by Jo Beverley
How odd weddings could be.
Enough. It was done.
Chapter 13
At the parsonage, they ate cake and drank wine. Real wine. Had Braydon provided it?
Toasts were made, and Braydon replied with a speech that contained all the appropriate sentiments but managed not to imply too many untruths.
As they all settled again, one of the Misses Purslow said, “So lovely to have a Braydon married here once more.”
Ruth asked, “When was the last occasion?”
The sisters looked at each other. “That would have been the third viscount, wouldn’t it, Mary?”
“Yes, dear,” said Miss Mary, “for the fourth married in Hampshire somewhere. Before our time, of course.”
“And the fifth in London.”
Miss Mary smiled at them all. “It is quite customary to marry in the bride’s parish, of course, but it’s such a pleasure to see a Braydon wedding here. And perhaps . . .”
“Hush, dear,” Miss Martha said with a touch of color in her cheeks.
Kitty fought a smile. Miss Mary had been about to mention christenings. That would never do. The implications!
But everyone knew what was supposed to happen tonight. Perhaps she was blushing herself. She wasn’t nervous about the act, but the man beside her was still almost a stranger.
“I think it a great shame that the family hasn’t worshipped here,” Kitty said. “We will as often as possible, won’t we, Dauntry?”
“Certainly. Of course, the dowager is something of an invalid these days. Does she consult you, Doctor?”
“No, my lord. Sir Percy Lansing comes from London twice a year, but I gather her limitations are not amenable to treatment.”
What an odd, secluded life. Kitty wondered if it had always been this way. No wonder the fifth viscount’s wife had run away. Kitty needed to know more, and this gathering was an opportunity. What bride wouldn’t be curious?
“I understand my predecessor left,” she said, trying for innocence with a touch of stupidity. Eyes slid left and right. Perhaps no one would answer.
Eventually Mr. Whitehall said, “That’s true, Lady Dauntry.”
“I suppose the fifth viscount divorced her.”
“No, ma’am. For whatever reason, he did not.”
Kitty sighed in a romantic way. “He must have loved her very much.”
There was something significant in the way the longtime residents of Beecham Dab didn’t answer.
“Father,” said Miss Martha, “did not approve of divorce in any circumstance.”
“But he was not against a separation, in the worst cases,” said her sister.
“As with the Robertsons,” Miss Martha agreed.
There followed a story of a local family a generation ago in which the wife had been very badly treated. Reverend Purslow had helped her to become separated from her husband in the eyes of the law.
“Not all approved,” Mr. Whitehall pointed out, and perhaps he was one of them. “Apart from the morality of the situation, nothing could be done for the children, left in the father’s care without motherly love.”
Kitty saw that it might be a blessing to be barren. If she had children, she wouldn’t be able to abandon them to cruelty. Yet the fifth Lady Dauntry had abandoned hers to her mother-in-law. Perhaps the woman hadn’t been so odd then.
It was time to go. Again, her husband assisted her with her cloak. She trusted Sillikin to follow and took up her muff, pushing it up her left arm again. They left the parsonage on a wave of smiles and good wishes, which Kitty hoped had power.
She halted outside the door. “A curricle?”
The two-wheeled vehicle waited, with a groom at the highbred horses’ heads. The groom was dressed in brown, red, and gold, to match the glossy paintwork. The vehicle looked so delicate, and she thought men mostly used them for racing.
“My luggage?” she asked. That thing looked as if it would be overloaded with three people.
“Has already gone ahead with Henry Oldswick. Do you mind an open carriage?”
“No, but I’ve never traveled in a curricle before.”
“Then I hope you enjoy the experience.” He handed her in, then passed Sillikin up to lie on the coach floor. He walked round and took his seat. “Are you warm enough? There’s a rug if you’d like it.”
“I have my cloak and muff,” she said, pulling the muff down to cover her gloved hands. “I hope we won’t go too fast.”
“Between here and the Abbey and on a country road?”
What a stupid thing to say. He’d think her an idiot.
The groom took his seat at the back, and the horses started forward at a slow pace. Braydon’s gloved hands looked light on the reins, but she had no doubt that he was in control.
“Don’t your horses mind such a plebian pace?”
“I mind such a plebian pace, but we must all suffer in the cause.”
I’m sorry you’re finding this such a hardship. She just managed not to say it.
“Does Miss Oldswick suit?”
“I think so. And you’re right. She promises to be an excellent ally.”
“The servants at the Abbey nearly all date from the fifth viscount’s time. Some of them have been there for decades. It would be unfair to dismiss them without cause, but having another agent in place will be useful.”
“Another agent?”
“We already have my valet, my groom, and my new secretary, Worseley. All are my eyes and ears. Yes, Baker?”
“Yes, milord.”
Was that a deliberate reminder that they were overheard? The man thought of everything. Unfair to cavil at that, but it set Kitty on edge. The groom had to be aware of the complex situation, so she asked, “What’s the reaction at the Abbey to our marriage?”
“Guarded, for the most part,” Braydon said. “Hostile from the dowager and Isabella.”
“She could be sent to school.”
“She thinks herself too old for that at sixteen, and it might be unkind. It’s only a few months since the deaths of her father and brother.”
“Of course. I forget. Perhaps she and the dowager will mellow in time.”
“An optimist, I see.”
“They will have to change. I won’t live in a battlefield.”
He glanced at her. “I’m not sure whether to anticipate or dread the future.”
“Always best to anticipate, don’t you think?”
He gave a short laugh. “You’re as changeable as the sea, Lady Dauntry.”
Kitty’s stomach clenched at the implied criticism, but she saw it could be justified. She’d not presented a consistent picture in their brief encounters. Hoyden, sober, firm, now brisk. She wasn’t even sure herself which was the true Kitty. A change of circumstance could change a person as powerfully as wounds or illness, or a restoration to health.
They rolled between hedges with countryside beyond. Some fields were pasture holding sheep or cows. Some were empty. Did pasture need to rest? Many fields were stubble left after harvest earlier in the year. Others were plowed.
A bird burst out of a hedge to cross the road in front of them. The horses jibbed, but Dauntry controlled them with ease. Kitty realized that even at this leisurely pace, his whole body was involved, including his fine mind. Something about that was arousing, as was the thought of his hands, despite their being covered by leather gloves. The seat held them close enough to brush against each other if the vehicle swayed. Kitty’s thoughts slid again toward the coming night. Perhaps a stranger would be exciting. True or not, it would happen. . . .
She launched into a mundane subject. “How much of the land hereabouts belongs to the viscountcy?”
“Most of it. I can show you maps. There are freehold properties, such as Duncott Manor, the squire’s place, but most people a
re tenants. It’s good land, well tended. My predecessor did a good job there.”
“But a less good one with his family.”
“Unfair, perhaps, to criticize a man for being indulgent to his widowed mother and then to his motherless daughter.”
“If the result is unhappiness, someone is at fault.”
“How very trenchant you are. We could lay all the blame on the errant Lady Dauntry.”
“We could, but I’d like to meet her.”
“Why?”
“To hear her side of the story.”
He looked at her. “If I prove intolerable, will you run?”
Kitty gave that a moment’s serious thought. “No.”
“Good.”
They went through a crossroads and began to follow a high stone wall that must surround the estate. Kitty could see nothing beyond it until they turned left toward great wrought-iron gates. Beyond, the drive ran arrow straight toward a pale rectangle of a house.
The gatekeeper and his family came out to bow and curtsy.
“Franklin and his family,” Braydon said to Kitty.
The man, helped by an older child, hurried to open the gates. Braydon paused the carriage as they went through. He dug in his pocket and brought out some silver coins. “I saved a few for your children, Mrs. Franklin.”
Four bright-eyed children, one in her mother’s arms, came to receive their silver threepenny bits and say their thank-yous.
Kitty was impressed by her husband’s thoughtfulness, but was any part of him not calculated with a cool head? How did that work in the marriage bed? She supposed some women discussed such matters among themselves, but she’d never had that sort of female friend. Except Ruth, of course, but there’d been few opportunities since Ruth had married, and none taken up.
They continued on through the gates toward the house. “Abbey” had made Kitty think the place would be ancient and rambling, but the house before her was the complete opposite. Two regular rows of tall windows ran along the middle of the house. Those would be the principal rooms. A lower rank of smaller windows close to the ground must serve the kitchens and such. Tiny windows in the roof would be for servants’ bedrooms. There were no grand embellishments or crenellations.
She’d prepared to become mistress of ancient, slightly crumbling Beauchamp Abbey, but how was she to rule this austere place?
As they continued forward, she looked to one side and the other. Beyond straight, leafless trees, deer of some kind cropped smooth grass that was set with the occasional pale statue of a Greek or Roman. A smooth lake held an island crowned with a small, white temple. The various trees, both solitary and clumped, seemed neatly arranged.
“Your thoughts?” he asked.
“It’s lovely,” she said, “but perhaps too perfect?”
“Everything should have a flaw?”
“I think so, or it would be intolerable.”
“I’m not sure I agree, but comfort yourself that there are any number of flaws in Beauchamp Abbey.”
Her unease was probably irrational or just wedding-day nerves, but his words stirred questions. “Has the history of the family here always been difficult?”
He glanced at her. “The house might be malign? An interesting speculation.”
“Not a ridiculous one?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts or evil spirits, but it’s not a happy place, and the recent family history hasn’t been blessed.”
“Digging further back will give me something to do in my idle hours.”
An elusive smile told her he’d caught the irony, but it didn’t unseal any mysteries, about the house or about him.
“If your father were alive he would have inherited this,” she said. “Would he have welcomed it more than you?”
“He’d have reveled in the title, but I can’t imagine him spending much time here. His life was London and government.”
“As is yours?”
“Not government any more than my title obliges. Did you not enjoy living in London?”
Kitty had to think about that. “I preferred it to Cateril Manor, but I’m not sure how much was place, how much circumstances.” They were close to the house now and she refused to be any more nervous than the situation called for. “I, too, don’t believe in ghosts and evil spirits.”
He drew up the curricle in front of straight white steps that led up to large double doors, again white. The doors opened to let out a parade of servants. The maids wore dark gray dresses and black aprons, and the footmen a livery of paler gray and silver braid along with black stockings and armbands. Is gray the regular livery or a special mourning one?
When Braydon’s brightly liveried groom hurried to the horses’ heads, he shone like a cheerful fire in a wintry scene.
Kitty was glad to see Henry Oldswick there in her apronless dark blue. The sour-faced, black-clad man beside her was probably Braydon’s valet. Did he not approve of his master’s bride? Henry smiled, but every other face was blank or hostile. Kitty wondered if the same expressions showed when a conquering army entered a defeated city. She would conquer, but she would be a kindly conqueror, if allowed.
Braydon came to hand her down. Once on the ground Kitty lifted Sillikin down, quietly commanding her to heel. The dog obeyed, but how would that go in hostile territory? Sillikin was venturesome, and in the parsonage she’d soon made friends with all. Kitty couldn’t let her wander here until she was sure it was safe.
Braydon led her toward the dozen or so servants, but she noticed one dripping nose and that none of the women wore gloves. Here was a chance to make a point. She spoke loudly enough to be heard by all. “We can’t have our people out in this cold, Dauntry. Go in,” she said to the servants. “Go in!”
After a startled moment, they hurried inside. Kitty and Braydon followed, and the door closed behind.
First step complete.
Kitty surveyed a large, pale hall that reached the full height of the house to a glass cupola that let in the cool November light. The floor was white marble, as was the wide central staircase in front of her. White marble pillars to left and right supported galleries above, and there were more pale pillars up there supporting the floor above. Doors and woodwork were also white. There was some color in the walls, but that was a pale and particularly cool shade of blue.
Kitty saw what Ruth had meant by “chilly.” Sillikin was keeping close to her side, which was an interesting sign.
There were touches of color—a cream and gold vase on a plinth and some paintings—but they served to emphasize the pallor of the rest. It was an elegant space—Kitty could see that—but oddly unwelcoming. In one corner a long-case clock, also white, ticked ponderous seconds.
She smelled . . . nothing. The parsonage held hints of polish and potpourri, and probably of dog, cat, and children, and whatever was cooking in the kitchen. She’d not noticed, because homes always harbored smells. Did marble absorb them?
A fire would definitely have warmed the space in all means of the word, but there wasn’t one. However, the air wasn’t cold because an extraordinary Dutch stove gave out heat. She’d seen such a thing only once before, and that had been smaller than this ornate tower of white ceramic. It must have been six feet high and nearly as wide. Kitty could feel the warmth from where she stood.
“What an excellent device,” she said, grasping something she could honestly praise.
“My predecessor made a number of improvements. Come and meet the Quillers.”
The gray-haired butler and housekeeper were both in black and, as she’d been warned, hostile. Both acted and spoke appropriately, but she had no doubt they saw an interloper. Kitty was surprised they were able to show their feelings to the new mistress of the house. Foolish of them—unless they thought she’d run off like the last one.
Mrs. Quiller introduced the senior serva
nts, and then all were dismissed to their duties. There was no sign of the dowager or Isabella, and that was just as well. This hall had galleries on the right and left of the upper floor, which made the entrance hall like a theater stage; anything said here could be heard by many. If there were to be explosions, Kitty preferred they happen in private.
“Thank you, Mrs. Quiller,” Braydon said. “I’ll take my wife upstairs.”
Kitty shot him a look. Did that mean “to bed”? She’d assumed they’d wait until night, but what did she know of such things? Her wedding day with Marcus had taken such a toll on him that it had been days before they’d been able to consummate their marriage. Then it had happened in the evening, with the sun still up and birdsong and conversation heard through an open window. Summer versus winter.
Not a good thought.
Chapter 14
Braydon led her toward the stairs. Kitty picked up Sillikin and began the climb, saying quietly, “So much marble.”
“Unwise in Britain, yes. The first viscount saw too much of Italy. Be thankful for the stove and that the upper floors are wood and sometimes carpeted.”
They turned right at the top of the stairs and right again along one gallery. Kitty glanced across the open space and thought she saw a flicker of dark movement on the other side of the house. When she looked more closely, no one was visible, but that had probably been Isabella.
Would the girl continue the claim of a betrothal? Perhaps even that she’d been jilted? It would come to nothing in the end, but could be unpleasant.
There were white-painted doors to her left. Braydon opened the first. “Your boudoir, Lady Dauntry.”
She entered, relieved to be offstage, but then shocked by a strident burst of color. The walls were papered in a pink flower print, and a green and brown carpet covered most of the floor. The curtains and hangings were an odd shade of green that didn’t go well with either, and the upholstered chairs and a chaise were yellow.