So he spoke with some warmth, the words coming easily to him. He spoke of their suitability of character and temperament, he spoke of his rank and the elevated position in society which he could offer his wife, and he mentioned as briefly as possible the rather small estate and income which was his by courtesy of his brother, for although it was adequate for his own needs, it would barely support a wife and family. But that hardly mattered, since she brought her own money to the marriage. Finally, he spoke of love, of the strength of his feelings for her — and here he grasped one of her hands, to make the point more forcefully — and told her that his life was incomplete without her, and would she do him the very great honour of becoming his wife?
Then he sat back complacently to receive her acceptance.
She lifted her lovely face and looked him straight in the eye. “Thank you, Lord Reginald, but I must refuse your most obliging offer.”
9: The Carrbridge Arms
“Refuse?” he said, dumbfounded.
“I thank you so much for the very great honour you do me, but I cannot marry you. I hope your disappointment will be short-lived.”
“But why?” And then he caught himself. “But I beg your pardon, you do not have to explain yourself to me.”
“I do not,” she agreed. “Nor would a discussion of that nature serve any purpose. I am very sorry to wound you, but I must follow the dictates of my heart in such a matter.”
This was a serious blow. She was not merely overcome with doubts about the disparity in their ranks, or feel herself in any way inadequate to the role he offered her — she did not love him, and that was that.
He rose, and even at such a moment of dismay, with his anticipated triumph turned to dust in his hands, he knew what ought to be said. “Then I shall importune you no further, Miss Chamberlain. Forgive me for mistaking your feelings so completely. May the gentleman who has the good fortune to win your heart and hand endeavour to deserve you, for he will be the luckiest man alive.”
She smiled then and offered him her hand to kiss, and quit the room in perfect composure, leaving him disconsolate and alone, with only a case full of twigs for solace.
~~~~~
Robinia was not displeased with Lord Reginald’s offer. It was very prettily expressed, and had matters stood otherwise, she might indeed have been tempted. They would have dealt together well enough, she made no doubt. He was not especially handsome, it was true, and he had little money of his own, at least officially, but he had an indulgent older brother to help finance him, and she had her own fortune now. Then there was the title and his exceptionally pleasing manners — yes, she could almost have settled for being Lady Reginald Marford. And it would have delighted her parents, she knew that. Such a suitable match! The son of a marquess, who moved in the first circles — yes, they would be disappointed with her for refusing him, and she was conscious of a twinge of guilt. After all, she had younger sisters and brothers to be settled, and a grand marriage like this would be the greatest help to them all.
But it would not do. However suitable the match, there was no passion in it, certainly not on her side and not on his either, despite all his fine words. She wanted a man who could rouse her to a frenzy of love, sweeping her up in his ardour and making her forget the practicalities of income and titles and dowries and settlements and other boring details. She wanted a man whose offer of marriage she could accept with breathless fervour, without stopping to weigh up the benefits in that cold way. It was to her credit to have brought him to the point in so short a time, but she could not marry him without affection, and her parents would understand that.
She was relieved to be departing from Drummoor very early the next day. Her farewell from Lord Reginald would be made that evening and then she would be gone from his life, back home with her family and preparing for her season in London. No doubt she would encounter Lord Reginald there, but always in company, and he would do nothing to make her uncomfortable, for he was a complete gentleman.
That evening after she had rejected him might have been awkward, but he was kindness personified, neither avoiding her unduly nor lavishing attention on her, and when they parted at the end of the evening, he took her gloved hand, raising it to his lips, and said, “We shall meet again sometimes in London, I daresay. I wish you every good fortune there, and may your journey home tomorrow be free of trouble. Goodbye, Miss Chamberlain.”
And as she made her curtsy to him, she almost regretted her decision. Almost, but not quite, for now she was free to dream of London and all that would transpire there. Not long now! She had wondered for weeks how she could contain her impatience, and yet she had. In just a few weeks she would be there, actually in London, the focus of all her hopes. As she prepared for bed that evening, her boxes packed, her dress and pelisse for the journey already laid out, she counted up the days in her mind. So close, so deliciously close!
~~~~~
Reggie was rather sorry for himself after this. He had grown used to the idea that he would soon be married, and had begun making lists in his head of all that needed to be done to prepare his little house for the reception of his bride, and then there would be a carriage to order, and horses to buy for it, and new servants to engage. Perhaps she would want a wedding tour, too, and he was not minded to refuse her any reasonable request. But now his generosity was not to be called upon, and he must remain dejectedly single, while Miss Chamberlain would undoubtedly be the toast of London and would not think of him at all.
Connie was sympathetic. “You must not mope, Reggie. I am not at all convinced that this is the end of it. Robinia has the world at her feet just now, so you cannot blame her for wanting to enjoy her season and look about her before she settles on a husband. A poor-spirited girl I should think her if she were to take the first man who offers for her. You will meet again in London, and you always show to advantage there, you know.”
“Do I?” he said, bemused.
“Of course you do! Think of all those wild young men who will flock to Robinia’s side — rakes and fortune-hunters and gamblers and dandies and who knows what. London society is very overwhelming for an inexperienced girl, as I know only too well, and she may well turn to you as a familiar and reliable friend.”
“Reliable…” he said gloomily. “What an epithet to attach to a man, Connie. You are not lifting my spirits in the slightest.”
But she only laughed. “Now, Reggie, you are going to have to cheer up, for we have this Amelia Gartmore arriving in a few days, and I do not know what we are to do with her, for there is no knowing what sort of person she may be. Did you find out anything from Mr Sharp?”
“Only that it was all a long time ago, and he remembers very little of the lady.”
“Well, I depend upon you to help me deal with her. It is a pity Mr Merton has not been able to find any more papers in your father’s writing room, apart from those half dozen letters.”
“And all identical to the word, which is downright peculiar. Is she bringing the son?”
“That is just what we do not know,” she said, shaking her head. “Lord Carrbridge invited them both, naturally, for it is the son he wishes to see, but she replied only that she will be coming — no day or time or method of transport given, and nothing about the son. We do not even know his name.”
“She sounds very smoky to me,” he said darkly. “We had better lock up all the spoons.”
Connie only laughed at him. “Whatever she is like — and the son, too — we must make the best of it.”
Mrs Amelia Gartmore arrived two days later on the public coach from York, descending at the Carrbridge Arms in Sagborough and telling the innkeeper that she had business with the marquess. Word was sent to Drummoor by way of one of the grooms.
“What is she like?” Connie asked of him eagerly.
The groom sniffed. “Not one as I’d expect to ’ave business ’ere,” he said firmly. “Son’s more like a gen’leman, though.”
That sounded more promisin
g, and at least she had brought her son.
“But what are we to do with them?” the marquess said helplessly. “Should I go to Sagborough?”
“Reggie will go and fetch them,” Connie said at once. “And perhaps Mr Merton. Then we shall have two opinions of them before they even arrive at the house.”
“I had hoped for more discretion,” the marquess said. “But stopping at a coaching inn like that! So public!”
“Everyone will know about it soon enough,” his wife said with her generous smile. “Nothing stays secret for very long.”
Reggie did not much like the idea of sharing a carriage with Merton all the way to Sagborough, and for almost half the journey they sat in silence, Reggie gazing steadfastly out of the window and trying to avoid catching Merton’s eye, which would oblige him to speak.
But when they reached the toll-road, Merton said, “What are your instructions, my lord? Shall you take care of Mrs and Mr Gartmore, while I deal with their luggage? And do you wish me to engage either of them in conversation on the return journey, or shall I remain silent?”
Reggie turned to look fully at him, realising that he had not even considered such questions. “What is your opinion?”
“My lord, I wish only to comply with your directions. I am here to oblige you in any way possible in the execution of what must be an unpleasant duty.”
“You are all consideration, Merton. I believe that the responsibility for our guests falls to me, in the main, but you are not a servant and may speak or not, as you choose. And leave the luggage to the inn servants.”
“Very well, my lord.”
“You are very formal, Merton. How did you address Sir Osborne Hardy when he was your employer?”
“In private, I called him Osborne or Ozzy,” Merton said with a sudden smile which lightened his dour face considerably. “But then, we were old friends since our school days. At Drummoor, I am very conscious of the disparity of rank, and should not like to overstep the bounds of propriety.”
“You like acting as Carrbridge’s secretary, I daresay,” Reggie said, eyeing him with distaste, although he could not quite say why. Merton’s words were always perfectly correct, and yet something about him made Reggie’s skin crawl.
“I enjoy the work, certainly, and hope to be useful enough to justify the trust his lordship has placed in me. It is the only way to express my gratitude towards him for offering me the position.”
Fine words indeed from a man who had wormed his way into the heart of the family, and set himself up nicely in a fine house. But he had to admit that Merton was an excellent secretary. “It cannot be denied that there was a need for someone to undertake the role,” Reggie said.
“It surprised me to find that Lord Carrbridge had no secretary,” Merton said.
“There was one once — poor Mr Penicuik! Such a tragedy.”
“What became of him?”
“We never speak of it,” Reggie said with a shudder.
Before long the carriage rolled into the yard at the Carrbridge Arms, and the innkeeper rushed out to meet them. “Milord, milord! Oh, good day, Mr Merton! They are in the taproom, milord. Shall I send them out to you?”
“The taproom? Why there?”
“Oh, milord, they asked for it. Showed ’em a parlour, didn’t I, but they said no. Prob’ly for the best, milord. Bob, run and tell Mrs Gartmore his lordship’s here and not to dawdle.”
“No, no, I shall go to her. Will you lead the way and point her out to me, Latham?”
The innkeeper hesitated, then said, “As it pleases your lordship. This way — oh, mind the step there. And how is his lordship the marquess, may I ask? And the lovely marchioness? Do mind your ’ead, milord. Beam’s a bit low there.”
“Everyone at Drummoor is well, except for Lady Hester, but that is hardly news.”
“Ah, poor lady! Such a beauty she was as a girl, so my old dad said. Ah, here we are, milord. That’s Mrs Gartmore in the purple, do you see?”
Reggie did see. Even though the taproom was crowded with patrons drinking coffee and yelling for food, it was impossible not to see the extremely large lady in violet bombazine with a heavy black cloak. Above a full powdered wig she wore a huge hat decorated with ribbons and beads which fluttered and jangled as she turned her head.
Crossing the room, as conversations died to a hushed whisper all around him, Reggie stopped before the imposing figure in purple and bowed slightly. “Mrs Gartmore?”
She jumped to her feet, jowls wobbling, her eyes as dark as currants. Reggie had a vivid image of his father, so meticulous in his person and dress. Impossible to imagine him having anything at all to do with this woman.
“That’s me,” the lady said, lifting her chin. “And who be you?”
“I am Lord Reginald Marford, brother to the Marquess of Carrbridge. I have a carriage waiting outside to convey you to Drummoor.”
“A carriage? Very proper, that is, sending a carriage. You ’ear that, Ben? ’is grace ’as sent a carriage.”
Reggie had been so distracted by the mother that he had barely noticed the son, a slender figure beside his mother, muffled in a scarf, twisting his hands restlessly. “Mr Gartmore?” Reggie said. “Good day to you. If you would both step this way…”
Mrs Gartmore progressed across the room like a ship in full sail, her son tucked in behind her, head down. He was better dressed than Reggie had dared to hope, looking more like a respectable junior banker than anything else, or perhaps a country solicitor, but he had not an ounce of confidence and looked terrified.
Outside Merton waited beside the carriage, the Gartmores’ two small bags already strapped onto it.
“Mrs Gartmore, Mr Gartmore, this is Mr Merton, secretary to the marquess,” Reggie said.
“Look at that fine carriage, Ben!” Mrs Gartmore exclaimed. “Got a picture on the door and everything.”
“Coat of arms, ma,” the son said in an anxious undertone, blushing scarlet.
“Aye, well, it’s very pretty, and look at them fancy cushions inside.”
“May I assist you, Mrs Gartmore?” Reggie said politely, offering his arm. She leaned on him so heavily that he almost collapsed under her weight. For an instant, she stood suspended on the step and he had a sudden fear that she would be too wide to enter the carriage door, and he would have to drive her to Drummoor in a hired gig. Then she twisted sideways and squeezed herself through the gap.
The journey was an uncomfortable one, partly because the carriage seemed rather small with Mrs Gartmore in it, and partly because she exclaimed in delight at every new vista. No tree or cottage or distant hill was too insignificant to be remarked upon at great length, only interrupted by the next excitement. Only when the carriage passed under the turreted archway that marked the entrance to Drummoor and began to wend its way through the park did the lady finally run out of energy and lapse into awed silence. Meanwhile, her son sat in rigid silence, blushing constantly, and not all Merton’s patient efforts to engage him in conversation bore fruit.
They arrived at last, and the stream of footmen, butler and housekeeper who issued forth to receive them, followed by Carrbridge and Connie, brought forth a squeak from Mrs Gartmore.
“Lor’, look at their finery! Is that ’is grace there with that great, white neckcloth?”
“His lordship, ma!” hissed her son. “He’s not a duke.”
“’e’s as fine as the king hisself! And the lady’s gown! I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it in me life.”
Reggie happened to catch Merton’s eye, and saw him struggling with the same desire to laugh at this honest commentary.
With the aid of two footmen, she descended to the drive and was immediately whisked towards the house by Connie. The three men sat on in the carriage, each waiting for one of the others to take the initiative and alight. In the end, it was Reggie who broke the impasse, then Merton and finally, Mr Gartmore, still blushing furiously.
The marquess rushed forward. “Mr Gart
more? How do you do? I am the Marquess of Carrbridge. Welcome to Drummoor. Will you come inside and take some refreshment after your journey? Was it quite awful? I hate travelling by closed coach, always have done, it makes me ill — all that swaying about. Were the roads dreadful? They often are at this time of year.” Then, when Gartmore still stood uncertainly, wringing his hands, he added gently, “Are you quite all right, Mr Gartmore?”
“Ben,” he blurted. “My name is Ben — Benjamin Gartmore. It’s… it’s not right for you to be calling me Mr Gartmore like that, my lord.”
“I will certainly call you Ben if you wish. That is for you to say, but it might confuse the servants if we do not maintain the proprieties while you are a guest under my roof.”
“Oh.” He hung his head again, his face aflame. “I’m so sorry.”
“No need to apologise that I can see,” Carrbridge said, his expression puzzled.
“But there is! We shouldn’t be here! I never wanted to come, it was all ma’s doing. For myself, I want nothing from you, nothing at all, but ma insisted, and for you to be treating us like this, as if we’re gentlefolk — it’s not right, my lord, not right at all. I hate it! I don’t want to be here mixing with you grand folk and you certainly don’t want us here, disturbing you and stirring up trouble. I wish we’d never come!”
And as he raised his head in anger again, a shaft of sunlight caught his face and silhouetted his distinctive nose. There was no doubt about it, Benjamin Gartmore was a son of the eighth marquess.
10: Family Matters
Sons of the Marquess Collection Page 9