After an hour or two of trying in vain to sleep, he crept through to the kitchen to find himself something to drink. The room was still warm, with a homely smell of cooking and soap and cheese, so he sat at the table to drink his ale and try to work out how many days he would have to endure the physician’s lecturing before he could escape.
He had thought he was very quiet, but somehow it did not surprise him when the door opened and a lamp appeared, closely followed by Genista, her hair in a plait as thick as his arm which reached all the way to her waist.
“Are you having trouble sleeping? Would you like some laudanum?”
“Thank you, it would help, I think.”
She disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a small cup. “Drink it all.” To his surprise she sat down opposite him.
“You should not be here alone with me, Miss Hamilton, and both of us in a state of undress.”
There was that half smile again. “It hardly matters now, does it? I am corrupted and ruined beyond redemption. Such wantonness is expected of me.”
“You do not believe that.”
“I am as corrupt as I ever was,” she said. “As a physician’s daughter, it would be astonishing in me to be entirely ignorant of the male form, despite all his efforts to protect me from the evil world. You must not mind Father’s ways. He will settle down and be himself again once you are gone. Any change to his routine distresses him, and all this snow makes everything ten times worse. He does not really want me to marry and go away from him. How would he manage without me? It is a foolish idea, and he will see that when he is more himself again.”
Gil wondered just how true that was. The physician had seemed quite set on it, and if Gil had been less well-versed in the ways of society, perhaps he would have been cowed by all the bluster and agreed to marry the girl, and then the fellow would have been quite sunk. But he was safe enough, for neither Gil nor Genista wished to marry.
But he said no more about it, drank his laudanum, bade Genista a good night and, with a final wistful look at that wondrous hair, went back to bed.
~~~~~
Genista kept out of her father’s way the next day. She went about her duties diligently, but she took care to be in a different part of the house whenever she could. Not that he behaved any differently towards her than usual, for he would never stoop to sulk or fuss, but there was that in his expression that made her quail. She took Gil his breakfast on a tray, while she and her father breakfasted in the dining room. He was just as usual, giving her his orders for the day. Gil was only mentioned once.
“Bring Captain Marford to the surgery at noon, so that I may examine him,” he said. “For dinner, I should like the partridge, and some giblets in a pie. There was no veal to be had from Mr Linnet, nor venison, more’s the pity. There is no flavour quite like venison. I suppose there are no beetroot left?”
“No, ours are gone. Shall I send James to the farm to beg for some?”
“It does not matter. I brought a calves’ head yesterday. We had better have that today, for it will not keep.”
“Yes, Father, it’s already stewing, and I shall make some custards as well. You always enjoy those.”
“Make some of your curry soup. And a decent cake — caraway or apple, something like that.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Have you been tending the leeches while I’ve been away?”
“Every day, Father. The record book is up to date.”
“Hmpf. You may hang the cloths. I am minded to hold a surgery today.”
“Very good, Father.”
It seemed a good sign that he was willing to hold a surgery so soon after his return. He had never approved of patients simply turning up at his house for the treatment of minor ailments, so he had devised a system of brightly-coloured cloths as signals. One at Genista’s window was visible from a few houses in the village, and one at the back of the house could be seen from nearby farms. From noon onwards, they would have a steady stream of injuries or requests for visits.
She busied herself with her morning chores, tended the pig and the chickens, saw to the leeches and readied the surgery. At noon, she took Gil through to be examined. He was walking much better, she noticed, and seemed brighter. How quickly he healed! And yet, he still needed to be careful, for he had faded rapidly the previous evening. It would be so easy for him to regard himself as well, and over-exert himself.
From noon, a trickle of patients began to arrive, both those with injuries or illness to be attended to, or, more frequently, those requesting medicines for others. Genista was kept busy in the mixing room. When she had a spare moment, she would dash to the kitchen to check the meat for their dinner, salt the soup or lay out the ingredients for a cake or a sauce. Betty was an adequate plain cook, if well supervised, but she had never learnt to weigh and measure, and could not be trusted with the delicate sauces the physician liked.
At five, the cloths came down from the windows and the front door was locked. Dinner was served immediately, and it always had to be a good one after the exertions of a surgery. Genista and Betty worked in silent intentness in the kitchen, filling platters and bowls and jugs, while James carried them through and laid them out on the table, where the two gentlemen already waited, making quiet conversation. Finally, Genista took off her apron, smoothed her hair and took her place at the table, and the meal began.
~~~~~
Gil kept to his room all day, apart from the half hour when he was summoned to the surgery to be tapped and prodded and bent this way and that. There was no conversation beyond the medical. Does this hurt? What about that? Any weakness, dizziness, unusual heat or chill, any bad dreams? He was able to answer every question in the negative. The physician grunted and dismissed him without another word.
It was a relief that there was no continuation of the unpleasant discussion of the day before, and Gil hoped that he had done enough to dissuade the old man from trying to marry off his daughter. Still, he would not be easy about it until he had left this place behind. He was beginning to consider the practicalities — where he might find a horse, or whether he had the nerve to ask to borrow the physician’s gig. If he had a decent closed carriage, he might leave at any time, but if he had to walk to Canterbury, he would have to stay for another week, at least, and he was not sure his nerves could stand it. Genista was fine company, but the physician was not at all Gil’s idea of a congenial companion.
Still, after a day alone, any company was better than none, and he was almost glad to emerge from his room for dinner, and engage the fellow in conversation. He was an intelligent man, that much was certain, for all his queer ideas of womanhood. He had originally intended a life of the cloth, and had taken holy orders as soon as he was able. However, having neither wealth nor influential acquaintance, he had been unable to find a living and could not, in the normal course of events, have afforded to marry. He had had the good fortune, however, to secure the affections of a young lady whose uncle was a physician. Having no children of his own, and sympathetic to the young people’s plight, he had agreed to train Mr Hamilton in his own profession, thus enabling them to marry.
All this Dr Hamilton told Gil with very little prompting. His affection for his wife and gratitude towards his benefactor were genuine, and he spoke with great feeling on the subject. At that moment, Gil almost felt that he liked the fellow. But then Genista came in.
“You have not changed your gown today, child,” Dr Hamilton said, as he helped himself to soup. “I do not like to see you come to the table looking rumpled, like a servant. Your mama always changed for dinner, and you must never lower your standards below hers.” His tone was not unkind, but she flushed in embarrassment.
“I beg your pardon, Father. Shall I go and change?” Her tone was low, and anger pulsed through Gil on her behalf. How dared he speak so to her! Of course she had not had time to change her dress, when she had been working every moment of the day.
“Yes, do. You will feel b
etter for it.”
“Yes, Father.” She crept away, and by the time she returned in a slightly more formal gown, the choicest cuts of meat were gone.
“May I help you to some of the partridge, Miss Hamilton?” he said politely.
“Oh… thank you, but there is no need.”
“But you cannot reach the dish from there. Allow me to pass it to you.”
“No, no, pray do not! It is my father’s favourite, and if I take a share, he will not have enough.”
“Then have my portion,” he said, gallantly. “I prefer the beef anyway.”
“No, no, please!” she said, and he could read the alarm in her face. Was she afraid of her father? Would he punish her for eating some of his favourite dish? “I am perfectly happy with the soup and vegetables, and I shall have a custard as well as dessert. Pray do not concern yourself, Captain.”
“A woman’s constitution is too delicate for a great deal of red meat,” the physician said. “It makes her wild and unbiddable.”
“Does it?” Gil said. “I have never noticed that myself.”
“That is because you have not dedicated your life to observing the human condition as I have,” the physician said complacently. “Women are weak and foolish creatures, Captain, weak in body and weak in mind. They need constant guidance. That is why God ordained that men, with their superior strength and bravery and intellect, should have the ordering of the world and that women should obey them.”
Gil thought of the women he knew, none of whom were weak in body or in mind, women who were every bit as brave as men, and wondered how it was that Dr Hamilton could look around him and see the world so differently. And he looked at Genista, head down, squashed so flat by her father’s domineering ways that it might seem that she could never rise up again, and yet he knew there was a lively, intelligent woman behind that cowed exterior. He seethed on her behalf, but there was no point in arguing with a man so fixed in his opinions.
So he ate red meat and drank red wine, and watched Genista eat her soup and vegetables and two chicken pasties and custard, saying not a word while her father discoursed on one or two of his patients, or discussed the stocks of medicine ingredients. Occasionally, she would say, “Yes, Father,” or “No, Father,” but not one word beyond the minimum. His heart ached for the cheerful girl who had teased him and talked so freely about herself. That girl was locked away whenever her father was about, repressed and largely ignored, treated no better than a servant. It was heart-rending.
When James had cleared the table and Genista had fetched the dessert, her father said, “Shall you do better at the cribbage board this evening, Captain? You will want to avenge your defeat, I am sure.”
He could think of little he wanted less. “Forgive me, but I am tired, and would prefer to return to my room.”
“As you please. But in that case, we shall settle the matter of my daughter now.”
Gil’s heart sank. He had hoped it was already settled. “Sir, I—”
The physician raised an imperious hand. “No more prevarications. You have dishonoured my daughter and now you must make it right. We shall go into Canterbury tomorrow to obtain a licence, and you may marry her the day after.”
“You are too hasty, sir. I have already stated that I do not recognise any offence against Miss Hamilton on my part, and have no intention of being bullied into marriage.”
“Asking a man to take the honourable course is bullying, is it?”
“In this case, it certainly is. You may bully your daughter, but you will not bully me.”
“Do you dare to criticise my treatment of my daughter? I, who have never had anything but her welfare in mind? I, an ordained man of God? You are insulting, young man.”
“Her welfare? When she is clearly unhappy under your yoke? Look at her! She dare not lift her head in your presence, yet you claim to have her interests at heart. If you cared about her, as a father should care for his daughter, you would treat her with respect and consideration. You would consult her wishes as well as your own. Have you even asked her what her wishes are regarding this proposed marriage?”
“Of course not! How can a woman possibly judge such matters? And her happiness is of no importance. My concern is for her immortal soul, Captain.”
Gil could hardly breathe at such high-handed arrogance. Her happiness of no importance? She wanted so little from life — to go to the theatre, to see mountains and the sea, such simple pleasures. Yet she was kept here as a virtual slave. At that moment, he was almost prepared to marry Genista to take her away from such stultifying confinement. Almost, but not quite. He knew perfectly well that she had no wish to marry and leave her father. He was safe, then, to ask her directly what she wished for.
He rose, and limped round to her side of the table, lowering himself gingerly to his good knee so that his eyes were level with hers, and taking her hand in his. She raised wide blue eyes to his face, but he could not read her expression.
“Miss Hamilton, your father cares nothing for your happiness, but I do. If it would make you happy, I will marry you.”
Now there was definitely surprise on her face. But to his astonishment, she turned to the physician. “Father, what must I do?”
“No, no, no!” Gil cried in alarm. “I know what your father wants. Now I need to know what you want.”
“What I want,” she said calmly, “is to please my father by obeying him in all things. That is my duty. If you are offering to marry me, then naturally I must ask my father for guidance on how to answer.”
“But will it make you happy?” Gil said, in a last desperate throw of the dice.
“It always makes me happy to please my father,” she said, and then he knew he had lost. After all his careful dealings with the avaricious ladies of the ton, he had been rolled up by a country physician. It was humiliating.
“Ha!” the physician said, a triumphant light in his eyes. “Thank the captain prettily, daughter, and accept his offer of marriage.”
“Thank you for the honour you do me, Captain Marford,” she said. “I accept your offer.”
And Gil could only say, “The honour is entirely mine, Miss Hamilton. I shall do my very best to make you happy.”
But the bleakness in her eyes dismayed him.
6: A Visit To Canterbury
A night’s sleep, aided by laudanum, brought Gil back from the brink of despair. It was not what he had wanted — not what either of them had wanted — but there was no use repining over what could not be helped. He would marry the girl and settle her at Drummoor, then he could go back to Dover and, in time, the Peninsula to do his bit against Bonaparte. When he was not soldiering, he could enjoy himself just as he always had. No one expected a man to live in his wife’s pocket. Perhaps he would do as most men of rank did, and set himself up a real mistress instead of playing around with other men’s wives. That might work better for both of them. He would not need to see Genista more than once or twice a year, and she could live her own life in his absence. She would hardly want to make a splash in London. And when he was with her, he would be able to run his fingers through that lustrous hair of hers. No, it was not so bad.
There was another benefit to his unexpected betrothal, in that the trip to Canterbury to obtain the licence would enable him to send letters to his colonel, and also to Carrbridge, assuring them both that he had not run off, but had been kept in the wilds of Kent by the snow. He scratched a quick note to Davy, too, waiting and wondering at Marford House in London, and then, his conscience pricking him, another to the inn where he had hired the horse, explaining that he had lost the creature in the snow, but to send the bill to Marford House. He decided not to mention his marriage to anyone. It would be amusing to surprise everyone at Drummoor when he turned up with his bride.
He was uneasily aware that his brother could be quite high in the instep when it came to the family honour. Being a marquess and a peer of the realm, he was very conscious of anything that reflected badly on
the Marford name, and he might well feel that bringing a physician’s daughter into the family was just such a case. But then, Gil was the sixth brother, and with the eldest five all now married and breeding, only a catastrophe could raise him to the title. He was free to marry where he pleased, therefore. Or where he must, in this case. Besides, he had given his word, now, and Carrbridge would certainly not approve him crying off.
The weather was mild, the road beyond Elversham at least was tolerable, and the gig rolled along slowly enough not to cause Gil much pain in his leg. They were rather squashed at first, for the manservant, James, came with them as far as the village. After that it was just the physician and Gil, but the pleasure in being out of doors almost outweighed the physician’s triumphant company. He was not so ill-mannered as to gloat openly, but there was a little smile playing on his lips.
“I do not know why there is such a rush,” Gil grumbled. “Why not call the banns in the regular way?”
“Wait three weeks, when you might disappear at any moment?” the physician said. “Hardly. Now that you have finally agreed to treat my daughter honourably, I do not want to give you any opportunity to run away.”
“You have a very poor opinion of me if you think I would break my word to a lady,” Gil said mildly.
“Indeed,” the physician said.
After that Gil lapsed into resentful silence, and the rest of the journey to Canterbury was accomplished without a word being spoken.
When they arrived at the inn where they were to leave the gig, Gil said, “This looks a likely place for me to hire a post chaise.”
“For what purpose?”
Lord Gilbert (Sons of the Marquess Book 5) Page 5