by Nina Clare
Her stepmother had encouraged her in these visits; Celia suspected Lady Asher had hopes of the countess leaving Celia something in her will. And she had left Celia something: a copy of The Complete Romances of the North – the countess’s favourite book. Celia had never been able to read it again since; it held too many poignant memories.
It was a good mile from the boundary of Roseleat to Highmott Hall. As she passed Roseleat Woods she felt the usual tugging desire to escape to her favourite place, but she had not time for that now; her indignation was required, or she would not have the courage to confront that man.
‘Miss Asher?’ said the butler, looking Celia up and down as though to be sure it was really her. When Celia had called on the late countess, she had done so in gowns only a little outgrown. But the past two years had included long hours of work in the fields and kitchen, and there had been no new gowns to replace the ones ruined through labour.
‘How do you do, Sweeting?’ Celia’s anger was checked at the sight of the staid old butler, so neat and formal in his wig and spotless cravat and waistcoat and breeches. She marched past him into the entrance hall. ‘It has been a long time.’
‘It has, Miss Asher. The house has missed you.’
This kind word melted more of Celia’s anger. But then she recalled Robin lying on his back with the broken plough beneath him, and she summoned up her indignation again.
‘Sweeting, the rider of the black horse who has lately arrived. I wish to speak with him.’
Sweeting raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘I am sorry, Miss Asher, but the gentleman is currently indisposed.’
‘Indisposed?’
‘He is removing the dust of the road. He is bathing.’
At the word dust Celia thought she detected a flickering look over her face and gown. A pier glass hung on the wall adjacent to the door. She only had to turn her head a little to catch sight of herself. She gave a start at the shock of her own reflection. The young woman in the mirror was an absolute fright! Her working gown was as worn and patched as any poor cottager’s; her hair had received no taming of a hairdresser’s shears for the past three years, and was crudely tied into a knot at the nape of her neck. And she had grass stains on her apron and a great rip in her coat. She flushed with shame and turned away again, not wishing to see any more.
Sweeting was looking at her with a mixture of sympathy and uncertainty.
‘Who is it?’ she asked. ‘Who is the ignorant imbecile sitting up there in his nice bath tub?’
‘Ignorant? Imbecile?’ Sweeting blinked hard.
‘He nearly killed Robin!’ Her anger flamed again. ‘He broke my plough, and now we shall have to dig over and pick out the stones in the meadow by hand, but if I don’t prepare the ground, I cannot plant, and if I cannot plant, we cannot eat!’
Her voice was growing louder and Sweeting’s eyebrows lifted as high as they could reach. She forced herself to take a deep breath and regain composure. She probably looked like one of the Furies in the Romances of the North.
‘Plough, you say?’ Sweeting said, taking a tiny step back from her, as though alarmed by her passion. ‘The master broke your plough? How can that be? He only rode here an hour ago, and he came straight from town.’
‘Master?’
‘Lord Marbury. The master.’
‘The nephew? He is here? He is the man responsible for my ruined coat, my broken plough and Robin’s broken bones!’
‘Broken bones?’ Sweeting took another step away.
Suddenly Celia had no desire to meet this new earl. Not looking as she did, anyway. It was too humiliating. She would return when she was respectable looking.
She turned to leave, but paused at the threshold to look back at the hall. She gave a little sigh. ‘I miss her,’ she said softly.
Sweeting’s face softened also. ‘We all miss her, Miss Asher.’
3
Lord Marbury stood at the window of his dressing room, fiddling with his cravat. Morris was proving to be a stickler for ensuring his new master looked the thing, and had tied everything tighter than he liked.
He saw a young woman marching away across the lawn. One of the locals from the village no doubt. Judging by her attire she was one of the poorer tenants. But something about her upright figure marked her out as different from the average cottager. When she threw back a look at the house before rounding the corner, he could see that her features were not of the homely type. She had the high cheekbones and air of a queen, despite the loose strands of red hair escaping from under her scarf. Whoever she was, she looked rather fierce. Perhaps she’d come begging at the kitchens and had been turned away.
‘My lord?’ prompted Morris, holding out a tray of shoe buckles for his master to select from. Lord Marbury randomly pointed to a pair and moved away from the window to finish dressing. He looked about the room as he waited for his shoes and waistcoat. The proportions and layout of the house were not too bad, despite the low ceilings, but what dreadful gloomy decor. The whole place needed sprucing up. When the estate lawyer arrived, he would find out exactly how things stood financially, and begin his plans for improvement.
There was a rap at the door, and a footman announced that a Mr Finch had arrived, claiming a one o’clock appointment with the master, and had been shown into the study.
Lord Marbury waved away his valet holding an outstretched wig and a powder canister.
‘The wig is necessary to look the thing, my lord,’ insisted Morris.
‘I am not in town now,’ argued Lord Marbury. ‘Besides,’ he added, seeing Morris’s dismay. ‘Wigs really are not necessary to look the thing as they used to be. Not outside of court. And I resent paying a guinea for powder. There won’t be any more of it.’
Morris looked mortified, his face paling to match the shade of his own perfectly powdered periwig.
‘Times are changing,’ said Lord Marbury as he left his dressing room.
Mr Finch looked a little like a bullfinch with his short, rotund figure encased in black and grey, and his shiny, birdlike eyes.
‘Frederick Finch of Finch, Foxley, and Fotheringhay at your service, my lord,’ said the lawyer with a bow. ‘I trust you received my communications?’
Lord Marbury nodded as he took a seat at the polished walnut desk and gestured for the lawyer to be seated on the other side.
‘Only, you did not reply, my lord.’
‘To be blunt, Mr Finch, I found your communications to be somewhat odd.’
‘Odd, my lord?’
‘All that stuff and nonsense about marriage and so forth. It made no sense. Surely it was but the ramblings of my aunt in her latter days.’
‘Lady Marbury never rambled in her communications with myself, my lord. I assure you she was of sound mind, if, sadly, not body, until her regrettable demise.’
‘So what is all this marriage business, Mr Finch? We have entered the nineteenth century, have we not? The days of forced marriages are long past. Perhaps my aunt was having a joke?’
‘Lady Marbury never joked. She was the epitome of careful thought and consideration.’ Mr Finch drew out a weighty pile of papers from his bag.
Lord Marbury waved a hand to instruct the lawyer to begin reading.
Mr Finch cleared his throat. ‘Lady Wilhelmina Henrietta Georgiana Blenham, Countess of Marbury, by special remainder, resident and sole owner of Highmott Manor, with all the pertaining estate consisting of—’
‘Mr Finch, I have a map of the estate, I do not require you to expound in detail. Please skip the formalities and tell me what the precise conditions of my inheritance are.’
Mr Finch’s eyes flashed his disapproval of such informality, or perhaps, was Lord Marbury’s cynical thought, the lawyer charged by the hour, and thus wished to draw out the interview as long as possible.
‘The late countess of Marbury does bequeath to her nearest kin, her nephew, Master Tobias William Henry George Courtier, the entirety of her estate and fortune, excepting the foll
owing monies and pensions and objects to be distributed—’
‘Mr Finch, the gifts and pensions and so forth have been settled. I need not hear of them. Tell me what the precise conditions of my inheritance are, that I might sign the papers and we may both be about our business.’
Mr Finch shook himself as though his feathers were ruffled, and unfolded a swathe of the heavy document, scanning the pages with his beady eyes before he reached the required section.
‘The late countess of Marbury does impose the following conditions upon the heir of her estate and fortune.’ Mr Finch looked up, and said reverentially, ‘The following is the exact dictation of Lady Marbury. I scribed it myself in the presence of witnesses.’
Lord Marbury nodded and shifted impatiently in his seat.
‘I, Lady Wilhelmina Henrietta Georgiana Marbury, do apply the following condition to my nephew and sole heir. If my nephew and sole heir does not wish to comply with the forthcoming condition, he is free to do so, and may retain an inheritance of fifty thousand pounds, but shall forthwith forfeit Highmott Hall and its estate and the remainder of my private fortune.’
There was a long pause.
‘Continue,’ Lord Marbury urged.
There was more slow unfolding of paper.
‘The condition of my nephew’s inheritance is that he shall take in marriage Miss Asher of Roseleat, thus uniting the two estates—’
‘There!’ cried Lord Marbury. ‘That is the ridiculous part. An arranged marriage! To a woman I have never met! Insupportable errant nonsense. That cannot be legal.’
‘I assure you, my lord, that it is perfectly legal.’
Lord Marbury laughed in his disbelief. ‘And who is this Miss Asher? How old is she? Does she know of this bizarre condition?’
‘I have instructions to deliver a missive into the hand of the lady in question this same day. But what information this letter contains, it is unknown to anyone save her ladyship. No one else knows of this arrangement save myself, my colleagues Mr Foxley and Mr Fotheringhay, who acted as witnesses, and your lordship.’
‘Well, it is the most ridiculous nonsense I ever heard, and I absolutely reject it. I will take the money and leave. By the by, who will inherit the estate when I forfeit it?’
‘That is yet unknown.’
‘Unknown? But you have the will.’
‘In the safe of the offices of Finch, Foxley, and Fotheringhay there lies a sealed envelope. Inside the sealed envelope is the name of the inheritor of the estate, should my lord choose to reject it.’
Lord Marbury laughed again at the absurdity of the situation. ‘Well, thank you for calling, Mr Finch, I shall be departing the estate, and you may return to the offices of Finch, Foxley, and Fotheringhay and open up your secret envelope.’
Lord Marbury stood up, running his hands through the hair Morris had so carefully arranged.
Mr Finch did not move immediately. ‘Lady Marbury had the wisdom and foresight to appreciate that her conditions might come as a surprise to my lord—’
‘Surprise! That is putting it mildly. I am not merely surprised, Mr Finch, I am downright offended. This is the modern world, not the Middle Ages. I think my aunt spent too much time reading romances.’
Mr Finch ignored this outburst and continued, ‘Thus the late Lady Marbury specified that a full month should lapse between her provisional heir entering the estate and the required contract being signed to accept the aforementioned condition. The month began eighteen days ago, my lord. Hence my regular letters to you with the marking of urgent upon them.’
‘I do not care if she stipulates ten years, I am not being forced into marriage with a stranger. I shall be leaving as soon as my horse is rested enough to make the return journey.’
‘Lady Marbury stipulated a ball—’
‘A ball!’
‘A revival of the Marbury tradition of a Yuletide ball, whereby her nephew might propose marriage to Miss Asher following the cultivation of her acquaintance as part of the proposed schedule.’
‘What proposed schedule?’
‘A schedule of daily appointments collated by her ladyship for each of the twelve days of Yuletide.’
‘I am to decide after a mere twelve days if I want to spend the rest of my life with a stranger? This is a farce!’
‘It is to be a masque ball, in the Marbury tradition.’
‘Tradition? Since when did my aunt ever host a ball in her life?’
‘The betrothal must be secured by midnight, when the masques are removed.’
‘What presumption!’
‘Lady Marbury directed that financial provision for the ball shall be advanced from monies held apart from the inheritance of fifty thousand pounds. The full directions and arrangements of the aforementioned ball are detailed and to be carried out with strict adherence. If you decline to carry out her ladyship’s wishes in following the daily appointments and hosting the ball, the aforementioned monies shall be left to the undisclosed inheritor of the estate.’
‘I don’t want to listen to any more. There is nothing more to be said, Mr Finch. If you have any documents for me to sign to rid myself of this madness, then I will sign them and be on my way.’
‘Lady Marbury stipulated that you are not to be given the documents to sign away your right to the estate until midnight of Christmas Eve has passed. In her wisdom, she has enforced a period of adjustment to her wishes.’
‘Period of adjustment be hanged, I am off, Mr Finch, and I bid you good day, and shall see you next when you bring me those ridiculous papers so I can sign away my claim, receive the monies my aunt left me, and put all this nonsense behind me. Now, if you will excuse me, I have business to attend to on my estate.’ He paused from walking around the desk. ‘No. It is not my estate. There is no point me examining it this afternoon.’
‘My lord, I do not think you quite understand.’
‘What do I not understand?’
‘That the condition of your receiving the fifty thousand pounds includes hosting the ball.’
‘It does?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And you are saying that I must host this ball in twelve days’ time, and afterward, I may decline to marry this stranger, take my money, and leave?’
‘That is so, my lord. And you must also carry out the daily directions.’ A sheaf of envelopes was produced from the lawyer’s bag. ‘They are all dated. You must open one each morning until Christmas Eve, and follow the instructions within.’
Lord Marbury looked at the envelopes with distaste. The top one was dated with that day’s date: Thursday 13th December 1810. He flipped it over and snapped the wax seal.
Send out the invitations to the Christmas Eve masque ball.
Lord Marbury tossed the note across the table to Mr Finch. ‘Who am I to invite to this ball?’ he demanded. ‘I do not know anyone in this county.’
‘All taken care of, my lord,’ Mr Finch assured him. ‘The invitations are written out, addressed to the best of the families of the county inviting them to meet their new neighbour who shall be revealed at midnight. Her ladyship thought of everything. I shall personally see that they are delivered.’
There was a knock at the study door and a footman announced that a Mr Hawke, the new Estate Manager, had arrived for his appointment to show Lord Marbury around the estate and discuss business.
Lord Marbury sighed and rumpled his hair more vigorously. ‘I suppose I may as well have a look round while I am here,’ he said. ‘I am in sore need of fresh air after all the hogwash I have just endured from beyond the grave!’
4
Going back to Highmott Hall for the first time since the death of Lady Marbury had stirred up memories. Instead of going home, Celia turned off the bridlepath, and entered the woods straddling the two estates.
Ever since the Roseleat estate had fallen to Celia, she had relied on Robin to chop down the wood as required. The fires in the house were kept to a minimum. The kitchen fire could no
t be neglected, and Lavinia and the dowager Lady Asher had to have a fire in their bedrooms, but Celia had gone without, knowing what difficult labour it put on Robin.
But there was something even more valuable in the woods than fuel. In a little clearing stood the hazel tree, planted from a silver hazelnut charm, that Celia had found under her pillow on the morning after her mother’s funeral. It seemed a whimsical thing to give to comfort a girl of twelve, and yet it was a comfort. The fairy-tree had grown quickly, and developed a year-round abundance of soft catkins, but had never developed leaves or nuts. The ground about it was always carpeted with a ring of flowers. It was a place of refuge for Celia when life felt too hard.
Snowdrops ringed the hazel tree that day. Celia leaned her back against the tree trunk. A soft wind, belonging to springtime rather than winter, came from somewhere, causing the yellow catkins to dance. The breeze blew round Celia, lifting her loosened strands of hair as though trying to smooth them down, and caressing her face with an invisible hand.
Celia closed her eyes, feeling the hands upon her cheek and hair, allowing the scent of bluebells to fill her senses, even though it was December, and the bluebells had long ago sunk down into the earth for another year.
The comforting wind passed on, and the air grew cold again, too cold to stand still. As she walked away, a row of buds on the hazel tree unfurled, and a pair of fresh new leaves emerged for the first time.
While Celia was seeking solace in the woods, a sharp rap at the door of Roseleat Manor interrupted Agnes at her ironing. A short, round figure in a black and grey morning coat, and shiny, birdlike eyes produced a card and asked to see the mistress on a matter of importance. Agnes could not read, but thought he looked smart enough to be ushered into the drawing room where Lady Asher sat alone.