That was what she got for swallowing her pride and deciding to climb down off her high horse. That was what she got for thinking all she needed to do was talk to Ben and everything would be fine. That was what she got for walking into her husband’s study, unannounced, believing that the worst he would be doing was writing a letter she didn’t want him to write.
She’d caught him, red-handed, kissing someone else. A very pretty, dark-haired, well-dressed someone else.
A lady.
Not some village maiden that he might have explained away as being a... Well, she believed men referred to them as their ‘convenients’.
No, that dark-haired lady was someone who mattered.
She let out a rather hysterical little laugh.
No wonder he wasn’t interested in her. No wonder he had been so reluctant to marry her.
Oh, why hadn’t he just told her father that his heart was already engaged? That he was in love with someone else?
And then she pictured the scene if he had. Father coldly furious, showing him the door and forbidding him to return. Her brothers probably all thrashing him again on his way out. Him losing, in one fell swoop, his closest friends and his right to visit a house where he’d run tame for so many years.
He really must have felt as if he’d been caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. But...how on earth had he supposed he could make any of this, their marriage, work?
Although at least now she could see why he hadn’t made a single attempt to come to the marriage bed. If his heart already belonged to that dark-haired beauty, then he would have felt as if he was betraying her by sleeping with his own wife. So not visiting her bed wasn’t as much of an insult as she’d first thought. Not if his reluctance was not, primarily, about her at all. But about trying to stay as faithful as he could, in the circumstances, to his true love.
She straightened up as her breathing slowed and the pain in her side abated. Oh, Ben. How awful it must have been for him, juggling his obligations to two women at once. When she considered how torn he must be, having to marry a woman he didn’t love to save her reputation and get his hands on her money, it was a wonder he’d been so polite to her. Especially when she’d been such a...shrew about it. But no matter the provocation, he’d been like a rock, impervious to her tantrums, behaving at all times like a perfect gentleman. He’d never reproved her when she’d been rude. He’d never made any demands of her.
Instead, he’d encouraged her to behave as if she was the mistress of the house, which she’d explored to her heart’s content. And he’d given her free rein to make whatever improvements or changes she wanted.
She kicked at the bole of the tree she happened to be leaning against. It was all very well seeing now why he’d acted the way he had, and admiring his forbearance, but if he’d wanted a paper marriage, because of that black-haired damsel, why hadn’t he just said so? Why let her assume that...?
Because she hadn’t given him the chance, had she? He’d started warning her not to expect too much that first night, and she’d interrupted. And then she’d been so busy throwing a tantrum over an imagined slight that she’d made it impossible for him to broach any subject at all, let alone such a sensitive one as a former love. Current love, by the looks of things.
Well, he might love another woman but he’d married her. He was her husband. And she was...blowed if she was going to stand meekly aside and let the pair of them carry on under her roof! She would jolly well tell him so, and then...
Well, there was no point in demanding that he have the decency to stop carrying on in the marital home, was there? Because he was already planning to leave. His excuse had been that he wanted to re-join his regiment. But if that pretty, dark-haired girl loved him back she might well go with him. Hah. Of course she’d go with him. She wasn’t going to stay here and watch Marguerite take the place in local society she no doubt coveted for herself.
Oh, what a mess.
A wave of weariness washed over her. She needed to sit down. Preferably somewhere dark, where nobody could see her and she would not have to see anyone else.
She lifted her head to see if there was, perhaps, some cave or dungeon nearby into which she could crawl. And saw that she was not very far from a cottage with sagging, green thatch that looked exactly the sort of place that would be dank and dismal enough inside to match her mood.
On the doorstep, sitting on an upright chair with a dish of peas in her lap, was a wizened, white-haired woman, regarding her with her head tilted to one side.
Marguerite realised with shock that she must have run all the way across the Park’s land and reached the outskirts of the village. And that this woman had, like as not, watched her running from the estate, staggering to a halt and pulling all sorts of faces as she’d relived the moment in the study and her subsequent revelations about her disastrous marriage. Which made her want to turn and run again.
‘Would you like some water,’ said the woman, ‘dearie?’
It would be rude to just run away after the woman had expressed concern. And pointless to pretend nothing was wrong. So Marguerite pulled her manners around her like a shield and attempted a wobbly smile.
‘No, thank you. I am fine. Really. Or I shall be when I’ve got my breath back.’
The woman nodded. ‘You’re welcome to come and sit for a bit in the shade here. Lovely and cool it is, with the breeze blowing through the house.’
She had wanted to sit somewhere cool. And it occurred to her that this was one of Ben’s tenants. She ought not to make things worse by offending a woman who could be one of the most influential of them. Which she well could be, in spite of the dilapidated state of her house, merely by dint of being so old. The oldest tenants who lived round the fringes of Wattlesham Priory were related to nearly all of the families in the surrounding area, and it wasn’t likely to be so very different here.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and stepped through the remains of what had once been the woman’s front gate. ‘What a lovely garden you have,’ she said, admiring the profusion of marigolds and strawberries flanking the path, and the peas winding their way over everything they could climb.
‘My Sam helps me keep it up,’ she said, pulling a dish of peas still in their pods from a chair next to her so that Marguerite could sit on it. ‘My grandson,’ she added. ‘Not that he’ll be doing it for much longer, I don’t ’spect. Soon as he’s old enough he’ll be off to the factories, like the rest of ’em.’ She sighed.
‘I don’t really understand,’ said Marguerite, as she sat down, ‘why people leave the countryside to go and work in factories. I have seen one or two, and they always look so noisy and dirty.’
The woman snorted. ‘’Cos there ain’t no choice. Poor folks have to work or starve. And it’s no use thinking a growing lad can survive on what I can grow in this little patch. Or that he’ll want to stay with an old woman when there’s girls, some of ’em pretty, in the towns.’
‘Yes, but...’ She frowned. ‘Surely there is work here for a lad that can keep a garden as beautifully as this?’ She waved her hands at the profusion of plants, neatly and vigorously filling the small square of ground. And compared it to the wilderness of every patch of earth she’d seen at Bramhall Park.
‘Ah, but he’s male, ain’t he?’
‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘Well, the old Earl wouldn’t employ men, not after the way that wife of his carried on, would he? Not in the house, to start with, and then later not in the grounds neither.’
His wife...that would be Ben’s mother...had...carried on? Good grief. Well, that certainly accounted for the appalling destruction of the former Countess’s rooms, she supposed. But...to drive all the men from the area? Wasn’t that going a bit too far? Had there been no limit to the...foolishness and eccentricity of Ben’s father?
‘But,’ Marguerite m
used, ‘the old Earl has gone now, hasn’t he? Surely your Sam could ask for work from the new Earl? I mean, there’s plenty of it up at the house, and in the grounds, from what I’ve seen.’
The woman gave her a long look. ‘’Twon’t be easy for the new Earl to employ locals either, though, will it? Given the way the old Earl behaved.’
She didn’t see why. Besides, he wasn’t going to be here much longer, was he, if he planned to run off with that...that...minx! And minx she must be, Marguerite decided, to sneak into a married man’s house and carry on like that when the wife was in residence.
‘Well,’ she declared, ‘there is a new Countess, too. And she is certainly willing to hire as many staff as are willing to apply. And so you may tell everyone. In fact, I hope you will.’
The old woman grinned at her. ‘Sally said you was a good sort. Said as how you’d be just the one to start righting the wrongs as have gone on here for nigh on a generation.’
‘Sally?’ The scullery maid?
‘Aye. My granddaughter. One of the last ones to hang onto her job up at the big house, just so’s she could send what money she could to me and Sam. Not that it were much, but with that...and this here patch of earth...we’ve scraped by. Mother Porter,’ she said, holding out her gnarled, and rather green hand from where she’d been shelling peas, for Marguerite to shake. ‘And I’m guessing you are the new Countess? Lady Daisy? Am I right? Only there’s no other beautiful golden-haired lady round these parts, as I don’t already know.’
Lady Marguerite, she wanted to say, almost as badly as she wanted to wipe her hand down her apron after shaking the older lady’s rather dirty one. But to do either would feel not only rude but also rather...pompous, considering she was wearing an apron. The one she’d put on when she’d planned to spend the day cleaning the dining room. And that this woman had seen her running, in tears, and then doubling over with a stitch. And then laughing a bit hysterically. And been so kind.
‘Yes. I am the new Countess,’ she therefore said. ‘And, yes, I do intend to start righting the wrongs that have been taking place here.’ She did. She really did. For what was the use of sitting about in a cave or a dungeon, bemoaning her fate? What had she got to complain about, really? So, she’d married a man who was in love with someone else? So, he was about to run off with his true love and leave her here, less than a week after their marriage? So, she would never feel as if she could show her face in society again?
But...she hadn’t exactly enjoyed her one foray into London society anyway, had she? She’d never felt as if she fitted in. She could already hazard a guess as to which of the shallow, ambitious females she’d met would delight in gossiping about her spectacular humiliation. So...what did she care what they said? She was not, she was starting to learn, Lady Marguerite, that useless, showy creature whose only value was ornamental. She really was a Daisy. A plant that could thrive in humbler surroundings.
She lifted her chin. She might end up alone, and too embarrassed to face Town gossip. But she would never go hungry. She would never have to put up with a leaking roof, the way this woman must be doing, to judge from the colour and shape of the thatch, or live in fear that her relatives would leave her penniless and unable to fend for herself. One thing she did have, and Ben had promised that she would keep even when he left, was money. Pots of it.
Oh, she wasn’t going to fool herself into thinking it would be easy. Actually, she mused, pursing her lips, she would rather it wasn’t. She would face all sorts of challenges, she was sure, hiring what locals were left and luring back the ones who’d gone to the factories with promises of more jobs. But it would give her a purpose. And she wouldn’t have time to dwell on Ben and what might have been.
She stood up and brushed down her skirts. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Mother Porter. Thank you for the chance to...er...rest, and...’
The old woman nodded. ‘I’ll be seeing you again, then? At church, mebbe?’
‘Of course.’ Daisy looked up the road to the village church, which was barely bigger than the private chapel in which she and Ben had married.
The old woman nodded again. ‘Then I shall put word round that you’ll be there. And that you’re hiring on. And mebbe...’ She spread her hands wide. ‘Well, it will be a start, won’t it?’
‘I hope so,’ said Daisy. Because it would give her something to look forward to. Somewhere to be, and something to do, rather than sit about moping about Ben for the rest of her life.
She laughed bitterly as she recalled the many, many times she’d wished that people would leave her alone. Well, she’d got her wish. Ben was going to do just that. He was going to leave her in this run-down house, in the practically deserted village. And nobody of worth in the area would call on her, except to gloat.
Well, she’d show him. She’d show everyone! She’d enjoy cleaning up the mess that Ben’s father had made, and Ben had not seen fit to put right. And she’d stock the library with books. Books that she had chosen. Books that...
Books were expensive, though, weren’t they? Would she have enough money to fill that library? And if she did, would she have enough money to repair Mother Porter’s roof, and all the roofs of the other houses in the village that needed re-thatching? She had no idea how much it cost to re-thatch a house. She had little idea about anything to do with land management.
Well, she’d just have to find out. Father’s steward would be able to tell her anything she needed to know. Or even James. What was the point in having so many brothers if she couldn’t put them to good use? And, come to think of it, wasn’t James always complaining that Father didn’t let him have enough to do, that he wouldn’t loosen his grip on the reins? Right, then. She would challenge James to come here and see if he had what it took to turn the place around. With any luck he’d enjoy finding some purpose to his life, just as she was about to do.
Funny, she’d never thought of her oldest brother as someone lacking in purpose. But today she was looking on all sorts of things through different eyes. Through the eyes of a daisy rather than a marguerite. Someone who’d been brought low rather than always being shielded in a hot house or staked up by careful gardeners in a well-tended border. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn that it was because James had so little responsibility that he ended up playing pranks and spending so much money on clothing and horses and other fripperies.
Perhaps nobody was what they appeared on the surface.
Perhaps, she mused as she reached the furniture-strewn orchard, she could reward herself with one book for every cottage she repaired. After all, she could only read one book at a time, couldn’t she? And then each book would be extra special. Because she would have earned it.
Which was something else she’d never done, wasn’t it? Earned anything she possessed. Everything she had, she had because she was daughter of the Earl of Darwen. She hadn’t even acquired her husband through anything she’d done, or because of anything special about her. It had all been down to some stupid lark. And keeping up appearances. And keeping the peace.
She sighed.
Perhaps Ben was right. Perhaps she would be happier as...not as a widow but as a woman living alone, making her own decisions and taking responsibility for the welfare of other people. She’d always suspected she’d be a failure as a wife. She could never lower herself to fawn over some stupid man, the way her mother fawned over Father, simply because in his youth he’d been so very handsome. Likewise, she would have thought a man stupid if he’d married her because of the way she looked. And venal if he’d married her for her money. Which reflections had only made it harder to see any of the males she’d met as husband material. The man she might have truly wanted to marry didn’t exist. Not in the real world. He could only exist, and that in fleeting snatches, in the realms of her imagination.
But anyway it was too late to wonder what might have been now, wasn’t it? She’d married Ben. Alienated
Ben. He was leaving her, she had nobody to blame but herself, and she was just going to have to get used to it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As soon as Ben managed to get rid of Miss Fairfax he went off in search of Daisy. God knew what she must be thinking after catching him with that...insufferable woman hanging off his neck!
But he couldn’t find her. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Daisy was exceptionally good at hiding. She’d had so many years’ practice during the school holidays when her brothers brought their friends home, and they’d regarded teasing Daisy as the highest form of sport. He’d discovered one or two of her hiding places at the Priory, but she hadn’t been here long enough for him to know about the ones she’d found here.
After going through every floor of the house, and finding nothing but empty rooms, he came to a halt on the threshold of the dining room. The dining room she’d said she was going to tackle today. He should probably have looked here first. He opened the door, his heart pounding. There was Vale with a duster, and Marcie with a mop and bucket, but of Daisy there was no sign.
His heart felt as though it was shrivelling up in his chest as he saw what this meant. There hadn’t ever been much of a chance for him and Daisy to make a go of it, but after this morning’s episode...he shut his eyes...two episodes, there was no longer the slightest shred of hope.
He might just as well go straight out and shoot himself right now.
Only what would become of her then? Where would she live? He had a suspicion that whatever heir the lawyers ferreted out of his tangled family tree would send her packing.
He ran his fingers through his hair with a feeling of impatience. Only cowards shot themselves and left their dependants to clean up their mess. And he was no coward. He turned away from the dining room and strode down to the stables. He may not know where her hiding places were, but as a boy he’d found many of his own about this estate. Whenever he’d been threatened with the birch, or his mother had pushed him aside impatiently and irritably, or his brothers had forbidden him from joining in with whatever they’d been doing, he’d walked away. And come to one of the places around the estate that other people rarely visited. He’d never been in more need of the thicket of hazel bushes down by the lake than now. With his horse cropping the turf behind him, and the wind shimmering over the water, maybe he’d find...if not peace then at least a frame of mind where he could make rational decisions, instead of haring off at the behest of his deepest, darkest fears like a startled, well, hare.
Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 12
