Lord Gilbert (Sons of the Marquess Book 5)

by Mary Kingswood

  “There is no door from inside the house,” Mr Barton said. “We have been all over the attic rooms, but no way to access the roof can be found. It can only be done by ladders from outside.”

  They all repaired downstairs again, past the children, who shrieked and ran away, and outside to the lawn at the side of the house, where a couple of gardeners stopped raking to stand and watch with interest. Mr Barton shooed them away, and they downed tools and disappeared.

  They all gazed up at the windows of the affected rooms. The central part of the roof was pitched, but around the edge was a strip that was flat.

  “There is the reason for your difficulty,” Gil said.

  The others stared at him, bemused.

  “Do explain, Lord Gilbert,” Mr Barton said.

  “There is a blockage in that rainwater pipe there, behind the tree. Probably it is choked with leaves or some such.”

  Merton looked at him quizzically. “How can you tell that, my lord?”

  “It is not raining, so all the other pipes are dry,” Gil said. “That one, however, is still seeping water at the bottom. There is probably quite a puddle up on the roof above the trap. I daresay the fellow who looked at it cleared away a few leaves at the top, but left the pipe still partially blocked. Do you have ladders?”

  “Nothing long enough, my lord, but—”

  “No matter, that tree looks stout enough. Merton, hold my coat.”

  “My lord, I must advise against this,” Merton said. “Now that we suspect the problem—”

  “But that ceiling could come down at any moment! Besides, this will be amusing.”

  “Gil, no!” Genista cried. “Think of your leg — you could do untold damage—”

  “Nonsense! You worry too much.” Now that the idea had occurred to him, he was boiling with excitement. A tree to climb! He had not done such a thing for years, and the last two or three times had concerned a lady and were therefore a little nefarious, whereas this was a matter of rescuing two people from sleepless nights and saving the cost of replacing a ceiling. Such fun!

  Tossing his coat to Merton he strode off towards the house. The gardeners had left a rake behind, which he grabbed as he made his way to the base of the tree.

  A small figure arrived in a flurry of skirts and grabbed his arm. “Gil, don’t do this, please! You said you would do what I wanted, so I’m begging you, please, leave this to someone else. You mustn’t risk damaging your leg again.”

  Angrily, he shook her off, too energised to listen. “Never tell me what I must do,” he said coldly. “Now leave me be. It is only a tree, after all. I have done this a thousand times.”

  “Gil, please!”

  Tears coursed down her face but he took no notice of them, his attention fixed on the problem at hand. Besides, how could he back down, just because his wife asked him to? It would make him the worst kind of coward. And he wanted to do this. There was not the least harm in it, and very little risk, so why should he not?

  “Oh, stop fussing, Gen, for God’s sake!”

  Turning his back on her, he set his hands to the tree and began the slow climb. It was a good solid tree, with plenty of side branches convenient for hands and feet. Had he not had the rake, he would have shinned up in no time, but he would need it at the top, so he climbed slowly and carefully, juggling the rake from hand to hand, careful not to drop it.

  There was only one sticky moment, where there seemed to be no convenient hand holds at all, and his bad leg somehow would not stay on its branch. He clung there for some time before he realised that if he went down a little, he could shuffle across to the balustrade of a balcony and use that as a perch before going on upwards.

  Before too long, he had gained the topmost branches and could haul himself over the balustrade onto the roof. He fell with a splosh into a deep puddle that spread halfway along the house. But the blocked corner was clearly visible. He waded ankle-deep to the corner, and examined the outlet to the rainwater pipe. There was no blockage there, so, as he had suspected, the problem lay within the pipe itself. Now he had to try to clear the pipe using only the five foot handle of the rake. It was not easy, for it required him to reach through the balustrade and that meant kneeling in the water. But he was already soaking wet, so what did a bit more water matter?

  It took some careful manoeuvring to get himself and the rake in the correct positions, and then it was awkward to get any force behind his proddings, but eventually he managed it, wiggled the rake handle vigorously and was rewarded with a gurgle and the sight of the puddle draining slowly away. A cheer from below told him that his success had been noticed.

  He stood up gingerly, gave them a cheerful wave and then looked about him. There was a fine view over the Watersmeet gardens, a part of the High Berenholme parkland next door and most of the village, the chimneys quietly smoking below him. But he was not there to admire the view, he was looking for a door from below. There had to be one, he was sure of it. Every attic at Drummoor, and he had explored them all rather thoroughly, had a door out onto that part of the roof, and he could not imagine any house being built without such a thing. Every roof needed maintenance, after all.

  He prowled around the flat perimeter of the roof, examining the ridged central part carefully. There, if anywhere, was where the door would be. But there was no sign of one. He took a second circuit, this time looking at the leaded flat roof. The leading was in good repair, as expected when it had all been replaced recently, and he was about to give it up as a lost cause when he noticed something odd — a metal hook on a chain, bolted to the inside of the parapet. It looked exactly like the type of hook which would be used to prop open a door. Except that there was no door. Unless…

  He groaned. A trapdoor! Somewhere under that fine new lead sheeting was a trapdoor that led to some inner fastness of the house. But he could not uncover it himself, so he noted the position of the hook and went back to his tree to begin the descent. He still had the rake in his hand, but there was no need to climb down with it in his hands. He lobbed it over the edge into a flower bed.

  It should have been much easier to descend without the rake, but somehow it was not. First was the awkwardness of clambering over the balustrade. He was soaked through, and his leg would not do what he wanted it to, so it took some experimentation to get himself onto the tree. Then it seemed to be far more difficult going down. He had forgotten how precarious it was to feel about for a branch with a foot, quite unable to see it, and trust his weight to it without being entirely sure it would hold. Twice he had to draw back sharply when a branch broke under his foot, and once he slithered downwards and had to grab at anything to stop himself falling.

  By now his leg hurt appallingly, and he could not concentrate for the pain. In the end, he slipped and skidded the last few feet and ended in an agonised heap on the ground.

  Genista was there at once. “Are you all right?” Her voice was shrill, her face blotched with tears.

  “Of course I am all right!” he spat, in too much pain to mind his language. “Help me up, will you, and stop asking foolish questions.”

  At once she put his arm about her shoulders and heaved him to his feet with surprising strength. He staggered on his bad leg, then caught himself before he toppled over ignominiously. “See? I am perfectly fine.”

  To his surprise, she pummelled his chest with her fists, almost knocking him over again. “No, you’re not! You could have killed yourself! What were you thinking? And heaven only knows what damage you might have done to that leg. You stupid, stupid man! Why would you do anything so blockheaded?”

  Rage rose up in him like a tide, all his pride in his achievement swept away by his utter fury. What right did she have to speak so to him? Who was she anyway? Nobody! Some lower class nobody, until he had married her, and what was she doing ranting at him like a washerwoman?

  He grabbed her wrists so hard she squeaked in surprise. “Shut up! Stop that screeching, woman, and go away.”

  “
But you could have fallen!” she screamed. “You might have died!”

  “Shut up! Stop it this instant! Never, ever speak to me in this manner again, do you hear me? Go away. Get out of my sight. Now!”

  Her face froze into shocked terror, and she leaned away from him. Realising he still held her fast, with a cry of despair he flung her from him and she turned and fled.

  Some distance away across the lawn, Merton, Barton and their wives still stood, studiously not watching the altercation. He took an unsteady breath, then another. With a huge effort, he willed his legs to move and walked off, limping heavily, across the lawn.

  ~~~~~

  Every jolt of the carriage shot pain through him until he was almost screaming. It took every last ounce of his strength to keep his face bland, to keep his legs from restlessly shifting position, to keep his fists from clenching. But he would not — would not — admit how much he hurt. That would be to admit that he had been wrong to climb the tree and that he would never, ever do.

  At Gil’s side, Genista sat, head down, sniffling occasionally. She had not stopped weeping the whole time. How many hours was it now? Two? Three? And still she wept. Dear God, how could she cry so much? And it was all his fault. A part of him wanted to sweep her into his arms and bury his face in her glorious hair, and tell her how sorry he was, that he was a worm and he would listen to her in future, and would never, ever make her cry again.

  And then there was the other part of him, the rigid shell he had built around himself as a protection against the hurts of the world. That part could never apologise, could never grovel. He had his pride, and as long as he maintained his anger he would never have to admit to being wrong.

  So his emotions warred within him, and kept his anger burning bright. And still Genista wept on, and he could not bring himself to offer her any comfort. Damnation! Being married was so difficult.

  Opposite them, the Mertons sat with their faces frozen into studied composure. Merton had argued, of course. He should rest his leg, take time to recover, they could stay another day at High Berenholme, or two maybe. The Bartons invited them to stay, or at least to come for dinner. But Gil was not in the mood for staying. He would move on, and Merton had no choice but to accept his authority. He would not be gainsaid.

  So they drove on and on, and the ride became smoother as they picked up the York road.

  “Would you consider an overnight stop in York, my lord?” Merton said in his quiet way. “There are some excellent inns and hotels there, and it has been a long day for the ladies.”

  Gil would have liked to refuse, to press on for another two or more hours for Haddlewick, but the shreds of good sense that he still retained, not to mention the violent pains in his leg, were becoming insistent. The prospect of a hot bath and a bottle of claret was too appealing to be denied. He could yield a little, but not the whole way.

  “Very well. You may choose the place, Merton, but there must be three bedrooms. I shall want my own room tonight.”

  The slightest hesitation. “As you wish, my lord. Shall I ask the innkeeper to send for a physician to examine your leg?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “As you wish,” he said again. “If it troubles you, Lady Gilbert is very well able to attend to it.”

  His tone was level and perfectly affable, but his words put Gil into such a rage that he would have sworn that Merton was trying to provoke him. As soon as the rooms were secured at the discreet inn Merton had chosen, Gil stormed upstairs while a little flock of servants streamed up and down with ewers of hot water for his bath. Once he was immersed, he felt better. The damp had seeped into his bones, but with heat around him, he gradually relaxed and began to feel more himself. So it was a shock when he found he was unable to lift himself out of the tub. His arms had the strength, but somehow his recalcitrant leg would not obey his commands. After three attempts he sat back, exhausted, and waited for another servant to appear and haul him unceremoniously onto the rug.

  It shook him rather. But once he was dressed again, his hair properly disordered and his cravat very orderly indeed, he felt more like himself and ready to face the evening.

  He found Merton and Mrs Merton in deep conversation. They sprang apart when he entered.

  “Are we to have the pleasure of Lady Gilbert’s company this evening?” he said, trying not to sound disgruntled at finding her not present.

  “She is almost ready,” Mrs Merton said. “She will be here in a moment, I am sure of it.”

  “We shall not wait for her. Merton, tell them we are ready for our dinner.”

  But Genista crept in, white-faced, while Merton was outside giving the orders.

  Dinner was not a comfortable affair. None of them ate much, and Genista nothing at all, crying silently the whole time. She went to her room straight after, and Mrs Merton with her. Gil was in the mood to become thoroughly drunk, so having consumed a quantity of wine with the meal, he now began on a bottle of port, drinking steadily as he and Merton played piquet for guineas.

  Having lost all the coins in his pockets, Gil rose, swaying slightly. “Shall go to bed now.”

  “My lord,” Merton began, and even in his inebriated state, Gil recognised the solemn expression on his face. “I have no right to advise you—”

  “Indeed you do not,” Gil said, glowering at him, but Merton was never a man to be deterred from what he saw as his duty.

  “No. But nevertheless, however unwelcome, it must be attempted.”

  “Oh, do not feel obliged, Merton. I shall not be disappointed if you keep silence on any matter where your advice would be regarded as unwarranted interference.” He stumbled somewhat over one or two of the words, but he cared not.

  “My lord, I answer to Lord Carrbridge in all things, and I feel that he would wish me to speak to you now, since he cannot.”

  He paused, but Gil, seeing that he could only postpone the lecture by retiring to his room, resigned himself to the inevitable. With a dramatic sigh, he sat down, poured himself another glass of port and prepared to be scolded.

  “My lord, Lady Gilbert is very young and very… inexperienced in the ways of the world. She has not learnt the fashionable art of concealing her feelings. When she saw you undertake a seemingly risky action, she was, not surprisingly, distraught. Mrs Merton would be just as distraught, I believe, were I to attempt anything so dangerous.”

  “But she would not scream at you like a fishwife, would she?” Gil said. “Mrs Merton would never be anything other than ladylike.”

  “Lady Gilbert is very innocent of the ways of the world,” Merton said again, not looking at him. “She has come from a very humble life to her present elevated position, and it is not surprising if she finds the adjustment trying. As you must do, also. Everything in her life has changed very quickly, and she is… not her usual self at the moment. She has shown herself to be a steadfast and restrained person, so it must take some unusually heightened sensitivity for her to address you in such strong terms. I would ask you to bear in mind all the changes that she must be experiencing just now, and be sensitive to her circumstances. God willing, your marriage will last for many years, my lord, so I would advise you to consider the future.” He lifted his head to look directly at Gil. “That is what is important now — the future.”

  He fell silent, gazing steadfastly at Gil as if he were waiting for something.

  Gil drained his glass and waved the half-empty bottle. “My future is in here, Merton. At this moment, it is the only one I want.”

  And so saying he swayed out of the room, bottle in hand, and up the stairs to bed.

  23: Memories

  Genista sent Mrs Merton away as soon as she could. What was the point? It was not female comfort she needed, but male. One male in particular, and since that was most unlikely to happen, she needed to accustom herself to being alone.

  She was soon undressed and ready for bed. She scrubbed her face repeatedly, but no soap could eradicate the puffy eyes and blotche
d cheeks. Even now tears trickled from her eyes, and she was helpless to stop them. She knelt beside the bed and said her prayers, a rather longer business than usual, for she had great sins to be confessed and forgiveness to be sought from One who might, she hoped, be more forgiving than Gil. She had tried to apologise to her husband, but he had said, “It is of no consequence,” in such a cold manner, that she was cast lower than she had ever been in her life before.

  When she had run out of supplications and impassioned pleas to God, she rose and went to the window. Her room overlooked the street, and although it was not one of the main streets, there was still plenty of bustle and many comings and goings, even so late at night. Carriages rattled over the cobbles, one or two sedan chairs were carried past in near silence, and any number of people on foot. Couples, so many couples. There were a few men on their own, but many a gentleman had a lady on his arm, and they passed by, all smiles and laughing conversation, so gay and companionable. It made her feel so lonely.

  Still, there was a familiarity to being in town. Her two or three trips to Canterbury each year with her father were always a pleasure. Visits to the shops and warehouses, calls on acquaintance or professional visits, walking the busy streets and being part of the life of the town before returning to their tiny rooms at the inn, all of it was a delight to her country-weary eyes. Then the excitement of returning home with the gig laden with oddly-shaped packages, and the thrill of making new sheets or bonnets, using the new pot for the kitchen, and seeing the mixing room shelves restocked.

  She liked towns, she decided. Not London, which was unbearably big and noisy and busy, but small towns like Canterbury and York. It was the same with houses. The palatial Drummoor oppressed her, and even somewhere like Silsby Vale House felt too grand and formal, but a small cottage was just the right size. Where would she live when Gil went back to his army camp at Dover? She could only hope it would be somewhere small, but at the back of her mind was the gnawing terror that he would leave her behind again, that she would have to survive, somehow, in the overwhelming grandeur of Drummoor.