Anything but Love (The Putney Brothers Book 1)

by Elizabeth Bramwell

  "I'm not sure how I feel about being the source of gossip," admitted Marianne, thinking back to all the times Aunt Headley had scolded her for bringing too much attention onto herself. "Won't it give people a poor impression of me?"

  "Not in the least," Lady Putney had tried to reassure her. "It's more likely that they'll be grateful to you for giving them something other than the Summer Fete to talk about."

  Sir Joseph had been a little more sympathetic, even ruffling her hair like she was a schoolboy. "They'll talk about you no matter what you do, Marianne. I should know, for I've been the source of many an afternoon discussion for most of my life, and I suspect that less than half of the gossip about me was true. Better to focus on your own business than worry what others are thinking about you."

  She tried to heed his advice and had made a special effort that evening to be a convivial and fun guest for the family who had been so kind as to take her in, and the gentle neighbours they had invited around for dinner. It was difficult at times to maintain the air of vivacity, especially if someone said or did something that forcibly reminded her of Cuthbert, but with John and Harry quickly treating her like a sister and the older members of the group enjoying her quick wit, she was soon convinced that it was worth the small cost.

  Charles, however, was another matter.

  She'd noticed him leave the sitting room that first night without so much as a goodbye, but as no one else had seen fit to comment upon it, she had chosen to focus on the fun of dancing about the room. The next evening he did not return from the dining room, Sir Joseph making his excuses for him.

  "Phillips is complaining about the horses," her host had said. "The only complaint I've got is how much those two animals cost to maintain - aye, and the daft names they're saddled with!"

  "I named them," Lady Putney had replied, a mischievous twinkle in her eye as her husband spluttered out his garbled response.

  Charles hadn’t appeared by the time she went up to bed, and it took her a while to fall asleep as worry chewed at the corner of her brain.

  Then there was today, where his absence from the breakfast table was strange enough to draw comment from Harry about the abundance of toast. He still hadn’t appeared by noon, and even though Marianne did her best to distract herself with a book from Sir Joseph’s extensive library, her thoughts kept straying back to Charles and his continuing avoidance of her.

  It was frustrating, worrying, and there could be only one explanation to her mind: Charles was regretting coming to her rescue, and the need to pretend they were courting was filling him with revulsion.

  'There you are, Marianne," said her Godmama when she entered the front parlour. "Come, we need a youngster's opinion on this latest fashion plate."

  Marianne unfolded herself from the comfortable spot on the window seat, carefully placing the ribbon at her page before closing the book.

  “Ackermann’s?” she asked hopefully.

  “Naturally,” said her Godmama as she laid out the magazine onto the table, “although we have Ladies Monthly Museum here as well.”

  Marianne made her way quickly over to the table, only just realizing how much she’d missed pouring over the fashion plates and prints that were the underpinning of the Ton’s style.

  "What a startling hat," she said, her eyes widening at the sheer drama of the depicted headwear. "I am sure the veil would be very beautiful on its own, but not with so much decoration at the brim, or quite so high a crown."

  "I told you it was too much," said Lady Putney, looking triumphant, but her friend was not about to give up so easily.

  "Marianne told us herself that she is not one for fashion," sniffed her Godmama. She turned towards the door and then stunned Marianne by raising her voice almost to a shout as she summoned the Putney men to join them immediately.

  “You shocked our guest, Eustacia,” said Lady Putney with an amused smile.

  Marianne started to splutter that she wasn’t shocked in the least, but the lie didn’t quite trip off her tongue. She was saved by the appearance of the two younger Putney brothers who swaggered into the room as though someone yelling for them at the top of their voice was the most natural thing in the world.

  "Father says that unless someone has severed a limb or have lost their entire fortune on the 'change, it's not an emergency and he’s busy with his books," said John as he entered the room, Harry a few steps behind him.

  "Which goes to show that he does not always understand the nuances of societal emergencies," sighed Harry. "What if you were out walking, only to meet a lady wearing the exact same coat as you? What if you've just invested a monkey in bolts of blue fabric, only to discover that they look a drab grey when outside? What if Brummel turned up to your house party uninvited, but his half-sister was on your guest list?"

  "Harry," snapped his mother in a warning tone. Marianne threw an inquiring glance at John, who just coughed into his hand before turning his attention to Mrs Melthwaite.

  "My dearest Aunt Eustacia, what emergency required you to summon us in such a desperate manner that the bell would not do?"

  The lady rolled her eyes with disdain. "Hester, you should not raise these boys with such pretensions! What would you have me do, ring that tiny bell to summon a servant, who would then waste the next twenty minutes racing all about the house trying to find the two of you? I'm perfectly capable of raising the volume of my voice, and you are perfectly capable of hearing me do it. It does not speak to your character that you consider it beneath you to do something so trivial."

  John blinked in response to this lecture, while Harry pretended to study the fashion plate while he got his mirth under control.

  Marianne was torn between being shocked by her Godmama and worshipping her. Mrs Melthwaite was quite unlike anyone that she had ever met, and when compared to the starched-up Ladies of the Ton, the wife of a wine merchant was an infinitely more practical woman.

  “We would like your opinion on this fashion plate, my dears,” said Lady Putney. “Marianne and I feel differently to Eustacia about the desirability of the hat.”

  As the gentlemen did as requested, Marianne watched her hostess move to the side table and pour out a glass of amber liquid that she then passed to her Godmama. The scent of brandy drifted to her nostrils, and as Mrs Melthwaite took a delicate sip from the glass as though it was perfectly normal for a woman to drink brandy at ten past noon on a Tuesday, Marianne resolved to model her character on this unique lady rather than any of the Peeresses she’d met during her Season.

  John, his eyes on the fashion plate, shook his head in incredulity. “Harry, take a look at this, will you? Never mind that monstrosity of a hat, I think the poor girl in this illustration has been swallowed by a French Poodle."

  "It's an ermine muff, you fool," said Harry derisively. "Quite fashionable, you know, and coupled with that magnificent hat, the ensemble just screams to be noticed.”

  “I knew you were my favourite,” said Mrs Melthwaite approvingly, while Lady Putney gave John a kiss on the cheek.

  “I am your devoted slave as always,” said Harry with an elaborate bow. “Not everyone can wear such things without straying into the ridiculous, however. Our fair guest, for example, would be best to steer clear of such large pieces of finery. With the waifish look she's got about her, a muff of that size would render her invisible, and the bonnet would make her look like a mushroom. No, I pronounce that soft materials, like gauzes and fine muslins, are all she must have."

  "It’s like you want me to catch the Muslin disease," replied Marianne.

  “No, no, nothing so dramatic as that,” Harry assured her, “it’s not romantic enough. A decline of some sort is much more fashionable.”

  “Wretch,” she replied cheerfully.

  “Will you at least pretend to be considering marrying each other,” sighed Mrs Melthwaite. “If you act like this in public, then no one will believe our tale.”

  Harry looked alarmed. “Hold on a moment, Aunt Eustacia
– Charlie is marrying Marianne, not me.”

  “No one is marrying me,” said Marianne, painfully aware that her cheeks were flaming.

  “I am supposed to have brought my goddaughter here to undertake a courtship,” replied Mrs Melthwaite as though Marianne had not said a word. “But with Charles off about his business, John treating Marianne like he’s her Cicisbeo and then you squabbling with her like you’ve been raised together from the cradle, I’m starting to think no woman of sense would attempt to marry her girl off to this family.”

  “We’ve been telling them that for some time,” said Lady Putney. “Sir Joseph feels it particularly keenly.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’ve been acting like a Cicisbeo,” said John, his brow furrowed. “That makes me sound like I’m in my dotage.”

  It didn’t seem to be the moment to tell him that he did, in fact, act in that manner, so Marianne stayed silent.

  Harry, however, took a deep breath and squared up his shoulders. “Very well, I shall be the sacrificial lamb for the family. Marianne, my dear, let us tell the world we are engaged, and then upon the return of Gordon, you shall publicly break my heart and thus launch my career as a romantic poet.”

  Marianne shook her head but couldn’t resist smiling. “But what if I decided that I did want to marry you?”

  “I would break off the engagement and run away to the continent, thus securing my notoriety as I launch my career as a romantic poet,” he replied.

  “Henry Putney, don’t joke about such things!” snapped his mother, but Marianne was more amused than anything.

  “Harry, do you want to be a romantic poet?” she asked.

  Harry shuddered in response. “Lord, no! Have you heard that Byron has to eat dry biscuits soaked in vinegar to keep his roguishly handsome physique? I’d rather be fat and happy, thank you very much, and I definitely don’t want to have Caro Lamb chasing me all around the world!”

  She glanced at her Godmama. “I think it’s best that Harry doesn’t court me, on account of his aversion to becoming a poet.”

  “I’m starting to think that I am the only person taking your predicament seriously, my girl,” said Mrs Melthwaite sternly. She took a large mouthful of brandy and handed the half-empty glass back to Lady Putney for a top-up.

  “This is a merry scene,” said Charles Putney as he strode into the room. “Did I miss anything of interest?”

  “Harry wanted to be a poet and now doesn’t, and I’m a Cicisbeo,” muttered John, still looking unhappy.

  “Sounds normal for this family,” said Charles. “Miss Hillis, I’m about to take the phaeton out and exercise my horses. Would you like to accompany me?”

  “Oh! Yes indeed!” she replied, surprised but pleased at his offer.

  “At least someone is doing their job,” said her Godmama. “Make sure you are seen, Charles!”

  “It’s the country, Aunt Eustacia. Everyone here will know I’ve been out driving with Miss Hillis before we’ve left the grounds.”

  “I will go and fetch my bonnet and spencer,” she said, “I promise I won’t be more than a moment!”

  In truth, it took her closer to twenty minutes before she made it to the front steps of the house, for Lizzy had insisted on teasing Marianne’s short curls into place about her new capote bonnet, and then spent five minutes trying to find the newly-arrived gloves that had arrived in a box full of essential pieces from Lady Putney.

  Marianne could not be sorry for it. The newly made spencer was cream silk with plain sleeves, the only detailing a matching lace trim with tassels at the lapels. The spotted white muslin of her skirts had no additional ornament, and yet the whole outfit was endowed with a simple grace that made her feel more refined than she ever had before. Miss Fletchley may have not had the time to add the customary frills that were all the rage in London, but it had turned into a happy result.

  Charles did not say anything when he laid his eyes upon her, but he did give an approving nod after surveying her outfit, and Marianne could not have been happier if Harry had declared her a diamond of the first water.

  “Thank you for taking me out for a drive,” said Marianne as Charles handed her up into his phaeton. “I have been aching to explore the countryside. I adore Putney Manor and your gardens, but it feels like forever since I was last able to get out and about for the sheer joy of it.”

  He gave her fingers a little squeeze, as though acknowledging that he understood the events she was referencing.

  “Not at all, my dear. Boadicea and Ceridwyn need to be exercised, so it’s no trouble to tool about for an hour or so.”

  “Were they well looked after at The Sun?” she asked once she was seated. “I would hate to think they had been mistreated because of me.”

  His mouth twitched in a smile before he pulled himself up into the carriage beside her. “It depends on who you ask. Phillips, of course, believes that they were terribly mistreated and that it will take years of his loving care to repair the damage done by their poor excuses for ostlers. My horses, on the other hand, seem perfectly content and well-rested, while the landlord went to the trouble of informing Phillips that Ceridwyn was bad-tempered enough to nip the stable boy for not grooming her the way she wished, and that Boadicea ate better rations than any of his human guests.”

  “At least Phillips didn’t have the indignity of discovering that your horses preferred their stay at The Sun to his loving care,” she said with a small smile. “We should be grateful that they cannot talk.”

  Charles let out a crack of laughter. “An excellent way of looking at things, my dear! I shall point that out to him next time he berates me for leaving someone else in charge of my cattle!”

  It was good to see him smile. It was good to see him at all.

  “My mother has commissioned me to deliver some things to a neighbour if you don’t mind a quick stop on our drive,” he said just before setting the horses to. “The Swancoats are a nice family, but they’ve suffered some losses in the last two years.”

  “John’s friend, Evan Swancoat; they joined the same regiment,” said Marianne, trawling through her memory of past conversations with her brother. “He died at Waterloo, didn’t he?”

  Charles glanced at her with one eyebrow raised. “Yes, but I’m surprised you remember.”

  “Of course I do,” she replied. “We didn’t leave London that year, even when the outlook turned sour, for Gordon refused to believe in anything but a victory for Wellington. You came to us with the news the battle was won, and John had barely received a scratch. You were about to leave for home with Sir Joseph so you could let the Swancoats know about their poor boy. I felt so sorry for you, struggling with joy in your brother’s survival while mourning the loss of your friend.”

  “You remember a lot about my family, don’t you,” he said, obviously meaning it in a friendly way, but it still caused her to blush.

  “Well you are Gordon’s best friend, and you were all so very kind to me during my Season, I suppose I think of you all as a family of a sort – certainly better than my actual relatives!”

  “A low fence to clear,” he replied. He nodded over to the hill that climbed up to the right of the road. “Here, as we turn the corner, you’ll get a pretty view of Fool’s Errand. Now I know Harry has been regaling you with stories of our predecessors, but did he tell you about the Legend of the Glorious Twelfth?”

  “No he hasn’t,” she said, unable to keep from smiling at his obvious enthusiasm.

  “Good, for he’d have only got the story tangled up with the myth of the Twelve Glories, which is quite a different tale altogether, and halfway through he will realise it’s also inappropriate for the delicate ears of an unmarried Miss. For this one, we need to go back to Old Man Waldo’s grandfather, Septimius Banks, and a longstanding feud with the Hughes family, who live just on the other side of the woodland to our left, at Gwern Estate…”

  She listened to him talk, a small smile hovering on her lips as he did so.
His passion for the local community became evident with each story he told, as was his love for the people who called the region home. He pointed out the large hill locals swore was the tomb of an ancient Welsh chieftain, and how he and his brothers had half-convinced themselves that King Arthur himself was buried there. He paused beside the edge of a large paddock to point out the three giant standing stones near the treeline, which a local farmer had convinced a 12-year-old John were placed there by Gwynn ap Nudd himself, although Sir Joseph maintained they were probably built by the same druids that constructed Stonehenge in Wiltshire.

  “If you like old things you will very much appreciate Swancoat Hall,” he told her as they pulled into a long, winding driveway, “but it is Miss Swancoat who knows all the stories of this place. I have heard that Queen Elizabeth stayed here one year, but every property old enough to make that claim has done so. There is a rather magnificent portrait of her in the gallery, though, which is fine even if the legend is not true.”

  “It’s so beautiful,” breathed Marianne as the old Tudor mansion came into view, the black and white timberwork a striking contrast to the green fields and woodlands beyond. While her initial impression was of historic grandeur, the closer they got, the more signs of decay became evident. The drive was of packed earth but contained deep ruts and holes that made the phaeton buck and swing despite Charlie’s best efforts. The bushes were unpruned and overrun with bindweed, the lawn nothing more than a patch of clover and dandelions, while honeysuckle and ivy ran rampant over the front of the house, even covering some of the windows completely. It was such a far cry from the neat, orderly beauty of Putney Manor that she would not have thought the two families would be on close terms at all.

  The large wooden front door, more suited to an abbey than a private home, was pushed open, and a young woman of similar age to herself came bounding out, three of the largest dogs Marianne had ever seen at her side.

  “Hello Patience,” said Charles as he pulled up his phaeton just before her. “Down, you incorrigible mutts! Sit, or you won’t get your treats!”