Marriage was a gamble which did not always pay off. Her mother had found happiness with George, but she had suffered silently in her marriage to Isabel’s despotic father, and Isabel had been a witness to that suffering. Her mother had always put a cheerful face on things, accepting her lot in life with calm good humour while throwing her considerable energy into taking care of her three children, but a weaker woman may very well have been destroyed by a man such as her father.
And ironically, her parents’ marriage had been a love match. Her mother had told her so when she was a young girl. Which just went to show that it was unwise to entrust the important decisions of life to capricious emotions.
As the week progressed, her mother kept giving her thoughtful glances, perhaps sensing her preoccupation. However, Mama did not bring up Mr Bateman in any of their conversations, for which Isabel was supremely grateful. Until she was sure of her own mind, she had no desire to discuss her current dilemma with her parent.
One afternoon, Isabel slipped out of Chernock House and made her way towards the garden in the centre of Portman Square, a footman following at a discreet distance. After her distressing encounter with the assistant cook at The Hindoostane, she now asked Peter to accompany her whenever she went out walking.
She strolled along the perimeter path of the garden, within the iron railings, before taking a secondary path towards the central bed of shrubs. Another path encircled the shrubbery and she walked the length of it, before setting off across the well-kept lawns, breathing in deeply of the crisp, fresh air. Somehow, whenever she came here, she was transported to the countryside. It was so peaceful and quiet that she could almost imagine herself miles away from the hustle and bustle of the Metropolis.
She was wandering along a winding pathway deep in the shaded garden, which smelt of damp soil and scented shrubs, when she passed some elm trees and came to an abrupt halt. In front of her, a nursemaid wrangled two small children, who were running wildly to and fro. The children whooped and laughed, and the nursemaid sent Isabel an apologetic shrug as she tried to quieten the little boy and girl. “Hush, children. Hush.”
“Please don’t be concerned,” Isabel said, with a smile.
The nursemaid nodded, before taking a hasty step forwards when the children, with a couple of matching shrieks, sprinted away from her towards a man in the distance. “Papa! Papa!” they yelled in delight, as he swung them up into his arms and embraced them.
As Isabel watched the family tableau, a lump formed in her throat. And she knew suddenly, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she wanted children, and that she wanted Marcus Bateman to be their father.
Her sense of deep longing shocked her, and she sat down on a nearby tree stump and hugged her knees, staring straight ahead. When she had married an invalid all those years ago, she had accepted that she would be childless, and she had put the idea of having her own family firmly out of her mind. Now, however, something fierce had awakened within her, and she was stunned at her profound yearning.
Why had she realised only now that she wanted a family? When her mother had asked her if she wanted children a few months ago, she had been adamant in her preference for a single existence. Now the thought of living the rest of her days alone filled her with despair.
How could she have changed so much within such a short space of time? She frowned as she watched the young children and their father walking away. Was she unstable in her emotions? Or was it that falling in love with Mr Bateman had awakened a dormant desire that had always been there, but had never had the opportunity to be expressed? Perhaps it was the latter. She hoped it was, as her complete change in heart was both unsettling and confusing.
And what was she going to do now? She did not wish to blatantly set her cap at Mr Bateman, but perhaps she could indicate in a subtle manner that she was now open to receiving his advances, without spelling it out to him in so many words. He had not told her he loved her, which was why she was hesitant to be more direct.
She sighed as she rose and ambled back through the garden. Although the thought of matrimony still frightened her, it was reassuring that Mr Bateman was George’s very good friend.
Her relative was not the kind of man to associate with men of dubious character and he thought very highly of his previous business associate. He had told her so frequently, although Isabel had mostly dismissed his praise as he and her mother were constantly dropping hints that they would welcome Mr Bateman as a son-in-law. Now, however, all that positive commentary flooded her mind, giving her much-needed reassurance that she wasn’t completely mad to have decided to give up her secure existence for love.
Chapter Twenty-One
Isabel discovered that Mr Bateman had returned to London that very evening, but although he had free entrance to Chernock House, he stayed away.
Having buoyed herself up for her first encounter with him since she had made the decision to show him she would welcome his attentions, Isabel was frustrated beyond measure at his failure to pay even a morning call on them.
In no little trepidation, she accepted every invitation she received for evening gatherings, in the hope that she would encounter him at a social function. But, although she attended a rout, a card party and a musical soirée over the next few days, Mr Bateman was not present at any of these events. George finally mentioned that he had seen him at White’s, and that he had given a positive report regarding Mary’s wellbeing, but Mr Bateman, for all intents and purposes, had disappeared from the rest of the London scene completely.
Lady Alden’s Christmas Ball, which was to be held four days before Christmas, was fast approaching, and Isabel hoped she would see him there, as it was purported to be one of the highlights of the London social calendar. However, she refrained from asking George if he knew if Mr Bateman would be in attendance. If she started asking questions like that, her mother and new stepfather would, in all likelihood, contemplate doing some serious match-making, which was the last thing she needed.
She ordered a new gown for the occasion. On the evening of the ball, she stood in the middle of her bedchamber in her white satin slip, trimmed with lace and delicately embroidered flowers, while Simmonds fetched the bright yellow gauze over-dress, which was draped on her bed. Her maid pulled it over her head and with a few gentle tugs made sure that its diaphanous folds settled neatly into place.
Standing back, she gave Isabel an all-encompassing glance, before saying, “You look like a golden goddess, my lady.” She hurried to the dressing table and picked up the lace headdress which matched the gown, and arranged it carefully on Isabel’s head, before heading back to the table again and picking up a bottle of perfume.
“Would you like to wear your orange-blossom scent this evening, my lady?”
“Thank you, Simmonds.” Isabel took the bottle and dabbed perfume behind her ears and on her neck. “I think I will need my cashmere shawl.”
“Yes, my lady. It is bitterly cold outside. I hope the ballroom will be sufficiently warm – it would not do to catch a chill.”
“Lady Alden’s functions are generally attended by the whole world, so I imagine it will be over-heated due to the crush of bodies.”
And indeed it was. Isabel surveyed the ballroom an hour or so later, and fought an urge to slip away and find a quiet place to hide for the rest of the evening. The vast room was lit by hundreds of candles, and the warmth of so many bodies in close proximity, combined with the heat of the candles, made the room a trifle stifling. She had never enjoyed large gatherings, and the smell of perfume and perspiration was overwhelming.
A set was forming in the middle of the room, and Isabel looked around for her mother who had been waylaid by a passing acquaintance and was now making her way back to her through the throng of people. Her mama halted beside her. “My dear, that Carter woman’s tongue always runs away with her.” She glanced over Isabel’s shoulder, and smiled. “Ah, good evening, dear sir! Have you come to ask my daughter to dance?”
Isabel
turned to see Mr Bateman a few yards away. The blood rushed to her cheeks. Her mother had as good as forced him to ask her to dance! She was about to demur, when Mr Bateman bowed politely, and proffered his arm. “Lady Axbridge?”
Isabel put her arm through his and walked into the middle of the room where she took her place opposite him in the set. As they waited for the rest of the set to form, Isabel racked her brains to think of a suitable topic of conversation. “Did you have a good journey to Wiltshire?” she asked eventually.
“I did, thank you, Lady Axbridge. You will be pleased to know Mary has settled in well, and my housekeeper has taken her under her wing.”
“I am delighted to hear that.” She searched his face carefully. He looked decidedly remote. Since she had chastised him for calling her “my lady”, he had stopped addressing her in that way. Now, she wished he would call her his lady again. At least it would indicate that he had reverted to his usual teasing manner, as opposed to behaving like a distant acquaintance.
The fiddlers struck up and Lady Alden and her partner, who stood at the top of the set, began to dance. Then it was Isabel’s turn to curtsey. Mr Bateman bowed, and they began their progress down the set. They came together to complete a figure, before Mr Bateman took her gloved hands in his and they danced down the centre of the line. She wasn’t sure if it was the lively skipping steps of the dance, or the firm pressure of his hands on hers, which made her heart beat faster, but she suspected, with a rueful smile, that it was the latter.
They moved to their respective sides of the line again, before leading off as they reached the top, and Isabel took a deep breath. She was able to think more clearly now that the movement of the dance had separated them, and when they reached the bottom of the set, she broached another topic of conversation while they awaited their turn to dance again.
“Are you – that is – ”
She bit her lip as she studied his stern features. He had not smiled once since they had started dancing and his eyes were decidedly flinty. What was the best way to show him she would no longer reject his suit? “Er – I – I trust that Lady Kildaren is keeping well?”
“My grandmother has just returned to Town from visiting my sister, and she is very well. I called on her this morning.”
“You have a sister?”
“I have four sisters – all younger than I.”
Isabel chuckled. “I imagine you teased those poor girls mercilessly as a young boy! Are your other sisters in Town?”
“No.” His features relaxed. “They are all married with young children, and live scattered around the country.”
“Do you have any brothers?”
He looked at her speculatively. “So many questions, Lady Axbridge… I had an older brother. He died a couple of years ago.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Don’t be. He was a stickler for propriety and thought me a sad ne’er-do-well. It was on his advice that my father decided to send me to America.” He paused. “He must be turning in his grave now that that I’ve inherited Brentwood Park. He only managed to produce three daughters before his death, you see, and the estate was entailed.”
“He sounds like a boor!” Isabel said hotly.
He shrugged. “Don’t waste your pity on me, my dear. I was one of the wildest blades in Town during my youth, before I fell in love with Sophia. My rakish reputation from all those years ago still precedes me.”
“You are no longer a rake?”
“Your ladyship! Such an indelicate question,” he replied, with a teasing grin.
She fiddled with her gloves. He laughed, which caused her to look up at him again, and for a moment she became lost in his gaze. The laughter faded from his eyes and he said slowly, “I haven’t been a rake for some time, my dear.”
Isabel nodded her head, and said in an uncertain voice, “Your – your grandmother informed Mama that you were severely maligned.”
He shrugged. “My grandmama is biased. My mother died when I was boy, and Grandmama took a keen interest in all her grandchildren. She tried to persuade my father to allow me to remain in England after my botched elopement, but my father was as much a stickler for propriety as my brother, and he believed the family name had been besmirched. He died shortly after I left for America.”
The movement of the dance started again, so Isabel could not reply, but as they danced down the line, her heart ached for that motherless young boy who had been sent away to another continent for his sins.
They paused in the movement of the dance, and she asked, “Are your nieces and your sister-in-law resident at Brentwood Park, Mr Bateman?”
“Lord, no! My brother married the Duke of Ridgemont’s youngest daughter, Lady Sarah Pemberton, and she returned to the bosom of her family after his death. She doesn’t approve of me either.” His eyes narrowed. “Why the sudden interest in my family, Lady Axbridge?”
Perhaps now was the time to tell him. “I – that is –”
They began to dance down the set again, and Isabel stopped speaking in order to concentrate on her steps. Maybe it was just as well she had not spoken. A crowded ballroom was hardly the place to have such a serious conversation.
After that, no further opportunity presented itself for a tête-à-tête. Isabel did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Mr Bateman led her back to her mother and, with a polite bow, walked away.
She did not have much opportunity to repine, however. A number of gentlemen asked her to dance, and she had partners for the next three sets, before her final partner, a young gentleman with a distressing habit of stepping on her toes, escorted her to the side of the ballroom and disappeared to procure a glass of lemonade when she complained of her thirst.
Isabel sat on a conveniently placed settee to catch her breath. It had been positioned right beside the dancing area, probably as a temporary resting spot for exhausted dancers. She should, in all reality, be sitting on one of the hard-backed chairs on the far end of the room, with the chaperones and the dowagers, but the only way she could abide being in a ballroom for any length of time was if she danced the night away. Sitting or standing passively and observing the activity in a crowd of onlookers was suffocating.
She was glancing around the ballroom when Mr Wetherby came up to her. “So we come full circle, madam.” His lips curled. “You look exactly like that painting I showed you at Chernock Hall – where the seated lady pretends indifference to her suitor.”
Isabel rose, and tried to step past him, but he blocked her way. “Please allow me to pass, Mr Wetherby,” she said, in a cold voice.
The first strains of a waltz struck up and Isabel gave a small shriek, which was lost in the din of the ballroom, as Mr Wetherby pulled her towards him and swept her onto the dance floor.
She had employed a private dance instructor in Bath, so she knew the steps of the waltz, but she had never danced it in public before, and Mr Wetherby’s touch revolted her so much that she stumbled. His hand tightened on her waist, and Isabel strained away from him. “Release me, you cad!” she said, in a low voice.
He smiled condescendingly. “Although your little games are amusing, my sweet, I do not have the time to entertain them much longer. I leave for Antigua on Christmas Eve to manage my father’s sugar plantation and I want to take you with me.”
“To Antigua?”
“Indeed. Although the climate is a trifle sultry, you will enjoy a charmed life on the island.”
Isabel looked him straight in the eye. “I have no desire to wed you, Mr Wetherby, and even less desire to move to a slave plantation. The idea is repugnant to me. I trust I make myself plain?”
He laughed. “Come now, my sweet, you are doing it much too brown. As my wife, you will enjoy a life of privilege and position, both in the Caribbean, and later in England when we return here.”
“I am a supporter of the abolition of slavery, Mr Wetherby. Slavery is an inhumane and immoral institution, which renders slave-owners wholly beyond the pale.”
“You dare to lecture me on slave ownership?” His cold eyes glittered down at her as they moved around the room. “How else are we meant to run the sugar plantations if we haven’t slave labour? Females have the most nonsensical ideas.”
“Not only females. What of William Wilberforce and John Newton – the primary campaigners for the abolition of the slave trade? John Wesley also condemned slavery in no uncertain terms in his Thoughts Upon Slavery.”
“Are you a damned Methodist, your ladyship?”
“I am. Although, I do not believe that we are damned.”
He sneered. “You – and your Evangelical friends who pushed for the abolition of the slave trade – you’ve all but ruined our plantation. Our output is declining due to the drastic reduction of our workforce. What do you have to say to that, madam?”
“You cannot expect me to sympathise with you when your profits are essentially ill-gotten gains. To quote John Wesley: it is far better to have no wealth, than to gain wealth, at the expense of virtue. Better is honest poverty, than all the riches brought by the tears, and sweat, and blood of our fellow-creatures.”
“Females have no grasp of business realities. What you say is pure sentiment.”
“You have no heart, Mr Wetherby.”
He leered at her. “Of course I do! Do you not know that it is at your beautiful feet?”
Isabel scowled, and said in a low voice, “You are detestable!”
“I would advise you to smile, my sweet, if you do not wish to cause undue comment. Many eyes are upon us.”
“You are not a gentleman, Mr Wetherby. You are a bully and a scoundrel. I will not smile at you or converse further with you. Let the ton make what they please of that.”
His eyes devoured her face, and he said in an urgent voice, “There is still time enough to obtain a special licence before I set sail from Bristol. Stop this sill posturing and accept my offer.”
She ignored him, and for the remainder of the dance, she stared at his waistcoat, and focused on her steps, ignoring his repeated attempts at conversation. The last thing she wanted was to stumble again, and give him an excuse to tighten his grip around her waist once more.
A Marchioness Below Stairs Page 14