A Marchioness Below Stairs

by Alissa Baxter

  A stone building with a slate roof came into view, and Mr Bateman halted and handed her the lantern. “This is the cow shed.”

  He unlatched the wooden door, and it swung open with a creak. Isabel followed him inside. As the light from the lantern flooded the dark interior, the scent of hay and cow dung assailed her nostrils. A cow arched her back and strained in the corner of the shed, and a young farmhand stood beside the animal.

  “It’s a breech birth, sir,” the boy said in a worried voice. “Them hooves are facing up. My pa left me to watch them cows but I havna done a breech birth afore. I have the rope for pulling but I’m afeared I haven’t the strength.”

  “Let me do that.” Mr Bateman took the rope from the boy and tied it high up around the calf’s legs, and pulled slowly. After a few moments the calf’s hips and ribcage appeared and once they were clear, he quickly delivered the calf.

  It lay limply on the stone floor for a few moments, and Mr Bateman leant over and felt its chest. “There is a heartbeat, but he’s not breathing.”

  He picked up a piece of straw from the manger and stuck it up one of the calf’s nostrils, which caused it to start coughing.

  “He should do now,” he said, as the exhausted cow turned around, and started to lick her calf clean.

  Mr Bateman faced the boy. “What is your name?”

  “Jimmy, sir.”

  “Thank you, Jimmy. You can go back to bed now. Good night.”

  The young boy called a farewell as he left the shed for his sleeping quarters, and Mr Bateman observed the cow and calf for a few moments, before walking across to the drinking trough, scooping a handful of water out, and rinsing his hands. When he returned to where Isabel waited in the middle of the shed, she asked, “Were you also employed as a farm-hand when you lived in America, Mr Bateman?”

  He gave her a long, considered look. “It behooves a landowner to have a basic understanding of matters pertaining to the management of his estates, Lady Axbridge.”

  “Indeed. It seems, however, that you wear so many hats that it is difficult to know which occupation fits you. Are you a cook or a farmer? A shipping magnate or a landed gentleman? I do not know how to think of you.”

  “I am flattered that I feature so largely in your thoughts.”

  “You do not – well not largely,” she revised, catching his amused expression.

  “Are you certain of that? You forgot to mention the most infamous of my occupations, the one which should at least make some impression on your mind.”

  “Which one is that?” she asked, taking a step back. There was something in his teasing grin she didn’t quite trust.

  He removed the lantern from her hand and placed it on the stone floor, and took her in his arms. She had to crane her neck to see his expression. His eyes glinted in the lantern light. “That of a rake.” His lips lowered to hers.

  Isabel’s knees weakened as his lips slanted expertly over hers, and she clutched the front of his greatcoat. Her heart pounded deafeningly in her ears again, and she struggled to breathe. His lips moved away from hers as he trailed light kisses over her cheeks, and she sighed at the exquisite sensation. She didn’t want him to stop.

  A gentle lowing from the corner of the shed broke the spell, and she put her hands up to her burning face.

  “You – you shouldn’t have!”

  He picked up the lantern and held it high so that it illuminated her. “Why not?”

  “I did not come out here to dally with you, Mr Bateman.”

  “Dally! Such an innocent word. But you are an innocent, are you not? Even though you have been married, you do not have the air of a worldly-wise widow.”

  Isabel stood straighter in an effort to shake off the lethargy which still lingered in her limbs. It wouldn’t do to let him see the stunning effect his kiss had had on her. She needed to get back on safer ground. Quickly. “Children, I grant, should be innocent; but when the epithet is applied to men, or women, it is but a civil term for weakness.”

  He raised his brows and then took her by the arm and led her to a nearby wooden crate. “Sit down for a while. I want to remain here until the calf stands on his own. So you have a fondness for Mary Wollstonecraft’s ideas? Why does that not surprise me?”

  “You have read her works?” Isabel gingerly lowered herself onto the crate, and then froze. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to have sat down. Now he loomed over her…

  “I have.”

  “What do you think of her thoughts regarding the education of women?”

  He held the lantern higher to study her face. “It is a fine idea to give women access to the same educational opportunities as men. However, I don’t believe society would countenance freeing women from the domestic trap.”

  Isabel stamped her feet on the flag-stoned floor in an effort to keep warm. “So you do see it as a trap?”

  “Don’t most men? Parson’s Mousetrap is designed to keep society in order. Without such conventions, and the restraining influence women put on men, we would quickly descend into such ramshackle ways that women would be constantly put to the blush.”

  “But they would cease to blush if they were treated as adults and not as dependent children. Wollstonecraft says she does not wish women to have power over men, but only over themselves.”

  “Indeed – although it would be a sad thing if women were so in control of themselves that they lost the ability to blush. It is one of the more charming characteristics of the fairer sex, I’ve often thought.”

  “A rake would say that.”

  He laughed. “Do you truly believe women have no power in society?”

  She frowned as she pondered the question. “I cannot speak for all women, but I have felt powerless. When women owe their duty to their families and marry to please their fathers, they can never be entirely free. And after they marry, their husbands assume complete control over them. I believe Wollstonecraft was correct when she likened men’s domination of women to the planters’ domination of slaves, although we live in far greater comfort than they, of course, which makes me loath to compare myself to a Caribbean slave. However, the abstract concept of slavery applies to how women are treated by men in general – as their legal property. Is sugar always to be produced by vital blood? Only to sweeten the cup of man?”

  “Quoting philosophy in a cow shed. You are an unusual woman.”

  “Philosophy is one of my interests.”

  He set the lantern back on the ground, and took her hands in his. “And what of love, ma belle? Does that interest you?”

  She blinked. The darkness of the shed provided a dangerously intimate atmosphere. He held her hands, called her “ma belle”… she should not allow it. But she didn’t pull her hands away.

  “As a young girl, I fancied myself in love,” she said slowly. “But now I am older, I see how foolish it is to allow an emotion that is so unstable to govern one’s life. Reason should form the basis of our decisions. I forgot that recently… I won’t forget it again.”

  “You have decided against marriage?”

  Isabel shrugged. “Marriage is a ridiculous ambition for a woman who has attained some form of independence. I am no longer in my father’s power, nor in my late husband’s control. As a widow, I am free to live as I wish – well, as free as any woman can be within the constraints of society. I will not give up that freedom again.”

  She pulled her hands away, then, and he let them go. “I admire your rational mind, my dear, although I do not believe you are as coolly detached from your emotions as you think you are. As I said before, your eyes and mouth betray you.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t think it would be wise to answer that. It may put even such a rationalist as yourself to the blush.” To her great annoyance, Isabel felt the blood rushing to her face. Thankfully, it was too dark for him to see her reddened cheeks.

  A rustling sound came from the corner of the shed, and Mr Bateman picked the lantern up and shone it on the cow
and calf. The calf stood on shaky legs, and attempted to suckle from his mother.

  “He’s up! I think it is time we returned to the house,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Isabel looked up at him, a furrow between her brows. Why did she feel so at ease with him when he had taken such liberties with her? The minute he had released her from that unsolicited embrace, she should have insisted they call the farmhand to monitor the calf, and that they return to the house. Instead, she had remained in the dark with him, discussing philosophy, of all things. It baffled the mind. It hadn’t baffled her senses in any way, though.

  The unsettling thought preyed on her consciousness all the way back to the house, and when she entered the kitchen, she bade him a hasty good night, and whisked herself away. She had never felt so confused in her life.

  Chapter Eight

  Isabel opened her eyes and stared up into the canopy of her four poster bed. She blinked a few times, as images from the previous night flashed into her mind. That kiss… She would have to show Mr Bateman today that she was not open to a flirtation of any kind.

  Simmonds entered the room to assist her with her toilette, and Isabel, taking one look at her face, sighed.

  “Will your ladyship be working in the kitchen again today?”

  “I believe I may be. Monsieur Martin is not fully recovered from his illness.”

  Her maid’s thin-pressed lips conveyed her disapproval, but when Isabel left her bedchamber to go down to the kitchen, she followed in her wake, an expression of dogged determination on her face.

  Isabel looked behind her. “I do not know why you persist in accompanying me to the kitchen.”

  “I am the protector of your virtue, my lady. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.”

  Isabel stopped short and turned around to stare at her. “Are you calling Mr Bateman a devil, Simmonds?”

  She sniffed. “Far be it from me to judge. However, he is a man with a wicked reputation. I will not allow my lamb to go alone to that kitchen to be slaughtered.”

  “The only lambs in the kitchen are the ones that are destined for the dining room table.”

  “That is what you believe! However, you are untried in the ways of the world. An innocent rose, secluded all your life, living in the countryside as you have been. As your former nursemaid, I cannot allow you to fall into danger.”

  Thank heavens Simmonds knew nothing of her adventure in the cow shed last night. “Very well, Simmonds. However, your concerns are unwarranted. I have no desire to engage in any dangerous activity with Mr Bateman.”

  Which was not strictly true, of course. Mr Bateman’s kisses had been exhilarating. But she must keep him at a distance. It would be foolish to embark on a dalliance with a well-known rake, who probably found a way to kiss every woman he desired.

  When she entered the kitchen, Mr Bateman was whisking eggs at the kitchen table. He raised his brows when his gaze came to rest on her maid, and Isabel had to restrain herself from grinding her teeth. Now he would think she was afraid of him, and had brought along a chaperone!

  “Good morning, Mr Bateman. Is Becky in the dry larder?”

  “She is.”

  Isabel turned to Simmonds. “Please see if Becky needs any help.”

  A battle of emotions waged across Simmonds’ face, but prudence eventually won out over valour, and she walked towards the larder door. “Please call me if you need anything, my lady,” she said, before crossing the threshold into the other room.

  “It is not what you are thinking,” Isabel said shortly.

  “What do you assume I am thinking?” Mr Bateman’s eyes brightened with amusement.

  “I have not brought a duenna to the kitchen to protect me from your advances. Simmonds insists on accompanying me here as she is ridiculously concerned about my reputation.”

  “Ah. I see.” He stopped whisking the eggs, and placed the bowl to one side.

  She gave him a measured look. “Is Monsieur Martin still abed?”

  “He was here half an hour ago, but I sent him back to bed. He assures me he will be well enough to supervise the serving of dinner, but he has agreed – reluctantly I might add – to rest until this afternoon.”

  Isabel nodded, and immediately set about the preparations for breakfast. It was important that she maintain a detached, yet civil, association with Mr Bateman after the familiarities of last night.

  As the day unfolded, he appeared to be following her lead. He made no untoward remarks to put her to the blush, and she was well on the way to congratulating herself on handling a difficult situation with grace and dignity. Still, whenever she spoke to him, she could not help but notice the lurking twinkle in his eyes.

  Once the luncheon preparations were complete, they shared a pot of tea at the kitchen table. Isabel stretched out her legs, pleased at last to rest her feet, unused to all the standing she had done these last few days. Once the tea was poured, and the servants had moved away to remove the dirty pots and pans to the scullery, a comfortable silence fell between them.

  Isabel took the opportunity of this unguarded moment to broach a subject that had been weighing heavily on her. “You – you appear on uncommonly good terms with Captain Wetherby and his son. I find it difficult to speak to them politely, knowing they are slave owners.”

  Mr Bateman raised his brows. “I speak to them with the civility due to members of your cousin’s house party. Is that not the purpose of good manners? To smooth over the awkward cracks? If we all said exactly what was on our minds on all occasions, we would fast descend into an uncivilised society.”

  “I suppose so,” she said, in an unhappy voice. “However, I feel like a hypocrite smiling and making polite conversation with them when what I would really like to do is ring a peal over their heads regarding their dastardly deeds.” She fiddled with her teacup. “You do not seem as disturbed by slavery as Cousin George is.”

  “You believe me to be indifferent to the suffering of our fellow human beings?”

  “I don’t know. Do you support the abolition of slavery?”

  She re-filled his cup, and he picked it up, before placing it on the table again without taking a sip. “Of course I do.”

  She looked away. His lack of activism disappointed her. However, it was none of her business, after all, so she changed the subject. “I am sorry Simmonds has been giving you such black looks all day. You see, she has heard the story of your flight to Scotland – and, well…”

  “What exactly does she know about my – er – story?”

  “That you abducted an heiress and flew to Gretna Green in order to marry her.”

  “Ah yes. Such was the tale that was circulated at the time.”

  “Was – was it untrue?”

  His mouth twisted in a smile. “Would you believe me if I said it was a pack of lies?”

  “Actually, I would,” she said. “Tell me.”

  He shrugged. “It is not a tale I am proud to relay. I was a young fool, infatuated with a beautiful face. Sophia’s father was a Cit who had put some distance between himself and his trade and he was determined to find a titled man to marry his daughter.” He smiled wryly, before continuing, “I fell in love with her at first sight and determined to marry her. But her father would not countenance the betrothal, due to my lack of a title. In desperation, I convinced Sophia we should flee to the border. She agreed, and so we set out. However, one of my horses sprained a fetlock on the way, and her father caught up with us on the road.”

  He stopped talking and her heart ached for that romantic young man, who had hoped to marry his lady love. Perhaps they had more in common than she had previously guessed.

  Mr Bateman leaned back in his chair. “Sophia told her father I kidnapped her. She was always afraid of him, and, under the pressure of the circumstances, she could not – or would not – tell him the truth. She cried foul, and he believed her. The scandal may well have been pushed under the carpet if another carriage hadn’t st
opped to see what the commotion was about and the tale was spread far and wide.”

  “So you were banished to America,” she said sadly.

  “I thought her father might insist we marry, but he was still determined to land that title for his daughter, and so I was torn away from my beloved.” He smiled self-mockingly. “I was a sapskull. But I have no regrets. Not now, at any rate. Indeed, I believe America was the making of me.”

  “Did Sophia eventually wed a titled man?”

  “She did – her father married her off to an elderly peer of the realm, who didn’t care about the smirch on her name.” He stopped speaking, and frowned. “I’m sorry, my dear. My lack of tact is abysmal.”

  “Don’t apologise. I asked you what had happened. Her situation was a trifle similar to mine, was it not? Is – is that why you appeared to dislike me so much upon our first meeting?”

  “Did I give that impression?”

  “You did.”

  “Perhaps I was simply piqued at how you ignored me.”

  Isabel shook her head ruefully. “My manners were deplorable on that occasion, but I had just received the news of Lord Fenmore’s engagement to Miss Hamilton and I wasn’t quite myself.”

  “Does it still hurt very much?”

  “I am reconciled to it. I have to be. It is clear Lord Fenmore is very much in love with Miss Hamilton.”

  “And are you still in love with him?”

  She moved to clear away the empty teacups as she considered how to answer him. Was she still in love with Julian? It certainly pained her to think of their broken engagement, especially as her hopes for a reconciliation had been so cruelly dashed after her meeting with him in Sydney Gardens. But was hope for a different kind of life the same as love?

  She raised one shoulder. “I don’t know. My head is in a fine muddle these days.”