A Marchioness Below Stairs

by Alissa Baxter

  However, the single, independent life was the life she had chosen for herself, and although it may seem a trifle empty at the moment, it was better than the alternative – marrying a man as disturbingly attractive as Marcus Bateman. He was a rake for heaven’s sake, which all but guaranteed that he would break a woman’s heart. She would never be fool enough to place hers within his keeping.

  Chapter Twelve

  Although Green and the housemaids searched high and low, they did not find Mr Wetherby’s papers, which caused him to prowl about the house like a caged tiger. And when Mr Wetherby alerted the household to the fact that his valet had absconded on the following day, Green nodded his head in a satisfied fashion and said to Isabel: “His man must have stolen those papers and that is why he has run away.” He sniffed. “Blaming my domestic servants like that…”

  Mr Wetherby had been vague as to the nature of the missing papers, refusing to furnish Isabel with even the briefest of descriptions as to what they contained. He had merely stated that they were stored in a long brown leather pouch with a drawstring.

  But why would his valet run away with his papers? It was a havey-cavey business, to be sure, and the sooner the Wetherbys left Chernock Hall, the more comfortable it would be for everyone. Captain Wetherby had taken to marching around the reception rooms, with a scowl on his face; Mr Wetherby snapped at the servants all day; and the Wetherby ladies remained in the drawing room most of the time, working on their embroidery, and looking up with matching hopeful expressions every time the door opened.

  However, when they saw that it wasn’t Mr Bateman, their faces would drop in a ludicrous fashion, and Isabel, walking into the drawing room late one afternoon and seeing the petulant expression on Miss Wetherby’s face, gave a sigh. Mr Bateman seemed to be avoiding the drawing room at present, and she suspected he spent a large portion of his day reading in the library. It was strange that Mrs Wetherby had not noticed the way in which the wind was blowing. Instead of dropping a cautionary word in her daughter’s ear, she appeared to be as emotionally invested in the pursuit of Mr Bateman as her daughter was.

  Although Isabel had felt both exasperated and aggravated with Mr Bateman since she had come to Chernock Hall, he had always been fully engaged in his interactions with her. Now he had withdrawn behind a cool mask, and she felt the end of their nascent friendship more keenly than she had expected when she had told him it would be best if they went their separate ways.

  The snow eventually melted sufficiently for the carriages to be brought around, and a weight lifted off Isabel’s shoulders as Lord Fenmore’s party and the Wetherbys made their farewells and prepared to depart.

  Lord Fenmore searched her face as he said goodbye. Isabel smiled, hoping to convey to him without words that she wasn’t unhappy. And she really was quite well, she suddenly realised. Being in close proximity to Lord Fenmore and Miss Hamilton had forced her to confront the reality of their engagement. And although it had been difficult to begin with, she had accepted it. And wasn’t that the first step in moving forward with her life? Accepting the loss of her decade-long daydream, and looking towards the future?

  Mr Bateman and his grandmother left a couple of hours later, and Isabel gave him a wary look as he bid her farewell. He had been most elusive since their conversation in the drawing room, and as Anna had returned to work in the kitchen a few days previously, they had both relinquished their duties below stairs, and had consequently spent no further time alone together.

  His features were inscrutable as he bid her farewell. “I will see you again, Lady Axbridge, when I return for the wedding.” He bowed politely and Isabel inclined her head in response, before turning to bid his grandmother farewell.

  That old lady gave her an eagle-like stare and said in her redoubtable fashion: “Well, my dear. I hope you will soon see what should be as plain as the nose on your face,” before turning away and climbing into the carriage.

  Isabel stared after the fast-disappearing coach with a peculiar sense of loss. The truth of the matter was that, when they had worked together in the kitchen, they had developed a camaraderie and rapport, and although she had felt unsettled when he challenged her and then had the audacity to kiss her, she had also felt alive and invigorated in his company. Now, however, he was abiding by his statement that he would no longer press his attentions on her – and it felt, if she was entirely honest with herself, lonely.

  She drew herself up at the thought. She could always foster new friendships when she travelled to London, friendships that were far less dangerous to her peace of mind. And no matter how much she may value certain aspects of Mr Bateman’s character, he was, in essence, a threat to the kind of life she planned for herself, and he should therefore be kept at a safe distance. Because one thing she knew – Mr Bateman was not the kind of man to settle for a lukewarm friendship with a lady he admired. He would want more than that – way more – and she was not prepared to venture into such risky waters with him.

  * * *

  Her mother’s wedding to Cousin George was to be a quiet affair, attended only by family members and a few close friends. Isabel’s older brother, Henry, a country squire residing in Wiltshire, travelled to Chernock Hall with his wife for the occasion, and her younger brother, Felix, who had a living in a large village in Somerset, but was as yet unmarried, also made the journey to the Hall, although he was only able to stay for a couple of days due to the pressing nature of his parish duties. William, unfortunately, had just gone up to Cambridge for the new term and was therefore unable to attend his father’s nuptials.

  Mr Bateman had sent notice that he planned to arrive the day before the wedding, and Isabel tried to ignore the butterflies threatening to escape out of her stomach at the thought of seeing him again. She had refused to think about him during the long month after he had left Chernock Hall, applying her mind instead to how she could contribute to the movement for the total abolition of slavery in the colonies.

  After a great deal of deliberation she had decided that the best thing to do would be to write and publish a pamphlet aimed at women, where she would advocate boycotting both slave-sugar and slave-cotton, as these inhumane industries were kept going only due to the rampant consumption of these products by her fellow countrymen.

  Cousin George had informed her that thousands of middle-class Britons, from clergymen to widows to merchants, owned slaves as a commonplace investment. She would attempt to appeal to the consciences of women in her writings, as they were the primary purchasers of both sugar and cotton clothing for their families, and she would suggest that they apply moral pressure to family members or acquaintances who owned slaves in a bid to persuade them to give them up.

  The day before her mother’s wedding, as she sat at a table in the library, writing the last few paragraphs of her pamphlet, the door opened and Mr Bateman strode in. Her pulse quickened. Whenever Mr Bateman walked into a room, he brought a magnetic energy with him.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Axbridge.” He bowed low. “I trust you are well?”

  Isabel smoothed her bright smile into a more serious expression. This was Mr Bateman at his most formal, as he had been the month before when he had bid her farewell.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, keeping her tone neutral. “I am very well, thank you.”

  He advanced into the room. “Forgive me, your ladyship. I appear to have interrupted your letter writing.”

  “I am not writing a letter. I am penning an anti-slavery pamphlet I hope to publish and distribute when we travel to London.”

  He raised his brows. “Indeed? May I have a look at it?”

  Isabel hesitated, before handing the sheets of paper to him. “I haven’t quite finished it yet.”

  He took the papers and started reading the first page, and Isabel suddenly felt as if she were in the schoolroom again, waiting to hear how she had fared in a literature assignment.

  After a few minutes, he stopped reading and met her expectant gaze. “
Has your cousin read this?”

  “No. We have discussed the problem of slavery in some depth, but I was planning to give it to him only after I had completed it. Please be seated, Mr Bateman.”

  He sat across from her at the table and shook his head. “My dear ma’am, I am afraid that, in its current form, this is unpublishable.”

  Isabel drew in a sharp breath. “You think it is badly written?”

  “No, not at all. In fact, it is beautifully written. However, referring to the cotton mills in this country as Blake’s dark Satanic mills is something which you cannot, at this point, do.”

  “Why not?” Isabel frowned. “You, yourself, told me how hypocritical it is that we boycott sugar, tobacco and gin, and yet fail to boycott slave-grown cotton.”

  “I do believe it to be hypocritical. However, I also pointed out to you that the cotton trade is far too important for the continued wealth of this country for any protests against it to be taken seriously. Our export of manufactured goods has been funding the war against Napoleon. The government would not look kindly on anyone seeking to sow division in a time of national crisis. As a pragmatist, I accept this.”

  “I do not wish to sow division. I merely wish to raise awareness amongst women about the ramifications of buying clothes made of American cotton. I have already decided to instruct my dressmaker that I will only wear clothing made from Indian cotton going forward.”

  “I applaud your decision, which is one you have every right to make. However, if you wish for your cousin to succeed in his political career, you must not publish this pamphlet. It will only make members of the government look at Cherny askance.” He leaned forward. “He has to build his political career carefully, and one misstep, such as having a radical for a stepdaughter, could cause his career to falter at the outset.”

  Isabel tapped her fingers on the table. What he said had some truth. “Then I will publish the pamphlet anonymously.”

  Mr Bateman shook his head again. “That won’t do, either. The timing is not right. We are at war with both France and America. It is never a good idea to try and effect sweeping change in a nation preoccupied with war. Besides, direct imports of cotton from America are not possible at the moment.”

  Isabel’s brow creased in puzzlement. “I have not heard of any difficulties in obtaining cotton material.”

  Mr Bateman placed the sheets of paper on the table and leant back in his chair. “The cotton shortage is not so severe as to disrupt textile production,” he said. “Large stocks were built up before the war, and merchants have efficient methods of smuggling cotton out of America. They have also been importing Brazilian and Indian cotton as alternative sources of supply.”

  “But Brazilian cotton is also grown by slaves! It should also be boycotted.”

  He sighed. “It is not as simple as that. The Lancashire cotton industry has brought a petition to Parliament stating that certain manufacturers have reduced the quantity of their work by one third, and others by one half, and some have even had to discharge all their workmen. Thousands of families in England and Scotland are suffering because of the problems in the industry. The government is considering extending loans to assist troubled merchants and manufacturers. The last thing they want is a boycott of cotton from within Britain.”

  Isabel sat up straighter in her chair. “But this means that slavery in America could come to a natural end if the export market for their cotton has been cut off.”

  “Wars have a way of ending, and industries have a way of recovering,” he said slowly. “And when one’s bread and butter is dependent on slavery, very few people will summon the will to protest against the very thing which allows them to be fed and clothed. Besides, we can only petition for slavery to be abolished in our own colonies – we have no influence in America in this regard. And Brazil is a Portuguese colony – we have no influence there either.”

  “But our textile manufacturers’ dependence on American cotton is propping up slavery in America,” Isabel replied heatedly. “No matter what you say, Mr Bateman, our cotton mills are dark Satanic mills! They support slavery and if we say nothing in protest against them, we are complicit with them.”

  “I agree with you. But it is unwise to let your idealism carry you away. To always seek the perfect over the good can lead to a complete lack of progress.”

  Isabel picked up her papers and shuffled them. Mr Bateman was more politically aware than she was. She was an idealist in many respects, particularly when it came to the well-being of her fellow human beings, and although she wished that slavery could be abolished with immediate effect, timing was important when it came to petitioning for anything.

  It had taken a number of years, after all, for William Wilberforce’s Slave Trade Act to be passed – it had only occurred when the political climate had been favourable and societal support had swung in his direction.

  “I will revise my pamphlet, Mr Bateman,” she said in a resigned voice, “and merely write of the evils of slavery in general in order to discourage people from buying slaves as an investment.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I do not wish to dampen your activism, my lady, but I believe you understand my concerns?”

  “I do.” She tilted her head. “How do you know so much about slavery and the state of the cotton industry?”

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I like to keep abreast of current affairs.”

  He did not elaborate on this statement, and Isabel decided not to question him further. He had that impenetrable look again, and she suddenly missed the easy companionship they had enjoyed in the kitchen.

  “You look sad. Why?” he asked abruptly.

  “Nothing – that is, you seem very remote,” she said in a rush.

  He regarded her closely. “But that is what you wished for, your ladyship, if you recall our last conversation?”

  “I – I know, but – can we not be, well, friends of sorts, especially if we are to be thrown into each other’s company in London so frequently?”

  “You want my friendship?”

  “I do.”

  “I will be your friend then, my dear. But I think it only fair to advise you that I will never regard you in that light.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Isabel stood in the front pew of the village church the next day as her mother said her vows to Cousin George. She was a beautiful bride in her pale blue and silver wedding gown, as she stood beside her betrothed. Tears pricked Isabel’s eyes as the Vicar spoke the words of the familiar ceremony: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”

  She glanced across the aisle to her right, where Mr Bateman stood, and then quickly returned her gaze to the front of the church. Wedding ceremonies always made her feel strangely numb, bringing to mind as they did the misery of her own nuptials all those years ago. She desperately tried to banish the devastating memories which flooded her mind. This was her mother’s wedding day, and she wanted to be happy for her.

  Her breath caught in her throat as her mother said: “I, Jane Elizabeth, take thee, George William, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

  The word “obey” made Isabel take an instinctive step backwards. She had obeyed first her father and then her husband, and she had felt like a caged bird through all the years of her marriage. It was a relief to be free of that cage now, to no longer be subject to anyone.

  She glanced across the aisle again as the Vicar gave Cousin George the ring, which he placed on the fourth finger of her mother’s left hand, and encountered Mr Bateman’s intent regard.

  “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

  A sl
ow tide of colour crept up Isabel’s neck to her cheeks as her eyes locked with his. But even though she knew she should look away from him, for some reason, she didn’t.

  It was only the Vicar’s voice saying, “Let us pray” that broke the spell, and Isabel jerked her head away and focused her attention on her mother and Cousin George, who now knelt together in the front of the church.

  The rest of the wedding ceremony passed in a blur, and it was only later, at the wedding breakfast at Chernock Hall, that Isabel managed to regain her equilibrium to some degree.

  She caught up on all the family gossip with her brothers and her sister-in-law, before she turned to her new stepfather and said: “I don’t know what to call you! You are more than Cousin George now, but you are surely too young to be called Step Papa!”

  He laughed and said, “Why not just call me George, my dear? We are doubly family now, so surely Christian names are permitted?”

  “Indeed, although it will take me a little while to grow accustomed to it – George.”

  She smiled and turned to speak to her mother, but she was aware of Mr Bateman the whole time she was interacting with her family, and she studiously avoided looking at him. What on earth was she going to do when she had to see him regularly in London?

  * * *

  They travelled to Town a few days later so that George could take up his seat in Parliament. When they finally drew up outside Chernock House in Portman Square, Isabel stepped out of the coach with alacrity. She had managed the journey well enough when the coach had proceeded at a decorous pace, but George’s coachman had a habit of springing his horses at times, which had made her feel very unwell. George had had to request his coachman to slow down on a number of occasions in order to accommodate her travel sickness, which had meant that their journey had taken longer than expected.