A MATCH FOR THE MARQUESS

by Lillian Marek

  Returning from the stables, Crane found Lady Anne still standing in the hall, staring at the door through which her husband had departed. “Excuse me, my lady…”

  She turned to him inquiringly.

  “My lady, there is a bell in the library. I do not know if his lordship is aware of it.”

  Anne smiled. “Do not worry, Crane. Lord Penworth is quite civilized, and was raised in a household where standards of behavior were far higher than they seem to have been here. However, there are times when one’s feelings can only be relieved by shouting. This appears to have been such an occasion. And do not worry about the riding crop. Lord Penworth will not take his anger out on the horse.” At least, she hoped he wouldn’t.

  Crane looked stricken. “I did not mean to imply any criticism, my lady. I am sure Lord Penworth is a most honorable gentleman.”

  “That he is, Crane. That he is.”

  Anne finally turned away from her musings and returned to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hendley and Mrs. Tripp were waiting, stammering apologies as soon as she stepped through the door. She finally managed to stop them, assuring them that she realized they had no way of knowing what manner of man the new marquess would be.

  “And,” she added dryly, “if the old marquess and his wife had anything to say about him, I doubt that it was complimentary. Do not fret about it. Let us get to work instead.”

  It was soon apparent that the sisters had not exaggerated. The larder contained only the scantiest of provisions and no fresh food. The still room held only cobwebs and dust. The wine cellar, on the other hand, was well stocked with brandy and port as well as rack after rack of wine. Anne was glad of that, at least. She thought she might well be looking forward to a glass or two of wine by evening. In the meantime, it was fortunate that Lady Augusta had insisted Anne take a purse of sovereigns with her in case of emergencies. Well, this was certainly an emergency.

  She sent one of the maids upstairs to fetch the purse, and sat Mrs. Tripp down to make a list of the supplies she would need to make a decent dinner for master and servants. Then she and Mrs. Hendley set out on a tour of the house.

  Anne could have wept. Room after room of beautiful design and proportion, with paneling and carvings of excellent workmanship—all covered with the grime of neglect. Furnishings that were of excellent quality, even if not to Anne’s taste, were shabby and often in need of repair.

  She took a rag and gently rubbed the top of one small table to reveal an elaborate marquetry design. An enormous cabinet, more than a century old Anne was sure, had panels with inlays of semiprecious stones, barely visible beneath years of dirt. Only traces remained of what once had been the gilding on a coffered ceiling. There were few books left in what was obviously a library, but the carvings on the bookcases looked very like the work of Grinling Gibbons. Draperies and upholstery of velvet and brocade were faded and often torn.

  Yet underneath it all, there was beauty in the very shape of the rooms, in the delicate plasterwork on the ceilings, in the ancient stonework in the oldest part of the house, all of it waiting to be restored. There was even a great hall, complete with minstrel’s gallery, but when she looked into the little staircase leading to the gallery, it smelled strongly of rodents.

  She turned to Mrs. Hendley. “We need to get a cat in here.”

  Mrs. Hendley flushed. “I’m sorry, my lady.”

  Anne waved away the apology. “It must have taken years to get the house in this state. The dust is recent, but the rest of it!”

  Mrs. Hendley nodded sadly. “There were never enough servants, and as soon as they learned their jobs, they went off to a better position. Then the old marquess always said there was no money for repairs and such. I think it all went to his sons and grandsons. Great ones for the gaming tables they were, and that was the best of it.”

  “Well, you will need to hire additional servants as quickly as possible. Once it is at least clean it will be easier to see what can be salvaged and what needs to be repaired or replaced. Now, I assume most of the servants came from the village. Will they be willing to return?”

  Mrs. Hendley avoided looking at Anne, and twisted her hands in her apron. “Most of the servants came from the big orphanage in Exeter,” she said.

  Anne was surprised. She had not thought of her husband’s grandparents as the charitable sort who would give shelter and employment to unwanted children. Should she adjust her impression of them, think a bit more kindly of them?

  Mrs. Hendley promptly disabused her of this notion. Local families did not want their children working for the Tremaines. “They had a certain reputation, you see.”

  The housekeeper was avoiding Anne’s eye so stubbornly that Anne had no desire to press her about that reputation. She was sure she would be happier not knowing. “Well, see what you can do to persuade some of the villagers to come work here. You can assure them that neither Lord Penworth nor I will abuse them in any way.”

  The housekeeper retreated, looking flustered, and Anne found a reasonably clean window seat and sat down to think about what she had been saying. She had been assuring people of Penworth’s honor and virtue, but was she right to do so? She barely knew him. They had been married less than a week, and they had been strangers then. It would only be natural if she were at least a bit hesitant in her pronouncements about his character.

  She tried to examine her feelings for her husband. They were, in truth, a trifle confused. He already had her gratitude and respect. He had sprung to defend her from Aunt Craddock, and he had insisted upon a marriage that benefited her far more than him, yet he acted as if she were the one conferring a favor on him. Never once had he treated her with anything less than honor and kindness.

  She knew how protective he was. He had done his best to protect his mother, he had protected Greystone when one would have expected it to be the other way around, and he had certainly protected her.

  His flashes of temper had worried her, but she began to wonder if they should. The world was full of people who grew angry at any slight to their consequence—she had seen that often enough in her uncle. Penworth’s anger, however, was directed at injustice. He was protecting servants and tradesmen he had never laid eyes on before.

  Yes, she knew that he had no kindly feelings for his grandmother in the first place, and had no difficulty believing the worst of her, but it sounded as if she deserved every bit of his condemnation.

  Still, there was that temper, the furious rage he had shown. Could he control it? Was that, perhaps, what people meant when they talked about the Tremaines’ bad blood?

  Chapter Twenty

  In which a monument is unplanned

  Penworth covered most of the two miles to the village at a full gallop. The chestnut gelding seemed as glad of the run as he, but he was not interested in the horse’s welfare at the moment. He wanted the speed, the rush of wind, the pounding of the hooves—no, what he really wanted was to smash something, or someone. When a few cottages came into view, he had to force himself to slow the horse to a walk. He tried to rein in his anger as well, with less success.

  The cottages and the village beyond did nothing to improve his mood. Although the sun was shining today, the place looked as mean and gloomy as it had the day before. And as deserted. Where were all the people? He looked around, but the only sign of life was a scrawny mutt slinking around the corner of a building. The few shops looked deserted as well. A greengrocer, a butcher, a baker, a draper—there was little by way of luxury here. The largest building was the pub, and that was far from inviting. Its door was closed, and if it had customers, they were invisible behind the grimy window.

  Why were they all hiding?

  Near the harbor, a high fence enclosed what looked to be a large area. Since the gate was propped open with a gravestone, Penworth concluded he had found the stone carver’s premises. He dismounted and tied the gelding to the fence.

  Pieces of granite lined a path—some of them carved with angel wings, some with v
erses, some simply polished, awaiting a name and a grave to mark. In a clear area stood a block of snowy marble, and a man circled it, smiling, giving an occasional nod, and running a hand over the surface. He was young, perhaps of an age with Penworth, and muscular. His leather apron was grey with the dust of the stones he carved. He looked happy. That did not suit Penworth’s mood at all.

  “Ickleston?” demanded Penworth, striding through the yard.

  The stone carver turned, his smile fading at the approach of an angry stranger. “Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Nothing,” snapped Penworth. He pointed the riding crop at the block of marble. “If that is intended to be a memorial to the old marquess, I want you to do absolutely nothing.”

  Ickleston held himself a bit straighter as the happiness drained from his face to be replaced with truculence. “I’m sorry, sir. Lady Penworth ordered the memorial herself and approved the design. The marble has just been delivered.”

  “I do not care what that she-devil ordered or approved. I am the Marquess of Penworth and I am telling you to do nothing.”

  Fury flared up in the stone carver’s eyes and he seemed about to step forward, fists clenched. Penworth tensed with anticipation. He would have welcomed a chance to smash someone, anyone. Then Ickleston caught hold of himself and gave a bitter smile. “I see.”

  “No, you do not see.”

  “Of course I do,” said Ickleston resentfully. “You are Lord Penworth, and you do not want a mere village carver working on your grandfather’s monument. It is far too important a commission for such as me. You will want a famed London sculptor to do the work.”

  “You see nothing at all!” Penworth shouted, spinning around to smash the riding crop against a block of stone. “There will be no monument. Unless you care to carve the old bastard being dragged down into the fires of hell, where I trust he is now roasting, there will be no monument! Can I be any clearer?”

  Ickleston sagged against the marble, his head down. “No, my lord, it is quite clear. I was a fool. I should have known better. What business have I thinking to make a name for myself with such a commission?”

  “Damnation!” Penworth spun around again and slashed at another stone. He was in the wrong here, and that knowledge did not improve his mood. Instead of throttling the old bitch, he had been venting his anger on the stone carver, who had simply seen this as an opportunity to demonstrate his skill. Another innocent victim of the Tremaines. He took a deep breath and tried again. “Listen to me. I mean no disparagement of your talent. Any fault belongs to the old…woman. She had no right to use money I had sent for other purposes to commission a monument.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Ickleston dully. “But I fear it will be difficult to return the money. I have already paid for the marble.”

  “Do not be absurd, man. I am not seeking a return of the money. I only wish to prevent the travesty of a memorial honoring that old devil.” Penworth gave a short humorless laugh. “Unless you wish to assure me that in recent years he had turned into a kindly and generous man, beloved by one and all? That people came from far and near to weep at his funeral?”

  Ickleston flushed. “Nay, my lord, I’ll not claim that. I wager those that came to see him buried just wanted to make certain the reports of his death were true. The more fool I to think that any good could come of his death when none ever came of his life.”

  Both men stood there silently, staring at the shards and chips of stone littering the yard. Penworth was the first to rouse himself.

  “Listen, Ickleston, I should have spoken more calmly when I came in. None of this is your fault, and you should not have to suffer because of it. Keep the money, of course, and perhaps we can find some other use for the marble. My wife may want a fountain for the garden or some such.”

  Hope began to return to the stone carver’s eyes. “I am a good craftsman, my lord. I promise you, I can make a good job of anything you want.”

  “I do not doubt it.” Penworth gave a sardonic smile and turned to leave. “Perhaps we could even keep the old woman’s design and use it for a privy.” Damn this place. Damn everything about it. He would not let it trap him. He would not.

  The stone carver looked after him, not certain if it was safe to laugh.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  In which our hero and heroine meet their neighbors

  The days passed quickly. Before a week was out, they had settled into a routine. Each morning found Penworth closeted with Galveston, going over the books for the estate. The lists grew: repairs that needed to be made, oversights that needed to be corrected, wrongs—some trivial, some not—that needed to be righted. Every afternoon found him on horseback, riding around the estate, meeting tenants, observing the state of fields and cattle.

  At first, the neglect and abuses left him infuriated. How could all those Tremaines have been so criminally stupid? But after a few days he began to grasp the scope of the problem and could see what needed to be done. From then on, he was too busy for anger and began to find satisfaction in the knowledge that here were problems he could solve, difficulties he could overcome. Where his predecessors had strewn disaster, he would create order and justice.

  No one would ever be able to say he was just like the Tremaines.

  And once he had it all in order, he would never have to set foot in this place again.

  Yet no matter how much he despised the quagmire his ancestors had created, he could not keep from taking pleasure in the quality of the horses in the stable—the one building that had been kept in excellent repair. He had spent enough time on horseback in India to know good horseflesh when he saw it.

  As for Anne, mornings found her closeted with Mrs. Hendley and Mrs. Tripp, planning the deployment of their new army of servants in the campaign for the restoration of house and larder. She spent several days exploring the attics with Mrs. Hendley, uncovering a treasure trove of chairs and chests, tables and tapestries of varying antiquity. Many of these could, with a little care, replace those pieces currently in place that were either seriously damaged or not to Anne’s taste.

  She and Mrs. Tripp also explored the kitchen garden, with the returned head gardener, Macgregor. Hidden beneath the weeds were potatoes and cabbages, and some greens for a few meals at least. Happily there were enough plums in the neglected orchards for preserves. Mrs. Tripp and Macgregor began preparing lists of what they would like to see in the garden in coming years. Macgregor had already dug up a patch against the south wall. There was time, he insisted, for a crop of peas and lettuce before the frost came. To Anne’s delight there was also a thicket of raspberry canes—a horrendous thicket at the moment, of course, a virtually impenetrable barrier, but one that could be thinned and restrained to provide future crops.

  Anne was surprised at how happy she was. She had run the household for her uncle—her aunt having neither the inclination nor the knowledge to do so—but this was different. It was far more work, to be sure, but now she was taking care of her own home. She could not quite believe it. Every now and then she would stop and look around her, half afraid it would all vanish. This is my home, she told herself. I live here. Perhaps if she repeated it often enough, she would convince herself that it was true.

  Penworth spent his days wearing trousers and boots, a shirt and leather vest. Anne wore her old clothes and an apron, with her hair tucked under a cap. By five o’clock, they were both tired and grimy and ready for a bath. After that, Millie had a chance to dress her mistress in one of her lovely new gowns. Crispin had a chance to turn his employer out in snowy linens, vest, perfectly fitted coat and shoes polished to a mirror shine. When Penworth and Anne descended the stairs arm in arm, their maid and valet watched with pride and nodded at each other in satisfaction.

  They dined in moderate formality, then retired to the library for their tea. Penworth studied books and pamphlets on land management while Anne went over her lists of what needed to be done on the house. Neither occupation k
ept them occupied for too long. The tea had rarely cooled before Anne felt her husband’s gaze on her and looked up. He lifted a brow in inquiry, she smiled, and held out a hand to him. They rose and went upstairs, where they dismissed Millie and Crispin for the night. They preferred to undress each other.

  There was a limit to the tyranny one could accept from servants.

  Their first appearance at church brought a change in the tenor of their days. Anne insisted that attendance at church was imperative when one resided in the country.

  Penworth was dubious. “I suspect that if my late grandfather ever made an appearance in a church he would have been instantly struck by lightning.”

  Anne was implacable. “That is precisely why we must attend. You wish to make clear that you are not cut from the same cloth as the late marquess, do you not?”

  Not if it means people think I am here to stay. However, he kept that thought to himself. He managed to get through the service with only a few muttered grumbles to his wife about the way people were staring at them, and introduced himself with reasonable courtesy to the startled vicar, Mr. Margrave.

  On the whole, Anne was quite pleased with her husband’s behavior and told him so on the carriage ride home.

  “I don’t know what you think that accomplished.” He still had a few grumbles left.