by Mira Stables
A MARRIAGE ARRANGED
Mira Stables
© Mira Stables 1980
Mira Stables has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1980 by Robert Hale Limited.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
It was a stranger who opened the gates to him; those gates which he remembered as standing always hospitably open. Briefly he wondered what had happened to Mrs. Beechey who had so often regaled a band of hungry little marauders with jam tarts and lemonade. Perhaps at a more convenient time he could enquire. Meanwhile he dropped a coin into a ready palm and rode on up to the house.
He did not hurry. His appointment was not until eleven o’clock and he was early. To arrive before his time might give an impression of eagerness that he would prefer to avoid. He let Warlock drop to a walk and yielded to an unwontedly sentimental mood as familiar surroundings recalled the days of his childhood.
It had been a happy one. He had been seven when his father had succeeded unexpectedly to the Wellasford estates. Julian had not been concerned with this sudden elevation to the ranks of the nobility, but to a boy brought up in the shabby-genteel lodgings that fell to the lot of a soldier who was almost wholly dependent on his pay, Wellasford was a paradise. He saw very little of his father, even though that gentleman had sold out of the army when he inherited the title. Papa spent a good deal of his time in Town, which was easy of access—no more than two hours if conditions were good. Julian could remember hearing him say that it was fortunate that Wellasford was situated in Hertfordshire, though Sussex would have been even better. He could remember, too, that he had been furious at this patronising speech, since to him Wellasford was already perfect.
On the whole he had been glad that Papa was away so much. Mama, small gentle Mama, had seen to it that he had companions a-plenty with whom to share his new kingdom. Between the Rectory children and a whole brood of Merridews—from Caroline, a year older than himself and very managing to Johnnie, a plump and placid four-year-old—he scarcely realised that he was an only child. Hugh—the Rector’s elder boy—was a demi-god of twelve, invested with all the glamour of the schoolboy. Between him and Johnnie Merridew, Julian grew up as a very ordinary healthy little ragamuffin, learning to take the occasional hard knock and to be tolerant, even at times generous, towards his weaker brethren. The children had filled the places of brothers and sisters—yet he had almost entirely lost track of them. Hugh had joined the army and had lost a leg at Breed’s Hill. Caro had married—and at seventeen he had thought himself heart-broken for at least a week. He doubted now if he would recognise her if they should chance to meet.
Rounding the bend in the avenue he caught a distant glimpse of the stretch of level turf where they had raced their ponies. There was the old elm which had cost him a broken leg when Hugh had dared him to climb it. And here was the terrace where Mama had told him countless stories and played every imaginable kind of game with him in an attempt to beguile the tedium of convalescence, while he gave her about half his attention and fidgeted and fumed to be off with the others. Darling Mama! What a horrid little beast he had been. He had never truly valued her until she had died, quite suddenly, while he was away at school. But he would never forget the utter desolation of the long summer holiday that had come shortly after his bereavement. If he had thought to find a closer companionship with his father in their mutual loss, the hope was soon abandoned. Papa had scant patience with an awkward, diffident sixteen-year-old. Julian’s stumbling attempts to help with the running of Wellasford were rejected. And since, in fact, he knew a great deal more about good husbandry than did Papa, who was concerned only to wring the last shilling out of estates already impoverished by years of mismanagement, he soon abandoned them in despair. Growing up in the place, counting the tenants as his friends, he understood something of its needs. But talking to Papa was useless.
It was a rift that was destined to widen. As Julian grew older and his father’s anxiety over debts and mortgages increased, the older man came to resent his son’s timid suggestions more and more bitterly. When the boy begged to be allowed to leave school and devote himself to salvaging what remained, he was curtly informed that he was destined for the army, as were all male Wellasfords. At present, said his father, with bitter emphasis, the welfare of the estate was not his concern. Indeed, it was the speaker’s profound hope that it would be many years before that interesting situation arose.
After so crushing a repulse there was nothing more to be said. Lord Wellasford, growing a little more amiable as the level in the burgundy bottle sank, was at some pains to explain to his heir that he had no intention of allowing him to sink to the level of a country bumpkin. Sooner or later the luck must turn. For a man whom fortune favoured there was money enough to be made without the toil and muck of farming. He had enjoyed a splendid run of luck at Boodles only a month past. It was a pity that the horse on which he had staked this gift-gold had been unplaced. But he regarded this as a minor set-back—just Lady Luck’s way of testing his faith in her. Only let Julian have patience and he would see how well things would turn out. Meanwhile he could pursue a military career and see something of the world. The boy, regarding his slightly tipsy sire with desperate eyes, assented numbly. But, decided this much older Julian, that was probably when the dream was born. Dream—or obsession. Some day, somehow, he would be master of Wellasford. And he would serve and cherish it as it deserved.
He surveyed it now, turning the last bend in the avenue with the house coming into sight. No cold Palladian mansion, but a house that had grown with the centuries from the humble manor of the early years to spread wings in the reign of Queen Anne. There it lay—gracious, warm, welcoming. Exactly as he remembered it, he thought, forgetting its old-time shabbiness, ignoring its present air of well-being. A new surge of resolution filled him. Whatever the price, he must make it his.
He had accepted velvet-smooth lawns and well-kept borders without a thought, but it was impossible to overlook the transformation of the great hall, and of the library into which he was presently ushered. A few things remained from the past, mostly items of some antiquity—a display of ancient weapons—a suit of armour—a number of portraits of long-dead Wellasfords. The hotch-potch of slightly battered furniture that he remembered with affection had been swept away entirely. Here was dignity, craftsmanship of the highest order, serene comfort. There was nothing to strike a false note or to jar on the most sensitive taste. If he had not known the truth he would have assumed quite naturally that these furnishings had grown old with the house. Yet skilfully as it had been done, he found himself resenting the change, and it was with some stiffness that he acknowledged his host’s polite greeting.
Mr. Nathaniel Morley had not achieved the age of eight and forty nor turned a comfortable inheritance into the kind of fortune that made him a power in the land without acquiring the ability to sum up a man and his reactions with a fair degree of accuracy.
“I expect you find the place a good deal changed,” he suggested, when he had seated his guest in a beautiful oak and leather chair that might have been young when Cromwell was a boy. “Unfortunately it had become very necessary.
Your father was rarely in residence here during his latter years, and after old Blackburn died there was no one to take order for regular maintenance and repairs. Old buildings fall into decay very quickly under such circumstances. I have tried to restore and replace as much as possible, and at least to ensure that what is necessarily new should harmonise with the original fabric. I trust that, upon more leisurely inspection, you will feel that I have achieved a tolerable compromise.”
Lord Wellasford responded with a slight bow and a hint of a smile, but his pose did not relax. “You are very good, sir. But I have already seen enough to realise that your taste is impeccable.” And then, his natural honesty evoking the reluctant tribute, “I have never seen the house look so well. But I will not pretend to wholehearted satisfaction in the sight, any more than I will waste your valuable time on an inspection that would only fill me with bitter envy. The fact is, sir, that it was not just idle curiosity that prompted me to request this interview, nor even a sentimental wish to re-visit my childhood home. It is my earnest desire to persuade you to sell it back to me, and it is plain from the care that has gone into its restoration—I might almost say its resuscitation,” he corrected wryly—“that my mission is not like to prove an easy one.”
Mr. Morley regarded him gravely, though there was a hint of humour about the set of his rather severe mouth. “Edgewick warned me that you preferred the straightforward approach,” he said thoughtfully. “Your military training, I apprehend.”
His lordship shrugged. “Perhaps. I believe it is thought to leave an indelible mark. Though it is close on three years since I sold out and since then I have been engaged in business dealings in India. Where the direct approach is useless.”
There was a hint of surprise in Mr. Morley’s face. “That I well believe, having myself had extensive dealings in Eastern countries. But I very much regret, milord—Edgewick should have warned you—that I have no intention of selling.”
“So he did, sir. But I could not be satisfied until I had talked to you myself. I am well aware that you are a busy man and that your time is valuable.” He hesitated there for a moment. He had meant to say that he was very willing to pay for that time, but something about the presence of the man who confronted him sounded a warning. Mr. Morley might spring from the merchant classes, might have attained his present affluence solely by his own financial genius, but there was something about his easy bearing, his unassuming manners that commanded respect. He was not a man who would take kindly to patronage.
Julian said, “I could not rest until I felt that I fully understood the circumstances that brought Wellasford into your possession. And, indeed, that you understood my position. You may say it is no concern of mine, which is true. I can only crave your indulgence.”
He had not meant to plead, intending rather a dignified and business-like approach backed by a handsome offer. But instinct had served him well. Mr. Morley reacted to the note of painful bewilderment in the deep pleasant voice.
“If it is clearly understood that under no circumstances am I prepared to sell, I am quite willing to answer any questions that you choose to ask,” he suggested.
“Thank you, sir. At least then I shall know where I stand. I was, of course, already aware that the estate was not entailed. But it has been in the same family since the reign of James the First. My father was only a distant cousin, but surely he must have had some family feeling. A second mortgage, yes, if he was hard pressed. But what in heaven’s name persuaded him to sell outright? To make it impossible for me to redeem it, which was always my intention.”
Mr. Morley considered his reply carefully. “You should not blame your father too severely, milord,” he said quietly. “The estate was already grossly encumbered when he succeeded, and his personal fortune, I was given to understand, was not large. Also, unfortunately, he was an incurable gamester, with all the optimism that seems to be peculiar to gentlemen of that persuasion. He was not attracted to the life of the country squire, living quietly and economically, taking his pleasure in fruitful acres. He once said to me—we became fairly intimate after I bought the Merridew place—that until he inherited Wellasford his whole life had been penny-pinching and putting a bold face on nothing. Wellasford at least allowed him to live the life of a gentleman of means. And, alas, to bet beyond them. But on that head I must say no more.” He looked slightly discomfited as though he had already said too much, but presently went on, “As for second mortgages, milord, these you must know are very expensive, carrying a high rate of interest. Also in this case there would have been difficulties, the security not very satisfactory—the house neglected, the land in bad heart.”
He paused briefly in response to the slight jerk of Julian’s chin, but it was better to have done with the sorry tale. “As for redeeming the mortgages—I am sorry for it, but you said you wanted to know how you stood. He never forgave you for selling out of the army. You did so, I believe, in ’82, when you inherited Sir Thomas Loring’s fortune.”
“My godfather,” assented Julian. “My mother’s brother. But why should that set him against me?”
Mr. Morley shrugged. “How can one say? Perhaps he felt that you had it in your power to have relieved him of certain minor irritants. I was not his only creditor, you know. But if it is any comfort to you, it was already too late to save the Wellasford estates. Those had been in my possession for a year and more, though it was part of the bargain that his tenancy should last for the term of his life.”
Julian choked back bitter words. His father had assured his own comfort without loss of consequence and left nothing but debts for his son. That he could have forgiven. But to have tossed away all chance of that son’s redeeming the place without even consulting him was beyond pardon.
He said slowly, “Even if I had come home immediately he would not have listened to me. He never did so. Resented any interest I showed in the place. Nor would I have been willing to frank him in his gaming excesses. But my uncle’s fortune derived mainly from business interests in India and it was necessary for me to go out there to look into their organisation.”
Mr. Morley looked at him curiously. This was unexpected. “Did you find it an interesting experience?” he probed gently.
“I did indeed,” returned Julian, thankful for a brief respite from the painful topic of his father’s misdoings. “I was more ignorant than any raw recruit, but my uncle must have been a good judge of men. He had chosen his managers admirably. They were very patient with me. If I had not been summoned home by my father’s death it would have been difficult to tear myself away. I was just beginning to get a grasp of the way things are run out there. Very different from English methods—and I found it fascinating. Much more to my taste than army life,” he added with a rueful twinkle.
There was more to this young man than to most of his class, decided his host. It made no difference, of course, as regards Wellasford. But since he had given up a morning to this interview he might as well get some enjoyment out of it. He had always found the study of his fellow men of absorbing interest, and a scion of the aristocracy who openly proclaimed that he found business methods more to his liking than army life was certainly a rare specimen.
“You did not enjoy your military life?” he said enquiringly.
“Oh—it was perfectly tolerable for the most part,” shrugged Julian. “I expect the fault was in myself. I was not an enthusiast. I did no more than was necessary to keep out of trouble and to do what was required of me. I managed well enough until the American war. Think me a renegade if you will, though I never failed in my duties and did not sell out until hostilities ended, but that turned my stomach. The fellows we were fighting might have been our brothers or cousins. In some cases they were. And I had never cherished military ambitions. The army career was my father’s notion. Though I daresay I’d fight as willingly as the next if the safety of Wellasford was at stake,” he ended with a rueful grimace.
Mr. Morley nodded thoughtfully. “I am sorry
for your disappointment,” he said quietly, “but I would not have you delude yourself with false hopes. No persuasions you could use, no price that you might offer would induce me to sell. Since you have been so open and honest, I will admit in my turn that it has been my fixed purpose to buy Wellasford for more than twenty years, and that your father’s reckless folly played into my hands. Don’t misunderstand me. I neither encouraged him to gamble beyond his means nor cheated him over the price. You may examine all the documents relating to the various transactions with my very good will. But I did make it my business to be always on hand when I knew him to be particularly hard pressed and to be a model of discretion with regard to our dealings. I doubt if any of his friends guessed the true state of affairs.”
Despite his bitter disappointment, Julian was aware of some degree of curiosity. “I find your attitude surprising, sir,” he said bluntly. “Why Wellasford? There must be at least a dozen estates within easy reach of Town that might have served your purpose just as well. Though I hold the place in deep affection I am willing to admit that it is not particularly imposing. It never found fame in the history books, won only the briefest mention in Cary’s Survey—and it will be years before you get anything like a decent return on the capital that you must have poured into it. Could you not have found some other place more worthy of your time and attention?”
Mr. Morley shook his head. “No. I will not enter into my reasons, except to say that they were purely personal and had nothing whatever to do with either your father or yourself. May we now regard the matter as closed?”
Impossible to persist. As it was he had been shown a tolerance and courtesy beyond what might reasonably have been expected. Rather guiltily he accepted his host’s offer of refreshment and allowed himself to be drawn into conversation upon topics of general interest.