Sons of the Marquess Collection

by Mary Kingswood

  “It is better this way,” Hortensia said flatly. “We could not go on as we were. Now everyone will know the truth and there will be no more secrets.”

  “And no more lying awake worrying about being found out,” Rosemary said. “This is much the best way.” But her face was as white as chalk.

  All around them was merriment and excited chatter, but the two were glum-faced, both facing monumental changes. Rosemary stood to lose the man she loved, and Hortensia… Hortensia had already lost hers. All this time she had thought he cared for her, loved her, for herself alone, thinking her penniless, and it was not so. He had known for some time that she was the heiress, and had transferred his attentions from Rosemary to herself. He was no better than Mr Whittleton! She had so badly wanted to believe he truly loved her for herself, and now she was filled with grief. How stupid she was! Was it all a sham, and he felt nothing for her? Was he just pretending? She could not tell, for her own hopes and wishes prevented rational thought where Humphrey was concerned. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  She was so lost in her own sorrowful thoughts, that it was a shock when a gentle voice at her ear said, “Miss Blythe? Miss Quayle? Why such sad faces? Is all well with you?”

  The two jumped to their feet and curtsied. “Lady Carrbridge, a thousand apologies,” Hortensia said. “We are— oh! Where is everyone?”

  The pavilion was almost empty, only a few of the oldest aunts and uncles still in their seats, two playing cribbage, and the rest dozing in the sun.

  “I have sent them all off to inspect the ruins while the servants lay the tables for our picnic,” she said. “Will you join us? Or shall I have someone fetch you a glass of lemonade? Where are Humphrey and Lord Kilbraith?” She scanned the lakeside and spotted them in animated discussion some distance away. “Oh no! They are not…? There is no… dispute?” She glanced anxiously at Rosemary’s wan face, clearly imagining the two men coming to blows over her.

  That made Hortensia smile a little. “No, no! They are not about to break into a fight, if that is what you fear. But…” She hesitated, but it was as good a time as any. “My lady, there is something that you should know.”

  Rosemary gave a convulsive sob, bowing her head. Lady Carrbridge looked from one to the other, then sat down. “I am listening, my dears.”

  It was easier the second time. Perhaps that was merely because Hortensia had already rehearsed the story, but more likely because her own emotions were less tangled this time. With Humphrey, she had desperately wanted him to accept the news without anger or censure. With Lady Carrbridge, she knew she ought to care just as much, for if the marchioness were inclined to take offence, they would be leaving Drummoor tomorrow and would never be able to show their faces in good society again. Yet somehow her good opinion meant less than Humphrey’s.

  But after the first exclamations of astonishment, Lady Carrbridge was all sympathy. “How dreadful for you!” she said many times, and “You poor things!” and, most heartening of all, “I quite understand how it was.” At the end of the tale, she said, “Well, perhaps it was not quite right to act so, but I cannot blame you one bit. It is not at all comfortable to be ignored one moment and then fêted the next. My circumstances were not dissimilar, so I feel for you most sincerely, Miss Quayle… Blythe… oh dear!”

  Then Lord Carrbridge came looking for his wife, and the tale had to be told again, with many interjections from the marchioness. The marquess’s reaction was less sympathetic than his wife’s. He said very little, but his face darkened. At the end of the recitation, Hortensia waited, her heart leaden. Lord Carrbridge’s response would sink them, she was sure.

  He looked from Hortensia to Rosemary and back again. “I do not like being made a fool of.” His voice was like ice.

  “I do not think they meant any harm, dear,” Lady Carrbridge said. “It is very difficult to find oneself surrounded by fortune hunters. Most disagreeable.”

  “Perhaps, but that does not excuse such behaviour. Where would we be if everyone decided to pretend to be someone they were not? Society would collapse entirely. One cannot shirk the responsibilities thrust upon one, however disagreeable they may be,” he added sadly, and Hortensia had an unexpected glimpse into the marquess’s life.

  “I am so very sorry,” she said to him. “We will leave tomorrow.”

  “Oh, no, surely there is no need—” the marchioness said distressfully. “Do not go! Lord Carrbridge, tell them they need not go. And there is Lord Kilbraith…”

  “So there is,” the marquess said. “Someone ought to tell him.”

  “That is all right,” Hortensia said quickly. “Humph—Lord Humphrey is telling him now. It was not right to keep him in the dark a moment longer.”

  “So Humphrey knows?” Lady Carrbridge said in surprise.

  “Oh yes. I asked him to tell Lord Kilbraith.”

  Lady Carrbridge’s eyes flew to Humphrey, still conferring with Lord Kilbraith, and then back to Hortensia. “Did you so? How interesting.”

  Lord Carrbridge sighed. “Very well, Miss Quayle… Blythe… ladies, you may stay, since it would distress Lady Carrbridge if you were to leave abruptly, but everyone must be told the truth and I do not know how it is to be managed,” he said. “My dear, what must we do?”

  “I think it would be best to announce it when everyone is gathered together, and may hear the news at the same time. Perhaps at the grand dinner three days from now? You can make a joke of it, you know… an amusing little trick, fooled everyone… that sort of thing. You are so good at these speeches, my dear.”

  The marquess graciously agreed to the plan and so, to Hortensia’s amazement, she was to remain Miss Quayle a little longer.

  “But I must talk to Kilbraith,” the marquess said, and strode away to where Humphrey and Lord Kilbraith were still deep in conversation.

  Hortensia watched them conferring anxiously. Even from some distance away, she could see their serious expressions. Lord Kilbraith was the first to return to the pavilion, and it was clear from the smile on his face that he was not in the least displeased by the news. He sat beside Rosemary and talked animatedly to her, so that she blushed and smiled and was soon quite her usual self. Hortensia wished she could be as comfortable, for when Humphrey and Lord Carrbridge returned, there were no smiles.

  Lord Kilbraith jumped up at once. “Shall we walk about amongst these ruins?” he said, addressing himself mostly to Rosemary. “I have heard so much about them, and I am anxious to compare them with the many picturesque ruins we have in Scotland, some of the strangest design. There are those in the wild north which are perfectly round, and barely the width of a mill chimney, and how anyone might have lived in such a place is more than I can imagine.”

  They all rose, and began to drift away from the pavilion in pairs, Lord Kilbraith with Rosemary, then Lord and Lady Carrbridge, with Humphrey and Hortensia at the rear. Humphrey was silent, and when Hortensia dared to steal a glance, his expression was serious and unsmiling. She could not quite understand him. He had known about her deception, so he could not suddenly despise her for it. And whether he truly loved her, or was pretending in order to secure her fortune, the way was now clear for him to make his suit publicly. Nor could he have any concerns about Rosemary and Lord Kilbraith, for their course now seemed set fair. It was, perhaps, too soon to talk of marriage, but this must be the beginning of a very earnest courtship which could only end in the happiness of both.

  There was another possibility which she could not bear to consider. Perhaps he had only been amusing himself at her expense, flirting with her while he concentrated his attention on Rosemary. Now that all was revealed, he would withdraw his attentions, for he had no real interest in her. Who could, plain and unattractive as she was? If only she were dainty and pretty and demure, like Rosemary! Then she could have any man she wanted. It was very dispiriting to be so tall.

  In such silence, they walked down to the lake and around to the abbey. It was indeed a very fine ruin, and wh
en Hortensia stopped to admire the remains of an arched window, Humphrey at last began to speak, talking of the history of the place, of its days of power and then the dissolution and devastation. He knew no more of the history or the era than she did, but he knew a little of this particular abbey, and pointed out some carvings and knew the names and parts of each of the buildings. Gradually, Hortensia’s spirits lifted, for how could she be downcast when Humphrey was with her? Their chaperons had long since disappeared, but it hardly mattered, for they were quite public.

  In this way, they walked through the infirmary and dormitories, passing the refectory and kitchen, across the cloister and finally, in respectful silence, into the skeleton of the church, its walls and pillars still towering over their heads. There were few people here, most of the party having returned to the pavilion for refreshments, so their silence remained unbroken. They walked slowly up the nave, passing from sunshine to shade, from warmth to chill, as the fragments of wall and gaping windows allowed. To Hortensia, it seemed all of a piece with her life just then, tossed from one state to another, from exhilaration to despair in a moment, and back again just as quickly. She hardly knew who she was any more, or what she truly felt, still less what Humphrey felt. She was not sure how she could get through these final days at Drummoor in such uncertainty.

  In the side chapel, a fallen block of masonry provided a seat and she flopped onto it gratefully. Humphrey turned to her at once, concern on his face.

  “What is it? Are you unwell?” The gentleness in his voice almost brought her to tears.

  “I am quite well, but perhaps… a little tired.”

  “Of course. We will sit here until you are quite rested.” He sat beside her, and even with her head lowered and the sides of her bonnet hiding him from her, she was acutely aware of his presence, his solidly reassuring masculinity and some indefinable bond between them that surely was no mere product of her imagination?

  He gave a little laugh, rather self-consciously, it seemed to her. “I do not know what to call you now.”

  ‘Hortensia’, she wanted to say, ‘or darling, or my dear one, or my love.’ If only she could speak so to him! Instead, she sighed. “I am to remain Miss Quayle for a few days longer.”

  “I see.” Nothing to be read in his tone, and she dared not look at his face. Instead she gazed steadily downwards at the handle of her parasol. “Connie will be disappointed,” he went on, and this time there was an edge of amusement in his voice. “She had very high hopes that Miss… Blythe and I would make a match of it.” He chuckled. “But we should never have suited. She will do much better with Kilbraith.”

  Hortensia could scarcely breathe. She would not have dared to raise the subject herself, but now that he had… she had to try. It was not in her nature to baulk at the jump when it was immediately before her. So she lifted her head and tried to keep her voice steady.

  “I believe that Lady Carrbridge still nurtures hopes that you and Miss Blythe will make a match of it.”

  She looked directly at him, and saw his eyes widen — indeed, he could not mistake her meaning! But the dismay in his face cut her to the quick. He did not want her! Even with her fortune, he did not want her! Was she right, then — she meant nothing to him, and all his attentions had been nothing but flirtation? Was that how it was? Her breath caught in her throat, and she dropped her gaze.

  “Oh, if only it were so simple,” he said, his voice so soft that she was not sure she heard him correctly. Her head shot up, and he was looking at her with such… such regret that she gave a little gasp.

  “Is it not?” she said before she could stop herself.

  “Miss Quayle.” He took one of her hands and held it in both of his, and this time he was the one who looked down, gently stroking her gloved fingers. “Let us consider a situation… purely hypothetical, you understand. Imagine, if you will, a young man of impeccable family, but a younger son, without fortune or an independence. If he should happen to meet a young lady of wealth, and he should happen to attach himself to her, why then society will smile upon both of them. ‘How happy they will be,’ society will say, and declare it a love match, heedless of the actual circumstances. ‘How convenient that that impoverished young man should happen to fall in love with that rich young lady, and she with him.’ Society, in short, will give such a match its blessing.”

  She said nothing, guessing how the story would end, but mesmerised by the warmth of his hands, and the softness of his voice! Ah, his voice! What she would not do for a man who spoke to her in such a way, a voice as mellow and warm and soothing as chocolate.

  “But imagine now,” he went on, “if that young man should discover that the object of his attentions is not, in fact, rich at all, but poor. Were he now to divert all his attention to another young lady, a rich young lady, what will society make of him now? He will be thought the worst kind of fortune hunter, and will be frowned upon and ostracised. And the young lady, should she happen to permit his attentions, would be deemed weak in understanding and foolish, and will also be frowned upon and ostracised.”

  “And is no allowance to be made,” she cried indignantly, “for the feelings of these people? It is uncharitable to assume there to be no affection in the second case.”

  His head jerked up, just for an instant, his eyes afire with some strong emotion. But just as quickly he lowered his gaze, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet.

  “Yet that is how society views the world, by surface characteristics only. Who can know what a man truly feels inside… or a woman? However much the young man—” Here his voice wobbled a little. “However much he might wish to court the second young lady, he had much better not do it, for the sake of both.”

  She could not speak, choked with misery as she was. Tears coursed down her cheeks unheeded. To be told, in the same breath, that he wanted to court her but he could not because of some nebulous fear of society’s disapprobation was all too much. How could he be so foolish? If he cared anything for her, if her happiness was of the slightest importance to him, then he would set aside such fustian and offer for her at once. It was very necessary to tell him so.

  “But Humphrey—” she began, leaning forward eagerly. He looked up sharply at the intimate use of his name, and suddenly his face was but an inch from hers. His lips were so close, so tantalisingly close. If she leaned forward just the tiniest bit—

  “What is going on here!” came an angry voice. She groaned, and they sprang apart.

  Humphrey jumped to his feet. “Julius, go away, will you? You are not wanted here.”

  “I can well believe it. How dare you steal Miss Quayle away to a secluded spot and make violent love to her? And look, you have made her cry! You are no gentleman, sir.”

  “For God’s sake, Julius, have a care what you say to me, for I am in no mood to deal gently with you. Do not push me or I shall be forced to set you straight.”

  “Ha! Do you threaten me? But I see what your game is, Cousin. Kilbraith has cut you out, so now you think to look elsewhere, and of course you would make a mull of it. You have no delicacy of touch with the ladies. As if Miss Quayle could possibly prefer your heavy-handed—”

  Hortensia jumped up and placed herself between them, brandishing her parasol. “Mr Whittleton, do go away. You are not needed in the least, I assure you.”

  “But he has made you cry!”

  “We were speaking of… of my father,” she said, improvising wildly. “His death is still fresh in my mind. Lord Humphrey was… was consoling me.”

  “You must think me very green if you expect me to fall for that faradiddle!”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Hortensia said hotly. “You are offensive, Mr Whittleton.”

  She turned away in disgust, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back so sharply that she cried out in surprise. And to her inestimable delight, Humphrey drew back his arm, curled his right hand into a fist and landed a punch squarely on Mr Whittleton’s nose.

  14: A
Picnic

  “I really think you might stop laughing,” Humphrey said, as he fished around in various pockets. “It is very distracting when I am trying so hard not to laugh at the poor fellow myself. Drat Billings! He fusses so over my cravat, but fails to put a handkerchief anywhere. Do you have anything to stop him bleeding? Oh, Julius, do stop yowling!”

  “I fear my handkerchief would be inadequate for the task,” she said, still chuckling. “Who would have imagined that one nose could bleed so much? Perhaps we might fetch a tablecloth from the pavilion?”

  That set Humphrey off again, and so when more people started to appear, drawn by the shouts and Julius’s cries of pain, they found Julius rolling on the ground, and Humphrey and Hortensia consumed with merriment.

  The others seemed to be better provided with handkerchiefs than Humphrey was, and also took Julius’s injuries with the seriousness he felt he deserved. “Shall we slip away while they are attending to the patient?” Humphrey whispered. “I shall be in the soup with Connie for spoiling her party, but there is no need to wait around to be scolded by everyone else, is there?”

  Miss Quayle was agreeable, so they crept away through a gap in the wall, and then ran, still giggling, around the outside of the abbey ruins until they gained the lake again, and were visible once more from the pavilion.

  “I had better take you back,” he said, not quite able to keep the regret out of his voice.

  “Must you?” She looked up at him with such a pleading expression that he was almost undone.

  “I believe I must,” he whispered.

  “Oh.” She hung her head and said not another word until they reached the pavilion, where she curtsied and thanked him politely for his company.

  He bowed, and, before he could change his mind, walked swiftly away from her.

  ~~~~~

  Hortensia did not watch him go, for it was too painful. She allowed herself to be directed to a seat, and took food from plates that were passed to her. She may even have eaten a little, although she hardly knew what. Someone set a glass of champagne before her, but she could not touch it.