'Could a position be found for my brother Percy in the proposed… merger?' she husked, calling upon centuries of inbred dignity.
'Certainly,' he confirmed, rising to douse her courage with his tall shadow, 'I have a job in mind that is exactly suited to your brother's… er, shall we say, traditional talents?'
His mild sneer sparked a flicker of spirit into her blank, unreadable eyes.
'Aren't you being rather hypocritical, Lord Howgill,' she accused coldly. 'My brother may have a fundamental dislike of taking orders, may have been raised to believe in the hereditary principle, but then, presumably, so have you. For how else can you explain the similarities existing between yourself and your great-grandfather who, by your own admission, spent more time over the choice of a suit than he did upon soliciting a bride!'
CHAPTER FOUR
'Time,' Belvoir had impressed upon the press-ganged, blue-blooded employees of his newly formed company, 'is fast becoming one of the most valuable commodities on earth! Consequently, I must insist that each one of you should account to me personally for every second that is wasted while we're getting our new enterprise off the ground.'
Not surprisingly, Lady Howgill's proposal that the betrothed couple should decide upon a decently prolonged engagement had received an immediate veto from their ruthless chairman.
'Long periods of waiting, of whatever kind, are always irksome.'
Lady Howgill had bridled. 'It was customary in my young days for engaged couples to be given an opportunity of getting to know each other well before setting a date for the wedding!' she had argued, tossing an icy glance in the direction of her totally uninterested granddaughter. 'Also, there is a certain amount of excitement about an engagement which is after all supposed to be a period of courtship, of intimate dinners and outings with her fiancé that a prospective bride must be allowed to enjoy if she is not to feel cheated.'
'An engagement can also be classed as a probationary period during which either party is entitled to express a change of heart or of mind!' Belvoir had reminded with a hint of warning that had effectively killed the argument stone dead. 'The wedding will take place just as soon as all the formalities have been completed,' he had proceeded to bury the subject without hope of resurrection. 'A brief, informal ceremony will be held in the family chapel, with as few guests and as little publicity as can reasonably be managed.'
But on one issue at least Lady Howgill had remained adamant, Morva reflected in the privacy of her room, dragging sad eyes away from a vista of moorland and hills changing appearance from sunny to sombre at the caprice of sun-darting rays through slowly closing ranks of grey cloud. She turned to glance at the object representing her grandmother's one and only victory over the new Earl who in the space of a couple of weeks had gradually withdrawn a velvet glove from a fist of iron.
'Morva will be married in a proper wedding dress,' her grandmother had insisted with a tremble of extreme agitation. 'She will walk down the aisle accompanied by bridal attendants and make her vows before a congregation made up, if not of friends and relatives, then at least of estate workers and their families whose love and respect she has been privileged to enjoy since childhood!'
A hint of mirthless amusement curled Morva's lips as she mused upon the probable reaction of the Earl when confronted by a bride wearing the proper sort of dress her grandmother had in mind—the dress she had worn herself on her wedding day but which she had diplomatically omitted to mention had been bequeathed to her by her mother—a dedicated follower of fashions set by a much-loved princess from over the sea who, upon the death of her formidable mother-in-law, Queen Victoria, had reigned with her husband over Edwardian England.
A tap upon the door distracted her attention away from the dress which only days previously had been unearthed from the cedarwood chest where for decades it had been preserved within a bag of fine white muslin. She was just about to call out permission to enter when her decision was pre-empted by the appearance of her grandmother stepping over the threshold.
'Good heavens, girl, haven't you even begun dressing yet? I said you should have a maid to help you!'
'Please, Granny, don't start that argument all over again, I'm all but ready—I merely have to slip the dress over my head.'
Stifling a regretful sigh, Morva abandoned all hope of further privacy and rose to her feet, tightening the belt of her dressing gown as if girding a suit of protective armour around the body of a novice preparing for a first sortie into battle. Warily, she eyed her grandmother, noting that she was already attired for the ceremony in finery that had been unearthed from the same' cedarwood chest that had held her wedding gown—in a dress with a bodice and basque of stiff grey satin and a cape of accordion-pleated grenadine. A toque of pale mauve velvet completed the outfit, a dainty hat designed to flatter the high-piled coiffures that had stamped the hallmark of elegance upon indulged, fashion-conscious ladies of Edwardian society.
'I must say it is a relief to know that there will be no relatives or friends attending the wedding,' her grandmother sniffed as she sat down, carefully spreading her skirts around her. 'I could not have borne the embarrassment of having to explain in person that your wedding day has had to be fitted into a very tight schedule because our home is to be turned into a hotel which the new Earl is determined to have ready to accommodate its first influx of paying guests for the start of the shooting season. The Glorious Twelfth!' delicately she shuddered, 'what a day of ignominy that will be for all of us. Thank goodness your dear father has been spared the agony of being trampled by the march of commercialism into the ancestral home!'
'It's too late for regrets, Granny.' Morva slid out of her dressing gown and reached towards the wedding dress hanging against a wall in a shadowy corner looking rather as she was feeling—like a headless ghost, a remote spirit suspended in mid air, being seen to move, to speak and otherwise exist, yet having no real entity. 'We have both been thoroughly briefed and have agreed to carry out the duties apportioned to us. In my capacity of head housekeeper—which carries with it the title of Countess Howgill—I shall be responsible for controlling all the guest accommodation; for the interviewing, training and supervision of staff; for checking supplies, and for such things as adding finishing touches in the way of flowers, fruit and chocolates to the rooms of new arrivals. In short, to copy exactly the routine of previous Countesses of Howgill. How wise of you to have insisted upon teaching me such duties even though, at the time, there seemed not the remotest possibility of my ever being called upon to exercise such skills. As the chores you have been allocated are far from onerous, perhaps,' she paused to consider thoughtfully, 'we should be feeling gratitude instead of resentment towards the man whose high-powered business methods have left us breathless—yet permanently installed in our ancestral rut.'
'Grateful!' Her grandmother gave an unladylike snort. 'If I had suspected for one moment that a man of such wealth, one whose business commitments leave him very little time to spare, would insist upon going to such drastic lengths in order to make Ravenscrag pay its way, I would not have dreamt of approaching him—' She broke off, then with a flustered glance at her watch hurriedly decided.
'However, plans are already too far advanced for change, we must try to make the best of an impossible situation. I shall keep my part of our bargain by searching for details of ancient customs that have been allowed to fall into disuse, and by hunting out recipes for local delicacies that might help to enliven the jaded palates of rich social climbers. Beyond that, I shall do nothing but retire to my rooms and remain there for as long as our home is allowed to be overrun by noisy, demanding intruders intent upon aping their betters!'
She rose to her feet, drawing her elegant frame erect.
'As you insist upon coping alone, I shall leave you to finish dressing. I suggest you make haste,' she warned dryly, stepping towards the door, 'I cannot imagine your progressive-minded bridegroom being impressed with the excuse that it is customary for a bride to
arrive late for her wedding.'
She hesitated with her hand on the door knob, the slight rise of colour in her cheeks causing Morva to brace in readiness for the spate of marital wisdom usually directed towards a young, nervous bride on her wedding day. But it soon became apparent that prudish embarrassment would cause her grandmother to offer no more than a delicate observation.
'A wife is expected to humour her husband's taste as much as possible, my dear. If she loves him, this can give her pleasure, however, if whims and impositions should be imposed which diminish her happiness in some respect, she is under no moral obligation to submit.' She fumbled with the door, then as if forced by conscience to console a bride looking completely bewildered, she added a stern postscript.
'I have often suspected that you have been far more influenced by your choice of reading matter than by the realities of everyday life, Morva, my dear. Love and romance are idealised in fiction; in marriage, however, consideration and companionship are much to be preferred.'
Morva was still pondering over the prim, old-fashioned tone of her grandmother's lecture when a glance at the clock told her that Percy would soon be arriving to escort her to the church.
Hastily, she slipped over her head a plain satin underskirt which time had tinted until it shone oyster-white through a delicate overdress of mousseline de soie, a deliciously soft material that lifted and fell on the slightest breeze, giving to the full skirt edged with three tiers of finely pleated frills a charming fullness in spite of its light, almost floating reaction to her slightest movement. The bodice drew folded bands of the soft material around gently curving breasts then crossed where they met to span a waist mercifully slender enough to have no need of the stays stiffened with whalebone and threaded with laces which at first sight she had dubbed an instrument of female torture.
Mechanically, she stepped in front of a full-length mirror then quickly drew away, almost scared by the effect the dress had had upon her reflection, her senses reeling from the impact of seeing her own sudden blossoming from plain brown obscurity into an exquisitely gilded lily—slender-stemmed neck and elegant head rising from a cloud of oyster-white petals.
Trembling slightly she brushed aside the bridal veil she had flatly refused to wear and almost collapsed on to a stool in front of her dressing table, willing her fingers not to shake as she arranged an ornament into her sternly confined coiffure—white lace wings, one pinned each side of a beech-brown chignon threaded through with a rope of family pearls. White elbow-length gloves completed a toilette that left -her transformed, so much so that Percy, after tapping on the door and responding to her call to enter, stood rooted, his shocked eyes roving over the lovely, demure young bride who could conceivably have stepped out from behind the frame of an ancestral portrait.
He advanced slowly towards her. 'I feel I am looking through a keyhole into an age long past, an age of innocence, chivalry, and sweet harmless pleasures!'
It would have been impossible for her not to have felt flattered by this confirmation that she had never looked better on a day when her confidence most needed a boost, the day of her marriage to a man whose attitude towards herself was kind, even indulgent, but whose friendliness towards the rest of her family had Seemed to vanish overnight—the night she had been forced into accepting a proposal couched more along the lines of a business contract, a formal agreement to supply certain articles for a settled price, the articles in question being a home for, her grandmother and a job for Percy; the price, marriage to a man who in the manner of his great grandfather had assessed the benefits of matrimony, then with cool, businesslike precision had proposed to the most suitable female in his vicinity!
'What I find puzzling,' Percy frowned, his thoughts obviously attuned to her own, 'is why Belvoir so quickly succumbed to Granny's persuasion. Oh, I know that once, in the heat of the moment, I accused you of being unmarriageable,' he responded apologetically to her pained blush, 'but that wasn't strictly true. All infants grow up eventually, some just take longer than others to reach maturity. However, rugged good looks and unlimited wealth add up to an extremely eligible bachelor! With all he has going for him, Belvoir could have taken his pick of society beauties, so why has he chosen to marry a girl who, though sweet and very lovable, is an utter simpleton so far as a man's physical needs are concerned? You do realise what will be expected of you, Morva…?' he questioned keenly, eyeing the blush of mortification running wild in her cheeks.
'Of course I do!' In spite of a heart that felt lifted on the wings of agitated butterflies, she managed to answer calmly. 'I may have led a sheltered life, but I have had access to newspapers and magazines containing articles aimed at supplying explicit details about every aspect of sexual behaviour to simpletons such as myself who may be in need of guidance.'
'Oh, excellent…!' For the first time in his life her brother seemed at a loss for words.
'Naturally,' she continued with a brave show of composure, 'The tenth Earl of Howgill will be looking to his wife to provide him with an heir. But his most immediate requirement is for a figurehead. As you know, lots of businesses buy titles because they look good on printed letterheads; he is simply following this procedure by cashing in on his newly gained title and investing money in a wife who possesses the background, breeding and social graces that he lacks. I honestly believe,' she confided confidently, 'that success in business is his all-consuming passion; that there isn't the faintest streak of romanticism in his nature.'
'You think so…?' Percy looked doubtful.
'I do,' she nodded, turning aside to pick up an ivory-backed prayer book. 'Because if he could spare the time to fall in love, why on earth would he be marrying me?'
Her air of bravado was quite easily maintained while Percy escorted her downstairs, past the crowd of excited servants who had gathered in the hall, then along a path wending through the castle grounds, towards a small private chapel. But the moment she stepped inside the porch and caught sight of the two angelically dressed children who were to be her only bridal attendants her knees threatened to buckle, causing her to clutch her brother's arm in a grip of nervous trepidation that tightened to panic when the hush that had fallen inside the chapel was broken by an organist's triumphant rendering of the Wedding March.
The aisle leading up to the altar rails was no more than a few yards long, yet she felt she had dragged leaden feet past a mile of pews crammed with smiling faces before she faltered to a standstill and was handed into the keeping of a tall, broad stranger with an expression as grave and unfamiliar as his formal suit and with a handclasp that was frightening in its strength yet which imposed an indefinable sense of comfort when it gripped.
She met his glance then quickly looked away from cobalt blue eyes blazing what might have been the look of a man of today condemning an ingenuous bride of yesterday.
Then the conventional ritual began with an introductory sermon delivered on the meaning and purpose of marriage.
'… to give to each other mutual society, help and comfort… to know each other in love, united in body, heart and life… to beget children…'
Standing demurely, with eyes downcast, Morva mentally added her own additional reasons to the list.
… to provide Granny with a permanent home… and a well-paid directorship for Percy…
She was too numb to respond other than with a slight shake of her head to the sternly voiced question directed towards the bride and bridegroom.
'Is there any reason why this marriage should not take place?'
Then in no time at all, or so it seemed, Percy responded to the cue: 'Who giveth this woman…?', by taking her right hand and passing it palm downward to the clergyman before retiring into the background leaving her feeling that she was no more than a family heirloom that had been regretfully auctioned off to the highest bidder—a bridegroom who recited his vows in a slow drawl and made no attempt to place a kiss of ownership upon the lips of his latest possession when the marriage ceremony was con
cluded with the traditional words of warning.
'Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder!'
'Morva, my dear, you made a radiant bride!' Incredibly, as they stood outside the church waiting to accept the congratulations and good wishes of the small gathering of estate workers, her grandmother began dabbing at her eyes with a dainty lace handkerchief. 'And you, Belvoir,' she acknowledged on a positively insulting note of surprise, her eyes scouring his suit down to the last perfectly placed button, 'are looking very handsome; positively presentable!'
The slow, easy grin that had captured Morva's attention at their very first meeting was momentarily resurrected by her grandmother's uncharacteristic lack of diplomacy.
'Know first who you are then dress accordingly,' he teased, tightening his loose clasp around Morva's wrist. She looked up, responding instinctively to her husband's first command and saw a strange expression cross his features as his eye mused over her white-winged head, across flushed cheeks, then down to where a pulse was beating a puzzling, new, yet strangely exciting rhythm in the childish hollow at the base of her throat.
But the thoughts crossing his mind could not have been pleasant, for his tone was impatient—verging upon curt—when he turned cool blue eyes upon her grandmother.
'Well, Lady Lucy, you've had your fun, the charade you insisted upon has been played out, so perhaps now you will excuse me while I change into comfortable gear and get down to some work.'
'Work!' Morva's own scandalised reaction found an echo in her grandmother's voice. 'But Belvoir, dear boy, this is your wedding day—and Morva's too,' she tacked on as an afterthought. 'Whatever the reasons motivating a marriage—and I would be the first to admit that for centuries, to the aristocracy it has been simply a matter of bargain and sale with affection and natural inclination coming very far down the list—it is most important that appearances be maintained.'
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