Sons of the Marquess Collection

by Mary Kingswood

  “Aye. So ’is lordship said. Made me swear on the Bible, miss.”

  He sounded so indignant that she could not help laughing. “Never mind, Charlie. A blameless life may be dull, but at least it will not be cut short by the hangman.”

  “But what’s going to happen to me now, miss? I s’pose I can’t go back to Drummoor.”

  “Probably not. It is too confusing having two of you looking so alike, when you can imitate each other so well. One would never know whether one was talking to Lord Humphrey or you. I expect we shall find you some honest employment somewhere. Although…”

  “Yes, miss?” he said hopefully.

  “With your talents, a life on the boards would be a possibility. Acting, Charlie, in a theatre. Would you like that?”

  “Not sure, miss — madam. Never been to a theatre.”

  “We must take you to one, then you could decide whether it might suit you. Ah, we are coming into the village. Direct me to Silsby Vale House, Charlie.”

  The village straggled in a listless way along both sides of the stream. About a mile beyond the last house, they came to palings and, before long, an entrance, the gate standing wide open. Hortensia turned the curricle between the gateposts and up a short drive to the house. There she stopped, breathed an ‘Ohhh!’ of delight and gazed about her.

  The house drowsed in the afternoon sun, its stone walls a delicate pink that was both warm and elegant. Roses and summer jasmine mingled over the front door, filling the air with heady perfume. Insects hummed and buzzed, and vivid orange butterflies fluttered in profusion over many-coloured beds of flowers. Beyond the house, a willow whispered over a small pond.

  Hortensia was mesmerised, quite unable to move. The house was so quintessentially English, its comforting serenity as familiar as a favourite shawl, that she felt, for some unfathomable reason, that she had come home.

  Then the front door opened, and down the steps came one of the footmen from Drummoor.

  “Fitch? Goodness, what are you doing here?”

  “I was sent to help out, madam. May I assist you to alight?”

  “Oh — no, thank you, Fitch. I can manage.” Lightly, she jumped down onto the gravel drive, still gazing around, breathing deeply to absorb the intoxicating air. It was a place of enchantment, which left her feeling as if she had stepped into a painting.

  “The mistress is in the garden,” Fitch said. “May I take you to her? Tom can see to the horses. And… the other person.” He gazed with disfavour on Charlie, still in his parson’s disguise.

  Dreamily, Hortensia followed him round the side of the house, past the pond, to a lawn surrounded by a semi-circle of towering rhododendrons, their great flower heads a fiery red. In the centre of the lawn, a lady sat at her ease on a comfortable chair. Perhaps she had been sleeping, for there were pillows at her back and a footstool at her feet, but she sat alertly now, looking eagerly towards Hortensia crossing the lawn, then rising to greet her.

  “Miss Quayle, madam,” Fitch said.

  “Oh! How do you do?” her hostess said with a tremulous smile, holding out her hand in a delightfully informal manner. “I am Maria Andrews, widow of Mr Cecil Andrews. How charming of you to call, although I do not believe we have met?”

  Hortensia curtsied, shook the proffered hand and returned the smile. Mrs Andrews was an amply endowed lady of middle years, her gown a good, if home-stitched, effort at fashionable style. The chair she had risen from was worn, and in need of recovering. At a guess, Mrs Andrews was struggling to survive on a widow’s stipend.

  “I beg your pardon for descending on you so unexpectedly. I am from Drummoor—”

  “Oh!” Mrs Andrews raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh dear! Is it… is it about Mr Sharp?”

  “Mr Sharp? No, I know nothing about a Mr Sharp. It is about Charlie, your cook’s son.”

  “Oh, Charlie. Oh, thank goodness!” She laughed. “Please, would you not sit and tell me all about it?”

  Another chair was brought out, tea and cake ordered and Hortensia explained briefly about Charlie, before launching into her paean of praise for the house. Within half an hour, Mrs Andrews had told her the whole history of it, and her own unhappy tale. Within an hour, Hortensia, in her turn, had unburdened herself to her new acquaintance, who instantly sympathised with the difficulties of sudden wealth and switching places and attractive young men. They both cried a little, and Hortensia felt immeasurably better.

  “Oh, this house is so restful!” she cried. “How lucky you are to live here.”

  “True enough,” Mrs Andrews said. “Now that Mr Sharp comes here no more, the place is just as it ought to be — a peaceful haven. At least, I do hope he comes here no more. Lord Humphrey said… but I cannot be quite easy about it, all the same. For if he should return, he would be very cross to see me sitting outside like this, and entertaining in this way. But if anybody calls on me, I cannot turn them away, can I? It is only polite to receive callers. And I do so enjoy company, and sitting in my garden and being at peace. I am very fortunate, am I not? But I daresay I shall be obliged to leave here soon.”

  “Oh no! But why so?”

  “Why, because his lordship will want to get full value for it, either by selling it, or finding a tenant willing to pay rent, which I cannot afford to do.”

  Hortensia stared at her, suddenly unable to breathe. “No, but I can! I can afford rent, or — I could even buy it, if Lord Carrbridge would sell. Mrs Andrews, how would you like to live here forever, as my companion?”

  ~~~~~

  Hortensia returned to Drummoor too late to do more than throw on the gown chosen at random by her maid, thread a ribbon through her hair and rush down to dinner. No one noticed her arrival. The company was agog with excitement at the news that Lord Humphrey had been arrested, and Lady Patience, whose necklace had been stolen, was for once the focus of everyone’s attention. No one mentioned the loss of any other jewellery, thank goodness! If the other two items had not yet been missed, there was still time to return them to their owners.

  She had planned to slip away after dinner to retrieve them from the vase, but she was called upon to play the pianoforte to accompany one of the Whittleton ladies on the harp, and then to turn the pages for Rosemary. After that, she was immediately drawn into a game of whist, and the evening wore away without an opportunity. Her expedition to the vase would have to wait.

  So it was after midnight before she crept from her room and through the night-darkened corridors. Twice she was almost caught out, once by a footman conveying a decanter of brandy to some sleepless soul, and once by a trysting couple whispering in a window embrasure, half hidden by the curtains. Was the gentleman Mr Merton? She rather thought it was. But eventually, by means of circuitous detours, she reached her destination.

  There was no moon, but just enough light filtered through the window as to silhouette the Chinese vase. She slipped her hand inside, and pulled out two items, a hideous diamond choker and a massive ruby-studded ring. She could not imagine any person of fashion wearing either of them. Nor, more to the point, could she remember ever seeing either of them before. How on earth was she to replace them unnoticed if she had no idea who owned them?

  She heard males voices coming up the gallery stairs and saw the wavering lights of a couple of candles, and her heart leapt into her mouth. And at that point, her courage failed her. It had been a long, trying day, she was exhausted and this was too difficult a problem for such an hour. She had no idea what to do with the jewellery, and she could not for the life of her bring herself to care about it. If only she had someone to talk it over with, someone to help her. She had never felt lonelier in her life.

  Tears prickled at her eyelids. Sliding the jewellery soundlessly back into the vase, she slipped away into the night. Tomorrow, when Humphrey came home, she would ask him about it. He would know what to do! Humphrey always knew what to do. And perhaps, her heart whispered, he would look at her in that magical way and hold her hand. Perhaps he
would call her Hortensia again… But she cried herself to sleep all the same.

  ~~~~~

  It must have been the longest night in Christendom, or at least it seemed so to Humphrey. The constables called him ‘milord’, and fed him bread and soup and ale at regular intervals, but he was very glad when he was led out of his small cell, allowed to wash and then taken to another cell below the courtroom. Then another interminable wait before he was taken up narrow stairs and into the close atmosphere of the courtroom, crowded with noisy spectators and the overpowering smell of unwashed humanity crushed together. And there facing him above the heads of the lawyers and court officials was the magistrate.

  “Name,” that gentleman said, not looking up from the paper he was reading.

  “Lord Humphrey Marford,” said Humphrey in ringing tones.

  Heads turned, conversations died away, mouths dropped open. And then the entire courtroom burst into laughter. Even the magistrate quirked an eyebrow and gave a small, resigned sigh.

  “Really, Humphrey,” Lord Carrbridge said. “I do not expect to see my own brother brought before me.”

  “No, my lord. Quite so, my lord. Beg pardon, my lord,” Humphrey said meekly.

  That brought more gales of laughter. But they had to go through the formalities, and so the constable read the charges, and Humphrey agreed that, yes, he had stolen the necklace, but only for a bet. The details of the wager were discussed, Mr Merton, who was conveniently in the gallery, agreed that he had made the bet with Lord Humphrey, and the note was produced for Lord Carrbridge to inspect.

  “You are very foolish, Humphrey,” he said in his best peer of the realm voice. “You have caused a great deal of trouble and upset, and I cannot be seen to condone such behaviour. You will apologise to the ladies concerned, and recompense the constables with a barrel of ale. You are hereby fined five hundred pounds and bound over to keep the peace for a period of one year. Now go away and stop cluttering up my court.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

  As he was released from the prisoner’s box, he saw Miss Cartwright and Miss Wilde, their expressions a mixture of relief that it was only a mischievous prank and nothing more serious, and disappointment that they had not, after all, had their glorious moment in the witness box. He bowed and said all that was proper and invited them to the Carrbridge Arms across the road for refreshments, and after a glass or two of port, they declared him a silly boy, and so like his father, who was also a betting man and forever in one scrape or another. He listened politely while they regaled him with some very boring tales of the eighth marquess, and felt at the end of it that, whatever his crimes, he had been amply punished.

  20: The Summer Ball

  Hortensia waited in vain for Humphrey to return from Sagborough. The morning dragged on, and he did not come, leaving her in the most dreadful suspense. But shortly after noon, Mr Merton returned and sought her out, sending a message for her to attend him in the library. She found Lady Hardy there, too, with her piles of books for cataloguing, an endless task which Hortensia could not decide was a worthy enterprise or merely an excuse to linger a little longer in the hospitable shelter of Drummoor. Or perhaps the lingering was driven more by Mr Merton, for where one was, there the other generally seemed to be. And Hortensia wondered then about the midnight tryst that she had thought involved Mr Merton. Was the other party Lady Hardy? How interesting.

  “Lord Humphrey was brought before Lord Carrbridge, and was merely fined, and bound over to keep the peace,” Mr Merton said. “I felt sure you would wish to know at the earliest opportunity.”

  “Oh yes! Thank you! Will he be returning soon, do you suppose?”

  “As to that, I left him doing penance with the two ladies’ maids at the Carrbridge Arms. I imagine he will return with Lord Carrbridge later today, when court proceedings are suspended.”

  “Oh. Of course.” The thought of the jewellery secreted in the Chinese vase niggled at her, like a persistent gnat. It was not of the greatest importance, but it was a matter which she could not resolve herself. So she explained the problem to Mr Merton, who at once grasped the significance.

  “Indeed, these pieces must be returned to their owners as soon as possible, but the one person who knows whence they came is not here. However, if you will entrust me with the commission, Miss Quayle, I shall consult with Lord Humphrey when he returns and see if he is able to find a solution. It is not, I feel, a matter with which you should concern yourself.”

  “Oh, certainly not!” said Lady Hardy. “It is much better to leave all to Lord Humphrey. He has, after all, taken upon himself the role of thief, so it is for him to return the stolen items, in whatever manner seems good to him. Your involvement is not suspected, Miss Quayle, and so it should remain.”

  “On that point we are agreed,” Mr Merton said. “You will excuse me, Lady Hardy, Miss Quayle, I am sure, if I return to my desk before we are overwhelmed by the evening’s entertainments.” He bowed and made his departure.

  Lady Hardy shook her head and laughed. “Oh, this ball tonight! Connie does love to entertain. She was such a flighty little thing when she was younger, you know, but now look at her! A leader of society, and quite at home in the great houses of London or the shires. And such a matchmaker. She has you paired off with Lord Humphrey, as I am sure you are aware.”

  “I do not think that will work,” Hortensia said, trying not to blush, but failing.

  “There are difficulties, it is true,” said Lady Hardy. “The position is awkward, and one cannot be too provocative without doing penance. But in time, if you are both patient, all will be well, I am sure of it. Wait but a few more months.”

  A few months! Hideous thought. Hortensia’s head hung low. “Waiting is very trying.”

  Lady Hardy went on gently, “My dear, some things are well worth waiting for. Indeed, if an outcome is sufficiently desirable, one may wait for years in great contentment.”

  “May one?” Hortensia lifted her head a little, and saw that Lady Hardy was looking conscious. Was it possible that she was blushing? She was such a composed lady that it was hard to be sure, but it certainly seemed— Had she been waiting years for Mr Merton? Then they must have become attached while she was still married to Sir Osborne Hardy, and waited patiently through his long illness. Were still waiting, during her year of mourning. But then…

  Could Hortensia wait so long for Humphrey? Yes of course, if it were necessary, but it was not necessary. There was no reason for him not to court her, and no reason for them not to marry. They were both of age, there was no insuperable gulf of situation that had not been bridged a thousand times before. A man of rank and a woman of fortune — it was an old story, which the world could hardly object to. And yet… he would not bridge that gulf, nor reach across it to claim her. Foolish, foolish man! They could be so happy, if only… Yet he was determined to make her miserable. And now she had a ball to endure.

  A ball at Drummoor did not quite merit the extravagance it would require in London during the season, but it was still a spectacular event. There would be flowers, musicians and vast numbers of candles within the house and lanterns without. One hundred and twenty would sit down to dinner in the great hall, followed by a musical recital from two Italian opera singers in the long gallery, and then back to the great hall, the servants having by that time cleared the floor for dancing. And — a great excitement — there were to be German waltzes, which threw all the young ladies into a flurry of giggling anticipation.

  Except Hortensia. She could see no pleasure in the evening, for the dinner was to be preceded by an announcement from Lord Carrbridge, informing the world that Miss Hortensia Blythe and Miss Rosemary Quayle were not the people to whom those names had previously applied. That they were, in short, scheming deceivers. Even if he made light of it, and expressed the opinion that it was a very good joke, and how amusing that everyone had been taken in, she and Rosemary would still be sunk in the estimation of almost all the comp
any.

  She dressed with unusual care, selecting one of her finest ball gowns for the occasion, in a green silk so pale it was almost translucent, with a darker overtunic. For the first time, she opened her jewellery box and selected a simple diamond pendant that her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday. She allowed her maid to dress her hair with greater elaboration, with ribbons and feathers and a bejewelled bandeau. And then she went downstairs to meet her fate.

  ~~~~~

  Humphrey had it all worked out in his mind. He would allow himself just one dance with Hortensia, and it must be a waltz, so that he could hold her hands and gaze into her eyes as they twirled about. That would have to be enough to sustain him through the next few months. He would need to leave Drummoor, of course, until she herself had quit it. Impossible to remain under the same roof without speaking, for he would be driven mad. So tonight he would dance with her, for his own sake, and tomorrow he would go away, for his brother’s.

  But the prospect made him desperately unhappy. How was he to go on without seeing her every day? Even when they passed whole evenings without speaking, he could still look at her, still see those beautiful eyes, and the little curls that fell against her soft cheeks, and bounced when she shook her head. And what would she do once he had left? Perhaps she would forget about him, and meet someone else she liked better and be lost to him for ever. Such was the fear that roiled constantly inside him.

  If only he could simply scoop her up and ride off with her perched on his saddle bow, as the heroes of old did, or fly with her to the stars, like mythical gods. But there were no heroes or gods any more, only mortals bound by society’s laws, and by God’s.

  The drawing room was already full before her arrival. With his greater height, Humphrey could look over the heads of the throng and so saw her slink inside surreptitiously as if to escape notice. His breath caught in his throat — this was how she should always look, with diamonds in her hair and around her neck, in a gown that made her look every inch the lady she was. The mousy companion was gone for good. But she did not see his admiration, for she kept her head down.