But she understood. Seeing him amongst his friends, she realised how little suited she was to him. This was his world, not hers, so how could she possibly fit in? She wasn’t pretty or fashionable or clever or rich, so no wonder he was ashamed of her. And everything her father had said about the nobility, everything he had feared for her if she married Gil, had all come to pass. They were idle and spoilt and dissolute, and how she was to survive living with such people was beyond her. She could not abandon her principles and become like them. To wear such clothes, and throw away money on gambling? Never! And if Gil had seen all this, and preferred to be with his friends rather than with his staid provincial wife, she could hardly blame him.
There was a small writing desk in her room, supplied with many sheets of writing paper, all inscribed ‘Clifton House, Mayfair, London’ and franked on the reverse. She had only ever seen a franked letter once before in her life, when Lucy Cornish’s cousin had stayed, very briefly, with an earl, and had written to every member of her family to boast about it. The letter had been passed around the village and the frank admired with awe for months afterwards, and even years later, visiting strangers would be advised that, if they behaved themselves, they might be admitted to a sight of the famous missive. Yet here it was commonplace. Could Gil frank her letters for her? She thought not, for she felt sure it had to be a peer of the realm, but his brother the marquess could, she assumed. The Marquess of Carrbridge. Her brother-in-law. She shivered.
She sat down at the writing desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. She hadn’t written to her father, telling him the change of plan. He would be expecting her home soon, and he would worry. Well, let him worry. It was his fault she was in this situation. He was the one who had pushed for this marriage, and not taken the trouble to find out who Gil was first! If he had, he would have seen how ill-suited they were, and she could have stayed quietly at home. Anger boiled up inside her. Her whole life ruined… No, she corrected herself, not ruined. That was too harsh a judgement. Changed, then. Her life had been changed by her father’s insistence on protecting her reputation, and his haste, his foolish haste.
And then she felt guilty. Father had meant it for the best, she knew that. And, in the end, it had been her own choice to marry. She had been dazzled by blue eyes and charm, and now she was finding that everything that Father had said about the nobility was true. She had been very foolish, but it was done now, and she must make the best of it.
Dipping a pen in the ink, she wrote a careful letter on the franked paper to her sister Dionisia, whose farmer husband could least afford to pay to receive a letter.
‘Dearest Di, You will find it hard to believe, I know, for I can hardly believe it myself, but I am married. It all came about very suddenly, when we were snowed up last week and Father was away.’ She chewed her pen, but found herself quite unequal to the task of explaining all the details. There were not enough sheets of paper in the world to do it justice. ‘I am in London just now, which is a quite horrid place, very dirty and smelly and the noise every hour of the day and night is unbearable. But soon I am to go to Yorkshire which I hope will be more pleasant.’ Here she stopped again. She ought, she knew, to say something of Gil, for Di would expect it, but again words failed her. ‘My husband’s name is Gilbert Marford and he is a Captain in the King’s Own Regiment of Hussars. I shall write again from Yorkshire. Gen.’
There was nothing more she could write that would not make her cry, and Father disapproved so much of females who cried at the least provocation. She was determined not to repine. However much she regretted this marriage, it was done now and crying never helped anything. She would not cry!
She folded and sealed the letter and took it downstairs to ask where she might post it, but the fearsome butler whisked it out of her hands.
“One of the footmen will take it at once, milady.”
And she didn’t like to argue with him, for a walk outside was a terrifying prospect in the frightening bustle of London. The house, with its luxury and its supercilious servants, might be oppressive, but at least it was safe.
“This package came for you, milady.”
“For me?”
“I believe it contains your cards, milady.”
“My cards?”
“Your new calling cards, milady. I imagine his lordship arranged for them to be printed.”
Her cards. She had never in her life needed calling cards before, but now she unwrapped the small package and opened the box inside. Her cards. ‘Lady Gilbert Marford’ they said, printed in a neat copperplate script. ‘Lady Gilbert Marford’, as if, somehow, by printing the name on little squares of card it would be true, and she would be transformed into a lady, and the sister-in-law of a marquess. She had never felt less like a lady in her life.
But perhaps she could look a little more ladylike. She could begin work on one of her new gowns.
“Where is Lady Dryton’s sewing room, if you please?” she said.
“Her ladyship’s sewing room?” the butler said.
“Yes. Where… where her ladyship does her sewing.”
“That would be the drawing room, milady.”
“Oh, but… there is no worktable in there. Is there anywhere with a large table, where I might spread out my fabric?”
He arched one eyebrow in haughty surprise, then gave her the smallest of bows. “I will order the dining room table made ready, milady.”
It took four people to make ready the dining room table. Two footmen added and removed leaves until the size met with Genista’s approval, a maid spread a felted under-cloth and then a starched linen cloth over it, and the butler supervised. Then there was a procession to Genista’s room to fetch the length of fabric she required and her small work basket. She had bought a few necessities on her expedition with Miss Hallows, but she wished she had known that she was not to return home. All her favourite scissors and thimbles and spools of thread were sitting in the parlour at Lavender Cottage.
Using her travelling gown as a guide, she swiftly cut out the necessary shapes and began to pin them together. A timid knock on the door was followed by Miss Hallows’ neatly coiffed head.
“Milady? Do you require any assistance? I have a pattern book— Oh, you’ve begun already.”
“I’ve never used a pattern.”
“Do you make all your own clothes?” The astonishment in her voice made Genista smile. “You have nimble fingers. I shouldn’t have guessed your attire to be anything less than professionally created. May I sit with you while you work? I’ve brought my own work basket, and I’ll be here if you need an extra pair of hands.”
“Thank you, I’d like that.”
Genista felt far more at ease with the down-to-earth Miss Hallows — Susan, she confided at an early stage — than with anyone else she had encountered in London. They talked of gowns and threads and feathers and ribbons and the difficulties of silk. Susan helped her pin the sleeves for her gown in a new shape, and Genista advised on thread colours for the flounce Susan was adding to one of Lady Dryton’s gowns.
“Have you met Lady Carrbridge?” Susan said. “She’s very elegant, but you’d like her way of dressing, I think. She don’t wear the very light styles my lady favours. Always wears a good, solid undergown, does Lady Carrbridge, and not so low at the front.”
“Oh, so not all ladies wear their gowns so…?” Genista could not think of a word that would not be derogatory. “I mean to say,” she added hastily, “Lady Dryton looks lovely, but not everyone has the… the shape for such garments.”
Susan laughed. “Oh, indeed, one needs a certain embonpoint to carry off such a style, as well as a certain confidence, which my lady has in abundance, don’t you agree?”
And Genista could not argue the point.
They were thus happily engaged when a carriage pulled up outside the house, the front door opened and voices could be heard in the hall outside. After a moment, the door opened and an elderly gentleman with a head of white hair enter
ed the room. Miss Hallows jumped to her feet and dropped into a deep curtsy, and Genista instinctively followed her lead.
The newcomer smiled benevolently at her. “Lady Gilbert? How delightful to find a guest in the house, and we are to have the pleasure of your company on the journey north, I understand. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Viscount Dryton.”
Genista was pleased to find that this was not, after all, the home solely of Lady Dryton. Naturally there would be a man as head of the household. “Oh, then you must be Lady Dryton’s father.”
Lord Dryton blinked at her, and it was only the squeak of alarm from Susan that alerted Genista to her mistake.
“No,” he said, with unimpaired gentleness. “I have the very good fortune to be Bella’s husband.”
“I beg your pardon!” Genista said, horrified, the colour rushing from her face. And then, remembering Lady Dryton sitting on Lord Ramsey’s knee in the most familiar way, she said again, miserably, “I beg your pardon. I am very stupid.”
“Not at all. How should you know if no one explains it to you? I have been in Bath for my health, but I do not like to drag Lady Dryton to such a stifling place, full of the sick and elderly. London is where she is at her vibrant best, and it pleases her to spend most of her time here. And naturally, it pleases me to please my wife. Husband and wife should not be in each other’s pockets, should they?”
She shook her head, unable to speak.
And, still smiling genially, he went away again, and Genista sank gratefully into a chair.
“Lord, didn’t you realise?” Susan said. “Your husband should have told you how it was, if you didn’t guess. She couldn’t be Lady Dryton if she were his daughter, would she? She’d be an honourable, and if she was the daughter of a duke or some such, she’d be Lady Arabella, not Lady Dryton… Oh dear. Don’t cry. You’ll get into the way of it soon enough, don’t you worry, and Lord Dryton’s lovely. He won’t take no notice when you say things wrong. Just don’t mention Lord Ramsey. The viscount don’t mind what she gets up to when he’s not around, but she tries not to let him know who the current one is. Better for everybody if he don’t know.”
That evening was quiet. There were only the three of them for dinner, Lady Dryton arrayed in a far more modest gown, to Genista’s surprise, and the meal simpler and much more to her taste. Lord Dryton followed the ladies immediately to the drawing room.
“Lady Gilbert, do you play cribbage?”
“I do, my lord. My father is a keen player.”
“Ah, a man after my own heart. There is nothing more entertaining than a game of cribbage, in my opinion, although my dear wife finds it rather too tame. But if you will oblige me with some cribbage, Lady Gilbert, then Bella may find some other occupation more to her liking.”
Genista was very happy to oblige him, while Lady Dryton played a little, read a little, picked up her tapestry, set it down again and then walked about the room, before once more settling at the instrument. Lord Dryton was a good player, very fast but patient if she dithered, and it was perhaps the pleasantest hour she’d ever spent in that house. The only discomfort she found arose from Lord Dryton’s gentle questions. He would ask about her home, her family and her journey from Kent, and would then make a seemingly innocuous jump to asking about the guests she had seen in the house on previous nights. And when she replied that there had indeed been guests, he asked her for names. She was able to answer, with tolerable composure, that she did not know who they were. Her husband knew them but she couldn’t remember their names. Which was true enough.
“Ah,” Lord Dryton said.
And then, after some discussion of Gil and his plans, she had mentioned that he had gone out one morning to attend to some business. “Gentlemen always have business to attend to, don’t they?” she said absently, her attention caught up in the game.
“Is it business that has taken him out of town?” Lord Dryton said.
“I… suppose so. He has gone into Essex to see a mill, but I don’t know whether it belongs to him. Or one of his friends, perhaps… Have I said something wrong?”
Lord Dryton’s smile widened. “Ah, you come from a different world from your husband, Lady Gilbert, a world where a mill is a place for grinding corn or making things, is it not so? But to a young gentleman of the town, a mill is something else — a fight! Usually a bare-knuckle fight between two young men, with a prize purse and much gambling on the outcome. Those who enjoy such things will travel a great distance to attend.”
“Oh!” She couldn’t disguise her shock. “He’s gone to watch a fight? I had no idea gentlemen did such things!”
“Indeed they do. And so you breakfasted all alone?”
“Oh no, for Lord Ramsey was—” She stopped and laid down her cards in distress. “Oh, I beg your pardon!”
He threw a quick glance at his wife, playing at the pianoforte, unheeding. Lord Dryton’s eyes were filled with understanding, and he smiled in that beatific way he had. “Lord Ramsey, eh? Well, at least he is more her own age than some have been. It is your play, Lady Gilbert.” But when she could not move, feeling the tears pricking her eyes, he laid one hand on hers, in a very fatherly gesture. “My dear, you are a sweet, innocent girl and your husband had no business to bring you here. But I shall take you to Drummoor, where the marquess and his wife will take better care of you, it is to be hoped.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said miserably, all her pleasure in the game spoilt.
Not long after, Lord Dryton retired and Genista, finding that Lady Dryton didn’t need her company, crept away to her room and climbed unhappily into the big, empty bed. Then she lay awake for hours, wondering where her husband was and when she would see him again and whether he was taking proper care of his wounded leg. But most of all, she wondered why he had brought her to Lady Dryton’s house and left her there alone, and how she was to survive the long, lonely journey north to Yorkshire.
9: Drummoor
The journey to Yorkshire was a nightmare that Genista thought would never end. Having not been beyond the borders of Kent before, now towns and entire counties passed by in a whirl of noise and snorting horses and the shouts of postilions and the coachman’s horns. She could not imagine why she had ever wanted to travel, for it was the most dismal affair. Quite apart from the discomfort of being jounced around for hours, she spent endless hours waiting — for meals to arrive, or rooms to be ready, or horses to be put to, or for Lady Dryton to appear, a good half hour after everyone else was ready to depart.
There were three coaches, the luxurious one that she shared with Lord and Lady Dryton, with furs and rugs and hot stones for their feet, a smaller one for the secretary, valet, lady’s maid and baggage, and a third for several more servants and even more baggage. Her own belongings had grown to include a small box as well as her portmanteau, but it was only a minor part of the assemblage.
They stopped early each afternoon, and there was a great to do about luggage and rooms and parlours and meals, and a great deal of argument from Lady Dryton, for whom nothing was ever quite right.
Then, at night, Genista retreated to her own empty, silent room, with no dark-haired angel with long lashes beside her to kiss her to enchantment. She tried not to cry — she must not cry — but she could not force herself to sleep. She felt as though she were wound up as tight as a spring that might at any moment unravel.
In the mornings, as the carriage bounced them about, Lord Dryton would attempt to make conversation, but by noon he was tiring, and tended to fall asleep in the afternoons. Lady Dryton said nothing at all, which Genista found more restful. They spent a whole day in Grantham, since it was a Sunday, but no one seemed inclined to go to church, and Genista could only sit in the private parlour Lord Dryton had taken, reading her psalter and listening to the many church bells sounding in the distance.
She had never felt so alone, or so uncomforted by the familiar words of the litany. If she had had Gil with her, there would at least have been the memo
ry of his stay at Lavender Cottage to connect her with the home and life she had left behind. As it was, she felt as if she had been torn up by the roots, and tossed into a rushing stream bearing her… somewhere. Drummoor, but she had no concept of the place to help her anticipate what she might find there. What if the house was empty? Perhaps the marquess had gone away, and why shouldn’t he, when he wasn’t expecting her? He didn’t even know she existed. She would arrive on the doorstep, a stranger, yet married to his brother. What if he turned her away, or refused to believe her? How humiliating, to have to produce her marriage lines as proof. Whatever would they think of her, descending unannounced on them in this dreadful way? And yet what could she do? Gil had wanted to surprise his family, and he would certainly get his wish.
On Monday morning they set off again — more roads, more inns, more jolting about through the ever-changing scenery of farms and woodlands and villages, repeated endlessly, with only the occasional town to relieve the pattern. But gradually the neat hedges and orchards began to give way to wilder country, with glimpses of open moorland and distant hills through the rain which spattered the windows and drummed steadily on the coach roof. Genista felt sorry for the coachman, grooms and postilions, and the two footmen standing at the back of their coach ready to jump down and open doors and let down steps whenever required. They were soaked through by the bitter, stinging rain.
On Tuesday afternoon, they turned off the main turnpike onto smaller roads, rutted and puddled and very uncomfortable. Lord Dryton lay back against the squabs, eyes closed, uttering a low moan with every particularly violent lurch, and even Lady Dryton’s expressionless face was set into lines of displeasure. Eventually, the carriage rolled under an arch, turreted like a castle, and the ride became smoother.
“At last!” Lady Dryton exclaimed.
“Where are we?” Genista said, although she guessed the answer.
Lord Gilbert (Sons of the Marquess Book 5) Page 8
