Lord Gilbert (Sons of the Marquess Book 5)

by Mary Kingswood

  “Difficulties?”

  “I am not sure I should say…”

  “Damnation, man, you cannot say so much and then not tell me all. Is it the money? Are we still in the suds?”

  “No, no! His lordship’s estates and holdings are in much better order now.”

  “Then it must be Connie… or one of the children. Nothing else would give him any real anxiety. I know he nearly lost Connie with this last baby, so—”

  “It is nothing of that nature,” Merton said. “That was a bad time, but in the past, thank God.”

  “Ah! So… Sharp, perhaps? Is the man still giving trouble?”

  “No, he has gone to ground, taking a goodly portion of Lord Carrbridge’s fortune with him, one must suppose. If he has been careful with money, he may have fifty thousand pounds to call upon, enough to live a life of ease, if not quite in the style he assumed previously. His wife, or whatever she was, is in prison in Northumberland, so that is something, but there were two sons… Well, I dare say we have seen the last of him.”

  “It is concerning, though. A land agent is in a position of great trust, and if he chooses to betray that trust, the consequences can be appalling. But most of the money has been recovered?”

  “A great deal, certainly, and most of the property — everything we know about, at any rate.”

  “So if it is not Sharp… I have exhausted all the possibilities that spring to mind,” Gil said.

  “Do you remember Ben Gartmore?” Merton said.

  “Gartmore? One of Father’s little by-blows? What of him? Is he causing trouble?”

  “No, he himself is no trouble. He was with Mr Gaffney, the gamekeeper, for a while, but now he is working for Lord Montague over at Kirby Grosswick. Gardening, tending the coverts, chopping wood — that sort of thing. He recently married a tightrope walker.”

  “A tightrope walker! Good grief!”

  “A very pleasant woman, by all accounts, and very useful when the river flooded the village and she was able to get ropes here and there to rescue people. But that is by the by. There was some suspicion that there might have been a legal marriage between the eighth marquess and Miss Amelia Gartmore more than thirty years ago, making Ben a legitimate son of the marquess, but there was no evidence for it. But now…”

  “A legal marriage!” Gil said, feeling the blood drain from his face.

  “There was a special licence, and it is just possible that the marriage in fact took place.”

  “If so, then this Ben Gartmore is the marquess and Carrbridge… Good God!”

  “If the first marriage took place and is proved legal, then the second marriage, between your father and mother, must have been illegal.”

  “So we are all bastards. Dear Lord, no wonder Carrbridge is so testy. All this could be snatched away. But what happens now?”

  “We are awaiting the lawyers from London. They will bring the special licence which has now so conveniently appeared, and will advise on the circumstances and recommend what needs to be done. That is why Lord Augustus is here, for all of you are affected. And Lady Carrbridge’s sisters all descended to give her their support. A letter was sent to you at Dover, but I daresay you had left before it reached there, with all this bad weather.”

  “Poor Carrbridge!” Gil said. “I was spitting fire about his high-handedness, but, my God, he has trouble enough on his plate. He could lose everything — the title, the fortune, the house! We could even lose Drummoor!”

  “Let us hope it will not come to that,” Merton said.

  Gil shivered. Losing Drummoor was unthinkable.

  ~~~~~

  Genista had lost weight, for her gown hung loose on her. She would have to take the new one in even before she had worn it. She stared at herself in the mirror, noting the pallor of her skin and the way her shoulder bones protruded so unbecomingly. She adjusted the fichu a little to hide them. Father had always hated her to reveal any bare skin, even in the evenings. “That is how your sister’s downfall began,” he’d always said. “Showing herself in that indecent way — no wonder she disgraced herself. You must do better, daughter.” And yet Di had gone off to Canterbury with the squire’s daughter and a dress cut lower than usual, and hadn’t she come back betrothed to a baron? And it hadn’t been her fault that he’d turned out to be a dishonourable snake.

  “How about this, my lady?” Holland said, holding out a strip of frothy lace. “A little more elegant than the fichu, yet just as decorous.”

  Obediently, she tried it, but she could still see the flesh beneath. “I beg your pardon, but… I don’t think…”

  “Very well, my lady. Just as you please, but perhaps this fichu might work a little better with the colour of this gown. Let me try. There now, that looks very well on you.”

  She had to agree that it did. It was lighter and paler than her usual choice, but it still managed to conceal everything. She smiled, and Holland nodded in acknowledgement. A small victory in the daily war between the maid’s sense of fashion and the mistress’s sense of propriety.

  Holland had been Connie’s idea. “You must have a maid, naturally, and generally one would take one of the more promising chamber maids or house maids and train her up, but you will not want to do that, I daresay. What you need is a proper lady’s maid, one used to the upper echelons of society, who knows all the tricks and the latest styles, and she will be able to advise you. You need not follow her advice, naturally, for you must always do what makes you comfortable and one should never let one’s maid bully one. But when the time comes, as it will, that you go into society, she will be able to tell you what the other ladies will be wearing, and so you will at least know. Then you may decide what makes you the least uncomfortable — being the same as everyone else, or being different.”

  “I do not mind being different,” Genista had told her. “I have no desire to be fashionable, if it means wearing clothes which are too thin for modesty, or too tight to move in, or too over-decorated for practicality. And so many different clothes, for walking in or driving or visiting… Forgive me, but it seems a shocking waste of money.”

  “I daresay it does,” Connie had said, not offended. “I thought so too, at first. I was never used to spend so much money on myself! But I found that if I looked fashionably dressed, it reflected well on my husband. If I did well in my sphere as a society hostess, then it enhanced his standing too, in some unfathomable way. And if I buy a great number of gowns for myself, then I can give them away after a season or two to all the poor relations, of which there are a great many, and that makes me feel that I am doing some good with all this money I spend. And perhaps we shall all be poor relations before too long, and the question will be whether we can even afford to eat, never mind about new gowns.”

  “Surely it won’t come to that?” Genista had said, shocked.

  “Who knows?” Connie had said, with a sad little smile. “I shall not mind it, if it happens, for I grew up making do, but Lord Carrbridge will feel it, and the children… But there is nothing to be done except wait and see how things turn out.”

  Once Holland had dressed her to the satisfaction of both, Genista settled herself in her little sitting room to work on her new gowns. It was Belle who had suggested finding a proper worktable for her, and with a little rearrangement of the furniture, it fitted well and she could sit and be employed without ever venturing out into the world beyond her room. Once or twice, Connie had offered to take her for a walk around, to look down into a different part of the gardens, or to the minstrels’ gallery above the great hall, where she could observe, quite unseen, the servants setting places for a grand dinner that evening. But she had not wanted to. She need never do anything or go anywhere that distressed her, Connie had said, and so she did not. She sat in her room, with its tiny circular sitting room, and tried to forget where she was and who she was, and concentrated on her sewing.

  Now that she knew that Gil was there, somewhere, and his leg was improving, she was almost co
ntented. She would like to see him, of course, but she wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t come to see her. Naturally he didn’t want to. He regretted his marriage, she knew that, and would want nothing more to do with her. That was only to be expected.

  She missed him, but she was not lonely. She always had company. Even at night, one or other of the kindly ladies would stay with her, in shifts of a few hours at a time. During the day, two or three of them would sit with her, working on their own stitchery, and talking companionably to each other, and not expecting her to talk to them at all. It was very restful.

  Genista thought she liked Grace best. She had only been at Drummoor for two days, but already she had broken a cup, spilt her wine and knocked over the suit of armour at the bottom of the stairs. She told these tales against herself very freely, laughing at her own clumsiness. She always had a tear in her gown somewhere, and she herself readily admitted that it was hard to imagine that one day, when her husband inherited his title, she would be Lady Graham, the wife of a baronet.

  It was Grace who had brought the blackboard through from the schoolroom, and carefully inscribed the names of all the Marford brothers, and their wives, and the various aunts and uncles presently in residence, of which there seemed to be a great number. And when Genista asked, she added all Connie’s sisters, too, and their various husbands, so that Genista might learn who everyone was.

  “For it is so confusing,” Grace said. “I declare that I got all the names muddled when first I visited Drummoor. In the end, I found it easiest just to call everyone ‘my lord’ or ‘my lady’, because most of them are, after all. I do not wonder that you found it all overwhelming and ran away, Genista. But how lucky someone found you when you were lost.”

  “That was Monty,” Connie said. “He noticed you were missing after dinner, and sent someone to check that you had reached your room safely. And when it was found that you had not, he set every servant in the house looking for you. Monty is a kind soul.”

  Genista nodded, and checked the blackboard to remind herself — the fifth brother, married to Melissa. “The clergyman?” she said, and Connie smiled and nodded.

  “There is another letter from Kent for you,” Grace said one day. “That is the fourth. Will you not read them?”

  “No, for they are from my father,” Genista said. “I don’t want to read anything he says.”

  “You look so fierce when you talk about him,” Grace said. “Are you so angry with him?”

  “Grace, dear…” Connie said. “Perhaps Genista does not wish to speak of such things.”

  “I beg your pardon!” Grace said cheerfully. “I am always saying the wrong thing. It makes my mama-in-law quite despair of me, I assure you. ‘Grace, my dear, that is not a very ladylike turn of phrase’ she keeps saying, or ‘A lady does not notice such things, still less comment upon them’, but then I remind her that I have given her two grandchildren and she forgives me everything.”

  Genista laughed with the others, and wondered what it must be like to say whatever came into your head without the stomach-churning fear that always gripped her. Even now, she felt that if she made one false step that these fine ladies would turn and look at her, horror upon their faces, and never want anything more to do with her. They were so kind to her, when they were so grand and clever and knowledgeable about how the world worked, and she was just an ignorant country girl. How they must secretly despise her! They hid it well, but she must never, ever do anything that reminded them of it.

  “Have you written to your father?” Connie said gently. “He must be worried about you, having no word.”

  “He knows she is safe at Drummoor, I daresay,” Grace said.

  “Even so, a brief note to let him know you have arrived safely…” Connie said. “Will you not read his letters, dear? Surely you want to hear the news from home?”

  Home. But it wasn’t her home any more, was it? “I’m not sure…”

  “But it might be bad news, and then you would want to know, wouldn’t you?” Grace said. “If he were ill, or something.”

  “Father is never ill.”

  “But do you not want to hear how he goes on without you?”

  And there was some attraction in that. How would he manage without her? So she agreed that Grace might read the letters out loud, and then, perhaps, help her write a reply.

  ‘Daughter,’ Grace read. ‘I suppose your plans have changed. Please let me know when we might expect you home. We are all well. Father.’

  In silence she opened the second letter. ‘Daughter, Pray let me know where you are and how long you are to stay there. Also, I cannot find the key to the small medicine cupboard, and I need to get the arsenic. Where do you order mercury from these days for Kepler says he does not stock it any more? Where are you, daughter? It is too bad of you not to let me know. I expected you home long since, and now I am left to wonder and not even the courtesy of a letter to tell me your direction. I am writing to Marford House because the squire believes it to be your husband’s family home, but in truth I have not the least idea where you have gone to and it is very awkward when people ask. Write at once. Father.’

  Without a word, Grace broke the seal on the third letter. ‘Dear daughter, Where are you? I am prey to all sorts of fears for your safely. I entrusted you to a stranger and now I am well rewarded for my foolishness, for all manner of ill may have befallen you. If you are safe, please, please write to me at once. I found the key at last, but I am having trouble with the leeches. Do write to advise me on your methods. I have tried to work it out from your notes, but it is confusing, and I think I got the jars muddled up. Are you all right? Please write to let me know. Your sister gave me an address where you are staying in London, so I shall send this there in the hope that it reaches you. Please let me know that you are quite well, and that your husband is treating you properly, for I cannot rest until I am certain of your wellbeing. Father.’

  “The fourth letter is in a different hand,” Grace said. “Shall I read it?”

  When Genista said nothing, she broke the seal and read, ‘Dearest Gen, Your letter was the most tremendous shock! I got Harry to take me over to Elversham in the dog cart as soon as the lane was fit to get through, and found Father in a dreadful taking. He expected you to come home in a day or two, and is worried sick about you. I gave him the address in London from your letter, and he is determined to go there and find you, and if you are not there he will go to this Marford House the squire mentioned, and to Yorkshire, too, if need be. Yorkshire! But he is quite prepared to go even so far. He said he will go to the ends of the earth to find you and bring you home. Hide well, little sister! Do not let him find you, for you have escaped him now and I wish you joy of your freedom. My own escape was more clumsily managed, but I am free and happy now, and with all my heart I wish the same for you, dearest Gen. Your loving sister, Di.’

  “Do not let him find me!” Genista cried, jumping up. “He must not find me!”

  “Let him come,” Grace said stoutly. “We shall protect you, never fear.” And she wrapped her arms around Genista in such a fierce hug that she was almost bowled over.

  12: A Large Family Dinner

  Gil tried his best to behave. He sat quietly in Mrs Merton’s drawing room reading the newspaper or a book, resting his leg, trying not to fret about Genista or think too much about this business with Ben Gartmore, but it was very difficult. The physician came twice a day to attend to his leg, and brought reports of Genista, too.

  “She is beginning to eat a little now—”

  “Eat a little!” Gil said. “You mean she has not been eating?”

  “Not a great deal, no. At first she slept a great deal. Now I see signs that her appetite is returning. In view of her continuing progress, I have represented to Lord Carrbridge that it would be good for the two of you to meet, and spend a little time together. Perhaps, in a few days, you might be permitted a half hour…”

  “A half hour!” Gil said. “Damnation and
hellfire, Hay, am I supposed to sit tamely by while you all conspire to keep me away from my wife? It is not right, not right at all!”

  Hay was silent for a moment, repacking his medical case and closing the catch with a snick. Then he looked up at Gil. “May I speak frankly, my lord? I believe Lord Carrbridge is concerned that you might allow some… intemperance, shall we say, to affect your behaviour at such a meeting. Lady Gilbert requires tranquillity above all else, and must not be distressed.”

  “I have never been intemperate with—” He stopped, remembering certain moments in London when he had been impatient with her, and the times when he had not given much thought to her at all. He had not been kind to her, but then she had shown no signs of distress, not then. How could he have known that she was so miserable when she did not tell him so? He could not read her mind, after all, and he had never meant to make her unhappy. But he should have treated her more gently, he knew that. In the end, he said in quiet tones, “I should very much like to see her again, if I may.”

  The physician grunted, and went away.

  Later that morning, Carrbridge came to Lake Cottage to see him, together with Monty and Gus. Monty looked anxious and Gus was serious, but those were their habitual expressions, so there was nothing to be read from them. Carrbridge looked harassed, that was the only word Gil could find to describe it.

  “Well, Gil, so you are better?” Carrbridge said. “Hay said your leg is on the mend, and as long as you are careful, you will not lose it, is that so?”

  “That is what he told me,” Gil said. “I am trying to be sensible. Carrbridge, about the regiment—”

  “I have written to Colonel Jefferson to tell him that you are here and recovering. The delays are easily accounted for by the weather.”

  “No one is mentioning Essex,” Gus said with a twinkle of amusement. “Or mills or anything of that nature.”

  Gil gave a lop-sided smile. “Oh. Thank you, Carrbridge, you are very good.”