Unclaimed (Turner #2)(33)
She’d seen a great deal of suffering and had thought it her duty to alleviate it. She’d also seen a great deal of sin and had railed against that, too. Mark didn’t remember his father at all, but he remembered his mother. All too well.
She’d let Hope, his elder sister, perish by neglect. She’d beaten Ash. She’d locked Smite in the cellar for…for longer than Mark could truly remember.
But Mark… Mark she’d spared. She’d not felt it necessary to cleanse the devil from his soul. She’d told him once she didn’t need to, because he alone was her son, not his father’s. That she’d seen herself in Mark, that she’d identified in him the same unwieldy imbalance that had torn her to pieces, he kept first and foremost in his mind. Perhaps that was why he’d become who he was. He’d had to prove to himself that his mother’s finest qualities—her compassion, her charity, her goodness—could be married to peace and tranquility. He wanted to prove that he could be good without going mad.
The thought of dedicating his life to the Poor Laws made him feel frenetic and unbalanced. It would be good. It would be righteous. But he didn’t want to do it.
He’d come to Shepton Mallet to find himself. Instead, he’d met Mrs. Farleigh. Mark smiled faintly and thought of her fingers, warm and curling about his. The soft pressure of her lips—he’d have wondered what he’d been thinking when he kissed her, except it was perfectly clear he’d not thought at all.
And now, he didn’t want to do good. He wanted to do it again.
London, the Commission and every gossip rag in the country could wait another week.
LONDON, IT TURNED OUT, had other thoughts.
Three days later, Mark ventured into town. He was on his way to the square to deliver another handful of letters when a familiar voice stopped him.
“Sir Mark!”
Parret was the last man Mark wanted to see at the moment. Still, the tiny man hurried over, his boots clattering over cobblestones. He held his hat to his head with one hand as he ran, lending an odd, undulating appearance to his stride. “Sir Mark. I was hoping—it’s just you and me, out here in the country.” Parret stopped a few feet before him next to the gray stone of the Market Cross, doubling over. His words spilled out between gasps of air.
“Indeed,” Mark said ironically, indicating the people around them.
But Parret appeared gratified. He removed his top hat, revealing a pate covered by a few sparse, carefully combed strings of hair, and wiped beads of sweat off with a yellowing handkerchief of doubtful cleanliness. “Perhaps you might consider an exclusive interview?”
Nigel Parret was nothing if not persistent. Mark would have admired him—or, at a minimum, felt sorry for him—except that the man published the most intrusive articles. On one particular occasion, he’d actually picked through Mark’s household trash and had published a piece in which he had explained, on rather dubious grounds, that Sir Mark preferred leg of lamb to beef.
It happened to have been true…at least, it had been true until Mark was served lamb at every dinner he’d gone to for a fortnight.
And that hadn’t been the worst of Parret’s sins. Three months ago, Mark had danced one dance with Lady Eugenia Fitzhaven. She had seemed a sweet girl—emphasis on girl—and he was friends with her father. It had also happened to be the supper dance, and so he’d taken her in to the meal. A hundred men in London had done the same for a hundred ladies throughout town that evening, and nobody had spoken of those conversations again. But Mark was not a hundred men. He was Sir Mark.
Of course, he’d observed the brightness of her eyes, the color of her cheeks. He couldn’t help but notice that she was utterly tongue-tied in his presence. He couldn’t prevent impressionable young girls from imagining themselves in love with him. All he could do was recognize when the infatuation started and do his best not to offer them encouragement. Girlish appreciation had a way of working itself to nothing if he offered a polite distance. It didn’t take long for most ladies to shift their attentions to a source who would appreciate it.
But Nigel Parret had found Lady Eugenia before her affections had a chance to alter. He’d spoken to her, and she had told him every detail of her unrequited fancies. She’d outlined her childish plan to win Mark’s affections—mainly this had involved looking radiant in his presence. She’d enumerated the children she planned to have with him once they were married. Mark still winced, thinking of it.
Parret had published her juvenile dreams on the front page of his paper. Mark’s reputation hadn’t suffered—the article had made it painfully clear that Mark had done nothing whatsoever to encourage the girl—but children of that age hardly needed encouragement to dream. There was no way to stop them from wishing for the impossible.
No way, that was, except to expose their aspiration to the ridicule of all London society.
Lady Eugenia had become a laughingstock; Nigel Parret had collected a small fortune selling papers. And Mark had stopped talking to young, impressionable ladies.
Parret stared up at Mark now with a certain speculative hunger. Mark could almost see the next article brewing in those calculating depths. Maybe, this time, he’d analyze Mark’s woodpile. What his column would make of Mrs. Farleigh, Mark didn’t want to know.
“One little interview,” Parret said, in what Mark supposed was intended to be a cajoling tone. “Just a few questions.”