Lord Montague

by Mary Kingswood

  “I shall see if I can get someone from the village,” Melissa said helplessly.

  “I’ve tried already, and no one wants the work, seemingly. You’ll have to get someone from Sagborough.”

  “Very well, Mrs Green. I am sorry you have been put to so much trouble. Do you have currants? I can make a cake for our supper.”

  “Well, now, that’s a handsome offer, milady. Let me show you where I keep the bowls.”

  And she wondered how on earth they would have managed on two hundred pounds a year and only a couple of maids of all work. But she liked baking, and had often helped out in the kitchen at Bentley Hall, so before long she had an apron on, a mixing spoon in her hand and was humming as she stirred. She put the currant cake in the oven to bake, and was just flouring a board ready to roll out pastry for a pie when Susan, one of the house-parlour maids came in, very flustered.

  “Oh, milady, you’re looked for all over, for Mrs Sopwith is here.”

  “Who is Mrs Sopwith?”

  “Oh, milady, she lives at the big house with the holly just down in the village.”

  “Hmm. Better tidy myself up. Mrs Green, we shall need tea… and cake! Oh, goodness, cake! If mine is not ready, Susan must run round to Oakdown House — I am certain they will have cake we may borrow. Oh Lord, look at me! I am covered in flour! I shall wash in the scullery, and that will have to do.”

  Melissa rushed into the parlour rather breathlessly. Monty was looking harassed. “Ah, my wife,” he said. “Lady Montague, these are our neighbours, Mrs Sopwith and Miss Sopwith. Mrs Sopwith, may I present to you the Lady Montague Marford.”

  Mrs Sopwith was a severe-faced matron of some sixty years, dressed from head to toe in black bombazine, with a voluminous black lace cap edging her bonnet. She brought with her an unmarried daughter, who was the very image of her mother, all thin limbs and sharp angles, except that she wore unflatteringly pale muslin. Miss Sopwith’s nose was red, and she held a handkerchief to it constantly.

  Melissa curtsied, Mrs Sopwith looked her up and down, and Miss Sopwith sniffed, although whether from disapproval or from her cold was uncertain.

  “May I congratulate you on your marriage, Lady Montague,” Mrs Sopwith said, with a twist of her face that might have been intended as a smile. “I hope you mean to entertain, for the area is sadly lacking in families of quality with whom one may dine. We ourselves cannot afford to open our doors to all and sundry, can we, Sofia? I am but a penniless widow, quite retired in the world, but we are happy to accept invitations, are we not, Sofia? And my dear Lady Montague, I should be most pleased to correct any small deficiencies I may observe, for you have not my experience in the world. Why, I have dined at Carlton House once, and twice at Buckingham House, have I not, Sofia? So you see that I may instruct you in the styles in vogue amongst the highest in the land. There is no need to thank me, for I am happy to offer my advice wherever I see that it may be needed.”

  “How kind,” Melissa said faintly, not knowing quite how to respond to this outpouring.

  “So my friends all say,” Mrs Sopwith said smugly. “Did not Lady Halpeth say so only the other week? ‘How kind you are, Mrs Sopwith,’ she said, ‘to be offering the benefits of your wisdom so generously.’ Did she not say so, Sofia? And my very good friend, the Viscountess Markham, is forever telling me that I am altogether too kind.”

  “May I offer you some refreshments?” Melissa put in hastily. “Some tea, perhaps?”

  Miss Sopwith brightened noticeably, and her mother managed a genuine smile. “Why how kind! A glass of Madeira would be most acceptable, just a very small one, of course, so early in the day. And ratafia for my daughter. She cannot take wine. And if you have any pastries? No? A seed cake, perhaps, or a cherry cake, and a plain sponge for Sofia, for too much fruit is bad for her digestion. No sponge? Well, whatever you can manage.”

  Mrs Sopwith worked her way steadily through three large glasses of Madeira, and several slices of currant cake, still warm from the oven. By the third glass of wine, she was smiling widely, calling Melissa ‘my very dear girl’, while Monty was ‘my dear vicar’. She had forgotten Miss Sopwith’s digestion, and was urging her to try the currant cake, advice which she accepted with alacrity. She had sipped her ratafia without enthusiasm until Monty had surreptitiously left a glass of Madeira at her elbow.

  There was only one sticky moment, where Mrs Sopwith tipped her head coquettishly on one side and said, “And do tell me all about yourself, my dear Lady Montague. You were Miss Frost before your marriage, I understand? And where are you from?”

  It was such a simple question, but Melissa answered without hesitation. “Near Falmouth.”

  “Ah. Then, my dear girl, you must know Dr Harting and dear Lady Elizabeth?”

  “No, I have not had that pleasure,” she said composedly. “I did not move in society. More Madeira, Mrs Sopwith?”

  “Oh…but no, we had better be on our way. Sofia has some errands to run for me in the village and she must be back in time to bring me my tonic before dinner. I am a martyr to my nerves, Lady Montague, you cannot imagine how difficult life is when one’s nerves are all to pieces. And this is just a very quick call to make your acquaintance, and make you aware of our willingness to accept invitations whenever you should commence to entertain. And if you should require introductions to any of the noble families in the district, you may always apply to me. I know everybody of true quality, is it not so, Sofia? Do sit up straight, girl, do not slouch in that disagreeable manner.”

  The Sopwiths left shortly afterwards, and Melissa collapsed onto her chair with relief. “I hope we do not have to put up with them too often. A quick call? They have been here an hour, at least. Poor Miss Sopwith! She said not a word, the whole time she was here.”

  Monty’s face was as rigid as stone. “Melissa, is that flour in your hair?”

  “Oh… probably. I was making a pie for our dinner.”

  “But why? Is Mrs Green indisposed?”

  She flushed. “No, but… she is finding it difficult. She is used to a larger household, and there is no kitchen maid. I do not mind, Monty. I like to be useful, and if I can help out in the kitchen—”

  “We employ enough servants that you do not need to do so,” he snapped, eyes cold. “I do not want you helping out in the kitchens or anywhere else from now on. Your place is here, in the parlour, to receive any callers, or if there are none, to employ yourself with suitable tasks for your rank. Try to remember that you are a lady now.”

  “Was I not a lady before?” she cried, trying very hard not to cry.

  “I have no idea,” he said, his tone icy. “Were you?” He stood up. “Falmouth,” he said, in disgust, and stalked out of the room.

  ~~~~~

  Monty stomped off to his bedroom, his anger too great to spend any further time with his wife. In the fullness of time, he would have a book room which would be his personal retreat, a room that was his alone and into which no other might enter without his express permission, but until that day his bedroom, or rather the small dressing room attached to it, was his sole refuge. Apart from the small truckle bed and a wardrobe, there was a writing desk and chair, and here he sat, head in hands, contemplating his lamentable loss of composure.

  Had he been unreasonable? A little, perhaps, for Melissa was very young and had never had charge of a household before, or so he assumed. And here he halted, remembering once again that he knew nothing at all of her history. His brother’s words still rang in his mind, ‘But she could be an opera dancer, for all you know. Or some man’s rejected mistress.’ And so she could be. Or, most likely, the by-blow of the fifth Earl of Bentley. It had never mattered much to him what she had been, only what she might be — a wife who would look after him and attend to his comfort, and there, it had to be said, she fell down lamentably. But it was his own fault, he thought gloomily. He had rushed into this marriage and now he would have many years to reflect on the wisdom of it.

  But he had
not much time for reflection that day, for he soon had another visitor. This time it was Peter Herbert, the verger. Monty saw him in the dining room, so that he need not disturb Melissa’s parlour with business talk.

  “Mr Herbert, how are you?”

  “I’m worried, that’s what I am, your lordship.”

  “Then sit down and tell me all about it.”

  But Peter would not sit, instead twisting his hat awkwardly in his hands, and chewing his lip. Monty waited.

  “It’s these… women!” Peter burst out eventually. “There’s a lot of talk in the village, your lordship, a lot of talk, and the ladies don’t like it. They don’t like it at all.”

  “You mean Miss Kelly’s young ladies at Oakdown House, I collect?”

  “Aye, your lordship. Sinners, that’s what they are, and they shouldn’t be mixing with decent folk and going to church, as bold as brass. Be better if they moved somewhere else, your lordship, and it’s not just me sayin’ so neither. Everyone thinks the same. There’s women afraid to step out on the streets in case they meet any of them, and worried their men will be drawn in.”

  Monty tried to curb his annoyance. “Really, Mr Herbert, the ladies are perfectly harmless. They made a mistake and now wish to be allowed only to raise their children well and earn their bread. What is the harm in that?”

  “They’re sinners, your lordship. They should keep out of sight, and I’d expect you, as our parson, to take the lead on matters of morality. We don’t want them in church.”

  “Heavens, Mr Herbert, who better to go to church than sinners? Are we not all sinners?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “What did Our Lord say about sinners?” The verger shuffled his feet awkwardly, and Monty went on relentlessly, “ ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone’ and when Peter asked him, ‘Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me and I forgive him?’ and Jesus answered—”

  “Aye, seventy times seven,” Peter muttered.

  “Exactly. I hope we might all exhibit Christian charity towards these poor unfortunate women, Mr Herbert, and I trust you will express that view to everyone you meet. My next sermon will be on the subject of compassion.”

  Peter grunted, and went away, but Monty was not sure he was convinced. It was one thing to put a farthing in the poor box now and then, but heaven forfend that these God-fearing folk should be required to mingle with the poor and unfortunate.

  Dinner was adequate, although Monty thought the beef tough and dry. Ben Gartmore had brought some fish, however, with pheasant and pigeon hanging in an outhouse ready for Sunday, and Melissa’s apple pie was delicious.

  After the servants had withdrawn, when Melissa rose to go to the parlour, Monty said, “Sit a moment longer, Lady Montague. We must talk.”

  She paled, and plopped back to her seat, saying nervously, “That sounds ominous.”

  “Do not be alarmed,” he said quietly. “There is no censure implied, and indeed I was wrong to upbraid you earlier for the deficiencies of the household. These early days are bound to be difficult, for both of us, and I hope you will forgive me my… intemperance earlier.”

  She nodded her acquiescence.

  He went on, “Melissa, the situation is not easy for either of us, but it is made a great deal more difficult by your continued refusal to confide in me. I am your husband, can you not trust me?”

  She made no response, merely lowering her head, avoiding his eyes, but he saw the tension in her posture.

  “I do not ask you to tell me everything, but surely you can tell me where you lived before? It is not Falmouth, of that I am sure, and it will not do for you to say so to everyone. I am a clergyman and it is very bad to have my wife telling such lies.” He paused, but still she said nothing. He went on more gently, “There should be no secrets between husband and wife, but if you must have them, will you not at least tell me why? Why must you keep your previous life hidden?”

  Her head shot up. “I cannot tell anyone! You speak of trust, but you do not trust me! Oh, leave me alone! You are so… so righteous, Monty!”

  And something in Monty snapped. He jumped to his feet, shaking with anger. “I am a clergyman, I am supposed to be righteous!” he hissed at her. “And you are a clergyman’s wife and you ought to be righteous too, or had you forgotten that? Did you not stand before God and promise to honour and obey me, but you do not even trust me. All I get from you is arguments and wilfulness and lies, and I am sick of it, Melissa, sick to the heart of all this, and so I tell you. Even if you do not much like me, it is your duty as a wife to behave properly, to me and to everyone else, do you understand?”

  “I understand you!” she cried. “You do not care two farthings for my feelings at all, that is what I understand. You are just selfish and horrid, and I hate you, Monty, I hate you! I wish I had never married you!”

  And with that, she stormed out of the room, and he heard her footsteps thumping on the uncarpeted stairs as she retreated to her bedroom.

  16: Rain

  Monty had the greatest difficulty sleeping that night. His thoughts were tormented by Melissa’s angry face, and for once it was not the memory of her warm kisses that kept him awake, but the violence of her response, and his own lack of control. She had provoked him beyond endurance, there was no doubt about it, but he should not have responded in like manner. It was unforgivable in him. He was not a child any more, he was four and twenty years old and a man of God. Beyond all that, he was a gentleman, and should never speak so to a lady, and whatever Melissa had once been, she was a lady now. Her marriage had made her so.

  Yet still she would not be open with him. Why was she so distressed whenever he mentioned her past? Why could she not confide in him? If Lady Hardy could trust him with her most intimate thoughts, how was it that his wife could not? Such distrust upset him more than he could say.

  He had never had great expectations of his marriage, but he had hoped that Melissa would enhance his comfort and attend to his wishes, even if she never learnt to love him. He had wanted them to be on easy terms with each other, if nothing else. And deep inside, he was aware of a yearning for something more from her, a liking, perhaps, or some glimmering of affection. He wanted her to smile when she saw him, or to reach out a hand to him, or to show him the small attentions due to a husband from a loving wife. He so much wanted her to be a loving wife.

  Monty understood the implications of that line of thought. When he considered the matter dispassionately, he could no longer pretend to himself that he was indifferent to her. When she was in a gentle, contented mood, she was everything he wanted in a wife, and they had spent hours and days together without the slightest friction. Those times were happy ones, and he delighted in her company then. But these spikes of rage appeared without warning and shattered his peace, leaving him desperate to restore her good humour.

  Perhaps that was within his power to achieve. Trying to impose his will on her always failed, for she only became distressed, and eventually all would end in argument and disharmony. Besides, there was some truth in her words. She had called him ‘righteous’, and he remembered that Humphrey had called him a ‘sanctimonious prig’. Was that really how he appeared? Very well then, he must take a different approach. If he refrained from criticism, if he were gentle and loving with her, then it may be that she would become so in her turn. And at all costs he must not mention her past life, for that set off her outbursts more than anything else. He determined that he would begin anew with his wife.

  There was no cosy sitting room beside their bedrooms in the parsonage, so they took their morning chocolate separately, in their rooms. Monty went across to the church to discuss some matters with the sexton, and therefore had no opportunity to see Melissa before breakfast. She was red-eyed, as if she had been crying, and she looked so downcast that his heart ached for her. As soon as they were alone, before he could even begin to form the words of his own apology, she jumped up and ran round the table to Monty’s
chair and threw herself at his feet.

  “Oh Monty, I am such a bad wife to you, and a harridan, always shouting at you! You must be wishing you had never married me. I am so sorry — can you ever forgive me?”

  “There is nothing for me to forgive,” he said, smiling in relief at this outpouring. “Indeed, it is entirely the other way round. It is I who must crave forgiveness for my appalling outburst of temper. I have been like a bear, and I am not normally so cross, I assure you. I hope we may forget yesterday altogether, and say no more about it.”

  “You are so kind, and I do not deserve you in the slightest. But there is something I must say to you. Yesterday, you asked me to trust you, and I do, truly I do. I would trust my life to you, Monty. So I will tell you this much — that I have very good reasons for being secretive, but not for much longer. Everything there is to know about me, I will tell you, withholding nothing, but… not yet. I must ask you to give me a little more time — not long, just another ten days or so, and then I promise you shall know everything.”

  “Melissa,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips with a thrill of delight at the touch. “Think no more of it. Tell me whatever you want, whenever you want — or never, if that is your wish. None of it is of the least importance, for what you once were is immaterial. You are my wife now, and a lady, and a Marford, and a perfectly capable person, well able to decide your own way in the world. I do not need to guide you, nor shall I, and if you want to make currant cake and apple pie, I shall be very happy with that.”

  “Truly?” she said, her face brightening.

  “Truly. The apple pie was delicious.”

  She shook with laughter, and then lifted his hand so that it rested against her cheek. “Oh Monty, I have been so horrid to you.”

  “And I to you,” he said in a low voice, for he was finding it hard to speak suddenly.

  She looked up at him with a warmth that set his heart spinning and looping with joy. Was this love, this crazy weakness he felt, this strange mixture of incredible exhilaration and shakiness, like a fever? Was this what it felt like to be head over heels in love with someone?