"I believe it will last, sir." He bent over Lady Guillemot and patted her shoulder. "My lady, you are distraught. Why don't you let me help you to your morning room. I'll have Maisie prepare you a warm tisane and you can put your feet up and relax while it calms you."
His mother let Carleton lead her away. As the butler exited the room. He looked back over his shoulder. "My lord, I will return as soon as may be. I'm sure you have many questions."
"I damn well have," Clarence muttered. "But how the hell does a butler know the answers?"
* * * *
"I do not understand why we must go to Guillemot. Is it not customary for weddings to take place in the bride's parish, where the banns were called?" In Lisanor's opinion, there was an indecent, almost furtive air about this wedding. For tuppence, she would refuse to participate.
"Ordinarily it is," Mr. Whitsomeworth said, "but in this instance the bishop has given his permission for a change of venue. Lord Guillemot is still too ill to travel."
She set two slim volumes in the stack of books to take. "Perhaps we should delay until his health has improved."
"That would not be practical. Until Ackerslea Farm comes under your management--"
"You are certain that my intended husband is agreeable to that?"
"The contract stipulates that you will have final say in all decisions regarding Ackerslea."
"And that is the only reason I am willing to sacrifice myself on the altar of matrimony." Lisanor firmly stifled the anger and fear she had managed to keep at bay ever since Grandfather's death. I made a promise, believing I had time to arrange everything to suit myself. How could I have known I would be called to keep it so soon?
"There. I believe that is the last." She looked around the study, Grandfather's favorite room. And hers. How she would miss it. Already the room felt empty, as if some of its soul had fled. Ah, well, perhaps there will be a place in Guillemot I can make my own.
"Guillemot." She whispered the word, and shivered. While she had never harbored romantic fantasies as Alanna did, she couldn't deny that the thought of marrying a man she had never met, never seen, one for whom she felt no affection, was daunting. The prospect of sharing his bed, of allowing him access to her person in an...an intimate way... She shuddered. And hoped Clarence Eustace Lamberton was a kind and thoughtful man.
He was a soldier. Kind and thoughtful are probably not his style.
"I'm ready," she said and led the way into the hall. Was this how Frenchwomen had felt, as they walked to the guillotine?
* * * *
"Your father behaved quite strangely the last weeks of his life. For some reason, he trusted no one but my poor self, not even your mother. Perhaps because we had known each other since boyhood."
Carleton stood stiff and straight between him and the fireplace, blocking the meager heat it emitted. Clarence wanted to ask him to step aside, but forbore, since the butler had not the benefit of several down-filled comforters. I had forgotten how damnable cold Guillemot could be when the wind blows from the east.
"So, trusting you, he confided in you?"
"Indeed, my lord. It was wrong in him to do so, but his state of mind was such that he had no inkling of its impropriety."
"Impropriety be damned, Carleton! If you can give me a glimpse of our situation, I'll double your wages."
"I would settle, my lord, for my wages to be paid. Ahem." The man's face had become bright red.
"That bad, is it? Maybe you'd better have the bailiff in."
"There is no bailiff, my lord. Your father...ah...discharged him nearly two years ago. He felt Mr. Inglewood should have been doing something to make the estate more profitable." If anything, Carleton, stood even straighter. His expression was that of a man smelling rotten fish. "He did not replace him. To be honest, I began to believe that something had occurred to damage your father's senses. Perhaps a small apoplexy?"
Clarence hadn't wanted to weep for a long time, but just now he felt a terrible need to let the tears flow. Not in sorrow, but in frustration. "Had he taken to drink?"
"No, my lord. But his behavior was...inconsistent. At times he seemed in full possession of his senses, but more often he was prone to wild swings of mood, from elation to deep melancholy. Sometimes he behaved as if he believed someone was determined to rob him, to drain the estate."
"I think you'd better send for the solicitor, Carleton. It appears I am to be wed, but I want to strike the best bargain I can." Clarence breathed a heartfelt sigh and said, under his breath, "Someone was determined to drain the estate, and apparently Fa didn't recognize himself as the villain."
Carleton went away, leaving him to his dark thoughts.
No sense in laying blame on Fa. Long ago Clarence had recognized a streak of impracticality in his father. As long as all was going well and he had enough excitement in his life to amuse him, Eustace Lamberton had been an exemplary husband and father, a responsible landowner. But he'd also had a strong bailiff in the early years after his succession to the marquessate. Kilbernie, a tight-fisted Scot had been bailiff since Clarence's grandfather's time. Kilbernie had died, at the ripe age of eighty-six, shortly before Clarence had sailed for Spain. He remembered his father writing that he'd hired a new man, one who was easier to get along with than Kilbernie had been. That must have been Inglewood.
More amenable to allowing Fa his own way, I'll warrant.
He'd have to ask Mother when Fa began his investments.
Clarence lay back and closed his eyes. He had no desire to be leg-shackled, but even less did he desire to lose Guillemot. Hopefully the heiress wasn't too much of an antidote. But if she had to buy a husband, she couldn't be a great beauty. Or sweet tempered, either. Well, at least she wasn't a Cit or in Trade.
Ackerslea Farm. A vague memory of his father talking of his friend "with the proud Saxon name." Darren? No, Drystan Hight. There had been a hint of envy in his words as he described Hight's association with Prince George and the extravagant life they led. "Not that I want to live that way," Eustace had said in a thoughtful tone. "It would be fabulously expensive, far beyond my means. But perhaps just once, it might be nice to sample the life."
Had he been attempting to finance a fling in the style of his friend when he made his first investments?
Poor Fa. If he'd had more than one season in town before marrying, perhaps he'd have sown enough wild oats to satisfy his taste for excitement. Instead he and Mother had married at the end of the Season and had immediately retired to the country. Grandfather had disapproved of wasting money on frivolities and his mother was too shy and nervous to enjoy London. So Fa had remained at home on the infrequent occasions when the then Lord Guillemot took his seat in Parliament.
He stretched out an arm and jerked the bellpull. When Nettles stuck his head around the door, he said, "Sergeant, I seem to be scheduled to be wed in a few days, but no one has told me exactly when. Can you gather intelligence? And while you're about it, ask Carleton to set whatever domestic staff we have to prepare the house to receive its new mistress. Oh, yes, and send Mother here, will you? I'm going to have to ask her to vacate the master's suite."
Chapter Four
Nettles helped Clarence down the stairs and into the small drawing room. With relief, he settled into a chair beside the fireplace, grateful for its high back and enclosing wings. Wondering if he would have the strength to stand and greet his guests, he leaned back and closed his eyes.
I must. I'll be damned if I'll meet my bride as an invalid.
Assuming the party from Ackerslea Farm had departed as scheduled and met with no catastrophes, they should arrive within the next hour or two. While wishing disaster upon them was the last thing in his mind, he found himself longing for something to delay them for another few days, even another week. He was not ready to be wed, no matter how he had worked to mentally resign himself to taking the step that could save two ancient holdings.
The same sick, roiling sensation that always afflicted him bef
ore a battle filled his unready gut. Sheer, unreasoning terror. He had hidden it well, had learned to handle it but it had never gown less strong. Now he closed his eyes and concentrated on regulating his breathing. I will live through this, as I have every battle before.
That self-reassurance had calmed him in the past, but this time it was not working. His heart pounded as if he'd been running, his palms were damp, and the roiling intensified. If they didn't arrive soon, he was likely to disgrace himself.
* * * *
"We should be there within the hour," Mr. Whitsomeworth said, breaking a long, uncomfortable silence.
In a way Lisanor was glad he had spoken. Her thoughts had become less and less coherent as the miles passed under the carriage wheels. Although Guillemot was scarce fifteen miles from Ackerslea Farm as a crow might fly, by road it was nearly twice that. They had set out after an early breakfast, and only made two short comfort stops. She imagined the horses were tiring, for they had slowed in the last half-hour.
I am certainly weary, for all of that. Grandfather's carriage was an old-fashioned one, although kept in repair, and the squabs had lost any softness they might once have had. Perhaps it had been the height of comfort when he brought Grandmother to Ackerslea for the first time, but that was nearly half a century past. "I wonder if my father brought my mother home in this same vehicle."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing. I did not mean to speak aloud." She nudged Pammy, who had once again slumped against her. The maid gave a little snore and bobbed upright, but her head soon came to rest against Lisanor's shoulder again. With a sigh, she resigned herself to discomfort and turned to the window to watch the hedgerows and fields slide slowly past.
In a way she wished the horses would slow even more, would delay their arrival forever. Having been brought up to believe that Ackerslea was her responsibility, Lisanor had never seriously dreamed youthful dreams of a romantic knight in shining armor coming to carry her off. Women of the yeoman class did not marry knights, however much those knights might dally with comely peasant lasses. When young and naÏve, she had believed she would marry a man who accepted that she was mistress of Ackerslea Farm, one who would make no claims on the manor, other than a place to reside. She knew now that the two men she'd been betrothed to had each demanded financial concessions in exchange for allowing her to remain in charge of the farm. Grandfather had complained bitterly, but had agreed.
Secretly she had held both Gregory Sealand and Dryden Foxworth in some contempt for their avarice, although she had thought Gregory handsome enough and otherwise amiable. Captain Foxworth she'd hardly known, but she had found his military manners arrogant. Clarence Lamberton, Marquess of Guillemot, was another matter entirely. She had no idea what his appearance, no inkling of his manner. Worse yet, she wondered if he knew he would not become master of Ackerslea upon their marriage, no matter what the law said. He was a nobleman; their notions of property were surely very different from her family's.
"His father signed the contract," she muttered, but not loud enough for Mr. Whitsomeworth to hear. What would happen if the son was not inclined to honor it? Would she have any recourse? Opening her mouth, she was about to ask that very question of the solicitor when a loud Halloo resulted in a rattle of harness and a slowing of the carriage.
Mr. Whitsomeworth leaned out of the window. She could not hear his words, only that he spoke to someone who answered in a gruff voice.
When the solicitor reseated himself, he said, "We have arrived, at least at the estate boundary. They sent someone to show us the rear entrance, which will save us several miles."
She wanted to ask if they could not go on to the front entrance. She was in no hurry.
Tomorrow is my wedding day. Perhaps if the queasy sensation in her middle were to develop into biliousness, she would have an excuse to postpone it.
The carriage made a sharp turn onto a drive with a surface much smoother than the road they'd been traveling. We are here.
She wanted to vomit. Instead her rebellious stomach settled and a strange calm came over her.
* * * *
Nettles supported him through the wide doorway opening onto the entrance hall. Clarence took a single step sideways and set the flat of his hand upon the table that stood under a mirror with an ornate gilded frame. "I can take it from here."
"Aye, sor." Nettles stepped back, but Clarence sensed he stood ready to serve as a prop if and when needed.
The woman who entered was clad in black, from her narrow skirt to the deep poke bonnet on her head. She was plain as a pikestaff, and unsmiling. Behind her came a slip of a girl, also in black, but with a lively, curious expression on her pretty, rosy-cheeked face. They were closely followed by a tall, solemn man who carried a portfolio. The solicitor, no doubt. Whitsome... more? ...ton? ...worth? Ah, yes, Whitsomeworth.
Carleton bowed them inside and stepped aside, after a quick glance at Clarence. On your good behavior, if you please, my lord, it said.
There was something to be said for hiring servants through an agency, rather than raising them from childhood. Clarence remained where he was. He was afraid that without the meager support of the table, he would fall on his face at their feet. "I bid you welcome," he said, and looked between the two women, half hoping the pretty one was his bride. "I am Guillemot." Saying so still felt strange. For all his life, Guillemot had been his father.
The plain one stepped forward and curtseyed. "Thank you. I am Lisanor Hight."
"I trust your journey was an easy one."
"As much so as is possible on wretched roads." She made no pretense to be lacking in curiosity, and looked him over very well. "I confess that it became tedious as the day wore on."
Reminded that they had been traveling for many hours, he said, "Carleton, would you ask Mrs. Smith to show Miss Hight and her maid to the chamber prepared for her? Ma'am, will you come to the morning room when you've refreshed yourself?"
She inclined her head. "Of course." Turning away, she followed Mrs. Smith up the wide staircase, trailing the pretty little maid behind her.
He watched her go. Just my luck. Plain, humorless, stern. Ah, well, it will be dark in the bedchamber.
The solicitor stepped forward and introduced himself. "While Miss Hight is absent, perhaps you would like to discuss the marriage contract. Have you any questions?"
"A few. Let's move upstairs, though, before I fall." Nettles stepped forward. The very young footman joined them and, with two sets of strong legs to augment his own shaking ones, he accomplished the journey to the morning room. Once Nettles had helped him to his chair, he said, "I confess, Mr. Whitsomeworth, that I'm wishing I'd followed the doctor's advice and greeted you from my bed." He closed his eyes and willed the nausea and trembling away.
After a few moments, the solicitor said, "This can wait, my lord, until you're feeling more the thing."
"No." Clarence forced his eyes open. "That's likely to be days hence. I've read the contract. It's straightforward enough, if somewhat unusual. Miss Hight is to have sole authority to manage Ackerslea Farm, and it is to be left intact to our second son, or, if failing that we produce two male offspring, to our eldest daughter. Do I understand rightly?"
"You do. Miss Hight will also have sole control of Ackerslea's finances, but has agreed to combine the revenues with those of Guillemot for the next five years, in order to put both estates back in trim."
"She will sign an agreement to that effect?"
"She already has." He held out a folded paper. It has been notarized, my lord, and will go into effect upon your marriage.
Privately Clarence thought the agreement was the least the woman could do, considering she was demanding that he violate a basic principle. A husband should control the finances. How could a mere girl of tender years possibly be competent to manage a manor comprising nearly a thousand acres? Good God! Ackerslea Farm was somewhat greater in extent than Guillemot, if one considered only the principal seat. "Excellent,"
was all he said. Again he leaned back and closed his eyes.
"You are not as well recovered as we were led to believe, my lord. Will you be able to..." Whitsomeworth's face went crimson as he faltered.
"Consummate the union? I will do my duty, though possibly with less agility than one would wish." Privately Clarence was unsure of his ability in that regard, but as far as he was concerned, what happened in the marriage bed was no one's concern but his and his wife's.
He just hoped she would understand that he was not himself at present.
* * * *
"He's not a well-favored man, is he, ma'am?"
Pammy's reflection in the mirror showed doubt. Lisanor paused, holding the bonnet. "He has been ill." In truth, she had been taken aback at Lord Guillemot's appearance. He looked old, although she knew he was seven and twenty, just five years her senior. Had she been asked, his age, based only on his appearance, she would have said five and forty or thereabout. The deep lines bracketing his mouth, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, and yes, even the darkness of his complexion, all contributed to the impression of age.
She hoped that as his health improved so would his appearance. And if not, well, she was not marrying for love and romance, but for protection and conservation of property. His and hers.
Still, a small, romantic part of her had hoped he would be handsome and dashing.
Refreshed, she left Pammy to unpack and went to the door. Mrs. Smith had promised a footman to lead her to downstairs, but there was no one in the corridor. Surely I can find my way to the morning room. Mrs. Smith did point it out to me as we passed through the first floor.
She failed to find even the staircase, until she had traversed the entire corridor twice. It was concealed behind double doors. Fortunately a footman was on his way up and led her to her destination. She arrived just as an elderly woman came from the opposite direction.
"Oh, my dear, you must be Miss Hight! I am Lady Guillemot. Dear Clarence's mother, you know. I cannot tell you how happy I am to meet you at last. I remember hearing of you often in the early years, when Eustace and your father corresponded frequently. I even had a small portrait of you, painted when you were five or six, but I am not certain where I put it. But you are just as pretty as I remembered you, although perhaps your hair is a shade or two darker. Don't you think it is unfair, that children who have flaxen hair often lose that slivery sheen as they grow up? But here, you will be wanting tea. I've ordered some sent up. Shall we go in?" She gestured Lisanor through the door, which the footman had been holding open.
A Pitiful Remnant Page 3
