by Mary Balogh
Fifteen
After two weeks at home, Marcel was still feeling savage. He had never spent so much time at Redcliffe. He had spent enough time here now, however, to have learned something disturbing about himself. He was nothing but a weakling. It was a nasty realization for a man who had always prided himself upon being just the opposite.
He had come home to assert himself, to restore his household to order, to put an end to all the petty bickerings, to make himself master of his own domain. But he wondered at the end of the two weeks if he had accomplished anything at all—and this was even before his life was to be further disrupted by the arrival of Viola Kingsley.
His aunt Olwen, the marchioness, was a very elderly lady. She did not move about with any great ease, but her mind was sharp and there was something stately about her heavy figure. Her daughter, his cousin Isabelle, Lady Ortt, was an overblown blond fading to gray and liked to bully all around her, including her daughter, Margaret. And including her husband. Irwin, Lord Ortt, was a reedy individual, one-quarter head shorter than his wife, with receding fair hair, a chin that had never been anything else but receded, and an Adam’s apple that bobbed with unfortunate frequency since he swallowed whenever he was nervous and he was habitually nervous.
It should have been the easiest thing in the world to gather them all together and announce a move to the dower house for the lot of them. It would not even have been a cruel pronouncement. The dower house was within the park one mile away from the main house on the far side of the lake. It was sizable and in good repair—he had taken a walk there and looked it over for himself. There was room to spare for all of them. They would be away from the constant aggravation of Jane and Charles Morrow’s presence in the house with their adult children.
“Those people,” Isabelle told Marcel when none of those people were within earshot to defend themselves, “do not possess a title among them, Cousin Marcel, and they are not even Lamarrs but only relatives of your long-deceased wife.”
“Who was a Lamarr,” he reminded her. “And they are the appointed guardians of my daughter and my heir.”
Isabelle had looked somewhat disconcerted, perhaps at his tone and the fact that he was holding his quizzing glass only just below the level of his eye. She was not ready to concede defeat, however. “But they do not take precedence over Mama,” she said, “or over Irwin and me. Sometimes they behave as though they do.”
“I looked at the dower house this morning,” he said in an apparent non sequitur, though it became quickly clear that both ladies understood him perfectly well.
“It was built too close to the lake,” his aunt said. “It would be very bad for my rheumatics over there.”
“We have dear Margaret’s wedding to Sir Jonathan Billings in early December,” Isabelle said. “The house is going to be full of guests. You were not here to consult when we began planning, Marcel, but you could not possibly begrudge her a wedding befitting her rank and fortune.”
No, Marcel could not, though he did wonder why, if Ortt was in possession of a fortune, he was living off Marcel’s bounty at Redcliffe and not putting on a grand wedding for his daughter in his own home. Marcel would certainly broach both that subject and the removal to the dower house after Margaret’s wedding, but it did seem a bad time to do it now with the wedding plans well advanced. He could not help the niggling feeling, however, that if he were the man he thought he was, he would not have waited even one hour.
Jane and Charles Morrow’s children—his nephew and niece—were both grown-up. Oliver had been seven or eight when the twins were born, Ellen only a few years younger. Yet they were both permanently ensconced at Redcliffe. Marcel intended to have a word with them, or with the young man, anyway. Ellen was her mother’s concern, though it was hard to know why she was not already married. She was neither ravishingly pretty nor notably vivacious, but she was not an antidote either. Charles Morrow, though not poverty-stricken, was not a notably wealthy man. His son could surely not afford a life of permanent idleness—unless he continued living at Redcliffe, that was. That was out of the question. Marcel was going to be living here himself—with his wife.
Upon which topic his mind preferred not to dwell.
Oliver liked to trail about the estate with Marcel’s steward, giving unsolicited opinions and suggestions and advice, which on more than one occasion Charles had tried to convert into orders—which the steward resented, as was to be expected.
The matter ought to have been easy to resolve. Marcel ought to have backed his steward, counseled Charles not to interfere where he had no business interfering, and given his nephew his marching orders. However, nothing was easy these days. For the truth was that after some long talks with his steward and a bit of tramping about the farms, and after a close look at the books, all of which activities went severely against the grain, Marcel could not help coming to the conclusion that his nephew had a point. The steward was an elderly man, not doddering exactly, but certainly past his prime and set in his ways and unaware of the fact that his domain was no longer running as efficiently or even as sensibly as it ought.
What he really needed to do, Marcel realized, was sack the steward and hire a new one—and then give his nephew his marching orders. He would write to his man of business in London when he had a moment. He was half aware, of course, that he had any number of moments. Life in the country was not exactly characterized by its hectic schedules. He would do it after this infernal party, then. Meanwhile, he noticed that Bertrand was rather fond of his older male cousin and looked up to him with some admiration. And Charles, though more than a bit on the stuffy side, was a decent sort and doubtless meant well.
André had remained at Redcliffe despite the fact that there was nothing there to entertain a man of his tastes. Marcel had paid off all his debts and increased his allowance from the estate, but he had done nothing to force a permanent solution to the problem of his brother’s extravagance and gaming. As André had pointed out, it was a family failing, though Marcel had got his own habit under control, damn it. He had been given no choice. He had had two children to support long before he inherited his title and fortune. His income, though more than adequate, had not been limitless.
The housekeeper, closely backed by the cook, complained that too much was expected of them—by too many people. Lady Ortt’s wedding plans for her daughter were becoming more and more demanding even though she was not and never had been the mistress of the house. Mrs. Morrow consistently refused to hear of extra help being taken on, as those who worked there already never seemed very busy. And Mrs. Morrow demanded that they all attend morning prayers in the drawing room before breakfast every day. And now there was this party Lady Estelle was planning . . .
Their problems at least Marcel was able to solve. “There is only one person in this house with the authority to give orders,” he said, regarding them in some amazement, his eyebrows raised. “You are looking at him. If you need extra help in the house, Mrs. Crutchley, then you must get it. If you need any extra help in the kitchen, Mrs. Jones, then you will inform Mrs. Crutchley and she will provide it. And from this moment on attendance at morning prayers is to be voluntary.” He had voluntarily absented himself from the daily ordeal since his return. “I shall inform Mrs. Morrow. Will that be all?”
It seemed it was. Both women bobbed curtsies, thanked his lordship, and went on their way, looking vindicated.
It was a small success among too many weaknesses.
And now this.
He came across Jane and Estelle in the morning room one day two weeks after his arrival. He had gone in there looking for a book he had put down somewhere but now could not remember where. They were both standing, Jane close to the window, Estelle not far inside the door. He could see her in only partial profile, but she was the picture of docile dejection. Her aunt, in contrast, was looking majestic and annoyed. She was waving a letter in one hand while she held
two or three more in her other hand. She stopped midharangue when the door opened. Estelle, significantly, did not turn.
“I really do not know what has got into Estelle lately,” Jane said as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “She has always been the most obedient and biddable girl. She has never given me a moment’s trouble. But first she insisted upon pursuing you all the way to Devonshire, a decision she has no doubt regretted bitterly ever since. Then she insisted upon this party, which even you must admit is excessive, Marcel.”
“Must I?” he asked softly.
“And now,” she continued without perceiving the danger in his tone, “she has gone beyond the pale. I am at a loss to know what to do. A simple punishment seems inadequate, though a few hours or even a full day of quiet reflection in her room would certainly do no harm. But all this—” She waved the letter that was still suspended in one hand, and then waved the others too. “All this is irreparable, Marcel. She did it entirely on her own, without seeking anyone’s advice, and she did it on the sly too without anyone noticing. I am extremely vexed. Charles will be infuriated when I inform him. You doubtless will be too.”
“Will I?” He strolled farther into the room and stood facing his daughter, positioning himself between her and her aunt. “And what have you done, Estelle, that is so heinous?”
“She has—” Jane began. But he held up one hand without turning.
“Estelle?”
She did not raise her eyes to his. “I am sorry, Father,” she said. “I wrote invitations I did not have permission to write.”
She was back to calling him Father. She had been doing it ever since they arrived home.
“To your party?” he asked. “Why would you need permission when it is your event?”
“Marcel,” Jane said. “Estelle is still a child. You seem to forget that.”
“I forget nothing,” he said. “Her mother was the same age when she married me.”
A loud silence from behind assured him that his sister-in-law did not think that much of an argument. Estelle raised her eyes to his face for a moment before she lowered them again.
“I wanted them all to come,” she said. “I wanted it to be a proper betrothal party, a real celebration. Abigail gave me all their names that evening at the cottage. I did not expect that they would all accept the invitation, though. I only hoped that a few of them would—Abigail’s sister, perhaps, with Mr. Cunningham. I would not have been at all surprised if none of them had come or even answered.”
Good Lord!
“And some of them are coming?” he asked.
“I sent nine invitations,” she said. “I had five replies yesterday and the day before. Four more came today. Aunt Jane saw them before I came down this morning. I was delayed when one of the tapes at the back of my dress snapped.”
“I see,” he said. “And how many have accepted?”
He scarcely heard her answer, but she repeated it a little more loudly. “All of them,” she said.
All . . . ?
He held up a hand again when he heard Jane draw breath.
“And when,” he asked, “did you intend to reveal this information?”
It was some time before she answered. He waited. “I do not know,” she said. “I was a little frightened.” But she looked up suddenly, and she looked more like the angry little daughter who had all but launched herself upon him outside the cottage in Devonshire. “I am not sorry I did it, Papa. If I had asked, Aunt Jane would have said no. You would have said no. But they ought to be here, or at least given the opportunity to be here. They are going to be your family. They are going to be my family and Bert’s. I want them here for Miss Kingsley’s sake and Abigail’s. It ought to be a celebration for both families, not just ours. Oh, I know the wedding is going to be that, but I want everyone here. If you are angry with me, I—”
He held up his hand and she fell silent. Was he angry? Was there a part of him that had been hoping that somehow he could wriggle out of this marriage? It had been all very well at the time to do the honorable thing, even to insist upon it when Viola had resisted. But now? Truth to tell, he had been avoiding thinking about her and about it—it being his betrothal and his looming marriage. And when he could not block all thought, perhaps he had considered that if she came alone or with just her younger daughter for company, and if she still felt as strongly opposed to the marriage as she had the last time they spoke, then perhaps . . .
If there had been any faint, lingering hope, it had now been snatched from him. The whole damned lot of them were about to descend upon Redcliffe to celebrate his betrothal. Unless they were all coming here to boil him in oil or otherwise express their displeasure. It was a distinct possibility, but he would not rely upon it. Either way he had lost control over his life and the conduct of his business. Again.
“Why would I be angry with you?” he asked. “But your aunt believes you ought to be punished, Estelle, and I cannot help but agree.”
She lowered her eyes again and stood meekly before him. And good Lord, he thought, was this how she had been raised? Was this the way all young ladies were raised? She ought to be coming at him with both fists flying and both eyes flashing. It was how her mother would have behaved.
“You,” he said, “are going to find Mrs. Crutchley as soon as I have finished speaking, and confess all to her. And then you are going to find Mrs. Jones and confess all to her. And then you are going to wear your slippers into holes and your fingers to the bone helping them prepare for this houseful of illustrious guests we are expecting. Even if it means getting down upon your knees and scrubbing a few floors.”
“Marcel—” Jane protested from behind him. He ignored her.
Estelle’s eyes had flown to his again, and she smiled radiantly, transforming herself into a considerable beauty, the little minx. “Yes, Papa,” she said, and whisked herself out of the room before he could draw breath to say more.
He strode out after her before Jane could launch into speech.
His mind was reciting every blasphemy and swear word he had ever heard. Again. He even made up a few extras.
And yes, he was an abject weakling.
* * *
• • •
When Viola had returned home to Hinsford, in her own carriage and with her own servants this time, she had urged Abigail to remain with Camille and Joel and the children. She was happy there, Viola knew, with her sister and nieces and nephew and the constant comings and goings of artists and musicians and writers and children from the orphanage, among others. Abigail had insisted upon returning home with her mother, however.
What Viola had really hoped for was to go alone to Redcliffe. As the days passed the events of those few weeks became more and more unreal in her mind and the predicament in which she found herself more intolerable. Why on earth had she not spoken up for herself in Devonshire and told her own family and his that they might make what they would of their discovery but there would be no marriage? Did she really care that her behavior might be the subject of drawing room gossip for weeks or months to come? She no longer mingled with polite society except in the very small circle of her friends and neighbors at home. What was said about her elsewhere would not hurt her.
Why had she not stood up to Marcel more forcefully and flatly refused to be bullied? It was not as though he wanted to marry her, after all. It was just his sense of honor that had driven him to it, and she doubted even that would have mattered to him if his children had not been among those who had arrived on the scene. Except that he had announced their betrothal before his children came. Had he done it because of Abby, then? It certainly would not have been because he feared a challenge from Alexander or Joel.
But of course the reason she had not spoken up was precisely the reason he had. Their children had discovered them, and their children must be protected from the sordid nature of wha
t they had seen. They must be persuaded that it was all in fact very nearly respectable, as their parents were betrothed and had been even before they came there.
That they must now end the charade of the betrothal was, of course, imperative. But they must find a way of doing it that would cause the least pain to their children. Whatever pain she caused herself would be fully deserved. It was one thing to snap after years of discipline and general unhappiness and two years of intense misery and to make the impulsive decision to run away for a short spell with a man notorious for his womanizing. It was another to be caught and thereby to pass on her misery to her children, who had suffered enough, and to his children, who seemed to her to be very innocent and therefore vulnerable. She was not, alas, alone in this world. Who was it who had said . . . ? She had read it somewhere. William Shakespeare? John Milton? No, John Donne. He had written something to the effect that no man is an island, that everyone is a part of the mainland, that everyone’s suffering affects everyone else. She wished she could remember the whole passage. There was something about a bell tolling and someone sending to ask for whose death it tolled. It tolls for thee. She could recall those exact words, at least.
He had been quite right, Mr. Donne. Her great adventure had also been her great selfishness.
But she would extricate herself. She must. She must not compound one wrong with another much worse wrong. She wished, then, that Abigail had chosen to remain in Bath with Camille, so that she could do it alone. It was not to be, however, and so she must make the best of the situation.
There had been two weeks of almost relentless rain after they returned to Hinsford. But at last the sky had cleared and ever since they had been enjoying glorious crisp weather with the trees in the full glory of their autumn colors. It was the perfect time to be traveling, Viola thought. It was just a pity she dreaded the end of the journey.
She was troubled by her brief acquaintance with his children. Lady Estelle Lamarr, with the wildly varying emotions of a very young lady and the obvious hurt she felt at her father’s unpredictability, was particularly vulnerable to anything that might bring her pain. Her twin seemed on the surface to be quite the opposite—a quiet, dignified, controlled young man. Viola suspected, however, that he was far more like his sister than had been apparent. It was Estelle who was organizing the betrothal party. Viola hoped the plans were not too elaborate or the guest list too large, though neither was likely for a country entertainment. Fortunately—very fortunately—it was also to be a slightly belated birthday party for her father. It could still proceed as that, then, even after the ending of the betrothal.