Her husband's eyes snapped open. "You mean--"
"Indeed. My glimpse of his buttocks was brief, and I confess I was concentrating far more on his wound than on that part of his anatomy, which was uninjured, but sadly in need of a wash."
"You lied."
"I did not. I merely made a statement and left you to imagine the worst. It accomplished what I intended, however, which was to convince you that I was qualified to treat your wounds."
"You, my lady, are sly and devious." But there was a hint of laughter in his voice, despite his disapproving glower.
"No, my lord. I am merely pragmatic. I will use whatever tools are at hand to accomplish my aims. Remember that." Lisanor smiled widely in his direction and scooted down until the counterpane covered her shoulders. "Good night."
The next morning, as Clarence lay relaxed and conscious that he should be doing something constructive, rather than watching his wife write to her sister, Carleton entered bearing a salver.
"The post has arrived, my lord, my lady."
"Thank you." Lisanor held out her hand, but then lowered it. "His lordship will tend to it." She sent him a small smile, but the flash from her eyes told him it was high time he began taking some responsibility for his estate.
He waited until the butler had pulled the door closed behind him. "Thank you, my dear."
"For what?"
"For reminding me that I have been playing the invalid far too long." He broke the seal and opened the thick packet. Quickly he skimmed the note, written in a flowing hand. "The devil!"
Before he replied, he shuffled through the several wrinkled and blotched papers behind the note. His heart sank. Just when--
"My lord?"
"Will it never end?" He closed his eyes, fought to contain the anger he felt. What possessed my father? Was he even sane?
Lisanor came to his side, perched on the very edge of his chaise longue. "Tell me."
"I sincerely hope that my father didn't dispose of the furniture he replaced," he said, feeling he owed it to her to put a positive light upon this latest setback. "We will need it to furnish most of the public rooms."
She took the note, shuffled through the bills it referenced. "This is for furnishings purchased a year ago. But...but never paid for."
"And I hope that the merchant--who, I must admit has shown remarkable patience--will repossess the furniture rather than insisting upon payment."
"Nine thousand pounds? For some of the ugliest sophas and chairs imaginable? This is outrageous!"
Despite himself, Clarence had to smile. "I am relieved to hear you are not fond of them."
"My lord..."
"Yes?"
"This last bill. It is not for furnishings. I fear it will have to be paid."
He took it back, read it more carefully. "Silk wall covering? How could silk wall covering cost two thousand pounds?"
She laid the tip of an ink-stained finger on the small script at the bottom of the bill. "Woven to his design, it says. It must be that puce and orange pattern of pagodas and parasols in the dining room. I cannot imagine it being a popular design."
"Not removable, I imagine."
"I don't believe so." Her chuckle was forced. "And at that price, we shall have to live with it for the rest of our lives."
Refusing to be amused, Clarence said, "I make the total of these new bills to be in the neighborhood of thirteen thousand pounds. My God! You could furnish a palace for that price."
"Indeed. I much fear your father was seen as...what is the term? A ready mark?"
"An easy mark. I think he was mad."
"You may be right. Certainly his actions that last year do not appear to be those of a man in his right mind." She gathered the bills together. "I will add these to the ones we already have."
"Perhaps we should ask Carleton to see what might be found in the attics to furnish the public rooms, once we have removed my father's extravagances. We must have seats and tables, however shabby, when we start receiving again." Again he closed his eyes, aware of a great fatigue.
"My lord?"
"Umm?"
"This is not a defeat. Merely a setback."
"If you say so." But he could not believe her.
"I do." She soothed a soft hand across his closed eyes. "Have I ever told you what the Hights' motto is?"
"Umm."
"'Nous contrive.' We Hights have contrived to survive and prosper for a thousand years, and a small thing like puce and orange wall covering is not going to defeat us."
Catching her hand, he pulled it to his lips. "I want to believe you. But you are no longer a Hight, so perhaps--"
"I will always be a Hight. It is the blood, not the name." Her fingers pressed against his lips. "Are you able to match the furnishings to these bills? It would be of great help to me."
Not sure if she was serious, or just inventing a task to lift his spirits, he said, "I shall contrive."
Chapter Nine
Lisanor was increasingly satisfied with her marriage as the days passed. Her grandfather had made a good bargain, probably far better than he'd envisioned. Her husband, despite his habit of command, was in general a reasonable man, putting the best interests of Guillemot ahead of his masculine conceit.
Even better, he lacked--or was able to overcome--the deplorable attitude prevalent in every other male she knew above the age of twelve that females were unable to think logically or act reasonably. Except about the stables.
That was not to say he was ineffectual or malleable. She had the impression that persuading him to allow the underservants to be educated would require some effort and no little diplomacy on her part. A waste of time and effort he had called it. "'Twill only make them long for comforts above their station." In his words she heard not strong conviction, but an echo of his mother's opinions.
She was just coming up from the kitchens when Carleton approached the wide stairs, bearing a slaver on which were piled several packets and letters. "Something from your sister, if I am not mistaken, my lady."
Indeed, she recognized Alanna's hand on the top letter. "Thank you, Carleton. Was there anything for his lordship?"
"Two journals, a letter from London, and a small package. Shall I take them up?"
"Just put everything on my desk. His lordship is having his daily soak and I have one more task before I go up." She turned toward the breakfast room, but paused and turned back. "Wait. Let me have my sister's letter."
As soon as he had ascended the stairs, she sat on the bottom step and broke the seal on Alanna's letter. It was brief, but filled with good news.
Sister,
Lady Guillemot has made a tremendous difference. Within two days of her arrival, Uncle Percival and the contemptible Darius had been routed. She is everything you said--chatty, a bit silly, and certainly scatterbrained, but I like her quite well, for she is good-hearted, cheerful and kind.
Yesterday a very strange man arrived, and at first I was suspicious of him. But he handed me a note from Lord Guillemot, and when I had read it, I almost laughed. He is to be our savior, our sentinel, and the guardian of our virtues; your husband has said so. But Sister, he is terrifyingly ugly, with a scarred face, a voice like a cranky bear, and an accent so strong I can understand only about half of what he says. He stands quite tall, perhaps twenty hands from the top of his shaven head to the bottoms of his enormous boots. His shoulders are so wide that he must pass through doorways sidewards. If Uncle or Darius return, I feel certain Mr. Gadget will again set them in retreat.
The most amusing thing: he is in awe of Tamsen and positively cringes when she scolds him for not removing his cap in the presence of females.
Mr. Fishman has found a position in Suffolk and has finally removed himself from the cottage. Phil, Saxon and Elmer say good riddance. So do I. Will you engage another estate agent? I gave Mr. Gadget permission to reside in the cottage.
Lady Guillemot sends her best wishes and asks me to tell you that she is both comfortable
and content here. In her words, Ackerslea Farm "beats the dower house all to flinders."
We are going to invite the vicar to tea after church on Sunday. Lady Guillemot says that it will perfectly correct to do so in spite of our both being in mourning.
Your loving sister,
Alanna
When she stood, Lisanor felt fully a stone lighter. Alanna was safe, she and the dowager were compatible, and Fishman was gone. She still had to find someone to replace him; Tumos Hakon was too old to assume full responsibility for Ackerslea Farm. She wondered how one went about finding a bailiff. Perhaps her husband knew another ex-soldier, one a trifle less interesting than Gadget.
* * * *
Lisanor entered the master suite without knocking, as she usually did. "The entire house has been thoroughly searched. The stud book was not found. Could it be in the hands of your father's solicitor?"
Her husband looked up from the pamphlet he was reading. Despite her annoyance, she was pleased to recognize it as one on fertilizer methods she had given him. "That's possible. I shall write to him."
"In the meantime, there are forty-six horses out there, eating their heads off. What do you intend to do about it?" She knew she should not confront him while she was angry, but she had restrained herself for too long. The estate was wasting money on the stables that would be far better invested in improvements, seed, and livestock.
"I have written to an agent my father used. He should be here in a week or so. We'll sell off the two- and three-year-olds. It's the wrong season, so we'll not get as much as we should. But it will reduce the drain on our funds."
"How many?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"How many horses will that be? Thirty? Forty?"
"Good God, no. Twenty-one, if they all sell. But we cannot count on that. Perhaps fifteen. Fa didn't breed his mares every year."
She dropped into a chair and worked to hold onto her temper. "I have been questioning Simms. He says that having six stallions at stud is unusual. I believe he wanted to say more, but was afraid to."
"Most of them are at stud." A small hesitation. "That means mares are brought to them for breeding."
"I know what it means. But I don't know when." Clenching her fists in the folds of her gown, she reminded herself that one catches more flies with honey than with vinegar. "Simms says only one mare has been brought to be bred in the past year, and in the year before that, only three. My opinion is that those stallions are worthless. They occupy one man's efforts almost exclusively, they serve no useful purpose, and they are costing us money we could better spend on something useful."
The hardening of his jaw told her she had gone too far.
"You admitted you know little of managing a stable."
"Indeed. But I know quite a lot about managing a farm, and let me tell you, my lord, this estate is not a farm. It is a bottomless well down which money is poured. I believe my grandfather was cheated."
"Cheated?" He pushed himself to his feet.
Part of Lisanor's attention was diverted when she saw how easily he rose, how steadily he stood, albeit with the aid of the amber-headed cane. But only part. "Your father bargained for a farm manager when what he needed was a keeper. He was clearly deranged. For more than two years he mismanaged this estate and his other holdings so badly that they may never recover. It is just too bad that they are entailed. If I were to have a choice, I'd sell the lot."
His eyes narrowed. "But you do not have a choice, my dear." His voice was silky, dangerous.
"More's the pity." Overwhelmed with anger, she spun on her heel and escaped. If she were to remain with him, they would both speak in anger, saying words that could never be called back. Never be forgiven.
Clarence remained standing for a moment, staring at the door his wife had slammed behind her. How dare she take him to task? Call his father a cheat? Had not her grandfather approached Fa with the offer of her hand?
Seating himself, he picked up the pamphlet, one he'd expected to find soporific, and it had turned out to be quite fascinating. Who would have known that an application of urine could improve the yield of the soil?
But he could not concentrate. His thoughts returned again and again to her words. "...my grandfather was cheated." Did she see herself as a chattel, sold to his father--to him, if the truth be told--as someone to rescue Guillemot and the rest of the properties from the morass of debt into which they had sunk? Had his father that much foresight? That accurate a picture of the devastation he'd caused?
"Wait!" Where was that correspondence file? He'd run across it while going through the contents of Fa's desk. In one of the boxes lined up against the wall? He transferred himself to the chair with rockers, having discovered it could easily be scooted across the well-waxed hardwood floor.
The file was in the third box, the letter in the middle folder. He unfolded it.
...I believe it will benefit both our estates, but even more an alliance between our families will assure my granddaughter of a stable future and will ensure that her inheritance is protected. As my son's lifelong friend, you were the first I thought of when seeking a possible husband for Lisanor. The report I received of your son painted him as a sober, responsible young man, a fitting mate for my granddaughter, who is sensible, even-tempered, and not given to the usual female moods and vapors.
"Ha! When she sees this, she'll sing another tune." Clarence refolded the letter and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Sensible and even-tempered, indeed! What the old man had forgotten to mention was that she was managing, dictatorial, and aggravating. No wonder he'd sought a husband for her. He was probably doing his best to get her out of his house.
I wasn't even Hight's first choice. I wonder how many turned him down before he thought of me. Twice she'd lost a fiancé to the war, but how many others had refused her grandfather's offer? A young woman with merely a token dowry, who brought no land but instead came with a humiliating condition that no man worth his salt would accept. The terms of the marriage contract, terms he'd had only cursory knowledge of until he had been married a full fortnight, were barbarous. Perhaps even illegal. Had I but known...
Clarence spent the rest of the afternoon in a fine glow of righteous indignation, but he did finish reading the pamphlet about methods of increasing crop yields.
* * * *
For whom had the late marquess purchased the ruby parure? Rubies would not compliment the dowager. The bill had arrived in this morning's post and had been the real reason behind Lisanor's temper, yet she had completely forgotten to tell her husband. Ten thousand pounds! Yet another hemorrhage of future income for her to cope with, until she began to wonder if it were even possible for Guillemot to recover from indebtedness within her lifetime.
Perhaps I should simply give up. Our marriage is thus far in name only. An annulment might be possible. The thought of making something so personal a matter of public record sickened her.
And with that thought came another, unexpected realization. An annulment would mean she would never see Clarence Lamberton again. That, far more than shame, made the prospect completely unthinkable. Good heavens, I have become fond of the man.
She'd retired to the morning room, the only public room they were keeping heated. Unable to concentrate, she sat at the pianoforte and idly touched the keys. Although she had never had lessons, she could pick out a few simple melodies. But even with her lack of training, she could hear that the instrument was badly out of tune.
She closed the lid and wandered to the window overlooking the overgrown rose garden. Lady Guillemot had admitted that after the head gardener had died several years ago, she had not bothered to request that another be hired. "Flowers make me sneeze, so I don't care for them in the house," she'd said, when Lisanor wondered aloud why the small conservatory held half a dozen citrus trees and little else.
"At least I can eliminate that expenditure," she muttered, and made a mental note to have the trees brought inside and the conservatory left u
nheated. In the fall she would see about reactivating it, so they would have fresh vegetables through the winter. And flowers too, if the Dowager remained at Ackerslea.
Unable to sit still, determined to stay away from her husband until bedtime, she went to the library. But as before, nothing interested her. Most of the titles were in Greek and Latin, and those that were not leaned heavily toward equine topics. Giving up, she went to the muniment room and opened the household ledger. Surely there were other corners she could cut.
After a while she realized the futility of seeking for ways to save pence when the hemorrhage was measured in tens and hundreds and thousands of pounds. For a long time she stared at the flickering flames, until they died into glowing embers. Setting the fire screen in place, she blew out the candles lighting the desk and headed upstairs.
That night Lisanor pretended to be asleep when her husband came to bed after his nightly soak. She had skipped dinner, certain that if they met across a table they would resume their disagreement. Besides, she wanted time to consider how she could convince him that keeping so many horses, especially the stallions, was out of the question while they were working to recoup his father's losses. No, not losses. Extravagances. Foolish, improvident extravagances. Irresponsible, short-sighted, reckless expenditures for vastly overpriced furnishings and ornamentation in a country estate where no houseparties, no dinner parties, no balls had been held for more than five years.
His "Good night, my dear" was little more than a whisper in the darkened room.
Her throat tightened, but she did not reply.
* * * *
Clarence woke when his wife slipped from the bed. He wanted to call her back, to apologize for his show of temper the day before, yet he was reluctant to do so until he knew exactly what he would be apologizing for. Sober reflection had brought the realization that there was much he didn't know about his inheritance. Had she deliberately concealed facts from him?
A Pitiful Remnant Page 8