Milady Disdain by Marianne Malthouse - HTML preview

he tired horses laboured up the long sweeping driveway to Sir Quentin Reeves’ handsome red-brick mansion, which was glowing in the setting sun. Milady, her eyes tired and strained, gripped the edge of the window until her knuckles turned white, and leaned precariously out to stare hungrily at the blank windows, as if seeking to fathom out behind which one her husband lay.

She turned a pale face towards Sir Anthony, and gave a pathetic smile.

‘Do you know, I am almost afraid, now we are here. I have thought of nothing else for the last few interminable days, and now that we have arrived, I feel nothing but a strange reluctance. Suppose . . . suppose he does not want me?’

‘Impossible. What man could not?’

‘Ah, Sir Anthony, what would I have done without you? I vow, I envy your Patience. What a fine husband you will make. A much better one, I dare swear, than mine, but he is all I want—all I ever wanted. And now, we have arrived, and I shall throw off this stupid mood, and you will help me out. There, you see, now I am a sensible woman again.’

The hand that she laid on his arm as he escorted her up the steps shook slightly, and he patted it for a moment, smiling down at her reassuringly.

‘All will be well, dear Lady Isabel, I know it.’

She returned his smile rather tremulously, and as he raised his hand to the knocker, he saw that it was tied up with black crepe, and that a wreath hung above it. He indicated it gravely, but nevertheless knocked firmly upon the door. It was opened, some moments later, by a wizened old butler who stared at them with some hostility.

‘Can ye no see the wreath? We are not receiving.’

‘I beg of you, my good fellow, allow us to step inside. You have, I believe, a Lord Costain staying with you?’

‘Aye,’ replied the old man grudgingly. ‘And t