“I won’t keep them long,” Bridget said. “I’m sure you ladies can spare a few coins for those less fortunate than yourselves.”
“Bridget!” the innkeeper said, grabbing hold of one of her arms, started to drag her away.
“No, let her stay,” Lady Harriet said. “I for one should like to hear what she has to say.”
Bridget grinned triumphantly.
The innkeeper froze. “It ain’t suitable, milady,” he said firmly. “Bridget is… she ain’t respectable enough to mix with the likes of you ladies.”
“I shall be the judge of that,” Lady Harriet said firmly. “Come in and sit down, Bridget. My good fellow, do you not have some tea? Or coffee? Anything but this horrid stuff. Lady Carrbridge is too polite to refuse it, but I am not so kind-hearted.”
The innkeeper promised coffee and went away, shaking his head at the odd ways of the nobility.
Bridget was a good looking woman approaching thirty, dressed in rather better clothes than might have been expected from a person of questionable respectability, and with a very fetching bonnet. From beneath it, blonde curls peeped out.
“Now, Bridget, tell us about your mother,” Lady Harriet said.
“My mother?” Bridget said, the smile wiped from her face. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why do you want to know about your mother?”
“Or your father. What did your mother tell you about him?”
Bridget flushed scarlet. “What are my parents to you?”
“You do not know, then, who your father is?” Lady Harriet went on relentlessly.
Melissa held her breath. Lady Harriet was always forthright, but this interrogation seemed too personal, too intrusive. “My lady, it may be that Miss… er…”
“Kelly. Bridget Kelly.”
“It may be that Miss Kelly would prefer not to discuss her parents. Not with a stranger. I know I should not at all like to be asked such questions by one wholly unrelated to me.”
Bridget looked at her in surprise. “Why, thank you, my lady.”
“I am not a lady. My name is Miss Frost.”
“Then thank you, Miss Frost. You’re quite right, I don’t like people prying into such matters. Not when they have no right.” She lifted her chin defiantly and glared at Lady Harriet. But that lady was not at all deterred, and was smiling, seeming greatly amused.
“Oh, Miss Kelly!” Lady Carrbridge said, her eyes wide. “Then you do not know! And yet it must be so, I am quite sure of it, and you see it too, Harriet, clearly.”
“Oh yes,” Lady Harriet said. “The most obvious signs imaginable.”
Bridget got to her feet, her chair scraping noisily on the wooden floor. “Now you’re just making fun of me! I won’t stay here to be talked about in riddles.” And she stalked towards the door.
“Oh, please, do stay!” Lady Carrbridge cried. “I beg your pardon, but it is your nose, you see, Miss Kelly. You have the Marford nose, there is no mistaking it. Which means, I fear, that your father must very likely have been the eighth Marquess of Carrbridge.”
6: Chickens And Stipends
“What?” Bridget flopped back into the chair abruptly, as if her legs had given way. “The marquess? Your husband?”
“Oh, no, no, no!” Lady Carrbridge looked shocked at the idea. “My husband is the ninth marquess, and he would certainly not… No, indeed! It would have been his father. He left such little reminders all over the place. You are the third… no, the fourth that we know about. And you were not aware? Your mama did not tell you?”
Bridget laughed. “She didn’t, no, because she never knew herself. Got drunk at the harvest home one year at Great Mellingham, got a little too friendly with one of the guests behind the big barn, never did know his name. Stupid woman,” she added, affectionately. “Lost her place there, of course. Can’t have a chambermaid with a bairn, can we? She’s lived hand to mouth ever since, until I grew up enough to bring in some money.”
“By begging,” Lady Harriet said, with pursed lips.
“Asking for a little Christian charity from the fortunate to help the less fortunate,” Bridget said, eyes flashing. “Do none of you ladies wish to help those who have fallen into hardship?”
“It depends upon how they came to fall into hardship,” Lady Harriet said. “I will not give a penny piece to the feckless or lazy or drunken idle.”
“How about those in trouble through no fault of their own, who just need a hand to start them off right?” Bridget said.
“If you mean your mother—”
“No, no,” Bridget said, her face lighting up with laughter. “She was a fool, but it was her own fault, right enough, and she’s managed to survive without turning to—” She stopped, blushing, with a quick glance at Melissa, then went on hastily, “She’s all right, now. But it was hard for her for a long time, and there’s plenty of girls end up the same way where it wasn’t their fault at all. Forced by the master of the house, or one of the sons, or a guest, and then thrown out when they get big. It’s not right, my lady, and so I tell you. I’m trying to help some of them that can sew a bit by providing material and thread and fashion journals, and selling the finished gowns.”
“Gowns already made up?” Lady Carrbridge said. “Why would anyone want such a thing? Why, it might not fit!”
“We make them a little on the large size, so that they can be taken in to fit,” Bridget said. “We can sell them a lot cheaper than you’d pay for one made specially. Lots of women don’t have much money for clothes and would be happy to have something stylish at a very good price. It’s easier to adjust a gown that’s already made than to create one from nothing.” She frowned. “But it’s hard to find somewhere to sell them. The shops in York only want work for their own seamstresses.”
“You need your own shop to sell them,” Lady Harriet said. “How many women do you have at present?”
“Only six. Can’t fit any more in ma’s little house,” Bridget said, with a wide smile.
“But if you had larger premises…” Lady Harriet grew thoughtful. “I like the idea. I like it very much, and no doubt there is no shortage of such women as you describe. What you need is somewhere big… a good sized house where the women could live, with their unfortunate offspring, and do all the stitchery. Then there would be a shop selling the finished products. Yes, it could be done. And it should be done. This is exactly the sort of project that I must approve of, for it puts these women into gainful employment and prevents them from falling into further sin.”
Bridget stared at her. “I’m very glad you approve, my lady, but… it would take a lot of money to do something like that.”
“Which my brother has,” Lady Harriet said briskly. “He will be happy to help out, given your connection to the family. Let me have your direction, Miss Kelly, and I shall call on you very soon, and we shall begin making plans. How glad I am that we met you today!”
And so, when the rather dreadful coffee finally arrived, the bemused innkeeper found Bridget deep in conversation with Lady Harriet Marford.
After leaving Kirby Grosswick, they made the small detour to Great Mellingham to call on Lady Reginald. Melissa had met her once, briefly, and found her a pleasant if not very interesting person, but now she had a chance to see her in her own home. The house itself was about the same size as Bentley Hall, having only five rooms on the ground floor, none with the grandeur of Drummoor. But the furnishings and decorations were all brand new, and the talk was all of plans for new wings to be added, with a library, a ballroom and a larger music room. A butler and two footmen served tea and cakes. There was a great deal of wealth on display, even though the house was not large, and she could not help comparing it with the shabby interior of Bentley Hall. She had never realised before just how little money the earl spent on his home.
The drive back to Drummoor was enlivened by Lady Harriet’s enthusiastic monologue on all the steps necessary to put her plans for fallen women into action. She did not seem to require an aud
ience, but Mrs Allamont took it upon herself to say, “Yes, Lady Harriet” and “No, indeed, Lady Harriet” at suitable intervals, so Melissa was able to retreat into her own thoughts. But when the carriage slowed to avoid some obstruction in Sagborough, Lady Carrbridge turned to her.
“You are very quiet, Miss Frost. I hope you do not repine too much on the dreadful state of the parsonage. Everything can be set right, in time, and you will have the most delightful home eventually.”
“You are very kind, my lady, but I am… disappointed, that is all. I had hoped there would be nothing to stop the banns being called as soon as Lord Montague returns.”
“Oh, you are in a hurry! I did not realise. As to that, you may marry whenever you please, for there is room enough for you at Drummoor. You may have a whole wing to yourselves, you know, should you wish to. So that need not be a consideration. But you do not look any happier. Is there some other matter weighing with you?”
“I have been trying to work out how it may be possible to manage at the parsonage with just two hundred pounds a year. I cannot see that we will be able to have more than a couple of servants, and I daresay I will have to cook and I do not know how to. And as to looking after chickens—”
“Chickens!” Lady Carrbridge exclaimed. “Shall you keep chickens? What fun! Now that I think about it, the Miss Hays keep chickens, so it does seem to be the sort of thing a clergyman’s wife might do. But you will not need a French chef, as we have. A good plain cook would serve, and that cannot be terribly expensive, can it? And a kitchen maid, parlour maid and chamber maid would be all you would need living in, for you can get a woman from the village to come in for the spring cleaning, and do the laundry. And you must have a manservant or two — to act as footman, but also as groom and coachman. Then, in time, you will want nursery maids and a governess, and so forth. That will not cost much, for servants are so cheap, to be sure.”
Melissa said no more, finding herself unequal to the task of explaining the realities of eking out a small income to a marchioness who spent a fortune on gloves and stockings alone every year.
~~~~~
For Monty, the journey to Northumberland was no hardship. The carriage was comfortable, and as long as there was light enough to read by, he was content. Even when it grew too dark to see the pages of his book, he could sit quite happily pondering the last sermon he had read, and contemplating its meaning.
For his brothers, however, whole days confined to a swaying coach were pure torture. Carrbridge grumbled at every lurch in the road, Reggie fretted over delays in case they might not reach their overnight inn before night fell and Humphrey… Humphrey was too big and active a fellow to be squeezed into anything so small as a travelling coach for more than five minutes at a time. Monty being the smallest of them, it fell to his lot to sit beside Humphrey, trying not to crowd him or bump against him when the coach plunged into a hole in the road and out again. Humphrey, for his part, tried not to exclaim more than ten times an hour, “Oh, if only I had brought my horse!”
“I wish you had brought your horse, too,” Carrbridge said crossly. “At least then we would be spared so much complaint.”
“Think how wet and cold he would be,” Reggie said. “Look, it is snowing again. How miserable to be riding in such foul weather. I do not know how John Coachman contrives to see the road. Have we much further to go, do you suppose? Surely we must be within sight of the next inn by now.”
Monty kept his thoughts on his sermons, and ignored them.
But they arrived without mishap, and there was Gus to greet them, and show them to their rooms in Castle Morton, and all was laughter and good-humour again. Gus’s lady was a charming young woman, a widow with a boy of four who was heir to the Duke of Dunmorton, and so she and Gus must make their home at the castle. He seemed quite contented about it, and he had a whole stud farm to manage, enough horses even for Gus, who was never happier than when he could spend his days lurking in the stables.
Yet the prospect of marriage had changed him, as became most apparent when the brothers gathered for a final brandy before bed at the end of their first day at the castle.
“Humphrey, I have a commission for you, if you will, for I cannot spare the time to go south just now. Will you sell all my horses at Drummoor, and in London? I shall keep only Jupiter and the bays for my curricle. And you may sell my other curricle, and the phaeton too. The hunters you may keep, Carrbridge, if you will, or sell if you prefer, for I am sure you paid for most of them, one way or another, and have kept all my mounts in hay and oats for years.”
The brothers stared at him. “Sell your horses, Gus?” Humphrey said at last. “Are you addle-pated? Or has love gone so far to your head as to change your character altogether?”
Gus laughed. “Perhaps it has, or at least it has brought me to the realisation — rather belatedly, I am sure you will agree — that I have far too many horses, more than any sensible man needs, and that there are in this life things of more importance than horseflesh. Like my soon-to-be wife, for instance, and her son, and… well, family generally. You fellows, for example.”
“I will not argue on your latter points,” Humphrey said. “None of us would, I am sure, but you hardly need to sacrifice your horses to demonstrate your love for your wife. You can well afford to keep them now, after all.”
“It is not about demonstrating anything, or about the money,” Gus said firmly. “My good lady is a very modest, quiet-living person, and I greatly esteem her for it. Her gentle ways have made me realise how ostentatiously I have lived up until now, and yet I was dissatisfied with my life in many ways. I have discovered that the simplest activities can bring the greatest joy, like a walk through the woods or a game of toy soldiers with a child. I no longer want or need so many horses.”
Monty could not but approve of such sentiments. “Have I not always said that a simple life is one of great satisfaction? ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.’”
Humphrey rolled his eyes. “Sometimes, Monty, you are the most sanctimonious prig. You live very well on Carrbridge’s money, so there is no need to be so self-righteous about it.”
“Only because I have had to, having no other income,” Monty said calmly. “Once I am settled at Kirby Grosswick, I shall live on my stipend.”
“I shall enjoy watching you try,” Humphrey said. “What is the living worth? Three hundred a year?”
“Two.”
“Two hundred! Ha! You will never manage it. You never stayed within your allowance, and that had only to cover your clothes and a few oddments, for Carrbridge fed and housed you. With a wife and a whole household to manage — ha! A monkey says you will be asking Carrbridge for help within a month.”
“I shall not accept the wager,” Monty said with dignity.
“But I will,” Gus said. “Monty is perfectly sensible, Humphrey, and has never spent to excess on himself, only to help others. If he can resist the urge to give his money away, he will do very well, even on two hundred a year. Many people live respectably enough on twenty pounds a year. So long as his wife is frugal… Tell me all about her, Monty, for this is such a delightful surprise, to hear that you are entering the married state too, yet Connie’s letters are so garbled, I can make nothing of the business at all. She says Miss Frost just appeared at the door one day, and… something about little Dev, which I could not make out, and before the day was over you were betrothed to her. Which makes my efforts look quite dawdling by comparison.”
And so the story had to be told again, and the letter from their father explained and worried over. But what worried Gus most was that Monty knew so little of his betrothed.
“It is all very well to do the honourable thing and offer for her, and no doubt she is very glad to accept you, but who is she? And who was her father? No one has no history at all, Monty.”
“We have been telling him so from the start,” Carrbridge said. “But wil
l he listen? Monty always thinks he knows best and goes his own way.”
Monty stood up. “It is tiresome to have everyone telling me what a fool I am to marry a woman so little known to me. Father knew her father well enough to make wagers with him, so she is a lady, and that is good enough for me. I am going to bed.”
“Now, you must not get in high dudgeon, Monty,” Gus said. “You know we only have your best interests at heart. But it does seem to me that if a lady will not tell even her future husband all about herself, then it is most likely because she has something to hide. Now it may be nothing bad,” he added hastily, as Monty turned and stalked to the door, “but whatever it is, you ought to know about it before you become a tenant for life. Far too late to find out afterwards.”
“How much did any of you know about your wives when you married them? Or they about you? Carrbridge was pretending to be in love with someone else. Lady Reggie neglected to tell him she was in love with a militia man. Lady Humphrey was pretending she was a penniless companion. And Gus’s lady has been masquerading as a nobody with a natural son, when in truth the boy was the Duke’s heir. I really do not think any of you are in a position to lecture me on this subject.”
And into the resulting silence, he strode out, head high.
But there was one aspect of his brothers’ marriages that Monty found himself pondering a great deal in quiet moments. For all the convoluted paths they had taken to reach the altar, every one of them was head over ears in love with his wife. Carrbridge’s adoration for Connie was now of several years’ standing, and the rest of them had chaffed him good-naturedly over it many times. Carrbridge had never minded. He was so happy, he said, that nothing could dent his pleasure in life, so long as he had his Connie by his side. And it was true, they were seldom apart, and he grew fretful without her.
Monty had grown accustomed to it, and considered it a quirk of Carrbridge’s character, to dote on his wife so. But now, in very short order, Reggie, Humphrey and even Gus, who had never looked at a woman if there was a horse to be fussed over instead, had gone the same way. All of them exhibited the same broad smiles, the same transfixed light in their eyes when they gazed at the beloved creature. None of them had gone looking for love, or expected to find it, yet they had tripped over it none the less, and fallen headlong.
Lord Montague (Sons of the Marquess Book 4) Page 6
