Lord Fenmore smiled across at George, before he addressed Mr Bateman once more. “If I wished to make an enemy of your employer, I would attempt to lure you away. As it is, I will merely request that you write down your recipes. Better yet, when the snow has melted, I will send my chef here for a day to learn from the hand of a master.”
“Indeed,” Cousin George said smoothly. “Assisting one’s neighbour is one of the virtues, is it not? We will be delighted to oblige.”
Isabel stole a glance at Mr Bateman. He was a brilliant actor. If she had not known he had donned a disguise, she would have been as convinced as the rest of the party that the man standing before her was an eccentric French chef. From the gesticulations he made with his hands, to his perfect accent, he epitomised a Gallic artiste.
He glanced her way, and Isabel held her breath. The expression of unholy amusement in those eyes was unsettling, and for a brief moment, she could not look away. Gradually, she became aware of her surroundings, and lowered her gaze to the cream tablecloth. Mr Bateman appeared to be enjoying himself hugely. He was an incorrigible man, of that there was no doubt, but she couldn’t help but admire him for the confident way he had handled a very awkward situation.
She looked up again and their eyes caught and held. Then she peeked at Lady Kildaren, who was seated further down the table, and they shared a conspiratorial smile. The older lady gave a brief nod before saying in a regal voice, “You are a most accomplished chef, my good man. Most talented.”
Isabel repressed a horrified giggle and stared down at the table. They were all getting in very deep.
Chapter Six
The next morning, after she had assisted with the breakfast preparations, Isabel visited her mother in her dressing room. “Good morning, Mama.”
“My dear Belle!” Her mother laid aside the book she was reading as she reclined in her fine silk dressing gown. “How do you go on? Is it dreadful to be working in that kitchen?”
“I am quite enjoying the cooking – the kitchen is remarkably well equipped.” Isabel sat on the sofa beside her. “It is strange to be working with Mr Bateman, however. I shudder to think what might have happened last night if Lord Fenmore had seen through his disguise.”
Her mother chuckled. “Mr Bateman had the advantage over Lord Fenmore in that he would never have suspected Mr Bateman could cook. I admit to a few qualms myself after he asked to meet him, although I suspected Mr Bateman would carry the day. He is nothing if not a resourceful man, according to Cousin George.”
“He looked ridiculous in that costume.”
“Cousin George says Mr Bateman had to live on his wits when he was banished to America. He is probably used to thinking on his feet in difficult circumstances. Lady Kildaren told me so as well. I am surprised she didn’t swoon at the dining table last night when Mr Bateman came upstairs.”
“She is made of much sterner stuff than that, I suspect. Rather like her grandson.”
“Cousin George maintains he would never have made such a success of their shipping venture without Mr Bateman at his side. Of course, it helped that Mr Bateman inherited a tidy sum upon his grandfather’s passing and invested it wisely. He has recently inherited his family estate, as well, so it is a good thing the pair of them returned home when they did!”
Isabel smiled, but said nothing, and her mother said, “Why do you look so? As if you are harbouring a secret?”
“Are you not aware, Mama dear, that you quote Cousin George at every turn?”
“Isabel Jane! Whatever are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I believe Cousin George has equally warm feelings for you.”
Her usually unflappable mother turned a delicate shade of pink. “Oh my dear, do you think so? He – he is so very much the gentleman. So agreeable and – and considerate of others. However, it cannot be – his age!”
“What of his age?”
“He is seven years my junior. It is quite scandalous to even think in this vein. Children!” she said in a strangled voice. “My age!”
“He is a widower, Mama. It would perhaps be a different matter if he had never been married and hadn’t a son. But William is grown and at Cambridge. There is no reason why Cousin George should not propose to you now.”
“He was such a support when your papa died. I did wonder these past two years, after he returned home, whether he may regard me in a warmer light. However, he – he hasn’t declared himself or even hinted at his intentions.”
“Of course not, Mama. He has had to wait a respectable interval after Papa’s death to court you. Besides, I believe he has been renovating Chernock Hall for his bride. I believe he is in love with you.”
“My dear, it would be wonderful if that were so. However, I – well, never mind about that now. I have been wondering how you are faring? Is it very painful to see Lord Fenmore and Miss Hamilton together?”
Isabel shrugged. Her feelings were strangely numb. “It isn’t easy. But I must accustom myself to it.”
“Indeed! You rusticated for years at Axbridge, with only your memories of Fenmore to bring you any comfort, and perhaps that is why it is still so painful for you. Getting out into Society and meeting new people will do you the world of good. You are still young enough to find another husband.”
“I don’t want another husband.”
Her mother sighed. “But surely you want children, Belle?”
“Not if it means I must suffer the loss of my independence. I am finally free, Mama. Do you not see that? I have my jointure, and I am not dependent on the whims of a husband. I loved Julian. I don’t believe I will ever find another love like that. Besides, independence I have long considered as the grand blessing of life; and independence I will ever secure by contracting my wants, though I were to live on a barren heath.”
“Well a barren heath sounds far more comfortable than a barren womb,” her mother said tartly. “I should never have allowed you to read Mary Wollstonecraft as a girl! Her ideas are vastly unfashionable these days. You must refrain from quoting her if you wish to be accepted in Society.”
“The only good thing about being married to Axbridge was the unfettered access I had to his library. I have read so widely that I believe I am no longer a natural fit for Society.”
“But, Isabel! You need the company of others. You cannot continue to live like a hermit. I rue the day your papa agreed to marry you off as he did. You became a recluse, chained to an ailing man.” She sighed. “And you are so very beautiful, my love. You could marry again, and have a family. That is my dearest wish for you.”
“Taught from infancy that beauty is woman’s sceptre, the mind shapes itself to the body, and roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison.”
“Well, the prison you inhabit has certain benefits! Now, let us have no more of Wollstonecraft’s quotes. I believe you are hiding behind her ideas as you are too frightened to take another chance on love.”
“I will never marry again.”
“Hmmm,” was all her mother said in response.
Isabel left the dressing room a short while later, and made her way down the stairs to the kitchen. When she entered the lofty room, she saw a short, stout man standing at the kitchen range, interrogating Becky.
He turned and threw his hands in the air. “What is this I hear of house guests cooking in my kitchen? C’est insupportable!”
“I am pleased you have recovered, Monsieur. We have been assisting Becky and Molly with the cooking.”
“We? We?”
“Oui.”
At that moment, the kitchen door opened, and Mr Bateman strode in, bringing a blast of freezing cold air with him. He bowed in Isabel’s direction. “A path has been made to the home farm, so fresh supplies will be delivered to the kitchen this morning.”
Mr Bateman was swathed in a greatcoat and wore sturdy hob-nail boots on his feet. He carried some sort of tool, which consisted of a flat board and a rope.
“Have you b
een packing down the snow to the outbuildings yourself, Mr Bateman?”
“A groom from the stables assisted me.”
“I am sure my cousin would not like you to do such work.”
“I do not enjoy being cooped up indoors all day, my lady. I welcomed the exercise.” He looked across at the Frenchman, whose mouth was opening and closing like a dying trout. “Monsieur Martin?” he said.
“Indeed, it is I. I have been hearing these – these strange rumeurs – that you and Madame la Marquise have been cooking in my kitchen!”
“It was out of necessity, Monsieur. We will be delighted to hand back the reins to you now you are recovered.”
Isabel studied the chef. He looked a little pale, but it was doubtful he would agree to return to his bedchamber for the rest of the day.
“Where is Anna?” Monsieur Martin asked suddenly.
“I am afraid she is also unwell, and is recovering in her bedchamber,” Isabel said.
“But this cannot be! She is ma main droite. The other girls – bah!”
“I will assist you with the meal preparations, Monsieur.”
“As will I,” Mr Bateman said.
Monsieur Martin puffed out his cheeks in an alarming fashion, and hurried to the pantry, muttering under his breath.
Isabel caught Mr Bateman’s eye, and smiled. “Perhaps it would be best if we alternate duties in the kitchen to avoid suspicion that one of us is always absent during the day? We will also both be able to dine upstairs now that Monsieur is back on his feet.”
Mr Bateman inclined his head, but said nothing, and Isabel sighed. Perhaps he had no desire to join the house party again, if it meant being exposed to the blandishments of Miss Wetherby and her mother. But it could not be helped. It was time they took their rightful places in the world again.
* * *
The gentlemen joined the ladies promptly after dinner that evening, and Mr Bateman entered the drawing room on seemingly excellent terms with Captain Wetherby. After conversing with the older man for a lengthy period, Mr Bateman made his way across the room to where Mr Wetherby and his sister were playing a hand of piquet.
Isabel, seated on the sofa beside Lady Kildaren, forced herself to pay attention to the old lady, who was making astringent observations about the state of modern society. Occasionally, Isabel allowed her gaze to wander to the other side of the room, which was how she came to catch Mr Wetherby’s eye.
He nodded and smiled, and crossed the room to join them. “Would you care to stroll to the end of the drawing room with me, Lady Axbridge? There is a painting on the wall there which fills me with admiration.”
Isabel glanced apologetically at Lady Kildaren, before standing and placing her hand in the crook of Mr Wetherby’s proffered arm.
“You are looking particularly beautiful tonight, your ladyship,” he said smoothly.
Isabel gave him a perfunctory smile. On the surface, Mr Wetherby appeared well-mannered and gentlemanlike, but there was a curiously cold expression in his eyes which made her uncomfortable. Though he did not possess his father’s florid complexion and booming voice, Isabel had no doubt he would age to be the exact image of his sire.
“Here it is.” Mr Wetherby drew her to a halt.
Isabel looked at the painting, which was of a ballroom scene. In the forefront, a gentleman leaned forward to converse with a lady, who sat alone on a settee, holding a fan in her hands.
“The lady appears somewhat reluctant,” Isabel said. “She holds that fan as if it were a shield.”
Mr Wetherby laughed. “To my eyes, she is eager to speak to her suitor. A woman is often most captivated by the man she appears to be holding at bay.”
“She is not smiling,” Isabel said. “More often than not, an appearance of indifference is precisely that.”
“Ha! The ancient art of dissimulation.”
Isabel clenched her teeth, and stepped away from Mr Wetherby, just as Mr Bateman came to her side and said, “Lady Axbridge, my grandmother begs a word with you about the indoor entertainments you are planning for tomorrow.”
Isabel placed her hand on his outstretched arm, and nodded to Mr Wetherby before walking away from him.
“You appear to be grinding your teeth,” Mr Bateman said. “Are you vexed with Mr Wetherby or with me?”
“Why should I be vexed with you?”
“Do you really wish me to answer that question?” He smiled lazily down at her.
Isabel’s cheeks warmed. “Sir! You presume too much. You do not know my thoughts – so please desist from trying to examine them. They are of a private nature.”
“Your thoughts and feelings spill out onto your features, my dear. Your eyes and mouth were never meant to repress emotion. They are too expressive for that.”
Isabel frowned. He spoke as if he knew her, and could see beneath the layers she had put between herself and the world. She moved away from him, and took refuge beside her mother, who was outlining the planned activities for the following day to Lady Kildaren.
“I think a game of charades would be a fine activity to alleviate the boredom of being housebound. Do you not agree, Belle?”
“Indeed, Mama. Cousin George has an excellent selection of costumes from which we can choose.”
The conversation turned to a discussion of amateur dramatics when Lady Kildaren was a young girl, and Isabel avoided looking at Mr Bateman again. Why did he feel the need to challenge her at every turn? It was vastly uncomfortable to have him prodding and poking around in her affairs every time she had a conversation with him. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to see right beneath the trappings of her rank and title and position. It was unnerving – and it would not do at all. She must keep him at arm’s length from now on.
Chapter Seven
After the rest of the party retired for the night, Isabel made her way down to the kitchen. There, slumped in a chair in front of the kitchen table, she found Monsieur Martin. “It would be best if you retired now, Monsieur. You have been very ill, and you need to rest.”
The Frenchman wiped a hand across his brow. “Eh bien, I do not feel quite well now. It came on suddenly.”
“Is there anything you wish me to do?”
“Non, non.” He stood and made his way to the door. “All is well. Becky has done all that is required. I will see you on the morrow.”
At a sound behind her, Isabel spun around to see Mr Bateman stroll into the kitchen. He stepped to one side as the Frenchman bowed and left the room, and then crossed to stand close beside her.
“We meet again, my lady.”
“I came to see whether Monsieur Martin needed any assistance.”
“I was of the same mind. Is everything in order?”
“Indeed – although he doesn’t look at all the thing.” She frowned.
“He will have to suffer our assistance a while longer, in that case.”
He crossed his arms, and gazed down at her, and Isabel’s heart started to race. There was something very purposeful about his stance. She moved to one side, in preparation to leaving the room, and heard a distant bellow.
“What is that?”
Mr Bateman’s brow furrowed in concern. “It sounds like an animal in distress.” He strode to the kitchen door, and opened it. “It’s coming from the direction of the home farm. I will fetch my coat…”
He left the room, and Isabel stared at the shut door which led out into the kitchen courtyard. The hour was very late, and the farmhands were in all probability fast asleep, which meant Mr Bateman would not have anyone to assist him. She sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was to traipse outdoors in the freezing cold, but Mr Bateman might need some help.
Becky’s stout outdoor shoes were on the mat at the back door, and the thick woollen cloak she wore when she went out to the kitchen gardens hung on a nearby hook, with a grey woollen cap beside it. When Isabel flung the cloak around her shoulders over her cashmere shawl, she found a pair of woollen gloves tucked inside a pocket.<
br />
She sat on a kitchen chair and tugged the cap down over her ears, before pulling the boots on under her petticoat. They were a little loose, but they would keep her feet warm and dry.
She had removed her white evening gloves, and was pulling on Becky’s simple grey gloves, when Mr Bateman returned to the kitchen, carrying a lit glass lantern. He glanced briefly at her, before picking up the pair of hobnailed boots he had worn earlier that day. “It is a good thing I didn’t return these boots to your cousin’s steward.”
“I will accompany you, Mr Bateman.”
“I assumed you would. Why else would you be attired in Becky’s outdoor clothing?”
“You – you have no objection?”
“Why should I object? I may need someone to hold the lantern.” He took off his evening shoes and pulled on the boots.
Isabel swallowed. “I – that is – it is not quite ladylike.”
He smiled. “My dear Lady Axbridge, I am not of the opinion that noble women have an inability to be useful. Now make haste,” he said, as they heard the bellowing again. “That poor animal is in a great deal of distress.”
He opened the kitchen door, and held the lantern aloft. Isabel winced as the freezing air hit her cheeks.
“It hasn’t snowed since I made that path. We shouldn’t have any trouble reaching the outbuildings. You walk in front of me, and I will light the way.”
Isabel nodded, and placed one foot carefully in front of the other. The snow had been packed down well, and Becky’s boots had good traction, so she experienced no difficulty walking over the frozen surface. Hearing another bellow, she picked up her pace, and wobbled precariously as she lost her footing.
Mr Bateman caught her, and Isabel felt suddenly breathless as his strong arm held her tightly against his chest.
“Don’t walk so fast,” he murmured in her ear. His breath warmed her skin, and a shiver ran up her spine. She resisted the urge to lean back against him as he released her. His presence was so calming and reassuring on this cold, dark night. Her heart beat loudly in her ears. Surely he must hear it? They walked on in silence for a few more minutes and Isabel tried not to hurry as the bellows became louder and louder. It would not do at all if she slipped again.
A Marchioness Below Stairs Page 5