“Father, do not tire yourself,” Mrs Harvey said. “Will you not sit?”
“I shall sit when I feel tired, my dear, but my breathing is so much better after the steam bath that Lady Gilbert so kindly suggested, that you need not be concerned. Your wife is a treasure, Lord Gilbert.”
“I know it, sir.” He squeezed her hand, as she blushed and hung her head.
“But you may be easy, my lord. This is most assuredly not the man I saw married all those years ago.”
“Ah…” Gil let out a long breath. Finally! It was as he suspected, and here was the proof at last.
“Who are these other gentlemen?” Mr Culpepper asked, pointing to the other portraits.
“Those two are my father’s older brothers, Francis and Reginald, long dead. The other is Uncle Lucius March, Mama’s brother.”
“And this one, the young man with his first stag is your father again, I presume? Much younger than the imposing peer of the realm over here. But side by side, despite the inadequacies of the artist, one sees the likeness. And who are these other men?”
“Just the servants of the day,” Gil said. “Dead, by now, most of them, I should imagine.”
“Not necessarily,” Humphrey said, kneeling down to look more closely. “That one there is Crabbe, look. He is our butler now, Mr Culpepper, and a very grand fellow. Gaffney, the gamekeeper. Elkham, who was probably just a footman then, but ended up as Father’s valet. Lester, who is head groom now. That one I do not remember, nor that. Village men, perhaps. Oh, there is Sharp, our land agent. Ha! He is not dead, regrettably, but has gone very much to the bad. The Fitch brothers, and Harper — whatever happened to him? And the boy in front must be Harris, who became head gardener.”
“How interesting,” Mr Culpepper said. “A fascinating glimpse into the household of the day. It is not a good likeness of your father, but what about the rest? Good enough for you to recognise them all, Lord Humphrey, eh?”
“Actually, they are good likenesses. I daresay the servants were more willing to sit for the painter.”
“That is probably it,” Mr Culpepper said. “But you did not bring this painting all the way from Drummoor on account of the servants, Lord Gilbert?”
“It is the only likeness of Father at about the age he would have been at the time of this marriage, sir.”
“Indeed. Nevertheless, it is a very fortunate circumstance that you thought to bring it. It makes me even more sure that your father had no part in the marriage I performed. Because this man here, standing beside your father — I am reasonably confident, my lords, that this is the man who stood before me all those years ago, and married Miss Gartmore.”
“Sharp?” Humphrey and Gil exclaimed in unison.
“Impossible,” Gil whispered.
It was Merton who voiced the crucial question. “But why?”
~~~~~
The inn was full that night, and Humphrey was obliged to take Gil’s room.
“You will not mind bunking with Lady Gilbert for a couple of nights, will you?” Humphrey said with a wink.
Gil smiled a little. Naturally everyone assumed that all was well again between him and Gen, since they had arrived hand in hand. He was not at all sure what had been in Gen’s mind at the time, but to him it had felt more like a drowning man clinging to any piece of wreckage that might save him. Could Gen save him? And even if she could, would she want to? She had said he was not worthless, but that did not mean she was happy to be married to him, or would want him cluttering up her bed again. That thought made him entirely miserable.
When they went upstairs to change before dinner, there was one bath in front of the fire, filled with steaming water.
“I shall wait downstairs for half an hour,” he said.
“Don’t be silly. We’re married, aren’t we? We’ve both seen everything there is to see. I undressed you before I even knew your name, remember? Get your clothes off and get in that water before it gets cold. I’ll lay out clean clothes for you. Humphrey brought everything through all higgledy-piggledy, so it will take some sorting out first. Take your time and have a good soak. If I slide this screen round like so, you won’t feel a draft.”
And rather cleverly, she had contrived to give him some privacy. Sheltered by the screen, he undressed and stepped into the blessed warmth of the bath water. Somewhere out of sight she was humming softly to herself, and, presumably, laying neckcloths and shirts into neat piles. He smiled to hear her, for she sounded happy, impossible as it was to believe.
“Dark breeches or light?” she called out.
“Dark. The light ones are only for day wear.”
“Oh.” A long pause. “You usually wear light breeches in the evenings.”
“When they are silk or some such. The ones I brought with me are buckskins. For riding, or day wear, but never in the evenings.”
“Ah, I understand. I’d make a terrible valet. Do you want me to scrub your back?”
Oh, the temptation! But he dared not. He could not trust himself to behave properly. “Thank you, but I can manage. I have almost finished and then you may have a turn in the water.”
Stepping out of the bath, he dried himself and pulled on the shirt she had left draped over the screen for him. He found her kneeling before a capacious chest of drawers, carefully putting the neatly folded linens away. On a chair, his clothes were laid out ready for him. His shaving water and razors, strop and brushes awaited him on the wash stand. A swivelling looking glass was adjusted to the right position for him to shave and tie his neckcloth.
“I think you make a rather good valet,” he said.
She smiled, but demurred. “Just don’t ask me to tie your cravat. Do you want me to look at your leg?”
“If you would be so good.”
“No point being married to a physician’s daughter if you don’t make use of me. Lie down, then.”
She ran cool, dry hands over his leg, looking at it with concentration. To him, it looked like an angry, misshapen mess, still oddly coloured. But she nodded as if satisfied.
“How much laudanum have you been taking?”
“Just what the apothecary told me to take. The bottle is in my coat pocket.”
She brought the bottle out, read the label and sniffed the contents. “It’s a weak dose, which was a good choice when the apothecary didn’t know the circumstances, but you’ll need something stronger for a day or two. That way you won’t need the brandy. There is no visible infection, and the wound itself has healed well. It feels a little hot, but it’s not at all as bad as I feared, after all that climbing about on trees and then riding at speed. Gil…” She lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye. “I’m so very sorry I shouted at you at High Berenholme, but I was so terrified…” She closed her eyes, and he had the feeling that she could not bear to talk about it.
“That I would fall?” he said gently.
“No…” She opened her eyes and sighed. “Well, partly, of course. But mostly I was afraid you would damage your leg beyond repair. I know how you like to be active, and if it had gone wrong… being crippled and not able to do anything would drive you insane.” She paused, but he had nothing to say to this nightmarish vision of his future, described in such a matter-of-fact way. “I shall have my bath,” she said, moving away from him and disappearing behind the screen.
He shaved, then dressed slowly, listening to her humming in the bath. She sounded so happy, yet he could scarcely believe it. How could it be possible? When she emerged from behind the screen, he was engaged in the tricky business of arranging his neckcloth. Some men were perfectionists, and would throw away a slightly misaligned effort and begin again. Gil prided himself on achieving the desired effect at the first attempt, but it took time and the greatest care. His chin was high in the air as he adjusted the folds, but he was aware of Gen sitting quietly on the bed in her shift, watching him.
“If you hope to see me fail, Lady Gilbert, you will be disappointed, I vow.”
/> She gave a low gurgle of merriment. “I like to watch. It fascinates me, the way you create those intricate folds and knots. It is a work of art. Whereas Father’s Geneva bands are the simplest arrangement imaginable.”
Gil had to concentrate after that, so silence fell, but he was very conscious of her nearness, and her attention fixed on him. She sat so still, all in white like a marble statue. Yet she was not cold and unfeeling like marble, for had she not been so fearful for him that she had screamed and pleaded with him? And she had told him he was not worthless — he clung to that thought.
Eventually, the neckcloth was satisfactory. He turned and smiled at her. “There. Do I meet with your approval, my lady?”
“You always do, my lord,” she said. She had never acquired the knack of paying compliments, so such a statement must be entirely honest, and it quite took his breath away. Something inside him shifted at her words. Was it possible that she cared for him, just a little?
Before he could frame a sensible reply, she had turned to her own clothes, neatly set out at the foot of the bed, and he sat to savour the pleasure of watching her dress. It was the stockings that mesmerised him, always. The careful rolling up the leg, very gingerly so as not to spoil them, and the prospect of later seeing them being just as carefully unrolled — it was entrancing. Her innocence was utterly beguiling. When Bella dressed, she was very aware of her audience and would smooth each stocking seductively, and throw flirtatious glances at him. Gen, his sweet Gen, was incapable of such stratagems. She dressed, as she did everything, with total concentration, but humming gently.
“I like to hear you humming like that. It makes you sound happy,” he said in wonder.
She looked up at him, smiling. “Of course I am happy! You came back to me, and all in one piece, God be praised.”
“You dislike being left behind, I know, but I could not have taken you with me this time.”
“I hate being left behind, but so long as you come back to me, I am happy. Will you help me with my stays, if you please? I don’t want to have to summon a servant.”
His fingers fumbled with the laces, but that was more from her nearness than unfamiliarity with the garment. He could feel the warmth of her body under his hands, and there was a hint of lavender about her from the soap. A few damp tendrils of hair clung to her neck. His heart beat so fast and loud it was a wonder he could hear his own thoughts. When the laces were tied, he gently wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck very softly. He felt, rather than heard, her rumble of laughter.
“Later,” she whispered. “Please.”
~~~~~
There was an air of celebration about the party that evening. Humphrey had acquired a bottle of champagne from somewhere, and was already in high spirits by the time Gil and Genista arrived at the parlour.
“Ah, here is the hero of the hour,” Humphrey boomed across the room. “Let us drink a toast to Gil’s dashing ride through the rain to prove the case for Carrbridge’s honours.”
“That is the third time today I have been likened to a hero,” Gil said. “Never was an epithet less deserved.”
“Nonsense!” Humphrey said. “Who knows when the portrait might have been got here, without your efforts. As it is, Merton has in his pocket a written statement confirming that Father was not the man who was married that day, and Culpepper may go off to meet his maker whenever he chooses now, although, God knows, I wish him a long and contented life.”
“He looked a great deal better today, I thought,” Gil said. “Lady Gil’s remedies have wrought a wondrous improvement.”
“It’s an illusion,” she said. “The steam bath helps him to breathe more easily, but his heart is still weak, and may give out on him at any moment.”
“You see?” Humphrey said. “Had you dallied, all might have been in vain. Victory is ours, brother, and all thanks to you.”
“But I still do not quite see why Sharp married Amelia Gartmore,” Gil said plaintively.
“Ah, Merton has a theory about that,” Humphrey said.
The servants entered in procession just then, bearing an array of dishes for their dinner, and for some time the only topic of conversation concerned mutton and partridge and carrots and claret. Gil watched Genista carefully, and was pleased to see that she ate a little of everything that was offered to her. She never asked for a dish, but if he brought one to her, she would accept with a shy smile, and she drank a little of the claret, too.
Eventually, with only the dessert and wine left on the table, Merton elaborated on his theory.
“I cannot believe that Amelia Gartmore would marry Sharp. All the signs are that she was betrothed to your father. No, I would wager that Sharp’s bride that day was Annie Gartmore. But the question of why is more problematic. The marriage is almost certainly not valid, since the participants were acting under false names, and quite intentionally so. They both produced letters, for instance, and Sharp had a pocket watch engraved with your father’s name.”
“A family tradition,” Humphrey said. “We were each given one when we went up to Oxford. I gambled mine away in about five minutes, I regret to say.”
“As did I,” Gil said. “Perhaps Father did the same, and lost it to Sharp. But I see no purpose to the marriage. They could never use the names they had assumed, so what was the point?”
“Perhaps we may never know the reason,” Merton said.
“Monty and I have been working through Father’s letters to Amelia Gartmore,” Humphrey said. “Some more information may yet arise from that source. Would it be worth the effort to go to High Berenholme, and make more enquiries there? Some of the Kiddlestons might remember that year, and be able to shed some light on what Sharp was up to.”
“The Kiddlestons have gone,” Gil said. “Old Mr Kiddleston died and the two sons sold the place.”
“Oh. Well, the servants, then. I am sure Reggie mentioned the housekeeper who was very helpful.”
“All gone,” Merton said. “The new family, the Prestwicks, cleared out all the long-standing… all the long-standing…” He stopped, his expression shifting to puzzlement, and then slowly dawning comprehension. “Oh, what a fool I am! And Mrs Prestwick has been in Bath for her health. Ha! Not Bath, I wager. Four daughters and two surviving sons, and Mr Richard Prestwick is married.”
“Merton, are you quite well?” Humphrey said. “Is it a riddle? Must we guess your meaning? Perhaps you would care to turn it into an acrostic, while you are about it?”
“Do you not see?” Merton cried, jumping to his feet in his agitation. “High Berenholme! Where she came from, where she was nothing but the poor relation, little regarded and probably treated not much better than a servant. Then along comes Sharp to take her away from it all. And now, when there is plenty of money, finally she can return in triumph, no longer the poor relation, but the mistress of the house. No wonder they turned off the oldest servants, who might have recognised her. Mrs Prestwick, you see, is Annie Gartmore, also known as Mrs Charles Ballard, and Mr Prestwick is Sharp himself. They are living at High Berenholme, practically under our noses!”
26: A Walk In The Woods
Genista rose early enough to attend Matins with Mr and Mrs Merton, and was sitting down to breakfast when Gil drifted downstairs, still yawning. He leaned over her, and kissed her on the forehead, putting her to the blush.
“Why did you not wake me?” he said. “I suppose you have already been to church?”
“You were sleeping so peacefully,” she said. “The rest will have done you good, and you may attend the Eucharist later if you wish to improve your spiritual wellbeing also. The rain has stopped, and it is a beautiful spring day outside.”
She went again to church, for the pleasure of being with him, watching him covertly as he made the responses. He looked so serious, and yet somehow very young. He was so experienced in the ways of the world that it was easy to forget how young he was. She was a year older than he was, yet she had done nothing
and travelled nowhere by comparison. She had had no education except from her mama’s teaching and books, and he had been to the best school, the best university. She knew nothing, and he knew so much. Yet he was the one who was lost, and struggling to find his way in the world. She had long ago realised where her path to happiness lay. Now she could only sit and watch and hope that, when he finally understood his own future, it would have a place for her.
After the service, instead of turning up the lane to return to the inn, he looked in the opposite direction and said, “Shall we walk for a while? It is so pleasant after the rain.”
She was happy to agree, taking his arm, walking down the lane past a few straggling cottages, and then they were beyond the village. They went slowly, although his limp was less pronounced than it had been, and he seemed to be in less pain. Even so, she watched him carefully, and suggested a rest as soon as he seemed to be tiring.
“I thought we should talk,” he said diffidently, as they sat on a broad stile. “About… what we both want, for the future.”
She went cold. Was this the point where he told her that he was leaving her behind for good? That he was going to London to join his family, and she must stay at Drummoor. Bowing her head, she determined that she would not cry!
“Gen?”
Taking a deep breath, she said, “It’s for you to say. You’re my husband, you say what happens.”
To her surprise, he laughed. “Oh, the way Carrbridge tells Connie what is to happen, you mean? Or Humphrey lays down the law to Lady H? That is not how marriages work in my family. I never knew Mama when she was well, but from her bedchamber she managed the whole household. Everyone danced to her tune. She spoke so softly, but no one ever gainsaid her. I would not want anything different. So tell me what you want.”
Lord Gilbert (Sons of the Marquess Book 5) Page 25
