How to Cross a Marquess

by Jane Ashford

  All except Roger. She gazed at his sleeping face beside her, envying his easy slumber. She cared for him. She liked him. She enjoyed his touch. This feeling would pass off with time, she told herself, and closed her eyes in hope of sleep.

  The following morning they sent off three more notes—a longer one to Chatton Castle, one rather vague epistle to be rushed ahead of them to Fenella’s grandmother, and another to Fenella’s maid, asking her to pack some of Fenella’s things and come with them to her grandmother’s estate. Knowing her brothers-in-law, Fenella enclosed a banknote in the latter to pay for the journey. And let Symmes and Gissing make what they liked of that, she thought as they rode north once more. They would certainly recognize her grandmother’s name. In any other set of persons, that might be a signal to keep quiet and await further news. Her brothers-in-law were unlikely to exhibit such discretion, however. They’d shown no signs of having any. But with her grandmother on their side—and Roger’s mother, too, she trusted—she and Roger would brush through this without scandal.

  Not too fast, Fenella added silently. She was almost certain that Grandmamma would accept her unconventional marriage and aid them, but it would be fatal to take anything for granted.

  Fourteen

  Knowing that word of Roger’s unexpected wedding would inevitably leak out, with Symmes and Gissing ranting and complaining over at Clough House, Macklin and Roger’s mother decided to share the news themselves. The couple’s last letter from Scotland had given them promising phrases to use, implying that Fenella’s grandmother was part of the whole marriage scheme. Trusting Fenella to gain the support of that formidable old woman, they agreed that it would be wise to tell certain sociable neighbors, so that their version of the story would be the one the gossips spread.

  “Oh, I’m glad they paid no attention to those dreadful letters,” replied Mrs. McIlwaine when the dowager marchioness conveyed the tale over tea the following day.

  Arthur glanced at their hostess. Seeing uncertainty in her gaze, he decided to pretend ignorance. “Letters?” Things one had heard nothing about often seemed less important.

  “No one told you?”

  Mrs. McIlwaine’s expression was familiar. She was one of those who reveled in knowing more than anyone else, Arthur thought. Not necessarily malicious, but overeager. He made a noncommittal gesture.

  “I expect Chatton didn’t want to upset you.” Mrs. McIlwaine directed her comment at Roger’s mother.

  “And what would have done that?” asked Helena calmly, following his lead.

  “Several of us received the horridest anonymous letters,” the other lady replied. “Repeating that silly rumor blaming Miss Fairclough—Lady Chatton, I should say now—for her, er, predecessor’s ride out in the storm.”

  Arthur kept his expression bland. If neighbors were talking of this insult so openly, something really must be done.

  “Several of you,” said Helena evenly.

  The visitor mentioned names. “And Mrs. Cheeve had one yesterday. She was excessively shocked.”

  The vicar’s wife would have been, Arthur thought. Or would have wanted to appear so. Both, probably.

  “Particularly as Chatton was talking of the story again last Sunday,” continued Mrs. McIlwaine. “It might have been better to ignore it.” She shook her head. “Difficult, though, when one is angry at the injustice.”

  Not malicious at all, Arthur concluded.

  “I’m so glad they didn’t let it stop them from marrying,” the visitor added.

  “Why should they?” asked Helena. Clearly, she was angry.

  “Exactly so,” answered Mrs. McIlwaine. “One mustn’t give such a vile person the satisfaction. It’s so lowering to think that one of our own neighbors would be so sneaking and spiteful.”

  “Neighbors,” said Helena.

  “Well, they were delivered by hand, you know. Dreadful to imagine that creature writing them nearby.” Mrs. McIlwaine gathered her shawl, eager now to go and spread her juicy news. They said their farewells and waited a few minutes until they heard her carriage depart.

  “You said you had some idea what we might do about those letters,” Helena said then.

  Arthur nodded. “Find out who is sending them,” he replied.

  “How will you do that?” Her voice was clipped with annoyance.

  He didn’t blame her. “By watching for the messenger. Someone local has been enlisted, and no doubt paid, to carry them. They will be more flush with cash than before. And perhaps prone to boasting.”

  Helena frowned. “We can’t wait in the lanes or the village tavern for this person to appear.”

  “No, but I have someone who can. Tom is a keen observer.” Arthur noted her doubtful expression. “He’s proven his ability to discover information when we needed it. You may trust me on that.”

  “Well, of course I do. It’s just…this is rather important. I can’t bear to have more of these letters arrive. What a horrid welcome to her new home for Fenella.”

  “We will treat it so,” said Arthur. With a courteous salute, he went out.

  After a moment’s thought about the best way to arrange a private conversation, he went up to his bedchamber and rang for Clayton, who was dispatched to find Tom. The lad turned up a few minutes later, bright and inquisitive. When the problem was explained to him, he said, “I can do that. Likely this messenger is spending his new wages around the village.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Arthur said.

  “He may be itching to tell about his good fortune as well. Most do. But even if he’s not, there’ll be summat to notice.”

  “And then you must follow him to the source,” Arthur reminded him. “Without being observed yourself.”

  Tom nodded.

  “After that, we will root them out,” the older man added. “There’s nothing worse than poison-pen letters.”

  “Ha, poison pen, that’s a good name for them,” said Tom.

  “Descriptive of the effect they can have.”

  Tom turned toward the bedchamber door. “I’m right pleased to have something to do,” he said. “That Wrayle fellow has got John shut away at Clough House, and I’ve been back to walking about the fields on my own.”

  * * *

  Roger pulled his horse up beside Fenella’s and joined her in gazing at a cascade of water foaming over a tumble of rocks and into a stream by the side of the road. They had decided not to hurry their journey north. They might have reached her grandmother’s house in two days, but they were taking at least three. Fenella’s horse wasn’t as good as his, for one thing. Mr. Larraby’s hapless animal was plodding and stubborn. He took advantage of any opportunity to pause and crop grass, as he was doing now. And he objected strenuously to long treks into unknown territory.

  Also, Roger was balancing concern about facing Fenella’s formidable grandmother with the inconvenience of having no change of clothes. He’d bought a few necessities in Coldstream, so they weren’t without a hairbrush and tooth powder. But they had little else. The cash he’d had with him when they fled was running low. He told himself that it would suffice.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Fenella.

  The most beautiful thing in Roger’s view was his new wife, but he didn’t say so. Sometimes she appeared to enjoy a compliment; other times praise unsettled her. He hadn’t learned the difference, whatever it might be. “The scenic route,” he replied instead.

  This won him a smile. “I promise you I know the way,” she said.

  “I’m counting on it.” They had veered off the main road onto a track that Fenella promised would show him striking views of the countryside. Roger suspected that his valet and her maid might well reach their destination before they did.

  Fenella tugged on her horse’s reins, addressing the animal’s reluctance to move on. “Come along, sir. You will hav
e better fodder when we stop for the night, as you might very well understand by this time.”

  The borrowed mount snorted and fought her control, straining toward the grass. She got him moving with difficulty.

  “I’d gladly ride him for a while,” Roger offered, not for the first time.

  “I couldn’t inflict him on you,” she replied as before.

  The day waned as they rode on. The track grew more overgrown. It seemed to Roger that little traffic had passed this way in some time.

  “I was certain there was a small inn about here,” said Fenella. “Yes, there it is.”

  But the building at the side of the road was empty, clearly abandoned. A thick plank had been nailed across the front door. The roof sagged in the middle. And the small stable at the back was partly burned.

  “Oh dear.” Fenella surveyed the place. “I was through here only… I suppose it was two years ago. I didn’t stay, but…I suppose they didn’t have enough travelers to keep going.”

  Roger thought it very likely. “We’ll have to break in. There’s rain coming. Unless you know of some other shelter nearby?”

  She shook her head. “Not for miles.”

  “Right.” Roger jumped down and handed Fenella his reins. “I’ll check for other entrances first.” He walked around the building. There was a back door, but it was secured with several planks. The mullioned windows looked too small to crawl through, even if he managed to open one. It would have to be the main entry.

  Back at the front door, he found a sturdy tree branch and slipped it between the plank and the panels. By prying at first one end, then the other, he finally got the board off. Throwing it aside, he tried the door. “Locked. I’ll have to bash it in.” The darkness was deepening, and the wind definitely promised rain. He looked around for a suitable rock.

  “Just a minute.” Fenella dismounted. She pulled two pins from her hair and knelt before the lock. In a few minutes, she had the door open.

  “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “My cousin Rob taught me,” she said.

  “Rob?”

  “My mother’s brother’s son. You’ll meet him. He lives near Grandmamma.”

  Roger had never heard of this fellow before. He felt a twinge of jealousy. “Sneak thief, is he?”

  Fenella laughed. “He’s the current laird.”

  “So that means yes, if I know my Scotsmen.”

  “We’re making a family visit, not a border raid,” she teased. “You will remember that we’re going to enlist Grandmamma’s help?” She stepped through the door.

  “Help, not a raid,” repeated Roger with a smile, following her.

  It was damp and chilly inside the small building. The rooms were empty; everything had been taken away. But a wide stone fireplace remained in the largest chamber, and it appeared the roof would keep out the rain, at least on the lower floor. Roger doubted that it did upstairs.

  They went back out to collect wood. The surrounding vegetation was green and damp, but they found some dry scraps in the ruins of the stable, along with shreds of old hay for tinder. “I’ll bring the horses in here,” Roger said. “There’s enough cover left to shelter them. I’ll pull some grass for them.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “No need. Take the wood in.” He handed her the flint and steel he always carried in a pocket on his saddle. “You could check the kitchen for food. Not that there will be any from the looks of things.”

  “Women’s work?”

  “Kitchen maid’s work, while I do the ostler’s.” Roger gave her a smile as he went out. Rain was indeed starting. He led their mounts into the upright part of the stable and unsaddled them. Mr. Larraby’s horse voiced running complaints about the nature of the accommodations. Even a handful of the grain they’d purchased along the way didn’t mollify him.

  When Roger returned, he found Fenella seated cross-legged on the floor before a crackling fire, holding her hands out to the flames. She’d fetched water, too. Whoever had stripped the place had forgotten to take the bucket from the well, fortunately.

  Fenella turned and gestured at the meager results of her search, lined up by her knee. “Some salt in a twist of paper,” she said, pointing to the first object. “Left in the back of a cupboard. A broken paring knife. A few beans, well chewed over by what I believe is a rat living under the kitchen floorboards.”

  “I suppose I could try to catch it for our dinner.”

  “I am not that hungry,” declared Fenella. “And I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Suggesting this diversion in our route. It’s far more rustic than I remembered. I do think more people used to come this way.”

  “One day without dinner is no great hardship,” he replied, sitting down next to her. “And we are out of the weather.” Rain had begun to beat against the window. Certainly the sagging roof would leak, Roger thought. But they should be all right if they stayed down here. Fenella looked melancholy. He searched for a diversion. “Tell me more about your grandmother. So that I’ll know how to ingratiate myself with her.”

  As he’d hoped, this made her laugh. “I can’t wait to see that.”

  “Is she such a fierce Scot?”

  “Actually, she’s the daughter of an English duke and his French émigrée wife.”

  “What?”

  Fenella nodded. “She met the laird of Roslyn during a hunting party. It was in Northumberland, actually. She was visiting the North, and he’d ventured a bit south. Voilà, they fell madly in love.”

  Her voice had an odd inflection at the end. Roger couldn’t interpret it.

  “It was a fine match, except that she was a Sassenach and his family deep-dyed Scots. Her French blood helped persuade them.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Mary, Queen of Scots?” she answered. “The Stuart Pretenders living in Paris? There’s been a link for centuries.” She held up a hand. “By the way, don’t call the Stuarts ‘Pretenders’ while we’re up here. Should the topic arise.”

  “I can’t imagine why it would,” Roger said. “That was ages ago.”

  “I have a great-uncle who remembers the Battle of Culloden as if it was yesterday. Or claims to.” She considered. “Though he can’t have been more than five in 1746. Ha, to hear him you would think he’d cut a bloody swath through the enemy ranks.”

  “Was that the one where the Hanovers defeated the Stuarts once and for all?”

  Fenella shook her head. “Never say it that way up here. It isn’t so very long since then.”

  “A good long lifetime,” said Roger.

  “There aren’t many left who were there,” she agreed. “But live up here for a few years, and you’ll hear about it.” She gazed into the fire. The rain pattered outside.

  They still weren’t completely comfortable being alone together, Roger thought in the silence. This wasn’t what he would have planned for a honeymoon journey. “What is your grandmother’s house like?”

  “Elegant,” Fenella replied. She frowned. “Will your valet have packed evening dress?”

  “For a country house visit. Of course.”

  “Yes. Good. Grandmamma is a stickler on some things, and then liberal about others.” She smiled. “She despises the sidesaddle, for example. She’ll be sorry to see mine. While I lived with her, I had a riding habit with split skirts and rode astride. As does she. I didn’t bring the habit home with me because I knew Papa would object.” A shadow passed across her face. “Would have.”

  “I hope you’ll bring it along when we return.”

  She looked at him. “You’re not afraid of scandalizing the neighborhood?”

  “Not in the least.”

  Her blue gaze was steady. And perhaps speculative? “I will then.”

  “Splendid.” Roger yearned to fold her in his
arms, capture her lips, and sink into the pleasures that had illuminated their nights together. But the floor was dusty, and there was a smell of mold from the back premises. Hardly a spot for romance. He endured another pause, then said, “What sort of place is Roslyn?”

  “The town is pretty. About seven miles south of Edinburgh, on high ground, near the North Esk River. There’s an ancient chapel.” Fenella yawned.

  “You’re tired. You should rest.”

  She looked around. “We must sleep on the floor. I looked upstairs. There’s nothing here.”

  “I’ll spread my coat for you to lie on.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll be cold.”

  “The fire will do.” Indeed, the room was warmer.

  After another glance at the dirty floor, she accepted his offer. She lay down with a look toward the moldy kitchen. “Do you suppose the rat comes out at night?”

  “I’ll keep watch and feed the flames. That will discourage any visits.”

  “I should take my turn.”

  Roger nodded, not wishing to argue. But she looked so weary, and so lovely curled on the wooden floor, that he did not wake her. Instead he waited until light showed at the windows and then roused her to ride on, to the surly indignation of Mr. Larraby’s horse.

  The rain had stopped, and they went faster than before, both having had enough of their cross-country trek by this time. Early in the evening, they crested a small rise and looked down on their goal—a substantial mansion of stone and slate.

  Fenella set her heels to her borrowed horse, whose quirks had filled her with an irredeemable disgust for him, and moved down the incline.

  Five years ago, she’d arrived at this house seeking refuge, Fenella thought as she rode. And she’d received it in full measure. Now she was looking for safety of another kind. A shield from scandal. What would Grandmamma have to say about that?