by Nina Clare
She had smelled the dried apples studded with cloves and the great boughs of evergreen. And she had felt the vibration of the music and the rhythm of dancing feet on the rush-strewn floor. She had shivered at the cold of the snowy blast when Lady Violet had thrown open the door. What a sight she had been! Her portrait in the drawing room did not do her justice, it only captured some part of her fire, her passion, her presence. She wondered what Mr Neville thought of it all, and clenched her hand as she remembered his fingers entangled firmly in hers.
She thought back to all the family stories the late countess had shared with her. But Lady Marbury had been so fond of stories and romances, that Celia had never been sure which of the stories were true and which were fabricated.
She had heard of Margaret Marbury who had supposedly dressed up in her groom’s clothes to go abroad as a highwayman. Georgiana Marbury had been infamous for the unladylike profession of horse breeding and was said to have ridden astride, wearing riding culottes she designed herself. And Henrietta Marbury was reputed to have been an expert dice player, and had built the new entrance hall and the whole of the third floor of Highmott with her winnings from the gambling tables.
There were a lot of remarkable women in the history of Highmott, Celia mused. If the stories were to be believed, that is. But what had she heard of Lady Violet Asher and Lord Robert Marbury?
The countess had spoken of an old family curse. But it was Roseleat that felt cursed, if any family inheritance could be. Celia’s whole life felt like a struggle against failure, no matter how hard she worked. Every crop she planted rotted in the ground, or was blighted with some fly or worm. The only crops that ever fared well were those her godmother supplied charms for.
Could a century-old curse explain why each generation had suffered so much loss? Lady Violet had lost all her fortune in the dreadful South Sea speculation, but then, so had countless other families in the kingdom. There had been a succession of bad investments, failed harvests, broken machinery, estate workers poached away by better wages in the expanding towns, and the fire that had destroyed all the farm buildings.
These were the thoughts that Celia mused over until she fell asleep on the settle and dreamt of dancing at a Yuletide ball with a tall stranger with warm, strong hands and hair that stuck up on end. She reached up to smooth down that wild hair, finding it soft and fine and velvety, and woke up to find she was cuddling one of Robin’s kittens.
Lord Marbury also dreamt he was dancing at a Yuletide ball. At first he was enjoying himself as he faced a beautiful partner dressed in red with hair the colour of beech leaves in autumn. But the music changed, and his partner pulled away, her gown fading to rags and her hair loosening to fall in unruly waves about her face. He called after her, telling her she was beautiful as she was, but she ran and another lady appeared – her eyes flashing, her head tossing like a wild horse as she cursed him forever and ever, and then the music changed again and his partner had hair of light brown ringlets and doll-like features and she giggled and began wrapping him round and round with a pink ribbon, laughing as she declared he was her very own Christmas gift!
He woke with a start to find his valet pulling back the bedroom curtains and wishing him a good morning.
‘I trust you slept well, my lord,’ said Morris in his nasally drawl. The hint of disdain in his voice informed his master that he was not yet forgiven for last night’s offence: dressing for dinner – dinner with company, no less – in barely a quarter of an hour was a grave transgression in Morris’s mind. There had been no time for an evening shave, no calm, decorous routine of the arrangement of clothes and appendages and cosmetics and hairdressing. It was going to be some time before Lord Marbury would be forgiven. He sat up, and reached for the envelope on his bedside table dated Sunday 15th December. He broke the seal and read the single line of direction inside: Escort Miss Asher to church. He crumpled up the note.
‘Does his lordship have time for a shave, this morning?’ said Morris coolly.
‘I think, Morris,’ said Lord Marbury, swinging his bare legs out of bed and stuffing his feet into his carpet slippers, ‘I will need the full works this morning. To make up for last night’s deficiencies.’
It was the only way to appease his valet.
Morris narrowed his eyes. ‘Shave and hair trim?’
‘Indeed.’
Morris’s expression brightened. ‘Moisturiser and skin scrub?’
‘If I must.’
‘Nails,’ said Morris with a gleam of satisfaction, moving to the toilette table and opening his beloved manicure case.
‘Very well. But only hands,’ he added, seeing his valet lift up the large toenail scissors with relish.
‘Peruke?’ said Morris hopefully, moving to the round box.
‘No peruke!’
Morris’s face fell. ‘But one must look the thing, my lord.’
‘Wigs are not in fashion, Morris. Nasty itchy things. I draw the line at the peruke. Throw the wretched thing away.’
Morris clutched the case to his chest as though it were a beloved child.
Lord Marbury sighed. ‘You may pick out my clothes this morning,’ he said by way of compromise. Morris loved to pick out his attire for the day. ‘Something suitable for my first appearance at church.’
His valet released the peruke case. ‘We shall begin with the shave, my lord,’ he said, tugging on the bell cord to summon hot water from the kitchens.
‘Upon my word, Marbury, you do look quite the go! You’ve got more starch in that shirt than a nun’s habit.’
Lord Marbury rolled his eyes at his cousin as he took his seat at the breakfast table. ‘I gave Morris leave to dress me, but blast these high collars, I can only see straight ahead.’
‘One would think you were trying to impress someone,’ said Neville. ‘Not a certain young lady in pink ribbons, is it?’
‘Definitely not,’ growled Lord Marbury. ‘Pass me the coffee pot.’
‘I think she’s rather droll.’
‘Feel free to make her an offer.’ He poured a splash of cream into his cup.
‘I’d have her half way down the aisle by now if there were an earl’s fortune to sweeten the bargain.’
Lord Marbury was checked from a reply by the entrance of Sweeting with a vast tray of food. Neville smacked his lips appreciatively over the bacon and eggs, reaching for the platter before it touched the table.
‘Would you care for anything else, my lord?’ Sweeting asked.
‘Any kidneys?’ said Neville.
‘I will enquire in the kitchen.’
‘Shall we canter out after breakfast?’ said Neville. ‘Good dry morning for a ride. We could explore the local towns.’
‘Explore the local inns, you mean.’
‘It’s important to know where the best company and local ale is to be got.’
‘It’s Sunday.’
‘What does that signify?’
‘That we must be at church for eleven.’
Neville snorted. ‘I make it a habit to avoid spending two hours in a damp, unheated church on a winter’s morning.’
‘We must go. Auntie’s orders. I could make my excuses, of course, but you must be the dutiful earl. And you have to escort Miss Asher.’
Neville groaned. ‘Not crammed into the carriage with them,’ he begged. ‘I’ll ride one of your mounts behind.’
‘No you won’t. You will escort them properly. Speaking of horses, how did you get on when you took the Beast back? I hope you told the landlord he ought to be sued for sending out such a danger to life and limb.’
‘Ah, now I shall tell you what—’
The conversation was interrupted by Sweeting’s return with an apology from the kitchen for their having no kidneys. They would be sure to order in some for tomorrow. Meantime, Cook had sent up a pair of chops, and hoped they would suffice.’
‘Chops!’ cried Neville, spearing a sizzling chop from the platter. ‘If there’s one thing I like bet
ter than kidneys, it’s a chop!’
Lord Marbury buttered a roll abstractedly and thought how to broach the subject that was engaging his thoughts the most that morning. ‘Neville, have you ever had something happen to you that you couldn’t explain? Something… that cannot be explained rationally?’
‘I’ve never been accused of being rational,’ said Neville. ‘Flighty, wayward, irrepressible, but not rational.’
‘I mean…as in…supernatural.’
‘Ghosts? Have you been reading your aunt’s novels? The bookcase in my bedroom is stuffed with them.’
‘Perhaps ghosts.’ Lord Marbury frowned and tried to rumple his hair, but found that Morris had plastered it down with an extra stiff layer of pomade. ‘Or perhaps some kind of waking dream, like a vision, or something.’
‘I get visions all the time,’ said Neville.
‘You do?’
‘Whenever I drink the punch at Vauxhall, I get visions of paradise, and then I wake up next morning with a hellish head.’
Lord Marbury gave up and consumed his eggs in silence.
10
Celia spent so long assisting the excited Lavinia in making herself ready for church, that when Agnes bellowed up the stairs that the carriage was at the door, she realised she was still in her old work gown with unbrushed hair. Lavinia and her mother swept away in a cloud of winter capes and beaver hats, and Celia rushed to change into her Sunday outfit: one half-decent gown and her one pair of short boots, far too tight, and lined with cardboard to cover the holes in the soles. She tugged a brush through her unruly hair, pinned it up into a crude chignon and stuffed her Sunday bonnet over it. She had promised her stepmother that she would make a hasty departure from the church, so Lord Marbury would not hear her being addressed as ‘Miss Asher’ by anyone.
All the village was at church that morning, keen to catch a glimpse of the new earl. He was already in his front pew, his friend, Mr Neville, beside him. Celia could only see the back of their heads as she took her place in one of the family pews on the opposite side of the church. She preferred to sit behind her stepfamily, or Lavinia screeched the hymns in her ear.
They could be brothers, Celia thought, glancing over at the two men. They were of a similar height and build with almost the same shade of brown hair. It was difficult to tell who was the earl and who was Mr Neville without seeing their faces. One of them had a very high, starched collar. He happened to turn his head in her direction, as though he felt her looking at him. He could not turn it far with such a collar. It was Mr Neville, looking overly dressed for a small country-church service. He caught her eye and she turned her attention resolutely to the front. She was not going to be caught gawping at the glamorous new gentlemen like every other female present.
At the end of the service she slipped away before anyone could speak to her. It was a dry and mild day for December, and she was determined to get a good-sized patch in the east meadow cleared and the cabbage charm planted before the weather turned and the ground froze. Her mother would not have approved of her working on a Sunday, but those cabbages might make the difference between going barefoot next year or having shoes.
It took a long time for Neville, posing as Lord Marbury, to escape the porch of the village church. So many introductions, so many enquiries; everyone wanted to meet the new earl, all the well-to-do families wanted to invite him to tea, and the rector pressed him to come for dinner that evening. Lord Marbury looked on, feeling increasingly uncomfortable at the level of deceit he was becoming embroiled in. He had imagined when he agreed to the swap of identities that it would only run to having tea surreptitiously with the Ashers. He had not foreseen that he would have to meet the whole village. Neville was enjoying the attention, but Lord Marbury was troubled.
On the one hand there was something rather pleasant about being at the heart of a community, surrounded by smiles and good wishes. But the sight of Miss Lavinia Asher hanging upon Neville’s arm as though he were some fashion appendage of hers was a sober reminder that there was a steep price to this sense of belonging. There was a marriage commitment to make.
Finally, Neville and Lord Marbury gained the carriage and saw the ladies deposited at Roseleat. Lady Asher had been very persuasive in pressing Neville into staying for tea, and Lord Marbury thought it a good joke to extricate himself from the invitation, declaring he had some urgent correspondence to attend to, and waving cheerfully to Neville as he was propelled into Roseleat by the indomitable Lady Asher.
Lord Marbury sent on the carriage, deciding to walk back to Highmott by way of the bridlepath alongside the fields. He felt the need to stretch his legs after sitting so long on a cold pew.
The hawthorn hedgerows in December were bleak and brambly. Lord Marbury swung his walking stick – Morris had insisted that the cane was part of his ensemble – ‘quite the thing for a gentleman in the country.’ He strolled briskly past a meadow, stopping a moment at the sound of a woman’s voice on the other side of the hedge.
‘B is for blazing biscuits. thud. C is for cursed custard. thud. D is for dusty diamond. thud. E is for extremely…extremely…’
‘Extremely what?’ replied a slow, youth’s voice.
‘Extremely…’
‘Extremely entertaining?’ offered Lord Marbury, unable to resist. He stuck his head over the gate into the field. A great hulk of a young man was bent down, tugging up a rock; nearby a familiar young woman with a strand of red hair escaping from the woollen scarf tied about her head was likewise bent down, unearthing a smaller rock. A dilapidated hand cart sat heaped with rocks between them.
‘Good afternoon,’ Lord Marbury greeted.
‘Good day, Mr Neville,’ replied the woman curtly.
‘Aft’noon, sir,’ said the giant youth, standing to his full stature to make a clumsy bow.
‘Is this some game?’ said Lord Marbury.
‘Oh, certainly,’ said the young woman, tugging up a rock and casting it into the cart with a dull thud.
‘What letter were that?’ the hulk asked.
‘I believe you were up to F,’ said Lord Marbury.
‘F is for…’ began the girl, looking up at the tailored great coat and walking cane, and the fall of lace at Lord Marbury’s neck, ‘Fop.’
Lord Marbury raised his eyebrows, unsure if he should be amused or offended.
‘What’s a fop?’ the hulk asked in his slow voice.
‘A man who spends a great deal of time and money on his appearance,’ said the girl. She flashed such a charming smile at Lord Marbury that he was quite distracted from the insult. How pretty she was when she exchanged a scowl for a smile. Beautiful, even. She must have seen the admiration pass over his face, for she flushed suddenly and bent down to begin unearthing another rock. Her hands were bound up in rags to protect them, but he could see she had a bloodied finger where a nail had torn. The hulk had his right hand bandaged up and was digging up and tossing rocks with only his left. They both had a hollow look about them, as though they did not quite eat enough.
‘Does your mistress know you are out here on a Sunday, undertaking such a job?’ Lord Marbury asked, feeling sure that Lady Asher could not possibly have sent her servants out into the fields on so cold a day, and without suitable clothing.
The young lady gave him an odd look. ‘I need to get this patch planted before the ground freezes.’
‘But on a Sunday?’
She shrugged. ‘Rain and snow do not care what day of the week it is. I must work while I can.’
A freak of an idea struck Lord Marbury. He pushed open the gate, took his cumbersome coat and jacket off, hung them on the gate post, and rolled up his snow-white linen shirt sleeves.
‘What are you doing, sir?’ said the girl. He was gratified to see that he had surprised her. He liked seeing all the different looks on her expressive face.
He bent down, scrabbled in the cold, damp earth and dug up a rock. He tossed it into the cart, calling out, ‘G.’
‘What’s G for?’ asked the hulk, grinning at having something unexpected happen.
The girl gave Lord Marbury a thoughtful look. Then that delightful smile crept over her face. ‘G is for… Gentleman.’
Lord Marbury grinned back.
They were up to Q, and Lord Marbury was enjoying making her laugh at his imitation of a quacking duck when a thunder of hooves came hammering down the lane and a familiar voice bellowed out ‘Whoa! Whoa!’
The three workers scrambled to the gate, watching as a blur of a black horse galloped by with a man in a streaming cape, clinging to the reins.
‘’Tis him,’ said the hulk, cradling his bandaged arm to his chest.
‘I hope he breaks his own fingers this time,’ said the young woman fiercely, then glanced at Lord Marbury and immediately looked remorseful. ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘I should not speak curses. I just feel so angry about Robin.’
‘Robin?’ Lord Marbury made the connection. Robin must be the young hulk. ‘How did you come to hurt your hand, Robin?’ he asked.
‘The black horse mowed me down,’ said Robin slowly, craning his neck over the fence to see the disappearing figures of the runaway horse and his hapless rider.
‘Do you mean to say that that man rode into him?’ Lord Marbury pointed down the lane after Neville.
She nodded angrily. ‘He broke my hand plough, too.’
‘When was this?’
‘The first day he arrived. We were walking along the bridle path and he charged by us in the narrow part of the track down there, driving us into the hedge.’
Lord Marbury’s mind raced as he thought back to that first journey to Highmott. The wretched horse had bolted down the track, and he did recall seeing a pair of servants jump out of the way. But he never thought to enquire if they had been hurt.
‘You shall be recompensed for your loss and injury,’ he promised them. ‘I will see to it personally. Only, let me say in the rider’s defence, that it was not a deliberate act.’