town shops,” he’d said to her when she’d first broached the subject. “No need to carry about a lot of heavy coins in your purse, tempting every thief who sees you!”
Not that she was allowed to go to Clun unaccompanied, of course. When she did go it was under the watchful eye of her Aunt, whose constant, impertinent questions about any item she did not deem strictly necessary for a young lady of quality to own made it a tiring exercise – and certainly not an opportunity to do something drastic like hire a chaise, or even pay for a seat on the Post.
Her purchases often disappeared as well. Sometimes she was not certain they had ever left the store, but trying to broach the subject with Cousin Cuthbert led only to confused irritation as he denied knowing what she talked of, for he’d received no bills and seen no packages, while Aunt Headley insisted that Marianne herself had decided not to buy anything.
Letters were fraught with difficulty as well. Aunt Headley had developed an irritating habit of reading all of Marianne’s correspondence, regardless of origin. While Marianne could accept that this was a normal practice among families with young daughters, she was a month shy of her twenty-first birthday, a gentlewoman of independent means, and hardly about to embark on an improper relationship conducted via letters. Even Gordon had allowed her a loose rein most of her life – a fact she had not truly appreciated until he’d left her to Aunt Headley’s care.
“I promised your brother that I would do everything in my power to ensure you did not unwittingly stray from the line, my darling,” her aunt had said while reading a letter Miss Juneberry had sent to Marianne. “I must say, I’m glad you are not part of the set this friend of yours describes. Imagine Lord Standish marrying a complete nobody! You may reply to this girl, but keep it short and do not encourage a response. Allow me to look it over before you seal it if you please.”
Stab. Stab. Stab.
It did not please, but Marianne had quickly learned that if she sealed her correspondence then her aunt broke it open to read anyway, and more than once casually informed her that it had not been franked, but instead burned in the fireplace.
At some point, her aunt had begun to worry that Marianne was too plump for current fashions, and insisted on a reducing diet that, for some unknown reason, included crackers and vinegar as a favoured dish. Her clothes were soon too loose on her frame, but while her aunt was willing to let Marianne repurpose some old material to make a few day dresses, she saw no point in wasting good money on good muslin or cotton until they returned to London.
Neither Cuthbert nor her Aunt appeared to be finding their clothing ever looser, and for all their protests about not having spent a penny on themselves since the removal from London, Marianne knew Aunt Headley’s wardrobe was regularly updated, and her cousin had openly requested she admire his new green coat cut by Weston.
They never argued with her. They were never overtly cruel, even when petty. They simply refused to engage in conversation with her or hear her complaints, and continued to do as they pleased. If she made too much fuss, they found little ways to punish her, like reducing her social circle still further, taking away her favourite dresses while she slept and then denying they had ever existed or refusing to allow her to ride her own horse for fear she would catch a chill in the middle of summer.
Marianne had been with them almost a year before she realized she was inside a prison, and that her relatives had no intention of releasing her, even after her brother returned.
It had taken months of planning, of playing along with their way of living while waiting for an opportunity to present itself. It was only due to Cuthbert being out of town, and Aunt Headley taking to her bed with a head cold, that a casual comment to the vicar about needing to send a birthday note to her godfather prompted his kind offer to frank it on her behalf.
It was wrong to lie to a vicar, but in this case, she felt it was justifiable.
“If you do find yourself in any bother, and Cuthbert is as useless as always, you should apply to my friend Charlie,” Gordon had said to her on his last evening in her company. “I can’t think of anything that might cause you to do so, especially since Aunt Headley dotes on you, but our cousin is not the sort of chap I’d want at my back in an emergency, while Charlie is just top of the trees, you know.”
“And how would I know how to get in touch with Mr Putney?” she’d laughed, thinking the entire conversation absurd. “You may have romped about together since Eton, but I have only ever met him at parties or entertainments.”
“They’ve a house on Russell Square in London, and that’s hardly a difficult address to remember!“ laughed Gordon. “You dined at their house more than once!”
“I dined at a lot of houses.”
“Yes, but the Putneys have one in Russell Square, so it’s the only one you need to remember. Now, I know it’s only just February, but they’ll arrive here in London by Easter at the latest. When the family rusticates during the summer, you can find them at Putney Manor, Montgomeryshire. It’s only a few hours from Clun, so if there is some emergency, you’ll be right as a trivet in no time. Even if Charlie
isn’t available, ten to one that Sir Joseph himself would come to check on you. Excellent family, the Putney's.”
“And does Mr Putney know that he’s been volunteered to be my knight in shining armour with his family waiting in the wings?” she’d asked with a knowing smile. She had adored Gordon since childhood but was too honest to be blind to his faults.
He had smiled in response. “I’ll let him know before I leave London, don’t you worry.”
Marianne had not worried at the time, because it never occurred to her that she would need the services of a brave knight to rescue her. Even when Aunt Headley fell ill just after Gordon’s departure, she’d perfectly understood that it was sensible to retire to the country for a few weeks. After all, her aunt and cousin had never been anything but kind and generous, so it would have been churlish to insist a sick relative remain in the city.
Marianne had been surprised to discover how quietly the Headley’s lived in Shropshire, and that their only acquaintances seemed to be over forty, married, and with no family of her own age. It hadn’t mattered at first because there was always the promise of a return to London. Only weeks dragged into months, and then the Season was gone, and the summer months found them still in the country and Marianne with no friends of her own age.
Stab. Stab. Stab.
Still, she wasn’t completely alone, and she wasn’t precisely confined to the house, even if Aunt Headley had suddenly become a far stricter chaperone that she’d ever been in London. Marianne had been permitted to attend the theatre, some card parties, and even one or two subscription balls in town. She was never out of sight of either her aunt or her cousin, however; both of whom had developed an alarming propensity to answer others on her behalf. It was terribly frustrating, but even then – six months after Gordon had set sail for China and after a Season’s worth of excuses for not removing to London – even then she had convinced herself there was nothing sinister in their motivations.
Things were different now. A second London Season had come and gone, and neither Cuthbert nor her aunt was attempting to hide their motivations for keeping her secluded any longer. It had been a month since she’d ventured beyond the estate or the church, due to Aunt Headley’s unfounded fear that a cholera epidemic, of all things, would erupt at any moment, so now even the most meagre of entertainments were denied.
It was unbearable. Marianne could not trust the young maid assigned to her and thus could pack nothing in advance if she had the opportunity to run. She had no access to her own money, for either her brother or Cuthbert were required to sign off on any withdrawals from the bank. She had no friends who could hide her from her family until Gordon returned home. It was only the chance recollection of Charles Putney that had given her hope, albeit a slim one, that there was a way out of the grasp of the Headleys before it was too late.
Even if the vicar had sent the letter, there was no guarantee she had remembered the address correctly, nor could she be sure that Mr Putney would come to her aid, even if he had received it. Still, there was hope, and that alone sustained her.
“Flames, Marianne? What a strange thing to embroider!” said her cousin, making her jump. He had made his way to her elbow, and his overly close position at her side made her want to shudder.
“I had a lot of orange thread,” she replied.
Cuthbert gave her a quizzical look. “Did not marigolds occur to you, my dearest?”
It took a moment to plaster the bland smile onto her features. “How silly of me not to think of them!”
He laid a hand on her shoulder, almost touching her neck with his splayed fingers. She could feel his clammy skin through the lace of her fichu.
“It is the curse of your sex, Marianne. You are capable of pretty things, but even they must be determined by the eye of a man! When we are married, I shall be certain to make lots of time to advise you on such things.”
Stab. Stab. Stab.
“When I have Gordon’s consent and support to wed, I will consider it,” she said, unable to resist the opportunity to irritate him. “I cannot marry without his say so.”
“You are twenty-one next month,” he replied. “You need no permission after that.”
She gritted her teeth together for a long moment before trusting herself to answer. “As Gordon has complete control over my fortune until I turn twenty-five, save for the portion he made available to you while he was away, I should think it best that he is present to approve any marriage to my future spouse, don’t you?”
An odd expression passed over Cuthbert’s face. Marianne was not foolish enough to believe that her cousin wished to marry her for any reason other than her fortune, or that he was unaware that she had no wish to marry him at all. His grimace, however, spoke of something deeper. She knew in that instant that there was something behind his desire for her fortune that went beyond mere avarice, but there was no way of knowing what it could be.
Cuthbert reached down and snatched the peach satin from her hands before she could protest.
“I do not think that you should embroider anything without my express direction in future, Marianne,” he said, taking it across the room and dumping it in the basket at his mother’s feet. “It is a wasteful, extravagant habit.”
“I have enough money to be wasteful and extravagant if I please,” she replied through gritted teeth.
Cuthbert merely smirked. “Not if I refuse to provide you with pin money. No, I think you need to learn a lesson here, my dearest child. You may continue to mend my shirts and darn my socks, but that is all until I am confident that you can be trusted.”
“Perhaps handkerchiefs…” began Mrs Headley, but one look from Cuthbert caused his mother to firmly close her mouth.
Marianne took several deep, steadying breaths. She remembered the letter and the tiny thread of hope left to her.
She got to her feet. “Very well. Aunt Headley, if you would be so good as to share some of your work with me, I shall begin mending Cousin Cuthbert’s shirts immediately.”
“His socks are of more pressing need,” replied her Aunt, passing her the workbox. “And mind that you sew small and neat – there is nothing worse for a gentleman than badly darned socks, for it puts them in a most disagreeable temper.”
Marianne forced herself to smile. “I will remember that.”
She wondered idly whether making the seam rough and large would result in Cuthbert banning her from darning. It was tempting, but then she would not have access to the large needles she intended to keep about her in future.
Stab. Stab. Stab.
Aunt Headley kept her eyes on her own work while Cuthbert brooded on the sofa, regarding Marianne with the eyes of a vulture. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her discomforted by his behaviour, and instead occupied her mind with thinking up all the different ways a woman could exact revenge with a darning needle.
The resulting silence in the parlour was probably the only reason that Marianne heard the rare sound of a carriage upon the driveway and the low rumble of two men’s voices as they discussed something too quietly for her to make out the words. She paused as Cuthbert got up from the sofa, evidently as surprised as she was to hear an unexpected visitor.
“Who the devil could this be?” he muttered. He glanced at himself in the large mirror, adjusting his waistcoat and smoothing his jacket. Aunt Headley watched with mild interest but did not stop spinning her wool. Marianne, not wishing to further her punishment, followed the older woman’s example and returned to her darning.
Before Cuthbert could make his way to the hall to see who had dared visit them without invitation, the Headley’s butler threw open the parlour door and announced with great aplomb: “Mr Charles Putney to see Miss Hillis.”
Marianne dropped the darning. At six feet tall, broad-shouldered and dressed in the sublime tailoring of a non-pareil, a true knight in shining armour could not have been more handsome. Cuthbert, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, did not move to greet the
ir guest, while Aunt Headley seemed frozen in her chair.
She had planned this moment, thinking about what to say, how to beg his assistance without causing an upset so many times since that letter had been sent, that she could have recited her speech backwards at the drop of a hat. It was on the tip of her tongue to begin, but as Mr Putney turned his quizzical grey eyes upon her and smiled in a way that was both questioning and inviting, it seemed to Marianne that all of her sense and reason flew out of the window.
“Charlie, my darling, you came!” she squealed, before throwing herself into his unsuspecting arms and kissing his firmly on the cheek.
Chapter Two
“Help me,” she’d murmured into his ear before pulling away.
Charles remained rooted to the spot, blinking rapidly as he tried to work out whether he’d gone mad, or if his best friend’s little sister really had just kissed him in front of her startled relatives.
“Aunt Headley, Cousin Cuthbert, I’m sure you must know Charlie – I mean, Mr Putney,” she announced. She continued to grip his arm as though it were the only thing keeping her from falling down. “He is a particular friend of Gordon, you know!”
“Mrs Headley, Mr Headley,” said Charles. His bow turned into something awkward as Miss Hillis refused to let go of his arm.
“Mr Putney, how nice to see you again,” said Mrs Headley, her expression indicating the opposite. “We met in London a few times.”
“Yes, you came to my parent’s ball with Gordon,” he replied, and she seemed pleased that he remembered.
The lady was unremarkable in terms of looks, of indeterminate age, but wearing an expensive day dress of Chantilly lace with a triple ruff at her neck, and a matching lace cap tied over her locks. She had large, watery eyes and a sallow complexion, and very little resemblance to her niece and nephew.