“Ah, the seventh marquess,” Miss Chamberlain said. “Now we are getting into your own history, I believe. This must be your grandfather. Do you remember him?”
“I do, and sometimes I wish I did not,” Reggie said frankly. She turned to look at him in surprise. “He was fearfully strict, or perhaps he just appeared so to my childish self. He was quite old and spoke in a deep, rather gruff, voice, quite intimidating to a boy. Well, it intimidated me. Carrbridge and I were summoned to the library at regular intervals to be lectured about something or other.”
“When you misbehaved, you mean?”
“Oh no, not that sort of lecture at all. We never misbehaved, at least, not intentionally. It was Humphrey who started the family tradition for youthful wildness, a tradition Gil is attempting to uphold even now. No, the lectures were all about his collections of birds’ eggs or pygmy artifacts or twigs or—”
“Twigs? Your grandfather collected twigs?”
She laughed, and for an instant her face lit up in a manner which took his breath away. She was so lovely when she smiled like that, her eyes sparkling with merriment, and for a moment he could hardly form a coherent answer.
“Twigs… I… Well… There was something special about them, but I forget what, now. I daresay they are still in the library somewhere.”
“I should be most interested to see these twigs, to determine what about them made them so fascinating to your grandfather.”
“Oh — should you like that? I should be most happy to show them to you, if I can find them, that is. Now, this is Grandmother. You will meet her in person, for she arrives tomorrow. And this shows my father.”
“A handsome man, very like the present marquess, I should say, whereas you are more like your grandfather.”
“In looks, perhaps. Not in character, I think. He lived a much more flamboyant life than I, quite scandalous, if even half the stories told about him have any truth. Not that I could repeat any of them to a lady,” he added hastily before she could ask for more information. “Nor do I take after my father — he was a great man, a man much admired at every level of society. I should like to be more like him.”
“Did he have no faults at all?” she said, and she was smiling again. He wished she wouldn’t, for it made him a little giddy.
“Everyone has faults,” he said hastily, trying not to be distracted. “He gambled a great deal. Whole estates won and lost with the tossing of dice or the turn of a card. But he never lost the family’s entire fortune, so…” He stopped, wondering if perhaps that was exactly what he had done. There were debts, Merton had said, debts that needed to be settled, and the fortune that would have cleared them easily no longer there to be called upon. Whatever had happened to it all? It was a mystery.
“And here we have the present marquess and his lady,” Miss Chamberlain said, moving on. “He has the family nose, too. You must be the only one who missed out, Lord Reginald. Such a handsome couple, are they not?”
“Oh yes, and so—”
“Miss Chamberlain! Lord Reginald!” It was Miss Salmond who interrupted their tête-a-tête. “Miss Whittleton knows of a charming walk we may undertake through the woods, with a gravel path so we need not fear damp feet from the wet grass. Will you not join us?”
“Thank you for the invitation, but I must write to mama.”
“You would prefer to do that than walk about the grounds of Drummoor?”
“Indeed I would prefer it, for I know it will give her a great deal of pleasure to hear of all I have seen and done these last few days. I wrote only a brief note to assure her of my safe arrival, and she will be anxious to hear more. When I have done my duty in that regard, there may still be time for a walk before dinner.”
She left directly to begin this important missive, and the rest of the party ambled off in the opposite direction to collect bonnets and coats and gloves before their walk. Reggie was half minded to join them, for even at the slow pace of the ladies, the walk would be pleasant exercise, when he bethought himself of a gallant act he might perform for Miss Chamberlain — he would look for the collection of twigs that he remembered seeing when he was a boy. It would undoubtedly be in the library somewhere, and it might amuse her to see it for herself.
Accordingly, he made his way down the gallery stairs and was marching briskly towards the library when he heard a sound — a gasp or cry of alarm, he could not tell which. He realised at once that it emanated from his father’s writing room, the door to which stood open. Peering into the room, he saw nothing and there was now complete silence, but he was curious as to what had occasioned the cry.
He walked in. The room was exactly as it had been in his father’s day, the wood panels heavy and dark, the furniture equally so, and the pair of latticed windows casting little light. One wall was dominated by a full-length portrait of the seventh marquess, but there were no other paintings and no ornaments other than a line of snuff jars on top of one of many matching cabinets lining three walls. In front of the fireplace were four wing chairs in a semicircle, and a large desk sat under the window.
Here Reggie saw at once the source of the sound he had heard. Merton sat with his back to the door, a box full of papers open in front of him, engrossed in reading a letter, oblivious to Reggie’s presence.
“I say, Merton—” Reggie began, but Merton jumped halfway out of his seat, dropping the paper he held and knocking over a pen-holder. He turned, eyes round, gasping for breath. “Apologies, Merton,” Reggie said. “Had no wish to startle you. Good God, man, whatever is the matter? You are as white as a sheet!”
“Oh — Lord Reginald!” He jumped to his feet. “I beg your pardon, my lord. It is just that… something of a shock…”
“I am so sorry. Will you take some brandy? Let me ring for Crabbe. Lord, you look as if you have seen a ghost.”
“Perhaps I have. Here — read this.” He thrust the paper he had been reading at Reggie.
Reluctantly Reggie took it and read it. Then, disbelieving, he read it again. The words stayed the same, and no amount of rereading could change them. “Good God! Father had another son! This woman had a son by him.”
“Yes, yes, but that is not the worst of it,” Merton said. “Look at this line here. They were married, my lord, married, and look at the date! This unknown son is the marquess, and not Lord Carrbridge at all!”
4: Letters
Robinia settled herself at the small escritoire in her room to begin her letter. She knew what her papa would like to hear — the number and dimensions of the rooms, the size of the fireplaces and the quantity of footmen employed. She had not yet had an opportunity to count the chimneys, so that tasty morsel of information must wait for another day. Dear papa! How he loved his numbers. Robinia filled the first page with them.
Mama had no interest in chimneys. She would want a full reckoning of gowns and necklaces and jewelled combs, and a description of every person of consequence in the house. Robinia began with the marquess and marchioness.
‘Lord Carrbridge is quite tall, and very handsome, and he dresses very fine, with a different coat every day, but I have not yet been able to find out his tailor for Cousin William. His hair is all swept about just like W’s, although it suits the marquess better. The marchioness is very pretty, with hair fashionably short and so exquisitely dressed, you cannot imagine. Her gown last evening was the palest green silk, with gold braiding about the neck and sleeves, and tiny birds embroidered in gold upon the bodice, with a shawl and little cap in the same design. I never saw anything so lovely in my life, not even Lady Thrimpleton’s gowns.’
That seemed to take care of her hosts, but what to say of the brothers? She chewed the end of her pen thoughtfully. She had at first dismissed Miss Salmond’s speculation that one or other of the Marford brothers might have designs on her, for it seemed impossible that the sons of a marquess would look at anyone of her humble position in society, no matter how large her dowry. And yet it might be so, for Lord Reginald had
been surprisingly attentive. The day of her arrival, he had not said more than a dozen words to her after their introduction, but the next evening he had contrived to sit next to her at dinner, and last night he had sat beside her for fully half an hour after dinner. And just now in the long gallery — yes, she was quite certain he had been bent on talking only to her. It was flattering, but she had no wish to raise expectations in mama’s breast that she could not fulfil. Dipping her pen in the ink, she began to write.
‘I have met two of Lord Carrbridge’s brothers, both of them gentlemanlike and amiable. Lord Montague is of a serious disposition, devoted to his books, and would like to enter the church if only his brother would agree to it. Lord Reginald is not so handsome as his brothers, and dresses very plain, with no ornament nor frill about him. He is very courteous.’
That seemed to take care of Lord Reginald satisfactorily, so she filled the rest of her second page with the names and residences of the other guests, leaving more detailed discussion of gowns and jewellery for another time. Having done her duty, she felt quite free to don bonnet and pelisse, and make her way, after getting lost only three times, to the gardens and a walk in pleasant solitude.
~~~~~
Reggie had never seen his brother so shocked. It was hardly surprising, of course, for what could be more shocking than to discover that the position one held, the position that one had been destined from birth to hold, might in fact belong to another?
“And no one ever suspected the existence of this marriage or this son?” Connie said, white-faced. “Has no one ever heard of this Amelia Gartmore before today?”
The marquess shook his head.
“How could we?” Reggie said. “Unless Father mentioned such a thing, how could anyone know?”
They all fell silent as Crabbe entered, followed by Timothy bearing a tray with decanters of brandy and Madeira. “May I pour, my lord?” Crabbe said.
When the marquess seemed unable to respond, Reggie said, “No, we can manage, Crabbe. Did you find Lord Montague?”
“Not yet, my lord, but I have several people looking for him. He’ll be found shortly, I’m sure.”
The butler withdrew to the door, bowed and left. The door closed behind him with a soft snick.
Reggie let out a long breath. “Well, I need some brandy, even if no one else does. Carrbridge? Merton?”
Merton gave a half smile. “A restorative brandy would do us all good, I believe. Lady Carrbridge, I beg your pardon — may I order some tea for you?”
Connie raised one eyebrow. “I do not think tea is adequate to the occasion, Mr Merton. I would be obliged if you would pour me a brandy. And then you may advise us on what next to do in this dreadful coil.”
While he poured, Merton said, “It is as well to consider that this assertion may be entirely false, or there may be some truth in it but what is said is but a partial truth.”
“Surely one cannot be partially married, Merton,” Reggie said more sharply than he had intended. It was irritating enough to find oneself in such a situation without sharing it with outsiders like Merton. And perhaps he was especially cross with Merton since the fellow had uncovered the letter in the first place. Not an hour ago they had all been perfectly comfortable, with not a care in the world apart from a little difficulty about money, and now perhaps everything they had might be snatched away from them.
“Quite right, my lord,” Merton said in his dour way. “Marriage is indeed an all or nothing business. But all we have at the moment is this one letter, dated approximately one month before the demise of the eighth marquess. For all we know, his late lordship may have written a robust response denying the accusation altogether. Or there may be more letters or documents to be discovered which reveal a different aspect.” He hesitated. “If I may speak frankly, my lord…?”
Carrbridge waved a hand to signify his consent.
“It is not unknown,” Merton went on, “for a gentleman who wishes to advance his cause with a young lady in a certain direction, to be less than scrupulous in his dealings with her.”
“What do you mean?” Carrbridge said, his tone querulous. “I cannot at all understand you when you talk in riddles in this confusing way. Speak plain, if you please.”
“A gentleman may go through a form of marriage with a lady in order to—” he glanced at Connie, lips twisting nervously.
“To seduce her, I collect,” Connie said. “Well, well. Is that commonplace? And is it something the eighth marquess might have attempted?”
She looked at Reggie and her husband as she spoke, but it was Merton who answered.
“As to the latter, I could not say, but the strategy is well-known. One needs only a clergyman willing to take a bribe, and a paper that passes for a special licence. Or the promise of marriage may be sufficient inducement to the lady, and thereafter the gentleman disappears, never to be seen again. To the lady, the betrothal would be quite a settled thing and she might very well think of him as her husband.”
“After more than thirty years?” Connie said. “No sensible woman would believe such a thing. A betrothal is not the same thing as a marriage consecrated before God. And there is not the least doubt in her words, for she says, ‘As your wife, I remind you again of your obligations, not for myself but for my poor son.’ It is perfectly clear that she considers herself to be his wife.”
“Well, it sounds like flim-flam to me,” Reggie said. “I know personally of a similar case. A school-friend of mine got into difficulties with a gamekeeper’s daughter somewhere, and she was forever writing to him, asking for more money and threatening to tell his father if he did not. There was no end to it, and he could not even be sure that the child was his. These people see one as an open purse, and feel no compunction in helping themselves whenever they feel like it.”
“But how can we know?” the marquess said. “Perhaps it is all a hum, but if it is not…”
He did not need to finish the sentence, for they all understood the consequences if the letter spoke the truth.
“Mr Merton, what should we do?” Connie said. “Should we inform the lawyers?”
“Such action would be premature, I believe. First, it must be ascertained if there are more letters from this person, and that is a task I can undertake. I shall also look for any papers from the relevant time. The marquess was very methodical, and everything is filed in date order. It might also be useful to speak privately with any familiars of the late marquess who might have known him at the time in question, and could answer as to whether he ever spoke of this person.”
“Sharp would know,” Reggie said. “They were very thick in those days, and went everywhere together. I shall have a word. But if you want to know if someone is telling the truth, look them in the eye. So Father always said, and I think he is right. Besides, marriage or no, if this son is of Father’s get, the family has an obligation to him and to his mother.”
“Then I shall invite them to stay,” Connie said.
“Oh no, I did not mean… no, that would not…” Reggie heaved an exasperated sigh. “Really, Connie, we do not want them here!”
“Why not? It might be his house, after all, and even if it is not, I should like to see him for myself, and observe whether he has the Marford nose.”
And nothing anyone said could dissuade her.
~~~~~
Robinia soon found that life at Drummoor was one of constant change. Guests departed and more guests arrived, in a constant flux that was almost as regular as the tides. Lord Gilbert arrived, stayed for one night, and left before breakfast the next morning. Three of the marquess’s aunts left and another two promptly appeared to take their place. Two of the Whittleton girls vanished, but two more turned up, looking so like their predecessors that Robinia was constantly setting them giggling by addressing them incorrectly. But then, they giggled whatever she said to them. So tiresome.
More interestingly, Lady Harriet Marford returned home. Robinia liked her at once, for who could disli
ke a lady who talked incessantly but without ever repeating herself or lapsing into dullness? She sparkled with enthusiasm, a vivacity which livened even the staidest of conversations. And she was gratifyingly interested in Robinia, which was perhaps a better explanation for Robinia’s reciprocal liking. The two were friends within an hour of meeting, and by the end of the second day, were walking arm in arm about the grounds as if they had known each other forever.
Lady Harriet brought Mary, Lady Hardy with her, and here Robinia was more hesitant. A widow of barely a month’s standing was outside her experience, and she wished her mama were there to tell her just how to behave. But Lady Hardy was a sensible woman of around thirty, a little quiet, naturally, but perfectly capable of rational discourse without bursting into tears or looking glum. Indeed, in the company of Mr Merton, formerly her husband’s secretary, she was positively animated.
“Ah, it is so delightful to see her smile at last!” Lady Harriet whispered to Robinia, as Lady Hardy and Mr Merton chattered over the chess board nearby. “Such a difficult time she has had of it, poor lady, but Mr Merton reminds her of happier times, before Sir Osborne became sick. Consumption is such an unpleasant illness, do you not agree? So much lingering, and so distressing for everyone, the person afflicted and those around him alike. It is a dreadful thing to watch a much-loved parent or child or spouse decline in slow increments, day by day, and month by month. My mama died of it, so I understand exactly what Lady Hardy has suffered. Such a delight to see her enjoy some pleasant company as a distraction from her memories. Now tell me, Miss Chamberlain, has the marchioness been helpful to you? For I understand that she is to advise you on how to go on in London society, although you have been presented already, I understand.”
Lord Reginald (Sons of the Marquess Book 1) Page 4
