Lord Montague (Sons of the Marquess Book 4)

by Mary Kingswood

  Monty was too slow to take Miss Frost into dinner, and had to watch her talking animatedly to Uncle Lucius. There was no doubt that she looked very well this evening. The gown was very plain, but that only emphasised her abundant charms, and she had, after all, chosen to wear the diamond necklace. That pleased him inordinately. Despite her passionate outburst, common sense had reasserted itself and now she was as composed as he had ever seen her. And how had Uncle Lucius managed to coax such lively conversation from her? Monty had never seen her so chatty in company.

  When the ladies withdrew and the gentlemen regrouped, he contrived to sit by his uncle.

  “Nice little thing, your Miss Frost,” Uncle Lucius said, twinkling at him, his big, round face wearing its customary bland expression. Monty was not fooled, for Lucius, despite never marrying, was an acute observer of the female sex.

  “But?” he hazarded.

  “No buts. I avoided contentious subjects — like who on earth she is, and what she is running away from — and talked to her of books. She is a great reader of novels of a romantic and perhaps melodramatic turn, some of which she described to me in sufficiently graphic terms as to make me desirous of reading them. Have you read Cecilia, Monty? No, I thought not. It sounds very lively, far too lively for your serious mind, I should have thought. Miss Frost also enjoys reading books about foreign parts. History she is less enamoured of, and sermons, I regret to say, not at all.”

  Monty smiled, but did not rise to the bait.

  “Then we talked about the parsonage, which she spoke of as ‘my house’ more than once.”

  “And so it is… or very soon will be.”

  “Indeed. She is very excited about it, and told me the exact number of rooms and how each will be employed, and how she hopes to furnish them, if the attics here can provide her with castoffs enough.”

  “It pleases me to hear that,” Monty said. Then, nervously, for he knew his uncle would answer him honestly, “Do you truly think she is running away from something?”

  “Naturally,” his uncle said. “Why else would she come haring up here from… somewhere or other, all alone, on the stage coach? Give Ambrose a nudge, will you, Monty? He has been holding onto the port for an age. Ah, my thanks.” He poured himself a good measure, and sipped it with a sigh of satisfaction. “I will say one thing for your brother, he always keeps a good table. I did wonder when he married the Allamont chit… but there, she likes to entertain as lavishly as he does, bless the girl. Where was I? Miss Frost, yes. Here is my thinking, Monty. Her parents are dead — so she says, so let us suppose it true. And the guardian, too. She is quite alone, with no one to protect her, and no fortune to attract an honourable offer. Such a girl is… very vulnerable. She could easily become prey to the wrong sort of man. But, being a spirited and virtuous young lady, she runs away and comes here, where she wants to marry you at once, if you please, because only thus may she be safe.”

  Monty frowned over it. Perhaps it made sense, after a fashion. Still, marriage to a stranger? She would be safe enough at Drummoor without marrying anyone. The letter gave Carrbridge an obligation to take care of her, and he could certainly protect her from any man with dishonourable intentions. Yet she was desperate to marry, and at once. He thought back to Merton’s hints that perhaps there had been a man with dishonourable intentions, and now Miss Frost was in a difficult situation. Well, if it were so, he sincerely pitied her, but it would not alter his resolution to marry her. But only after the banns were read.

  When they rejoined the ladies, Connie was at the pianoforte while Miss Frost turned the pages for her. Then Miss Frost played. With so few visitors in the house apart from the elderly aunts and uncles, there was little call for music after dinner, and they usually progressed straight to the card tables after tea. Tonight, it pleased Monty to discover that his betrothed played rather well, and had a pleasant singing voice, too, displaying the latter in both French and Italian. And yet, that just made her all the more mysterious, for why should so well-educated a young lady end up travelling on the stage coach in a pelisse that had definitely seen better days?

  As soon as the card tables began to appear, Monty headed towards Melissa, but Connie intercepted him. “Monty, I am too restless these days to inflict myself on the whist players. Will you oblige me with a quiet game of cribbage? Have Gaffney put a table over there, behind the urn, will you? I do not like to be too near the fire just now.”

  Monty could not, of course, refuse, and with Connie, there was never any point. If she wanted him alone, whether to question him, or ask a favour, or offer a helping of advice, she would have her way, sooner or later. He set out the cards and the cribbage board, and waited for her to settle everyone else.

  “Oof,” she said, collapsing heavily into her chair. “I swear each baby is heavier than the last, and this one is awkwardly placed, I feel, for I have the most dreadful aching in my back all the time.”

  “Not long to go now,” Monty said with a sympathetic smile.

  “Thank God!” she said with feeling.

  “Is it really as bad as all that?” he said. “I ask because a lady came to me when I was assisting Mr Callimont in York, very distressed because she was increasing again, and why had God seen fit to bless her once more when she had eleven already? I did not quite know what to say to her. One does not like to tell a lady in such distress that it is God’s will and she should be grateful. It sounds so cold and unsympathetic.”

  “Every child is a gift from God, naturally,” Connie said, her usually smiling countenance serious for once. “There is no denying, however, that the business is… unpleasant in many aspects, and the birth itself is excessively painful. When it is over, one is so relieved that all is well that one forgets the worst of it, but… twelve! I hope that is not my lot.”

  “Shall you like to have a daughter this time?” Monty said.

  “I shall like to have a healthy baby, and to survive the ordeal myself,” Connie said crisply. “Shall we play?”

  “Very well. And then you may tell me what you really wish to talk about.”

  Connie laughed, but, despite this opening, they played for some time before she came to the point. “I understand you and Miss Frost had… some kind of altercation this evening.”

  “Ah,” Monty said. He made his play and moved his peg before replying. “I take it Margaret told everyone in the servants’ hall of it.”

  “She quite properly told Harker, so that I should know of it. The mistress of the house must be aware if there is a difficulty with a guest, Monty dear. No one else knows, I assure you, but Margaret reported raised voices and tears, and also that you sent her out of the room.”

  “Miss Frost was distressed,” he said stiffly. “I thought some privacy might be helpful.”

  “Indeed, but is all well between you? She seems quite herself now.”

  Monty hesitated, but there was no reason for secrecy with Connie. “She wishes to marry as soon as possible.”

  “Oh.” Connie tipped her head on one side appraisingly. “And you do not?”

  Monty tried not to blush, and failed miserably. “I should be very happy to… under other circumstances.”

  “So you do not like her?”

  “Oh, no… I mean, yes, I like her very much, so it is not… not that I am unwilling, Connie. I should like to… I mean, the sooner the better, as far as I am concerned.”

  He was blushing furiously now, but Connie patted his hand understandingly. “So you find her attractive as a woman, I collect, which is a very good sign, Monty, although you will have to learn not to colour up quite so readily when you talk to your parishioners on such subjects. But I do not quite see the problem. She is keen to marry you, and you are keen to marry her, so—?”

  “I know nothing about her!” he said helplessly.

  “What more do you need to know? Does it matter if her father was in trade, or her mother ran off with a fishmonger, or whatever scandal may lie behind her reticence? She is an a
miable, unaffected young lady, with manners which will pass muster in any company. Marry her as soon as may be, and she may live here, under my eye, until your house is in a fit state for a lady. And you know, Monty, marriage has a way of drawing people together, even if they were not close to start with. Look at my sister Hope and cousin Hugo. They married to save Allamont Hall, and before very long, they were as much in love as any two people could be. It is quite charming, and I am sure you will find married life is just the same for you and Melissa.”

  “Connie, you are a hopeless romantic!” Monty said, smiling fondly at her. “Are you going to make your play?”

  She sighed. “Do you know, my back is aching so much, I think I might go up to bed. Tell Lord Carrbridge for me, if you please, but do not alarm him or he will fuss so. He is a dreadful worrier, my poor Francis, and I would not have him concerned. Pray tell him only that I am a little tired, and have gone upstairs early.”

  “May I get you anything? Shall I send for your maid?”

  She laughed. “Now you are fussing, and there is not the least need, I assure you. I shall be better tomorrow, I am certain. An early night always sets me to rights. Good night, Monty.”

  ~~~~~

  Melissa saw Lady Carrbridge slipping out of the room, and not long after, Monty emerged from the alcove where they had been secreted. Discussing her, she had no doubt. She could imagine the conversation. ‘Melissa is quite dreadful! She cries and screams and will not be appeased. How can I get out of this dreadful mess?’ ‘You poor thing! And she has no manners. She had no idea how to eat the quail’s eggs, did you see? Then she talked constantly to Mr March, and quite neglected Lord Jacob on her other side. And three helpings of syllabub!’ ‘But how can I get out of marrying her?’ ‘Lord Carrbridge will get rid of her, depend upon it.’

  It was understandable, of course. She felt so much of an impostor here amongst these people that they could not fail to notice it. Some of them surely did — like Lady Juliana and Lady Christopher, who asked the most pointed questions and huffed and puffed when she declined to answer. But Lord Carrbridge was unfailingly polite to her, and Lady Carrbridge was kindness itself, and had given her so many lovely gowns and not reproached her in the least when she spilt wine on one of them and ruined it, although Melissa herself could not have been more mortified, and wished the ground would open up and swallow her. She was not fit to be amongst such people!

  If only she could be calm and demure, and respectable, but she had this terrible gnawing fear always with her, like a snake devouring her from the inside, stealing her appetite and keeping her awake at night. It never left her, for any day now might come the knock on the door or the rattle of carriage wheels on the drive, and there would be Lord Bentley and his evil brother and Mr Pontefract, and her life would be over. That creeping fear destroyed all her pleasure in being in such a wonderful house, amidst such kind people, and made her lash out at the least provocation, or none at all, even at Monty, her saviour.

  Such a sweet, gentle man, so softly spoken and thoughtful, and she had been so unforgivably rude to him when he had given her such lovely jewellery. He had not come near her all evening and that frightened her more than anything else. If Monty turned his back on her, then she would be completely lost. There would be nothing to do but wait for Lord Bentley to find her. And Mr Cornelius Brockenhurst. And Mr Pontefract. She shivered.

  “Are you cold, Miss Frost? May I fetch a shawl for you?”

  Monty! Always so attentive, and he had been so much in her thoughts it was almost as if she had conjured him out of the air. And he had come to find her — had he forgiven her for that stupid outburst? She turned to him with a smile of relief, but his expression was serious and unyielding. He had not forgiven her.

  Still, when she declined the shawl, he pulled up a chair and sat beside her while she played whist, joining in the general conversation that arose between hands, and it was pleasant to have him there, a reassuring presence which kept the gnawing snake at bay for a little while. Nothing dreadful could happen to her with Monty beside her, and even if Lord Bentley should burst into the drawing room now, she could cling to Monty’s arm and he would protect her. Surely he would protect her! Oh, but if only they were married, for then she would be safe. The logical part of her mind knew she would be no such thing, for the marriage would not be legal without the permission of Lord Bentley, but there would be arguments and lawyers and a great deal of discussion, and before it could all be sorted out, she would have her birthday and be of age and could decide her own future. With Monty, if he still wanted her. But at all costs she had to keep him on her side until then.

  But with the demands of the cards on the one hand, and the pleasure of having Monty beside her on the other, the rest of the evening flew by. When the tea trolley reappeared, and the supper dishes were laid out in the antechamber adjoining the drawing room, Monty took her through on his arm, and watched her demolish a heaped plateful of delicacies without comment.

  “You must think I have never seen food before,” she said at one point, as she refilled her empty plate.

  “I think,” he said slowly, his face serious, as it usually was, “that your guardian neglected you shamefully.”

  She paused, about to bite down on a cherry tartlet. Instead, she set it down and looked at him fearfully.

  “You are so thin,” he said. “Or you were, when you first arrived. You had not been eating properly. And no one has ever given you jewels before, or pretty gowns, and you have not had your own maid, or learnt to ride, or been much in company. You have been well educated, but otherwise your guardian, whoever he was, neglected you, and that gives me a poor opinion of him.”

  “Oh,” she said, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.

  “Happily, you are in better hands now.” And he smiled at her with such warmth that she blushed, although she could hardly say why. “I shall take better care of you, Melissa. Shall we go and see Mr Hay tomorrow to arrange for the banns to be read?”

  She nodded, words deserting her. For the first time, there was no snake inside her, eating away at her vitals. When she went to her room that night, after Margaret had left she prowled around the room touching everything — the silk sheets on the bed, and the thick wool blankets, the wardrobe now half full with gowns and pelisses and fashionable bonnets, the candles and lamps, the decanters and jar of macaroons, the softly padded chairs, the elegant escritoire and the books she had brought up from the library to add to her own pitiful few. Then she knelt beside the bed and gave heartfelt thanks for all of it, and for Monty, too. Her saviour.

  That night, for the first time since she had left Hampshire, she slept deeply without dreams until the chambermaid woke her in the morning.

  11: Christmas

  Monty’s life had become one of pleasurable anticipation. A date early in January was fixed for the marriage, Connie had assigned them a suite of rooms at Drummoor until such time as the parsonage was ready, Melissa was contented and smiling, and Monty himself looked forward to married life with unexpected eagerness. He had never considered himself a passionate man, except where God was concerned, but now he found himself musing a great deal on more earthly matters and would lie awake at nights wondering just what it would be like to have a wife to turn to for his comfort and pleasure.

  Before that happy time, however, he had his first service as vicar of Kirby Grosswick, and he was not to face his congregation alone. Melissa came, too, and also Carrbridge and Harriet, and when the carriage drew up outside the church, Humphrey and Reggie and their wives were waiting for them. The church was as full as it could hold, with even a few standing at the back, and oh, the joy of seeing so many shining faces gazing up at him, listening intently, nodding occasionally as if in understanding. And there at the front, in the pew now neatly labelled ‘Marford’, his own family, not looking in the least bored, and Melissa smiling up at him in the most enchanting fashion. Further back, he saw Ben Gartmore and a couple of the Drummoor garden
ers.

  Monty had decided in the end not to preach about sin. He had taken his text from Colossians, ‘For the hope which is laid up for you in heaven, whereof ye heard before in the word of the truth of the gospel’, and the theme of hope made for a fine, uplifting sermon. Mindful of Harriet’s injunction, he kept it short, and was pleased that nobody fell asleep.

  Afterwards, he shook everyone by the hand and was surprised at the earnestness with which the villagers welcomed him. ‘So pleasant to have an active parson again,’ they said, and, ‘Will there be a service every week?’ A carpenter offered to come and fit panelling to the parsonage walls. Another man volunteered to have a look at the roof and replace any missing tiles. A woman had a brother who was a glazier in Sagborough who would be happy to fix the broken windows. He had offers of chickens, and cats to deal with the mice, and pots for the kitchen, and vegetable seeds for his garden, and even furnishings. He accepted everything gratefully, not sure quite how much of it would come to fruition, but appreciative of the good intentions.

  Then he showed his brothers and sisters over the parsonage, where they gazed in silent dismay at the devastation, and finally back to Drummoor in time for a short walk with Melissa in the gardens before dark. It was, he felt, a perfect day.

  ~~~~~

  As Christmas drew closer, Melissa began to feel more comfortable about her situation. With each day that passed without the arrival of an irate Lord Bentley, she relaxed a little more. He had not, then, managed to follow her. Carefully recalling her journey, she realised that she could certainly have been followed to London, but from there the earl would have had to visit every coaching inn in town to discover her next destination. Perhaps, too, he had wasted time checking hotels or inns to see if she were staying in London. But even if he had found the right coaching inn, and the ticket clerk had remembered her, he would only discover that she had bought a ticket for York. Well, he would ask in vain for her in York, and would it occur to him that she might have left the coach at Sagborough? Did he know of her connection to Drummoor? Surely not, or he would have been there long since. And perhaps he did not even care that she was gone?