A seething silence fell while they ate then waited for Buchan, their ancient, slow-moving butler, to remove empty soup plates from the table. Morva chanced to peep from under lowered lashes towards the blunt-speaking stranger who was sipping sherry with evident enjoyment, nodding cool approval of Buchan's choice of white wine to accompany the fish course ascending from the kitchen by way of a hatch being pulleyed by a nervous young man Morva had difficulty in recognising as one of the assistant gardeners, looking patently uncomfortable in his elevated role of footman.
When Buchan began approaching on her right, obviously intending to pour wine into the glass ranged next to her untouched sherry, Morva declined hastily.
'None for me, thank you, Buchan.'
'Oh, but you mustn't refuse, Lady Morva!' When the Earl leant towards her she tried hard not to blink, forced herself to meet eyes spearing contempt through narrowed lids, to watch lips thinning around a dangerously lazy drawl. 'After all, this dinner was planned as a sort of celebration, was it not—or do Border folk still carry out the practice of providing a man with a good dinner before sticking a knife into his back?' When she stared, horrified, he threw back his head and laughed. 'I was merely being facetious, Lady Morva,' he mocked, 'I'm perfectly well aware that the custom was outlawed many centuries ago! Drink your wine, and please try to look less as if you are being forced to feed a wolf who has strayed in from the forest!'
The tinge of shame still lingering in her cheeks deepened. Obviously, he had sized up the situation, read treachery into the plot, and suspected her of collusion. A protesting gasp escaped her lips as she sought for words to deny the implied accusation, but her tongue-tied embarrassment was cut short by her grandmother's haughty voice demanding his attention.
'I do hope, Belvoir, that you were not suggesting earlier that our ancestors had mismanaged your inheritance. Because if you were, I should feel bound to remind you that the Eden family was farming this land decades before the first English settlers transported their energy, knowledge and skills to your homeland—which in those days was no more than an unexplored, uncivilised, uncultivated outpost of the British Empire!'
'Point taken, ma'am.' He disarmed his irate antagonist with a smile so full of charm it left Morva confounded. 'My country is still young, rowdy, and in some places rugged. But unlike the English, its citizens are thirsty for adventure, eager to accept a challenge, reluctant to rest upon their laurels. There are no Everests left to climb, no Amazons to explore, so we manufacture our own. In Alberta, for instance, we've built the longest street in the world, plus a tower that is acknowledged to be the largest freestanding building on earth. But far from being erected as monuments to man's past endeavours they exist to make profit for the businessmen who conceived them—men who are hell-bent on getting where they're going!'
'And do all of you despise tradition when you search after profit?' Morva jerked upright, wondering if she had imagined the slight quiver of fear in her grandmother's voice. 'Do you intend disposing of our monuments, smashing the pedestals of honour and glory that have supported Ravenscrag for generations?'
'Continuity need not rule out modern methods or fresh approaches to old situations, Lady Lucy.' Adroitly he sidestepped the question, strengthening Morva's growing conviction that the man they had dubbed a brash backwoodsman was more worldly than he had at first appeared, might even be discovered capable of picking pockets with his tongue!
Her suspicion that the new Earl of Howgill might be laughing up his sleeve grew slowly into a conviction as, while dinner progressed, he proved himself to be more than capable of carving a joint correctly; of exercising the special technique needed for eating artichokes by using his fingers to tear off each leaf in turn before dipping the broad fleshy end into melted butter; and by taking over complete control of the conversation, stating his views on a variety of subjects, inviting comments, yet managing to forestall any move towards the subject of what plans he might have in mind for the future of Ravenscrag.
A desultory silence had fallen by the time Buchan began advancing towards the table to serve port and cheese, a frowning, lip-biting silence which the Earl seemed in no hurry to break as he deliberated over the contents of the cheese board; poured out port for Morva which she did not want, then a measure for himself before passing the decanter along to Percy.
Feeling lightheaded with worry, and with the amount of wine she had been bullied into drinking, Morva twirled the stem of her glass between nervous fingers and cast a covert glance towards the foot of the table, wondering at the depth of thought that had silenced her usually garrulous grandmother.
'You're looking very pale, Lady Morva, is something worrying you?'
She jumped, becoming suddenly conscious of cobalt blue eyes trained steadily as a twin bore shotgun upon a scared rabbit. Desperately aware that this short interval of privacy would probably be the last opportunity she would be given to explain her grandmother's weird eccentricities, she found herself blurting, 'Do you have a grandmother?'
'Unfortunately, no,' he grinned, 'but I do have a very outspoken, dare-devil aunt of eighty-two who bores the pants off anyone who cares to listen to her views about the too-long-delayed emancipation of women and the selfishness of men who supposedly keep them in bondage. Just a couple of weeks before I left home,' he confided dryly, 'she set off on a three-month tour of Europe.'
Morva heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief. Having taken in only half the sense of what he had said, her mind fastened upon the most relevant part of his statement.
'In that case, I've no need to warn you… to… to explain how difficult and tiresome old ladies can be, how…'
'Bossy,' he supplied with a conspiratorial grimace.
'And stubborn,' she nodded, her grave eyes lightening with an appreciative sparkle.
'As well as aggravating, obstreperous, and downright cussed,' he warmed to the theme. 'But also very lovable, don't you agree?'
'Lovable…?' Until he frowned, Morva did not realise how quickly her smile must have faded, how her sparkle had been extinguished by a cloud of doubt, a shadow of emotion that could have been fear. 'Oh, yes, of course,' she finally stammered, 'and lovable too.'
'Morva, my dear!' She jerked to attention when her grandmother spoke in an acidly reproving tone that stung a blush of confusion into her cheeks. 'If you've finished eating, would you mind keeping Percy company while I have a private word with Belvoir?'
'Let's stroll together in the garden!' Percy moved with an alacrity that forced Morva to conclude that the entire manoeuvre had been pre-arranged. 'If you would excuse us both, Belvoir?'
The indignation which the Canadian could so easily arouse resurfaced when he acknowledged her brother's request with a nod of dismissal so curt it made her fume. As they walked outside into the garden she read humiliation in Percy's taut profile, saw his hands clench as he fought to come to terms with a reversal of roles that had turned him from lord into serf, from a popular socialite with great expectations to one of the fringe of hangers-on whose social life was governed by the generosity of sympathetic friends.
It was a warm evening, one of the few balmy nights that descended each summer to surprise the wind-conditioned inhabitants of the Cumbrian Fells, yet as they strolled in silence through the almost day-bright moonlit garden Morva shivered, chilled by the obvious unhappiness of the brother whose merry smile and constant high spirits had made his visits home the highlights of her existence.
'I shall have to find a job.' He halted suddenly at the rim of a fountain, staring as if emotionally attuned to the expression of haughty disdain chiselled into the features of a mighty river god, standing drenched, sad, and covered in lichen, resenting the indignity of one of his rank being reduced to the level of a water fountain. 'I thought I'd have no trouble picking up a couple of directorships,' he confided, slumping with a dejected sigh on to the broad stone rim of the water basin, 'but doors that would have been flung open wide to welcome the Earl of Howgill have been shut in the fa
ce of Percy Eden—newly-reduced commoner!'
Quivering with the hurt she was feeling on behalf of her bitterly resentful brother, she sat down next to him and attempted to encourage.
'Something's sure to turn up, Percy, given time.'
'Time is my most quickly advancing enemy,' he refuted brusquely. 'How long do you suppose it will take for friends to forget the misfortune of an heir presumptive whose earldom was snatched from under his nose by a rough-cut, filthy rich Canadian? Percy who . . .? they'll be saying in six months' time. Ah yes, I do vaguely recall the chappie who lost his inheritance— does anyone know what happened to him…?'
'Please, Percy,' she urged shakenly, 'don't allow yourself to become despondent. You'll find a job, I know you will, then you can get married and—'
'How can you be so naive!' he rounded, shocking her silent with the cruel snarl. 'Small wonder Granny has found it impossible—in spite of having stretched her match-making talents to the limit—to arrange a suitable marriage for a granddaughter who is an anachronism in this day and age!'
Morva jumped to her feet, suddenly deathly pale and trembling all over. 'I don't understand!' she appealed in a low, pained whisper.
'Exactly so!' He stood up to glower, a weight of suppressed anger and resentment forcing cracks to appear in his wall of composure, releasing pressure that escaped in a trickle of words then spurted into a devastating, uncontrollable flood. 'Which chap in his right mind would agree to be joined in matrimony to a girl who knows nothing of life beyond these isolated moors and fells? And make no mistake, Morva, on our level of society marriages don't just happen, they are carefully contrived. Backgrounds, antecedents, even histories of family health are all scrupulously re—at times, when the couple concerned are still in the schoolroom. Love doesn't come into it. Duty to one's family has to be one's main concern. The system is not without its compensations,' he raced on in full, bitter spate, 'for at least when an engagement has to be called off there are no broken hearts on either side. My fiancée and I shook hands after she handed back my ring,' he assured Morva fiercely, 'and I watched her walk away without a qualm. I was of no more use to her, you see—no point in wasting Daddy's money on a man without a title?
'You mean you were prepared to sell yourself…?' She broke off, her wide eyes mirroring revulsion.
'I was prepared to do my duty, just as you must be,' he responded sharply, stung by a look of distaste he had never expected to see on the face of his adoring young sister. 'If you don't care for the word duty then think of yourself as a debtor! Granny has dedicated the last eighteen years of her life to your upbringing—a duty she did not shirk, even though she had reached an age when most old ladies were expected to tackle nothing more strenuous than needlework. All she asks in return is that you marry Belvoir, so that she may end her days in the castle that has been her home for more than sixty years, ever since the day she became the wife of our grandfather, the eighth Earl of Howgill.'
He shrugged and sauntered a little way away, then cast across his shoulder. 'As for myself, I ask for nothing. For your sake, and for Grandmother's, I was prepared to marry money. Nevertheless, I ask nothing more of any future brother-in-law than that he should offer me a job—preferably a directorship in one of his many U.K. subsidiaries.'
As she stood stock still, shocked and scared by the discovery that a net of family collusion was closing in around her, she struck out towards the one possible escape route which her grandmother had apparently overlooked.
'Did it never occur to either of you that the new Earl might already be married?'
'He isn't.' With one short, terse reply Percy slammed shut the door of freedom. 'Granny always makes certain of such facts before starting negotiations.'
Morva had not moved when Belvoir found her standing in the shadows, as still, cold, and unseeing as the pale marble statuary all around her.
She did not pretend surprise, nor make any effort to resist when, after one quick glance at her stricken features, he took her cold hands between his palms and drew her towards a sandstone bench retaining the warmth of hours of sunshine on its ancient, porous surface.
'I've just had a very interesting discussion with your grandmother, Morva.'
She did not need the familiar form of address to confirm that she had been the object of their discussion, to convince her that in spite of angry, and eventually tearful pleas to her grandmother not to embark upon a course of action she found repugnant, she had proceeded with her attempt to con the new Earl as a rogue car salesman would attempt to con a prospective customer—praising the quality of the merchandise, highlighting its suitability and advantages, camouflaging all flaws and hidden imperfections…
'During dinner, I heard you discussing with my brother the art of trapping,' she murmured bitterly, 'I only hope that when you were taught how to set snares you were also taught how to avoid them!'
If he recognised the hint of warning in her oblique remark he chose to ignore it. Releasing his grip upon her hands he sat back, abandoning her to her misery. Then seconds later, when the scent of tobacco began drifting under her nostrils, she thought how typical he was of rugged outdoor men who chose to become pipe-smokers rather than pose with an exotic cigarette or the even more elegant cheroot.
Her eyes felt fastened to the toes of her shoes, nevertheless, she was conscious of his every movement, heard him puffing at his pipe, caught the small grunt of satisfaction when the tobacco fired, recognised a sigh of satisfaction when he leant back, arms folded across his chest, his long legs stuck way out in front of him.
'I have great plans for Ravenscrag, Morva,' he mused over the top of her downbent head. 'Many successful businesses were founded initially on one man's hunch, on an ability to discover a need that is lacking then filling it.'
She looked up, momentarily distracted from her troubles by the colossal conceit of the newcomer who apparently imagined that he could make the estate profitable when generations of her ancestors had failed.
'I doubt whether you can have thought of any plan that has not already been tried,' she answered stiffly, unwilling to be drawn into conversation with a prospective purchaser who might be testing out the wares he had been offered before deciding whether or not to buy. 'We've even tried selling exotic fruit and flowers to Covent Garden. One range of greenhouses was given over entirely to the growing of Muscat grapes, another to rare orchids. Melons, early strawberries, peaches, nectarines and figs all found a ready market, but the project was abandoned when, at the end of the day, it was discovered that the cost of transport was eating too great a hole in the margin of profits.'
She leant back, feeling swallowed by his shadow, when he leant close to encourage.
'But what about the time when large parties of guests were accommodated in the castle?'
She stared, amazed. 'You surely don't imagine that guests—family friends—were expected to pay for hospitality? In any case,' her shoulders lifted in a disdainful shrug, 'Granny is the acknowledged expert on entertaining. There have been no large parties invited to Ravenscrag since my mother… departed.'
She felt almost amused by his anxiety to alter the course of their conversation away from what he must have imagined was a painful subject—the departure of her mother from life, rather than her exit from isolation into an endless whirl of social activity.
'I have a mind to revive those house parties.' His decisive tone captured her startled attention. 'I know of many Canadians, also people of other nationalities, who would jump at the opportunity of spending a vacation in an ancient castle as guests of a genuine English Lord. We could offer them shooting, riding, fishing and sailing, picnic lunches and dinner parties, a taste, in fact, of the sort of living that was enjoyed by aristocratic families during what they would no doubt have termed "the good old days".'
'But could you afford to entertain on such a grand scale?' she gasped, her mind whirling. 'The cost of employing sufficient staff to look after your guests would be enormous!'
He leant back to puff at his pipe, smiling with the air of a businessman well satisfied with the results forecast by his computer mind.
'There is just one drawback to my plan which must be resolved before I start putting the wheels in motion,' he continued assaulting her shocked ears. 'Folk who flock across the Atlantic in a nostalgic search for family roots are prepared to spend generously, nevertheless the majority are tough cookies who demand value for money. Consequently, when our first guests arrive, expecting to be greeted by a peer of the realm, they'll hardly be impressed by the discovery that their host is as much a stranger to the aristocratic way of life as they are themselves.'
Swiftly, taking her completely by surprise, he reached out a hand to cup her small pointed chin within a huge palm.
'I'm a member of the club, Morva, but I don't know the rules!' he appealed in a rough-gentle voice that brought back to mind the descriptions she had read of smooth-running rivers concealing turbulent rapids; snow-muffled peaks nurturing the needle-sharp rims of hidden glaciers; green carpets of spruce and aspen flowing across floors of valleys lined with sheer rock walls; fierce-horned sheep that were shy of people and huge, lumbering bears with a taste for honey…
'I am accustomed to living in a society whose customs are simple and flexible,' he sounded almost coaxing, 'consequently, I have need of a helpmate, someone capable of guiding me through the intricacies of protocol, ceremony, and centuries-old conventions, a hostess who can arrange dinner parties, and control and instruct servants. In short, Morva, I need a wife who can carry out the sort of role for which, according to your grandmother, you have been trained since childhood.'
She felt stunned, cornered as prey conscious of being stalked then clashing head-on a with a pursuer who had somehow managed to change direction.
With defeat staring her in the face—defeat in the shape of a grandmother demanding her pound of flesh; a brother who had pinned his last hopes upon her reacting to the call of duty, and a hard-headed businessman who had somehow been persuaded that the purchase of a suitable bride was a sound financial investment—she rose to her feet, tensing her slim body to the rigidity of a lance in an attempt to conceal violent inner trembling.
Bride by Contract Page 4
