Lord Montague

by Mary Kingswood

  Carrbridge was there, not praying, but staring into space from a pew near the back. Monty slid onto the bench beside him.

  “Do you wish to be alone?” he said quietly.

  “Not at all. I… I came here to pray, to give thanks, but… I cannot seem to find the words. Will you help me? I should like to give thanks to God for his grace and mercy.”

  “I find the familiar words best in such cases,” Monty said. “The pater noster? Shall I begin? Our father, Which art in heaven…’”

  And Carrbridge joined in, his voice low at first, then gaining strength. When the prayer ended, he sighed and sat back on the pew. “Monty, you are a great comfort to me. I never wanted you to be a clergyman, but these past few days your faith has been an inspiration to me. I have never been resolute in my belief, as you have been. There always seemed to be more worldly matters demanding my attention, but I shall do better from now on, I am determined on that.”

  Monty folded his arms and leaned back too. “It has taken me the other way,” he said softly. “For the first time, I wondered whether God had deserted us. That day, that endless, terrible day, I came here and prayed for a miracle, and wondered if I could possibly forgive God if he took so good, so generous a person as Connie away from us. From you.”

  “Did you so? But then your prayers were answered, were they not? For who should appear on the doorstep but Dr Hay, a physician — exactly what was needed to save my wife and child? Was that not the miracle you prayed for?”

  Monty smiled then. “Hope had deserted me by the time Dr Hay arrived, so the miracle took me by surprise rather. Even now, I cannot quite believe that the crisis is over. We came so close to losing her.”

  Carrbridge gripped his shoulder, his face filled with pain for a moment. “Yet we did not. Shall we go and see if she is awake? And you have not yet seen your niece.”

  “Two boys and now a girl,” Monty said, as they made their way up the stairs. “Clever Connie! How shall you like to have a daughter?”

  “It will be delightful. Two boys who will ride and fight and pretend to be Cavaliers, and a delicate flower of a girl who will embroider and sing like an angel.”

  Monty laughed at this optimistic familial vision. “A delicate flower like Harriet, you mean, who rides to hounds as hard as any man? She made an excellent soldier when we had our battles on the roof, as I recall.”

  “I do not know what went wrong with Hatty,” Carrbridge said, looking bewildered. “Girls should be shy and demure and not at all forward.”

  “Really, Carrbridge! Where do you get these notions from? Females are certainly different, and should not trespass on the domain of men, but that does not mean they have to sit in dark corners all their lives. Connie is anything but shy, and she is perfection in your eyes, is she not? And then there is Bridget Kelly, fighting to aid her fallen women, with no one to help her but Harriet. Her forwardness is an asset to her charity, I should say.”

  “You think I should do something for her? Because she is our half-sister?”

  “It is as you please, of course, but you had no trouble helping Ben Gartmore. The case is no different.”

  “A man must have some way to support himself, whereas a woman will be supported by a man, Monty.”

  “Miss Kelly’s women are unlikely ever to find themselves in that happy position,” Monty said sombrely. “In such cases, they must support themselves or go to the workhouse. A little help to establish them in some suitable occupation would make all the difference.”

  “Hmpf,” Carrbridge said. “I shall consider the matter.”

  “You mean you will ask Merton’s advice,” Monty said, laughing. “You always ask Merton when you are unsure what to do.”

  “Because he always knows precisely what I should do, and how much it will cost,” Carrbridge said complacently. “Here we are. I hope Connie is not asleep. I do worry so when she sleeps during the day like an invalid.”

  But when they went in, they found Connie awake and smiling contentedly at the baby sleeping peacefully in the crib beside the bed.

  “Francis has said I may name her,” she said to Monty as he leaned over to admire the infant. “At first, I was in difficulties, for I wanted to name her after all my stalwart helpers who stayed with me and brought me comfort in my darkest hours, but that would be four names, you know — Mary, Melissa, Miss Hay and Mrs Hall. But Mrs Hall is a Mary also, and although Miss Hay is Marina, she is often called Mary too, so that was very easy. So I have settled on Mary Melissa, you see. There! Is she not the sweetest baby, Monty?”

  “She is very tiny,” he said, awed, as always, by the miracle of birth, this miniature person who would all too soon grow up to be a rumbustious child and then a demure young lady and perhaps in time a doting mother herself.

  Connie laughed. “So small a creature to give me so much trouble, but Miss Hay says it is often so with very small babies, that they get themselves into an awkward position. Although not often as awkward as little Mary did. But all is well that ends well, and Monty, I depend upon you to take care of Francis and feed him up and make sure he does not brood or worry about me.”

  “I fear you set me an impossible task, sister,” Monty said, smiling fondly at her. “The feeding up I may perhaps manage, but stop him worrying about you? He will never do so.”

  She laughed, and Carrbridge laughed too, although a little sheepishly. When a man is an inveterate worrier, having one’s wife come very close to death is not conducive to alleviating the tendency, but Monty said nothing more.

  They stayed for some time, but just as they were about to leave, Connie said, “Monty, will you give Cecilia back to Melissa? Mary and I read the last chapters this morning, and very affecting they were too, so pray thank her. I do so like a story where all ends happily.”

  She waved the book at him, and he took it, but said, “Has Melissa finished with it? If so, I will take it back to the library.”

  “Oh, it is her own book, not from our library,” Connie said. “I do not think we have anything so enjoyable. The library shelves are all sermons or battles or some such.”

  Monty flipped open the cover, and there on the fly leaf was the date and an inscription, ‘To dear Melissa with every good wish for a very happy birthday - Patience’.

  “So it is,” he murmured thoughtfully. “I shall return it to her.”

  He found her in her apartment — their apartment, he thought, with a sudden thrill — curled up in a chair beside the fire drinking chocolate. It looked such a cosy scene, yet he felt oddly excluded. Soon, perhaps, they would drink chocolate together.

  “I have brought your book back,” he said, feeling awkward for having seen the inscription. “Connie sends her thanks for it.” He hesitated, but his curiosity was overwhelming, and after all, Melissa would soon be his wife, and there should really be no secrets between husband and wife. “I thought it was from the library, until I read the inscription. From Patience. I have not heard you mention anyone called Patience before, I think.”

  Melissa looked conscious. “Just a friend. From a long time ago.”

  “I see,” he said colourlessly. “I shall leave it here for you.” He dropped the book onto a side table, and with very few more words, made his exit.

  His curiosity was now positively burning, and he knew exactly where he had encountered the name of Patience recently. With swift steps he made his way to the ship room, and threw open the door. Then he stopped in surprise.

  Not ten feet away, Merton and Lady Hardy were locked in a passionate embrace. They sprang apart, blushing.

  “I beg your pardon,” Monty said. “I will go away at once.”

  “No need, my lord,” Merton said, laughing. “Our secret will be announced formally at dinner tonight. Lady Hardy has agreed to make me the happiest of men.”

  “Then I congratulate you most warmly,” Monty cried, shaking his hand vigorously. “And Lady Hardy too. This is delightful news, although perhaps not the greatest secret in the wor
ld. I daresay almost everyone has observed your growing attachment over the months.”

  “I daresay they have,” Merton said. “We have tried to be discreet, naturally, since Lady Hardy was still in mourning until recently, but it is difficult to hide so strong a preference for the company of one person in particular.”

  “Lord Montague, I hope you do not regard any aspect of our behaviour as improper?” Lady Hardy said.

  “Not in the least. Your friendship is of many years’ duration, and what could be more natural than that you should seek out each other’s company? And what more natural than that friendship should deepen with time to something more? Besides, you have allowed a full year to pass since the death of Sir Osborne. No, I do not see the least impropriety.”

  “Then you will have no objection to marrying us?” she said anxiously. “We should so like it to be you.”

  Monty laughed in delight. “Oh, I should enjoy it of all things. Here, in the Drummoor chapel? How appropriate! Yes, I should be happy to do it, and if you do not delay, then it might well be my first marriage ceremony since I took holy orders.

  “But we have detained you with our own affairs while you perhaps have business to undertake here, my lord?” Merton said.

  “I wanted only the copy of Debrett’s that was hereabouts.”

  “Ah. I returned it to the library. Shall I fetch it for you?”

  “By no means. There is the dressing gong now, so it can wait.”

  That evening, everyone gathered in the great hall for dinner in a mood of determined celebration. Even Carrbridge smiled and looked relaxed. The announcement was made of Merton’s betrothal to Lady Hardy, and both were declared to look suitably happy, and the bride to blush to the requisite degree.

  Monty rather envied them their perfect happiness, the years of friendship which had led to this moment of truth — of abiding love, deep enough and strong enough to sustain them through a lifetime of joys and trials. And yet love was so risky. Giving your heart to another person who might die at any moment laid one open to unending grief. No, not unending, he reminded himself sharply, for death would reunite those who grieved, but in the meantime, one could only endure. And he watched Carrbridge, seemingly relaxed and contented, as affable as ever, yet the pain in his eyes was still there. Perhaps it would never leave him now, that terrible fear. Was it worth it, the pain, the fear, the possible grief? Perhaps after all he was safer marrying a woman he was not in love with.

  He looked at Melissa sitting beside him, talking animatedly to Miss Hay across the table, and felt a surge of unexpected tenderness. Perhaps he was not head over heels in love with her, but he liked her very well. More than liked, if he were honest. There was something more than esteem in his response to her, something perilously close to affection, and perhaps when they were married, that little bud of partiality would blossom into something more, into love. Perhaps. And perhaps she would one day look at him with that warmth that he saw in Lady Hardy’s eyes as she gazed at Mr Merton, or in Connie’s eyes, looking at Carrbridge. Perhaps.

  Monty’s eyes fell on Dr Hay, engaged in earnest conversation with Harriet. Amidst the general rumble of voices, he caught snatches of their talk, seemingly a long discussion of his family, not just the Hays and his uncle the Mishcombe parson, but another branch of the family which was related to the Duke of Camberley and through him to the Earl of Humbleforth, whose sister-in-law had been wife to the seventh Marquess of Carrbridge. And that was how it was done in all the families of the ton — one laid out one’s connections until one found, inevitably, that one was connected in some way to everybody else.

  Except when one married a bedraggled stranger who turned up on one’s doorstep. Monty’s eye fell again on Melissa, now contentedly eating her second helping of syllabub. He knew nothing at all about her, except for the few scraps of information she had seen fit to reveal, which might not even be true. Her parents, of whom she knew nothing, were dead. Her guardian was dead. Her name was Melissa Frost. She was not already married. And now he knew she had once had a friend called Patience. It was not a great deal.

  She noticed him watching her, and laid down her spoon. “Do I displease you, my lord?” But her tone was bantering, not cowed.

  “Not in the slightest,” he said, smiling.

  “Ah. You looked so severe that I thought I must have transgressed in some way.”

  “I beg your pardon, my mind was wandering. Should you like some more syllabub? There is another dish of it further down the table.”

  “Oh, no. Or rather, yes, I should like it very much, but if I eat any more I might explode, so it is best if I do not.”

  He laughed at that. “We cannot have you exploding, Miss Frost. That would never do, at least not before the wedding. I should be most disappointed if my bride were to explode before the happy day. Or afterwards, now that I think about it. In fact, I am tolerably certain that I should not like you to explode at all.”

  She giggled, and tucked one hand in his in the most comfortable way imaginable, so that his heart performed a little somersault of pleasure. “You are very silly sometimes, Monty. I thought you were terribly stuffy at first, but now I see that you are not stuffy at all. We shall get along famously, shall we not?”

  “I hope so,” he said, finding it oddly difficult to speak with his throat so tight. Then, as much to reassure himself as her, he said again, “I do hope so.”

  After the ladies had gone, the men rearranged themselves around Carrbridge, to talk about little Lady Mary and chaff him about the difficulties of daughters. Monty had nothing to contribute to the discussion and after a while he slipped quietly away. It was a good opportunity to find the library empty, and check Debrett’s without being observed.

  But he was again out of luck, for as soon as he entered the library, he saw a candelabra lit about half way down the room, and someone leaning over a table, engrossed in a book. His head came up as Monty entered, and with his own candle in his hand casting its light on him, there was no escape. But as he drew near, he saw that it was only Merton.

  “My lord,” Merton said. “I thought to forestall you by retrieving Debrett’s for you. Here — is this the page you wanted?”

  It was. The history of the Earls of Bentley was laid out from the knighthood under Henry VIII to the creations of barony and viscountcy and earldom, right to the present earl, the fifth, and his three wives, Anne, Emilia and Patience. Patience. There it was, just as he had remembered.

  “Lady Hardy told me about the inscription on Miss Frost’s book,” Merton said. “I wondered if that was what impelled you to refer to Debrett’s.”

  “That is two connections now to the Earl of Bentley,” Monty said frowning. “Two names that occur in Melissa’s life, and also in Bentley’s. Thomas and Patience. Yet both are common enough names. There is a Patience in my own family, and two cousins by the name of Thomas. What do you make of it, Merton?”

  “The obvious solution, the one that must arise to anyone after some thought, is that the earl conceived a natural daughter by a Miss Frost. Subsequently, he took the child into his own household, passing her off as his ward. His third wife — Patience — clearly had some affection for the child, to give her a book in that manner, and Miss Frost has perhaps received the same education as the legitimate daughters, but was still treated as a poor relation. Probably she was destined for a life as a governess eventually, had her father not bumped into your father one drunken night, and gambled her away. It would make his actions a little more understandable — the shameful little secret, living under his own roof? No wonder he tried to get rid of her. I daresay your father mistakenly believed that she was a legitimate daughter, for he would hardly have agreed to marry her to his son otherwise.”

  “Poor Miss Frost, not wanted by anyone,” Monty said. “But she said her guardian was dead?”

  “So he might be. This edition of Debrett’s is a few years old now. It may be that the fifth earl is dead, and the sixth earl… let me see�
�” He scanned the page. “Randolph. If he has the title now, he may well want to get rid of his father’s little by-blow.” Merton looked up at Monty thoughtfully. “Does this change anything, my lord? If Miss Frost is illegitimate, I mean. Do you think Lord Carrbridge would disapprove? He is very conscious of the family’s honour.”

  “As he should be,” Monty said. “But he is a marquess, and I am merely a country parson. Miss Frost will, I am sure, make me an admirable wife, and we will hardly be moving in society. This is all supposition, of course, although I agree with your reasoning. It does seem likely that Miss Frost is a natural daughter. If so, it explains her reluctance to divulge any details about herself, and she has not lied at all.”

  “So far as we know,” Merton said.

  “True. But there is nothing here to make me regret my decision to marry her.”

  13: A Wedding

  Dr Hay and his sister had become fixtures in the house, by one of those unspoken agreements that no one questions at the time but everyone wonders about afterwards. At first, they were indispensable to Connie, keeping watch over her night and day, and providing reassurance to the rest of the household. Then, the continuing snow kept them there. But even when the necessity for medical attention had been reduced to a daily chat over a cup of tea, and the roads were passable again, they lingered on and showed no inclination to return to Mr Hay’s house.

  Monty could well understand it. Mr Hay and his sisters always had the parsonage as full as it could hold over Christmas, and the place was a riot of hissed family quarrels and rampaging children. Undoubtedly Dr and Miss Hay were very glad to escape the tumult and enjoy the relative tranquillity of Drummoor, which was also full but large enough to accommodate scores of guests without the least discomfort. They were often to be found in the library, quietly reading, or making notes, Dr Hay in a strongly upright hand, and Miss Hay in neat, precise lettering.