Daniel Merton came in with a note for Carrbridge, and the two whispered together for some time. They were an interesting contrast, Carrbridge every inch the aristocrat, his coat, his trousers, even his hair all of the first style, and his manner patrician. Merton, his secretary, was a gentleman and so there was nothing obsequious in his manner, but he never put himself forward, either, and his plain black coat was just as unobtrusive as the man himself.
Now the two of them came towards Monty. “There is news, my lord,” Merton said.
“Good news or bad news?” Monty said. “I do not like to hear bad news, you know.”
“It is both, I believe,” Merton said, as Carrbridge chuckled. “Mr Whittaker, from Kirby Grosswick, has died.”
“Oh.”
“The living is vacant now, you see,” Carrbridge said, beaming happily at him. “Congratulations, Monty. You will be installed there in time for Christmas.”
“Oh.” Happiness bubbled up inside him. “That… is good news! Not for Mr Whittaker, of course, but…”
And then they were all crowding round him, congratulating him, the gentlemen shaking his hand briskly, the ladies exclaiming in delight, and Connie shedding a tear.
From the door, the butler coughed. “Beg pardon, my lord, my lady, but there is… a person in the hall. A Miss Frost. She is asking to see the Earl of Deveron.”
The room fell silent. “The Earl of Deveron?” Connie said, her tone shrill.
“That is what she says, my lady.”
Merton cleared his throat. “Is Miss Frost a lady, Crabbe?”
“Hard to say, sir,” the butler said in haughty tones. “Not a servant, I should say. She is carrying a portmanteau.”
“Shall I investigate?” Merton said. But in the end Connie and Carrbridge and several others went out to the hall too, and Monty drifted along behind them, feeling rather sorry for this Miss Frost who was neither lady nor servant.
She was very young, perhaps twenty, and tall but exceedingly thin, as if she had not eaten properly for a long time. Her boots, travelling gown and pelisse were of reasonable quality, if rather worn, and her bonnet had once been quite stylish. Now it was so sodden that the remains of two feathers trailed listlessly onto her shoulders and dripped steadily.
“Miss Frost?” Carrbridge said. “I am the Marquess of Carrbridge and this is Lady Carrbridge. What is this about the Earl of Deveron?”
The girl lifted her chin defiantly. “I want to talk to him.”
“Might one enquire as to the nature of your business with him?”
“I am betrothed to him.” She looked Carrbridge right in the eye, as if daring him to disagree with her.
“Betrothed to him?” Connie burst out. “Impossible!”
“It is perfectly true,” the girl said defiantly. “The engagement is of long standing, and now that I am old enough, I intend to hold Lord Deveron to his commitment.”
It was so ridiculous that it had to be a joke, but Monty felt not the least desire to laugh. The girl — Miss Frost — was so sincere, so determined that it almost seemed a shame to unravel her plan, but it had to be done.
“Perhaps,” he said carefully, “Miss Frost might care to meet the Earl of Deveron?”
“Oh, yes please,” she said at once. “I should very much like to meet him, so that we may… begin making arrangements and so forth.”
“This way,” Connie said, leading the way towards the stairs. “Crabbe, tell Mrs Compton to prepare the rose room. Miss Frost will want a hot bath as soon as may be. My dear, you are quite soaked. Did you walk up from the village in all this rain?”
“From the village with the big cross in the middle. That was as near as the farmer could bring me.”
“Mishmere Cross? Good gracious! That must be… a very long way.”
“Close to ten miles,” Merton said from behind her.
“Good gracious,” Connie said again, faintly. “Here we are.”
She threw open a door, and immediately the air was filled with squeals, as several children chased each other round and round the room on hobby horses. In a corner, three nursemaids sat in a gossipy huddle, leaping to their feet and hastily curtsying as soon as they realised they were observed.
Connie made no reprimand. Instead she waded into the mêlée and scooped up a sturdy boy of four, who immediately grinned and tried to grab the ribbons of her cap. Connie carried him back to the door.
“Miss Frost, may I present to you the Earl of Deveron. Dev, say hello to Miss Frost.”
The girl’s face grew ashen, and at first Monty thought she might faint from shock. Then she turned and stomped back out onto the landing. The others followed her out.
“I am so very sorry,” Connie began.
“No, you are not,” the girl said, her eyes flashing. “You think it a great joke, I daresay. Some poor deluded woman turns up to marry a child of… how old is he?”
“He will be five next birthday,” Connie said, “and I do not think it a joke at all, for you have come all this way… where have you come from?”
Was that a hesitation? She licked her lips. “Cornwall.”
“Well, that is a great way indeed. But you may see for yourself that you have been misled. Whatever understanding you have cannot be with Dev. You may stay here until the weather improves and then we will see you on your way back to Cornwall.”
“Oh, that is very fine, and no mistake,” Miss Frost cried. “So that is the end of it, is it? I was promised a husband, look, it says so here.” She pulled a letter from some inner recess of her pelisse, and waved it at them. “The Marquess of Carrbridge — you, sir — promised me to your son, and now you think you can just shrug and walk away, do you? You nobles are supposed to have a sense of honour.”
Carrbridge was reading the letter. “It does seem… Merton, read it, will you. My father’s hand is very distinctive, so this would have been my father promising you to me, Miss Frost. I was the Earl of Deveron when he was alive, you see. But I do not quite see what can be done about it now.”
Merton looked up. “Miss Frost, it looks to me as if your father gambled you away to the eighth marquess in some wager that went badly for him. The eighth marquess tells him to keep you for the present, and he will marry you to the Earl of Deveron when you are of age.”
“I know what it says!” she spat.
“But you must see that such an offer has no legal force. There is no obligation—”
“Yes, there is!” she said, stamping her foot. “I have been in expectation of the marriage for years. If the Earl of Deveron is not available, then you must find me another husband, that is only fair.”
“I do not think—” Carrbridge began, frowning.
Monty raised a hand. “Carrbridge, this a matter of honour, a debt that we must repay.”
“No, Monty, no!” Connie cried, realising what he was about.
“A matter of honour,” he repeated firmly. “Therefore I will marry Miss Frost.”
“And who are you?” she said, staring at him unsmiling.
“I am Lord Montague Marford, Lord Carrbridge’s brother.”
“Then you will do. I accept.”
2: Dinner At Drummoor
Melissa followed the marchioness along endless corridors. Latticed windows gave views on first one side, then another, but all that could be seen was house — endless house, with more latticed windows, steeply inclined roofs and tall chimneys. Drummoor must be enormous. Here and there footmen stopped to bow as they passed by, before continuing with their tasks of tray-carrying or lamp-lighting. Already it was growing dusk.
The rose room was huge, the furniture heavily ornate in the style of some fifty years ago. The paint and paper were fresh, however, and pleasingly light. The housekeeper was already in the room, supervising the footmen who were manoeuvring a bath tub, and several maids who were making up the bed, drawing curtains, placing lamps on every surface and coaxing the fire to life. The room was still chilled, and Melissa shivered.
/> “You poor thing, you must be frozen!” Lady Carrbridge exclaimed. “Do come and stand in front of the fire for a while. Here, let me take your pelisse. Mrs Compton, send for Harker, if you please. There, Miss Frost, there is a good blaze now. We shall soon have you warm. When did you last eat?”
“I… am not sure. Stamford, perhaps.” After that she had saved her few remaining coins for hot coffee. Who would have thought the stage coach would be so expensive? She had but a few shillings left, and if Lord Carrbridge were to throw her out she would be destitute, and what would she do then? She shivered again, and not solely from cold.
Lady Carrbridge blinked. “Stamford. Good gracious. Mrs Compton, some hot soup for Miss Frost. Are you feeling some benefit from the fire now, Miss Frost?”
“Thank you, yes.” She gestured vaguely towards the marchioness’s swelling stomach. “When—?”
Lady Carrbridge dimpled. “Oh… two more months, I believe. Perhaps three.”
“This will be your fifth or sixth?”
She looked startled, then laughed. “Oh, the nursery! No, only two of those are mine. Mrs Pembroke’s daughter is visiting her — in the village, you know — and her three are much of an age with my two, so they play together often. Or riot together, perhaps one should say. Ah, here is my lady’s maid. Harker, Miss Frost will be staying for a while. Pray unpack her portmanteau, and prepare something for her to wear this evening. If…” She glanced at Melissa’s travel-stained clothes. “If there is nothing suitable, borrow a gown from my wardrobe until Miss Frost’s boxes arrive. For this evening, I suggest the green figured silk would be an admirable choice. You will not mind wearing one of my gowns, Miss Frost? For I cannot wear much of my wardrobe just now anyway, and the colour would suit you so charmingly, it might almost have been chosen with you in mind.”
Melissa nodded, and for a moment was almost overcome. Nothing here was as she had expected. Drummoor was far grander than she had ever imagined. Bentley Hall, for all the earl’s airs, had been very modest by comparison. Nor had she expected to receive such kindness. Anger, hostility, disbelief — certainly. Perhaps a purse of money to rid themselves of such a disagreeable situation. Or they might have known of a suitable position as governess for her. But an instant offer of marriage from the younger brother! And now she was to be dressed in the marchioness’s own clothes. That was beyond her expectations, and guilt almost overwhelmed her. What would they say when they realised that she had no boxes to arrive, that all she had in the world was contained in that portmanteau? She wanted nothing but to crawl into a corner somewhere and weep.
But she must not weaken! The moment she showed how afraid she was, they would pounce on her and throw her out. So she lifted her chin defiantly, and reminded herself that she was entitled to be there. Had her father not given her to the previous marquess? So now they had an obligation towards her. Yes, she must keep reminding herself of the obligation, for a noble family would not walk away from that, surely. She must show no softness or doubt, and never, ever admit to the terror crouching inside her, like a cat ready to spring out of hiding.
~~~~~
“Monty, you are insane!” the marquess cried, running his hands through his hair in distraction. “You cannot do this, you must not! I forbid it. It is one thing to be handing out coins to anyone who gives you some Banbury tale of bad luck and poor investments, but you cannot marry a complete stranger who turns up on the doorstep. You know nothing about this girl.”
The men had all retreated to the ship room, so called because of the paintings of ships adorning it, which was both the marquess’s office and a male sanctuary. Merton had taken his usual seat at one end of the huge desk, and Uncle Lucius and Uncle Joshua sat side by side on two chairs against the wall. Hugo Allamont lurked by the door, scooped up in the general exodus from the drawing room, but looking as if he half-expected to be turfed out, excluded from Marford family business as an outsider.
Monty himself was perfectly composed. His offer had arisen on the spur of the moment, but he was entirely satisfied with it. As a clergyman, he was expected to marry, and this way relieved him of the tedious and time-consuming business of courtship, and also gave him the very great satisfaction of offering Christian charity to a young lady in distress. Yes, it was perfect.
“The offer is made now, Carrbridge,” he said mildly. “I could hardly withdraw, even if I wished to. Which I don’t. ‘Remember them which suffer adversity’.”
“But it is madness!” Carrbridge cried again. “You are not thinking clearly.”
“On the contrary, it makes perfect sense. Father made a promise, and here is an excellent way of honouring that promise with the least inconvenience to anyone. I must marry sometime, you know, and this is as good a way of going about the business as any.”
“But you know nothing about her.”
“And how much would I know about a lady met only in ballrooms during the season? That she dances well, perhaps, and can talk about the weather while dancing the quadrille, but not a great deal else. That is not much of a foundation for marriage.”
“But you would know who her family is,” the marquess said. “You would know her history.”
“Which would be no guarantee of happiness in matrimony,” Monty said gently. “There are innumerable examples of perfectly matched society marriages which brought misery to both parties. Happiness in the married state is a matter of temperament, not family history. ‘Marriage is honourable in all.’”
“But she could be… an opera dancer, for all you know. Or some man’s rejected mistress. Think of the family name, Monty!”
“My dear brother, I am going to be a country clergyman, not parading around town. If we find we dine with half a dozen families, I shall be surprised. She will be perfectly acceptable in such a setting.”
“But you do not know that!”
Merton cleared his throat. “We could, perhaps, ask the lady for details of her family, and then make enquiries, if that would set your mind at rest, my lord?”
“No, no, no,” Monty said firmly. “I will not have Miss Frost interrogated or investigated like a common criminal. ‘Ask no question for conscience sake.’ We have the letter from Father which lays a very clear charge upon us to help her, and even without that we must, as Christians, offer her the hand of charitable kindness. I am perfectly content to do this, Carrbridge, and no amount of striding up and down will change my mind.”
“Merton, pray enumerate the reasons why he should not.”
“You have already given the primary reason, that Miss Frost is a stranger to us,” Merton said. “However, Lord Montague has made it clear that that will not weigh with him. Besides… I am inclined to agree that there is some family obligation towards Miss Frost. It need not involve marriage, but it does seem to me that honour demands some recompense, especially as her father, this…” He scanned the letter again, which he still held. “…this Thomas Frost was obviously a friend of the eighth marquess.”
“Why do you say that?” Uncle Lucius said. “I never heard of the fellow before, and I thought I knew everyone that Charles ran with.”
“Perhaps Frost is not his name,” Merton said. “But he must have been close to the eighth marquess, because he is addressed by his Christian name. There is no direction on the letter, it was never sent through the mail, or through servants, so the marquess must have given it to Mr Frost himself. That strongly suggests a close acquaintanceship.”
“I remember something of the business,” Uncle Joshua said. “It was the talk of the town for a while, that some fellow had wagered his daughter. Charles put up his famous Arabian filly, a splendid horse, and someone said to the fellow with the daughter, ‘Have you no filly of your own to set against Charles?’, and the fellow said, ‘Bless me, so I have! You can have my daughter, for I am sure I do not want her!’. But I thought it was an earl who had the daughter. Just goes to show how these stories get muddled in one’s mind over the years.”
“But the cen
tral point of the story is not in dispute, I take it?” Merton said. “There really was a wager, and the daughter was the sum wagered, the bet was lost and she belonged to the marquess in some sense. He would perhaps have seen himself like a guardian. He does seem to have been very protective of everything of substance he won over the years. When it was property, he kept it separate from his inherited properties, so that the original owner might have the opportunity to buy it back later. The letter does seem rather remorseful about the bet. ‘We both drank far too much of Dunmorton’s claret last night, but we must make the best of it, and do right by the girl’, he says.”
“Would Father truly have expected me to marry Miss Frost?” Carrbridge said, suddenly bleak. “For an arranged marriage must be the very devil. A man should love his wife, in my opinion. That is the only proper foundation for a happy marriage.”
“I daresay he would merely have introduced the two of you, to see if anything took,” Uncle Lucius said. “If not, he would have hauled the girl off to London and got her fixed up there. But his own marriage was arranged, so you can hardly expect him to disapprove of the idea on principle.”
“No!” Carrbridge cried. “Father loved Mama, I know he did.”
“Oh, certainly. A man can grow very fond of his wife over the years, but it was no love match originally, I assure you. Arranged marriages can work very well.”
Allamont said, “That is very true. This is a point on which I can speak with some authority, for my wife and I married for purely pragmatic reasons, to save Allamont Hall from being given away to the church under the terms of her father’s will. But it worked out very well for us, and Hope and I could not be happier.”
“Thank you, Allamont. You encourage me,” Monty said. “‘We have done that which was our duty to do.’”
“Just be sure to give yourselves plenty of time,” Allamont said. “Do not rush things, and get to know each other, and I am sure everything will work out well for you.”
~~~~~
Melissa hardly knew herself. The rail-thin child in the worn gown who had arrived at Drummoor had been magically transformed into a fairy-tale princess. The gown took her breath away, for it was exactly what she would have chosen herself. Its sea green underskirt and paler tunic with a silver net overskirt suited her so perfectly that she could not speak a word. Several ladies’ maids crawled about her with pins and needles to fit it to her thin shoulders. Then her hair was pulled into a fashionable topknot and wrapped about with silver bands, in such a simple but elegant manner. She supposed there must be some grand function that evening, to require such a fine gown, but when she suggested this to the maids, they giggled and told her that it was just a family dinner. She supposed that this was a family that always dressed in its finery for the evening.
Lord Montague (Sons of the Marquess Book 4) Page 2