by M C Beaton
Ismene was in a sulky temper, which was growing worse by the minute. She had been informed sometime earlier by Kennedy that Lucinda had gone out and had not returned. She had descended to her father’s study to tell him of Lucinda’s thoughtless and selfish behavior, only to find her father closeted with Lord Chamfreys.
“If you see Miss Westerville,” said the Earl of Clifton to his pouting daughter, “tell her that Chamfreys is taking Mr. Westerville into his care and will take Miss Westerville with him when he goes to the country.”
This, of course, added to Ismene’s fury. The Cliftons had no hold over Lucinda now.
She was pacing up and down the drawing room, thinking out ways to make Lucinda’s life utterly miserable before she left, when a footman popped his head around the door and asked in a worried voice whether the Earl of Clifton was available.
“I don’t know where he is, James,” said Ismene crossly. “Try the library or the study. Is someone called to see him?”
“The Marquess of Rockingham, miss, and—”
“Send the marquess in here, immediately,” cried Ismene.
The footman bowed and withdrew. The countess, Ismene’s mother, then fluttered in.
“Mama!” cried Ismene. “Do but listen! Rockingham has called and is asking for Papa. He means to propose.”
“Then he must be sent packing,” said the countess.
“No, he must not,” said Ismene, stamping her foot. “He is rich and handsome and I want him.”
Behind her, the footman once more opened the door.
In a loud voice he cried, “His most noble lordship, the Marquess of Rockingham, and Lady Lucinda, Marchioness of Rockingham.”
And that was when Ismene began to scream.
5
A quarter of an hour later, while the sounds of Ismene’s hysterics still resounded through the house, Lucinda sat in a corner of the Earl of Clifton’s study and heard with a sort of numbness that Lord Chamfreys had already made arrangements to care for her father.
The earl had burst in upon the scene in the drawing room, had slapped his daughter for the first time, and had had his hair pulled by his enraged countess. Extricating himself from the grip of his angry wife, the earl had ordered the marquess and Lucinda to follow him to his study. There he told the marquess that, as he was in effect Lucinda’s employer, he should be told the reason for this rushed wedding. The earl’s eyes cast a cynical look at Lucinda’s waistline, quite forgetting that if Lucinda had fallen from grace, she would hardly be showing signs of a pregnancy after a few days in London.
In a bored, insulting voice, the marquess said that he and Lucinda had come to the arrangement of marriage because he wanted a wife and couldn’t be bothered with the fatigue of looking for one, and that Lucinda found her life as companion to the Lady Ismene quite horrible.
The Earl of Clifton gave a little sigh. He felt he should cry out against this insult to his daughter, but, under the gaze of the marquess’s world-weary eyes, found he could not. Then he told Lucinda of his recent visit from Lord Chamfreys.
Lucinda sat twisting the gold wedding ring on her finger. She need never have gone through with this charade of a marriage. Now she was trapped. But through her misery like a ray of sunlight came the sudden thought that Lord Chamfreys in his way was as unreliable a prop as the Cliftons. Should her father fail to rally quickly, then Lord Chamfreys might quickly become bored with the responsibility of looking after him.
“Well, that appears to be that,” said the marquess restlessly. “Would you be so good, Clifton, as to have my wife’s belongings sent to our address?”
He rose to his feet. Wife, thought Lucinda. How… final.
They traveled in silence to Berkeley Square. “Make yourself at home,” said the marquess abruptly. “I’m going out. Be back sometime. Come along, Chumley.”
The valet hesitated. He thought it was a bit hard on the new marchioness to be abandoned in a servantless house, but he knew the marquess would quickly become savagely bad-tempered if forced to stay at home.
Left to herself, Lucinda wandered through the empty rooms, wondering what to do, hoping desperately that this new, erratic husband of hers might not decide to get drunk and forget his promise of leaving her free of marital duties for six months.
She took off her bonnet and pelisse and then went down to the kitchen to resume cleaning. Hard work would keep her mind off her troubles.
She scrubbed and washed and polished until every plate and pot and pan was shining. There did not seem to be any food at all in the house. She was about to go upstairs to continue her labors when she heard a tremendous knocking at the street door.
Half-afraid it might be Ismene calling to continue berating her, Lucinda went reluctantly to answer it. A liveried footman stood on the step. “I have a message for the Marchioness of Rockingham,” he said loftily.
“I am she,” said Lucinda, blushing slightly as the footman’s haughty stare changed to one of amazement as he surveyed my lady in all the glory of tousled hair and baize apron.
He bowed and handed her a letter. “Are you to wait for a reply?” Lucinda asked.
“No, my lady,” the footman said. His hand was outstretched. But Lucinda did not have any money to tip him. She smiled instead and shut the door in his face. She carried the letter into the saloon and sat down and began to read it. At first she could not believe her eyes, so she read it again.
In a bold scrawl, her husband had written: “Gone to Paris for a time. There is money in the desk in my room but everyone will give you credit. Rockingham.”
Lucinda burst into angry tears. It was too much! She stared through the blur of her tears at the grim room, and became aware of the lonely, oppressive silence of the house.
There was only one thing to do—throw herself on Lord Chamfrey’s mercy.
She was about to go upstairs to look for the money in the desk so that she would be able to pay for a seat on the stagecoach, when there came another volley of knocking at the door.
Hoping against hope that it might prove to be the marquess, she ran to answer it. Kennedy stood on the step, her eyes red with weeping.
“Why, Kennedy!” exclaimed Lucinda, falling back a step so as to allow the maid to enter. “What’s amiss?”
“My lady pulled my hair and scratched my face,” said Kennedy, turning her left cheek to show Lucinda the marks of the attack. “She said it was all my fault—that if I had not prettified you so much, you would never have caught the eye of Rockingham. I could not bear it any longer. I am come to ask you, my lady, if you be in need of servants.”
“Oh, I am. I am,” said Lucinda gratefully. “Come in, Kennedy.” She opened the door of the saloon and ushered the maid in. “I cannot even offer you tea. I am sure Chumley has some hidden somewhere, but I cannot find it. I was about to run away to the country, but now, if you will help me, perhaps I might be able to manage. I have no servants whatsoever.”
“But where is my lord, your husband?”
“He has upped and gone off to Paris and taken his only servant with him, Kennedy, so I am quite alone and do not know where to begin. We need meat and groceries and a full staff of servants.”
“So you will engage me, my lady?”
“Yes, Kennedy. You will be lady’s maid, after we get other servants.”
“I shall return to Lord Clifton’s,” said Kennedy, “and I’ll collect my things. Then I shall call on the butcher and grocer. Then I shall call at Mrs. Pembery’s residence in Mount Street. I have heard that her butler, a good man, is unhappy in her employ. I know Lord Rockingham found it nigh impossible to engage servants, but with his lordship away, and with you being the marchioness, it should not be difficult. If I can get this butler—Humphrey, his name is—if I can get him, then he in turn can engage suitable people.”
“But he will be unable to leave just like that! And what about you, Kennedy? Lady Ismene will not allow you to walk out just like that.”
“I know how t
o make her throw me out,” said Kennedy grimly. “I am going back to tell her exactly what I think of her. Humphrey will no doubt do the same with Mrs. Pembery.”
“You seem like a tower of strength, Kennedy. I declare I shall stay and fight after all.”
It was a weary Lucinda who finally crawled into bed in the small hours after having sent a letter to her father telling him of her marriage. She told him she was madly in love with the marquess. She did not want him to think she had married Rockingham for any other reason.
Lucinda had selected a bedchamber for her use on the floor above her husband’s quarters. Kennedy had arrived back with the glad news that Humphrey and several of Mrs. Pembery’s other disaffected servants would be arriving in the morning to take up their duties.
Before she fell into an exhausted sleep, Lucinda’s one comforting thought was that London society would probably not learn about her marriage for some time, since her reprehensible husband had gone off without making any announcement.
In this, Lucinda was wrong.
Before leaving for Paris, the marquess had sent Chumley off with the announcement to be placed in the Morning Post. He kept a change of clothes in his club and he had set out for Paris with only those, having experienced a reluctance to return to Berkeley Square. The novelty of his wedding had quickly worn off and he wondered hazily whether he were mad.
So several society breakfasts were ruined by the announcement of his marriage.
The marquess’s mistress, Mrs. Maria Deauville, could not believe her eyes. Her plump little hands holding the newspaper began to shake. But she convinced herself it was all a hum. One of Rockingham’s little jokes. No one who was anyone had heard of a Miss Westerville. Still, she could not be easy until she had seen him.
The Honorable Zeus Carter felt all hope go out of his life when he saw the Morning Post with that terrible announcement. He thought miserably of his bills. He knew he was able to command vast credit due to his expectations. He was not the only person who expected the marquess to meet an early death. His only hope was that the marquess had been abysmally drunk when he had proposed and had fixed his interest on a female beyond the years of childbearing. Misery loves company and Mr. Carter craved the company of someone who was likely to feel as miserable as he did himself. He crawled from bed, determined to call on Maria Deauville at the first opportunity.
The marquess’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Barnshire, had just taken up residence in their own town house in Grosvenor Square. They had not bothered themselves much about their eldest son since the day he was born, except to see that he was firmly disciplined on all occasions. But the fact that their son had upped and married a nobody made the duchess quite apoplectic with rage. She called for her maid and began a lengthy toilette, as if putting on armor before going into battle.
* * *
Lucinda was flushed and busy and beginning to enjoy herself. The new butler was quiet and competent and had arrived with two housemaids, and wonder upon wonders, a cook. Footmen and more maids and kitchen staff were hired from an agency, the agency confident that things must have taken a turn for the better now that the wicked and unruly marquess was married.
She had just ordered the footmen to take down the picture of the lady with the sinister smile which hung over the fireplace in the saloon and put it in the attic when she received her first caller. It was the Duchess of Barnshire. Humphrey, knowing his mistress was wearing an old gown and apron, tried to keep the duchess in the hall while he warned Lucinda of her arrival, but the angry duchess pushed past him and strode into the saloon.
“Where is my son?” she shouted. “What have you done with my son? And where, may I ask, is this new wife of his?”
Taking off her apron and handing it to Kennedy, Lucinda said quietly, “I was married to your son yesterday, your grace.”
“You,” said the duchess in accents of loathing. She looked Lucinda up and down, from her worn shoes to her hair, which was tied up with a ribbon.
“Furthermore,” said Lucinda, “Rockingham has gone to Paris.”
“Paris!”
“Yes, Paris,” Lucinda said patiently.
The duchess moved forward and sat down on the sofa, her back ramrod straight. She was a tall woman with a grim face and a mouth that seemed to be perpetually curved in a nasty smile. Seeing that smile, Lucinda involuntarily glanced at the empty area over the fireplace where the portrait had hung.
“And where is my portrait?” asked the duchess.
“In the attics, your grace.”
“Why, pray?”
“I did not like it,” said Lucinda, too rattled to do other than tell the stark truth.
“You… did… not… like… it?” said the duchess awfully.
“Well, er, no, as a matter of fact.”
The duchess took a deep breath. “There is something havey-cavey about this marriage and I am going to get to the bottom of it. Are you with child?”
“Don’t be impertinent,” Lucinda said crossly.
“If you are not with child, then why did he marry you?”
“Because I asked him to,” said Lucinda. “Your grace, your son went off directly after our wedding, leaving me along in a house without either food or servants. I have much to do. I suggest you take your leave and I shall inform my husband on his return of your call. He will no doubt be pleased to explain his reasons for marrying me.”
The duchess stood up, quivering with rage. “You are a nobody, my pert miss. A nobody. And if you had any hopes of cutting a dash with the ton, you had best forget it. No one will receive you without my approval. No one.”
“Good,” said Lucinda. “For Rockingham’s idea of a pigsty for a home is not mine, and he has left me much work to do. Humphrey, the door. Her grace is just leaving.”
When the door closed behind the duchess, Lucinda said ruefully to Kennedy, “I dealt with that visit very badly. How did she learn so quickly? Oh, Rockingham must have called on her before he left for Paris.”
“Perhaps it was because an announcement of your marriage appeared in the newspapers this morning,” put in Humphrey.
Lucinda’s lips tightened. How thoughtless of Rockingham to do such a thing and then leave town. Surely he would know he was leaving her to face angry family and curious callers alone.
“I had better change,” she said. “I wonder who will be next?”
* * *
Mrs. Deauville was just descending the stairs of her elegant mansion in Montague Street when Mr. Zeus Carter arrived, flushed and breathless.
Maria’s heart sank when she saw him. A distressed Mr. Carter surely meant the announcement was not a joke.
“It is terrible! Terrible!” cried Mr. Carter.
“Rockingham’s marriage?” said Maria. “A jest, surely.”
Mr. Carter took out a handkerchief the size of a lace bedspread and mopped his brow. “I fear it is the truth,” he said. “Rockingham told me he intended to wed.”
An ugly flush spread over Maria’s white neck. “Come into the drawing room,” she said. “I would hear more of this.”
Mr. Carter tittuped in after her on the high heels of his boots. He waited until she was seated and then leaned romantically against the mantel, one finger pointing to his brow.
Despite his distress, he did hope Mrs. Deauville admired his latest Attitude, which was that of Noble Poet in the Grip of the Muse. But Maria was too distressed. He gave up his pose and looked at her. She was an enchanting creature, small and dainty, with a cascade of blond curls bound with a blue filet, large childlike blue eyes, and a perfect figure. She must be nearly thirty, marveled Mr. Carter, and yet she looked barely twenty-one. He had met her before on several occasions.
“He said nothing to me about wanting to get married,” said Maria. “Nothing.”
“Perhaps he was in his cups and sent off the advertisement to tease everyone,” said Mr. Carter. “That is what he would do, you know.”
Maria’s face cleared. “There
is still hope,” she said. “I was on my way to call. He will be furious with me, for I have never called at his home before. But he will understand.”
“If he is married, it ruins all my hopes of being his heir,” said Mr. Carter. He thought of the money the marquess had given him. He should have used some of it to settle his more pressing debts, but instead, he had bought himself a new carriage lined with blue silk and a team of matching white horses to pull it. There was plenty left over, even after this extravagance, but it went against the grain to pay a lot of vulgar duns. Mr. Carter blanched as he realized they would now be even more pressing. And no one would give him any credit if it were believed he had no longer any hopes of inheriting any money.
“Perhaps it would be as well if I did not call,” said Maria thoughtfully. “It will not look at all odd if you go to pay your respects, and then you can return here and tell me whether it is true or not.”
“What shall we do if it is true?” asked Mr. Carter.
There was an edge to Maria’s silvery tones as she said, “Marriages can be broken, you know. Go, and return as soon as possible.”
Mr. Carter went on his way. He had quite convinced himself that it was one of Rockingham’s jokes by the time he reached Berkeley Square.
The first sign of impending disaster was when a polite and correct butler answered the door. “Where’s Chumley?” asked Mr. Carter, handing his card.
Humphrey bowed. “If by Chumley you mean his lordship’s valet, then he is no doubt with his lordship in Paris.”
“Paris?” echoed Mr. Carter weakly.
Taking a deep breath, he summoned up all his courage. “Her ladyship at home?” he asked as casually as he could, although he noticed to his irritation that his voice trembled.
“I shall ascertain if her ladyship is at home.”
He walked away up the stairs, leaving Mr. Carter standing in the hall.
Mr. Carter looked about him gloomily. The hall, he noticed, was clean and shining. Worse than that, there was a beautiful arrangement of spring flowers on a side table.
