Free Marjorie Farrell by Autumn Rose

discordant note in her marriage to Charles, for he would have spent most of his time in Sussex, had he not been such a doting husband. Lavinia, if he and Mrs. Dillon were lucky, would no doubt ruin the day and the two young lovers were bound to wake up to the difficulties inherent in trying to join two such different families. “Let us go or we will be late,” Sam urged.
    “Late,” moaned Lavinia, as she settled back into the chaise. “This is the earliest I have been out in an age.”
    Jeremy had chosen to ride inside with his mother, a choice he regretted after the first ten minutes, since she hated traveling and suffered from quite genuine motion sickness. She held her vinaigrette in one hand and the strap in the other and looked paler and paler as the chaise proceeded at a snail’s pace. They had chosen a busy market day, so the pig population, as well as sheep and cattle, was out, and the journey to the High Street, and, indeed, part way up, was slow and smelly. Jeremy, although he would never have admitted it, was almost ready to give up and turn back. He loved his mother, but her weaknesses, which often amused him, were at the moment annoying. He was torn between sympathy for her real distress and the disloyal wish that she was more like Miranda’s mother.
    The air and the road cleared as they approached the Dillons’, however, and Lavinia revived. She was not about to disgrace Jeremy, especially in front of this upstart female and her daughter. So there was a hint of battle in her eyes when they pulled up in front of the cottage.
    Miranda and Nora were sitting in the parlor. Or rather, Nora was sitting calmly, reading, and Miranda was up and down at the slightest noise. “Jeremy is more than half an hour past the time he promised,” she said to her mother, “and he is never late. Do you suppose they are not coming after all?”
    “Jeremy is with two other people, dear. Perhaps his mother is delayed,” replied her mother calmly.
    When the chaise at last pulled up, Miranda was up and out before Nora could stop her. She stopped suddenly on the walk and smoothed her dress and hair unconsciously as she watched Jeremy hand his mother down.
    Sam could see a resemblance to the child Romney had painted in her flushed cheeks and startlingly blue eyes. But she is no child, he thought as he watched her control her agitation. She is quite a beautiful young woman. Had she remained inside, in imitation of a polite society miss, or rushed up to Jeremy gushing in a possessive way, Sam would have felt more optimistic. But she walked quietly down the path to meet them, saying, “You must be Jeremy’s mama. I am Miranda Dillon. You are as elegant as he promised,” she continued easily, “but you look worn-out from your drive. We must get you into the house and settled with a glass of water or lemonade.”
    Jeremy threw a grateful look at Miranda, and Sam felt a twinge of jealousy as their eyes met in what was obviously perfect understanding. They were not gazing soulfully at each other, like calf-lovers, all intent upon themselves, but were, instead, working like partners to handle an awkward situation. He dismounted, and watched Miranda murmuring sympathetically to the countess as they proceeded up the walk. He grinned to himself as he realized that Lavinia had lost the first round immediately. There had been no chance for her to come over the proud countess, and it would be hard to pull off now, with such an attentive young lady.
    Nora met them at the door and let them past her as she turned to meet the viscount. She felt like a conspirator as he smiled and took her extended hand.
    “My lord. Please come and join us in the parlor. You look like you had a dry and dusty journey.”
    Sam brushed himself off. “There did seem to be an overabundance of livestock as we came into town,” he replied.
    “Oh, I am sorry,” Nora said. “We are so used to market day that I never thought that Tuesday would not be ideal.