Sons of the Marquess Collection

by Mary Kingswood

  “Was there some problem with the chimneys?” Humphrey said.

  “Chimneys? Not that I heard, my lord.”

  “Hmm.” Humphrey frowned. “That is as I thought. Do we have an estate over by the fulling mill?”

  “Silsby Milton? Not to my knowledge, but I have not yet established a complete picture of all his lordship’s properties. I have a map in the writing room, if you would be interested.”

  Humphrey would indeed be very interested, so the three of them made their way there. The writing room had been the office of the eighth marquess, Humphrey’s and Carrbridge’s father. Merton had been given the task of sorting the vast number of documents and letters filed away in the many large cabinets therein. On one wall he had nailed two maps, one of the local area and one of the whole of Great Britain, each marked with pins with strips of ribbon in various colours.

  “The red pins are properties for which the lawyers in London hold the titles,” Merton said, “and the blue are those for which the title is in the safe here. The green ones are those which are mentioned in papers, but the title cannot be located, and these yellow ones… well, I suspect the marquess owns it, but I cannot be sure.”

  “Good God!” Humphrey said. “Wales! And Cornwall! And so many greens and yellows. What a mess! I suppose some of these have been sold, and that is why there is no traceable title?”

  “Sold or lost at the faro table,” Merton said with a wry smile. “Very likely.”

  “Have you asked Sharp?” Humphrey said. “He claims to know everything, although he says he keeps all the information in his head.”

  “If he knows anything about these properties, he will not divulge it to me,” Merton said.

  “He will divulge it to me,” Carrbridge said abruptly. “I will not have my agent withholding information from my secretary, as if you were enemies. You both work on my behalf, and Sharp will be helpful or find himself dismissed. I do not understand maps at all,” he added plaintively, tipping his head first one way and then the other. “What are all these squiggly lines? And where are we in all this jumble of colours, Merton?”

  “This black square is Drummoor, my lord. And here is York, and London is down there. The squiggly lines are either roads or rivers. This is the moor road to York and this is the turnpike.”

  “It is all very confusing,” Carrbridge grumbled.

  “So there is nothing anywhere near Silsby Milton?” Humphrey said. “That is curious, for I met Sharp up on the moors, just here.” He stabbed a finger at the local map. “He said he had been to Great Mellingham to see about the chimneys but his horse — or rather, my horse, for he had taken Ganymede, the impudent fellow — had teasels in his mane. That can only have come from near the fulling mill at Silsby Milton, which is away up here.”

  “That is strange,” Merton said, frowning. “It is quite the wrong direction.”

  “Well, let us ask him,” Carrbridge said. “I do not like mysteries of this nature, nor secrecy. We shall go there at once and have an explanation from him.”

  But when they made their way to Sharp’s cottage, they found no one there but his timid wife, who could tell them nothing except that he had eaten his dinner and gone out again, and she had no idea where.

  “As soon as he returns, send him to me,” the marquess said. “At once, mind!”

  They returned to the house in a very disgruntled frame of mind.

  ~~~~~

  Hortensia squeaked with astonishment.

  “Whatever is the matter?” Rosemary said, her eyes wide with alarm. “Not bad news, I hope?”

  “It is from the Marchioness of Carrbridge, and we are invited to stay at Drummoor for a month.”

  Rosemary’s knife clattered to her plate. They were sitting at the breakfast table, drinking chocolate and eating ham and toast. Hortensia had paid to receive an early delivery of mail, but they had seen little benefit from it, their correspondence being mainly polite bills and inducements to spend even more money from their mantua maker, milliner and haberdasher. They had few acquaintance in town, and now that the season was all but over, invitations of any sort were thin on the ground.

  This particular invitation was unexpected, and the two women stared at each other.

  “But why?” Rosemary said, her eyes wide.

  “Now that is a very good question,” Hortensia said crisply. “Why, indeed? It cannot be for the pleasure of our company, for we have barely exchanged three sentences with any of them. Nor are we of sufficiently high rank to expect to mingle with such people. So it must be the money, and one of the unmarried sons will lower himself to charm the vulgar daughter of a nabob. Lord Humphrey, of course. Do you remember that tea party at Marford House?”

  “Oh yes! The Chinese saloon!”

  “And Lord Humphrey, with all the cits’ heiresses lined up for him to inspect and make his choice, I daresay.”

  “You make it sound so cold and calculating,” Rosemary said. “It is done all the time — a title and vouchers to Almacks in exchange for a fortune. Younger sons have very little to live on, so they must trade on their wits and charm. And he was charming, I thought, and handsome too, if a little large. Did you not like him?”

  “He was well enough, I daresay,” Hortensia said nonchalantly, with an indifferent lift of one shoulder. Yet instantly her mind was filled with the vision of a tall, broad-shouldered man, in a well-cut coat. It was a vision that had troubled her dreams rather. How foolish of her to mope over a man who had undoubtedly never even noticed her.

  “He was very tall, with a flamboyant style of dress,” Rosemary said. “Rather overpowering.”

  “A typical aristocrat, then.”

  “Oh. So you will decline the invitation?”

  “Not at all! The moors! And fast horses! Oh, think of the freedom, Rosemary! Think of being able to ride properly again, as I have not since we left Madras. A gentle canter around Hyde Park is not at all the same. I remember every word Lord Humphrey said about his horses and the country around Drummoor. I should dearly like to go there to see it for myself, if I can. And oh, the pleasure of escaping the city — the noise, the bustle, the smells! I can hardly breathe here. I am sure there is good, clean air aplenty in Yorkshire. So yes, let us go, by all means, unless you dislike the idea excessively, dear?”

  “Oh, no, not at all! I never did like the thought of Brighton or Bath, for they sound just like London, only smaller and stuffier. We should still know no one, and would have to walk about without anyone to escort us and attend only subscription events and try to pretend we are enjoying ourselves.”

  “Poor Rosemary, have you disliked London as much as I have?”

  “Indeed not, for it has been most interesting. I enjoyed the Tower of London very much, and I do not mind the crowds in the least. However, there is no denying that it is much more comfortable to know people and have friends to chat to. I shall like to go to Drummoor, for Lord and Lady Carrbridge were quite delightful, and an intimate house party is so very agreeable, is it not?”

  And so to Drummoor they were to go.

  ~~~~~

  After missing Sharp the previous evening, Carrbridge, Humphrey and Merton went to Sharp’s cottage before breakfast the following day.

  Again, Mrs Sharp’s timid face peered round the door at them. She was neatly dressed, but her gown was old-fashioned and patched, and her hair was covered by a cap grey with age. “Begging your pardon, milord, but he ain’t here.”

  “My good woman,” the marquess said in exasperated tones, “I gave you a very clear instruction — your husband was to present himself to me the instant he returned home.”

  “Begging your pardon, milord, but he hasn’t been home,” she said. “Never come back last night.”

  “Well, where is he?”

  “Begging your pardon, milord, but I don’t know. He never said.”

  “I suppose he never said when he would be back, either?” She shook her head. “This is not good enough,” the marquess said, and t
he hapless Mrs Sharp quailed at his peremptory tone. “We have important questions to be answered, which only Sharp can address. What are we supposed to do now?” Mrs Sharp bowed her head, one hand convulsively grasping and releasing a corner of her apron.

  “If I may make a suggestion, my lord,” Merton said.

  “Pray do so.”

  “The legal documents to the properties in question will no doubt be safely locked away in Mr Sharp’s office. If we can find them, we need not trouble Mr Sharp at all.”

  “Oh.” The marquess seemed surprised. “That is a very simple solution, and they are my documents, after all, are they not?”

  “Indubitably, my lord.”

  “Very well. Mrs Sharp, pray admit us to Sharp’s office.”

  She swallowed several times, and the grasping and releasing of the apron became more rapid. “Begging your pardon, milord…” She stopped, heaved a great breath and then went on in a rush. “Can’t do it, milord, so help me, it’s the gospel truth, but I can’t.”

  “Of course you can, madam,” Carrbridge said gently. “I will explain it to Sharp, you know, so no blame will attach to you.”

  “No, no! Really can’t, milord. It’s locked, see, and only Mr Sharp has the key. Keeps it in his waistcoat, yer see, never lets go of it, so you see—”

  “Nonsense. He keeps the front parlour as his office, does he not? Well, then, admit us at once, madam.”

  She retreated into the house immediately, and they all trooped in to the narrow hall. The first door on the right was the office, and it was, as Mrs Sharp had said, locked.

  “I shall not be denied access to my own papers,” Carrbridge said haughtily. “We shall break down the door. Ready, Humphrey?”

  Humphrey laughed. “Carrbridge, I am as willing as the next man to break down a door, but shall we not try Bill Carpenter first? He got the Whittleton children out when they locked themselves in the stable court attics two years ago, remember? He is very competent with locks.”

  So Bill Carpenter was sent for, a wizened little man who grinned from ear to ear when his task was explained to him. He produced a collection of strangely shaped metal implements, and set to work on the door’s lock. Within two or three minutes a satisfying clunk announced his success. He threw open the door, while Mrs Sharp moaned a little in distress.

  Carrbridge strode into the room, then stopped dead. “Good God!”

  Humphrey peered over his brother’s shoulder. The room was furnished with a desk, several chairs and an array of cabinets and shelves, but it was hard to see them as every inch of available surface was covered in papers and letters and documents with official seals. More papers littered the floor in great heaps.

  “I had heard Sharp is not too meticulous about filing,” Humphrey murmured. Behind him, Mrs Sharp could be heard softly moaning.

  “This is unacceptable!” Carrbridge said, spinning round and brushing past Humphrey. “Merton, get some men here and pack up all these papers. Get them over to the writing room. They are yours, now. Mrs Sharp, when your husband returns, tell him that I am deeply disappointed in him.” He took one last look at the devastation, then, with an exclamation of disgust, he strode off, with Bill Carpenter scampering after him.

  Mrs Sharp whimpered, and ran off into the back area of the house, leaving Merton and Humphrey gazing at each other in surprise.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Humphrey said.

  “The state of the office? I had heard rumours—”

  “No, no. I meant Carrbridge. When he gets in high dudgeon like that, he looks exactly like Father. Quite unnerving.”

  3: Silsby Vale

  The entire day was taken up with packing the multitude of papers into old travelling boxes and conveying them to the house. Because they might be confidential, Merton and Humphrey undertook all the packing themselves, and left the grooms and footmen only the task of carrying the boxes. But eventually it was done, every drawer and shelf of Sharp’s office cleared, and the boxes safely locked away in the writing room, awaiting the gargantuan effort of sorting the papers into some kind of order.

  “As if you did not have enough to do already, dealing with all Father’s letters,” Humphrey said to Merton that evening, as they sat over their port after dinner. “And there is Carrbridge’s correspondence, too.”

  Merton gave a deprecating shrug. “I had sooner have too much to do than too little, my lord, although it might speed the process to engage someone to help me, if Lord Carrbridge agrees.”

  “Lady Hardy, perhaps?” Humphrey said slyly.

  Merton became a little flushed, but answered with his usual composure. “No, my lord. Some of the late marquess’s letters are… not quite suitable for a lady’s eyes.”

  “Not even when the lady in question is married?” Humphrey said, amused.

  “Even then,” Merton said calmly. “As for Sharp’s papers, you saw for yourself how many were personal correspondence.”

  “Of Father’s?” Carrbridge said. “Why then does Sharp have them?”

  “That I could not answer,” Merton said. “I daresay over the years Mr Sharp has acted as secretary as well as agent, since there was no appointed secretary.”

  “I did have a secretary, rather briefly,” Carrbridge said. “Poor Penicuik! He was the chaplain here before his tragedy.”

  “So I have heard. Whatever happened to him?” Merton said.

  “We never talk about it,” Carrbridge said with a shudder. “It was all too horrible for words. So who shall you engage to assist you, Merton?”

  “I thought Mr Julius Whittleton, my lord, since he is family, and I daresay he would appreciate a little extra money. I shall pay him out of my own pocket, of course.”

  “No need to do that,” Carrbridge said. “I do not pay you such a high salary as all that, and you have your house to furnish and so forth.”

  “I have some money of my own,” Merton said. “When I had the management of Sir Osborne Hardy’s financial affairs, I was able to arrange some of his investments to greater advantage. In gratitude, he was so kind as to leave me a small bequest in his will, enough to give me an independence.”

  “He was a very warm man, Sir Osborne,” Humphrey said thoughtfully. “I daresay he left Lady Hardy well provided for, too.”

  “Her settlement was most generous,” Merton said.

  “Although I suppose it reverts to the estate if she remarries?”

  “No, it is hers without conditions. There were also some substantial pieces of jewellery.”

  “What is this sudden interest in Lady Hardy’s fortune, Humphrey?” Carrbridge said. “Should I expect an announcement from you very soon?”

  Humphrey laughed. “Well, I have nothing but my allowance from you and the use of one of the hunting lodges, so a wealthy widow is an appealing prospect. Besides, she is a very handsome woman, would you not agree, Merton?”

  “Very handsome, my lord,” Merton said, with a smile that lit his dour face. “Her income is twelve hundred and fifty pounds a year, if you should wish to try your luck with her.”

  “I am not so sure,” Humphrey said solemnly. “The income is an attraction, certainly, but Lady Hardy’s skill at the chessboard would be a problem. She is an excellent card player, too. Imagine the disappointment of a wife who constantly defeats one. It would be more than a man’s esteem could bear, and I do have my reputation as a skilled gamester to consider. You are the only man who can defeat her at chess, I believe, Merton. I daresay Miss Blythe would suit me better. She looks as though she would let me win at everything. Connie has invited her, I take it?”

  “She has, although there has been no reply as yet,” Carrbridge said. “But Humphrey, you should be cautious. You know nothing of this girl or her family.”

  “She is rich,” Humphrey said, with an indifferent shrug. “What more needs to be said?”

  “No one in London knows anything about her or her family.”

  “Her father lived in India for years. I daresay t
hey have no acquaintance in England at all,” Humphrey said. “If it ever comes to a betrothal, I shall make stringent enquiries of her lawyers and financial advisers, you may be sure. But I do not care who her family is, Carrbridge.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall write to Mrs Mallory, I believe. Beatrice married into the Stoner family, if you recall, and they are — or were — nabobs. Made their whole fortune in India. Mr Stoner may know something of Miss Blythe and her father. And by all means engage Julius Whittleton, Merton. He is a handsome fellow and very much admired by the ladies, but he is not interesting company and he has such a prodigious appetite. It will do him good to earn his beef.”

  ~~~~~

  The following day, the weather was favourable enough to tempt Humphrey on a longer than usual ride. Since he was curious about how Ganymede had acquired a teasel in his mane and Sharp had not yet returned, Humphrey followed the same route as his previous ride. Having stretched Ganymede’s legs and burnt off his first burst of energy by galloping across the park and fields, he rode more circumspectly through the woods and up to the moor.

  He half expected to meet Sharp again, but he saw no sign of any other rider, and cantered on along the broad track at an easy pace. The track forked at a small copse, where once had stood an inn. One way led to Great Mellingham, but Humphrey rode to the west, past a few small hamlets, crossing the York road at the Old Cross Inn, before plunging down into the cool woodlands of Silsby Vale. At the bottom of the descent where the valley opened out was the fulling mill, its cluster of outbuildings and cottages around it. To one side was the field of teasels, grown for their usefulness in the fulling process.

  Here Humphrey halted. The road from the inn ran straight on down the valley to the village of Silsby Vale, but there was a narrow track leading through the teasels. He had never been that way before, but clearly Ganymede had, for in no other way could he have acquired teasels in his mane. So Humphrey nudged the horse in that direction, and Ganymede started forward with energy, ears pricked.