by Anne O'Brien
‘I don’t need your pity.’
‘I was not offering any.’
‘Then, if there is nothing else you wish to say … I have to dress for dinner.’
‘No. I have nothing more to say. You have made the matter very clear.’ Pride came to her rescue. ‘I will not impose on you further. I clearly misinterpreted our relationship.’ She could not resist it. ‘Perhaps you should inform me of the subjects that I am allowed to discuss in future!’
She turned on her heel and made a dignified exit, head high. She closed the door quietly; she may as well have slammed it.
Aldeborough groaned and thrust a hand through his hair. He poured another glass of brandy to give his hands something to do and considered flinging his glass to shatter against the panels of the closed door. He put it down carefully before he did just that. He had dealt with her abominably. All he could see was the utter desolation in her beautiful eyes. Perhaps after all he was no better than Torrington. He would never scar her body, but without doubt he had hurt her by destroying the bond of understanding that had begun to grow between them. He deserved more than her censure, he deserved that she should hate and fear him—and she most certainly did not deserve his rejection. He must put things right. And he would have to apologise to Ambrose and Matthew, of course. He rubbed his hands over his face in disgust and self-loathing as the events of the day replayed through his mind in mind-searing detail. And, apart from that, there was the question of who hated him enough to pay armed thugs to shoot him down in cold blood.
You have made one enemy too many.
The implication was not clear, but all he could think of was the confrontation with Torrington. And his liaison with Frances. But how that would lead to a vicious and well-organised ambush by paid assassins he could not envisage.
He fervently wished he was back with his regiment in the Peninsula.
Chapter Nine
Aldeborough mended his relationship with Matthew and Ambrose with ease: they simply ignored his previous edgy temper and continued as if nothing had happened. When he attempted an apology, Ambrose threatened to floor him with a straight left if he couldn’t keep a civil tongue in his head in future, so the matter was settled. They rode the estate, enjoying the onset of a period of fine weather. They fished the trout stream, unsuccessfully, but with damp enthusiasm. They enjoyed some rough shooting at the Priory and on the neighbouring land owned by Ambrose’s uncle. A local race at Kiplingcoates, over a four-mile course of lanes and bridleways, gave them the opportunity to assess local horseflesh and lose a considerable amount of money. The evenings were spent in playing cards for small sums in the library at the Priory. If a deal of alcohol was consumed, it was not sufficient to impair their enjoyment of country pursuits. Aldeborough was able to throw off his unusual depression although the purpose of the assault on the York road remained an irritant. But, as there was no repetition, the incident receded into the background. Enquiries in York, as might have been expected, revealed nothing.
For her part, Frances spent most of her time becoming reacquainted with the Priory. She remembered it, of course, from the days when Aldeborough had first brought her here, but now she had the time and inclination to explore it fully. Originally, as its name indicated, it had been the settlement of Augustinian monks, but with its dissolution under Henry VIII it had come into the hands of the Lafford family. There were still remnants of the magnificent monastic buildings, neglected now and robbed of their stone—ruined arches, crumbling pillars, outlines of cloister and refectory, which Frances investigated with dreams of incorporating them into a pleasure garden. The main house was of Tudor design with gables and buttresses in golden local stone but with traces of old brickwork. More recent Laffords had added wings and fanciful towers so that to the eye it presented an impossible fusion of style and taste. Frances loved it. Its rambling lack of uniformity appealed to her and she felt at home here far more than she ever had in the magnificent town house in Cavendish Square. But, she was honest enough to admit to Aunt May, perhaps that had much to do with the absence of the Dowager. Here she was the unquestioned mistress of her own home and enjoyed the freedom.
But she was equally aware that the house needed much love and care. It had a chill, neglected air where dust and mice reigned supreme and so did damp and mildew. The structure was sound enough, but the Priory needed to be lived in. Aldeborough’s parents had spent little time here, preferring life in Cavendish Square, the country merely providing the opportunity for hunting and winter house parties.
The spring weather tempted Frances into the estate. The formal gardens swept from the balustraded stone terraces to a ha-ha from where the parkland stretched to the horizon. Tastefully positioned clumps of trees in spring foliage beckoned the onlooker to ride and explore. The flower beds had been long neglected, the skeleton staff making little impact on the encroachments of nature, and the kitchen gardens no longer produced for the needs of the household. Frances could imagine the old brick walls once more glowing with roses and espaliered fruit trees, the walks vibrant with flowers.
She toured the rooms, cellars, attics and cupboards with an enthusiastic Mrs Scott, who was delighted to have a mistress interested in day-to-day household activity. She talked herbs and gardening with Aunt May as well as the gossip about their neighbours and London society. She was content to leave kitchen matters to the competent cook who had ruled the roost since Aldeborough’s childhood, which earned her the immediate support and co-operation from that testy individual. Her days were full and filled with small pleasures as she considered refurbishing some of the holland cover-shrouded rooms and restocking the walled herb and vegetable garden. To be mistress of her own home gave her considerable delight and fulfilment. Whatever was lacking in her education at Torrington Hall, she had acquired the knack of communication with the servants and knew how to run an efficient establishment. At her direction, Rivers marshalled indoor and outdoor servants for an assault on the neglect so that the oak floors and linenfold panelling began once more to glow in the candlelight at the end of a series of exhausting days. Cobwebs and spiders were swept ruthlessly from the plaster ceilings. The mice went into hiding.
Sheer curiosity drove Frances to investigate her husband’s bedchamber, which opened through a connecting dressing room from her own. If she had needed an excuse, she would have claimed that it was her duty to ensure that it was clean and in good order, but in truth she was drawn by a need to learn more about the man who now had control of her life and, if she would admit it, of her heart. It was a beautiful room, like her own in the old part of the house, with oak-panelled walls and intricate plaster ceiling. It was a very masculine room, sparsely furnished from the previous century with a carved chest, a chair with a tapestry seat, a livery cupboard, the only modern addition to the old furniture being a dressing table and mirror. Frances smiled: such necessary additions for a man whose appearance was rarely less than suave and elegant. But it was the magnificent bedstead that dominated the room. It was hung with dark blue velvet curtains and valance, rather dusty but sumptuously lined with grey silk and ornamented with gold cord and fringing. She ran a hand gently along the nap of the rich material, realising that whatever she had hoped to discover in this room, she was doomed to failure. Apart from a pair of silver-backed brushes and a snuff box on the dressing table, there was little to indicate her husband’s taste or character. Except perhaps for the neatness, no doubt a consequence of a military life of campaigning and the influence of Webster, the most efficient of valets. No portraits on the walls, no personal possessions. Without compunction Frances lifted the lid of the chest to investigate the contents. Nothing. The only life in the stillness was the dust motes glimmering gold in the sun’s rays through the leaded windows. It was as if the Marquis was merely a temporary visitor, passing through, rather than the master of the estate.
Leaving Aldeborough’s room to some competent cleaning under Rivers’s watchful eye, Frances took herself eventually to the atti
cs. For the most part they were empty except for a number of chests that yielded unexpected treasures, packed away long ago. She mentally consigned the boxes of official-looking paper with ribbons and seals to a later date and refastened the chests containing worn and stained household linen, but instructed Rivers to have a number of items conveyed to a small drawing room that she and Aunt May had taken to using in the evenings.
‘I think you should read this, Aunt May,’ exclaimed Frances with a mischievous smile. She was seated on the floor at Lady Cotherstone’s feet, her dusty skirts and the contents of various boxes spread around her.
‘What is it? I cannot believe that anything in a book will be of benefit to me at my time of life.’
Frances turned over a few more pages with care, peering at the faded, uneven writing. ‘It has no name in it, but it is a collection of recipes and housewifely advice,’ she explained.
Aunt May pushed aside a piece of embroidery from her lap. ‘I believe that I will leave the cooking to Mrs Scott and whoever reigns in the kitchens. I was never interested in such things. Now, herbs and medicines are a different matter. Anything of interest about that?’
‘Not that I can see. Here is Eel Pie with Oysters. A Pie with Pippins. Marrow Pie … Scotch Collops … Barley Broth …’
‘It seems to be very plain and frugal fare. Perhaps you should put it back in the attic for fear that it gives Mrs Scott ideas. And perhaps you would care to pour me a glass of wine.’
Frances laughed and did as instructed before returning to her rummaging. ‘It is mostly trinkets and ribbons—look at this fine pair of gloves—and … what do you suppose this is?’ She held up a small bunch of fragile dried leaves tied up with a tarnished silver ribbon and with a yellowing label attached.
‘Well, now. It looks very much like a love token. They were very fashionable when I was a young girl.’
Frances raised her brows and sniffed the greying twigs which had begun to disintegrate over her skirt. ‘It smells like Rosemary. And listen to this.’ She read out the accompanying sentiments.
Rosemary is for Remembrance
Between us day and night,
Wishing that I might always have
You present in my sight.
And when I cannot have
As I have said before,
Then Cupid with his deadly dart
Doth wound my heart full sore.
Frances held the token carefully, a wistful smile on her lips. ‘Did you ever receive one of these, Aunt May?’ she asked, her voice betraying more than she was aware.
‘Yes, I did. I was not a handsome girl, but I did not lack for suitors. But what about a pretty child like you?’
Frances shook her head, bending over the poem so that her curls hid her face.
‘I do not suppose such frivolous sentiments would be encouraged at Torrington Hall,’ Aunt May probed gently.
‘Certainly not. My aunt and uncle were never motivated by any feelings other than duty.’
‘And Hugh?’ The enquiry was deceptively casual.
Frances laughed, but Lady Cotherstone’s ears were quick to detect the sadness, the longing.
‘He is very kind—but there is no romance. How could there be? It was all a terrible mistake. And now I have made him so angry. He would not—write me a verse like that.’ She stroked the yellow paper with gentle fingers, thinking of the long-dead lady who had been honoured with such tender sentiments.
Lady Cotherstone pursed her lips thoughtfully and wisely said nothing.
Aldeborough registered his wife’s efforts in the Priory, her growing confidence and authority, with some pride and amusement, but made no comment. His relations with Frances were not mended. When she met with Aldeborough she was pleasant, smiled at the tales of the fish they might have caught and was willing to outline her suggestions for the new pottager, but he could not mistake the constraint in her voice or the reserve in her eyes. The hurt and rejection were still very strong and as time passed he became less sure how to put it right. It surprised him that he cared so much to put it right. But he hated the wary reserve in her dark eyes and the lack of animation in her face when she thought she was unobserved. Her smiles were fleeting and lacked any real warmth or enjoyment. He found increasingly that he needed to see her smile with unreserved pleasure, to smile at him. He spent the nights alone because he doubted that he would be welcome in his wife’s bed and he was unwilling to force himself on her—but he did not enjoy them.
As for Frances, she vowed to abide by her husband’s expectations. She would be an amenable and conformable wife and nothing more. If he wished to shut her out of parts of his life, then so be it. And she would never show him how unhappy it made her. Or how a sudden desire to feel the caress of his hand or the touch of his lips could awaken an intense ache around her heart. She rubbed her hand between her breasts as if she might erase the pain. To no avail. She shrugged and retreated inside a brittle shell where nothing could hurt her. She had had a lifetime of practice and she could live without Aldeborough’s attentions. And if she envied the lady with the keepsake, then no one but herself need know.
Aunt May, well aware of the cold atmosphere, for once chose to be diplomatic and make no comment, although she frequently wondered how such a handsome man of the world as her great-nephew could be so blind in the ways of women.
To give him his due, Aldeborough tried to reduce the distance between himself and his bride.
‘I understand you ride, my lady.’
‘Yes. One of my few talents, if you remember.’ He winced at the barbed comment.
‘Come with me.’ To prevent any refusal, he took her hand and tucked it cosily under his arm. He felt her body stiffen at the unexpected gesture, but ignored it. He also felt the shiver that ran through her and saw the uncertainty in her face as she lifted her eyes to his. It pleased him.
‘Where are we going?’
He led her out on to the terrace and round to the stableyard where Selby, the head groom, awaited them with a grin on his weathered features.
‘A surprise,’ he said, smiling down at her. ‘Selby has something to show you.’
‘Morning, Captain. My lady.’ Selby, who had served as Aldeborough’s groom in Spain, disappeared into the stables at a gesture from the Marquis and returned a moment later leading out a bay mare, already saddled and bridled.
‘She is yours, if it would please you to ride her,’ Aldeborough explained, deliberately casual, but watching her reaction with far more than his apparent dispassionate interest. ‘She is not up to my weight, but she should suit you perfectly. She is keen and lively, but has no vices.’
Frances opened her mouth but no words came out, merely a little cry of delight. She remembered that Matthew had once spoken about this mare.
‘I bought her in Spain.’
Frances approached the mare and rubbed her hand over the glossy coat, threading her fingers through the dark mane. She was a dark bay with a hint of Arab in her small head and arched neck. She turned dark liquid eyes on Frances and snuffled at her fingers as she snatched at the bit, ready to run.
‘She is beautiful,’ Frances whispered. ‘Has she a name?’ She continued to caress the satin neck.
‘She does not have one, unless it is Spanish. She is for you to name.’
‘I have never owned anything so perfect.’ She could not take her eyes from her unexpected gift. The mare tossed her head and danced on the spot, eager to show her paces. Frances felt the suspicion of tears behind her eyelids and blinked rapidly, feeling foolish. She could not look at Aldeborough, but leaned her forehead against the mare’s silken shoulder. She wanted to fling her arms around her husband’s neck, to press her cheek against his heart, but she could not fight past the barrier between them.
‘How can I thank you?’ Her lips felt stiff and the words sounded cold and formal to her own ears.
‘You don’t have to. I thought you might find these useful as well.’
Aldeborough held out a
flat packet wrapped in soft leather. She turned from the mare to take it from him hesitantly.
‘Open it,’ he encouraged.
‘Yes. Of course. It’s just that …’ She tried to explain the swell of emotion in her breast. ‘I am not used to receiving presents, you see.’
Frances opened the packet. ‘They are lovely.’ She held the soft leather riding gloves, fashioned in a masculine style with a gold fringe and embroidered gauntlet.
‘Perhaps you will ride out with me,’ Aldeborough prompted, ‘and let the mare show you her paces.’
‘Perhaps … But I must … I can’t …’ How could he be so kind, so generous, when she had been so unforgiving! It was so unfair of him!
Before she dissolved into tears that she could no longer contain, Frances picked up her skirts and fled into the house, leaving Aldeborough and Selby to raise their eyebrows at the unpredictability of women.
Frances encountered Aunt May on the stairs.
‘But what’s wrong? What’s happened?’ Lady Cotherstone put out a hand to detain the distraught lady.
‘Aldeborough has given me the Spanish mare. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.’
‘Well, of course. Now that is something to cry about!’
Frances flushed in exasperation and fled to the privacy of her bed chamber.
A visit from Viscount and Lady Torrington and Charles did little to ease the tensions that continued to simmer below the surface. They drove to the Priory in a dusty landaulet, which had certainly seen better days, to make a formal morning call, the last thing Frances expected, but her aunt and uncle had clearly put themselves out to please. As the assembled company sipped tea in the morning room, Frances was aware only of the clash of tension behind the pleasant façade.
‘Dear Frances,’ exclaimed her Aunt Cordelia, ‘we simply had to come to give out felicitations to the bride. And you, my lord Aldeborough. We are very sorry to lose our niece from our home, but we are delighted that she has made such an excellent alliance. And we are sure that you are highly satisfied with your choice!’
