She would not continue to dwell on that. She must concentrate on her marriage and try to make Lucian comfortable, if not happy, and hope for the improbable to become possible. Meanwhile, the ruins beckoned her as well as the house, and she thought with a surge of unanticipated happiness, she was in England, which she had missed during her long Brussels exile. Furthermore, Yorkshire was a part of the country unknown to her and all the more fascinating for that.
She looked out the window again and found that the fog was lifting and through it she could see walls, tall and irregular. With a surge of excitement, she saw that her room did overlook the abbey, and as she tried to distinguished more of it, she realized that the horseman had been riding through the abbey itself! That was strange. If she were superstitious . . . But she was not, she reminded herself. Though he had appeared vague and almost insubstantial in the swirling mists, he was corporeal and a trespasser. She did not know why she was so sure of that. No, she did know. There would have been no reason for anyone who knew the house to linger there in the cold and stare at it. And what was his reason? He must have had a reason, but now the fog was floating away and the rising sun illuminated the battered ruins of the abbey!
Gazing at them, Alicia felt a lump in her throat. They were so beautiful and so sad. And the man on horseback had ridden over what must have once been part of the cloister. There were the pointed, broken arches. The artist in her thrilled to the sight and to the shattered stairs that lay a few feet distant. And farther away rose a tower that appeared to be in a better state of preservation while directly below she found that scraggly weeds had forced their way between the paving stones. Eventually they and the stones would be covered with snow. How many winters had passed since the monks had chanted their matins. She wished that ghosts did exist so that she might hear them, but it was better they were at rest rather than drifting through these sad ruins. Still, shattered as they were, the sun rendered them beautiful! She ached to visit them, but hesitated at the thought of leaving the house so early. The servants would be expecting . . . What did they expect from her? Instructions, of course, and the house must be put in order. She would have the housekeeper show her through. Fortunately, she knew a little about the running of a great house, having lived in one before her father’s excesses had driven them abroad. Her governess had also tried to give her some instructions. She had an ironic little smile for that memory.
“You are so very beautiful, my child; sure you will marry well and to a noble of high degree.” Miss James had been very romantic, an avid reader of novels from the circulating libraries, some of which had made their way into Brussels bookstores. She had told Alicia that she resembled a fairy princess or a heroine out of one of those tomes. “Beauty such as you possess, my dear, will win you a rich husband, even though you have no dowry.”
Alicia chuckled at that memory and then stiffened, realizing that, in a sense, Miss James’ prophecy had come to pass, except that she was no longer beautiful and her husband, though rich and titled, did not love her.
‘‘But I can be useful,” she muttered. “I will be useful!” Purposefully, she turned away from the window. She would speak to the housekeeper this morning.
Her decision made, she looked at her own surroundings, really taking stock of them, approving the bed with its gold silk hangings. There was a writing desk in the center of the chamber and a dressing table near it that she remembered from the previous night. The two windows facing the abbey were wide and tall. An oval mirror hung between them and a similar mirror hung over the mantelpiece, both having gilt frames and, judging from the condition of the glass, both were old. To one side of the door that might or might not lead to Lucian’s suite of rooms stood a large armoire that she also recalled from last night. With a little thrill of pleasure she found that the floor was covered by an Aubusson carpet; it was yellow with golden scrolls to match the draperies and the bed hangings. The ceiling was sculptured and in each comer was the bas-relief of a nymph draped in garlands of fruit and flowers. It was a lovely chamber but it wanted cleaning and airing. She guessed that the whole house required similar treatment and wondered how long it had been since anyone had lived there. The dust in the draperies suggested years. She wished that the Lucian she had known had been more informative about his home. However, beyond saying that he could scarcely wait to present her to his father, he had said little.
He had been fond of his father, she knew, and it must have been another cruel blow to learn that he was dead—when to his knowledge of two years back, he had not even been ailing. Two years, what could it be like to have them removed from your mind? In retrospect, two years did not seem very long, but the twenty-four months that had been erased from Lucian’s consciousness had been particularly vital. She shook her head. She could not continue to dwell on this cruel loss that had made such a terrible difference in her life as well.
She went to the wardrobe. Effie, she remembered, had unpacked some of her garments last night, and she needed to don something serviceable, a gown adaptable for dusty passages. Miss James came to mind and she laughed, albeit a trifle ironically, as she recalled her governess saying, “And he will dress you in silks and velvets and drape pearls about your throat and put diamonds on your every finger.”
Lucian had promised her a diamond, too, to replace the ring he valued so highly. She caressed that crested ring and then sighed. It was ridiculous to let the past arise to depress her. She chose a morning gown of brown chintz, remembering, as she did, Lucian’s ecstatic references to eyes that one might have expected to be blue but that were a glowing brown. Reluctantly, she moved to a mirror, something which, of late, she had tried to avoid. She heaved a second sigh. In addition to the pallor that had replaced her once vivid coloring, the shadows under her eyes seemed even deeper and the bright white light flowing in from the windows was not kind to her complexion or her hair. She grimaced, wondering if she could ever regain what she had lost. It did not bear thinking on, save that it might have lent more credence to those claims Lucian could not understand. Again, she thought of the Incomparable Barbara and angrily dismissed her from her mind. In that direction lay self-pity. She had no time for that. There was a house to be put in order.
7
One of the first things Alicia learned, as she had followed Mrs. Gibbs, the housekeeper, from room to room was that Lucian’s apartments were on the other side of the house and that he had given orders that she occupy those suites reserved for guests, at least during the tenure of the late viscount, whose family had been limited to Lucian.
“All the other children did not survive infancy. ’Er Ladyship nearly died givin’ birth to ’is Lordship, as you probably know.” That information had been given with a sharp glance based, Alicia knew, on the housekeeper’s suspicions concerning her marriage. All the servants regarded her with much the same attitude. That had been apparent at breakfast. Lucian had not joined her then, nor had he come to the midday meal. He still remained secluded in those rooms to which the housekeeper had not been able to conduct her.
She had tried not to be depressed over that or over the fact that she had been placed as far away from him as possible, given the confines of the house. Yet, at first she had not been able to keep the image of the man she had married from striding, ghostlike, at her side. She had envisioned his tender smiling glances at every turn and heard his voice in her ear—a spirit she must needs exorcize if she were to have any peace of mind. However, she had been fascinated by the house. Though it showed definite signs of neglect—as it well might, having not had an occupant for the last twelve years—it was beautiful. She had been particularly fascinated by the long gallery with its portraits, so many of which had features similar to those of her husband.
There was his mother, a chestnut-haired girl, painted holding a favorite spaniel, and his father, to whom he bore a great resemblance. There was his fabled Spanish ancestress in her stiff farthingale, she who had given him his blue-black hair and his olive complexion. She
had also seen the man who had married her—with his fair hair and his gray eyes—silvery rather, like those of Lucian. She remembered the tale of their meeting . . . How had that Spanish beauty faced the chill winters and cool summers of Yorkshire? The dates beneath her portrait had given her sixty-eight years of life—a long time in that era, longer than Lucian’s mother, longer than her own. She banished thoughts that bordered on melancholy. She had, at any rate, made a more favorable impression on Mrs. Gibbs by saying that they must hire more servants, and soon, to relieve her of the heavy work attendant upon getting the house in order. She had also asked her to make a list of what most needed to be done. After the midday meal she had visited the kitchens to see if it was the cook or the stove that had delivered up a repast so indifferent that she was actually glad that Lucian had not deigned to join her.
The kitchens had proved to be huge, dirty, and with a stove that might have come to the house in the wake of Lucian’s Spanish ancestress. An exaggeration of course, but when she had mentioned that it must be replaced, she had perceived tears in the eyes of Mrs. Bradley, the cook, and gratitude written large on the pale face of Milly, the girl who assisted her. To her further suggestion of more helpers, the woman had named three, including a lad to do the cleaning. She had added timorously, “If . . . if the master’ll agree.”
“I am sure he will,” Alicia had assured them. She had read doubt in the cook’s eyes, a reflection of that she had noted in the housekeeper’s manner. It could be a reason for further depression, but again she was determined not to let the odd circumstances attendant upon her acceptance as mistress of the house rankle. That way lay indecision, and the house must come first! It had been neglected far too long. She could imagine the condition of the cellars but forbore to examine these as yet. However, she would have to find Lucian and . . . Where was he? She had half-expected to find him in the library, but that vast room—one that had pleased her with its floor-to-ceiling bookcases, its huge mahogany desk, its sculptured fireplace, and its numerous chairs for comfortable reading—had not yielded Lucian. She had reluctantly questioned the butler, but beyond being informed that at some time in the morning the master had gone out, she had learned nothing. She found his continued absence frustrating as well as depressing. Since he had agreed to honor his vows, at least to some extent, he should not have left her without any word as to where he had gone. Would he always ignore her? Was that part of his plan?
Plan?
Did Lucian have a plan, or rather, did he and Barbara have a plan to let her flounder in this house alone? She recalled her earlier suspicions and decided that, probably, they did. Certainly that had been his reason for insisting that they journey to Yorkshire. He might have had more than one reason for that—the other being that he did not want to embarrass Barbara by remaining in London with his so-called wife while she dealt with the conjectures of the ton. The thought that Lucian might have wanted to spare her, Alicia, such speculation arose in her mind and vanished in that same moment. This man did not care what she thought, and again she wondered what manner of mischief Barbara had brewed.
That she was malicious went without saying and that she could manipulate a conscience-stricken Lucian was also possible. No, not possible, probable! At the very least she would have made him feel guilty, and for a man as honorable as Lucian that would be a very heavy burden to shoulder—especially now, when he was so confused and not entirely recovered from his wound. Alicia loosed a quavering breath. In a sense it would be better were he to be free of both of them, but if she were to leave, Barbara would come, and in her estimation, that was not the lesser of two evils!
Alicia sighed. In spite of her resolutions, the depression she had endeavored to hold at bay swept over her. It was hard to be living among those who regarded one with distrust and, in Lucian’s case, dislike. If her father or her brother were with her, it would have been easier to face this situation. As it was, she was half-inclined to go to bed and sleep away the hours that must intervene before evening, but the sun was bright, and judging from all she had heard about the northern climate, there would not be many more days of fine weather— rather there would be the winds and rains of yesterday. Furthermore, she did want to stroll through the abbey ruins and she had denied herself that pleasure long enough.
With that in mind, she went up to fetch her cloak, congratulating herself on finding her chamber without any assistance from the servants. As she entered, she discovered Effie sewing on some of her garments. She had not seen the girl since they had gone through the upstairs rooms in the wake of Mrs. Gibbs earlier that morning.
“I am going outside, my dear. Should you like to accompany me to the ruins?”
Effie had looked pleased until Alicia mentioned her destination, then her face clouded, “Oh, no, milady. I wouldn’t go in ’em if I was you.”
“And why not?”
“Nobody does from the ’ouse. ’Is Lordship’n Mr. Church, too. They says as they be ’aunted.”
“I cannot believe his Lordship was serious,” Alicia said. “As for Church, has he seen any of those ghosts?”
“ ’E says as ’ow ’e’s ’eard things’n Jacob ’as, too.” For some reason, Effie blushed as she mentioned Jacob’s name. They had become a little more friendly toward the end of the journey, Alicia remembered.
“And what have Jacob and Church heard?” she asked.
“Noises in—in empty rooms.” Effie shuddered. “An’ Jacob told me that he knows folk who’ve ’eard the monks chantin’ just like ’is Lordship says. It ’appens when the wind be ’igh. Papists they was, wicked Papists, ’n when they was turned out o’ the abbey, they laid a curse on all who done it’n all ’oo’d come after ’em an’ look wot’s ’appened to the poor master.”
“The poor master was wounded in battle. Such things occur in wars, Effie. As for the poor monks being wicked, they were gentle folk for the most part.”
“Gentle,” Effie exclaimed. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milady, but they was Papist, like I said, ’n known to conjure up the devil.”
“Effie! I beg you’ll not heed whoever has been filling your ears with this childish nonsense. That they were Papists—or rather, Roman Catholic, to give them their proper designation— goes without saying. That they worshiped the same God that the Protestants do is also the truth. And that they were cruelly treated by those that coveted their riches and their lands is another truth. I would guess that the only ghosts Jacob and Mr. Church have heard are those that dwell in gin glasses. I beg you’ll not give credence to these tales. There is enough wickedness abroad in the world without needing to borrow more from the ether.”
Regrettably, Effie still appeared unconvinced, and Alicia, not wishing to press her, took her cloak from the armoire and went on down the stairs. If the truth were to be told, she was just as pleased to be alone. Yet, at the same time, she was annoyed at the prevalence of the ghost rumors. It might be hard to hire servants, especially if Jacob and Mr. Church were already fomenting trouble among the staff. She would have to speak to them, or better yet, have Lucian undertake that duty.
The unhappiness that was never far away rolled back and over her. Lucian should have made some effort to be with her, she thought bitterly, and again her common sense intervened to advise her that the present circumstances precluded that. But how long would he continue to avoid her? She made another effort to bury these conjectures. They lived in the same house, and though it was large, he could not remain closeted away from her forever. He needed time to adjust to his new circumstances and meanwhile, she thought philosophically, she would have to make the best of it.
She laughed mirthlessly. In the ten years since she, her brother, and her father had fled England, pursued by the baronet’s creditors, she had become well-versed in “making the best of it.” Even before that, at the tender age of seven, she was confronting the heavyset, ill-natured men who came to the door of the mortgaged London house. With big round eyes, radiating innocence, she would say that Papa
, currently cowering in an upstairs bedroom, was from home and she did not know when he would return. Huge brown eyes coupled with golden curls had always had a profound effect on these gentlemen. Some had even given her a penny or, on two rare occasions, a shilling. The rest of them had patted her head and gone on their way. She did not know why that particular memory had come back to her, or did she? Lucian, encouraged by Barbara, probably believed her an out-and-out liar. Consequently, she was glad he knew nothing of that background. It would have served only to strengthen his suspicions. Still, in a sense, that early training was standing her in good stead. Faced with his doubts, she could pretend she did not notice them. She shook her head as if to clear her brain of these unhappy reminiscences and went on out through the main hall and onto the pillared portico.
Coming down the steps, she stared about her with a mixture of dismay and determination. Having arrived in the darkness on the previous evening, she had not been vouchsafed a view of the grounds. Now she found that the grass was badly in need of mowing and much overgrown with weeds. The drive needed regraveling and the trees wanted pruning. They must hire gardeners and . . . The sound of an approaching horse interrupted her speculation. Looking up, she saw a rider at the curve in the driveway. Lucian? No, disappointment brought a lump to her throat as she saw that the rider was in skirts, her hair flying in the wind. A moment later, she realized that the hair was red—indeed, it was the precise shade of Barbara Barrington’s locks.
The Forgotten Marriage Page 10