Lord Montague

by Mary Kingswood

  “We shall go on better now,” she said, and then, to his delight, laid her head on his lap, his hand still pressed to her cheek. He would have stayed so all day quite contentedly, had not Mrs Prince come in just then with another plate of bread. Laughing, Melissa jumped to her feet and took her place at the table again, with a charming blush suffusing her cheeks, and Mrs Prince smiled knowingly.

  It was enough, and he was happy again — more than happy! She trusted him, she cared for him, just a little… surely she did, or she would not have felt such remorse after their quarrel, at least the equal of his own.

  And he was beginning to know a little more of her background, even though she had as yet told him nothing openly. He could guess the significance of the date ten days in the future when she would confide in him, and he also felt tolerably sure of the name of her home, which began ‘Ben—’. Bentley… the home of the Earl of Bentley, her guardian or perhaps her father, the man who had given her the education of a lady, yet kept her in rags. The home she was running away from.

  And that, the heart of the matter, was the one piece of information he did not yet have. He recalled, though, that one speculative idea had now fallen by the wayside — Melissa had not welcomed him to her bed, and therefore she was not trying to pass off an already-conceived child as his. But it made her reasons for marrying him even more obscure. It was all very puzzling.

  ~~~~~

  After their huge quarrel, Melissa had been gripped by terrible fear. Even though she had shouted back at him just as wildly, when she had reached her room it was to collapse on to a chair from sheer weakness. She had been shaking from head to toe, terrified that he would somehow send her away, reject her, annul the marriage… could he do that? She was not quite sure, but she thought he could.

  The very thought terrified her, and she had paced her room, crying, and eventually crawled into bed, still crying, curled up into a ball trying to imagine a future that did not have Monty in it, and failing. She could not lose him now! It was unthinkable, unendurable. She could not live without him.

  And slowly, very slowly, it dawned on her that the fear that had haunted her for many weeks of being returned to Lord Bentley and the unspeakable Mr Pontefract had given way to very different fears, concerned with a much handsomer man, with dark eyes and full lips, who had taught her how to kiss.

  She loved him, that was the truth of it, and how he must hate her for her shrewish behaviour. But she would do better! She would grovel at his feet and beg his forgiveness and tell him as much of herself as she dared — for she could not tell him the truth, not yet, it would be fatal — and hope that would be enough. She had taken the first opportunity to do so, and he had responded so kindly. Dear, generous Monty, to be so understanding!

  After this, Melissa found that he seemed more relaxed, and there were no more outbreaks of his very cross incarnation, which had struck such fear into her heart. He was calm and smiled at her and complimented her on her good management when she succeeded in presenting him with a half-edible dinner each night. Monty, who was used to Drummoor standards! He was so good, so wonderfully good, and surely she did not deserve him, of that she was sure.

  “That was delicious, my dear,” he said, after she had daringly ordered two courses for their Sunday dinner, and although the dishes were spread about rather, to fill the table, still there were enough removes and roasts to justify the description. “You have brought Mrs Green well up to scratch, and the blackberry and apple tarts were wonderful.”

  Melissa blushed, and could only murmur, “Thank you. She is much happier now that she has a kitchen maid.”

  “Did you find someone from the village?”

  “In a way. Rose from Oakdown House used to be a kitchen maid, before… um, once, so she was happy to do it. I am afraid we now have seven indoor servants, and three outdoor. That is too many, is it not?”

  “We are living a little beyond our present means,” he said, but his smile did not waver. “I am not sure that we shall be able to afford our own carriage this year. However, I have some money saved to tide us over these early days, and after a few months we shall review the situation. Four of our present establishment are from Drummoor, so we may send them back at any time we choose.”

  “I do not see that we need so many,” she said. “Mrs Green we must have, and one house-parlourmaid, and a groom for your horse, and your valet, of course. But I do not need a lady’s maid, nor a housekeeper, and I can help in the kitchen, and with dusting and laying fires and so forth. We could get a woman from the village once a week for the heavy work, and the laundry could be sent out. I do not quite know how we came to have so many servants.”

  “You do not like to sit at your leisure while the servants take care of everything?” he said gently.

  She only hesitated a moment, wondering how much she should say, before remembering that Monty was her husband and the least judgemental man she had ever met. “I am not used to it… to being the mistress of such an establishment. There were scarce more servants at Ben— at my home, but I was… well, not quite one of them, but I was not family either. And I got on better with them than with—” She stopped, wishing she had not said so much.

  “I understand,” he said in his quiet way, and she thought probably he did. “The thing to remember with servants is that they are there to do your bidding. One should never abuse them or insult them, for they cannot answer back and they live in fear of being turned off without a reference, but they are yours to command. If ever you need guidance about dealing with them, you now have four sisters-in-law who would be delighted to advise you.”

  “Thank you, Monty,” she said, but it was lowering to think of Lady Carrbridge, Lady Reggie and Lady Humphrey, all so respectable, and perfectly suited to their new positions, whereas Melissa felt like an impostor. Even the unseen Lady Gus was reputed to be sweetly angelic, and probably never shouted at her husband but was always demure and composed, and undoubtedly knew how to manage ten servants without once getting flour in her hair.

  Still, it was better to talk of her work rather than his, for she did not like to mention the day’s services or the noticeably reduced congregation, due to Bridget Kelly and her friends. They all came to both services, although they kept to themselves and made no attempt to mingle with the other villagers. Even so, there was a great deal of muttering about it, and several prominent villagers, among them Mrs and Miss Sopwith, had stayed at home. But Monty said nothing of it, and seemed not in the least discomposed by it, talking with equal ease to everyone after the services.

  It was fortunate that the complexities of domestic management kept Melissa at home, because the snow had given way to relentless rain. Monty had to splash down to the village once or twice to visit parishioners, and reported everywhere drenched and the road churned to deep mud.

  “The stream beside the road is running very fierce at the moment, and some of the cottagers’ gardens are under water, but I daresay there is not much growing at the moment anyway. At least it will reduce the number of our callers, with the roads so bad. I hope you will not think of venturing out in such foul weather, Lady Montague.”

  “Oh no, I have not the least idea of it,” she said hastily, rather glad that she would not have to visit the Sopwiths.

  She had no trouble filling her days. When she was not in the kitchen helping Mrs Green, she was in one of the upper rooms with Mrs Prince, with Ben Gartmore and Luke the gardener for the heavy lifting, sorting through the vast array of furniture brought from Drummoor, and deciding on what to put in each room, when all the renovations were complete.

  From the high windows, she could look down on the whole village, as each day the stream grew fiercer and wider and began to engulf the lowlying pasture and vegetable gardens. And still the rain poured down.

  “Those cottages will be under water if this keeps up,” she said.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Ben said. “But at the ale house they say they’ve never been flood
ed. The gardens, yes, that happens often, but the cottages are all built on earth mounds. The water’s got to be high before it would get into them.”

  But Melissa watched the rain falling and the stream rising, and wondered.

  17: Rescue

  Monty woke to the odd feeling that something was wrong. Pulling back the bed curtains, he discovered it was still dark outside. When he went to the windows, he could see nothing but the rain still falling, although perhaps less heavy than it had been. Opening the front-facing window and leaning out got him rather wet, but afforded a view of lower down the valley where torches wavered about. Distantly, he heard shouts, and a baby crying.

  He dressed quickly, wrapped himself in a old cloak of thick wool, and ventured out to see what was happening. The problem was not difficult to find. Not far below the church and parsonage, the rain-swollen stream had grown to monstrous proportions, and a lake now filled most of the land between the road and the wooded hills to the south. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the roofs of several cottages poking above the water.

  A large crowd had gathered along the road with lanterns and torches and ropes, shouting across the swollen waters.

  “Is everyone safe?” Monty asked the first group he came to, which included Ben Gartmore.

  “Aye, seem to be. They had enough warning to get out in time, and they’ve got across the bridge to the mill road, but it’s under water in both directions and rising. The bridge itself will be drowned any moment. I don’t know what more they can do. It’s too dangerous to swim or try to get a boat to them.”

  The sky was already lightening, but although dawn brought a welcome respite from the rain, it also revealed less hope for those stranded. It could now be seen that some seventy souls stood on the last remaining hillock, entirely surrounded by water, which continued to rise. The daylight showed that many were old or frail or very young, who could never brave the stormy waters around them.

  The crowd watching the disaster unfolding was increasing. Amongst them were Bridget Kelly and several of her women.

  “Can they not be rescued?” Bridget said. “Is there no boat or raft?”

  “Nothing that could survive those waters,” Monty said. “Look how fast the flow is. And swimming is too dangerous.”

  “We can’t even get a rope to them,” Ben said sadly. “We’ve been trying for hours, but it’s just too far to throw. I thought of trying the dogs, because they swim pretty well, but I couldn’t persuade them into the water. But someone will have to swim it, I reckon.”

  “Even if anyone were strong enough to swim across with a rope, and not get swept away,” Monty said, “there are many over there who could never make the swim back, rope or no rope.”

  “Then is there no hope, my lord? Must we just give up?”

  “What we need is a bridge,” Monty said thoughtfully.

  “All the bridges are under water now,” Ben said.

  “Then we shall just have to make one. Axes… what we need are axes. And plenty of rope.”

  “My lord?” Ben said hopefully.

  “That oak tree there would make a fine bridge, if we could get it to fall at just the right angle. It would reach right across the water to the dry land. But we shall have to be quick — the water is still rising fast. Axes! I need axes here! And a woodcutter.”

  There was a scurry of activity, as men ran to fetch axes. Two men were found who had some expertise in felling, and knew where to make the cuts to have the tree fall in the right direction. Before long, the valley echoed to the sound of chopping wood, and many willing hands took their turn. Monty watched in desperate anxiety. Progress seemed so slow, and the hillock gradually shrank as the angry waters continued to rise. Over the grunted efforts of the choppers and the roar of the water, the cries of terrified children rose.

  “Will we be in time?”

  Monty turned to see Melissa’s anxious face peering up at him from the voluminous folds of her cloak.

  “God willing,” he said, and never had he felt more truth in the familiar phrase.

  “I shall go and help Mrs Green make soup, and ensure the fires are built up,” she said. “Send everyone to the parsonage to dry off, rescuers and rescued alike.” And she strode away, leaving Monty proud of her thoughtfulness.

  The tree swayed, then lurched, and with a great creaking and cracking, it fell, and the direction was perfect. There were shouts and a few screams as the stranded villagers waded into the water to avoid being hit, but a cheer of relief went up as the tree settled in a great flurry of broken branches.

  “Ropes!” Monty yelled, almost before the tree had stopped moving. “Where are the ropes? There must be something to hold on to. Bring me a rope, and I will take it across.” He unfastened the hampering cloak and cast it aside.

  “No, my lord, let me go!” cried several voices, as someone dropped a coil of rope at the tree’s foot.

  “No arguments—” Monty began, but he was too late.

  A small figure darted out from the crowd, picked up one end of the rope and leapt onto the fallen tree trunk.

  “Kitty!” Ben yelled, but she was gone, running full pelt along the tree trunk as sure-footedly as if it were a road. In the time it had taken for the crowd to gasp in alarm, she was across and into the tangle of branches at the far end. She tied the rope to a thick bough, and then disappeared into the thicket of torn branches. Moments later, she emerged carrying a baby and ran just as agilely back to the roots, where waiting arms reached to grab the infant. Back and forth she went, and by the time the rope was secured at both ends as a hand rail and two or three men had begun to inch their way over the makeshift bridge, she had brought half a dozen small children across in her arms.

  “Good Lord, she is fast!” Monty said. “She must be the circus performer, I think?”

  “Aye, a tightrope walker,” Ben said, with a sudden grin. “She’s certainly something, isn’t she?”

  “Indeed she is,” Monty said.

  By this time, some of the more agile amongst the stranded had begun to climb into the tree, and there were shouts of distress and cries of “Help! Help!” from the shrinking hill. Those remaining were beginning to panic as the water encroached ever nearer.

  “No pushing!” Monty yelled, and then, when that did not answer, climbed onto the fallen tree trunk and himself began to walk across. The trunk was wet, and the rope rail flopped about in an unsettling way. As more people tried to clamber onto the tree, it suddenly lurched downwards. Monty was thrown to his knees, the water raging not two feet below him. Screams and shouts suggested he was not the only one caught out. He clung to the rope, and gingerly manoeuvred himself to his feet again.

  “Everyone stand still!” he yelled, and this time his words had some effect. “Grab hold of a branch, if you can, and do not panic! And no pushing!”

  Carefully, step by cautious step, he made his way across the bridge. One of the rescuers had fallen into the water, with Kitty desperately holding onto his arm. With Monty’s help, the man was lifted back onto the bridge.

  “Go to the parsonage and warm up,” Monty said to him.

  Shivering violently, the man crawled away.

  “Cold as ice in there,” Kitty said. “Stop them all trying to cross at once, if you can, milord. I need to get some more rope.”

  And with that she was gone, back to the dry side of the valley.

  Monty reached the far side to find a mass of terrified faces looking at him through the fallen branches. Those lower down were already up to their waists in water.

  “Women and children first,” he said sternly, “then the old ones. The able must help the less able. And no more than two or three on the trunk at once, in case it moves again. You there,” he said, pointing to a young man who was blocking the way for two women behind him, “come up here and help the women up. The rest of you, hold tight to a solid branch, and try to support anyone having trouble. Here, give me your hand, madam. Now hold the rope and do not let go, under
stand? Walk slowly. You next, then the old gentleman down there who looks as if he will fall at any moment. Go slowly, very slowly. Take your time, and go straight to the parsonage. Yes, pass the child to Kitty, and she will take him. Your turn will come, sir, but there is a woman just behind you who must go first. Give her a hand up will you?”

  In this way, one by one, with encouragement and sternness mixed, Monty got them through the tangle of branches and up onto the tree trunk and to safety. His was the voice of authority, both aristocratic lord and church preacher, and they could no more have disobeyed him than flown to the moon. With the help of Kitty, who tied some of the more terrified to the rope rail to stop them falling into the water, even the oldest and youngest reached safety without loss of life.

  The parsonage was full. Every room on the ground floor that had floorboards and a fireplace had a blazing fire in it, and sodden villagers huddled around the flames, bowls of steaming soup in their hands. Monty caught sight of Melissa bustling about with a tray of buns fresh from the oven. He grabbed one as she went past.

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  “Perfectly. A little damp, that is all.”

  Then, with a quick smile, she said, “I did not know I married a hero. What next, dragon slaying?” So saying, she disappeared into his future book room with her tray.

  Monty ate his bun, changed into dry clothes, and made his way downstairs again. This time he found Melissa in the kitchen, overseeing the dispensing of soup.

  “Would you like some?” she said, with a smile that warmed him inside, but he shook his head.

  “Are you coping? This is not overwhelming the household?” he said, taking in Mrs Green standing at the range, grumbling steadily as she stirred a pot.

  “No, indeed, for Mrs Shaw and her daughters are making the next pot of soup, you see, and Mr Pargeter and his brothers are in charge of the coal.” Monty saw several village women busily chopping vegetables, while a troop of young men passed through with scuttles of coal. “We are using a vast deal of coal, I hope you do not mind,” she said anxiously. “Also, I have put Mrs Carter and Mrs Wainwright to bed in the spare room, because they were so cold, and they have been up all night. And I should like to put Mr Simpson to bed, too, but it must be a room with a fire. Would you mind if I use your dressing room? I can get more beds set up later, but just for now—”