Newspapers never used their subject’s full names, to avoid prosecution and to titillate the readership.
“Was Lady Elizabeth close to Blackridge?” her brother wondered.
With an effort, Dorcas found her voice, kept it firm and precise. “His mother is a close friend of Lady Elizabeth’s mother. Blackridge told me once that he knew her well.” Well enough to marry her. “I wish them both happy.” Happy in hell, that was. “At least he had the decency to sever our connection before he confirmed this one.”
Had she really thought she was over him? Because the deep streak of grief that swept through her like a tidal wave said something else, as fresh as the day she’d read the letter he’d sent. He was gone as surely as if he were dead, beyond reach. Gone. Married.
“Do you have the coffee pot, Gerald?” Annie said mildly, and Dorcas was left alone with her thoughts.
Thoughts? He didn’t deserve them. She folded the paper, resisting the urge to rip it to pieces, and passed it back to Gerald. “It’s none of our concern, now.”
Annie nodded. “Good for you, Dorcas. Let’s talk no more about it.”
Dorcas kept her features perfectly still, a small smile fixed to her face like a rictus. She even managed to eat a mouthful or two before she managed to excuse herself.
Chapter Twelve
They reached the house in Derbyshire on the third day after leaving Hampshire.
A week had passed since the devastating news of Grant’s marriage. While Dorcas was still crying herself to sleep, she’d learned to keep her demeanor calm during the day.
Having taken the journey at a gentle pace, they were not too tired by the time they arrived. They’d seen the house last year, but this would be the first time they stayed there for more than a week or two. It was their new home, the family seat of the Earls of Carbrooke.
Gerald had said he planned to make his home elsewhere, this being too far from London for Annie to get to her work, but that would take a lot of arranging. The smaller house in Hampshire, the one he’d inherited from their father, was far too small to allow for the kind of state Gerald was expected to uphold now.
The coach rounded an artfully designed bend in the drive and the house came into view. Dorcas, who was in the second coach with the boys, leaned out of the open window to get a better look. William and George scrambled for the view, but George’s nanny held him back by grabbing a handful of his gown. “Now then, master George, show your sister a good example.”
Maria, seated on the nanny’s lap, cooed and then chuckled. At two years old, she was proving every bit as much of a handful as her older brothers. Dorcas had no doubt the new baby, currently with Gerald and Annie in the coach in front, would be the same bundle of energy.
“Is this all Papa’s?” William asked.
While they were not Gerald’s children, both Annie and Gerald refused to make a distinction in the nursery. That was the sure way to build resentment, and all the children were equally precious to them. They would have the same tutor, the same governesses, a whole household of servants and attendants to cater to them.
The baby’s wet-nurse, a sailor’s widow with a child of her own, was sitting with the servants in the third coach, so that made another person. As well as the army of domestics assigned to the nursery wing.
Gerald was “Papa” to all the children. Annie’s first husband, John, wouldn’t be forgotten, she wouldn’t allow that, but he wasn’t here, and they needed someone to care for them.
Since Dorcas had never known him, she respected Annie’s decision. As far as she was concerned they were one family, and these were her little nephews and nieces. The way Annie was going, there would be a few more of them before she was done.
Could Dorcas give birth that easily? Or would she be one of the unfortunate ones? There was no way of knowing and, at this rate, she would probably remain childless. So there was no point dwelling on the topic.
She watched Carbrooke House as they approached it. The coach went past a dense patch of greenery, and the house was hidden to them, then they saw it again, as if it were playing hide-and-seek with them. When they’d first seen it, the gardens and surrounds were far more formal. And, Dorcas thought, old-fashioned. She’d prevailed on the gardener to make a few changes, and she looked forward to introducing a few more this summer.
She could stay here instead of going up to London next year. After all, what was the point in spending another season there, only to be humiliated and overlooked? Two seasons and she was still unmarried. Nearly twenty-seven years old, tucked well on the shelf according to some.
The sun shone, the honeyed stone of the house gleamed in response and a thread of smoke curled out of one of the chimneys at the side of the house—presumably the kitchen, since the day was too warm for guest rooms to need heating. The sky was blue, with puffs of smoke drifting lazily across it. The only place it was raining was in Dorcas’ heart.
She showed her unhappiness to no one, only held her dissatisfaction with herself deep inside, because it was an indulgence, not to be let out into the world. She’d seen the devastating results of that in her parents. She didn’t want it for herself.
So she smiled, and chatted to the children, pointing out the smoke, and the trees beyond, telling them they would love this house and reminding them of their brief visit last year. This year, Gerald was holding a house party, and getting to know the local dignitaries. The struggle could be tough, but Gerald would do it. He only had problems with crowds; here, where he could control the numbers, he’d do well.
The nursery maid had her hands full with the family’s newest addition. Holding the boys’ hands, she led them up the main stairs and into the building after Gerald and Annie.
A maid took little Maria, letting her toddle into the house on her own two feet. Maria cried out and sat, landing on her bottom as soon as they’d entered the hall. The boys shouted, until a single, stern word from Annie calmed them down.
She held her arms out for the baby and nodded to the nurse, who took the children upstairs. They’d been there before, they knew where to go. No point all of them being bored rigid by ceremony.
The huge room was full. Servants lined up in serried rows, waiting to greet the master and mistress. A few scurried in behind, probably brought in from their duties.
Dorcas settled in to watch. Annie was good at this. She employed rough male workers in London. Servants were easy, compared to those. “Good afternoon,” she said. She didn’t appear to raise her voice, but everybody heard her all the same.
A few people cleared their throats, but nobody moved. There must be at least forty people here. Fifty, more likely.
“We’re glad you’re here, and we appreciate how hard you work. Thank you. We are here for the next six weeks, and after a visit to Chatsworth, we’re hosting our own house party. I know you are all up to the task. Now, if you would, I’d prefer that you go about your duties. Thank you for giving us such a warm welcome.”
She turned her head and, sure enough, the butler and housekeeper were standing close by. “Mrs. Dutteridge, I’d like to see you in an hour. I trust hot water has been delivered to the bedrooms?” Her bright smile warmed the room as the housekeeper curtsied.
Annie had come along tremendously since she’d married Gerald. All she needed to know, she told Dorcas once, was that she had a few more employees. She probably knew their duties better than they did themselves.
As she walked to the great staircase that ran up both sides of the hall and met in the architectural miracle that was the suspended landing, Dorcas tried to put herself in this context. She always did that.
How could so few people hold so much? Why did they think they needed a great paneled hall bristling with displays of weapons dating back a century? It wasn’t as if they were of any use these days. Who was going to besiege a spacious mansion like this? No, it wasn’t a mansion, it was a palace.
Would she ever get used to grandeur like this? She might not have to. The wa
y things were looking, she’d be a spinster for the rest of her life, so she was likely looking at living privately in a smaller house with a modest number of staff. The thought depressed her, but she would cope. She always did.
A maid followed her, fresh towels draped over her arm. “This way, my lady,” she murmured as Dorcas went towards the wrong corridor.
“Who needs this many rooms?” she muttered as she followed the woman. Next to the maid, she felt dowdy, but then she was wearing her old riding habit for comfort, and she’d been stuck in a coach for the best part of a week.
Past door after door, some closed, some artfully ajar to give a glimpse of the rooms within.
At least the last earl had good taste. Mahogany gleamed, cut glass glistened, porcelain flashed precise, clear colors.
This house was full of treasures. The late countess’ Sevres dining service was the wonder of the country, or so she recalled hearing. They’d even used it last year, and, yes, the pieces of Pompadour pink and gold were crisply perfect. Dorcas hadn’t yet been in every room.
Her apple green and white bedroom contained portraits of Dersinghams from days gone by hanging on the walls. The canopy bed was new and welcoming with crisp white sheets under the green quilted cover. She longed to climb in and say farewell to the world until the morning but, of course, she couldn’t do that. She had a position to maintain and her head to hold high.
Since Blackridge had courted her in the full view of society, she could expect gossip. She would have to learn to not care, or at least not to show it.
Brigstock waited, her hands folded before her. Dorcas was relieved to see a familiar face, and her tension eased as her day began to resemble something approximating normality. For the next few weeks she could forget London gossip and work to restore her sangfroid.
Her abigail dropped a slight curtsy. “My lady, I have the dark blue prepared for you for dinner, if that meets with your approval.” She indicated a steaming tub set before the fireplace. “And I had a bath prepared for you.” The fire wasn’t lit, thank goodness. Today had been hot, especially after one o’clock. Her wool riding habit had proved not to be the best choice.
Dorcas’ nostrils flared. Past the scent of ivory soap and the dried lavender scattered on the hot water, past the aroma of clean linen, she detected something else.
The window was open. She crossed to the window and rested her hands on the sill as she leaned out. She could see nothing but the gardens, then green fields, and the woods beyond. Beyond those, a cloud of smoke went up, bruising the blue sky.
“Is the gardener having a bonfire?” she asked the maid, glancing behind her. She wouldn’t have advocated it at this time of year. But today’s shower of rain had reduced the possibility of a fire getting out of control, so maybe he’d taken advantage of that.
Brigstock tucked a strand of hair under her cap. “I don’t think so, ma’am. Maybe it’s from the Ricksborough estate. According to the staff here, the new owner wants the mines explored. He’s her great-nephew, but nobody is quite sure who he is. He hasn’t arrived yet, just sent new staff in.”
Dorcas remembered the previous owner, an old lady who had the reputation of eccentricity. They’d never met her, although they’d sent cards, and invitations to dinner. “Mines?”
“Only small ones, ma’am. The yield has never been great, but Lady Ricksborough used them to supply her house and tenants.”
The old lady was a recluse, living there alone for many years. She shrugged. “As long as the new owner doesn’t interfere with my plans for the garden. I will be using the old orangery.”
She leaned further out of the window, trying to see the buildings, but although she leaned out as far as she dared, she couldn’t see it.
Last year, Dorcas had been delighted to discover the old orangery, built a few hundred yards from the house as a summer pavilion. But it had fallen into disrepair.
With Gerald’s permission, she’d ordered essential repairs done, but she hadn’t had time to put it to use. This year, she would.
They could grow vegetables and fruit for the table. And one special place for herself, for her experiments. Although Dorcas wanted to see it as soon as possible, today, all she wanted was to eat something and get to bed.
Why riding in a carriage should be so exhausting she would never know, but she didn’t deny it. The children had been well-behaved for the most part, so it wasn’t that. Just the constant motion, probably.
“Could you have word sent to the gardeners that I’ll be in the orangery tomorrow?”
Another hesitation. “Of course, my lady. Would you prefer to take the gig?”
“To go less than half a mile? No indeed. After days crammed into a carriage, I’d like to take the air.” As she pulled back into the room, she heard her maid’s gentle sigh of relief. Dorcas smiled, the first one since she’d heard the news about Grant. Perhaps she would survive her heartbreak, after all.
She unfastened the first button on her jacket. “Now for that bath.”
Chapter Thirteen
She needed her plants more than ever now. Dorcas went back to her room to find a cloak and her sturdiest shoes laid out ready for her to wear. She wore her plainest clothes, not even a hoop. If Blackridge could see her now, he’d be relieved at his narrow escape.
Only her plants mattered. She would concentrate on those and clear everything else from her mind.
In the small room next to a side door, she found a basket. She tossed in her plain gardening apron and a few of the packets of seeds she’d received from China. The rest would be waiting for her in the orangery. After tying her plain straw firmly over her hair, she set out. No maid followed her, no manservant dogged her steps. In the country, she had far more freedom than she’d ever had at home.
Noting the flowers emerging, approving of the careful pruning of the plants that had been done, Dorcas walked through the gardens.
The shape of the old knot garden was still obvious in the way the garden was laid out. There was a low box-hedge maze, designed to give exercise without distance, the low hedges easy to hop over when the walker was done. The hedges were crisply cut, the tops shaved down neatly. Nothing for her to complain about.
Gerald had given Dorcas jurisdiction over the gardens and the Home Park but, disappointingly, there had been little to do last year. Still, she had made detailed plans for the development of the grounds, which she’d presented to her brother for his consideration. Truthfully, the well-kept state of the gardens had come as a bit of a disappointment.
She slipped out the side door she’d earmarked on her previous visit, the one hardly anyone used, and made her way out of the house with little trouble. Gerald could still be annoying about going out without an escort but, really, she was bound to find a gardener or two down there, and she wasn’t leaving the grounds.
The grass was cut neatly, but the recent rain played havoc with the hem of her dark blue wool gown, even thought it was only ankle length. Her cloak was a short, practical one, too, and she wore a plain linen cap, with her hair tucked neatly under it. She could be a servant setting out on an errand.
Dorcas made mental notes all the way, which bush needed trimming, where the bald patches could do with filling, but there was distressingly little and her list was a short one. Except for the smell from the smoke drifting on the wind. It was a burned wood smell with a tang of something else, like tar or coal. Someone was burning a lot of something.
Turning a corner brought her nearer to the bonfires. If they were burning rubbish near the orangery, she’d have to get them to move it, that was all.
But she came into full view of the building. Unlike the warm stone of the main house, this was brick-built.
It was converted from a garden pavilion that must have been open to the elements originally. But now, glass was set into the spaces between the arches, large panes that must have cost a fortune. Mullions separated them. Part of the back of the building was also now window. Skylights had been let in
to the roof.
Inside, low benches and tables stretched the length of the back wall, the center of the building, and the space under the windows.
Dorcas stopped and took in the sight. This building was wonderful, the kind of place she’d been dreaming of for years. Once she’d recovered from the latest blow her erstwhile betrothed had dealt her, she would no doubt take pleasure in it. For now, her mind was numb. Fortunately.
Perhaps there were some advantages in Gerald inheriting the title. She smiled. Her sisters had objected to their change in fortune more than she had. The moment she’d heard, she’d started thinking about this garden, and the expansion of possibilities. Even though she’d had to leave her lovely garden at Bunhill Row behind. And finally, she could enter the race to develop a true yellow rose. Before, the expense was beyond even her generous allowance. Although this shipment had failed, she could send for another.
Two men stood chatting at one corner, by the door. They wore the rough, worn clothing gardeners often used. Densely woven fabric to withstand the pull of thorns, but dark to hide the inevitable stains of grass and earth. Like her gown.
They glanced over at her, then one man spoke to the other, and they both whipped off their hats and bowed. Dressed like this, a person would have to know her so one of them at least must have been in the hall when they arrived yesterday.
She went over to bid them good day. “You obviously know who I am. May I have your names?”
The older one had a fluff of gray-white beard growth adorning his cheeks and chin. His head was covered with a battered hat, gray with age, but it would serve to keep the sun out of his eyes. He removed it and bowed, his bald pate gleaming. No wig, then. “Crombie, my lady, father and son.”
They threatened to execute bows, but Dorcas stopped them. “No, don’t do that. I’m here to work.” She delved inside her basket and pulled out a corner of her apron. “I’m leaving this here to use when I come to work.”
A Trace of Roses Page 10