A Marchioness Below Stairs

by Alissa Baxter

  The dance seemed to go on forever, but when at last it ended, Isabel, her heart pounding more from anger than exertion, stepped away from him. She glanced around the room, looking for her mother, and instead spotted Mr Bateman weaving his way through the crowd towards her, as if intent on claiming her for the next dance. With only the barest nod to her partner, Mr Bateman took her hand and led her away across the dance floor.

  “May I have the supper waltz, my lady?” he asked gently.

  She nodded, a sheen of tears in her eyes.

  “That cad,” he said in a low voice. “He forced you to dance, didn’t he?”

  She nodded again, but didn’t trust herself to speak.

  “I shall call him to account.”

  Isabel took a deep, shaky breath. “It is not your duty to call yet another male to account on my behalf! Besides, it would do more harm than good, Mr Bateman, in such a place as this. I do not wish to draw attention to myself.”

  “He has already managed to do that. It was obvious to anyone who cared to see that you did not wish to dance with him.”

  She hesitated before speaking. “You cared to see, Mr Bateman?”

  “I cared to see.” His glance caressed her.

  The opening strains of the next waltz began, and Mr Bateman led her onto the floor, placed his arm around her waist, and took her right hand in his. Isabel’s left hand rested lightly on his right arm, and they began to dance, in perfect harmony, whirling around the room together.

  The light in his eyes made her pulse quicken. It appeared to hold a promise, a promise and a reassurance that something wonderful was about to happen.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When their dance was over, Mr Bateman led her into the adjoining room where supper was being served. He poured her a glass of hot negus, and pressed some white soup upon her. Even though she was not hungry, Isabel supped her soup, concerned that the negus, which contained wine, would go straight to her head. She already felt intoxicated enough after that waltz with him…

  She finished her light meal, and then Mr Bateman led her away to a sofa in the corner of the room. When she was seated, he took his place beside her, and said: “Now, my dear. I want to know why Mr Wetherby frightens you so.”

  “He is a repugnant man.”

  “Has he threatened you in any way?”

  Isabel was silent for a few moments. How much should she tell him? “He – he accosted me in the library at Chernock Hall. Fortunately, Lord Fenmore walked in and put a stop to it, but it was a very unpleasant experience.”

  “Damn it, Isabel!” His jaw tightened. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  Isabel’s eyes widened. “But, sir! We were barely acquainted then. I did not wish to speak to anyone about it. It was a humiliating incident.”

  “I trust that if anything of a similar nature occurs again you will tell me.” His expression was austere.

  Isabel looked at him doubtfully. He was asking for privileges that only a fiancé or a husband should by rights claim, but she hesitated to point that out.

  “You say he has been plaguing you since your arrival in London?”

  “He – he made me an offer of marriage last week, which I refused in no uncertain terms. What frightens me about him is that he believes my refusal to entertain his suit is due to some sort of deep game I am playing. At first I thought him to be merely annoyingly persistent, but now I’ve realised he is incapable of believing anything he doesn’t wish to believe. He is delusional. He talks about our eventual marriage as if it is a given.”

  His mouth set in grim lines. “He cannot harm you, my dear. There is no need to be afraid of him.”

  “I know that – but it is dreadful to feel hounded by him. Fortunately, he leaves for Bristol on Christmas Eve so I need not suffer his presence in London for much longer.”

  He looked at her with an arrested expression in his eyes. “Christmas Eve, you say?”

  “Indeed – he told me so while we were waltzing.”

  “I see.” He changed the subject then, and started telling her an amusing story about a mutual acquaintance. Isabel responded suitably to his comments but she received the impression he was miles away. And, indeed, a short while later he escorted her back to her mother, and left the ball.

  * * *

  “Did you enjoy waltzing with Mr Bateman last night?” her mother asked the next morning, raising her delicate brows.

  They sat in the drawing room, working on their embroidery, and the question took Isabel by surprise. Cousin Maria was resting in her bedchamber, having declared the previous evening that she was feeling a little the worse for wear after the fevered activity of the past few weeks. She had decided, therefore, to spend the day quietly in bed so she would not be too fatigued for the upcoming Christmas festivities.

  This was, consequently, the first time Isabel had found herself alone with her mother since Cousin Maria’s arrival in London. Looking at her parent’s determinedly innocent expression, she sighed. It was clear she was in the mood for a comfortable cose…

  “Mr Bateman is a very accomplished dancer,” Isabel said in a neutral tone, before returning her attention to her embroidery.

  “Mmmm,” her mother said. “Did I tell you that George has invited Mr Bateman and Lady Kildaren to share our Christmas dinner with us?”

  “You failed to mention that,” Isabel said warily.

  Her mother sighed. “I have the most shocking memory.”

  Isabel regarded her mother with a smouldering eye, but said nothing. When her mother was in this kind of mood, it was best to tread lightly. She was plotting mischief of some kind – of that Isabel was convinced.

  “I wonder if Cousin Maria will be well enough to attend church on Christmas morning?” her mother continued.

  “I hope you and George will excuse me from attending the church service at St. George’s.” Isabel unpicked a section of her work which she had somehow mangled. “I plan to attend the Christmas morning service at Wesley’s Chapel.”

  “Isabel Jane!” her mother said, dropping her embroidery onto her lap. “You cannot be thinking clearly.”

  “I am thinking perfectly clearly, Mama.” Isabel met her mother’s gaze squarely. “I have been meaning to visit Wesley’s Chapel ever since we arrived in London. It would be wonderful to attend the Christmas service in the church John Wesley founded.”

  “Members of the nobility do no frequent such lowly churches, my dear. It is not at all the thing.”

  “But, Mama! You know I follow the Methodist teachings. Besides, the Countess of Huntingdon was a Methodist and she founded chapels all over England.”

  “That is all very well, my love. But even John Wesley insisted that Methodists regularly attended their local parish church as well as Methodist meetings.”

  The door opened at that moment, and Mr Bateman stood framed in the doorway. Isabel and her mother swivelled their heads in his direction as he advanced into the room. “I am so pleased to see you, dear sir! I need you to speak some sense to my daughter. She wants to attend the Christmas service at Wesley’s Chapel on Christmas morning.”

  “I shall take Peter along as an escort, Mama, and I shall dress in my gardening dress and wear my plainest bonnet so I will appear incognito. I do not foresee a problem.”

  “Good morning, ladies,” Mr Bateman said politely. He turned towards Isabel. “You are a Methodist, Lady Axbridge?”

  “I am,” she said, bowing her head. “Please be seated, Mr Bateman.”

  He sat in the armchair beside her. “One of my particular friends in Boston was a Methodist minister. Would you like me to accompany you to church, my lady? We can take a hackney so that we will not draw too much attention to ourselves.”

  Isabel gazed at him in surprise. “That would be delightful, Mr Bateman, and it will put my mother’s mind at rest. Mama?”

  “Of course, my dear. It is the ideal solution, although I still think you will seem very out of place there.”

 
Her mother looked from Isabel to Mr Bateman, before picking up her embroidery once again. A short while later, she rose. “I need to attend to a household matter. If you will excuse me…”

  She hurried from the room, and Isabel gave Mr Bateman a shy smile, before returning her attention to her embroidery. When he made no attempt at conversation, she cleared her throat. “You mentioned Boston, Mr Bateman – I assume this is the Boston in Massachusetts rather than the Boston in Lincolnshire?”

  “Indeed, I lived in New England for many years.”

  “Is this where you learned how to cook?”

  He nodded. “I worked as an under-cook for a Massachusetts politician, before finding employment as a cook in a wealthy merchant’s house.”

  “Mama informed me that you and George became partners in the shipping industry?”

  He leant back in his chair, and studied her for a moment. “We invested in saw-mills, transported lumber, and built and financed ships. It seems another world now.”

  “This Methodist minister you mentioned… you attended his church in Boston?”

  “I did, although he was involved in various missions and was away for long periods of time. He was particularly opposed to slavery, and George and I supported his work.”

  Isabel’s eyes widened. “Why do you paint yourself so black, Mr Bateman? You are, indeed, a good man.”

  “A good man? A good man?” He laughed harshly, and the sound was so alien to his usual light-hearted demeanour that she put her embroidery to one side, and leaned forward, observing him closely.

  “Don’t imagine me a saint, Lady Axbridge,” he said bitterly.

  Isabel clasped her hands together, but held her peace. When he looked at her, it was if he did not see her. Instead he seemed to be trapped in his own private torment.

  Isabel stretch out a hand towards him. “What is it, sir? What troubles you so?”

  He ignored her outstretched hand. “You think so well of me, madam. You will not do so once you know.”

  “Know what?” Isabel asked, her brows drawn together.

  He leant forward, his mouth set in a straight line. “My Methodist friend – his name was Benjamin Smith – returned from a mission to Jamaica and informed George and me that he believed he had seen one of our ships being used illegally to transport slaves. He begged us to travel to Jamaica to investigate whether one of the merchants we had a contract with was transforming our ships into slaving vessels.

  “And so we travelled there.” He frowned. “When we arrived, we didn’t have far to look. An illegal slave ship had been impounded by a British Naval squadron and was languishing in the harbour. We recognised it immediately as one of ours, and so we boarded…” He put his head in his hands. “The stench… that’s what I recall most vividly. The sick and the dying chained together… it was a living hell.”

  He rose and began to pace the room. “It didn’t end there. We visited a couple of plantations to see the conditions the slaves lived in. They were treated like animals. It was barbaric, and yet the plantation managers were so hardened in their attitudes that they could see nothing wrong in treating their fellow human beings in such a cruel manner. When we returned to New England, George and I could not stomach working in an industry so closely connected to the illegal slave trade. We sold our various enterprises, and returned to England.”

  Isabel was silent for a long moment. “You could not know that your client was transforming your ships into slaving vessels, Mr Bateman. You cannot blame yourself.”

  “Can I not?” His mouth twisted. “I should have investigated each client more carefully. I was aware there were unscrupulous men who were transforming cargo ships into slave vessels after the slave trade became illegal. I should have taken more care before accepting a new client.”

  “You are not responsible for the actions of other people, Mr Bateman. Only your own. What matters is that you acted upon the information when it was presented to you, and now George is campaigning to end slavery, and you…”

  “And I? What am I doing, Lady Axbridge?”

  “You assisted Mary,” she finished, a trifle lamely.

  A wry smile played about his lips. “You are disappointed that I am not more involved in the campaign to end slavery, are you not?”

  Isabel shrugged. “No – not disappointed precisely. But if I were a man…”

  “I, for one, would be vastly disappointed.” A sudden smile lightened his face.

  Isabel studied him. The tension which had held him in its grip had lifted. His confidences at an end, he had reverted to his usual debonair-man-of-the-town manner. But now she knew it concealed a man of much greater depth than he allowed the world to see. And although he was not an activist like George, it was reassuring to know he cared. Perhaps, at some later point, he would become more involved in making a change in the world. For now, she was simply grateful that he had allowed her into his private world.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mr Bateman arrived early on Christmas morning to escort Isabel to church. He accompanied her to the waiting hackney, and ushered her into the carriage, before climbing in beside her. Isabel shivered as she looked out the window. The weather was turning very cold. It had not snowed before Christmas, as George had predicted, but she wouldn’t be at all surprised if the weather took a turn for the worse now. This was the coldest winter she had ever experienced.

  They travelled the few miles to the church, and when they alighted from the carriage, Mr Bateman had a word with the hackney driver, asking him to remain outside so he could drive them back to Chernock House once the service was over.

  Isabel looked up at Wesley’s Chapel, which was built on simple, neat lines, and accepted Mr Bateman’s arm as they walked through the forecourt towards the chapel door, and entered the church together.

  It was crowded, but Isabel spotted an empty pew towards the back of the sanctuary. Mr Bateman led her to the simple wooden bench and they took their seats. A number of people stared at them, but Isabel, taking a quick look around, noticed that her simple grey dress and Mr Bateman’s plain attire fitted right in with the unadorned clothing of the Methodist congregants. The stares must be due to the fact that they were two strangers in a tight-knit community.

  While they waited for the service to start, Isabel examined the interior of the chapel, and raised her brows when she saw that the pillars supporting the gallery appeared to be original ships’ masts. A fine mahogany pulpit stood at the front of the church and a Communion rail, made from a similar wood, ran underneath it. The church lacked the grandness of St. George’s, but it was fitting, considering the nature of John Wesley’s teachings.

  The minister entered the pulpit, and the service began. Although Isabel listened attentively to the Christmas message, she was aware of Mr Bateman’s disturbing presence beside her throughout. He sang the various hymns in his rich baritone, and vocalised the final carol, While Shepherds Watch Their Flocks By Night, with such gusto that the people in the pews surrounding them looked around with smiles on their faces. Isabel considered prodding him with her elbow, but after a quick sidelong glance, decided not to. His boyish enjoyment of the song was so endearing she hadn’t the heart to suppress his joie de vivre, even if it did draw unwanted attention to them.

  After the service ended, Mr Bateman led her out of the chapel and assisted her into the waiting hackney, before taking his seat beside her.

  Isabel sighed in deep contentment as the coach rolled away. “Thank you, dear sir, for bringing me here.” She smiled brightly up at him. “I enjoyed the service immensely.”

  “As did I,” Mr Bateman said.

  The journey home passed in a flash, and Mr Bateman saw her into Chernock House. He refused any refreshment, however, and took his leave of her, saying with a warm smile, “I will see you later, my dear.”

  When George, her mother, and Cousin Maria returned home, the family gathered in the drawing room, and partook of a pot of tea and a plate of macaroons, before Isabel re
tired upstairs to write some long overdue letters to her friends in Bath.

  Christmas dinner was due to be served early at four o’ clock and Isabel descended to the hallway shortly before their guests were due to arrive. She smiled when she saw the boughs of holly, ivy, rosemary, bay, and laurel, which decorated the mantel, the wooden balustrade of the staircase, and even the tops of the paintings.

  Isabel’s smile faded however when she saw the sprig of mistletoe which had been placed above the front door, as well as at the entrance to the dining room. She hurried back upstairs and her mouth dropped open as she entered the drawing room and spotted the kissing bough, which had been placed over the door.

  Her mother, George, and Cousin Maria were already assembled in the drawing room, and after Isabel had given them a distracted greeting, she took her mother’s arm, and drew her apart. “Mama!” she hissed. “Why is there mistletoe over every doorway? And a kissing bough!”

  Her mother spread her hands wide. “I cannot see why you should have any objection to it, my dear. George and I are newlyweds after all, so it seemed – er – appropriate.”

  Isabel viewed her parent through narrowed eyes. “So it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Mr Bateman is dining with us?”

  Her mother looked a little pensive, before saying, with a mischievous smile, “Forgive me, my love, but sometimes you require a – er – slight push in the right direction.”

  Isabel opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment the door opened and Watkins intoned: “Lady Kildaren and Mr Bateman.”

  Isabel turned to greet their guests, but not before throwing her mother a fulminating glance.

  They made their way downstairs a short while later to the candle-lit dining room, which was also decked out in greenery. A number of dishes had been laid out in the centre of the table, including a boar’s head, soup, roasted beef, venison, and goose, mince pies, and a number of side dishes, including platters of roasted potatoes, squash, Brussels sprouts and carrots. Isabel sat with Mr Bateman on her one side and Lady Kildaren on the other, while Cousin Maria was opposite her.