Lord Gilbert (Sons of the Marquess Book 5)

by Mary Kingswood

  “Drummoor. One of the finest houses in England, so they say. Henry has always wanted to see it.” She cast a glance at her husband, his face pale.

  “You’ve never been here before? But you know the Marquess of Carrbridge?”

  She turned amused eyes on Genista. “My dear, everyone knows Lord Carrbridge. Everyone knows everyone of importance, after all. But we are not… close. And the marchioness…” She laughed. “You should get on well with the marchioness. She is a provincial little nobody, too.”

  “Bella!” her husband said in reproving tones, but she only laughed the more.

  After a while, the coach drew up outside the house, and Genista looked up at it in shock. It was as big and as grand as a palace. Peering up through the rain, she could see battlements and masses of high chimneys. But there were lights, and footmen emerging from the front door to attend to them, so perhaps the marquess was at home after all.

  As soon as the steps were let down, Lady Dryton was out of the coach, sweeping up the wide steps to the door and disappearing inside, furs trailing. Genista waited for Lord Dryton to descend, leaning heavily on the footman’s arm, before scuttling into the house in his wake. The entrance hall was huge, all dark wood panelling and great, wide stairs leading up and up, with chandeliers swaying on long ropes from a ceiling far above. The stairs were guarded by a suit of armour, and swords and stags’ heads jockeyed for position on the walls. One entire wall was given over to a moth-eaten tapestry of a battle. Two fires burned fitfully on either side of the hall, and beyond them, doors and passageways hinted at other parts of the house.

  “We are here to see Lord Carrbridge,” Lady Dryton said, tossing two cards onto a silver salver held by a bewigged and liveried butler. Or perhaps he was merely a footman. She turned to Genista. “Your card, child.”

  Genista scrabbled in her reticule, and produced the box of cards, fumbling with the lid. With an exclamation of annoyance, Lady Dryton grabbed the box from her and swiftly extricated a card to add to the salver. With a bow, the servant withdrew.

  Lord Dryton sat heavily in a carved wooden chair beside one of the fires, his hands shaking.

  “Are you all right?” Genista said, kneeling beside him. “Is there anything you need?”

  He shook his head. “Just tired, my dear. Long journey.”

  “The squire always says that brandy is just the thing to set him up after a journey,” she said, not quite sure what else to suggest.

  “Ah, a wise man. I could do with a brandy.” He nodded at a footman, who scampered off, returning very shortly with a glass on a silver tray. Lord Dryton reached for it, but his hands were shaking so much that Genista took it and helped him sip a little.

  “Thank you. That will do for now,” he said.

  A commotion behind her caused Genista to turn round. Several gentlemen had emerged from some inner fastness and were gazing at her. At all three of them, but mostly at her. Not quite knowing what to do, she curtsied.

  One of the gentlemen, very finely dressed, was holding the three cards in his hand, and now he gazed at them, reading the inscriptions. “Lady Dryton, Lord Dryton? Welcome to Drummoor. And…” He turned again to Genista. “Lady Gilbert?”

  She curtsied again.

  “Gil is married? But where is he?”

  “He… he had to go to Essex, sir. My lord.”

  “To Essex? Great heavens, why?”

  “To a mill.”

  “A mill.” His voice reeked of incredulity.

  She bowed her head, shivering. “Yes, sir. My lord. Oh, I beg your pardon.” Her cheeks flamed with mortification. Her hands were shaking so hard that she was sure the brandy would slop over the side of the glass. Carefully she handed it back to the impassive footman, still holding the silver salver.

  One of the other gentlemen coughed. “Perhaps… later, my lord? When Lady Carrbridge is home?”

  “Yes, of course. Ah, Mrs Compton, there you are. We have guests. Lord and Lady Dryton have arrived. And… Lady Gilbert.”

  Genista curtsied again.

  “Lady Gilbert?” Her eyes flicked to Genista, filled with astonishment, but she schooled her features at once. “I see, my lord.”

  “Where is it Lady Carrbridge has gone today?”

  “To Tambray Hall, my lord. Lady Melthwaite…”

  “Ah, yes. But… guests, you know.” He seemed quite flummoxed, and Genista could hardly blame him.

  “I shall myself show Lord and Lady Dryton to the willow suite, my lord. For Lady Gilbert, perhaps the jasmine room, for now? And might I suggest that Mrs Merton and Mrs Burford attend her? Since Lady Carrbridge is not here.”

  “Oh, yes! Yes, of course! Merton, would you…?”

  Genista’s head was spinning. So many names! So many people, and all so grandly dressed that she could not even work out which were the servants, and which were relations of the marquess. Had she just curtsied to a servant? She had the sinking feeling that she had.

  There was a general moving about, and the Drytons were led away up the stairs, followed by a train of footmen with coats, and one carrying Lord Dryton’s brandy glass on a tray. More footmen were bringing boxes and bags in from the coaches.

  And then two smiling ladies stood before Genista.

  “Lady Gilbert? How do you do? I am Lady Carrbridge’s sister, Mrs Burford, and this is our cousin, Mrs Merton. Goodness, so much luggage! Is any of this yours?”

  “That small box, and… the portmanteau over there.”

  Mrs Burford signalled to a couple of footmen to bring her luggage, and then the two ladies swept Genista up the stairs. “We will not put you in Gil’s rooms, for he has only a bachelor’s apartment here, you know. The jasmine room is very comfortable, and whenever he gets here, alternative arrangements may be made. But how unexpected! And how like Gil not to tell anyone.”

  “He wanted to surprise everyone,” she said.

  “He certainly succeeded! But Connie will be so upset that she was not here to welcome you. Have you been married long?”

  “Not quite a fortnight.”

  The two ladies exclaimed at this, although whether in shock or pleasure she couldn’t tell. She had no idea whether she was welcome here, or whether this placid reception was merely politeness hiding a seething anger. They could hardly be pleased to have her foisted on them like this, and the Drytons, too.

  Within minutes of her arrival, she was ensconced in a large bedroom with a dressing room attached. Round the far corner of the bedroom was a charming little alcove with its own fireplace and sofa and writing desk, the walls circular like a medieval tower. Maids appeared to start the fires and bring a bathing tub and a heap of soft towels. Two more maids began to unpack her box and portmanteau, and ask what gown she would like readied for the evening. She pointed to her only silk gown.

  “This one, milady?”

  “Yes, if you please.”

  “I daresay you have not had time to order your wedding clothes yet,” one of the two smiling ladies said. “Would you like to borrow a gown? If you wish to dress up a little.”

  “No, I… thank you, but… I don’t think…”

  “Of course, as you prefer. Well, we shall leave you to recover from your journey. Dinner is at seven. We will come back to take you to the pink drawing room at six, if that is acceptable?”

  “Oh yes. Thank you,” she said, curtsying from habit to their retreating backs. She had no idea who they were. One of the maids giggled and was shushed by another.

  Genista would have been ready long before the appointed hour had she been left to manage her toilet alone, as usual, but it was almost six before her gown was returned to her, pressed and with fresh lace added to the sleeves. Then two maids helped her into it, primped her hair into strange shapes and offered her a range of ribbons and combs and silk flowers to decorate the arrangement. She would have liked to refuse everything, but as they were very persistent, she agreed to a single flower. The two ladies, who had arrived promptly at six, waited pat
iently for her, chatting comfortably about her journey north.

  All in all, it was a quarter to seven when they led her through twisting passageways and several sets of stairs to the pink drawing room. It was full. At least thirty pairs of eyes turned towards her, quizzing glasses were raised and the buzz of conversation died away.

  A gentleman jumped up and strode across the room towards her. “Ah, Lady Gil! There you are! I must apologise for the continued absence of Lady Carrbridge, but her aunt is very sick. However, it gives me the honour of introducing you. Do come in and meet everyone.” She wondered who he might be. The Marquess of Carrbridge? Did marquesses undertake to introduce guests in such an informal way? Surely a marquess was too grand for that. She had a vision of an elderly man on a throne-like chair, perhaps seated on a dais, with acolytes around him. Nothing at all like this serious young man of not much above thirty.

  He walked her around the room, tossing names around like autumn leaves. Lord This. Lady That. Mrs Someone. Mrs Someone Else. A physician — a moment of interest, but her escort passed on before she could ask anything. More lords and ladies. Lady Dryton, but not her husband. Again, she had no opportunity to ask how he was. He’d looked so old and tired when they’d arrived.

  Then they went into dinner, and she was expected to sit at her host’s right hand, like an honoured guest. He was very kind, offering her a little of this or that dish from the laden table, sending for lemonade when she refused the wine, and asking her gentle questions about her journey and Kent and her family, which she could barely find the words to answer coherently.

  He was in mid-question, when he suddenly stopped. “Do you know, I have been terribly rude. In all the delightful surprise of your unexpected arrival, I forgot to introduce myself to you formally. I expect you have been clever enough to work out that I am Lord Carrbridge, eh? But still, it must have been very confusing for a while. How do you do, Lady Gilbert.”

  “How do you do, my lord,” she said. She couldn’t work out whether he was teasing her, or being rude in some subtle, aristocratic way.

  The room pressed in on her, the noise hurt her head, and the brilliant lights dazzled her eyes. The surrounding banks of footmen in their livery seemed like an army, holding her captive. She could eat nothing, her throat too choked with misery to swallow. What was she doing there? She had no business to be in the midst of this great family, all these lords and ladies with their silks and velvets and sparkling jewels. And they thought so too, she could see it in their supercilious stares, and the unnerving way they watched her and then whispered behind their hands.

  The dishes were all cleared away and another complete set appeared, even more elaborate than the last. A roast swan, a saddle of mutton and any number of smaller dishes. Oysters and crab and herrings brought all this way from the sea, and an array of larks and ducks and pigeon and pheasant. She had a little blancmange and some mushrooms, but could eat nothing else. Lord Carrbridge watched her anxiously, she thought, but gave up trying to tempt her appetite, and after a while turned to Lady Dryton on his other side for conversation.

  “We are a bit much, do you not agree?” said a pleasant-faced young man on her right. “The Marfords en masse. You will get used to us, in time. I expect you have forgotten my name — I am Monty, one of Gil’s brothers.”

  “Monty,” she said, feeling stupid. Even so, she liked his informality, which reminded her a little of Gil. At home, she had been on Christian name terms with almost everyone she knew, and they with her.

  “Lord Montague, officially, but everyone calls me Monty. Did he talk to you much about his family? No? I expect you had much more interesting things to talk about. Is he all right? Gil, I mean. Last we heard, his wounded leg was not healing well and he was to be sent home to recover. We have heard nothing since. He is all right, I take it?”

  “He was when I last saw him, five… no, six days ago.”

  “Before he went off to Essex to watch a mill, leaving you all alone.”

  “Oh, I was not alone. There was Lady Dryton…”

  Monty’s face darkened. “And that is just like Gil, to run off and leave you with—” He stopped, glancing across the table to where Lady Dryton was in animated conversation with the marquess. Genista had seen her like that before, when her husband was not around. She leaned forward towards the marquess, one hand resting on his arm, speaking in a low, intimate tone, smiling in a teasing way. He didn’t seem impressed, though. Not like Lord Ramsey had been, for he had smiled back at her, and put his arm around her waist, and later, she’d sat on his lap and he’d kissed her… and not just on the mouth.

  “—very bad of him,” Monty was saying in angry tones. “Carrbridge is spitting fire about it, and he will get such a roasting when he finally shows his face again. He never thinks, that is the trouble. He just goes ahead and does whatever he wants, and never a thought for anyone else, and it is too bad of him, it really is. This time he has gone too far.”

  She knew he was talking about Gil, and it was all her fault. If only she’d never married him! And that was Father’s doing, mostly. Father had brought them all to this devilish coil, and now they could never escape. They were stuck with each other for ever, and obviously Gil regretted it or he would never have gone off and left her like that. And now his family regretted it too and were angry about it, angry with her, and everything was a hideous mess, and she had to get away from that room, from the heat and the noise, and the burning lights.

  Just then, the ladies all rose. Relief! She rose too, rather shakily, and all the gentlemen stood as the ladies withdrew into the cool corridor outside, dark after the brilliance of the dining room. A couple of footmen stood by the doors, holding them open, then, as the last lady passed through, they withdrew into the dining room, closing the doors behind them, and shutting off the last of the bright light. The procession of shimmering silks and satins and waving feathers turned to the right and slowly moved off, chattering like a flock of exotic birds.

  No one was taking any notice of Genista. In the other direction she caught a glimpse of the stairs. Without a second’s hesitation, she turned and fled, picking up her skirts and racing on shaking legs up the stairs, round and round until she could go no further, and then following the low lamps on the walls into the shadows. She ran and ran, terrified that someone might have seen her go and come running after her. They might even drag her back into the brilliance of the drawing room, and she would have to sit with the ladies and pretend not to be terrified for another hour or two or even more. She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t breathe, with so many people around her.

  After a while, she thought she would try to find her room. There had been a blue and orange vase on a table outside her door, she remembered, so all she had to do was to walk about until she found it. So she walked, and she found many tables and many vases, but not the right ones. She also found odd little dead ends, and half-stairs and windows overlooking courtyards that she’d never seen before.

  Eventually, she found herself in a vast gallery stretching endlessly into darkness. On the walls, the stern faces of Marford ancestors stared down at her disapprovingly. She was lost and exhausted and could go no further. She found a window seat, and curled up on it in a miserable, lonely ball. It was all too much, as the tears she’d been holding back for days finally overwhelmed her. Once she’d started, she sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

  She wished she were back with her father.

  She wished she’d never met Gil.

  She wished she were dead.

  10: Kindly Faces

  Soft voices, rustling silk, a faint waft of perfume. A murmur in her ear, and then an arm around her waist, helping her to rise, still weeping. Walking, walking, behind a flickering candle. Stairs down, more walking, a vase that looked familiar, a door opening. Willing hands helping her undress, wiping away her tears even as more fell. A nightgown slipped over her head, cool and soft, not her own. Then a warm bed. She buried her face in soft pillows, and wept on. Ev
entually, in blessed quietness, she fell asleep.

  Every time she woke, a kindly face leaned over her. Murmured voices. The rattle of fresh coals onto the fire. Once, a male voice, but it wasn’t Father. He was gone, and she would never see him again. Nor was it Gil. Perhaps she would never see him any more, either. She wept even more.

  Sometimes when she woke, there was a grey light in the room, at other times there was only a lamp and the flickering light of the fire. Always, there was a kindly face bending over, smoothing her hair away from her face or wiping her forehead with sweet-smelling rose water. Sometimes, she would be lifted up and beef tea spooned into her, with words of encouragement. Sometimes, it was some sweet liquid — laudanum, she suspected — and after that she slept again. Once, her mother’s perfume drifted by and she cried out, “Mama! Mama!” But it wasn’t Mama, it was only another kindly face, murmuring soothing words. After that, she sobbed for a long time before sleep came again.

  Eventually she woke fully. Above her, the canopy of the bed was draped in pretty muslin, the curtains pulled back on one side. There was sunshine falling onto the rug in front of the fire, but only a narrow strip, as if the window curtains were half drawn. A woman sat reading in a wing chair beside the bed. She looked up at once.

  “Ah, you are awake at last! How do you feel, my dear? A little better?”

  Genista nodded. “Thank you. So sorry—”

  “Hush now. No need for that. I have some beef tea heating on the fire. Would you like some? Or shall I send for some proper tea? Or food — are you hungry?”

  “Tea… would be lovely. Thank you. If… not too much trouble.”

  “My dear, it is not the least trouble. But I must tell Connie you are awake. She so longs to talk to you — we all do.”

  She went to the door and gave some instructions in a low voice to someone outside. Connie. The name was familiar, but Genista couldn’t work it out. There had been too many names and faces and titles, and they drifted past like so much smoke.

  “What time is it?” Genista said.