Lord Montague was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. Her betrothed, she supposed, although it was a strange idea. And if she were a fairy-tale princess now, then he must be her prince. He was certainly handsome enough, which she had been too nervous to notice before. He was as unlike the hideous and vulgar Mr Pontefract as it was possible to be. His clothes were sombre black, it was true, and she would have preferred a little colour about him, but everything was of the finest, his manners were impeccable and his face had a great deal of countenance, with dark eyes that shimmered with compassion, and full lips that betokened a passionate interior. He was very restrained in his public manner, but she had read enough novels to hope for a man of passion.
He bowed and complimented her on her appearance and asked was she rested now after her journey? His voice was so quiet and solicitous that again she was close to tears. No, she must be strong!
“I am perfectly well, I thank you, my lord.”
He offered her his arm and led her through to the drawing room. She had never in her life walked about on a man’s arm, and she had to mind her steps, to measure her pace to his. It was not so easy as she had thought.
As they entered the drawing room, every conversation died away, and every face turned to watch them. She was so unused to being looked at that she could not stop herself blushing. But she must not be demure, that would be fatal. They were a rich, powerful family — lions pacing around their prey. She must not give them any opportunity to pounce. She raised her chin and gazed around as if she belonged there. She did belong there! Was she not about to marry one of the family?
Lord Montague led her across the room to Lord Carrbridge, who rose and bowed and told her that he was glad to see her looking so refreshed. He was very civil, but unsmiling. Then she was introduced to everyone in the room and given all their names — Lord This and Lady That, and just a handful who had no title. And they all made polite noises about what dreadful weather to be travelling, and hoped she would enjoy her stay at Drummoor. But there was no warmth in any of it, and not one of them congratulated her on her engagement, which she felt very much that they ought to have done.
“Shall you stay long, Miss… er, Frost?” enquired one very elderly lady in puce bombazine, raising a quizzing glass to one eye.
“Just until I marry Lord Montague, my lady,” Melissa said robustly.
“Oh!” The lady swivelled the quizzing glass onto Lord Montague, who smiled benignly.
“Miss Frost and I are betrothed, Aunt Ruth,” he said in his quiet way.
“Oh!” she said again. Then, “Oh. I did not know. Nobody tells me anything.”
“It is not widely known, as yet,” he said. “Miss Frost, this is my Uncle Ambrose — Lord Ambrose, for he is a Marford. He is married to Aunt Beatrice — you met her a few moments ago. And this is Uncle Joshua — Mr Thornton. He is married to Aunt Theodosia, Lady Theodosia, that is, although she has a cold and is not dining with us tonight. And Uncle Lucius is from the March side of the family, and here is his sister-in-law, Aunt Jane March.”
Her head was spinning, and it was a relief when they went into dinner. She had Lord Montague on one side of her and one of the many uncles on the other. The food was exactly as she had expected it to be, elaborate, exotic and plentiful. Vast numbers of footmen moved silently about the room, overseen by the fearsome butler. The room was perhaps four or five times the size of the dining room at Bentley Hall.
When she made some comment to this effect, Lord Montague smiled. “Ah, but this is only the green dining room, which we use for just the family. In the summer or at Christmas, when the place is full, we use the pink dining room, and for special occasions we dine in the great hall.”
“The great hall?” she said faintly.
His eyes twinkled. “Naturally there is a great hall. What self-respecting medieval house would be without one? Tomorrow, if you wish it, I shall take you all over Drummoor, and tell you something about the family. And you may tell me about yours, of course.”
Her heart sank like a stone. She had her story prepared, of course, and some of it was even true, but it was one thing to sit in her attic room at Bentley Hall rehearsing the details in her mind, and quite another to tell bare-faced lies to so trusting a man as Lord Montague. Well, it might all go wrong yet, but until then she would eat and drink and enjoy herself, and hope for the best. And as dish after dish was removed and replaced with another even more delectable, and she gazed about at the candles lighting the room as bright as day, the many silent footmen, the heavy silver knives and forks, and sparkling cut glass goblets, she felt that living at Drummoor would be a wonderful thing. This truly was a fairy-tale and she a princess! But was Lord Montague really her prince?
As the meal drew to a close, the marquess rose and rapped on the table to quieten the conversations.
“Pray indulge me, everyone, with your attention for a few moments, for I have a piece—” He threw a glance at Monty. “—two pieces of good news to impart to you all, concerning Monty. Firstly, he is this day betrothed to Miss Frost, of Cornwall. And secondly, the living of Kirby Grosswick has fallen vacant, and it will be my very great pleasure to bestow it upon my brother.”
There was a murmur of pleasure around the table, and Lord Montague rose and bowed, then sat down with a little smile.
“You are a clergyman?” Melissa said, aghast.
“Oh, yes! I was ordained earlier this year, but I had no hope of an early living, you know, so this is a piece of great good fortune. Not for the previous incumbent, of course, who is now dead, but it is wonderful news for me. For us. It is only a small country parish, but a very good living. We shall have almost two hundred pounds a year to live upon. Such a sum will keep us very comfortable, I am sure. Do you know how to look after chickens? I believe we shall be obliged to keep chickens.”
Melissa stared at him, stunned, as all her pleasant dreams of a life of luxury at Drummoor trickled into dust.
3: Lady Harriet Arrives
When the ladies withdrew, Monty was again the focus of attention.
“Not really planning to marry the chit, m’boy?” Uncle Ambrose said.
“Certainly I am.”
“She looks a great deal better in one of Connie’s gowns than she did when she arrived,” Carrbridge said. “Not that I am reconciled to this, Monty, but at least she has decent manners.”
That was very true, and Monty had been pleased to see that Miss Frost did nothing that might startle the company. She was not forthcoming, but she answered readily enough when addressed on unexceptional subjects, like any well-bred young lady.
“But she is not accustomed to formal dinners,” Merton said. “She was watching carefully to see how to go on.”
“I noticed that myself,” Uncle Lucius said. “And any woman would look well after Connie has taken an interest in her. I cannot forget the girl’s appearance when she arrived here — everything patched and faded, and nothing but a portmanteau with her. Not a maid or chaperon to be seen. And how did she get here? She had a lift on a farmer’s cart to Mishmere Cross, but she must have come by stage or mail coach to Sagborough, and all alone. That is not the behaviour of a proper lady.”
Monty’s temper rose, and he had to take a deep breath and remember his calling before he was able to suppress it. “This is not helpful, uncle. ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’ Miss Frost is my future wife, and I will not have aspersions cast on her behaviour. We do not know the circumstances of her journey.”
“Then let us enquire into them,” Uncle Lucius said.
“It is of no interest to me how she came to Drummoor,” Monty said firmly. “Therefore it cannot be fruitful to enquire further. Let us offer the hand of friendship to Miss Frost, as a stranger in our midst, and do nothing which might make her uncomfortable. ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’”
“Oh, by all means let her not be uncomfortabl
e,” Uncle Ambrose said testily. “Let her walk in here from who knows where, and sit at Carrbridge’s table eating his turkey and drinking his claret and wearing his wife’s gowns and enjoying herself thoroughly, and heaven forbid we should enquire into who on earth she is, or whether she is a proper wife for the son of a marquess. You are a fool, Monty, but you will not be guided in this matter, I can see.”
“I have seen nothing in her behaviour to suggest that she is anything other than a gently-brought-up lady who has fallen into some financial difficulties,” Monty said calmly. “That makes her a perfectly proper wife for a clergyman with a modest income. My mind is made up, and further discussion will not alter my resolution. I am going to join the ladies, so you may discuss the matter as much as you please without me.”
When he entered the drawing room, he searched for Miss Frost, finding her seated between two of the aunts. They were both talking at once, and Miss Frost had such a glazed expression her face that Monty almost smiled. The poor girl was exhausted, and quite incapable of withstanding the onslaught.
“Miss Frost?”
She looked up at him so hopefully that he could not help smiling. “My lord?”
“Aunt Theresa, Aunt Juliana, you will not mind if I steal Miss Frost away from you?”
“Very well, very well,” Aunt Juliana said, then added ominously, “We shall talk again tomorrow, Miss Frost.”
He gave Miss Frost his arm and led her out of the room.
“Where are you taking me?” she said, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Away from my aunts who would talk you half to death,” he said. “I thought you might have had enough of the Marfords for one day. The card tables will be coming out soon, and then you would never escape. Should you like to go to your room now?”
“Oh… thank you. I am tired.”
“You have had a long journey,” he said, shepherding her towards the stairs.
“Indeed, and the stage coach is very uncomfortable. I had no idea. It seems so romantic, the idea of travel, but the reality is not in the least romantic. Bad inns, broken wheels, and every bump in the road shakes one’s bones.”
“I can imagine,” he said sympathetically. “Fortunately, you will never have to travel by public coach again, Miss Frost.”
She fell silent, so he kept up a patter of conversation about the house and the various rooms they were passing until they reached the door of her room.
“Your maid will be waiting to help you undress,” he said. “She will bring you your morning chocolate, too. We breakfast at ten, but there is always a fire in the winter morning room before that, if you rise early. Have the maid show you the way, or else you will get horribly lost. Everybody does, just at first. Good night, Miss Frost.”
He bowed, she bobbed a hasty curtsy, and he turned to go.
“Thank you, my lord,” she called after him.
“You had better call me Monty,” he said. “Everybody does.”
A half smile, then she turned the doorknob and disappeared into her room.
~~~~~
Melissa woke abruptly from dreams of formless terror, not quite sure where she was. She had fallen asleep instantly, exhausted, but the softness of the bed and the warmth of the blankets were unusual enough to drag her back from deep slumber. With the curtains drawn all round the bed, she was in darkness, but there was no sound in the house, and she guessed that it was still the middle of the night. After some fumbling, for she was unused to such things, she pulled the bed curtains apart, and slipped out of bed, still shaky from her dreams. The remains of the fire glowed in the grate, and oh glory be, there was coal in a scuttle beside it. She soon had a good blaze going, then lit a candle — wax! In the bedrooms! The indulgence of it.
Prowling around the room, she found decanters of sherry, port and brandy, and a jar of macaroons. Sipping port and nibbling a macaroon, she opened drawers and closets, found several delicious gowns she did not recognise in the wardrobe as well as her own four, and discovered a cache of books in the bedside cabinet. With a smile of anticipation, she closed the door again. Tomorrow would be time enough for reading, and somewhere in this great monstrosity of a house there must be a library. Her whole body quivered in delight.
She fetched a pillow and curled up on the rug in front of the fire, savouring the unaccustomed warmth. Oh, what joy to have a fire in her bedroom again! In recent winters she had never been able to get warm. She stretched like a cat, rolled over, curled up again and was asleep within moments. This time the dreams were more vivid, of someone rattling the door of her attic bedroom, trying repeatedly to get in. She screamed, but no sound would come.
The next time she woke, rain was clattering against the window, and somewhere nearby a loose shutter was banging. The fire had died down again, and she had used all the coal, so, shivering, she dived back into bed, pulling the layers of soft blankets around her. So much luxury was almost overwhelming. Her whole life had been one of restraint, hoarding candle ends so she could read in bed, mending and remaking her gowns to save money, even before the old earl had died, but the last two years had been little less than penury. She could hardly believe the plenty that now surrounded her. A corner of her mind nudged her conscience, but she suppressed it. She was entitled to be there, after all, for had the late marquess not promised her… well, something. His son, except that he was already married. But something, certainly.
Ever since she had crept out of Bentley Hall in the cold and dark, she had tried not to think of Lord and Lady Bentley, but the dreams brought them back to her mind. What had they made of her disappearance? Were they even now trying to find out what had become of her? Were they following her trail northwards, asking at every coaching inn along the road? A young woman of just such a height and colouring, wearing a pelisse of this colour and a hat with two feathers… and the innkeeper, keen to help so fine a gentleman, and an earl too, would say, yes, my lord, she took the London coach. And then it would not take long to find that she had later taken the York stage. Oh God, they could be in Yorkshire already!
What would she do if they found her? Lord Montague would learn that she was under age, and not free to marry without Lord Bentley’s consent. He would learn that she was betrothed to Mr Pontefract, his offer accepted with her best attempt to smile and appear complaisant, to give herself time to escape. Mr Pontefract, so keen to secure her hand that he had raced off to London to obtain a special licence. There had been no time left to think or to plan or to cover her tracks. She had crept out of the house that very night and fled. And now she sat at Drummoor, waiting to be found, waiting to be dragged back to the nightmare.
Then the tears came, the tears she had been fending off ever since that dreadful night when Mr Pontefract had leered at her, and she had learnt her fate. No, before that, ever since the old earl had died, and the new earl had sent away his step-mother and her children. Melissa’s only friends. For two years she had been stalwart and obedient, smiling even as she patched her gowns and hoped the servants would sneak her an extra chicken leg. For two years she had kept her feelings at bay. But there in the quiet of the night, wrapped around with the softest wool blankets and smooth linen sheets, she wept and wept unstoppably.
~~~~~
The morning passed pleasantly enough. First came the chambermaid to get the fire blazing again. Then, later, a cup of chocolate, a treat which she had not enjoyed for a long time but which was just as delicious as memory made it. Then a maid of her own, Margaret, helping her dress and showing her the way to the winter parlour, where she read a newspaper until Monty found her and took her to the breakfast parlour. Happily, the room was devoid of aunts and uncles, and everyone was terribly polite to her, while she stuffed herself with the vast array of breads and pastries on offer, tasting everything. Then Monty took her all over the house, which was a warren of odd wings and courtyards and abrupt corners and dead ends, until her head was spinning.
The great hall was indeed medieval in appearance, with its soari
ng wooden beams and the minstrels’ gallery, but there were paintings on the wall by previous guests, of a style which suggested more enthusiasm than talent, and a collection of misshapen arrows, made by Lord This or Lord That as children, which gave the place an intimate feel. Drummoor might be one of the great houses of England, but it was also a family home.
As they walked down the length of the gallery, gazing at portraits of long dead Marfords, Monty asked once or twice about her own family, but after telling him that her parents were dead, her guardian was dead — which was true in a way — and that she was entirely alone in the world, he stopped asking. Perhaps he noticed the wobble in her voice when she spoke of such things.
“Perhaps you would care to have this returned to you, Miss Frost?” he said, producing a paper from his pocket. Her letter!
“Oh… thank you.”
“I daresay you have few reminders of your papa, and you must have had this for a great many years.”
“Only four,” she said. “My foster family gave it to me when I was… um, when they considered me old enough.”
“Your foster family?”
“My nurse and her sister. They looked after me until I was five, when my guardian came for me.”
“So you never knew your parents? How horrid for you.”
She bowed her head, for the tears were very close.
Lord Montague (Sons of the Marquess Book 4) Page 3