by Louise Allen
Mary was already pulling back the drapes to reveal a foggy morning. ‘It’s set in a thaw overnight, my lady. Much warmer, but there’s this danged fog and the mud is something dreadful.’
‘Language, Mary,’ Marissa reproved half-heartedly. ‘You will never make a London lady’s maid saying words like danged.’
‘Yes, my lady. Sorry, my lady. Here’s your chocolate, ma’am. Mrs Whiting asked me to say, ma’am, that she would like a word this morning about what you wish done with his late lordship’s suite.’
‘Yes, please tell Mrs Whiting I will speak with her after breakfast.’
Half an hour later, fully dressed, Marissa hesitated on the threshold and glanced back at her dressing room door. If she were to discuss her lord’s chambers she had better take a look around them now. She could not face walking into that suite for the first time since his death with anyone else there.
Her hand shook slightly as she turned the key and opened the door into the formal sitting room which lay between the two dressing rooms. It was a characterless space, used by neither husband nor wife. She hurried through it without a glance. It held no memories, no threat to her equanimity.
His dressing room was immaculately tidy, just as his valet had left it. The door into the bedchamber beyond stood ajar, opening into the darkness of the shrouded room. Before she could change her mind Marissa strode across and wrenched back the heavy curtains from the windows. Foggy light poured across the floor behind her.
She turned slowly on her heels to survey the chamber, her heart thudding in her chest as the feeling crept over her that he was still there. She could sense the sharp tang of his cologne. Every item on the bedside table was perfectly aligned. Nothing had been removed or changed since his death, all was as he would have demanded it should be.
She turned and there, on the side table, were his gloves, his riding crop, his hat, just as though he had walked in and put them down a moment before.
‘My lord?’ she whispered, but there was no answer in the high-ceilinged chamber. Was he really dead? Dr Robertson had prevented her from seeing the body and she realised now he had feared she might miscarry if she was with child. And no lady ever attended the actual interment.
Marissa fled, heart thumping, something tight in her throat. She was halfway along the corridor to the main stairs before she got herself under control. Of course he is dead. And the dead did not walk, she told herself. Ghost stories are for children. By the time she reached the breakfast room she had outwardly regained her composure, but inwardly her fantasies battled with her common sense.
Like an automaton Marissa passed bread and butter, made conversation with the elderly relatives who were taking their departure that morning. By the end of the meal she had decided that she would walk down to the chapel and visit the family vault. Of course he was dead, she knew that, but perhaps if she saw the tomb with her own eyes she could lay this spectre to rest.
The dining room door opened and Marcus came in He had clearly been out already, there was colour in his cheeks from the raw cold and his hair curled damply from the fog. He took a cup of coffee from Whiting and wrapped his fingers round the porcelain as though to warm them.
He smiled at the guests who were finishing their breakfast. ‘I hope, gentlemen, that this fog will not impede your journeys. Will you not stay a few more days until the weather clears?’
‘It will be better once we are away from the coast,’ Sir Thomas Cribb, a distant cousin, said. ‘The sea fret lies heavy here, always does. Too damp, this spot and I’ve always said so,’ he added, half under his breath.
‘Should I not ring for your valet, Cousin? This cold fog seeps through damp to one’s very bones.’ And, Marissa reflected, was enough to produce pneumonia in someone used to tropical climes. Not that the Earl was looking unwell; far from it. Used to her husband’s pale skin and immaculate hair, Marcus’s tan and unruly crop seemed vibrantly alive and healthy. But try as she might, she could not become used to the physical similarity between the two men which underlay these differences.
‘Thank you, no. I intend going down to see the Home Farm once our guests have departed, if we cannot persuade them to stay. I must confess I had not appreciated the scale of the estate here. There is a great deal to put in hand before I leave.’
Wrapped in a thick wool cloak with hood and muff, Marissa waved goodbye to the last of the guests from the front steps of the Hall and waited while Marcus mounted and cantered off in their wake towards the Home Farm.
Whiting was hovering, waiting for her to re-enter the house. ‘Thank you, Whiting. I shall take a turn round the pleasure grounds for some air.’
As the front door closed she walked briskly down the gravel path that wound into the shrubbery. The evergreens dripped with fog moisture and the snow lay in depressingly grubby patches against their trunks. She increased her pace and emerged onto the open greensward in front of the little stone family chapel.
As she laid one black-gloved hand on the latch of the gate the cold struck through the fine kid and she lifted her hand away, stopping in the act of opening the gate. What am I thinking? Why was she suddenly prey to this ridiculous compulsion? Of course Charles was dead, his neck broken in his fall.
And it was her fault. Once again she had disappointed him, once again he had ridden out in cold fury at her failure as a wife. Why had he ridden over the Common when only the other day she had heard the gamekeeper remarking on the extent of the rabbit holes and the damage they were causing? It could only have been because he was distracted by yet another disappointment, yet again there was no sign of an heir to displace the estranged cousins in Jamaica.
Marissa turned to leave, then hesitated. If she went in now, saw the vault, it would make an ending to her life at the Hall. She could start again, afresh.
The door creaked open on reluctant hinges and cold, damp air rolled out to meet her. Shuddering, Marissa huddled deeper into her cloak and stepped inside. The chill pressed up through the soles of her sturdy shoes as she walked slowly towards the entrance to the vault, the bronze doors hung with wreaths of laurel.
The family always worshipped in the parish church which lay on the boundary of the estate, the chapel was used only for family interments. All around were the slabs and monuments denoting the resting places of many generations of Southwoods, back to Sir Ralph, lying in his armour, his dog at his feet.
Her lord’s grandfather had constructed this new vault with its great metal-bound door that seemed designed to keep the dead in, rather than the living world out. Stop it. The space for a new plaque was empty, awaiting the carved tribute to her lord, but a hatchment with his coat of arms hung above, and a painted board stated simply: Charles Wyston Henry Southwood, Third Earl of Longminster. 1770- 1815.
How well the marble mausoleum suited him in its cold, classical perfection. Yes. He is dead. For the first time Marissa truly believed it. She was free of him. A tiny glow of warmth burned inside her as she tried the word under her breath. ‘Free.’
For two years she had longed for freedom, longed to wake up and find, not that he was dead – never that – but that he had gone, vanished from her life by some miracle. For two years he had dominated her by his will, controlled her every act, wrung out every drop of spontaneity and warmth from her, given her only wealth and status, demanded only perfection – and an heir.
She had married him determined to be a loving and dutiful wife, but she had found that only duty was expected of her. And, however hard she’d tried. she had never been able to please his exacting standards, by day or by night.
The vault seemed to be full of his personality as Marissa stood there, relief and a dreadful guilt that she should feel like this flooding through her. Then there was a step behind her and the door, which she had left ajar, swung open with a thud.
Marissa whirled round, and for one hideous moment believed she saw him standing in the doorway. ‘My lord!’
Then she saw it was Marcus, his breath curl
ing warm on the cold air.
Marcus saw Marissa drew in one difficult breath and then burst into tears. After a horrified moment he strode across and gathered her in his arms, holding her tight while she sobbed, cursing himself under his breath. He had done it again, scared the poor woman by coming on her unawares, reminding her at the worst possible moment of what she had lost.
He had seen the chapel door standing ajar as he rode back from the Home Farm and had come to secure it. He should have realised it might be Marissa, visiting her husband’s grave to mourn in peace. He had broken in on her grief and by doing so had broken her composure and the control that had been helping her to cope with her loss.
Trying to explain and apologise would only make things worse. Gently Marcus urged her towards the door and out into the open, where the sun was at last penetrating the fog in fitful rays. He closed the door firmly behind them and found a handkerchief.
She spoke, her voice muffled against his greatcoat. ‘He has really gone, has he not? He will not be coming back?’
It stuck him as an odd choice of words, but then, there was no accounting for the mental turmoil of loss. He patted Marissa lightly on the back until the sobs subsided and she took his handkerchief with a watery smile.
He offered her his arm. ‘Come, Cousin. Shall we walk back slowly past the lake? The sun is finally beginning to warm that east-facing bank.’ And it would give her time to regain her composure before facing the servants.
They walked on in silence, Marissa’s hand tucked warmly into the crook of his arm, his horse ambling behind them. The fog was curling up off the surface of the lake like smoke, and the fringing reeds stood brittle and dead in the still water. Flocks of duck were dotted across the lake and rose in panic at the sight of them.
Marissa blew her nose and he could almost feel her struggling to find a suitable topic of conversation. She must feel awkward, weeping in front of him, but having a sister had made him adept at soothing tears.
A pheasant suddenly flew out of the tussocks around the lake with a strident alarm call and across the meadow the plaintive bleat of sheep carried clearly on the still air.
‘Did you see all you wished at the Home Farm, Cousin?’ Agriculture was clearly a safe topic.
‘Thank you, yes. Everything appears to be in excellent order. My late cousin was obviously a good landlord.’ If not a well-liked one, he added to himself. Everyone he’d spoken to had been as one in agreeing that this was a well-managed estate, run to the highest standards. No one had spoken to him of a sense of loss, or with any warmth of the late Earl. Yet every one of the estate workers he had encountered had enquired anxiously, and with obvious respect, after the welfare of the Countess.
Marcus glanced down, but the edge of her hood hid Marissa’s face from him. Her hand rested trustingly on his arm, the kid-gloved fingers surprisingly firm. It seemed as though she was the only person who had found something in his cousin to mourn: there was no mistaking the genuineness of that flood of tears or the stark hurt in her eyes. This was no rich young widow weeping for form’s sake.
They discussed the estate and its workers as the great house loomed into view. Marcus was impressed again by Marissa’s depth of knowledge of the families at Longminster: who was related to who, who had a daughter in service in London, which of the pensioners suffered from arthritis and needed help in his garden.
‘If you want to know more about sheep husbandry, then Reuben Childs is your man. I imagine that sheep are not common in the West Indies? He is the grandfather of Mary, my maid. Oh, look, another carriage. Perhaps it is Miss Venables arrived at last. Poor thing, what a cold and long journey she must have endured.’
Jane Venables was standing in the front hall as they reached the house. Her modest pelisse and bonnet were matched by the few items of luggage which stood beside her yet, to Marissa’s eyes, she did not appear overawed by the splendour of her surroundings, which she was regarding quizzically, nor by the host of superior servants who were bustling around her.
Her spinster cousin Jane was the daughter of her father’s elder sister who had made a most regrettable marriage to an impoverished curate. She had compounded the offence this had given her brother by living happily in their rambling Cumbrian vicarage and producing a bevy of equally happy and unambitious children.
Despite Sir George Kempe refusing to acknowledge the existence of his sister or her family, Jane, the eldest of five girls, had written to congratulate her young cousin on her marriage and they had fallen into the habit of exchanging greetings on birthdays and at Christmas. Miss Venables, in her early forties, had been earning her own modest living as a governess, but had confessed to Marissa that she did not find it a congenial existence and was hoping to find a position as a companion.
Marissa’s first action, once the immediate shock of the Earl’s accident had died away, had been to write to Jane urging her to join her and enclosing a bank draft to hire a post chaise and postilions.
Marissa hurried forward, her hand outstretched in welcome. ‘Cousin Jane! How very glad I am to meet you at last. I do hope you have not had too fatiguing a journey. Please, let me make you known to my husband’s cousin. My lord, Miss Venables, who has so kindly hurried to support me. Cousin Jane, the Earl of Longminster.’
Miss Venables’s thin eyebrows rose a further fraction as she returned his lordship’s bow with a demure curtsey. She might be a spinster of forty-two summers, Marissa thought with a stirring of amusement, but that did not dull her discernment of good looks, she suspected.
‘Shall we go up to your rooms, Cousin Jane? Marissa suggested as the footmen carried the luggage out of the hall. ‘Luncheon will be in about an hour, but I am sure you would like a cup of tea to warm you.’
As soon as they were alone in Jane’s rooms, Marissa turned to hold out her hands to the other woman. ‘I cannot tell you how much I am obliged to you for coming to support me in such haste. I do hope it did not cause any inconvenience to your employers.’
‘I had already given them notice.’ Jane squeezed her hands in return, then removed her pelisse. ‘Although I liked their children, I could scarcely tolerate the parents. Your letter could not have come at a more suitable moment, Lady Longminster.’
‘You must call me Marissa. We are going to be good friends.’ She found her fingers gripped warmly in response.
‘I do believe it too, Marissa.’
Mary came in, bobbing a curtsey. ‘Shall I unpack now, ma’am? James has put the tea tray in your parlour, my lady.’
‘Thank you, Mary.’ Marissa turned to her cousin. ‘Mary will see to your needs until we can find a suitable girl of your own. Now, let us go down to my sitting room, the fire should be well alight by now.’
Seated either side of the hearth, with Gyp curled up on Janes’s feet, they found themselves slipping into an easy conversation, as though they had known each other for years.
‘You are honoured indeed by Gyp’s attentions as foot-warmer. He is normally wary of strangers, although perhaps he is mellowing, because he likes his lordship too.’
‘One can quite see why,’ Jane said, leaning down to scratch behind Gyp’s ears. ‘From the little I saw of him just now he seems to be a gentleman whose manners and appearance must be universally appealing.’
‘Why, this fire is almost too warm,’ Marissa murmured, pushing her chair back and fanning her inexplicably hot cheeks.
‘It must be disconcerting to have a stranger, however amiable, in the place of your husband,’ Jane observed. ‘And presumably his lordship will be bringing his wife here as soon as possible. Has she remained in Jamaica?’
‘Lord Longminster is not married, but he does have a young sister who has travelled to London with him. He has asked if I will be willing to have her live with us while he returns to the West Indies to settle his affairs, as he expects to be away for quite some time.’ Marissa realised that her original letter to Jane had been very brief. ‘I did not explain when I wrote, but I am movin
g to the Dower House in the grounds as soon as possible. There is ample room for Lady Nicole.’
Jane set her cup on the table. ‘It will be most pleasant to have a young person with us, I am sure. But will you not regret leaving your home? It is truly, er, magnificent.’
‘How tactfully you put it! Since you ask me, I will tell you candidly that I hate this mausoleum. It is cold, impersonal and has never felt like my home. On the other hand, the Dower House does feel like a home and I hope you will like it as much I do. The Earl has said I may redecorate it as I wish, but it is like this room – comfortable and a touch faded, warm and just big enough. I have no desire to change it.’
‘I love it already, my dear.’
Chapter Six
Marcus got to his feet as they entered the dining room. ‘I trust it will not be inconvenient, Cousin, but with the weather turning milder I thought it would be as well to leave for London after this meal. I should reach Downham Market before it is too dark, put up at the King’s Head there, rest the horses and push on first thing.’
‘Your sister will be so pleased to see you, my lord,’ Jane remarked as soup was served. ‘I understand that she is rather a young lady? To be in a strange city, even with friends, can be unsettling.’
‘Indeed, ma’am, although frankly the person to be unsettled is most likely to be Mrs Montfort, charged with keeping control of an impetuous girl who is all agog to explore Town when she should be choosing mourning gowns.’
Marissa listened to the conversation with something approaching dismay. Why had Marcus not mentioned his intention to leave today? Had her outburst of emotion repelled him? He had behaved with great tact and kindness at the time, but, like all men, would find such displays distasteful. Of course she had known he was going up to Town to fetch Nicole, but somehow she had not expected it to be so sudden. And she had not expected to feel so bereft.