by Nina Clare
The house was dark and bitterly cold. Celia pulled back the fire screen in Lavinia’s bedroom and threw wood from the wood box to build up the dying fire; she could not undress with numb fingers.
She lit a lamp and dragged out the pins of the stomacher, letting the heavy gown fall to the floor. She untied the petticoat, the hoops, discarding everything, wincing as she pulled off the stocking on her right foot where blood had congealed and dried upon it. The stocking was ruined, and she threw it in the fire, half inclined to burn everything!
She only realised she was sobbing when her hands brushed against her cheeks as she ran Lavinia’s comb ruthlessly through her hair to remove the powder. Her own shabby clothes had been left neatly folded on a chair, and she snatched them up and dressed. She stared at the mound of red damask and the deflated pile of hoops. Words rose up unbidden in her mind. Curse him for his treachery, said the words. Damn him for making you love him. May he know the same pain he has caused.
She was startled, and stepped away from the clothes, as though they had whispered those words filled with bitterness.
‘No.’ she whispered back. ‘No. I won’t curse him. There has been enough cursing in this family. No!’ she said more firmly. ‘I will not curse. I will not do it. Let him love who he will. Let him be happy in his choice.’
She heard a howl, as though a sudden violent wind had hurled itself against the house. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood up. It was a wild and fierce shriek circling the house, battering at the window, and then roaring away again, as if infuriated that it could find no entry. She moved to the window, and tugged back a curtain to look out. The sky was clear, and the moon was high over a snowy landscape. There was no wind.
But something was different. She felt different. She felt as though something heavy had lifted from her head. She had not even known the heaviness was there until it was gone. But her heart still ached, and everything felt hollow and tired. All the fierceness she had armoured herself with in the years since her father’s death, the fierce independence, the determination not to lose the last connection to her parents through Roseleat, the force of will that had empowered her to keep working and working and never giving up – suddenly all that strength drained away. What was the point of any of it?
The fight was over, the struggle was gone. There was both deep sadness and relief. She would let go of everything. She would sell, would move away, would settle for a quiet life somewhere. No more passionate dreaming, no more building castles in the air of things turning around for the good. It was all over now, and she was deeply tired. She sank down and fell asleep on the rug before the fire. Lying discarded close by, Lady Violet’s gown lost the last traces of enchantment and faded from bright scarlet to a dried summer rose, the fabric softly disintegrating and fraying under the force of a hundred years.
She stirred at some point, and was dimly aware of Robin carrying her down to her usual hard bed on the settle in the kitchen, hearing, as though in a dream, Agnes urging him to take care on the stairs. ‘Poor lamb,’ she heard Agnes murmuring, as a blanket was tucked over her. And then she slept the few hours to dawn.
It was something of a dull surprise to Lord Marbury to find that the dawn was very beautiful on Christmas Day. He watched it rise from the leaded window of his bedchamber. The light layer of snow over everything looked magical as the new sun tinged it pink as a summer rose. Another cruel pang seized him. He was going to miss this landscape, these gardens, the fields beyond, the village, her.
It was no good tormenting himself any longer. It was all over. He had not been able to propose to Lavinia Asher, and the lawyers had witnessed it all. Poor Miss Asher had fainted when the masques had come off and his identity was announced. It was fortunate that Neville had been close enough to catch her and carry her away.
Lord Marbury had not followed, instead he had run after Celia, but she had vanished, seemingly into thin air, for there were a few footsteps in the snow, and he knew they were hers, because she had dropped a shoe. Just a few prints in the snow, and then nothing.
He would have taken a horse and ridden down to Roseleat, but the three lawyers surrounded him, insisting he must come to the study that minute, everything must be signed and sealed, so they could partake of the midnight supper and be off. Then Sweeting had accosted him in the entrance hall on his way to the stables: Admiral Nelson was vomiting violently into his bicorne and claiming that the salmon mousse was off, meanwhile, Miss Lavinia Asher was still swooning in the saloon, no wine or salts would revive her, and Red Riding Hood’s wolf had caught his fur on fire by standing too close to the fireplace, and it was a nasty burn. Should he call for the village apothecary? Should he send for the physician in town?
Lord Marbury’s first thought was to tell Sweeting to put all the fools into their carriages and send them home, but he only rumpled his hair on end and said wearily to put each of them in a guest room and provide whatever they required, and to send for the physician.
‘Who shall I send?’ said Sweeting. ‘All the staff are employed.’ He waved a gloved hand to indicate the servers hurrying to and fro from the kitchen to the dining room where the midnight supper was taking place with much merriment.
‘Where’s Neville?’
‘Mr Neville is with Miss Lavinia Asher.’
‘Then I must go myself.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
He had gone, had attended to his guests, had managed to finally bid them all farewell and a Merry Christmas as the carriages were brought round. He forced himself to bow and shake hands and receive their congratulations and compliments on his acquisition of Highmott. He had not the heart to contradict them, they would find out soon enough.
They were a sorry looking crowd, he thought as he watched them depart: the hussar had lost four shiny buttons, two medals, and torn his sash; the corpulent Admiral Nelson had to be carried by six groaning footmen to his carriage, still railing against salmon mousse; Queen Catherine had lost her rosary, Red Riding Hood had lost her cloak; the Wolf was well salved and bandaged, and one of the shepherdesses was being denounced bitterly by the other two lady sheep herders for trying to sabotage their costumes. Allegedly she had stolen the straw hat of one, and thrown claret at the muslin gown of the other.
It had been almost dawn when the last carriage rolled away down the drive. He had climbed the stairs to his room, left his masque costume in a heap on the dressing room floor, and dressed himself in his most comfortable riding clothes; Morris would have been appalled at the crudely tied cravat and the lack of cufflinks and spurs. He scribbled a note to Neville: It’s over. Gone back to lodgings in town. Join me when you can. T.M.
The note was pushed under Neville’s door.
On the ground floor he found Sweeting fast asleep in a chair in the butler’s room.
‘Oh, my lord!’ cried Sweeting, leaping to his feet on being awakened by Lord Marbury shaking his shoulder. ‘I must have dozed off! I beg your pardon.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Lord Marbury. ‘You are permitted to sleep, my good fellow. And you are a good fellow, Sweeting.’
Sweeting rubbed his eyes and reached for his wig.
‘Stay as you are,’ Lord Marbury said. ‘I just wanted to say goodbye, and to thank you for your discretion in the matter of…the identity ruse.’
‘Goodbye?’ said Sweeting, looking confused as well as exhausted.
‘I am leaving. I failed to meet the criteria for my inheritance. You will have a new master shortly.’
‘New master? But…who?’
Lord Marbury shook his head. ‘Whoever my aunt has decided shall be her heir. Now unfolds the next chapter in her great love of playing with people’s lives,’ he said, feeling too weary to be as bitter as he ought. ‘It is for the best, I’m sure.’
Sweeting did not look convinced. ‘But, the Christmas dinner? A goose, a duck, a side of beef…’
‘Let the servants have a feast. They deserve it after all their ha
rd work this week. And send what’s left to the cottagers, or the charity school. Don’t let anything go to waste.’
‘But you already sent a vast deal of food to the cottagers. A full basket to every house, and to the school. Eight dozen mince pies and ten geese, sir.’
‘Be sure to send a basket to the Ashers. Two baskets. Tell Morris to pack my trunks and follow me back to London in the carriage. I shall be at my usual address. Goodbye, Sweeting. No, don’t see me out, I can manage. I wish that things had been different, but…’ He did not finish his sentence. There was no point dwelling on what might have been.
‘Goodbye, my lord,’ Sweeting called after him, his voice sounding wistful.
22
It was the worst Christmas Day ever, despite the abundance of food. Robin ate so much he had to lie down after dinner complaining of bellyache. Lady Asher and Lavinia were still up at Highmott. A houseboy had come with a long list of clothes and necessary items to be taken to the manor for the repining Miss Asher.
‘What is wrong with Miss Asher? asked Agnes, ushering the houseboy into the warm kitchen to wait for the mistress’s things to be collected.
The youth shrugged. ‘She upped and fainted away when the masks came off and Lord Marbury were announced.’
‘Why should that upset her?’ Agnes threw a look at Celia, who was hunched on a stool by the fireplace, staring gloomily into the flames. She had refused to talk about the ball, saying it was a showy, ostentatious, pompous affair and she should never have gone.
The houseboy shrugged again. ‘The girls in the kitchen say Miss Asher were being courted by his lordship, but then it turned out not to be his lordship after all.’
‘Not his lordship?’ Agnes stood hands on hips, looking between the silent Celia and the disinterested houseboy.
‘Can I have one?’ said the youth, nodding at a plate of marzipan fruit.
‘When you tell me what you mean about his lordship not being—’
‘Lord Marbury,’ said Celia, not looking away from the fire, ‘was an imposter. He toyed with everyone’s expectations for his own sport. He pretended to be Mr Neville, and Mr Neville pretended to be Lord Marbury.’
‘Can that be true?’ said Agnes, swinging her attention back to the houseboy.
‘True enough,’ said the youth. ‘Can I have one?’
‘Eat them all,’ said Celia. ‘We do not want Lord Marbury’s pickings.’
Agnes sat down on the end of the settle, waking Robin up by sitting on his feet. ‘’Tis a disgrace,’ marvelled Agnes. ‘What kind of gentleman would do such a thing?’
‘A man who is not a gentleman,’ said Celia. ‘A title and a manor and a university education clearly do not make a gentleman. Why, Robin has a truer heart and better morals than that pair of imposters.’
‘What have I got?’ said Robin sleepily. ‘I ain’t got no marbles.’
‘Morals, Robin. It means, oh, I will explain later.’ Celia dropped her head back onto her knees.
‘How unwell is Miss Lavinia?’ Agnes asked the houseboy.
‘She don’t say much, but her mama got us running up and down the stairs every five minutes,’ said the youth, his mouth full of sweets. ‘Orange-flower water, extra pillows, hot chocolate, bottle of brandy—’
‘Brandy?’ said Agnes.
‘Milady says it’s for medicine, but I saw the size of the slug she poured into her own chocolate.’
‘Has a physician been called?’
He nodded. ‘Said she were suffering from history.’
‘History?’ Agnes frowned.
‘I think he means hysteria,’ said Celia.
’And what does Lord Marbury have to say for himself?’ wondered Agnes aloud. ‘Or Mr Neville, for that matter. If I understand what you’re saying, it was Mr Neville who got poor Miss Lavinia’s hopes up.’
‘Mr Neville have been very attentive to the lady,’ said the houseboy. He grinned, showing yellow marzipan stuck to his front teeth. ‘When Betsy took up the breakfast trays she did come down and say that milady were making a mortal fuss about suing the master for a branch and a promise.’
‘A branch and a promise?’
‘I think he means a breach of promise,’ said Celia. It would be just like her stepmother to do her utmost to secure the proposal they had been expecting for Lavinia one way or the other.
‘And she were going to take him to court for information and chatter.’
Agnes looked to Celia for a translation.
‘Defamation of character?’ suggested Celia.
‘And what did Lord Marbury say to that?’ Agnes wanted to know.
‘He were already gone. Don’t know what Mr Neville said, ‘cause milady sent Betsy out again.’
‘Gone where?’ said Agnes.
‘Back to London where he came from. All his boxes to be sent after him. Mr Morris cried.’
‘Who’s Mr Morris?’
‘His lordship’s valet.’
‘Is the earl going away for long? He’s only just arrived.’
‘He ain’t never coming back. There’s to be a new lordship.’
‘What?’ said Agnes and Celia at the same time.
The houseboy shrugged. ‘That’s what they is saying in the kitchen. Mr Sweeting said the lawyers would all be back to explain things. His lordship was reclining in his state.’
Agnes looked at Celia. ‘Declining his estate,’ said Celia slowly.
‘That’s what they said. Any chance of summat hot before I walk back? ’Tis mortal cold out.’
‘Read the list for me,’ Agnes said, passing it to Celia.
Celia had turned a shade paler since the news that Lord Marbury had left for good. She took the list mechanically, struggling to read it, for the words would keep blurring before her eyes. She made herself decipher the scrawled directions; Lavinia had dreadful handwriting.
‘Whatever does she need pearl face powder and hair ribbons for?’ she said crossly, though her anger was more for her own feelings than for Lavinia’s vanity. ‘I thought she was recovering from a nervous collapse.’
‘Come upstairs and help me find everything,’ ordered Agnes. ‘Robin-me-lad, you’ll have to help carry it up to the hall. No good groaning. I told you that salmon mousse was too rich, but you would eat the whole plate.’
Lady Asher and her ill-used daughter returned home next morning. The Marbury coach deposited them onto the slushy ground at the entrance.
Lady Asher was more like a Roman statue than ever, her features hardened into lines of indignation and disappointment. Celia little cared that her stepmother’s plans had failed her, but she did feel a rush of pity for Lavinia who was red eyed and ashen faced, and who burst into tears as soon as she saw Celia’s sympathetic face.
‘Come and sit in the drawing room,’ Celia said kindly, quelling the pain in her own heart as she patted her stepsister’s back. ‘The fire is lit.’
‘Oh, Celia,’ wailed Lavinia, ‘I thought he liked me. I thought he loved me. I thought I was going to be a bride and a countess.’
Celia looked helplessly up at Agnes, who had come to attend to the mistress. ‘I’ll make some tea,’ said Agnes.
Agnes had not time to reach the kitchen before a rap at the door sounded. A minute later Agnes poked her head around the drawing-room door to say, ‘A gentleman asking to see the mistress. Shall I send him in?’
‘I am not up to seeing anyone,’ said Lady Asher. ‘Tell them to come back another day.’
‘It’s for Miss Celia, ma’am.’
‘I certainly do not want to see anyone today,’ said Celia. ‘Tell them we are all indisposed.’
Lavinia sniffed appreciatively, a little comforted at being the centre of the indisposition.
‘Very good,’ said Agnes. Her head retreated, and then she was heard to say, ‘Oh! Sir! What do you think you’re—?’
’My apologies for the interruption, ma’am,’ said a short, round man with shiny black eyes. He had walked straight past Agnes, and
was now bowing in turn to all three ladies.
‘You!’ said Celia, ‘You were at the ball.’ She glanced over his black suit and the lawyers’ wig above his round face. Why was he still in his costume?
‘Mr Frederick Finch of Finch, Foxley, and Fotheringhay,’ said the man briskly. ‘Which of you ladies is Miss Asher?’
‘I am,’ said Celia warily. She glanced at her stepmother, wondering if this was some ploy she had arranged to force Celia to agree to the sale of Roseleat. Her stepmother’s face revealed nothing, she only stared coldly at the unwelcome visitor.
‘I have something for you,’ said the lawyer, rummaging through a bag. ‘Here we are. If you could sign to say you have received it.’
‘Received what?’ Celia did not move to take the large envelope held out to her. ‘I am not signing anything without knowing what it is.’
‘Quite right,’ chirped the lawyer. ‘But I think you will find it a satisfactory offer.’
Celia glared at her stepmother. ‘Is this your doing?’ she demanded, her voice low with contained anger. ‘I won’t sell.’
‘I have no idea what it is,’ her stepmother said wearily. ‘Take the thing and see for yourself.’
‘Do open it,’ said Lavinia. ‘It looks like a very nice envelope. Perhaps there is another ball invitation inside.’
‘I did not get the first one,’ Celia said wryly, but she took the envelope and snapped open the seal. She scanned the first few lines, then gasped and sat down hard on the nearest chair.
Agnes must have been hovering outside the door, listening, for she was at Celia’s side in a moment. ‘What is it, Miss Celia? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Celia looked up at the wall opposite, where the portrait of Lady Violet glared down. But she thought in a strange, dreamlike way that Lady Violet was not glaring that morning. She looked different. Peaceful, somehow.
‘What is it, Celia?’ said Lavinia. ‘Is it dreadful news? Are we bankrupt? Are we to be turned out?’ She gave a sob. ‘Oh, Celia, are we dreadfully ruined?’