He moved to leave the room, but even so she needed to know more. As he walked over to the door she said, ‘Do you think they will they trouble us again?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, turning. ‘But probably not. I have, however, taken precautions. I have instructed the outriders they are not to leave the coach for any reason. If their constant presence means they can no longer ride ahead to pay the tolls, so that we are delayed at the toll gates, and that they can no longer organise our rooms in advance so that we have to wait whilst our rooms are prepared at the various inns along the way, then so be it. The coach will not be unprotected again.’
He spoke coldly; stiffly; and Madeline realised that the rapport which had grown up between them on the earlier part of the journey had been destroyed.
For some reason she could not begin to fathom, she realised she cared about its loss.
But it was too late now to do anything about it. Philip had already walked out of the room closing the door behind him.
Madeline walked over to the window. But it was not the pleasant landscape, basking in the last rays of daylight, that she saw. Instead it was the incidents that had recently beset them. When she had married Philip she had known the undertaking was perilous, but she was beginning to realise there were other perils connected with the venture, perils that had nothing to do with marriage. Perils she could not possibly have foreseen.
Philip pulled off his boots with a feeling of profound dissatisfaction. Once back in his room he could no longer hide from the fact that the day had been full of frustrations. Not only had his attempts to discover who had attacked the coach been unsuccessful, his subsequent conversation with Madeline had proved disastrous. And all because he had been trying to protect her.
Where had it come from, this need to protect her? he wondered. Why had he not just told her the truth about the danger she was in and left her to grapple with the information as best she could? Why had he wanted to shield her? She was nothing to him. She was not someone he cared about, he told himself. Of course not. She was simply the means by which he intended to claim his inheritance.
And yet, was that not the problem? Madeline wasn’t simply anything. Nothing about her was simple. And nothing about his reaction to her was simple either. First of all he had found himself unaccountably - and most inconveniently - attracted to her, and now he found himself wanting to protect her as well. It didn’t make sense. She was nothing but a chit of a girl, and should not in any way be influencing his life.
So how was it that, alone in his room, he could think about nothing else?
The following morning they set out again. They now went more swiftly than before. Unwilling to linger on the road, Philip set a brisk pace and Madeline took to travelling for most of the day in the coach, despite its despoiled squabs. Although she enjoyed riding she found the new pace demanding, and she preferred to travel for at least a part of the day in the coach.
By the afternoon, however, she had grown tired of being confined and she took to horseback once more. She did not ride by Philip’s side as she had done the previous day, but rode next to the carriage whilst he rode on ahead. The hostility of the previous evening had not evaporated, and they had spoken scarcely two words to each other since setting out.
Before long, however, he fell back to ride alongside her. As he did so, the carriage turned off the road and went through a set of imposing gates.
‘We will not be staying at an inn tonight,’ he informed her. ‘We will be staying with Lady Weatherby, my great-aunt.’
‘But we can’t just call on her unexpectedly,’ protested Madeline.
‘I sent a messenger to her with a letter a few days ago. She will be expecting us,’ he said.
Although he was riding beside her his manner had not relented, and his voice was still cold.
‘And does she know? About our arrangement?’ asked Madeline hesitantly.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Philip with slight nod. ‘She knows. It would have been pointless to try to deceive her. Aunt Honoria may be old but she’s shrewd. She would have seen through any subterfuge at once.’
Madeline was in a way relieved. She knew that at some point she would have to be able to convince Philip’s friends and relatives that she was his true wife, but she was glad that she did not have to do so just yet, because she was not sure if she could play the part convincingly. In company, perhaps, at a large dinner party, or at a ball, where she would not have to speak to any one person for long, but not in such an intimate situation.
Philip paused, then said, ‘It will be as well for you to be on your guard, even so. Aunt Honoria can be unpredictable. She has strange fads and fancies.’ There was a slight thawing of his manner as he spoke, as though their enforced conversation had done something, at least, to heal the breach between them.
‘Is it wise, then, to stay with her?’ asked Madeline, pleased he had unbent a little.
‘Yes.’ He spoke definitely. ‘It is better to meet her at a time and place of my choosing rather than her own. Old though she is, she would have travelled to Stonecrop to meet you if I had not arranged for us to visit her on the journey north. And if she is planning any mischief I would rather she did it here.’
‘What kind of mischief is she likely to plan?’
‘It’s impossible to say. She has an . . . original . . . mind.’
‘Is she likely to expose the masquerade?’ asked Madeline.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. She doesn’t like Letitia any more than my father did, and I wouldn’t put it past her to create difficulties of some kind, but as to actually exposing the nature of our marriage, I think it unlikely. Even so, it is better to be prepared for anything. With Aunt Honoria it’s never possible to be sure.’
The coach turned off the main road.
After passing between two stone pillars it wound its way up a long gravel drive. The drive was dark, being overhung by gnarled old trees and sombre bushes, but finally the coach emerged into sunshine once more. And there ahead of them was a glorious, sprawling pile.
‘The house is Jacobean,’ said Philip. ‘It has been in the family for centuries.’
Sunlight sparkled on the windows which Madeline could see were made up of tiny diamond-shaped pieces of glass. The house itself was a muted red, which stood out from the surrounding green gardens, creating an imposing spectacle.
There was a hustle and bustle as the servants sprang into action. Madeline and Philip dismounted, and then approached the imposing entrance.
Once inside, Madeline felt apprehensive. The entrance hall was like a cavern, with stone flagged floors and a huge stone fireplace. Suits of armour stood to either side of the fireplace, and above it hung a collection of antiquated weapons: maces, morning stars and fearsome-looking double-handed swords.
An ancient butler led them upstairs. Heavily-carved tables and ponderous chairs in solid oak were pushed back against the walls. But when they reached the dowager’s sitting-room at the back of the house, Madeline received a pleasant surprise. Although the furniture was still the heavy oak furniture she had seen elsewhere, there was an air of cheerfulness about the room. Fresh flowers stood on the mantelpiece and tables; the upholstery was of bright, instead of dull, red and gold; and the sunshine spilling into the room through the diamond-paned windows made it a welcoming place.
Sitting on a chair so large and heavily-carved it could almost be called a throne, sat Philip’s aunt.
Madeline saw at once where Philip’s hawk-like air came from. Lady Weatherby’s eyes were amber, like Philip’s. Her nose was beak-like and her mouth was thin. Claw-like hands clutched at the arms of her chair, and her hunched body reminded Madeline of a bird of prey.
As Madeline and Philip entered the room Matterson, Lady Weatherby’s trusted companion, was reading to her from the newspaper. But at a sign from Lady Weatherby the newspaper was quickly laid aside.
Madeline felt a shiver of apprehension as the dowager turned beady eyes on her, but ne
vertheless she lifted her chin. She had fought many battles in her short life, and if this proved to be another one then so be it.
‘So. Found a way round your father’s will at last?’ Lady Weatherby demanded, fixing Philip with her penetrating glance. ‘Never one to be led by the nose, were you, boy?’
‘I take too much after you,’ Philip said dryly.
Lady Weatherby gave a cackle of laughter. ‘A hit, boy. A palpable hit! And so,’ she went on, turning her shrewd glance on Madeline, ‘this is your new bride?’
‘Yes. This is Madeline,’ said Philip.
‘Come closer, girl,’ said the dowager, beckoning with one bony finger.
Madeline took a step forward, and felt the dowager’s eyes on her, scrutinising her. ‘So. Married m’nevvy, have you girl?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Pretty manners, anyway,’ she said judiciously. ‘Pretty face, too. You’ve done us proud, m’boy,’ she said to Philip. ‘A lovelier Countess there’s never been, not even your great-grandmother, and she was one of the great beauties of her day.’ The dowager turned her attention back to Philip. ‘Well, no use sitting here all afternoon, not when there’s sunshine outside. Ring the bell, Matty. Tell Crookshank we’ll take tea on the lawn.’
The old lady rose to her feet and Philip offered her his arm. Then, offering Madeline his other arm they went outside, settling themselves beneath a spreading chestnut tree that grew in the middle of the well-kept lawn.
So far, the meeting had gone smoothly, thought Madeline. But remembering Philip’s caution, she kept her wits about her. Although Lady Weatherby was being charming there was a sharp intelligence behind her eyes, and it was impossible to know what she was thinking.
Matty soon followed the small group with a pile of cushions which she arranged on the chairs that had been set under the tree, and tea was brought out. A silver tray was set on a wooden table spread with a snowy cloth and the beverage was poured from a silver teapot, fresh and hot.
To begin with, the time passed pleasantly. Lady Weatherby set herself out to entertain, and once they had finished their tea she regaled them with tales of her youth.
‘D’you know what this reminds me of, Matty? This marriage of Madeline and Philip’s?’ she said, with a sly glance at Philip. ‘With all the ruckus it’s created it reminds me of the time Lady Caroline Lennox ran away with Henry Fox. You remember it, don’t you Matty, old girl? It was the talk of the town.’
‘Don’t I just!’ exclaimed Matty as she arranged Lady Weatherby’s cushions. ‘I was in the schoolroom at the time, but my nurses were full of it. How romantic it sounded! And how daring! Imagine, defying the Duke of Richmond!’
‘Duke of Richmond to you and me, but just her father to Lady Caroline,’ snorted Lady Weatherby. ‘Girls never have minded their fathers, and never will, I’ll be bound.’
Madeline was startled. She had led an isolated childhood, and she had not realised that other girls defied their fathers. She had never even thought of defying her own father, but then, he had been such a bully that it was not surprising. As she listened to Lady Weatherby’s tales she realised she knew very little about normal life. Perhaps, over the next six months, she would have a chance to learn.
‘Still, it all turned out well in the end,’ said Matterson, drawing Madeline’s thoughts back to the present. ‘Mr Fox became Lord Holland and Lady Caroline became Lady Holland. And she was reconciled with her family in the end.’
‘Should think so, too,’ snorted Lady Weatherby. ‘No good breaking up a family just because of an odd hiccup here and there. And marriages do cause hiccups, as I should know!’
‘My aunt married a man ten years her junior and scandalised the neighbourhood,’ Philip explained to Madeline. ‘He was just out of Oxford, and Aunt Honoria was an old maid.’
His eyes twinkled as he said it, and Madeline guessed he was teasing his aunt.
‘Old maid!’ snorted Lady Weatherby, clearly delighted to be given a chance to contradict. ‘I was in my prime! Old maid, indeed! I was younger than you are now. Besides, I didn’t create half the scandal you’ve created. Set London by the ears, you have. The Earl of Pemberton running off and getting married without even giving notice in The Times.’
‘It will be a seven day wonder,’ said Philip. ‘Especially now, when the Season is almost over. By the time the ton return to the capital after the summer it will be old news, and some other scandal will have taken its place.’
‘You’re a cool one, I’ll say that for you, nevvy,’ said Lady Weatherby with a shrug of her bony shoulders. ‘But I dare say you’re right.’
‘Such a pity the Earl’s marriage is only temporary,’ sighed Matty sentimentally the following morning as she helped her mistress to dress. ‘If only he wasn’t in love with Miss Bligh.’ She picked up the silver-backed hairbrush that lay on the dressing-table and proceeded to brush Lady Weatherby’s still-glorious auburn hair.
‘In love with that cold fish?’ snorted Lady Weatherby. ‘Philip isn’t in love with Letitia. He thinks she’ll make him a suitable wife, that’s all.’ A thoughtful look came into her eye, as she recalled Philip’s behaviour towards Madeline. She had caught an expression on Philip’s face in an unguarded moment that had given her food for thought. ‘I wonder . . . Tell me, Matty, is Lord Fitzgrey still in residence?’
Lord Fitzgrey was an eligible bachelor who owned one of the neighbouring estates.
‘I believe so,’ said Matty, perplexed.
‘Good. Send him an invitation,’ said Lady Weatherby. ‘Ask him to dinner.’
Matty was astonished. ‘I thought you couldn’t abide Lord Fitzgrey.’
‘And so I can’t. He’s a jackanapes,’ said Lady Weatherby, not mincing her words. ‘But a handsome one. And he has a way with women.’
‘Is that wise, then?’ asked Matty with a worried frown. ‘What if he makes love to Madeline?’
‘He’d better,’ said Lady Weatherby shrewdly. ‘That’s why I’m inviting him.’
‘But won’t Philip object?’ asked Matty, forgetting to brush her mistress’s hair in her confusion..
‘A hundred strokes!’ commanded Lady Weatherby, reminding Matty of what she was meant to be doing. ‘Will he object?’ she repeated, her eyes shrewd, as Matty plied the silver-backed hairbrush once again. ‘I don’t know. That’s what I want to find out.’
‘Lord Fitzgrey may not accept an invitation at such short notice,’ warned Matty.
‘Hah!’ snorted Lady Weatherby. ‘As soon as he knows Philip’s new bride’s here, he’ll come all right.’ She paused as Matty twisted her hair into a chignon. ‘You’d better invite the Carsons as well,’ she added.
This time, Matty did not express doubts about their willingness to attend. Mr Carson and his sister were great admirers of the nobility. They spent their time travelling from one fashionable spot to another, ingratiating themselves with anyone who possessed a title, and a dinner invitation from Lady Weatherby, no matter how short the notice, would always receive a positive reply.
The Carsons were the first to arrive that evening. Mr Carson was a small, spare man, but his sister was a large woman in every way. She was at least eight inches taller than her brother, and as her girth almost equalled her height she was an imposing sight. Dressed in purple satin she entered the room like a tent billowing in the breeze, and made straight for Lady Weatherby.
‘My dear Lady Weatherby,’ she said. She made Lady Weatherby an extravagant curtsey, from which she had great difficulty rising again. She at last succeeded, however. Once she was firmly balanced again, she said, ‘What an honour it is to be invited to your table. Mr Carson and I are quite overwhelmed.’
Mr Carson professed himself similarly gratified by the invitation.
Lady Weatherby’s eyes sparkled mischievously, but she welcomed the couple with otherwise perfect gravity.
‘Good of you to come. Especially at such short notice,’ Lady Weatherby said. ‘May I present my nephew, the Earl
of Pemberton?’
‘My Lord.’ Miss Carson swept an even deeper curtsey. This time, however, she did not rise. Her smile became rigid, and it became apparent that her whalebone corsets had locked, freezing her into immobility.
Sensing her distress, her brother sprang to her aid. A few moments later, with his help, she rose again and turned her attention to Madeline.
‘And the Countess of Pemberton,’ said Lady Weatherby, performing the introduction.
Miss Carson was about to sweep another extravagant curtsey when she thought better of it and contented herself with a modest bob. It was accompanied, however, by a most reverent bowing of the head.
Mr Carson then took Madeline’s hand, bowing over it with equal reverence.
Madeline realised with relief that she had nothing to fear from the Carsons. She had been dreading the evening, in case a slip on her part gave away the nature of her marriage to Philip, but the Carsons were so overwhelmed by her rank that she was sure any small slips she might make would pass unnoticed.
The door opened again and the butler announced Lord Fitzgrey.
Madeline saw Philip cast a curious glance towards his aunt, but then she had to give her attention to the new guest.
Lord Fitzgrey could not have been more different from the Carsons. He was a handsome man of some twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, dressed fashionably but unostentatiously in a blue tailcoat and a pair of knee breeches. He wore many rings on his fingers, marking him out as a man of wealth and style. He greeted Lady Weatherby and Philip with easy affability, and then turned his full attention to Madeline.
And that was what he was giving her, Madeline realised. His full attention. He was treating her as though she were the only person in the room.
‘I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Countess,’ he said, bowing over her hand. ‘Pemberton,’ he said, turning to Philip.
‘Fitzgrey.’ Philip returned his greeting coolly. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here so late in the year. I thought you’d have gone down to Brighton as usual.’
The Six-Month Marriage Page 8