Every time she thought of Gil, the tears flowed a little harder. Dear Gil! He could be so gentle and kind and even affectionate when he was in the mood, but when he wasn’t… Another tear trickled down her face and dripped off her chin. Angrily she brushed the back of her hand across her face. She must stop crying. It did no good at all, and Gil would not think the better of her for it. How he must despise her!
She mustn’t give way in this weak manner. She had to be strong now, and think of the future. She had her secret, and that was all that mattered, not her own feelings or what Gil thought of her. She hadn’t told him yet, and she couldn’t, not until he’d calmed down a little. Mrs Merton had guessed, and would no doubt tell Mr Merton, but not Gil. Would he be pleased? She could only hope he would. It was what every man wanted, wasn’t it? A child of his own, a miniature version of himself, a son to follow in his father’s footsteps. In Gil’s case, someone to be taught to ride and shoot and hunt and dance with grace, someone who would be able to move with practised ease through the saloons and country estates of society. Unlike her.
She climbed into bed, trying not to think how empty it was without Gil, and closed her eyes, hoping for the welcome oblivion of sleep. Perhaps she even dozed a little. But then a noise woke her, the door opening and closing, and the sounds of a man, a rather inebriated man, bumping into furniture and giggling. Gil. He must have forgotten he’d taken a separate room. Once, he must have banged his bad leg, for there was a sharp intake of breath, a muttered oath and then complete silence for a while, as he stood waiting for the pain to ease. That worried her, but she was lying on her side facing the wall, and she dared not roll over to look at him, in case he realised he had a room next door and went away again.
Eventually, he started moving about again, more circumspectly by the sound of it, and the bed shifted as he climbed into it. He lay still for a while, and she was equally immobile, listening to every breath of his. Then he rolled towards her, wrapped a careless arm around her waist and buried his face in her hair.
“Ah, Gen,” he murmured. “Sweet, darling Gen.”
Then he slept.
Genista cried a little, smiling through her tears. The warmth of his body against her back was such a comfort after the trials of the day. In time, she too slept.
~~~~~
Genista was used to small villages, but Haddlewick was as nondescript a place as she had ever seen. There was a large and busy coaching inn on the main road, with the date ‘1562’ engraved on the lintel. A few cottages straggled on either side of the road, and the village itself was tucked down a side road, consisting only of a church and parsonage, together with another handful of cottages, and no manor or property of any merit to be seen. The inn looked respectable, and Gil told them that Gus had patronised it, so the stables at least would be acceptable. It looked respectable enough to Genista.
Having secured their three bedrooms and a parlour, and discovered that Mr Culpepper lived at the parsonage, they made their way there at once. It was still early, but if the old gentleman was a late riser, then they could return later that day to talk to him. They were admitted by a smartly dressed housekeeper, and shown into a small parlour and left there. It was expensively furnished, but with the slightly chilled and fusty air of a room that is only used occasionally, perhaps for unexpected guests while it was decided what to do with them. The fire was laid, but not yet lit.
Genista sat patiently with the others, watching Gil prowl restlessly about the room. He’d been cross all morning, grumbling about the noise outside, but that was unavoidable in a town inn. There was always something going on. Most likely it was the after-effects of his drinking the night before. She could tell that his leg was hurting him, but he wouldn’t sit down and she dared not say a word, for fear of being on the receiving end of his wrath again. She had to bite her lip and try not to look at the set expression on his face, or the awkward way he stood, trying to relieve the pain. Such a stubborn man. Would it be so difficult to admit to a weakness now and again?
The door opened, and a woman of middle years entered. “Good day, my lord,” she said, unerringly detecting Gil as the nobleman of the group. “I am Mrs Harvey, Mr Culpepper’s daughter. I understand you wish to see my father?”
“If it is possible,” Gil said politely.
“My lord, my father is eighty-eight years of age,” she said. “He is very frail and tires easily, so you will not object if I stay and watch over him? If I grow concerned, I shall have to ask you to leave.”
Gil agreed to it, and she led them to the rear of the house, into a pleasant room with a roaring fire, one wall filled with bookcases, the others hung with so many portrait paintings crammed together that not an inch of uncovered wallpaper remained. Scattered about on various tables were books which proclaimed themselves to be from a circulating library. Clearly, Mr Culpepper was not a clergyman who confined his readings to doctrinal tomes.
As his daughter had said, Mr Culpepper was indeed frail, so thin and wizened that he looked likely to fall over at any moment, his breathing laboured. He was immaculately dressed, however, a wig covering what hair remained to him, and stood to make a very deferential bow to Gil. He, too, picked him out of the group at once as the lord.
He professed himself delighted to have visitors. “No one comes to see me any more,” he said with a chuckle, and a distinct wheezing in his chest. “Parish enquiries go to Hobbs, my curate here, and there are some who call upon Violet. My daughter, you know. And the farrier’s boy hangs about the kitchen for the scullery maid.” He laughed, the wheezing more pronounced. “But who is interested in an old man like me? I have never been further afield than Yorkshire, have never been to war or to sea, have no tales of derring-do to report. Do sit down, my lord, my lady. And Mr and Mrs Merton, too.” He scanned their cards a second time. “Marford, eh. I can guess your business, my lord. My curate at Garthorpe sent me word that there was some interest in a marriage I conducted involving a Marford. He was a relative of yours, I presume.”
“My father,” Gil said. “You remember the occasion, sir?”
“Oh, indeed, my lord. I remember it well. I was ordained at the age of twenty-five, so, as you may imagine, I have conducted a great many marriages in my time. Most of them were routine, three readings of the banns and then off to church. A few were by common licence — no banns, but everything else the same.” He paused to catch his breath. Genista noted the blue tinge to his lips — a bad sign, she knew. “But only twice, just twice in almost sixty years, have I conducted a marriage by special licence, my lord. One was for the daughter of Sir Henderson Forley down in London. He was dying, he had no son and only the one daughter, and he promised to leave everything to whoever married her. Got a special licence so they could be married right there in his bedchamber, and the lawyer there too, so he could change his will at once, and the poor man went to his maker the very next day. That was one special licence.” Another pause. Wheeze in. Wheeze out. And again. “The other was your father, my lord. Although he was not enobled then. Plain Mr Charles Marford, as I recall.”
“Your memory is excellent, sir,” Mr Merton said.
“There is nothing at all amiss with Father’s mind,” Mrs Harvey said, with a smile. “He always was sharp as a needle, and is so to this day. He plays chess with Mr Hobbs every night and always wins.”
“Well, well, not always, my dear,” the old gentleman demurred. “But I remember my two special licence marriages very well.”
“Did Mr Marford give any reason for wishing to be married by special licence?” Mr Merton said.
“No, not to me,” Mr Culpepper said. “The reasons are immaterial. If His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury sees fit to issue a special licence, it is not for a humble cleric like myself to question the matter.”
“No, indeed,” Mr Merton said. “But naturally you satisfied yourself as to the legality of the marriage.”
“I questioned both the lady and the gentleman very thoroughly. It is a v
ery particular requirement with a marriage by licence, for without the publication of the banns, one has no other means of discovering possible impediments. Both parties were asked about their ages, any previous marriages, consanguinity and if they be fully willing to take the solemn step before them.” He paused again. “Forgive me… trouble breathing…” A longer pause, with loud wheezing. Mrs Harvey shifted to the edge of her seat, ready to intervene but the old gentleman waved her back. “Fine now, my dear. All their responses were perfectly satisfactory. I should perhaps add that, by the time of which we speak, I had been exposed to such an array of humanity in all its manifold varieties, that I was quite comfortable in declaring them to be both sincere and honest in their answers. There was no deception in either of them.”
“And did you also ascertain that they were the persons named on the special licence?” Mr Merton said. “Miss Amelia Gartmore and Mr Charles Marford?”
“Indeed I did. They both provided evidence.” More wheezing, sounding loud in the otherwise silent room. “The lady showed me some letters addressed to herself, and her handkerchiefs embroidered with her initials. The gentleman showed me letters also, and a pocket watch with his name engraved upon the back.”
Gil shifted restlessly in his chair. Genista watched him anxiously. This was not going as well as he had expected, she guessed. It might be assumed that a man of eighty-eight would, at the least, be hazy about details and might even have forgotten some aspects altogether. But this pin-sharp old man was calmly proving the impossible — that Gil’s father, so conscious of his own honour, had married bigamously.
“But what did they look like, these people?” Gil said testily.
“Mr Marford was tall, very handsome, and exceedingly well-dressed — like yourself, my lord.” He took several laboured breaths. “The lady was handsome, too, rather shy, as brides tend to be.”
“What colour hair did they have?” Mr Merton said.
“Impossible to say, sir. They both wore wigs. Everyone did in those days.”
“And did my father look anything like me?” Gil burst out.
Mr Culpepper considered the question carefully. Then he said slowly, “That is a hard question to answer after all these years, my lord. One sees a face, and remembers it. I shall remember yours, my lord, just as I remember your father’s, and if I had them side by side, I could certainly compare them. But to compare a living face with a memory… that is more difficult.”
“But would you recognise my father’s face if you saw it again?” Gil said eagerly. “His portrait, for example?”
“I believe I should, my lord, if it be a good likeness.”
“Then you must come to Drummoor and look at my father’s portrait there.”
“Impossible,” Mrs Harvey said at once. “My father is too frail to travel anywhere. Look how his hands shake from the effort of talking to you, and he can barely breathe. He will only leave this house once more, my lord, for his journey to the churchyard next door.”
“Then I shall just have to bring the portrait here,” Gil said stubbornly.
“I shall be happy to look at it,” Mr Culpepper said with greater strength, “if it will convince you that I am telling the truth.” He’d gone rather red in the face, and he put a hand to his heart as if he was in pain.
“Oh, there is no question of your dishonesty,” Gil said at once. “Pray be easy on that score.”
“You believe, then, that it was not your father who was married that day?” Mr Culpepper said. “That it was some other man masquerading as him?”
“It could not possibly have been my father,” Gil said, raising his chin defiantly. “My father did many foolish or even outrageous things, but he never acted dishonourably or outside the law. Yet you would have me believe that he married Amelia Gartmore, and just months later bigamously married my mother? No! It is impossible.”
“But if it is as you say,” Mr Culpepper wheezed, “and some other person pretended to be Mr Charles Marford, the question arises — why? Why would anyone do such a thing? What could possibly be gained by it?
That, of course, was the heart of the matter, but no one could answer him.
As soon as they returned to the inn, before they had even gone through the door, Mr Merton said, “I shall go and alert the ostlers that we will need the carriage within the hour. I take it you will wish to leave for Drummoor immediately, my lord?”
“Yes, but not by carriage. I shall ride.”
Genista’s heart almost stopped beating. She wanted to cling to him, to cry out, to tell him that he mustn’t… but she dared not. She pressed her hands to her mouth, as if to stop the words that rose up from spilling out. It was Mr Merton who protested.
“My lord, I—”
“Think about it, Merton,” Gil said. “Today is Friday, and we cannot possibly get to Drummoor today by carriage. We shall have to overnight in York again, and reach Drummoor tomorrow. But the day after is Sunday, so we cannot leave before Monday, at the earliest, and perhaps the journey back will again take two days. Five days away! That old man could be dead by then, and I want this thing settled, once and for all. Whoever he married that night so many years ago, it was not my father, and I want that proved beyond all doubt. I want Culpepper to look at that portrait and say, ‘No, that is not the man I married.’ Culpepper is as honest and astute a witness as I ever saw, and he will speak truly. Then we can be done with this whole business. I shall go to the stables to bespeak a fast horse.”
“My lord, let me go!” Merton cried, grabbing his arm in desperation. “I can ride fast, you know I can, and—”
Gil looked disdainfully at the hand clutching his sleeve, and Merton withdrew it at once, hands raised in apology. “Your pardon, my lord. That was unforgivable of me.”
He bowed deeply and Gil gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. “Merton, you have been in Yorkshire a year, or not much more. Most of that time has been spent chained to your desk. You may know the ways around Drummoor, but you do not know the country this side of York, not as I do. I can reach Drummoor tonight with ease by riding cross-country, and if I leave by carriage with the portrait at first light tomorrow, I shall be here before dark.”
Genista gave a squeak of terror, but Gil didn’t so much as glance her way. He had that excited glitter in his eyes which she recognised all too well now. She felt hot and dizzy, and somehow she couldn’t breathe.
“I must advise against it, my lord,” Merton said in some agitation.
“Advice noted. Take the ladies indoors, Merton.”
And he strode off, as fast as his limp allowed, towards the stable yard.
Merton turned helplessly to Genista. “I am sorry, my lady, but there is no gainsaying him when he is in this mood.”
“I know,” Genista whispered.
“Can you not go with him?” Mrs Merton said quietly.
“And leave you here alone? I think not. I will try to persuade him to take a groom, but most likely he will refuse. Beyond that there is nothing more to be done.”
“Except to worry about him,” Genista said, her voice sounding oddly far away.
And then everything blurred and went black.
24: Hero
Gil had not been riding for more than an hour before he realised his error. Riding hard was the worst possible thing for his injured leg, and every motion of the horse shot unbearable pain through him. But he would not surrender! If he went crawling back now, the day would be lost and it would take even longer to get the portrait to Haddlewick, and Mr Culpepper could be struck down at any moment. He was impelled by a terrible sense of urgency. Culpepper was the only man who could now save the marquessate, and if he died before seeing the portrait, then Carrbridge would lose everything and it would all be Gil’s fault for interfering in the first place.
But he had never thought that Culpepper would be so lucid, or have so much calamitous evidence. Clear as a bell in his mind, he heard his brother’s voice — ‘That is the trouble with you, Gil, you neve
r do think.’ Damnation! What a mess he had made of it! But he had a chance — this one chance — to make everything right, and he must not fail. So he pushed on, trying not to scream.
He made a small detour through a larger village which he knew had an apothecary, and purchased a quantity of laudanum. After that, he got on much better, and reached Drummoor, muddy and exhausted, shortly before nightfall, limping through the house barking orders at the astonished junior footmen and housemaids, all that remained of the usual staff. Mrs Compton, the housekeeper, was still there, however, and she efficiently organised a bath, a temporary valet, a half-decent dinner and several gardeners to manhandle the portrait.
While he was soaking in the bath, Gil bethought him of a new scheme — if he took a selection of portraits, there could be no possibility of Culpepper making a mistake. There was another one of Father at a much younger age, almost the age he would have been when he married, although not so good a likeness, and there were portraits of the long-dead Uncle Reginald and Uncle Francis. There was one of Uncle Lucius, too, who was not even a Marford, which would be a good way to confuse the old man, if he were at all susceptible to being confused. He gave the orders as soon as he was dressed again, and Mrs Compton said, “Yes, my lord. I’ll see to it, my lord,” without the least hint of argument. It was very soothing to have people about one who made no protest, no matter how inconvenient the request. He was so very tired of argument.
Dinner was a tray in his room, and what with another dose of laudanum and several glasses of claret, he was feeling much mellower. He did not particularly relish the early start and long day tomorrow, and he would have to drive himself for there was no one left in the stables who could handle the reins, but at least he would be moving, and he had the laudanum to keep the pain at bay. He would take a groom to deal with the horses. It was a pity that the only usable conveyance was the old luggage coach, for it was a lumbering beast, and even with four horses, their progress would be slow.
Lord Gilbert (Sons of the Marquess Book 5) Page 23
