The Earl of Highmott Hall: A Regency Cinderella

by Nina Clare

  8

  Lord Marbury still felt a little nauseous when he returned to Highmott. He was glad Neville was not there, he needed to be alone for a while to gather himself together. Neville had insisted on riding the black beast back to the inn, rather than let a groom do so. He would return by the carriage that followed him.

  ‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ said Sweeting, moving to take Lord Marbury’s coat. ‘I trust you enjoyed your walk.’

  Lord Marbury was not listening; his mind was still whirling, his senses shaken and confused. The door to the great hall was wide open, the smell of woodsmoke wafted into the entrance hall. Before his coat had been fully removed from his arms he strode to the hall, oblivious to Sweeting hurrying after him, still tugging off his half-discarded coat.

  The door to the hall had once been the original door to the manor before the new entrance was built. Lord Marbury examined the heavy door, carved with the Marbury crest. He was now stood exactly where that strange woman with the red hair and green eyes had stood.

  In the dream, or vision, or whatever it was he had just experienced, the fire had been blazing away in the cavernous fireplace. He stared at the modest fire now burning in the iron brazier.

  ‘I thought you might wish to entertain your guests in the hall tonight, my lord,’ said Sweeting. He had managed to pull his master’s coat free. ‘So, I had the fire lit.’

  ‘Guests?’ murmured Lord Marbury, looking round slowly, recalling the hall full of guests, all dressed as if from another era. Where the musicians had played there was now a modest spinet and a table of neatly arranged music. There was no wall lined with benches, as he had seen in his dream or vision, but only tapestried couches and heavy, dark furniture. No holly and ivy decorated the walls in great swathes. He looked up – no kissing bough hung down from the rafters.

  ‘If my lord does not require anything,’ said Sweeting, when Lord Marbury continued gazing slowly around the hall with a strange expression on his face, ‘then I shall return to the preparations.’

  Lord Marbury dragged his eyes back to his butler. ‘What preparations?’

  ‘Lady Asher and her daughter are dining with you.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Did you ever hear of any family curse, Sweeting?’

  ‘Curse, sir?’

  ‘A family curse. Who was it that lived here about a hundred years ago?’

  ‘Hundred years, sir?’

  ‘Let me see, it would be my aunt’s great grandfather, would it not?’ Lord Marbury counted back the generations in his mind. ‘About 1700, or thereabouts. Who was the master here? His name was Robert.’

  ‘That would be Lord Robert Marbury, sir.’

  ‘Did he marry?’

  ‘He married Lady Margaret Hastings in the year 1711.’

  ‘Did they have any sons?’

  ‘No, sir. They had one daughter.’

  ‘Did Robert Marbury jilt a lady? A red-headed lady?’

  ‘Red headed, sir?’

  ‘Do stop repeating everything I say.’ Lord Marbury ran a hand through his hair. ‘Do you know of Robert Marbury jilting a lady? Here, in this very hall, at Christmas, or Christmas Eve?’

  ‘At Christmas—?’ Sweeting stopped himself. ‘There is one particular story pertaining to a Yuletide ball, but I am not certain if it is a true story, sir.’

  ‘Are there any portraits of Robert Marbury and his wife?’

  ‘The family portraits are in the gallery, dating back to 1616,’ said Sweeting proudly.

  Lord Marbury looked up towards the gallery above the great hall. ‘Fetch some lamps,’ he ordered, seeing that the windowless gallery was in shadow.

  Sweeting’s consternation showed on his face.

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, sir. Only—’ Sweeting pulled a watch fob from his pocket and checked the face. ‘The carriage was sent to Roseleat, as directed. Thus your guests will arrive in no more than a quarter of an hour.’ He looked pointedly at Lord Marbury’s casual attire. ‘Hot water was carried up to your chamber some time ago, at your valet’s request.’

  ‘Blast that Neville,’ muttered Lord Marbury.

  ‘I beg pardon, sir? Did you ask after Mr Neville? I believe he is still not returned.’

  ‘Blast him again,’ said Lord Marbury, striding back into the entrance hall, to take the stairs to his rooms. Morris would be in a black mood over having to dress his master in so little time, and Neville, having arranged this dinner appointment at such short notice, was not even back in time for it. It would be an awkward meal without him to help keep up the conversation. He stopped mid-stair. Lady Asher and her daughter were expecting to have dinner with Lord Marbury, but how could they dine with Lord Marbury if Neville was absent?

  The door in the entrance hall flew open followed by the thump of riding boots running across the stone floor.

  ‘Hie there, Sweeting!’ cried Neville. ‘Am I late? Have the ladies arrived?’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ said Sweeting.

  ‘Marbury!’ bellowed Neville, taking the steps two at a time to catch up with his cousin. ‘What are you about, old fellow? Ladies for dinner, remember? Smarten yourself up, man, we can’t keep them waiting!’ And he raced past, tugging off his riding coat as he went.

  ‘Sweeting!’ called Lord Marbury, a thought coming to him.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’ The butler turned back and looked upwards at his master.

  ‘Er…’ Lord Marbury winced as he tried to think of a way to communicate something awkward to his butler. He retraced a few steps downwards. ‘When Lady Asher and her daughter arrive…this is a bit of an odd request, but…my cousin and I have made a bit of sport for ourselves.’

  ‘Sport, sir?’

  Lord Marbury winced again. It seemed at best childish, at worst a rascally deception when spoken aloud, but there was nothing for it, his butler had to know. ‘Lady Asher and her daughter are under the impression that I am Mr Neville, and Mr Neville is…’

  ‘Is Lord Marbury?’

  ‘That is so.’ Blast it, if he didn’t feel a guilty blush rising! What was he, some school boy? He lifted his chin defiantly, ready to meet his butler’s disapproval. But to his surprise, his butler’s face cleared of confusion and looked oddly satisfied.

  ‘Very good, my lord. I understand.’

  ‘You…er… don’t think badly of it?’

  Sweeting lifted his chin likewise to say firmly, ‘Sometimes, my lord, we can only get at the truth sideways.’

  ‘Sideways? Please expound.’

  ‘If my lord wishes to discern a person’s true character, he may have to lay aside his own true character, that he might be fairly judged and be a fair judge.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lord Marbury slowly as he digested this. What a surprisingly discerning fellow this old butler was.

  ‘My late mistress,’ added Sweeting significantly, and confidentially, ‘hinted to me something about a marital arrangement she was planning for her nephew. I have breathed no word of it to anyone, my lord, but I think I understand something of your dilemma.’

  ‘Thank you, Sweeting. I appreciate your discretion. Tell me, being a longstanding neighbour of Lady Asher and her daughter, you would know something about their true character?’

  Sweeting gave the barest of nods, as though it were not his place to speak of such things.

  ‘Do you think well of the character of Lady Asher’s daughter?’

  A pause. Lord Marbury moved a few more steps down. He lowered his voice. ‘You may speak candidly. It would be a good service to me.’

  Sweeting took a slow inhalation before saying quietly, ‘I think…that the daughter of Sir Asher is of good character and an excellent heart, if… a little passionate in temper on occasion.’

  It was something of an obscure answer, but there was no time to press for any further information, for Neville had left the entrance door wide open, and the sound of an approaching carriage on the gravel drive was heard. A pounding of footsteps came down the staircase as Neville
ran back down in a clean suit, his hair smoothed, and smelling of cologne.

  ‘Marbury!’ cried Neville, ‘what are you about, man? They’re here, and you look like some farm boy who’s never seen a hair comb in his life!’

  ‘Good thing it’s you they’ve come to dine with, Marbury,’ said Lord Marbury with some satisfaction. ‘Sweeting knows,’ he added, seeing Neville’s glance at the butler at the foot of the stairs. ‘I’ll be down in due course to meet your guests.’ He walked leisurely up the stairs.

  There was a part of Lord Marbury that could wish that Lavinia Asher were a good natured, sensible young lady whom he could establish a friendly connection with. If they could find some common ground then perhaps affection would grow, and who knew, maybe, in time, enough affection to be able to entertain the idea of marriage. That way, he could keep the estate, and make something of his life. Perhaps Neville was right, he was too romantic. He needed to settle for a pleasant girl he could get along with and make a home with.

  With these thoughts in his mind, he determined to give Miss Lavinia Asher the benefit of the doubt, and to be as generous as possible in his views towards her. His first impression of her, on entering the great hall where they were to dine, was that of a morass of feathers and ribbons. How could one headdress hold so many feathers? She might as well wear a chicken on her head. But perhaps it was her mother who dressed her so appallingly.

  ‘What a fetching headdress, Miss Asher,’ he said politely, on greeting her.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Neville,’ said Miss Asher, pushing a pink feather out of her eyes. ‘I trimmed it myself.’

  But a lady’s fashion could be altered, Lord Marbury forced himself to consider. If she were to become a countess, she would be advised by experienced dressmakers and a lady’s maid in the area of dress. There were more important things, such as a round education. If he were to go into parliament, he would need a wife who could talk sensibly to his associates.

  ‘Do you follow current affairs, Miss Asher?’ Lord Marbury enquired. ‘Are you interested in politics?’

  ‘Lavinia loves to read the news and keep abreast of our kingdom’s affairs,’ Lady Asher said.

  ‘What think you of Sweden declaring war on us?’

  ‘Oh, how unpleasant,’ said Miss Asher. ‘I think that very rude of them. I hope the Duke of Portland tells them so.’

  ‘Portland? Did you not know we have had a new prime minister this past year?’ Lord Marbury studied the lady’s face for signs of humour, for surely she must be joking. He heard Neville choking down a laugh under the guise of a cough.

  ‘We have the same king, do we not?’ Lavinia looked to her mother for confirmation. Her mother nodded gravely. ‘I saw some pictures of Princess Caroline recently,’ said Lavinia. ‘She is not very beautiful, but I thought her gown divine.’

  Sweeting announced that dinner was served.

  ‘Do you care for books, Miss Asher?’ Lord Marbury asked at the dining table, when a break in the conversation came.

  Miss Asher looked blankly at him over her raised spoon, then glanced at her mother.

  ‘Lavinia is very well read, Mr Neville,’ said Lady Asher.

  ‘I guessed that she must be,’ said Lord Marbury, thinking of the young woman with hair the colour of a beech in autumn; the young lady who was indignant at the idea of ignorance. If Lady Asher’s servant was well read, it stood to reason the daughter of the house would be.

  He forced away the image of the red-haired girl and the strange dream-like experience they had shared that afternoon, and directed his attention back to the present and to the young lady opposite him, who looked very pale and tame in comparison to her fiery housemaid.

  ‘What is your favourite subject to read, Miss Asher?’ he asked, genuinely interested to know.

  Miss Asher glanced at her mother again.

  ‘Lavinia has so many favourites,’ said Lady Asher. ‘I dare say history is her favourite, is that not so, my dear?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lavinia, with a little shake of her ringlets and feathers. ‘I do so love to read history.’

  ‘What era is your favourite?’ Lord Marbury pressed.

  ‘Oh. I suppose my favourite is the one where all the men ride around on horses in their armour and shields, you know, and joust before the ladies and wear their favours and write poems about them and pine away for love.’

  ‘Ah, you are an admirer of chivalry.’ Lord Marbury, forcing a smile.

  ‘Who?’ said Lavinia. ‘I do not recall reading of anyone called Chivalry. I like the one who kills the dragon and marries the princess best. I think his name is George.’

  Neville broke into another coughing fit and had to drink a good deal of wine before he recovered. Another silence fell and Lord Marbury tried to stifle down his growing disappointment in the attributes of Miss Lavinia Asher. This was proving to be a tedious dinner, and they were only on the soup.

  ‘Now then!’ said Neville, when he was able to speak. ‘Lady Asher what think you of a Christmas ball here at Highmott?’

  There was a gasp from Miss Asher.

  ‘My lord,’ replied Lady Asher, putting down her spoon, ‘I think that would be delightful.’

  ‘Miss Asher,’ said Neville brightly, ‘what think you of a masque ball?’

  Lavinia gave a little squeak. ‘Oh, Lord Marbury, I never heard anything so exciting in all my life!’

  Neville flashed a grin at the bemused Lord Marbury. ‘How my friend, Neville, does love a masque ball, isn’t that so?’

  Lord Marbury forced another smile that did not reach his eyes.

  ‘Doubtless he will want the first dance with a certain neighbour of mine.’ Neville nodded conspiratorially at Lavinia. ‘But he shall not have it. For I claim that honour for myself.’

  There was a little ‘Oh!’ from Lavinia. ‘A masque ball, on Christmas Eve! Oh, how heavenly!’

  9

  The Highmott carriage deposited the two ladies back to Roseleat Manor. Celia heard them enter the hall. She was curled up on the kitchen settle, the kitchen being the only room on the ground floor with a fire. She hoped her stepsister would follow her mother up to bed, but Lavinia burst into the kitchen, flushed and bright eyed, and Celia was subjected to a minute account of every detail of the meal she had not been invited to.

  ‘We had negus on arrival,’ gushed Lavinia, sinking onto the settle, crushing the book Celia had put down. ‘First a darling white soup, then codlings and cockles in the most perfect sauce. Roast guinea fowl with chestnut stuffing and the most adorable savoury gravy. Creamed leeks and mashed turnips all oozy with butter. The crispiest most heavenly thyme scented potatoes. And, oh, the dessert table!’

  ‘Enough!’ cried Celia, thinking of her own dinner of boiled carrots and potatoes, with the tiniest stewed rabbit divided between herself and Agnes and Robin. Her stomach rumbled horribly at the description of the feast up at Highmott. It was enough to make her regret not insisting her stepmother make Celia known to the earl when he had a dining table groaning with good food.

  ‘You should be pleased for me,’ Lavinia pouted. ‘If I marry him, you can dine with us as often as you choose, even if we have company.’

  ‘Perhaps I should eat in the kitchens, then I would not spoil your company,’ said Celia, but her irony went over Lavinia’s head. ‘Well you had best take your full belly up to bed,’ suggested Celia.

  ‘But I have not told you the very best part of all.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘There is to be a ball!’

  ‘At Highmott?’

  ‘Of course, where else? On Christmas Eve, only nine days away, and it is to be a masque ball – how utterly divine! All the good families are invited. Who do you think I should go as?’

  ‘A Christmas Eve ball,’ said Celia, seeing again in her mind’s eye the oak beams and stone walls of the great hall decked with fir boughs and holly.

  ‘I thought a shepherdess. I would look darling in a sweet little straw hat and a white
muslin gown, would I not? Or is it a little close to the mark to dress as a lower-class person? Perhaps Queen Guinevere, in a heavenly medieval gown all trimmed with fur and an elegant little crown. Oh, why did I not think to ask Lord Marbury what he is going as, then I could plan my costume to complement his! Oh, would he not look perfect as King Arthur? Are you listening, Celia?’

  Celia roused herself. She had been watching again the scene between Lady Violet and Lord Robert Marbury. Her fingers tingled unaccountably as she recalled Mr Neville’s hand holding her own.

  ‘How was Mr Neville this evening?’ she asked, wondering how he fared after their strange experience.

  ‘Mr Neville? Why should he be of interest? He hardly smiles, just stares at me and asks the most ridiculous questions. And how his hair does stand on end. He ought to get his valet to dress it properly. Lord Marbury has the most divine hair. I do so like that sweeping style. Do you think he will be at church tomorrow? You must help me dress in the morning.’

  ‘I will help you if you go to bed directly,’ said Celia, keen to be rid of her stepsister’s babbling. It was a bad end to a very odd day, and she felt that if she heard the praises of Lord Marbury once more she would pull Lavinia’s pink satin ribbons out and gag her with them. And now there would be nine days of frenzy over the coming Christmas Eve ball.

  Lavinia flounced up to bed. Agnes always went to bed early, and had retired an hour ago to her little sparse room. Robin had locked up the house and traipsed off to his trundle bed in the pantry, taking a pair of kittens with him, one under each brawny arm, ‘To train up as mousers,’ he said. Celia refrained from pointing out that there was very little in the pantry even for mice.

  She sat on the settle before the dwindling kitchen fire, huddled under a blanket staring into the flames, turning over in her mind the events of the day. If Mr Neville had not been with her, she would have thought it was only a dream, it all seemed so distant and strange now. But the scene had been so real at the time. She had smelled the pinecones burning in the fireplace, the hot mulled wine carried by the serving boy – the boy who had walked right through them as though they were ghosts!