The Reluctant Marchioness

by Anne Ashley

  ‘Mary has him safe. They’re in the front parlour.’

  ‘In that case,’ his lordship put in, ‘you are free to go about your duties. In fact, you can take yourself off to the local inn and inform my servants that they are to return here with my carriage immediately.’

  Patrick’s expression was openly insolent, as he looked his lordship over from head to toe. ‘To be sure now, I could do that if I took me orders from you. Which I don’t.’

  Jennifer decided it might be wise to intervene. ‘Please, Patrick. Do as his lordship requests.’

  After taking a moment or two to transfer his gaze to her, he gave a brief nod of assent, and then walked slowly back across the lawn, his lordship following his progress until Patrick had disappeared round the corner of the house.

  ‘I shall take leave to inform you, madam, that your choice of servants leaves much to be desired,’ he announced, turning back in time to see her attempting to suppress a smile.

  ‘Both Mary Harper and Patrick Fahy can be outspoken on occasions, I’ll admit, but their unfailing loyalty more than compensates for this defect.’ She raised her chin, mimicking his haughty gaze to perfection. ‘Furthermore, they are my servants, Wroxam. Kindly remember that in future.’

  ‘Whether they remain so is far from certain,’ he countered with a certain grim satisfaction, which instantly sent alarm bells chiming rather loudly in her head.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Simply this…’ He took out his snuffbox and left her anxiously waiting while he made use of its contents. ‘You can return with me now to Wroxam Park, or delay no longer in making your farewells to our son.’

  The following morning, as Jennifer seated herself in her husband’s carriage once again, she remembered vividly the very last occasion she had travelled through this part of the country. She was forced to accept the unpalatable fact that her situation now was no better than it had been then. If anything, it was considerably worse.

  She glanced briefly across at her son, all eagerness to continue the journey after their overnight stay at the superior posting-house, before transferring her gaze to the man sitting on the seat beside him. The feeling that surged through her was decidedly hostile.

  A choice he had offered her. Bitter resentment, corrosive as acid, coursed through her veins. What choice? There had been no choice! How could she be separated from the person who had become her whole life, even for the short time it might have taken her to come up with some idea to get him back? And it would certainly need to be a foolproof scheme, she reminded herself, for no court in the land would deny Wroxam sole custody of their son, if he chose to seek it. Yes, the law was most definitely on his side. Consequently, when she did attempt to effect her and her son’s escape, she must face the fact that she would be doing so illegally. Therefore, it would mean that for the foreseeable future they would need to hide themselves away, perhaps in Europe.

  Sadly no scheme had occurred to her as yet; not even after last night, when she had lain awake for hours considering her plight, and thinking about little Charles, under the watchful eye of his father, in the next room. Evidently Wroxam considered that she wasn’t to be trusted. Which was most astute of him! She doubted that his vigilance would subside for some considerable time, so she would need to bide hers, and await her opportunity. In the meantime…

  ‘Mama, why aren’t Mary and Patrick travelling with us?’

  The unexpected question forced Jennifer to abandon her schemes for the future, and she easily managed to smile across at the being who was her sole reason for living. She had wondered how long it would be before he queried both Mary and Patrick’s absence; had wondered too just how much Wroxam had disclosed to his son during the evening and night they had spent together.

  ‘I told you yesterday, Charles, before we set out, that Mary and Patrick would be going to London to collect my belongings from the house I have been using in the capital. They will follow in a few days.’

  He appeared to accept this readily enough this time, but she doubted his questions would stop there. Her son had always possessed an enquiring mind, so she was not in the least surprised to be asked, ‘Will we be going back to Ireland after we’ve stayed in his lordship’s house for a while, Mama?’

  ‘You shall not be returning to Ireland, Charles. You are to make your home with me,’ his lordship answered, before Jennifer could voice a non-committal response.

  ‘Am I, sir?’

  Seeking confirmation, Charles turned to her, but Jennifer found herself quite unable to assure him that this was so, when every fibre of her being recoiled at the mere idea of sharing a house with her husband again. Seemingly Wroxam sensed the war raging within, for he stared across at her, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.

  ‘Indeed, you are, my boy,’ he said softly, his eyes never wavering from the lovely, taut features of his wife, ‘because I wish it so.’

  ‘Do you, sir? Why?’

  A moment’s silence, then, ‘Because I am your father.’

  If there had been a secret compartment beneath her seat, Jennifer would quite happily have made use of it, and hidden herself away. Was Wroxam determined to make her situation as uncomfortable as possible? Why in heaven’s name could he not have waited a few days, or at least until they had discussed how best to break the news of his parentage to Charles? But no, he had had to go ahead and blurt it out that way, damn him! Little wonder poor Charles was looking so bewildered!

  ‘But—but my papa is dead,’ he announced, his forehead puckering. ‘Mama said so. He was a brave soldier. He died in Spain, didn’t he, Mama?’

  Jennifer could feel the noose of retribution slowly tightening about her throat. She raised her eyes, well expecting to see the man seated opposite still smugly smiling, thoroughly enjoying her discomfiture, and was surprised to discover what might have been a hint of sympathy lurking in grey depths.

  ‘Your mama, like several others, assumed the worst when I went missing in Spain, but as you can see I managed to return unscathed. I shall tell you all about it one day, but not now.’

  Jennifer couldn’t have been more surprised. Julian had been in Spain…? Surely not!

  Not knowing whether to believe him or not, she watched one shapely hand disappear into the pocket of the elegantly tailored jacket, and reappear a moment later clasping a delicately painted enamel snuffbox. Evidently the taking of snuff was a habit he had acquired during their years apart. The man was certainly full of surprises!

  She transferred her attention to her son who, at that moment, appeared lost in admiration for the way his recently acquired sire opened the delicately painted lid with an expert flick of one long finger. Then, quite unexpectedly, she saw lines of disapproval furrow his young brow once again.

  ‘Mama does not approve of gentlemen taking snuff,’ Charles remarked, having quickly recognised the contents of the small box. ‘She says it makes a mess everywhere, besides turning nostrils a horrid yellow.’

  Jennifer didn’t know how she managed to stop herself from laughing when long fingers checked in the act of extracting a pinch of the brownish-coloured powder. She doubted that Wroxam was accustomed to having his practices criticised, most especially by candid eight-year-old boys. How very disconcerting for the poor man!

  ‘And shall I like living in your house, sir?’ Charles asked, after watching the snuffbox, its contents untouched, being returned to his father’s pocket.

  ‘I sincerely hope you do, my son.’

  ‘And is it a big house, with hundreds and hundreds of rooms?’

  ‘Not quite hundreds, no. But it is certainly large enough for you to have a bedchamber of your own. Which, I might add, shall be situated farthest from my own, as you are fast proving to be an unconscionable gabble-monger.’

  Charles was not slow to note the faint twitch at one corner of his father’s mouth, but his impish chuckle was swiftly checked when his lordship laid his head against the velvet squabs and closed his eyes.


  ‘Why are you going to sleep, sir? You’ve only just got out of bed.’

  ‘I have not long left a bedchamber, true,’ his lordship agreed, keeping his eyes firmly closed. ‘But I attained precious little rest there. You even chatter in your sleep, my son.’

  Charles turned an indignant little countenance towards his mother. ‘I do not talk in my sleep, do I, Mama?’

  ‘I have not frequently heard you, no,’ she consoled him, ever the doting mother.

  What he might have revealed when asleep was of little concern. What he might disclose during the days and weeks ahead most definitely was, but there was little she could do to prevent it, short of swearing him to secrecy. And that was something she would never do!

  She had no wish for him to look upon his father as some kind of ogre in whom he could never confide. Not that she considered there was much chance of this ever occurring, at least not on the evidence of the past few hours. Early days they might be, but amazingly Wroxam was betraying all the signs of becoming a very considerate father. Charles had swiftly lost all vestige of shyness with him. Which, of course, was a good thing as far as her son was concerned, but which might prove disastrous for her, especially if he grew too fond of Wroxam.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charles, what did you say?’ she asked, suddenly realising that he had spoken.

  ‘Why did those people back at the inn call you your la-ladyship, Mama?’

  ‘They addressed me in that way because your father is a peer of the realm, Charles. He is a Marquis.’

  He appeared to consider this for a moment. ‘Am I a mar-marquis too?’

  ‘Not yet, you’re not,’ a deep voice beside him answered. ‘You will be one day. But not, I sincerely trust, for some considerable time to come.’

  Charles turned back to his mother, his young forehead puckering again. ‘Are you a lady Marquis, Mama?’

  ‘My title is Marchioness.’

  ‘Do Patrick and Mary know that you are a mar…mar—’

  ‘Yes, they do.’

  ‘And did Grandpapa James know too?’

  ‘Yes, Charles. Grandpapa James knew.’

  Jennifer looked across at the man opposite. His eyes remained firmly closed, but she knew he was digesting every word. No, she reiterated silently, there was little hope of keeping any part of her past secret from him now.

  The coachman turned into Wroxam Park’s eastern gateway midway through the afternoon, and as the carriage was brought to a halt outside the main entrance to the impressive Restoration mansion, which had once been her home, Jennifer reflected on just how much one’s life can change in a matter of a mere twenty-four hours.

  At this time yesterday she had been sitting in the garden of that comfortable little redbrick house she had hired in the country, happily passing an idyllic spring afternoon indulging in one of her favourite pastimes. She had felt perfectly contented, without a care in the world, and yet here she was now, about to take up residence again in the house which held such bittersweet memories, a house which she had never expected to set eyes on again.

  Sublimely ignoring her husband’s helping hand to alight, she stepped down from the carriage, and walked resolutely into the spacious hall, thankful that Charles was beside her. His excitement and demands to explore each and every room distracted his astute father’s attention, preventing those shrewd grey eyes from studying his mother’s physiognomy too closely.

  After instructing the footman to find a maid to attend her ladyship, Julian turned his attention to Jennifer at last. ‘It would appear that I shall be forced to deprive myself of your company, madam, as our son is determined to keep me fully occupied for the remainder of the afternoon, but I’m certain you remember your way about, and can find your way to your own room without the least trouble. We shall meet again at dinner.’

  Even though she clearly detected the challenging note in his voice, Jennifer found herself crossing the hall. At the head of the wide sweeping staircase, she automatically turned along the gallery passageway towards the west wing. As she reached her old bedchamber, she paused for a moment before slowly pushing open the door and entering. Then she felt as if she had been transported back in time.

  Astonishingly nothing had been touched, nothing had been changed: everything was exactly where she had left it. The silver-backed hairbrush, hand mirror and comb on the dressing table were precisely where she had placed them, beside the delicate crystal bottles which had once held her perfumes. It felt as if she had never been away, and yet she had been absent for more than eight long years, living a completely different lifestyle, where she had been expected to do her share of the work in the running of a house. And she had, enjoying every moment of it!

  What, she wondered, throwing wide the delicately patterned drapes which had been left half-drawn across the windows, would she do with herself now that she was back here, against her will, perhaps, and forced to remain for the foreseeable future? What duties would she be expected to perform?

  Her eyes suddenly strayed to the comfortable four-poster bed, and her blood ran cold. No, surely not that! Surely even he was not so inhuman as to expect her…

  A scratch on the door interrupted the fearful conjecture, and she swung round to see a plump, fresh-faced young woman tentatively enter the room, carrying a pitcher of warm water.

  ‘Begging your pardon, my lady, but I was instructed to wait upon you.’

  Jennifer, regarding the new arrival keenly, frowned in an effort to remember. ‘I do not believe I know you. You were not here before, surely?’ she remarked a trifle disjointedly, her mind racing back over the years.

  ‘No, my lady. I took my sister Daisy’s place when she left to marry the local blacksmith five years back.’

  ‘And what is your name?’

  ‘Rose, your ladyship.’

  Jennifer couldn’t prevent a wry smile at the maid’s automatic courtesy. Charles had remarked upon it during the journey, and she too had still not grown accustomed to being addressed again in such a fashion, even after all those weeks in London. Mary’s presence was partly the reason for this: a constant reminder that she had lived a very different kind of life where courtesy titles had played no part. How she wished Mary were here now!

  ‘Come on, Miss Jenny,’ she had said, shortly before they had parted company the previous afternoon. ‘Don’t you be falling into one of your black moods now. To be sure that won’t help at all. You’ve no choice but to go with the boy. That doesn’t mean that you’re beaten. Why, you’re more than a match for that husband of yours, if you put your mind to it. Stand up to him, Miss Jenny! Don’t give him the chance to break your spirit a second time.’

  The memory of those parting words acted like a balm on her jangled nerves, forcing her to come to terms with her unfortunate predicament. She might have little choice but to remain here, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she would need to kowtow to Wroxam’s every whim. She might be every inch the loving mother; she was no longer the meek, obedient wife. Therefore she would never be coerced into performing the duties of one!

  The arrival of her boxes certainly didn’t deter her from this resolve, but did bring her mind back to the present. When the two footmen had left the room, she instructed Rose to help her unpack.

  If the young maid thought it unusual for a lady of such high standing to demean herself by undertaking such a task, she certainly betrayed no sign of it. She wasn’t, however, so successful in hiding a faint look of disappointment when she began to examine the contents of the boxes.

  ‘What’s the matter, Rose?’ Jennifer asked, after noting the slightly disappointed look.

  ‘Nothing, my lady, except…are you in mourning?’

  Although she had been living something of a double life in recent weeks—the Marchioness of Wroxam in the capital; the young widow Mrs Stapleton at her rented country retreat—telling untruths didn’t come easy to her. Necessity had forced her to keep her identity secret in past years, but now the reason for doing so had literall
y been taken from her, so there was no further inducement to lie.

  ‘I have not suffered the loss of a close relative, Rose, but I did lose someone last autumn…someone I loved very much.’

  The young maid’s eyes betrayed a deal of sympathy, as she lifted the carefully folded black gown from the box. ‘It would be quite in order for you to go in half-mourning now, my lady,’ she suggested, after a moment’s consideration. ‘There’s a pretty mauve gown, and another in pearl grey hanging in the wardrobe.’

  ‘What?’ Jennifer didn’t attempt to conceal her astonishment before she flew across to the larger of the wardrobes and flung wide the doors to see the evidence with her own eyes. Unbelievably, all her clothes were still hanging there, where she had left them. But why?

  She drew out one of the pretty gowns. Old fashioned and a little faded, the dress was one which had made up her trousseau. But why were they still here? The question again filtered through her mind, and she turned to the maid for enlightenment.

  ‘Mrs Liddel insisted that nothing be touched, my lady. She saw to it that the room was swept every week without fail. And in the summer months the drapes were always drawn across the windows in the afternoons to protect the furnishings. It’s been that way ever since I came here five years ago.’

  Jennifer looked again about the room, this time studying everything in minute detail. The housekeeper might have instructed the maids to leave everything as it was, to treat everything with tender, loving care, but she received her orders from Wroxam. So why had he insisted that the room’s contents be preserved? Had he been plagued by a guilty conscience after she had disappeared? Or was it simply that he had felt the need to enter this room from time to time and be reminded of how very foolish he had been in choosing such a faithless creature for a wife?

  As though by a natural progression of thought, she turned to the door which connected their respective bedchambers, and her eyes narrowed as she instantly perceived there was no key in the lock. But then, she reminded herself, that door had never been locked, at least not during the time she had lived in the house. His lordship was undeniably a virile man who had chosen to visit her frequently during those few short months of marriage. Much to her shame, she well remembered how she had welcomed his attentions. Thank the good Lord she had more sense now!