The Youngest Dowager

by Louise Allen

  It was three years since she had seen her father and she was shocked by the change in him. Sir George was tall, heavily built and when she had last seen him his tight crop of curls had still been black. Now it was iron-grey, his face lined and reddened with pouches and broken veins. His figure had thickened to corpulence, making his fashionable trousers strain across the tops of his thighs. His eyes, despite his show of bonhomie, were cold and assessing beneath the shaggy grey brows and Marissa could detect no sign of pleasure at seeing his only child again after so long.

  ‘You are well, Papa?’ she enquired dutifully and to break the silence. ‘It is a long time since I have seen you.’

  ‘Hah! And whose fault was that? Denied the right to see my own daughter by that cold fish of a husband of yours. Much good it did him, all those high and mighty airs – in his grave at forty-five.’

  You married me to him, she thought, but all she said was, ‘You did not come to the funeral.’

  ‘What would have been the point of that? All the expense of posting up from Hampshire and not a chance the tight cove would have left me so much as a guinea in his will.’

  ‘The hope of gain should not be the motive for attending the funeral of your son-in-law,’ Marissa retorted.

  ‘Spare me the moralising. You are as bad as your mother ever was.’ Sir George removed his snuffbox with some difficulty from his waistcoat pocket and helped himself to a large pinch. ‘He showed me no respect as his father-in-law, why should I pretend any for him?’

  Marissa fought down the revulsion that came flooding back at the memory of the awful scenes between her father and her husband. In the end Charles had thrown Sir George off the estate with the threat that he would cut off even the small allowance he had agreed to pay his father-in-law if he showed his face again in either Norfolk or Grosvenor Square.

  ‘He paid you an allowance, you had no cause for complaint.’ It was hard for Marissa to keep calm, not to crumble in the face of this blustering man who had neglected her all her young life then thrust her into marriage with unseemly haste.

  Matthews came in with the decanters and poured a large brandy to her father’s instructions. He tossed it back as if it were water and thrust out the glass again. Expressionless, the butler replenished it. ‘Will there be anything else, my lady?’ he enquired pointedly, his eyes anxious on her face.

  ‘Thank you. Matthews, that will be all.’ She waited until the door closed behind him. ‘Why are you here, Father?’

  ‘Why do you think, you ungrateful child? Why have I heard nothing about my allowance being increased when the man’s been dead over a year? I always thought that lawyer of yours was a slow dog.’

  ‘Why should you expect to hear anything?’ Marissa enquired calmly. Even a year ago her father would have brow-beaten her, now a year of independence had stiffened her resolve and given her the confidence to withstand his bullying. ‘The allowance continues as before.’

  ‘But does not increase?’ he blustered. ‘Now that arrogant husband of yours is gone I expect a dutiful daughter to consider what a man needs to live on.’

  All her life her father had been in debt, spending on racing, gambling and loose women. She felt the colour rise in her cheeks but she kept her voice steady. ‘If you did not spend it on drinking and cards and paid attention to the estate you would have a very fine income, Father.’

  ‘What do you know about affairs?’ He heaved himself to his feet and poured another brandy, the neck of the decanter rattling against his glass. The blood vessels in his neck were beginning to swell and Marissa, inwardly trembling, recognised the signs of one of his frequent rages developing. He tossed back the brandy and began to pace the carpet in front of the fire. ‘I haven’t come here for a sermon, I have come here for you to tell that lawyer of yours to double my allowance.’

  Marissa gripped her hands together in her lap, the knuckles showing white, but she kept her voice steady. ‘Charles would not have wished that.’

  ‘Charles would not have wished,’ he mocked, coming to a halt in front of her. ‘Very dutiful, I’m sure, for a silly little ninny who was bought for five thousand guineas.’

  ‘Bought? What do you mean?’ She reached out to clutch the sides of her chair as the room tilted.

  ‘The damn fool wanted you so much that he was prepared to pay off my gambling debts and forgo a dowry to get his hands on you.’

  Through the shock Marissa felt a sudden stab of amazement. Charles must have truly loved her at the beginning after all – what had gone wrong?

  Her father saw the play of emotion on her face and pounced. ‘Oh, don’t think he was in love with you,’ he sneered. ‘He was quite frank with me: he wanted a well-bred girl who was young enough to be moulded to his liking. And you happened to be the youngest and the prettiest that was available. I wanted to hold out for more, but I’ll give him his due, he was a cunning bastard. Told me that if I did not sell you to him he would make damn sure your reputation was sullied and you would marry no one.’

  ‘I do not believe you. You are lying,’ she stammered.

  ‘Did he ever say he loved you? Did he ever show you any sign of affection? I would doubt it, knowing his reputation.’

  ‘Reputation?’ Could it be that Charles’s cruelty and coolness were more widely known than she had realised? ‘How could you do that to me, if you knew what kind of man he was?’ she cried, starting to her feet, her hands clenched by her sides, wanting to hit out at that smirking red face.

  ‘You are my daughter. Mine to dispose of as I saw fit. Girls are no good for anything else but marriage.’

  ‘You are despicable. I hate you,’ she choked out. ‘You will not get another farthing from me. I shall stop your allowance today – ’

  He snatched at her wrist, pulling her towards him with some force. They were so close she could smell the brandy on his breath, see the broken veins in his cheeks. ‘Tread very carefully, Marissa. There are things I could make known about your esteemed late husband that would ruin you and create a scandal that would blight the Southwood name.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  Marcus. Thank God.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Marissa gasped as her father spun round, his fingers still clamped round her wrist. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Marcus Southwood. Would you do me the favour of unhanding Lady Longminster?’ It was not a request.

  Her father’s face darkened to a damson-red but he did not relinquish his grasp. ‘What's it got to do with you? I am talking to my daughter.’

  ‘You are hurting your daughter.’ The words were quiet, but full of menace. ‘I shall not tell you again.’ Marcus stalked forward, his eyes cold and narrowed on the other man’s face.

  Her father released her wrist and Marcus took her hand, his thumb gently massaging the livid marks, his eyes still locked with the other man’s. ‘Get out of my house, and do not come back unless her ladyship asks for you.’

  Marissa realised that her father was more likely to raise a fist to Marcus than to obey. ‘Papa, go now, please, and I will say nothing more about the matter of the allowance.’ She realised that Jackson had joined them and was standing just inside the doors, his muscular arms folded across his broad chest.

  ‘Jackson, see this… person off the premises. He is not to be re-admitted except with her ladyship’s express permission.’ Marcus turned his back contemptuously on the older man.

  It was Jackson who saw Sir George lunge forward, Jackson who grabbed him before the blow could fall. But it took both men to wrestle the enraged baronet down the stairs and out of the front door.

  Marissa stood in the middle of the room, frozen with shock, her fingers rubbing her bruised wrist. The front door slammed and then the knocker was pounded furiously for several seconds. Finally, with a great roar of anger, her father gave up and there was silence.

  She heard Marcus and Jackson clattering back up the stairs, their voices animated. They entered together, both men flushed
and triumphant, somehow larger than life, Jackson massaging his knuckles. They stopped abruptly at the sight of her.

  ‘Shall I call your maid, my lady?’ Jackson was immediately the perfect butler once again.

  ‘No thank you, Jackson.’

  Marcus poured a glass of brandy and pressed it into her hand before he led her to the sofa. ‘Drink this, it will help to calm your nerves. Jackson, send for Dr Lavery, her ladyship’s wrist is badly bruised.’

  ‘No, please do not. How could we explain how it happened?’ Marissa protested. ‘Witch hazel will soothe it, please do not concern yourselves.’ She took a sip of the brandy and coughed as it burned its way down her throat. She tried to hand the glass back to Marcus, but he urged her to take more.

  Jackson went out as she turned to Marcus. ‘I am so sorry. I apologise for my father’s disgraceful behaviour. I would not have admitted him, but Matthews was unaware of my lord’s orders forbidding Sir George the house and, by the time I had realised who it was, it was too late. Goodness knows what the neighbours will make of the hubbub in the street.’

  ‘Then this behaviour is not new?’

  ‘I wish I could say yes, but sadly I have never known him be anything but domineering and given to frequent rages when crossed. I believe that strong drink aggravates it. My lord tolerated him until we were wed, but my father’s constant demands for money and his drunkenness so disgusted Charles that he forbade him the house. He made him a small allowance, which of course I have continued.’

  It was so humiliating to have to recount her father’s weaknesses in front of a man she loved and respected. What must he think of her now that he had seen her parent at his very worst?

  Marcus got to his feet and stood at the window looking out across the Square. ‘You should not have to deal with him. I will speak to Mr Hope and have him offer your father a single – final – payment in return for the ending of his pension and on condition that he never troubles you again.’

  ‘No, please.’

  ‘But why not? Better to get rid of him now than to have him constantly dogging your footsteps.’

  Marissa stared at him, her mind able to comprehend nothing but the fact that Charles had paid five thousand guineas for her hand – no, for her body. The thought of Marcus following in her husband’s footsteps to buy off her father for a second time was too abhorrent to contemplate.

  It was on the tip of Marcus’s tongue to ask if her father was attempting to blackmail Marissa. He had heard the tail-end of Sir George’s threat to create a scandal that would blight the Southwood name. He knew that Marissa’s loyalty and pride would force her to do whatever lay in her power to prevent such a disclosure, whatever it was. Yet if she would not confide in him, how could he ask? He felt the same frustration he had felt so often before with Marissa, the instinct that at the core of her was another, secret woman he could not reach.

  ‘You do not know him like I do,’ she was explaining. Marcus jerked his attention back to the present. ‘My father would spend whatever you gave him in a matter of months – gamble it away, drink it away, spend it on – ’ she hesitated, biting her lip, ‘Loose women. And he would still come back for more. The only hope is to continue to pay his pension because he would be reluctant to lose that.’

  ‘Then I will pay it so he will have no excuse to approach you in the future.’

  ‘But he is my father, it is my responsibility.’

  ‘You are my responsibility now, Marissa,’ he said quietly. He went to her, took her chin gently in his palm and tipped up her troubled face. For a long moment they gazed into the others’ eyes, then he got his breathing under control, said. ‘You are my cousin, after all and I am head of the family.’ He dropped a chaste and cousinly kiss on her flushed cheek.

  Marissa did not know what to say, or do. She was overwhelmed by his closeness, by the warmth of his body, by the scent of his cologne. Whatever else she wanted to be, it was not his cousin, or sister or whatever he was trying to tell her with that kiss. With an effort she banished her thoughts from her face. ‘Thank you, Marcus. I would be glad to be rid of the responsibility, I must admit. I am happy to abide by whatever you and Mr Hope decide is for the best. Now, if you will forgive me, I think I will go and lie down.’

  In her room Marissa found Mary tidying drawers and sent her off for witch hazel and lint to bind her bruised wrist. The girl wanted to make a soothing tisane and help her mistress into bed but, despite her excuse to Marcus, Marissa was determined not to give in to her nerves. Fresh air and sunshine were what she needed, not moping inside letting her mind run endlessly over her father’s words, the realisation that her husband had effectively bought her.

  A new primrose-yellow pelisse with wide cuffs hid the bandage around her wrist, and a deep-brimmed cottager bonnet shaded her face from scrutiny. Marissa picked up her gloves and reticule and went down to the carriage waiting at the front door. The under-footman swung up behind and the coachman took the corner into Grosvenor Street at a stylish clip.

  She was human enough to be pleased with the picture the stylish equipage presented. Once into the street the coachman was forced to rein back the spirited team, but the slower pace gave Marissa the opportunity to bow to acquaintances as the open carriage passed others out for jaunts or on shopping expeditions in the warm sunshine.

  Marissa found, despite her recent shock, that the expedition was raising her spirits. It would be hard to remain indifferent to the colour and bustle of the streets as they drove through them, occasionally coming to a complete halt as a heavy wagon loaded with coal manoeuvred around a corner or a hackney carriage plying for trade created a temporary jam outside a fashionable establishment.

  Street traders cried their wares: ‘Pots mended… Chairs caned, chairs caned… Fresh milk, straight from the cow… Ribbons and laces, French laces… Knives sharpened. Bring me your knives… Latest broadsheets! Read all about the hanging of Black Hook the Highwayman!’

  New Bond Street gave way to Old Bond Street and they turned left into Piccadilly, past the front of Burlington House. Marissa had dutifully accompanied her husband to view the Elgin Marbles when they had been exhibited there, but had not admired their cool beauty. The Earl of Longminster, on the other hand, had been deeply impressed and, Marissa had suspected, not a little put out that it was Lord Elgin and not himself who had acquired them.

  The memory of Charles was uncomfortable, and Marissa metaphorically shook herself as they approached Hatchard’s. The coachman skilfully pulled into a space right outside the double windows of the bookshop and the footman jumped down to lower the steps and open the door of the carriage. Marissa took his arm and stepped down, making her way past the bench where footmen in livery chatted and gossiped while their masters and mistresses browsed inside.

  Mr Hatchard himself hastened forward to attend personally to such a distinguished customer and led her to a table where the latest novels were set out. ‘The set in half-calf, my lady, or the blue tooled leather? A very handsome set in that binding, but perhaps a little masculine?’

  Ashamed of her mood at breakfast time, Marissa purchased the half-calf edition of Guy Mannering for Jane, then browsed happily. It was pleasant buying gifts and she found some thoroughly frivolous love poems for Nicci and Southey’s stirring Life of Nelson for Marcus.

  Finally back in the barouche, with her parcels piled on the seat beside her, Marissa ordered the coachman to return to Grosvenor Square through Hyde Park. The sunshine was so bright that she raised her sunshade, a new acquisition in amber silk that cast a flattering glow over her complexion. The Park was green and fresh and, despite the fact that it was early for the truly fashionable promenade hour, many members of London Society were taking the air on horseback, in open carriages or on foot. The coachman was called upon to pull up several times for Marissa to exchange greetings with acquaintances or simply because the press of phaetons, curricles and barouches slowed the traffic to walking pace.

  After half an hour their ci
rcle through the Park had brought them almost to Grosvenor Gate Lodge and their exit into the top of King Street. The footman leaned over. ‘Excuse me, my lady, but I do believe that is Madame de Rostan waving to you.’

  ‘Pull up, please, Morton,’ Marissa ordered, firmly quelling a desire to pretend she had not seen the other woman. To her surprise, Diane was alone and on foot and there was no sign of Nicci. ‘Good morning, Madame,’ Marissa said, managing a smile. ‘Has Nicci returned to Grosvenor Square already?’

  The older woman laughed. ‘She met the Misses Richardson in the linen drapers and they invited her to luncheon. I let them take my carriage – and of course my maid is with them and will ensure Nicci comes directly home afterwards. I do hope you have no objection?’

  ‘Indeed, no. How could I?’ Marissa said, rather coolly. ‘Nicci is not my ward, nor do I have power to control her doings. I am sure her brother would have no objection to any decision such an old friend as yourself might make.’

  As soon as she said it Marissa regretted the words and the cool tone. A slight shadow crossed the Frenchwoman’s face, but she smiled and said merely, ‘Would you join me in a short stroll, Lady Longminster? The shade under the limes is very pleasant.’

  Marissa got down and they walked in silence for a few minutes, the footman bringing up the rear, discreetly out of earshot. After a while Madame de Rostan broke the slightly prickly silence. ‘I think you may underestimate the influence you have over young Nicole, Lady Longminster. She holds you in high regard and affection.’

  ‘She is a very charming girl,’ Marissa replied neutrally.

  ‘And I must say that a year in your company has greatly improved her behaviour. She always was a sweet child, but a sad romp, and our easy ways in Jamaica are not appropriate for London Society.’

  ‘You are kind enough to say so, Madame, but I must deny any influence. An improvement in Nicci’s behaviour must be put firmly at the door of Miss Venables, who has much experience with young people.’