by M. C. Beaton
“The same as last one,” said Isabella. “Hot rooms and hot gentlemen.”
“Didn’t you have a beau?”
“Plenty of beaux, but none suitable.”
“I should not be so hard to please,” said Lucy. “Only I couldn’t bear one of those Nonpareils, you know, all elegance and manners. He would scare me to death.”
“I don’t like fops either,” said Isabella.
“What kind of man do you like, Isabella? We all dream.”
Isabella smiled, a little sad smile, “Oh, I have dreams of my own. I would like to live here until the end of my days, unwed.”
“Oh, Isabella. Why?”
“Why not? I have a very good life. I wonder what our parents are talking about?”
“So that’s settled,” said Mr. Chadbury. “Lord Harry will marry Isabella. Our lawyers will get together tomorrow. Here is a miniature of Isabella to send to Lord Harry. Are you sure he will want this marriage?”
“He’ll do what he’s told,” said the countess ruthlessly. “He knows we need money. Besides, he’s thirty. Hasn’t shown a fancy for anyone before this.”
“He cannot have had much opportunity,” said Mrs. Chadbury doubtfully. “He joined the army at fifteen and he’s been at one war or another ever since.”
“I don’t think Isabella is going to like this,” remarked the countess, ignoring Mrs. Chadbury’s remarks about her son.
“Oh, well,” said Mr. Chadbury, “she is just going to have to like it, is she not? Shall we go in to dinner?”
Isabella, unaware of her fate, enjoyed that dinner party. She had never seen the earl and countess in such high spirits before. Lucy, like her parents, ate a vast amount of the delicious food before her, although she privately decided that Mr. Chadbury must have given her father some money to cause all this hilarity. She found herself glancing from time to time at the beautiful statue that was Isabella, cool and gracious in white muslin with a gold filet binding her hair. She had wanted to ask Isabella to go looking for gulls’ eggs on the cliffs with her on the following day but somehow felt that one could not ask a fashionplate to do anything so vulgar. But perhaps that would happen to her in another couple of years. Perhaps she, too, would become graceful and elegant. But graceful and elegant people did not seem to have any fun. Isabella was enjoying the company, but Lucy sensed a coldness in her.
“Harry’s coming home,” she said to Isabella. “I wonder what he’s like now. I saw him five years ago. He’s old now, of course. Thirty! Fancy being thirty!”
“Thirty is a mature age,” said the countess and gave Mrs. Chadbury a vulgar wink.
At last, the Tremaynes rose to leave. The old retainer was found lying drunk on the terrace, an empty brandy bottle beside him.
“Silly old fool,” said Lucy impatiently. “He’ll kill himself if he goes on drinking like that.”
“You musn’t walk,” said Mrs. Chadbury. “We’re having the carriage brought round for you. I insist.”
“Oh, do, do insist,” said the countess gratefully. She looked down at the old servant. “What are we to do with what’s his name? Put him in the basket?”—meaning the long basket slung behind carriages for luggage.
“We can’t do that,” said Lucy. “He’ll roll about and break his neck. He’ll just need to travel inside with us and lie along the seat where we can hold him.”
And so as Lucy pushed her feet against the recumbent body of the drunken old retainer so that he would not roll off the seat in the carriage, she asked her parents why they were so merry.
“We’ve arranged a marriage,” crowed the countess. “Isabella and our Harry. The Chadburys have been most generous, in fact part of the arrangement is that you are to have a Season when you are nineteen, Lucy.”
“Oh, lor’” Lucy frowned. “What’s Isabella to say to things?”
“Nothing at all. Her parents have had enough of her playing fast and loose. It’s to be an arranged marriage.”
“Harry, as I remember,” said Lucy, “is not the sort to be ordered around. And Isabella? Goodness, she could have her pick.”
“She’s had her pick of the best,” said the earl happily, “and she didn’t want any of them, which is why the Chadburys are arranging a marriage.”
“A marriage of inconvenience!” said Lucy, and laughed.
Chapter 2
KNOWN AFFECTIONATELY by the men in his regiment as Lord Harry, Isabella’s future husband’s title was in fact that of Viscount Tregar as, being the heir to the earldom, he used one of his father’s courtesy titles. His rank in the army was that of colonel. But he was rarely called Viscount Tregar, even the Cornish locals referring to him as Lord Harry.
He was a tall, athletic man, careless in his dress and possessing a mischievous nature that he had not outgrown. He accepted everything life sent his way with good nature. He considered his bout of fever extremely good luck, for it had brought him a chance of leave, away from battling with Napoleon’s troops. What he also rated as another piece of good fortune was that his best friend, Captain James Godolphin, also a Cornishman, had also caught the fever, and like Lord Harry had recovered on the voyage home. Lord Harry had invited the captain to stay with him at Tregar Castle. The friends were in complete contrast. Lord Harry had thick black curly hair, a strong handsome face, wide blue eyes, and a firm chin. Clothes as far as he was concerned were just things to protect one from the weather. Captain James, on the other hand, was tall, slim and neat, and fanatical about the niceties of dress. He was a brave soldier and yet would never dream of going into battle in an unpressed uniform or unshaved any more than he would have dreamed of turning up at Almack’s, say, in anything but the latest fashion. He had blond hair teased into that elaborate style known as the Windswept, and his cravats were a miracle of starched design.
Lord Harry was lounging at his ease in the regiment’s mess in Portsmouth opening up the morning’s post when he gave a surprised exclamation.
“What’s amiss?” asked the captain.
“It seems I am to be married,” said Lord Harry, “and here’s the bride.” He handed Captain James the miniature of Isabella that his father had sent him.
“Goodness, can she possibly really be as beautiful as this?” asked the captain.
“It doesn’t matter if she is,” said Lord Harry. “She’s an heiress, and my parents are in need of funds. They assume I will do my duty. They are going ahead to arrange the marriage.”
“A bit high handed that,” commented the captain. “What if you don’t want the girl?”
“I don’t want anyone else. May as well let them get on with it. I’ll be going back to the Peninsula soon, so I needn’t see much of her, parents get her money and everybody is happy.”
“Do be careful. What if you fall in love with someone else after you are married?”
“I won’t,” said Lord Harry cynically. “I’ve dealt with all the business here, so we may as well leave right away and get this marriage over with, unless you’ve got anything to keep you.”
“No. But you must allow my man plenty of time to pack. I refuse to turn up in a creased coat.”
“You’ve never been to Tregar Castle, have you James? My parents wouldn’t notice if you arrived in your nightshirt.”
Lucy rode over to Appleton House on the following day to see Isabella. She was curious to find out how the beauty had taken the news of her arranged marriage.
She was ushered into the drawing room where Isabella was embroidering the bodice of a dress.
“Goodness, it’s hot.” Lucy sighed, taking off her old straw bonnet and hurling it into a corner. “Well, Isabella, so you are to marry my brother?”
“We will see,” said Isabella. “I do not remember your brother, although I must have met him. What is he like?”
“I haven’t seem him in ages, but he is great fun and quite good-looking, I think. Very easy going.”
“Surely a thirty-year-old man will not wed some girl chosen for him by his pa
rents?”
“Well, Harry’s deuced fond of Ma and Pa. The way he’ll look at it is that if they need the money, then he may as well go along with the marriage. I mean, it’s not as if you want anyone else, Isabella.”
“The sad fact is I do not want anyone at all.”
“You can’t mean that.” Lucy rubbed at her nose in the way she always did when she was worried or upset. “I mean, I haven’t met anyone yet, but I dream of a beau. I haven’t ever been kissed. Have you?”
Isabella repressed a shudder. “No.”
“I would like to find out what it’s like. I mean, do people tremble with love and go ashen pale like they do in the romances?”
“Probably not.” Isabella carefully chose a skein of silk thread.
“But Shakespeare wrote of love, and he was terribly clever. He must have known what he was talking about.”
“I do not want to talk of fairy tales,” said Isabella. “Let us be practical. Suppose I am pressed into this marriage. What experience has your brother had of polite society?”
“Not much. He left Eton at fifteen and went straight into the army. I read however that Wellington likes his officers to be able to dance properly. He cannot be devoid of the social graces, and why should it matter anyway?”
“I like the elegancies of life,” said Isabella. “I detest coarse, loud-voiced men.”
“Never mind. Let’s go out for a ride. It’s a glorious day.”
“Why?”
“Why, why … why because we can ride like the wind through the countryside in the sunshine.”
“What an energetic girl you are! Very well.” Isabella stowed away her sewing things neatly. “Wait until I change into a riding dress.”
Soon they were riding over the springy turf on the cliffs above the sea. The weather was glorious. Little boats like toys bobbed on the blue sea, and clumps of sea pinks fluttered at the edge of the cliffs on the sage green grass. They were accompanied by two grooms from Appleton House, which Lucy, who rode everywhere on her own, felt restricted their freedom. But Isabella seemed livelier than she had been for a long time.
They reined in their horses on the edge of the cliff. “Of course, if we could find grandfather’s treasure, Harry wouldn’t need to marry you,” said Lucy.
“Oh, that!” Isabella laughed. “Do you remember how when we were children, we searched and searched through the castle. What was the treasure supposed to be? A box of jewels? What romantics we were then!”
“But it’s not just a tale,” said Lucy eagerly. “There’s a portrait of Grandma in the library, and she’s simply dripping with jewels.”
“Why would your grandfather bother to hide them?” asked Isabella.
“Because he had windmills in his cockloft before he died, and he took against Mama and didn’t want her to have them. Perhaps they were buried with him? Perhaps we should dig up his coffin!”
“Nonsense. If they were buried with him then the earl would know about it. We looked everywhere, if you remember.”
“But we were terribly young and immature,” said seventeen-year-old Lucy. “A systematic search is called for.”
“Another day,” said Isabella and turned her mount toward home.
The ride with Lucy had done her good, and Isabella decided she had not been firm enough about this marriage. She sought out her parents who had just returned from a visit to their lawyers and said, “This has got to stop. I am not going to marry Lord Harry, and that is that.”
Her parents looked at her coldly. “For once,” said her father evenly, “you will do as you are told. That is an end of the matter.”
In vain did Isabella plead. Her usually indulgent parents had grown hard and adamant.
Her mind twisted this way and that, trying to find an escape. The old earl’s treasure might be an answer … if it still existed, and Isabella was sure it did not.
Captain James eyed the bulk of Tregar Castle nervously. It appeared to be hanging onto the edge of the cliff. “Do my eyes deceive me,” he said, “or has a bit of it fallen off?”
“Yes, it has,” said Lord Harry. “My father told me that a bit of the east wing had dropped into the sea. I’m afraid our rooms are in the east wing—or what’s left of it—so if you hear a rumble in the night, you’d best be smartish about getting out.”
The castle door was opened to them by an elderly butler. “Here I am, Stokes,” said Lord Harry cheerfully. “Turned up again like the proverbial bad penny.”
The butler grunted by way of reply.
The captain removed his hat and gloves and held them out. The butler ignored them.
“Leave them on the side table, James,” said Lord Harry.
“Why doesn’t this servant take them?” asked the captain.
“Why should I?” demanded the butler passionately. “Mark my words, the day will come when the likes o’ you will be hanging from the lantern.”
“Quite right, Stokes,” said Lord Harry amiably. “Come along, James.”
The captain took out his pocket handkerchief and pointedly dusted the side table before putting down his hat and gloves. Then he followed Lord Harry, his impeccably tailored back stiff with outrage.
“This is your room, James,” said Lord Harry, kicking open a door in the middle of a passage.
The room was cold and dark. Ivy grew thickly over the mullioned window. Two elderly footmen came in carrying the captain’s bags.
The captain struck the bedcovers with the flat of his hand. A cloud of dust rose and then hung in the air.
“I do not mean to criticize your hospitality,” said the captain coldly, “but I would like clean blankets and linen.”
The two footmen cackled wildly as if he had said something very funny.
“Don’t look so outraged, James. They’ve got out of the way of service for the simple reason they probably haven’t been paid for years.”
James looked horrified. “But one should always pay one’s servants. Why did you not let me bring my man with me? I have an idea.” He said to one of the footmen. “Fetch that butler here … Stokes.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Lord Harry. “Horsewhip the lot of ‘em?”
“Just watch.”
Stokes creaked in. “What does ee want?” he demanded.
James took several guineas out of his pocket and began to toss them up and down. “Gold, old man,” he said, “which will be paid to you to distribute among the staff if this room is cleaned and aired, the ivy stripped from outside the window, and washing water brought to the toilet table.”
The butler bowed low. “Certainly, master,” he quavered.
“I’ll move into your room while they get busy with mine,” said James. “Really, Harry, badly treated servants always behave badly. You should know that.”
“Tell my parents. Here’s my quarters along from yours. I hope you’re right in telling them to cut the ivy away from the window. I’m sure it’s what holds this castle up.”
The door opened, and the elderly retainer creaked in. Lord Harry greeted him warmly. His name was Biddle, and Lord Harry could never remember him having looked any younger or having any specific job, although he wore the indoor livery of a footman.
“Hey, Biddle,” cried Lord Harry. “Here I am, back home.”
“Them’s gone to Appleton House, and you and the gennelmun here is to go fer dinner.”
Lord Harry raised his eyebrows. “So I am to meet my bride so soon. What’s she like, Biddle?”
“Fair as the flower o’ May and as cold as charity,” said the old man.
“How would you know if she’s cold?”
“Cos when she passes un, there’s a cold wind.”
“Fustian. Well, come along, James. We’ll ride over. Put your evening dress in a saddle bag. Don’t look like that, man. Neither the Chadburys nor my parents will remark if your coat is creased.”
The castle, reflected James as they rode off, looked better in the distance, its gray towers softened
by the mellow light. It was not a large castle, had no moat or portcullis, but it looked as if it had stood for centuries. James wondered how Lord Harry could bear to see his family home descending into the sea, bit by bit, and yet he envied his friend his insouciance. He himself could not bear a household of such weird servants, nor could he ride easily out to meet a future bride. He was obsessive about manners and appearance, and yet, as he rode through the lazy Cornish countryside, he wondered for the first time why he should control his life with so many finicky little taboos. What would it be like to be like Lord Harry? Happy, he thought suddenly.
“We’ll leave the horses at the stables and walk up,” called Lord Harry as Appleton House came into sight.
This was more like it, thought James, as a correct groom said their bags would be carried up to the house.
“Beautiful place, isn’t it?” said Lord Harry. “But almost too perfect. Let me show you the rose garden. Round the side here and through the little gate. There! What do you think of that?”
Roses rioted over trellises and from urns, filling the air with their heady scent. Somewhere a thrush sang and then fell silent. “Home in England again, hey, James?” said Lord Harry softly.
“And that,” said the captain quietly, “if I am not mistaken, is your future bride.” He pointed toward the house. The Green Saloon overlooked the rose garden. Standing, framed in the window, was Isabella. Both men recognized her from her miniature. “Move closer,” muttered Lord Harry. “I want to get a better look at her before we’re introduced.”
They moved quietly forward through the roses. Lord Harry realized Isabella was talking to his parents.
Her cool voice reached their ears. “So, Lord and Lady Tremayne,” said Isabella, “as I am being forced into marriage with your son, may I point out to you that as he left school and went straight into the army, he must be in need of some town bronze, some refinement. To that end, I suggest we introduce him to London society. You would not have me marry some uncouth lout I take it? May I beg the marriage is delayed until after the Little Season so that he may be allowed to experience some civilizing influences?”
