A Marchioness Below Stairs

by Alissa Baxter

  At that moment, Simmonds bustled into the kitchen from the larder. Her usual fierce glare for Mr Bateman had been replaced with an almost motherly expression of concern. Isabel had noticed a softening in Simmonds’ attitude towards Mr Bateman throughout the morning. Perhaps she was as impressed as Isabel was with his capacity for hard work.

  “I will change my gown now, Simmonds, as I will join the house party for the rest of the day.”

  “Indeed, my lady.”

  Isabel smiled at Mr Bateman, who had stood, and she left the room, with Simmonds following after her. When they reached her bedchamber, her maid said: “That poor gentleman! Banished as a youth to America. Not but what he should have known better than to run off with the young lady in the first place. But to suffer such a punishment!”

  “Were you eavesdropping, Simmonds?”

  Her maid did not look in the least abashed. “I could not help but overhear your conversation, my lady, seeing as how the larder is right next door to the kitchen, and the door was open.”

  “Ah.” Isabel wandered over to the window and stared out at the wintry landscape. “I do hope the snow starts melting soon. At least it has stopped falling.”

  “Indeed, my lady. Now, I was thinking of your Scotch cambric morning dress with the Mary Queen of Scots ruff and the long sleeves?”

  Isabel nodded. “It will keep me warm enough. Even though there are fires in all the rooms, whenever I leave the kitchen, I start to shiver. That range in the kitchen keeps it very warm.”

  Simmonds pulled the Scotch cambric morning dress over her cambric slip, before fastening a neck-chain set in gold around her throat. A Flora cap, composed of white satin and lace, covered her curls, and a Capuchin cloak of Pomona green satin, trimmed with lace thread, completed the ensemble. Isabel slipped on her pale green slippers, before leaving her bedchamber and making her way downstairs to the library. A quiet hour of reading in the comfortable window seat in the corner of the library was well-suited to her contemplative mood.

  She had been reading a book of poems for merely five minutes, when the door burst open and Mr Wetherby sauntered in. He spotted her straight away. “So this is where you have been hiding yourself, your ladyship!” The young man’s words slurred. “I have been searching for you high and low. Your mother informed me you have been dancing attendance on your cousin all morning. Your devotion to your relative, although admirable, strikes a blow to the heart of such a devoted follower as I.”

  Isabel rose, but before she could say anything, Mr Wetherby swaggered across the room and launched into speech again. “Your ladyship, you must know that your beauty is a ray of sunshine on a bleak and wintry day. Your cornflower eyes, your buttercup hair, your rosebud lips...”

  “Pray desist, sir! I am not a flower arrangement.”

  “But indeed you are. You are a beautiful flower, just waiting to be plucked.” And with a laugh and a leer, he lurched forward, and to Isabel’s horror, pulled her into his arms.

  She froze, and then started to struggle against him. However, he was much stronger than she. He pinned her arms to her side and kissed her roughly, even while she still held the book of poems in her hand. She poked the sharp corner of the leather-bound volume into his side, which made him draw back. The strange, madly exultant gleam in his eyes chilled her to the bone.

  “Unhand me now! You are as drunk as a wheelbarrow!”

  “I love a woman with a bit of fight in her. It makes for a far more exciting encounter.”

  He crushed her even closer and a wave of faintness passed over her. And then it was all over. Two strong hands wrenched Mr Wetherby from her, and Lord Fenmore sent the young man hurtling across the floor.

  Chapter Nine

  “Your behaviour is disgraceful.” Lord Fenmore’s voice and face were grim.

  Mr Wetherby staggered to his feet. “You had your chance with her, Fenmore - and failed!”

  “You’re foxed, Wetherby.”

  “Foxed? Foxed? Of course I’m foxed. What else is there to do in this curst dull place, with the only tempting armful in the house spending her days at her cousin’s bedside?”

  “Apologise at once to Lady Axbridge, or I will not hesitate to take further action.”

  Mr Wetherby sloped towards the library door. “My apologies, your ladyship,” he said in a sullen voice. He darted a narrow look at Lord Fenmore, before ducking out of the room.

  Isabel removed her cap, which hung askew, and crumpled it tightly in her hands. What a fine situation. It was bad enough having Mr Wetherby force his unwelcome advances on her, but to have her former fiancé witness her humiliation made it even worse.

  She studied her hands. “Thank you, Lord Fenmore,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “I am sorry that the enforced nature of this house party means you will have to endure his company for the next few days.”

  She looked up at him. “I was reading my book, when he came in and accosted me. In my cousin’s library!”

  “Men can behave abominably when they’re in their cups. He was partaking rather too freely of the home-brewed ale at the breakfast table this morning.”

  “I appreciate your assistance, my lord. If you would excuse me…”

  “Isabel.”

  She stopped short at his use of her name. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Are you – that is, I hope you are well? I wish nothing but the very best for you. I hope you know that.”

  “Thank you. I am very well.” She smiled at him. “And I wish you every happiness with Miss Hamilton. She is a charming lady.”

  He bowed politely, and Isabel left the room. He had looked at her so searchingly just now, as if he guessed that the news of his betrothal may have caused her pain. It made the loss of his love even harder to bear, somehow. If he had been cold and distant, she could have accepted he no longer loved her. But to show such care and concern…

  She hurried into the hall and climbed the staircase to the first floor where she walked along a passage and entered the chapel gallery. Like the kitchen, the chapel was a large double volume apartment, which rose from the semi-basement. This enabled the servants to attend church without leaving the service floor, while family members and guests could worship from a private gallery which overlooked the chapel. A fire had been lit in the hearth, and Isabel sank into a pew in front of it, and gazed across at the stained glass cross windows on the far side of the sanctuary.

  She sat there for a long time in silent contemplation, and felt peace begin to seep into her soul. Somehow the cares of the day seemed far away, and she opened the Book of Common Prayer and began to read the Catechism. She had nearly reached the end of it, when the creaking of a door opening below made her peer over the gallery rail. Mr Bateman was entering the servants’ area of the chapel. He walked towards the front of the room and knelt on a prayer cushion.

  She was about to call out that worshiping on the servants’ level would open him up to suspicion, when something in the utter stillness of his pose stopped her. After a long stretch of time, he raised his head to stare at the stained glass windows, and she gasped at the expression of naked pain on his face. This was something she should never have witnessed – a private moment between a man and his God.

  She rose and moved towards the back of the gallery, careful not to betray her presence with a sound. Closing the door quietly, she hastened down the passage to her bedchamber. Mr Bateman had always seemed so imperturbable. It was hard to reconcile the man she had seen on his knees in the chapel with the man she was becoming acquainted with in the kitchen.

  Who was he? A charming rogue or a man of honour? An unrepentant sinner or a converted saint? It shouldn’t matter. When she left Chernock Hall, she would only see him at Society events they both attended. But, somehow, he had begun to occupy an unwelcome place in her thoughts. He was an intriguing man, to be sure. However, weren’t all rakes? They had to be, in order to enjoy the success with the opposite sex they did. And although she wasn’t a young girl, she
wasn’t a worldly-wise widow either, as he had so frankly pointed out. Besides, she could not feel heartbroken about Lord Fenmore’s engagement to Miss Hamilton one moment, and start entertaining thoughts about Mr Bateman the next. It indicated a sad unsteadiness of character. She really needed to try harder to put him out of her mind.

  * * *

  At dinner that evening, Isabel studiously avoided looking at Mr Wetherby, who was seated towards the middle of the table. However, she could not help but overhear him speaking to his father, who was seated opposite him, for the duration of the meal, while they ignored the ladies on either side of them.

  “As the days of our confinement have progressed, so have the manners of some of our guests deteriorated,” Cousin George said in a low voice.

  She gave her cousin an eloquent look, and winced as Captain Wetherby’s voice boomed out: “I say, this weather is grim. I have urgent business in Town, and cannot kick my heels here much longer.”

  Lady Kildaren, seated to his right, turned her head and glared at him. “Captain Wetherby, have you forgotten that we are at table?”

  He turned a dull brick red. “I beg your pardon, madam.”

  She nodded her head in a glacial fashion, before looking meaningfully at Isabel’s mother, who pushed her chair back from the table. “Ladies, let us leave the gentlemen to themselves.”

  Isabel rose, and fell into step beside Miss Hamilton.

  “I hope your cousin is on the mend, your ladyship?”

  “Indeed, she is. Her physician has informed us that Cousin Maria should be on her feet within the next few days.”

  “It appears to have stopped snowing. Lord Fenmore believes the thaw will set in tomorrow.”

  Isabel smiled wryly. “Captain Wetherby will be happy to hear that.”

  They entered the drawing room, and Lady Kildaren beckoned her imperiously. “Would you care to play the pianoforte, Lady Axbridge? Your mama informs me that you play very well.”

  “I’m sadly out of practice, your ladyship.”

  “Come, my dear. It will be delightful to listen to some music.”

  Isabel smiled and nodded, and sat down at the pianoforte. She spread her fingers over the keys, and started to play from memory, pieces ranging from Mozart to Beethoven to various Scottish and Irish airs. She had just begun a song for the popular stage composed by Dibdin, when the door opened and the gentlemen entered.

  She glanced up, then swiftly focused her attention back on the music. She would play for the rest of the evening. It was an excellent way to avoid facing Mr Wetherby, or conversing with Lord Fenmore and Mr Bateman.

  She looked at her fingers as she played, but even so, she could see Mr Bateman out of the corner of her eye. He sat beside Miss Wetherby, seemingly absorbed in conversation with her. The young woman giggled. Isabel hit a false note, and grimaced. He had said Miss Wetherby was not in his style at all and yet there he was, gazing at her and looking for all the world as if he found her company enthralling.

  And when Captain Wetherby and his son walked over to them a short while later, he laughed and conversed with them, perfectly at ease in their company. Drat the man! How had she ever felt any sympathy for him?

  Some Bach was in order. She started hammering out his Military Quintet No. 3 in B flat major, until she sensed someone standing at her shoulder.

  “Bach’s Military Quintet?” Mr Bateman asked in a low voice, startling her.

  “Yes.”

  “You were playing such a cheerful ditty when we entered the room.”

  “My mood changed.”

  “Ah.”

  “I prefer not to play with someone standing behind me. It throws me off.”

  “Well, something has certainly thrown you off.”

  She dragged in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Fortunately, she knew the piece by heart, so she gave it very little attention, while she contemplated a scathing set-down.

  “Scoundrel, reprobate, traitor… will one of those do?”

  Isabel’s shoulders stiffened. “Sir, I am unable to converse with you while I am playing the pianoforte.”

  “Unable or unwilling?”

  “Both!”

  He chuckled. “Remind me to talk to your back in future, my lady. It appears to loosen your tongue.”

  “There will be very few future conversations between us. Monsieur Martin is all but recovered and the thaw is about to set in.”

  “I am living in hope of the thaw setting in.” He moved to stand beside her.

  Something in his voice made her look at him, and the warmth of his gaze took her breath away. She returned her focus to the pianoforte, and shook her head. “We will be going our separate ways soon. I think that is, on the whole, a good thing.”

  “There may be a few surprises in store for you in that regard. Good evening, my dear.”

  He strolled to the other end of the room and engaged her mother in conversation.

  Isabel tried to concentrate on her playing, but her mind was far away. What did he mean? Her life was ordered, peaceful and predictable. Surprises did not fit well into that paradigm. His relaxed air of assurance was especially irritating, as he did not appear at all abashed regarding his abominable behaviour – kissing her in the cow shed one evening, and flirting with another lady the next; purporting to care about the abolition of slavery, yet unashamedly socialising with the owners of slaves. He was a riddle of a man, a riddle that would have to remain unsolved, because if she were foolish enough to try to figure him out she could end up with a solution that was only the start of another problem.

  With a defiant toss of her head, she played the opening notes of the folk song Lord Bateman. Across the room, her nemesis stiffened. Then his laughing eyes met hers. “Why, your ladyship, I must sing along – this song is my namesake, after all.”

  He returned to her side and Isabel blushed at the wicked gleam in his eyes. She had well and truly thrown down the gauntlet now. When would she learn to leave well enough alone? She could not start playing another melody without looking like a faint heart, and so she was swept along by the momentum of his voice singing in a rich baritone:

  Lord Bateman was a noble lord

  He thought himself of high degree

  He could not rest, nor be contented

  Until he’d sailed the old salt sea

  He sailed to the east, he sailed to the westward

  He sailed all over to Turkey’s shore

  And there the Turks threw him into prison

  No hope of getting free any more

  The Turk he had an only daughter

  The fairest one eye ever did see

  She stole the key to her father’s prison

  And there she set Lord Bateman free

  The song had a number of verses, and Mr Bateman sang them all with gusto, while the other guests gathered closer. Isabel cringed when she remembered the words still to come in the ballad. His deep voice rang out:

  Then she led him down to her father’s harbour

  And gave to him a ship so fine

  “Farewell to you, farewell Lord Bateman

  Farewell until we meet again”

  When seven long years had gone and past over

  It seemed to her like ninety-nine

  She bundled up her fine gold clothing

  Declared Lord Bateman, she’d go find

  She sailed to the east, she sailed to the westward

  She sailed till she came to England’s shore

  And when she came to Lord Bateman’s castle

  Straightway she knocked upon the door

  “What news, what news, my proud young porter

  What news, what news do you bring to me?”

  “There is the fairest of young ladies

  The fairest one eye ever did see”

  “Let another wedding be made ready

  Another wedding there must be

  I must go marry the Turkish lady

  Who crossed the raging seas for me”

 
; The assembled party broke into applause when the song ended, and Mr Bateman bent low to murmur in her ear: “I expect I deserve your Turkish treatment, my lovely Turkish lady.”

  Chapter Ten

  Isabel paid her mother a visit early the next morning, while she was still abed.

  “Good morning, my dear.” Her mama looked up from the book she was reading, her eyes twinkling. “Have you recovered your equilibrium?”

  Isabel studied her parent warily, before taking a seat in the armchair near the window. “My equilibrium?”

  “Mmmm. You looked decidedly put out last night while you were playing the pianoforte. Did Mr Bateman say something to vex you?”

  Isabel crossed her arms. “When does he not vex me? He is an insufferable man.”

  Her mother chuckled. “He sang Lord Bateman very well.”

  “The man does everything well,” she said bitterly. “He can cook, he can act, he can sing, he can deliver calves.”

  “Deliver calves?”

  “Mr Bateman delivered a calf in the breech position the other night. I assisted him.”

  Her mother’s eyes widened. “Isabel Jane – you were alone with a gentleman in the dark? Unchaperoned?”

  “Someone had to hold the lantern in the cow shed.”

  “Indeed!”

  “I thought you would be horrified.”

  “Never that, my dear. I trust your good judgement, and if you believed Mr Bateman needed your assistance, it was wise to disregard the conventions in this instance.”

  Isabel shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I would not call it wise precisely.”

  “So he made an attempt on your virtue?”

  “Mama!”

  Her mother laughed. “I see that he did. I’m not surprised. No red-blooded male would pass up such a perfect opportunity to kiss a pretty girl.” Her face settled into more serious lines. “It was only a kiss?”

  Isabel nodded.

  “Well, then, there’s no harm done. Besides, it may be a good thing. You are like the Sleeping Beauty from the Brothers Grimm fairy tale, who slept for a hundred years before a prince awoke her from her slumber with a kiss.”