“Time? It is just past two in the afternoon, and it is Friday.”
“Friday! But I arrived—”
“On Tuesday, yes. You have been ill for days. But Dr Hay said you were merely exhausted and I believe he was right. Ah, here is Connie now.”
The door opened again, and a smiling face peeped round. “Oh, you are awake!” And in she came, and behind her a whole train of other smiling ladies. Some of them looked a little familiar, and she guessed these were the kindly faces who had tended her during her illness. But so many of them! A tide of panic rose inside her.
“No, no, no! Not everyone,” said the lady who had been with her first. “It is too much. Remember what Dr Hay said — no more than two at a time.”
With little mews of disappointment, most of them went out and the room descended into quietude again. Genista relaxed a little but she was still shaking.
“Poor thing!” the newcomer said. “You are quite done up. But you are perfectly safe now. We will take good care of you, and you need not leave this room until you are quite ready. But do you understand where you are?”
“Drummoor? And you are… Connie? But…?” She looked helplessly at the other lady.
“I am Connie, yes, the Marchioness of Carrbridge, so this is my home. And this is Belle,” said Connie. “She is my sister. All my sisters are here for Easter, it is the most charming thing in the world, the first time we have all been together since Amy married. And all my sisters-in-law too, so you see, your appearing just now is the most fortuitous event. Nothing could be more delightful!”
And she smiled so widely that Genista could not for a moment doubt her sincerity. She burst into tears.
“Oh no! What have I said? Oh please, you must not cry again. Please do not.”
“So sorry,” she sobbed. “But I thought… you would be angry with me… turning up unannounced… so rude! And you’re so kind and I don’t deserve it!”
“My dear sister, how could anyone be angry with you? With Gil… certainly! Lord Carrbridge will likely tear him apart with his bare hands when he gets here — if he ever gets here! But you? No blame can possibly attach to you, my dear. What is your name, by the way? We cannot keep calling you ‘my dear’, like those people one meets once a year and can never remember the name of.”
“My name?”
“Yes, for we tried to guess it from your things, but we did not get on very well. Your hair brushes are marked ‘F H’, you see, but the portmanteau is ‘Lady Wetherbourne’, which did not seem right, for I know the baron and there is no Lady Wetherbourne. And then your psalter has ‘F D’ on the flyleaf. It was very confusing.”
“I think you are a Frances,” Belle said. “Or Florence? Frederica? Felicity?”
Genista laughed. “Genista.”
“Oh!” they cried in unison. “Not an F at all!”
“That was my mother. Flora Draper before she married, and Flora Hamilton later. And Lady Wetherbourne…” She stopped, the ever-present tears rising to the surface again. But that was old history. “My sister nearly married a baron, but he cried off at the last minute.”
“Oh!” they said again. “What a wicked thing to do!”
“Yes, because he left her with child and ruined, and she had to marry a farmer and it was all horrible and Father was so angry about it, and I think that was why he was so determined that I should marry Gil, in case I got spoilt like Di.” And then the whole story tumbled out and they listened with such sympathy that she felt, for the first time, that someone understood.
“You poor dear!” Connie said, wiping away tears of her own. “I do feel for you most sincerely. Marriage is not an easy business even when one loves one’s husband very deeply, and I cannot imagine enduring all that has happened to you without going mad, or wanting to kill someone. Probably Gil, to be truthful. That is where the blame lies. He is a sweet boy in many ways, but never a thought in his head beyond the moment.”
“Marriage will settle him, when he comes round to the idea,” Belle said. “It is difficult to find oneself responsible for a wife and children without growing up just a little. He is very young, still.”
“But do you like him, Genista?” Connie said. “He can be very charming, when he sets his mind to it.”
And Genista blushed and said yes, she had noticed that. Charming and with the face of an angel, although she didn’t mention that, naturally. The two ladies smiled, and exchanged glances. But her feelings were never the issue. Gil was handsome, worldly and rich, and when he turned his attention on her, he made her feel as if she were drowning in those blue eyes with the impossibly long lashes. Naturally she was drawn to him, as she had been from the first moment she had met him. It could not be otherwise, and with the least effort he could surely make her head over heels in love with him. Indeed, she was already most of the way there.
But she was everything he was not — plain, rustic and poor, with nothing at all to attract him. He would never love her as she loved him, that was clear to see. He would always want more, and so he would always look elsewhere for affection. There would always be someone to draw him away — someone beautiful and worldly and enticing like Lady Dryton. She understood that. However despondent it made her feel, she understood it and accepted it. That was how the world was. Not everyone could have the good fortune to marry for love. But it made her sad, all the same.
~~~~~
Gil ached all over, and his leg felt as if it were burning up. When he slithered in unusually ungainly fashion from his horse in the inn yard, Davy said, “Right, that settles it. We’ll go the rest of the way by post chaise.” Gil was too weak to argue. He left Davy to arrange their accommodation, content merely to collapse into a chair beside the fire as soon as their parlour was readied for them.
“Now don’t be angry, Gil, but I’ve sent for the local physician,” Davy said diffidently. “Someone has to take a look at that leg, and I don’t want to answer to his lordship if it has to come off in the end, when it might’ve been prevented.”
“I wish Genista were here,” Gil said fretfully, shivering over the fire.
“Lord, Gil, you’re not in any fit state to be thinking about that sort of thing. You need to take things easy for a while.”
Gil managed half a smile. “No, not in that way. She put some foul poultice on my leg down in Kent, but it was damned effective.”
“Of course. She was the physician’s daughter. I suppose she knows all sorts of remedies.”
“She remedied me well enough. I was sick as a horse when I arrived on her doorstep, and frankly I would not have wagered a farthing on my chances, but she had me in plump currant in very short order. Clever little thing, my wife. I hope she got to Drummoor safe and sound. God, it is hot in here. Are you hot, or is it just me?”
“It’s just you, Gil. You’re burning up with fever. How about we stay here for a couple of nights, get that leg properly rested?”
Gil shook his head violently. “Got to get to Drummoor. Genista will straighten me out. Is there any brandy? Or a decent claret?””
The physician came, tutted over Gil’s leg, cleaned, poulticed and bound it, and went away ten guineas richer.
“Lord, you must be ill,” Davy said, grinning. “Never known you pay the sawbones without making a fuss before.”
“Leg feels better,” Gil said, half asleep beside the fire, brandy glass in hand. “Happy to pay for that.”
“Do you want some of this mutton?” Davy said. “There’s a decent pigeon pie, too.”
“Think I might go to bed.”
He slept tolerably well, ate a modest breakfast and made no protest when Davy pushed him into a post chaise. The weather had turned, and there was a certain satisfaction in sitting, dry and warm, in comfort while the rain cascaded down outside. He was still tired enough to doze, off and on. When they next stopped, he himself suggested sending for a physician.
Davy threw him an anxious look. “You must be bad.”
“Just… feeling
foolish. Should never have gone to Essex. Not even an interesting mill, in the end, and all that riding… damned leg! But I do not want to lose it. I need to be sensible, for once in my life.”
“Aye, well, it would be a first, true enough,” Davy said, grinning.
“Be home tomorrow,” Gil said. “Then I shall be fine. Be glad to be back at Drummoor, although I suppose Connie will have the place full to the rafters. Be lovely to see Genista again, and hear all about her adventures.”
Another good night’s sleep, aided by some medicament from the physician, saw Gil in a happier frame of mind the next day. His leg was much better, and his fears of losing it were receding. Besides, every mile northwards saw them a mile closer to Drummoor and home. By the time they pulled up outside the front door, he was filled with happy anticipation.
It was only when Crabbe and his troop of footmen came slowly down the steps and made no effort to unload the luggage that Gil began to wonder.
“Good day to you, Crabbe! How are you?”
“Very well, thank you, my lord, but pray tell your man not to unload anything. You will not be stopping.”
“Not be stopping? Whatever do you mean?”
“I have orders not to admit you to the house, my lord.”
“Not—? What, is there measles about, or some such? I am sure I have had everything of that kind.”
“Nothing of that nature, my lord, but I have very explicit orders from his lordship not to admit you to the house.”
“What nonsense!” Gil said, but uncertainly, having no notion what to make of his sudden prohibition. “Why?”
“I couldn’t say, my lord, but my orders are very clear. If you would get back into the carriage—”
“I shall do no such thing! What a ridiculous idea, to turn me away from my own home like this. Where is Carrbridge? Let me talk to him, and see if he can make sense of it. Carrbridge! Carrbridge!”
“My lord—” the butler said, reaching out a restraining hand.
As soon as Crabbe laid a hand on him, Gil flew into a rage. “How dare you! Get away from me!” And giving the butler a sharp push, he ran for the doors. The footmen all raced to intercept him, but he shoved one aside, and the others were too slow to intervene. Ignoring the screaming pain in his leg, Gil tore up the steps and through the door into the entrance hall.
“Carrbridge! Carrbridge! Come here and talk to me like a man, not a worm! Where are you, you cowardly dog? What is going on here? Carrbridge!”
And there Carrbridge was, his face suffused with anger, Merton trotting along in his wake. And Monty, looking anxious. Monty always looked anxious when there was trouble.
“What the devil is going on?” Gil yelled. “Crabbe seems to think—”
“Get out of here!” Carrbridge yelled back. “Go on, go away! You are not welcome here, you despicable piece of pond slime! Go away!”
“What is the matter with you? This is my home!”
“Not any more. This is my home, Gil, and you were only ever here on sufferance, because you never gave us anything but trouble, your whole life. Well, this time you have gone too far. You are a total disgrace to the family, and I will not have you here any longer, you hear?”
“What am I supposed to have done?” Gil said, but he had a premonition of what was to come.
“What kind of man would marry a sweet, innocent young lady, and then abandon her, leaving her all alone—”
“She was not alone!”
“—with only your mistress to look after her? For God’s sake, Gil! What were you thinking? But you never do think, do you? Did you ever once consider her feelings rather than your own? She came all this way to meet your family, and you could not even bother to accompany her, to explain anything she might need to know, to help her over the difficulties. She was very distressed when she arrived, I can tell you, very distressed indeed, and who can blame her? She is under my care now, and you are not to come near her, you hear?”
“But she is my wife, Carrbridge! A man is entitled to see his wife, surely?”
“You forfeited any entitlement when you abandoned her. You may do as you please, Gil, as you always have, but while I have breath in my body you will not mistreat a lady. No gentleman would ever do such a thing, and I will not have it, you hear? You are a disgrace to the Marford name, and you are no gentleman and no brother of mine. Now get out. I never want to see you again.”
Gil’s blood ran cold at the implacable hostility in his brother. He had never seen him like this before.
“But where am I to go?” he whispered. “The nearest decent inn is at Sagborough.”
“You may rot in a ditch for all I care,” Carrbridge said.
Merton coughed. “Perhaps Lord Gilbert would not mind staying at Lake Cottage? Mrs Merton would be happy to have a guest for a night or two — until something more permanent can be arranged.”
“I would not inflict him on anyone civilised,” Carrbridge said disdainfully.
“Thank you, that is very kind,” Gil said quickly. “I should be happy to accept.”
Carrbridge grunted and folded his arms, his mouth set into a thin line.
Monty crossed the hall in three quick strides. “Are you able to walk through the park? It is so much quicker… but the carriage might be best,” he added hastily.
Gil felt himself sway, the room spinning around him. Damn it, he would not faint, not in front of his brother. He would not give him the satisfaction. Slowly he turned and, with as much dignity as he could muster, walked back outside to the waiting post chaise. Monty matched him step by step on one side, and Merton on the other, and although he felt their sympathy, it still felt as though he were being escorted away from the house. His home. Or perhaps not, any longer.
He climbed wearily into the chaise.
“I shall get my coat and run down to the house,” Merton said. “I shall be there before you, so that Mrs Merton can make all ready for you. I am afraid you must take your pot luck tonight. Our dinners tend to be simple.”
“Doubt he’ll eat more than soup,” Davy muttered. “Look at him! Quite knocked up, he is.”
“So he is,” Merton said. “I shall ask Dr Hay to look in. There you are, my lord. I shall await you at Lake Cottage. Drive on!”
The chaise lurched into motion, as Gil leaned back against the squabs, eyes closed.
Now what was he to do?
11: News
Dr Hay came within the hour, poked and prodded Gil thoroughly, and then tutted over his leg. He was a dapper man, younger than Gil had expected and so frail he looked as though the least breeze would push him over.
“The bones are sound, which is the main thing, but infection is the greatest risk,” he said. “You must rest it, my lord.”
“I know, I know,” Gil said testily. “You can fix it, though, I daresay? Stop it hurting all the time?”
“I shall do what I can. A new poultice—”
“My wife’s poultice was the best. Got me right in no time.”
“Lady Gilbert physicked you?”
“Her father is a physician. She knows what she is about.”
“Ah. Then I shall ask her what she used.”
“Have you seen her?” Gil said, sitting up abruptly from the chaise longue where he had been stretched out. “How is she? Carrbridge said she was distressed.”
“She has been quite ill—”
“Ill? She has been ill? And he will not let me see her! It is abominable! But is she better now?”
Dr Hay looked up from his bandaging, his hands stilling. “She is a great deal better, certainly. Her illness was no more than exhaustion from the journey, and then finding herself amongst so many people. Your wife has led a quiet life, I think, Lord Gilbert. She is not accustomed to society — balls, dinners, the theatre, that sort of thing.”
Gil gave an exclamation of annoyance. “I was going to take her to the theatre. She said she had always wanted to go.”
“She would have found the crowds troubl
esome,” Dr Hay said. “What she needs most is quiet, and gentleness, and to be sheltered from company as much as possible. Lady Carrbridge is taking good care of her, I believe. But Lady Gilbert is anxious about you, my lord. She will be happy to know that you have arrived safely. In a day or two, I hope to be able to give her a good report of this leg of yours, too.”
“Will you see her soon? Will you give her a message from me? If I write something?”
“I should not like to go against Lord Carrbridge’s instructions,” Dr Hay said quietly. “However, I shall represent to him that it would settle Lady Gilbert’s anxieties if she were to see you for herself. She frets about you rather.”
“Does she? Poor Genista!” he said, lying back dispiritedly. “Two weeks married, and already she is fretting about me. I imagined she would be enjoying herself. I never thought…”
And he remembered Carrbridge’s words… ‘You never do think, do you?’
Gil sat through the Mertons’ dinner, and discovered that Merton was right, it was very simple, no more than five or six dishes, not including the soup. He ate a little, without enthusiasm, while Merton and his wife carried the conversation between them. At first, they enquired about his journey and his time at the army camp at Dover, but when his answers grew monosyllabic, they talked together on domestic matters and left him to his thoughts.
Later, Dr Hay returned, armed with Genista’s poultice, made with her own hands, and the news that she was very glad to hear that he was safe and well, and would be happy to see him whenever it suited. That just made Gil angry all over again. Carrbridge was so high-handed these days, and far too sensitive about the family honour. He had no business to keep a man from his wife, it was despicable. And probably illegal, although he was no lawyer.
But when he said as much to Merton over a final brandy, after Mrs Merton had retired for the night, Merton had set his brandy glass down and steepled his hands.
“Maybe it is not my place to tell you this, my lord, but Lord Carrbridge is, if I may be so presumptuous as to comment, not quite his usual even-tempered self at the moment. He has his own difficulties to contend with which make him perhaps unwilling to be as tolerant as he has been in the past.”
Lord Gilbert (Sons of the Marquess Book 5) Page 10