Mrs. Budley Falls From Grace (The Poor Relation Series Book 3)

by M C Beaton

  A butler came out and stood on the steps. Mrs. Budley sank back in her seat quickly. The carriage dipped and swayed as John got down from the roof. She dimly heard his voice shouting something and then the carriage door was opened and there was John letting down the steps.

  “His lordship is out hunting,” said John, “but I explained who we were and a room is being prepared for you.”

  Mrs. Budley allowed herself to be helped down. Her legs felt like jelly. Clouds were racing high ahead across the top of the castle, giving a sickening impression that the great pile was actually moving.

  Feeling very small and alone, she walked up the staircase. The butler bowed and then stepped in front of her to lead the way.

  She found herself in a great baronial hall with walls fourteen feet thick. Down the centre of the hall was a table long enough to feast trains of vassals. The walls, which were panelled in cedarwood, were hung with lances and maces and spears, and in front of them stood rows of rusting suits of armour. Up by the ceiling fluttered cobweb-thin medieval battle-flags.

  “If madam will take a seat by the fire,” said the butler, “the housekeeper, Mrs. Dark, will arrange your quarters.” He turned to John and Betty and said, “Follow me.”

  So Mrs. Budley was left alone. The walls were so thick that all sounds of the outside world were silenced. She walked to one of the windows and looked straight down to the river Avon, foaming fifty-five feet below. Then she drew her pelisse more tightly about her and trod along the huge tiled length of the hall floor to the fire which blazed like a funeral pyre from a strange antique grate in the form of a basket. The marble chimney-piece was so high that a man with a tall hat on could easily have walked under it. Huge logs, like tree trunks, crackled, spurted and blazed in the fireplace. In front of the fire stood a fire-screen with a massive heavy gold frame holding a plate of glass so fine it was indistinguishable from the very air. Mrs. Budley had never seen anything so wonderful. Everything was on such a gigantic scale that she felt she had wandered into some ogre’s castle.

  Her thoughts turned to the absent marquess. Out hunting! But such an old and frail man could not possibly hunt. Perhaps he followed the hunt comfortably in his carriage.

  A footman in brown-and-gold livery came in carrying a tray with a decanter of wine and a plate of biscuits, which he set on a table next to a huge winged armchair beside the fire. Mrs. Budley sat down. Her feet did not touch the ground. She nibbled at a biscuit and wished John and Betty had stayed with her.

  There was a huge portrait above the fireplace of a man in the dress of the time of Charles I. He had long curly black hair and a thin wolfish face and the painted eyes seemed to sneer down at the cringing Mrs. Budley.

  “It’s a home like any other,” she told herself fiercely. “Just a trifle on the large side.”

  She stifled a whimper of relief when Betty appeared at the far end of the hall, followed by a tall thin woman with a ring of keys at her waist. They walked down the length of the hall.

  “This is the housekeeper, Mrs. Dark,” said Betty. “She will take us to our quarters, madam.”

  Mrs. Dark, in keeping with this giant castle, was a very tall, gaunt woman with a greyish complexion. She wore an enormous starched cap which ballooned above her head. “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Dark, in a hollow doom-laden voice, “madam wishes to finish her refreshment.”

  “No, no,” gabbled Mrs. Budley. No doubt there was a pretty and unintimidating bedchamber waiting for her. No need to be so frightened by this great hall. Halls were hardly ever modernized.

  “Very well,” announced Mrs. Dark in sepulchral tones. “Follow me.”

  Mrs. Budley was to learn later that the entertaining rooms, which stretched out on either side of the hall, extended for three hundred and forty feet. As it was, she felt she had been trudging through one terrifying medieval room after another before they reached a curved stone staircase.

  “This,” said Mrs. Dark at last, throwing open a door, “is your apartment, madam.”

  Mrs. Budley looked wildly round. She found herself in a cedar-panelled sitting-room, very dark, with another huge fireplace, piled up with blazing logs. There was a large writing-desk by the window with a massive carved chair like a throne in front of it. In front of the fireplace were two huge armchairs.

  “And your bedroom, madam.” The housekeeper opened a connecting door and ushered Mrs. Budley into an even darker room, dominated by a four-poster bed of red velvet. Red velvet curtains like dried blood hung by the window. A huge toilet-table held on its greenish marble surface a hand-basin like a bird-bath and a jug of water that would surely take two men to lift.

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Budley in a voice as hollow as that of the housekeeper.

  “The master dines at four o’clock,” intoned the housekeeper. “Go directly to the dining-room. The dressing-bell is sounded at three. The castle gardens are accounted fine, should you care for a walk.”

  “No, I thank you. I shall rest and read,” said Mrs. Budley firmly.

  When the housekeeper had left and the heavy door had slammed shut behind her, Mrs. Budley said to Betty, “Have you picked up intelligence about the master? Is he very old? Is he really forgetful?”

  “I been putting away your duds, madam,” said Betty. “John, he’ll find out sure enough and come here before dinner. It seems this marquess keeps old-fashioned country hours for dinner, and very sensible too, for I don’t hold with this new business of eating at midnight,” by which Betty meant seven or eight in the evening.

  “You should not say ‘duds’ for clothes, Betty, if you are to appear a real lady’s-maid,” said Mrs. Budley, thinking with a pang of regret of the frivolous French creature she had once employed when her Jack had been alive and money had seemed plentiful. “What should I wear? If he is so very old, he has probably poor sight, so I don’t suppose it much matters.”

  “Got roaring fires all over the place,” said Betty, “but it don’t half get cold away from them. I laid out your grey silk.”

  “Not very pretty.”

  “Silk’s warmer than muslin, and a good Norfolk shawl to go with it.”

  “Oh, well, I suppose you have the right of it. But that grey is a relic of my half-mourning and I somehow feel that if I looked pretty, I might be braver.”

  “You won’t look pretty, madam, if you are freezing cold.”

  Mrs. Budley helped Betty to unpack. They had nearly finished when John came lumbering in. “Rum go,” he said laconically. “Close as clams, the servants here. Can’t get them to talk about the master. But there’s a rare fine kitchen garden, and if you give me that list from Despard, madam, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Have you comfortable quarters?” asked Mrs. Budley.

  “I’m in a little room on the half-landing below you,” said Betty, “and John’s in the attics. We didn’t say anything about being married, for real servants ain’t married and ’twould look odd.” John and Betty had stayed on with Lady Fortescue in the former days of her poverty for no wages, provided she allowed them to wed.

  “I shall feel better when this dinner is over. Did any of the servants query the intelligence that I am supposed to be Lord Peterhouse’s niece?”

  “Seemed to accept it,” said John. “You rest easy, madam. Few days is all you need.”

  After they had left, Mrs. Budley prowled about her quarters. Everything of value was too heavy to lift, from the huge marble clock on the mantelpiece to the enormous alabaster vase in the bedroom. She should really start work right away and ring for the housekeeper and ask for a guided tour. That’s what Sir Philip had told her to do. “Ingratiate yourself with the housekeeper,” he had said. “Show interest in the kitchens and look bored in the muniments room and don’t stare too hard at anything that might be worth taking. And find out where the late marchioness had her apartments.”

  But Mrs. Budley only wanted to forget about her predicament until dinner-time. She sat down in the throne of a chair by the desk.
There was a huge brass ink-pot and a giant sand-shaker and an enormous seal, so quartered that it seemed to have as many segments as a backgammon board. Betty had put the volumes of the novel from the circulating library on the desk.

  She opened the first volume and began to read. The novel was very enjoyable and she nearly fell out of her chair with alarm as the sound of the dressing-bell rang through the castle.

  A servant with a basket of logs walked in and began to pile up the fire. She retreated to the bedroom to wash and change. Betty appeared and helped her into her clothes and then tried to arrange her hair but Mrs. Budley sent her away, saying she was quite capable of arranging her hair herself.

  But the minute Betty had gone, she wished she had kept her close, for there were no curling-tongs and she was too shy to ring the bell and ask for some. She brushed her hair and tried to tame it into some semblance of a Roman style but it remained as fine and fluffy as ever. She bound a grey silk cord in it, shaping the cord into a sort of coronet. This took up a great deal of time and she started nervously as a second bell was rung, the dinnerbell.

  She waited hopefully for a servant to come and guide her to the dining-room, but no one came, so at five past four, she went to the door and let herself out into the corridor, trying to remember if the dining-room was one of the ones on the ground floor which she had walked through.

  Rooms led to other rooms, staircases to other staircases. She began to feel quite tearful. Of what use was there in sending servants with her if they were never there when needed?

  And then a voice behind her, in a dim passage, said, “Can I be of assistance, madam?”

  She gave a little shriek of alarm and swung round. A tall footman stood there.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” said Mrs. Budley in a voice which, to her horror, trembled. “I am looking for the dining-room.”

  “Follow me, madam. His lordship is waiting. His lordship does not like to be kept waiting.”

  And with these awful words he strode off, and picking up her silken skirts, Mrs. Budley scurried after him.

  Chapter Two

  There are more matches made up in country

  houses than in all the west-end London ones put

  together,—indeed, London is always allowed to

  be only the cover for finding game in, and the

  country the place for running it down.

  —SURTEES

  THE FOOTMAN opened a massive door which swung open with a creak and stood aside. Mrs. Budley walked into the dining-room.

  It was huge and shadowy, with a painted ceiling. A long table ran down the middle of it, set with two places, one at either end. A large fire crackled, sending up tongues of flame so that the shadowy room was alive with dancing red light. Like hell, thought Mrs. Budley, complete with Satan.

  For a wickedly handsome man, who had been seated at the end of the table near the fireplace, had risen as she entered. He had a hard, cold face and large dark hooded eyes and black hair. He was muscular and fit. Here was no doddering old gentleman.

  Mrs. Budley sank into a low curtsy and made to move forward towards him, but he waved an imperious hand and a footman pulled out a chair for her, the one at the far end.

  Mrs. Budley sat down, her mind racing. Perhaps this was some genuine relative of the old man.

  The butler entered, followed by six footmen, and all began laying dishes on the table. “Bennet,” said the tall man, and the butler replied, “My lord?” and Mrs. Budley heard nothing of the following exchange because a wave of black fear had just engulfed her. This terrifying man who looked like the devil incarnate must be the marquess. He must be the new marquess. The old man must have died. Now she was more terrified of him than Lady Fortescue, Sir Philip, the colonel and Miss Tonks all rolled into one. Let them shout and berate her. She was making her escape from the castle this very night.

  “You are Mrs. Budley,” said the marquess, his cold, authoritative voice carrying down the length of the table.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Of which branch of the family?”

  “The Cornish Tremaines. Tremaine is my maiden name,” said Mrs. Budley.

  “Indeed! How very interesting.”

  She tried to drink her soup but was too aware of his eyes surveying her and dropped her spoon in her dish.

  Not the usual type of woman who pursues me, thought the marquess. The little figure at the other end of the table from him looked ridiculously feminine and frail. The silver-grey of her gown emphasized her pallor and her eyes looked enormous. Not even a very clever trickster, ran his thoughts, or she would appear bolder, more at ease.

  Mrs. Budley’s soup was removed and replaced with a dish of whitebait. She picked at it nervously. Every time she looked down the table, she received a cold assessing stare from those hooded eyes.

  The distance between them made any easy conversation impossible. The dishes came and went, the servants padded noiselessly to and fro. Her mind went back to hunt dinners she had attended in her husband’s company. Then everyone had been very talkative, usually each guest praising the magnificent country they had ridden over that day, lauding its bottomless brooks, its enormous bullfinches, its terrific stone walls, its flying foxes, and all vowing that a man who could ride with the Quorn could ride over any country in the world.

  She had not thought very much of her late husband, for the shock of the financial mess she had found herself in after his death had made her blame him rather than mourn him. But now she missed him terribly and forgot for the moment how his gambling and drunkenness had caused scene after scene.

  She regarded this meal as some slow-moving obstacle race with the prize of freedom at the end. When her unfinished pudding was taken away, the covers removed and the fruit, nuts, and decanters placed on the table, she felt her goal was in sight. One glass of wine and then she would rise to her feet, say she would leave him to his port, and retire to her room, where it would be Betty’s job to find John and effect a quick escape.

  Last obstacle in the race—one glass of port. Raise it to your lips, she told herself, take several sips, and now … She got to her feet after setting her glass down on the table. The marquess rose as well. Mrs. Budley found her voice. “Pray excuse me, my lord,” she whispered hoarsely. She cranked up her voice. “Pray excuse me, my lord. I wish to retire.”

  His voice carried clearly and with awful finality to the ears of the shivering Mrs. Budley. “We shall retire together.”

  For one startled moment, she thought he was suggesting they go to bed together, but the servants were there and the marquess was holding out his arm.

  She walked down the length of the table and placed her cold fingertips on that arm. The butler sprang to open a door and he ushered her through.

  It was not a drawing-room, but some sort of retiring-room. It was quite small, panelled like most of the rooms in cedarwood, now black with age. Scented beeswax candles lit the scene and a coal-fire of reasonable dimensions burned in a people-rather than giant-sized grate.

  He helped her to a chair by the fire and took the facing one. He stretched out his long legs and studied the flames while two footmen carried in the decanters and placed them on a side-table.

  “We will serve ourselves,” said the marquess and waved his hand, so that the great ruby ring he wore on one finger blazed with a red light.

  The servants retired, the door was closed, and Mrs. Budley raised her fan to her face and peered over the top of it with dilated eyes at this fiendish marquess.

  “I think we should commence by being honest with each other,” he said. “I will begin. In the short time since I came into the title, I have been relentlessly pursued by mamas and their daughters. None have been quite so brave as you to date. I thought by avoiding London and staying here until I put my inheritance in order, I should avoid their wiles, but still they come. I was just on the point of seeing if the portcullises could still be made to work so as to banish the matchmaking and the curious when you arrived. As
you know, you are no relative of mine.”

  Mrs. Budley found her voice. “Of your late uncle, my lord.”

  “I am my late uncle’s nephew. Same family. No Budleys. No Tremaines. So no more lies, Mrs. Budley. Strange. You do not look like an adventuress. I was in the army when news of my inheritance reached me. I had been at the wars since the age of sixteen and had known very little social life. I am, for your information, thirty-three, and, yes, I am unmarried. Some wine, Mrs. Budley?”

  She nodded her head, hoping to fortify her spirits. The game was up. She could only hope he would not call the constable. But she had as yet committed no major crime. She had not stolen anything. Nor had she used a false name.

  He rose and poured her a glass of wine and carried it to her. She accepted it with a mumble of thanks.

  “My parents were not wealthy, Mrs. Budley,” he went on after resuming his seat, “largely due to my father’s gambling. I have had a hard life in a way. Now I find myself very rich indeed. The late marquess was my mother’s brother. He considered in marrying my father that she had married beneath her and so refused to have anything to do with her. So I did not expect to inherit. But here we are, Mrs. Budley.” He waved a hand. “Hardly a welcoming or comfortable establishment. I have already made friends in the neighbourhood, among the men I hunt and fish with. The trouble is all such friendships are marred by such men’s marriageable daughters and socially ambitious wives.

  “The answer to my immediate problems is to have a wife of my own. As I have never been in love or what I have read love to be, any female of child-bearing years will do. Yet the misses I have met—and believe me, I have met many who have been dragged here by their families—do not please me. They simper and lisp and cry when they leave, as if implying I had led them to believe some warmer connection was in the offing.