Sons of the Marquess Collection

by Mary Kingswood

  “There, miss, you look very pretty,” Miss Thompson said, and her thin lips almost twitched into a smile.

  Was she pretty? She would love to be pretty, or perhaps handsome. Everyone said that the present Lady Bentley was handsome, and it seemed to be a compliment, but Melissa was not quite sure what they meant by it. Lady Bentley was elegant, to be sure, in her exquisite colourful gowns, and her manner of piling her blonde curls on top of her head gave her an imposing height, but her countenance was not pleasing. But perhaps that was because she was always scowling when Melissa saw her.

  She was not scowling when Melissa entered the drawing room. When she smiled, however insincerely, she did indeed look quite handsome.

  “Ah, here she is at last! How impatiently we have awaited you, Melissa dear, but we do not mind in the least, for see how we are rewarded. I never saw you look better, my dear.”

  “I did not mean to be late. I beg your pardon.”

  She tittered. “My dear, I intended no rebuke.”

  Melissa was silent. Since when had Lady Bentley not had a rebuke on her lips? Her first lesson as soon as the new earl had married was to learn to keep out of his wife’s way.

  The countess rose smoothly from her chair and crossed the room to where her husband and brother-in-law stood with a third man, unknown to Melissa. The earl was shorter than average, with an undistinguished air. His brother tended to foppery, with an excessively complicated cravat, a bright red coat and such an array of rings and pins and fobs as to quite dazzle the eye. The stranger was excessively fat, his coat buttons straining across his vast stomach, and a balding head already shining from the heat.

  “Here she is, gentlemen. Mr Pontefract, may I present to you Lord Bentley’s ward, Miss Frost?”

  “Enchanted, my dear,” he murmured, creaking as he inclined very slightly from the vertical in what Melissa supposed was a bow. As she rose from her curtsy, he was licking his lips as if she were a particularly tasty dish presented at the dinner table. “Delightful, quite delightful.” His eyes ran slowly down to her shoes and back up again, before settling on her chest. “Charming!” He rubbed his hands together, and leered at her.

  Melissa shivered.

  Dinner was an awkward affair. The Miss Wilkeses, Lady Bentley’s daughters from her first marriage, were late, which put the earl out of countenance. Then they giggled and whispered throughout the meal, which put the earl’s brother out of countenance. Melissa was seated beside Mr Pontefract, which would have put her out of countenance if she had only dared. She was beginning to have some inkling of the reason for her invitation, and it turned the food to ash in her mouth. She ate but little, and took no more than two sips of her wine, and tried to make pleasant conversation with Mr Pontefract. It was hard work, for he ate prodigiously, leaving him little opportunity to speak, and when he looked at her, his eyes somehow never rose to her face and his breathing grew heavy. In addition, Melissa soon discovered that he had very few thoughts in his head beyond his plate and wineglass. A casual mention of his dogs led her to enquire further, and he then talked with great animation of his kennels and his numerous dogs, and which of them he had bred from and which others he intended to breed from, and so the meal was got through somehow.

  When the ladies withdrew, and the Miss Wilkeses had disappeared in a giggling cloud of sarsenet and spangles, still whispering, Melissa would have retreated to her room, duty done, but Lady Bentley summoned her with a crook of one finger into the drawing room.

  “You see how generous Lord Bentley is, my dear? For you could not have expected so handsome a gesture, I am sure. But so it is with my dear husband — no effort spared, even for someone like you. What a fortunate young woman you are, to be sure. You may be quite comfortable now, for your future is assured. If you and Mr Pontefract see Parson Albright tomorrow to arrange the banns, you may be married within the month.”

  “Oh, marriage,” Melissa said, relieved that nothing worse was expected of her, as had happened at midsummer with the pretty under housemaid, who had left in tears the next day. Mr Cornelius Brockenhurst, the earl’s brother, had a roving eye and, it was said, roving hands as well, and all the female servants had learnt to keep away from him and his lascivious friends. It had always surprised Melissa that she had never attracted his attention, but she supposed she was not pretty enough.

  “Yes, marriage, of course. Mr Pontefract is an admirable man, I am sure, and a better catch than you could have hoped for. I trust you will express your gratitude to Lord Bentley.”

  “Indeed, I am very grateful to his lordship for all his trouble, but I do not in the least wish to marry Mr Pontefract.”

  “What you wish is not of the slightest consequence. Lord Bentley is your guardian and—”

  “I beg your pardon, but I shall soon be of age, my lady. I shall be one and twenty in three months.”

  “Oh, very hoity-toity! And what other options do you have? Do you have a better husband in mind?”

  “No, but I acted as governess to the late earl’s daughters for several years, so—”

  “And they are gone, and my own daughters do not need any tuition from a rustic like you. So you see, my dear, you have no place here.”

  “I am sure I could obtain a position as governess elsewhere, my lady. All I should need is a reference—”

  A triumphant expression settled on Lady Bentley’s face. “Not from me, and not from my husband’s stepmother, either, not while he has control of her jointure.”

  “I see.” Melissa’s stomach churned with fear, but she tried not to show it. She found some stitchery to occupy her trembling hands, and when the gentlemen returned and sat down to cards with Lady Bentley, Melissa watched her future husband and tried to imagine herself married to such a man.

  Mr Pontefract left in a flurry of creaking bows and smiles, kissing her hand with a smirk Melissa could not misunderstand. Lord Bentley went to the door to show him out, and the two men could be heard laughing together in the most amiable way.

  “I congratulate you, Melissa,” Lord Bentley said when he returned to the room. “Pontefract is quite charmed by you, and will return in the morning to make his offer in form.”

  “I am very honoured, my lord, but I shall not accept him.”

  Lord Bentley exchanged a glance with his wife. “You were always wilful, even as a child, so these flashes of disobliging behaviour are no more than to be expected. However, you will marry Pontefract. I am your guardian and you must do as I say.”

  Melissa jumped to her feet. “I may not marry against your wishes, but you cannot force me to marry a man I cannot like.”

  “No?” He crossed the room in two strides, and caught her wrist in a grip so tight that she cried out in pain. “Remember that your bedchamber has no lock to it. All it would take is for me to invite Pontefract to stay for the night, and show him the way. By morning, you would be happy enough to marry him, I swear. And if even that is not enough for you, I know the very place in Portsmouth for you, and once there, no man will ever want to marry you. Think carefully on it, Melissa, before you spew your defiance at me.”

  When she returned to her room, she found the housekeeper awaiting her, to help her undress, just as she had when Melissa was a little girl.

  “Oh, Mrs Clark, what am I to do? He is quite dreadful! Yet I daresay he is respectable enough.”

  “Perhaps,” the housekeeper said. “I’ve heard rumours… I don’t like to think of you in the hands of a man like that.”

  “I suppose… they mean it kindly?” Melissa said. “Surely they do. It is nothing to their advantage, so they must feel it is to mine. Do you not think?”

  Mrs Clark sighed. “I’ve heard that Mr Cornelius got into some difficulty with gaming debts, and rather than ask the earl for help again, he borrowed money from Mr Pontefract. I suppose this is his way of repaying the debt. Gentlemen regard such debts as a matter of honour.”

  “Mr Pontefract does not know his danger,” Melissa said defiantly, no
t sure whether to laugh or cry. “If ever I were to marry him, I am sure I should make his life a misery and he should be very sorry he ever thought of me. Luckily for him, he is safe from me, for I have no intention of marrying him.”

  “But what will you do, Melissa? You have no family, no friends to take you in, no money and no possibility of respectable employment without a reference.”

  “I shall think of something,” Melissa said stoutly.

  And she knew precisely what she would do. She still had her letter, and there was another debt of honour to be repaid, but this debt was owed to her. Yes, she would go to Drummoor. As soon as Mrs Clark had gone, she pulled out her purse and began to count her coins.

  ~~~~~

  Lord Montague Marford was bored. After the excitement of his brother agreeing — finally! — that he might become a clergyman, and then the joy of his ordination, and several months spent as assistant to Mr Callimont at York, now he was right back where he had started, at Drummoor. His brother, the Marquess of Carrbridge, had several livings in his gift, but none of them were vacant, nor likely to be soon. He could amuse himself as chaplain at the Drummoor chapel, but that was only one day a week. For the other six, he must sit and wait and wait some more. It was dispiriting. Even the weather was in dreary sympathy with his mood.

  He laid down his book of sermons, and looked across the winter morning room at the only other occupants. His sister-in-law, Connie, was bent over the worktable, making a list. Guests to invite, possibly, or chores for the housemaids, or chutneys and preserves for the kitchen to make, or perhaps just one of her endless lists of Things That Must Be Done. Meanwhile she was chattering non-stop to her sister, Mrs Allamont, who was presently visiting. Mrs Allamont was more productively employed in trimming a bonnet, although she seemed to take her full share in the conversation, even though her fingers never stopped moving. Aunt Jane March said nothing, but she nodded and smiled at intervals, while steadily tatting.

  Monty could hear Carrbridge and Mr Allamont out in the hall, laughing about something. No doubt Mr Allamont had come up with another of his outlandish schemes of improvement to his land, for he was full of ideas, while Carrbridge was much more conservative in his methods, and teased him unmercifully. It was all rather remote to Monty, the productivity of milking cows being very far from his concerns as a clergyman. His interest would be in the spiritual welfare of his parishioners, and if he kept a few chickens at his parsonage, that would be as near as he would come to agricultural matters.

  If ever he had his own parsonage, of course. Eventually, Mishcombe would be his, which was a fine living within half a mile of Drummoor, but the present incumbent, Mr Hay, although elderly, was perfectly hale and likely to live for another twenty years at least. In the meantime, he had to wait with as much patience as he could muster for one of several clergymen to drop down dead so that he might have their place, and it was an uncomfortable feeling. He did not wish any of them dead, but nor did he much like sitting about at home, being bored. Perhaps the Archbishop would have some sudden need for one of the gentlemen, and summon him to York, leaving the way clear for Monty. That was a happier thought, a promotion rather than death.

  Connie rang for tea, and that brought everyone into the winter parlour, including the usual array of aunts and uncles who had been invited to visit in the summer and had stayed on for months. For once there were few house guests other than family. Connie loved to have the place full of visitors, but with her confinement fast approaching, even her enthusiasm for entertaining had waned somewhat.

  Daniel Merton came in with a note for Carrbridge, and the two whispered together for some time. They were an interesting contrast, Carrbridge every inch the aristocrat, his coat, his trousers, even his hair all of the first style, and his manner patrician. Merton, his secretary, was a gentleman and so there was nothing obsequious in his manner, but he never put himself forward, either, and his plain black coat was just as unobtrusive as the man himself.

  Now the two of them came towards Monty. “There is news, my lord,” Merton said.

  “Good news or bad news?” Monty said. “I do not like to hear bad news, you know.”

  “It is both, I believe,” Merton said, as Carrbridge chuckled. “Mr Whittaker, from Kirby Grosswick, has died.”

  “Oh.”

  “The living is vacant now, you see,” Carrbridge said, beaming happily at him. “Congratulations, Monty. You will be installed there in time for Christmas.”

  “Oh.” Happiness bubbled up inside him. “That… is good news! Not for Mr Whittaker, of course, but…”

  And then they were all crowding round him, congratulating him, the gentlemen shaking his hand briskly, the ladies exclaiming in delight, and Connie shedding a tear.

  From the door, the butler coughed. “Beg pardon, my lord, my lady, but there is… a person in the hall. A Miss Frost. She is asking to see the Earl of Deveron.”

  The room fell silent. “The Earl of Deveron?” Connie said, her tone shrill.

  “That is what she says, my lady.”

  Merton cleared his throat. “Is Miss Frost a lady, Crabbe?”

  “Hard to say, sir,” the butler said in haughty tones. “Not a servant, I should say. She is carrying a portmanteau.”

  “Shall I investigate?” Merton said. But in the end Connie and Carrbridge and several others went out to the hall too, and Monty drifted along behind them, feeling rather sorry for this Miss Frost who was neither lady nor servant.

  She was very young, perhaps twenty, and tall but exceedingly thin, as if she had not eaten properly for a long time. Her boots, travelling gown and pelisse were of reasonable quality, if rather worn, and her bonnet had once been quite stylish. Now it was so sodden that the remains of two feathers trailed listlessly onto her shoulders and dripped steadily.

  “Miss Frost?” Carrbridge said. “I am the Marquess of Carrbridge and this is Lady Carrbridge. What is this about the Earl of Deveron?”

  The girl lifted her chin defiantly. “I want to talk to him.”

  “Might one enquire as to the nature of your business with him?”

  “I am betrothed to him.” She looked Carrbridge right in the eye, as if daring him to disagree with her.

  “Betrothed to him?” Connie burst out. “Impossible!”

  “It is perfectly true,” the girl said defiantly. “The engagement is of long standing, and now that I am old enough, I intend to hold Lord Deveron to his commitment.”

  It was so ridiculous that it had to be a joke, but Monty felt not the least desire to laugh. The girl — Miss Frost — was so sincere, so determined that it almost seemed a shame to unravel her plan, but it had to be done.

  “Perhaps,” he said carefully, “Miss Frost might care to meet the Earl of Deveron?”

  “Oh, yes please,” she said at once. “I should very much like to meet him, so that we may… begin making arrangements and so forth.”

  “This way,” Connie said, leading the way towards the stairs. “Crabbe, tell Mrs Compton to prepare the rose room. Miss Frost will want a hot bath as soon as may be. My dear, you are quite soaked. Did you walk up from the village in all this rain?”

  “From the village with the big cross in the middle. That was as near as the farmer could bring me.”

  “Mishmere Cross? Good gracious! That must be… a very long way.”

  “Close to ten miles,” Merton said from behind her.

  “Good gracious,” Connie said again, faintly. “Here we are.”

  She threw open a door, and immediately the air was filled with squeals, as several children chased each other round and round the room on hobby horses. In a corner, three nursemaids sat in a gossipy huddle, leaping to their feet and hastily curtsying as soon as they realised they were observed.

  Connie made no reprimand. Instead she waded into the melée and scooped up a sturdy boy of four, who immediately grinned and tried to grab the ribbons of her cap. Connie carried him back to the door.

  “Miss Frost, m
ay I present to you the Earl of Deveron. Dev, say hello to Miss Frost.”

  The girl’s face grew ashen, and at first Monty thought she might faint from shock. Then she turned and stomped back out onto the landing. The others followed her out.

  “I am so very sorry,” Connie began.

  “No, you are not,” the girl said, her eyes flashing. “You think it a great joke, I daresay. Some poor deluded woman turns up to marry a child of… how old is he?”

  “He will be five next birthday,” Connie said, “and I do not think it a joke at all, for you have come all this way… where have you come from?”

  Was that a hesitation? She licked her lips. “Cornwall.”

  “Well, that is a great way indeed. But you may see for yourself that you have been misled. Whatever understanding you have cannot be with Dev. You may stay here until the weather improves and then we will see you on your way back to Cornwall.”

  “Oh, that is very fine, and no mistake,” Miss Frost cried. “So that is the end of it, is it? I was promised a husband, look, it says so here.” She pulled a letter from some inner recess of her pelisse, and waved it at them. “The Marquess of Carrbridge — you, sir — promised me to your son, and now you think you can just shrug and walk away, do you? Typical of you people. You have no sense of honour.”

  Carrbridge was reading the letter. “It does seem… Merton, read it, will you. The date is more than ten years ago, so it would have been my father promising you to me, Miss Frost. I was the Earl of Deveron then, you see. But I do not quite see what can be done about it now.”

  Merton looked up. “Miss Frost, it looks to me as if your father gambled you away to the eighth marquess in some wager that went badly for him. The eighth marquess tells him to keep you for the present, and he will marry you to the Earl of Deveron when you are of age.”

  “I know what it says!” she spat.

  “But you must see that such an offer has no legal force. There is no obligation—”

  “Yes, there is!” she said, stamping her foot. “I have been in expectation of the marriage for years. If the Earl of Deveron is not available, then you must find me another husband, that is only fair.”