“In that case, we must make certain that you are always well supplied with frivolous garments. Especially when they are so becoming and make you smile so charmingly.”
They walked slowly, arm in arm, with Anne stopping frequently to lean over a plant and enjoy its fragrance, notice its companions, and Philip enjoying her enjoyment.
“You are fond of gardening, then,” he commented.
“Indeed. My mother loved flowers and when I was a child I was allowed to help her in her garden. It is one of the things I have missed, living in London all through the year.”
He breathed deeply with half-closed eyes. “Yes, the scent of an English garden. I have missed it too.”
“There are no gardens in India?”
“Oh yes, indeed there are, and many are very beautiful. But it is not just the scents that are different. The colors are different, vivid and bright. They would have to be, I suppose, to stand up to the strong sunlight. Everything here seems softer, gentler.” He stopped and looked around. Then he smiled half sadly. “And like you, I find myself reminded of my childhood.” They walked in silence for a while, each lost in memories, until they finally returned to the drive to board their carriage.
“Was it happy then, your childhood?” Anne asked as they rolled along. “I ask because Mr. Wetherby said he grew up with you, and he seemed to have fond memories of the past.”
“Yes, it was happy. We were not rich, but we were comfortable, and I sometimes think a boy needs nothing more than a horse, a dog, a friend and countryside to explore. I know it could not have been, but when I look back, my childhood seems always bathed in summer sunshine. That seems foolish, does it not?” He seemed a trifle embarrassed by the memory.
Anne considered, and then shook her head. “No, my memories are warm and sunny as well. It is not that I cannot recall rainy days, or blustery winter days, but I do not remember them as cold. Indeed, I always liked rainy days. I think of them as cozy. I think it is because my parents loved me and loved each other. That kind of love makes a child feel safe and secure, and later, when things go wrong, it sustains you. You can bear it, because you know things can be better.”
Philip looked at her curiously. “What a wise little philosopher you are.”
“You think me foolish?” she asked, withdrawing somewhat.
“No, not at all. I think you have said something very true. A happy childhood does sustain one. I just…regret that you had to learn it.” He took her hand and held it, rubbing his thumb in circles on her palm.
He seemed to have nothing more to say, but Anne was prompted to probe a bit. “It sustained you in India?”
“Oh, I did not need sustaining then.” He revived with a smile. “India was a grand adventure. I went out when I was eighteen and discovered a whole new world to explore—new people, languages, customs. Everything was new. It was wonderful.”
“You liked it, then?”
“Indeed. I thought I had made my home there, and was sorry to leave.”
“But you came into your title and inherited your estate…” She sounded uncertain.
“It is not an inheritance in which I take any pride,” he said, his voice suddenly cold and angry. Then he shook himself and smiled once more. “Let us forget the unhappy memories. We may have to deal with them eventually, but today let us speak of only the happy ones. That will make a more auspicious beginning to our married life, will it not?”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“My lord?” He raised a brow.
“Very well. Philip.” She managed a smile, but what she felt was a qualm. The black anger that flashed in his face whenever anyone mentioned his inheritance and the Tremaine family made her uneasy. He controlled it, or at least he did so far.
So they dwelt on childhood memories. Philip had lived entirely in Norfolk, and his memories were centered on the outdoors, with the dog and the horse and Charles, sometimes with his father as well. Peter Tremaine had clearly been a loved and loving father, but there was a hint of reserve in Philip’s tone regarding him.
Anne’s memories were also mainly of the countryside. Her family had spent most of the year at the Elsworth country seat in Kent, only occasionally paying visits to London. She had done her share of tree climbing and racing over the fields, first on her pony and later on her mare, but many of her memories were of friends and neighbors, visiting and being visited.
Before she knew it, the coach was pulling into the courtyard of The Lamb Inn in Basingstoke. “We are stopping already?” she asked.
Philip shrugged. “There is no need to rush, is there? I am not familiar with this part of the world, and thought it might be pleasant to explore.”
“What a lovely thought.” Anne smiled happily. “I have never explored new lands before.” She suspected that he was more interested in delaying their arrival at Penworth Castle, but it was quite true that she had never done any traveling and exploring. Why not enjoy it?
He stepped down from the coach and looked around briefly before turning back to her. She had been about to descend without assistance, as she usually did, but he reached up a hand to assist her. A marchioness, she realized, should always expect assistance.
Shaking out her skirts, she was about to go over to the baggage when he restrained her again. Before either of them could say anything, the innkeeper came bustling out, followed by a pair of servants who snatched up the baggage under the instructions of Millie and Crispin and hurried into the building.
The innkeeper welcomed them effusively, speaking of the honor they did his humble establishment and bobbing a bow at every sentence. Penworth managed to look tolerantly amused, but Anne was having difficulty concealing her amazement.
“Enough,” said Penworth. “I am sure your inn will live up to its reputation for comfort and cuisine. Perhaps you could now show us to our rooms and have some tea sent up?”
“Of course, my lord, of course!” He waved at a serving girl who had been staring at the new arrivals. She came to herself and hastened into what must be the kitchen. “The very best chamber and private sitting room have been prepared for you. Right this way.”
The innkeeper kept turning back to bow again and again as he led them up the stairs and into a large bright sitting room with a bay window overlooking the street. A dining table and chairs sat by the window, and a pair of armchairs flanked the fireplace where a fire was just catching hold. The furniture was neither new nor elaborate, but everything appeared clean and comfortable.
“Does it meet with your approval, my lady?” Penworth drawled.
“It looks most pleasant, Mister…?” Anne looked enquiringly at the innkeeper.
“Bartholomew, my lady, Benjamin Bartholomew at your service.” The innkeeper bobbed a few more times for good measure.
“Well, Mr. Bartholomew,” she said, “I am sure you will make us most comfortable.”
The innkeeper seemed about to begin another speech of welcome, but Penworth waved him away, and he scurried out, almost colliding with the serving maid bringing in the tea. However, disaster was avoided and only moments later the tea tray was safely on the table before the fire, and Lord and Lady Penworth were alone. They looked at each other, and then Anne began to smile. Philip smiled, too. Then Anne’s smile turned into a giggle and Philip’s into a chuckle, and before they could stop themselves they had fallen back in their chairs laughing helplessly.
“Oh, lord,” Anne finally managed to say, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “does that happen everywhere you go?”
“Often enough. Ridiculous, is it not?”
“And to think I was about to pick up my own bag!”
“Civilization as we know it would have come to an end,” Philip assured her.
“You looked very aristocratic, I must say, as if it were all simply your due. I was quite impressed.”
“I have found it simpler if I do not meet anyone’s eye. If I do, I find it difficult to keep a straight face, and then they might realize that it is a
ll a sham.”
“I am going to find this very difficult. A week ago I was trying to decide how long I would need to make the housekeeping money last. I worried whether Uncle Craddock would return within a fortnight and complain at my penny-pinching ways, or return in two months, and complain that I was a spendthrift.”
“It will be less difficult for you than it has been for me. A few months ago I was living in luxury as one of the prince’s favorites, with no way to be certain that his mood would not change the next day, in which case I would be fortunate if being sent to the dungeons was the worst to befall me.”
Anne looked startled. “I thought you said you liked India.”
“I did, but part of what I liked was the excitement, the uncertainty. There were always people who would have liked to see me fall, so I had to be on my guard all the time. Now, I need only appear and people are falling all over themselves to serve me.”
Anne suddenly turned pensive. “I suppose the way we are being treated here is one of the things Uncle Craddock has always resented. No one ever toadies to him that way, no matter how much he tries to demand it.”
“Ah, that is his mistake. An aristocrat, whether a real one or an imposter, never demands anything. He simply assumes that people will cater to his every whim, and so they do. Should he be displeased, he does not complain, he simply looks.” Philip demonstrated an icy glare that reduced Anne once more to laughter. “If you demand anything, you betray the fear that you are not entitled to it, and so you earn contempt rather than respect.”
Anne was shaking her head at him.
“Do you doubt me?” he asked. “Think about this. Did the servants leap to obey your aunt and cousin?”
Anne thought for a moment. “They never disobeyed.”
“Of course not. They did not wish to be dismissed. But were they prompt? Or did they do the least possible at the last moment possible?”
Anne smiled at that. “I confess, you describe their behavior perfectly.”
“And you,” he continued. “Were they equally dilatory in fulfilling your requests?”
She paused and then answered slowly, “No, they always did as I asked immediately.”
He nodded in satisfaction. “And, I wager, they often did more than you asked or acted before you even needed to ask.” When she looked at him in surprise, he said, “They knew you were a lady, just as they knew your aunt and cousin were nothing of the sort. They expect to obey ladies and gentlemen, but they resent being expected to obey people who are just trying to pass themselves off as their betters.”
“That does not seem just or fair.”
“It isn’t,” Philip snapped, suddenly looking angry, but the look passed and he spoke more gently. “It is not fair, but it is the world we live in, and it will not change in a day or year. Still, I think servants will have a pleasanter time working in your household than in your aunt’s.”
Suddenly Anne felt stricken. “I forgot all about the servants! How could I?”
Philip looked at her inquiringly.
“Jeffries, Mrs. Bacon and the others,” she said. “They have done much to watch out for me since my parents died. They made sure I was warm enough, and had candles and books and little luxuries. Most of all, they always treated me as Lady Anne. They let me preserve my pride. And here I have not given them a thought in all that has been happening. I cannot believe I have been so neglectful. They will not, I think, want to remain in service with my aunt and uncle, but my uncle is sufficiently spiteful to refuse to give them any sort of reference. I must make some sort of provision for them. Will that be possible?”
Philip smiled approvingly. “Of course. If they wish to stay in service with you, we can employ them, and if they wish to retire, we can provide them with pensions. I will write to Middleton and he can speak to them.”
She was loyal and understood about responsibilities, he thought. Everything he was learning about this new wife of his pleased him.
They took the trip slowly, stopping for long, leisurely meals at midday, stopping to stroll through a pretty village, stopping to admire a view, and stopping early to spend the night at an inn. Wherever they went, the sight of the crest on the side of the elegant coach drew instant attention. They might have preferred less of it, but they grew increasingly adept at dealing with it. In addition, it would be difficult to truly object to the fact that they were always offered the best meals available, and the best rooms, with the cleanest, largest, softest beds.
Both Philip and Anne enjoyed the nights, which stretched well into the morning to allow some time for sleeping. Philip was happy to confirm that his bride was not at all missish. Instead she was a delighted—and delightful—bed partner, responding with enthusiasm to his caresses. Her own caresses grew less tentative each day, and he found himself longing for the moment when they would be alone in their bedchamber, the moment when she removed her gloves. Then her bare fingers would touch his skin, and he would go up in flames.
Anne felt as if she were wrapped in a cocoon of pleasure. She had never dreamt marriage would be like this, so, so thrilling. Perhaps this was why her parents had been so happy. Every day she longed for the moment when she would be alone with Philip in their bedchamber and she could touch his bare skin. She wondered if he would be shocked if he knew how badly she wanted to tear his clothing off. She was shocked herself. But not at all distressed.
During the days, as they rode in the coach, they talked. For Anne, this too was a revelation. She had not even realized how starved she was for conversation. It was not that she had been silent while living with her aunt and uncle, but she had learned to keep her thoughts to herself. If she wanted something or wanted to avoid something, even something as mundane as an early morning walk in the park, she had to find a way to use trickery and manipulation to achieve it, so that her aunt and particularly her uncle would never know her desires. With the servants, the understanding that passed between them was largely unspoken.
Now she was with someone who actually wanted to know her thoughts, someone who shared his.
It was a revelation.
Chapter Eighteen
In which they come to the castle and find a cold welcome
By the sixth day, no further delay in their journey was possible. They had stopped for the night at the Ship Inn in the town of Wool, only a few miles from the castle. They had awakened late. Anne had been surprised—and then excited—by the urgency of Philip’s lovemaking, and they had drowsed into the late morning. Nonetheless, even with a stroll by the river after a leisurely breakfast, it was going to be impossible to arrive at Penworth Castle much later than midday. Not even the weather could delay them—it was overcast and threatening, but no rain fell.
Philip had grown quiet. They were sitting side by side in the coach, and he was once again holding Anne’s hand and rubbing his thumb on it in those absent-minded circles. His touch gave her tingles, but his silence worried her.
“My lord?” Her voice broke into his thoughts, and he managed to offer her a slight smile.
“My lord, can you tell me what is troubling you? I would help if I can.” There was genuine concern in her voice. “Do you have unpleasant memories of this place?”
“Unpleasant memories.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Oh yes.” He turned to her. “My grandfather disowned my father; did you know that?”
She nodded. “So I have been told.”
He turned away, staring into nothingness, to begin the tale. “It was because he married my mother and not the bride chosen for him by the old marquess. That woman would have brought a fortune. Her father owned ships—in the slave trade, to be precise. He was willing to pay handsomely for a noble son-in-law, even a fourth son with no title. My grandfather wanted the money badly enough to overlook the slave trade. As far as he was concerned, no question of honor or morality could be allowed to interfere with his self-indulgence.” Philip did not even try to disguise the bitterness in his voice.
“However, my father ha
d fallen in love with my mother and married her. She was a Lamarche, a cousin of Greystone’s, but had very little as a dowry. I do not know what was said when my grandfather found out, but I do know that there was no contact with my father’s family as I was growing up.
“After my father died, there was no money. I was only twelve, and would have been hard pressed to find a way to support us. Still, I wanted to try. My mother thought we should turn to his family.” He was still rubbing her hand, and turned to look at her. “I did not want to go, but she was very sweet and gentle, my mother,” he explained. “She could not really imagine the kind of bitterness that cuts you off from your own family, the kind of pride that will not let you forgive. I could not refuse her.”
Anne looked at him for a moment. His eyes seemed to be asking if she understood. When she nodded, he seemed relieved.
“When we finally arrived at the castle, we looked so bedraggled that they tried to send us to the kitchen entrance. My mother managed to convince the butler that we truly were members of the family, so he allowed us to stand in the hall. We stood there for what seemed like hours. At last he reappeared and said, ‘The marchioness will see you in the drawing room.’
“He led us down a long, gloomy corridor into a large, gloomy room. I do not know if the entire place really was gloomy, but I remember it that way. The woman sitting there was wearing so many jewels that she glittered. She said, ‘You claim to be the family of my son Peter. The marquess and I have no son called Peter. You may have a bed for the night in the servants’ hall, but nothing more will be done for you.’
“The whole time she spoke, she never even turned to look at us. I wanted to—I do not know—hit her, scream at her, something, but my mother held my arm. She turned and we left without a word. We managed to get to Greystone, getting rides on farm carts or walking and sleeping in fields, and she never spoke of my father’s family again.”
Anne could understand the bitterness of those memories. At least she was the only one who had suffered from the “charity” of the Craddocks. They had harmed no one she loved.
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