How to Cross a Marquess

by Jane Ashford

She hadn’t meant to ignore the boy. “As I should be. I am your aunt.” He looked as if he might cry, which would be humiliating at his age. “Is something wrong, John?”

  “You don’t know why I’m here.” He bit his lower lip to stop its trembling. “I thought Mama would have told you what I’ve done.”

  What in the world? Fenella remembered how childish transgressions could be magnified in one’s mind. Or, in her case, blown all out of proportion by her father’s attitude. He’d spent so much time shouting at her. She would never behave like that!

  “If you did know, you wouldn’t want to be kind,” John added.

  “I will always want to be kind,” Fenella declared. “And you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” It came out rather forcefully.

  John blinked, a bit startled, but then he shook his head. “If you found out why I was sent…”

  “For a visit with your family. That’s all I need to know.”

  This assurance seemed to make him more unhappy rather than less so. “So it’s all fake,” he added as if to himself. He swallowed.

  She knew that expression, Fenella thought. Here was a child bracing for a thundering scold. How to assure him that she would not deliver such a thing?

  “I bought a boa constrictor,” John blurted out. “That’s a kind of large snake. And it ate Sally’s kitten.”

  Fenella took a moment to absorb this startling information. Sally was her youngest niece, just three years old. Unbidden, a scene rose in her mind—scales, fangs, baby cat. She hid a shudder, partly at the fate of the kitten and partly at the shrieking chaos that must have ensued. Justified, really, she thought.

  “It was an accident,” John continued, his face a picture of anguish. “The boa was meant to stay in its cage. I brought it mice. It shouldn’t have been at all hungry. I don’t know how it got out.”

  Would she, and John’s mother, have been more sympathetic if they’d had brothers? Fenella wondered. She remembered the mud-slathered boys of her childhood. Roger and his friends had seemed to delight in noise and dirt. Not snakes, though, as far as she knew. “You didn’t mean it,” she managed.

  “Of course not. I like kittens!”

  He spoke as if he’d been accused of the opposite. Fenella recalled her father’s many unfair indictments. “Well, it sounds like an unfortunate accident. I can tell you’re sorry it happened.”

  John nodded. Tears had run down his cheeks. He sniffed.

  “So let us say no more about it.”

  “Really?” The boy blinked rapidly. He sniffed again. “You aren’t revolted?”

  Again, it sounded as if he’d heard that word before. Repeatedly. “Not at all,” Fenella lied. Then, worried she’d been too cavalier, she added, “Although I would rather you didn’t bring snakes into the house.”

  “I wouldn’t! Never again!” John gazed at the ground, shrugged, and sighed. “There’s no good ones up here anyway,” he said, somewhat diluting his fervent promise.

  “Ah.” Fenella grappled with the idea of a good snake. What exactly constituted its goodness? She suspected this lay in qualities other than beneficence. And then she was struck by an idea. “There’s a place you could use, if you’d like to, ah, collect specimens.”

  John raised his head to stare at her.

  “Your mother and your Aunt Nora had a playhouse in our apple orchard.” Her two sisters, years older than Fenella, hadn’t allowed her inside their sanctum. In fact, they’d made a great point of excluding her from their games. Their father’s disappointment in his third child had spilled over onto his other offspring. Fleetingly, Fenella remembered the day she’d read a story about fairy changelings. She’d decided at once that she must be such a magical substitution, so alien did she feel within her family. Now, she rather enjoyed the idea of Greta’s son filling her old playhouse with snakes. “I’ll show you when we get back.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re an absolute trump, Aunt Fenella!”

  And just like that, one could bask in a male’s unalloyed admiration, she thought. Simply offer a boy a place to keep his snakes.

  But matters were not so simple. When they reached Clough House, they found Wrayle lurking in the front hall. John’s dour attendant, pinched and disapproving, looked like a scarecrow dressed as a valet. He surged forward when they came in. “Master Sherrington went out without permission,” he said to Fenella.

  “I was visiting at Chatton Castle,” said her nephew.

  Though she could see that this address impressed Wrayle, it didn’t change his position. “He did not inform me,” the man said to Fenella. “I am to accompany him on any outings.” His expression was smug, even a bit contemptuous. Clearly, he expected Fenella to take his side.

  Wrayle had not made himself popular with the household. More than just his air of aggrieved superiority, he took liberties. Fenella had had complaints. She’d been planning to deal with him, though not looking forward to it. “A stable boy accompanied John,” she said, slightly emphasizing her nephew’s preferred form of address. “He was perfectly safe.”

  “That is not the point,” replied Wrayle. “He requires my supervision.”

  Fenella was not accustomed to such an insolent tone, not from anyone. “I don’t think he does, really,” she replied. “In fact, I think you’d best return to my sister’s home.” That would solve several problems at once. At her side, John started as if he’d been poked with a pin.

  “I was engaged to attend Master Sherrington.”

  “We’ll take good care of him,” Fenella said. It wasn’t as if a ten-year-old boy required a valet.

  “I’m to watch him and return him to school at the end of the summer holidays,” said Wrayle. He spoke as if John was an annoying package that must be hauled around the country.

  “We’ll make sure he gets there.”

  “He cannot go alone.”

  “Naturally not,” said Fenella. “Perhaps I’ll take him myself. John could show me his school.” She glanced at her nephew. His eyes and mouth were wide. His hands were clasped so tightly, they trembled. She turned back to Wrayle. “But I’m afraid we can’t accommodate you here any longer.”

  The gaunt man bridled. “You have no choice.”

  Fenella’s temper was not easily roused, but this man managed it, and not for the first time. “I think you’ll find that I do,” she said.

  “I’m not employed by you. You cannot dismiss me!”

  “I’m not dismissing you, Wrayle. I am simply sending you back to my sister.”

  Wrayle bared his teeth in a sort of snarling smile. “We’ll see about that.” He turned and charged up the stairs.

  “He’ll go to my grandfather,” John said. “Wrayle always toadeats the person highest in rank.”

  “Of course he does.” Fenella picked up the skirts of her riding habit. “Go and ask William to come to your grandfather’s chamber,” she told John as she started up the steps.

  Simpson the valet hovered in the doorway of her father’s room, a thin, aging figure. “That fellow Wrayle pushed his way in, miss. He shoved me!”

  “I’ll speak to him.”

  “I am not accustomed to such treatment.”

  “Of course not. It won’t happen again. I’ll see to it.”

  Fenella entered her father’s room, and found Wrayle leaning over the bed. He looked like a great crow poised to peck out an eye. She started to take a position opposite him, and then realized that she didn’t wish to argue with Wrayle across her father’s prostrate form. She stopped beside the door. Wrayle shot her a triumphant glance, as if he imagined he would have vengeance for her treatment of him.

  “Mr. Symmes sent me,” the man said to her father. “I answer to him, and no one else.”

  Her father looked peevish. Fenella knew he didn’
t like dealing with domestic difficulties. He thought such things beneath him. “You can’t dismiss Sherrington’s valet, Fenella,” he said.

  “Of course not, Papa.” Before Wrayle’s obvious glee could be expressed, she added, “I’m merely sending him back to Greta’s.”

  “You have no right—” the valet began.

  “I’m sorry you were bothered, Papa,” she cut in. “But there have been complaints from the housemaids.” This was perfectly true. The younger maids, and particularly the youngest, who was just fourteen, had told the housekeeper that Wrayle looked for opportunities to catch them alone and make lewd remarks. The housekeeper, unsuccessful in her attempts to curb him, had told Fenella just this morning. “You know the sort of thing,” she added.

  Her father looked pained.

  “You won’t take the word of silly girls,” said Wrayle. He sounded utterly certain.

  Fenella decided she would get a letter to her sister before the man arrived back at her home. Whatever Wrayle might think, Greta wouldn’t tolerate such creeping behavior.

  “Have them up here,” Wrayle said grandly. “I’ll soon put their stories to the lie.” He looked as if he enjoyed a good wrangle.

  Her father frowned. Wrayle’s attitude was annoying him. As how could it not? Surely it wasn’t so difficult for him to choose between daughter and servant? He waved a pale hand. “Do as you think best, Fenella.”

  “Sir!” said Wrayle.

  “Go away. All of you.”

  “Of course, Papa. You must rest.” Fenella indicated the door with a gesture. Wrayle looked rebellious, but William appeared in the opening just then. The burly footman, who helped lift her father when such services were needed, looked daunting, as Fenella had known he would. She gestured again. Wrayle ground his teeth, but he went.

  Fenella followed. When she’d shut the bedchamber door behind her, she summoned all the hauteur and steely resolve she’d learned from her Scottish grandmother. Or rather had uncovered from deep inside herself, if Grandmamma was to be believed.

  “You have half an hour to pack your things, Wrayle. William will help you, and then he will take you over to the tollgate where you can get the mail coach south.” A glance at William showed Fenella that he relished his assignment. She wasn’t surprised. He had friends among the housemaids.

  “I refuse!”

  William took a step toward him. Fenella held up a hand. “You really can’t stay if we don’t want you here, you know.”

  The man sputtered and fumed. Finally he turned away. William followed. “I shall tell Mr. Symmes how I have been treated here!” was Wrayle’s parting shot.

  Fenella supposed he might cause problems between the two households. She definitely needed to tell Greta about his poor behavior before he had a chance to complain. Let Greta explain that to her husband.

  “You got rid of Wrayle,” said a small, awed voice.

  She looked down to find her nephew gazing at her as if she had performed a miracle. “He’ll be there when you go home,” she pointed out.

  “That’s not until after next term. Mama won’t be thinking so much about my snake by then. She’ll have a new baby. And Sally already has a new kitten.” He seemed to equate the two additions. “I’ll send Sally some ribbons. She likes to tie ribbons around their necks.” He pondered the plan. “Do you have any ribbons? Ones you don’t need, I mean.”

  “I might.”

  “Thank you!” John beamed at her, and Fenella understood that his gratitude extended to much more than ribbons. “Is there anything I can help you with?” he added. “I’d be glad to. Anything at all!”

  “Perhaps. We’ll see.”

  “Yes, Aunt Fenella.”

  He practically bowed, and Fenella realized that she’d assumed mythic proportions in his mind. Inadvertently, she’d become the Aunt, the imposing relative so many families seemed to possess. She remembered her own aunt Moira, her mother’s oldest sister. Wife of a Scottish laird, she’d been up to anything. Fenella had wistfully admired her forthright manner and fiery spirit. A smile escaped her. Aunt Moira wasn’t a bad source of inspiration. “Shall I show you the playhouse now?” she asked John.

  He looked ready to jump for joy. “Yes, Aunt Fenella!”

  Five

  Roger reined in his mount on a small rise and looked down at Clough House. A substantial brick edifice, far newer than Chatton Castle, it had been built to replace an earlier building that had burned down a century ago. Rather than facing the buffeting of the North Sea, the house was nestled in a fold of land bordered by a stream and surrounded by gardens rich with trees. The stream fell into the ravine that had given the place its name and ran off to the south. A softer place than his home, Roger thought. Which led him to thoughts of Fenella, as all too many things seemed to do lately.

  For years he’d avoided this house, and her. Today, he was calling on her father but hoping to see her. He didn’t know if that was wise, but he had to admit that it was true. Beset by constant thoughts of her, he had to discover what she felt about their jumbled connection.

  Admitted to Mr. Fairclough’s bedchamber some minutes later, Roger was shocked at the change in the old man. He hadn’t realized he was so ill. He ought to have come before, despite their dispute. Fairclough had been a friend of his father’s before he became his enemy in that stupid way.

  He was greeted with a growl from the bed. “Chatton.”

  “Mr. Fairclough. I’m sorry you’ve been poorly. I hope you will soon be better.”

  “Well, I won’t. Only one cure for me, and that’s a box and a shovel. Come to get the better of me when I’m down, have you? You’ll find you’re out there.”

  Roger shook his head. “Not at all. In fact, if you don’t feel up to talking, I can come another day.”

  “That won’t help. Say what you have to say and be done with it.”

  Now that he’d seen the man’s state, Roger found that he did have a good deal to say to him. Though he hadn’t been invited to sit, he didn’t want to loom over the old man. He fetched a straight chair to the side of the bed and sank onto it. “Shouldn’t we resolve the border dispute that has dragged on between us for so long?”

  “Don’t blame me! That was all your father’s doing.”

  “Was it? I don’t even know how it got started.”

  Fairclough scowled. “Your father…” he began. Then he looked puzzled. “I can’t seem to recall.”

  Roger opened his hands in a there-you-are-then gesture. He didn’t say that the matter must be trivial, knowing this wouldn’t be well received.

  “Wait, wait.” Fairclough plucked at the coverlet. “No, I’ve got it. My great-grandfather wanted to buy that parcel of land on our borders, and your great-great-grandfather agreed to sell. But he went back on his word. I found the agreement in our archive room.” He gave Roger a triumphant glare.

  So it seemed that Fairclough, not his father, had started the troubles, Roger thought. “I didn’t know my great-great-grandfather, of course.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the old man barked. “Debt of honor. Blot on your family escutcheon.”

  “Escutcheon?”

  “It’s an expression.”

  “I know.”

  “A shield, isn’t it?” said Fairclough. “Like the old knights used to carry. Wouldn’t want a blot on there. Bad ton, eh?”

  It seemed to Roger that they were wandering from the point. “If you have a signed conveyance of the land…” he began. But he couldn’t have, Roger realized. If he did, the courts would have ruled in his favor at once.

  “There was an agreement,” Fairclough replied. “A gentleman’s agreement. The land to be sold. For twenty guineas.”

  “Twenty guineas! That’s a ridiculous figure.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It dashed well does. The land is wo
rth far more than that.”

  “So was a guinea, back then.” The old man’s eyes, though reddened by illness, gleamed.

  “That sum was paid then? To my great-great-grandfather?”

  Fairclough’s gaze shifted, and Roger saw another flaw in his argument. “It wasn’t, was it? So an agreement may have been initiated, but it was never completed. Not signed or paid. It seems they changed their minds. Can’t we drop this dispute?”

  “No!” Fairclough pounded weakly on the bedclothes. “It’s a matter of principle.”

  He looked worn out, Roger saw. He should leave him to rest.

  The sly look returned to the old man’s face. “You could still marry Fenella. That was our original solution. Put that bit of land into her inheritance. Tied up the loose ends all right and tight.”

  Roger couldn’t believe her father would mention this idiotic plan. Hadn’t it caused enough trouble? And then he was even more startled at how differently he felt about it today. The outraged rebellion of five years ago was gone.

  “Now you’re free again,” Fairclough added.

  As if Arabella had been nothing but an impediment. The phrase, and the old man’s tone, cut too close to the bone. “My wife died,” he said.

  “Well, they do. Look at Foster over at Deeping. He’s had three.”

  Roger stood.

  “That was a jest, Chatton. No need to poker up about it.”

  “It’s difficult to laugh at death.”

  “Well, I beg your pardon. You have my condolences, of course.”

  Roger bowed, and felt like a fraud. He’d felt relief, among other things, at the sad end of his marriage, he admitted silently. Guilt washed through him, with a twinge of pain in his stomach. He wished for the potion that Fenella had brewed for him, which had been helping dramatically.

  “I’m ill, not long for this world,” said Fairclough. He attempted a pathetic look, but achieved only devious and exhausted. “I’d like to see my last daughter settled before I go.”

  “I believe we both expressed our opinions on that when the idea was first brought up,” Roger replied dryly.