Make Me a Marchioness

by Blackwood, Gemma

  Julia had never heard of this Lord Christopher before, so could not be comforted by his presence.

  "Is that all, Miss?" asked Miss Graham, giving Julia a stern look. Whatever Mrs Potter had said, it was clear that Julia was not welcome to spend any more time in the kitchen than was absolutely necessary.

  "Thank you for your help," she said, smiling with a warmth she did not feel. "I will take myself to bed."

  "Wait a moment." Miss Graham went to the stove and poured some hot milk from a saucepan into a cup. "You'll be wanting something to warm you in a strange new place."

  Julia accepted the cup of warm milk gratefully, if in some confusion. Miss Graham's tone was no less prickly, but the kind gesture belied her sharp demeanour. Perhaps she regretted her earlier frostiness. Some people simply required a little time to warm to strangers.

  "Thank you," said Julia, this time really meaning it. Miss Graham shrugged carelessly.

  "Goodnight, Miss Mallory," said Mr Larkin.

  "Goodnight."

  The little maid jumped to her feet and ran to open the door for Julia, guiding her expertly back through Harding Hall until they reached the bedroom on the top floor.

  "Is Miss Graham always like that?" Julia asked in a whisper, before the maid took her leave. The girl flushed and stared at the floor.

  "I don't like to speak ill of her, Miss. She's never really cruel – only sort of crotchety."

  "Well, perhaps that's to be expected in someone who's attained her position at such a young age."

  "She trained under a French chef in London, you know, Miss," said the maid. Julia smiled wryly.

  "And I bet she doesn't let you forget it?"

  The maid's eyes widened. "Don't like to say, Miss."

  "I see. Well, goodnight. Thank you for your help today."

  The maid bobbed a curtsey. "My pleasure, Miss."

  And Julia was once again alone in her new home – this time with a cup of hot milk to comfort her.

  She sipped the milk as she considered the day's events. She was now acquainted, if briefly, with every member of the household. In Mrs Potter and Miss Kelsey she felt she had firm allies, even if the butler and the cook seemed less than friendly. Annabelle was a lovely, if lively, charge, and the Marquess...

  Well. What did she really think of the Marquess?

  Could she think about him, without being distracted by the memory of the way his shoulders moved under his tailcoat, the way his hand stroked the dusting of stubble on his chin as he spoke to her? The melancholy music his voice made – no matter what the conversation, always faintly dusted with sadness?

  Julia shut her eyes. She had no business thinking of her employer in that sinful manner. Annabelle was not the only one suffering from an overactive imagination.

  She set down her milk cup, blew out the candle, and settled down to bed, where she lay awake for some time watching the pattern of moonlight on the wall and thinking of fairies and strange hooded gentlemen. Sleep eluded her.

  It was just as well, because no sooner had the clocks struck midnight than she was shaken by a terrible noise from the floors below.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Julia sat bolt upright, heart pounding.

  Male voices. The distinct sound of male voices, raised loud enough to rattle Harding Hall to the rooftops. Angry or simply selfishly loud, they were too distant to tell.

  How many nights had she been shaken awake in Seven Dials by the sound of male rage beneath her?

  The image of the dark fairy in Annabelle's book flooded her mind. She could only assume that, whoever the interloper was, he had forced entry to the house itself.

  Julia seized the candlestick and padded slowly from her room.

  One step into the shadowy corridor and she began to wish she'd lit the candle first. Feeling her way with her feet, she made her way towards the sounds that floated up from below.

  Why was the household not awake? Why did she hear no footmen running towards the intruders? The shouting was distorted by the winding corridors, but the danger in it was clear enough.

  Julia rounded a corner and finally made out the words the men were chanting. She froze in place, horrified. She knew exactly what they were saying.

  Two men, somewhere in the depths of Harding Hall, were blundering through the lyrics of an old drinking song. The sort of thing she'd heard often in the taverns and back alleys of Seven Dials. Julia tightened her grip on the candlestick, forcing all thoughts of her first home from her mind. So, a pair of footmen had drunk too much with their dinner and were making merry in tones fit to raise the whole house? Had they entirely forgotten that there were women at Harding Hall? They'd suffer in the morning, sure enough, but Julia intended to give them such a scare they wouldn't dare rouse her with their racket again.

  She made her way down the staircase one tip-toe at a time and followed the unabated noise to the left. She was in the grandest part of the Hall now, and in the morning she was certain that the high ceilings and marble busts would not be nearly so frightening. For now, she simply made her way past as quickly as possible, refusing to look left or right for fear of the shadowed ghouls her imagination might show her.

  The voices grew louder, clearer now. Julia approached a door which had not featured in Annabelle's breakneck tour of the Hall. She fastened one hand on the handle, gripped the candlestick with the other, and took a deep breath before she shoved it open.

  "Ah-ha!" she cried, brandishing her candlestick. "You ruffians! You –"

  Julia froze, her mouth opening and shutting like a fish out of water, as she took in the sight of the Marquess lounging open-shirted and deeply drunk in front of a roaring fire. His back was flat on the floor and his boots were cocked up on a chaise longue with no care for the fine upholstery. An empty decanter stood by his head, together with a glass whose contents lay in a puddle soaking into his dark hair.

  Behind him stood another gentlemen, someone Julia had never seen before – but a gentleman he certainly was, by bearing as well as his fashionable tight pantaloons and his spotless starched cravat. There was a cruelty to the set of his mouth which only increased as he tugged one corner up into a smile. He raised his glass to Julia.

  "Charles, we have a guest. Welcome, pretty lady."

  Julia lowered her candlestick. The Marquess raised an eyebrow coolly, as though his position on the floor were of no consequence whatsoever.

  "Ah, Miss Mallory. Do let me introduce my friend Lord Kit."

  Lord Kit made her an elaborate, mocking bow. "Miss Mallory? A friend of yours, Charles?"

  His eyes raked up and down Julia's linen nightshift. She suddenly became extremely aware that she was not even wearing a dressing gown, and folded her arms across her chest.

  "The new governess," said Charles, pushing himself up onto his elbow. "For Annabelle."

  "Well, old man, I hardly thought she was here for you." Lord Kit raised an eyebrow. "Won't you join us for a drink, Miss Mallory? With your permission, Charles. I hardly like to go around interfering with another man's staff."

  The way his lips pulled sardonically at the word staff made Julia hate him, and for the first time, feel ashamed of her new position.

  "I don't know that I like your tone, Kit," Charles drawled, his voice deepening to a dangerous growl. "Miss Mallory is to be treated as one of the family."

  Kit's eyes sparkled. "Then the lovely Miss Mallory must certainly accept a glass of brandy."

  "I will certainly not be joining you," she snapped, and bent down to help Charles back to his feet. "It seems to me you've had quite enough."

  Lord Kit snorted. "Can't a man drink himself to death in the peace and comfort of his own home?"

  "Nobody will be drinking themselves to death on my watch!" snapped Julia. She thrust an arm around the Marquess's shoulders and gave him a heave. There was a surprising weight to him, for such a slender man. Beneath that stained white shirt he was nothing but muscle and power.

  Power which was not being used
to help Julia get him to his feet. She wriggled her arm underneath him and levered him up to a sitting position. Perhaps she ought to call for help?

  One look at the Marquess's face told her that he would not want the servants to see him this way. His handsome face had twisted into a gargoyle's mask of self-loathing. He pushed Julia away somewhat roughly and lifted himself unsteadily to standing.

  "Women!" he said, throwing the words vaguely in Kit's direction. "Can't stand 'em."

  "Oh, they have their uses, old man." Kit tipped his glass suggestively in Julia's direction. She tried to ignore him. "Not that you're doing nearly enough to discover them for yourself."

  Julia offered the Marquess her arm. "Let me help you to bed, my lord. You're tired."

  "Don't be ridiculous, I'm not at all tired," Charles confessed, leaning on her heavily. "I'm drunk."

  "You mustn't be too hard on him, Miss Governess," smirked Kit. "It's my fault entirely. Why, Charlie here has barely a sinful bone in his body. I'm sure the household has more than enough stories of my debauchery to make it clear that I'm no fit company for a respectable father and widower like our good Marquess."

  "I wouldn't like to say," said Julia stiffly. She steered Charles gently in the direction of the doorway. "Goodnight, Lord Kit. I assume you can show yourself out? Or do I need to ring for the butler?"

  Kit was making his way back to the drinks cabinet. "Don't fret, Miss, I'm more than at home here at Harding Hall."

  Charles's head lolled against Julia's shoulder as she half-carried him out into the hallway.

  "You'll have to tell me the way to your chambers, my lord," she said, trying not to grunt under his weight – though goodness only knew why she was at all concerned with seeming ladylike at a moment like this.

  "Made a fool of myself," Charles slurred. He sounded so bitter, so full of self-recrimination, that Julia almost pitied him.

  "I've seen much worse, my lord," she said. That was the truth. Her brother was not known for his restraint when it came to celebrating his business successes.

  "Not Kit's fault," said Charles. "All my own. Ought to know better. But I felt..."

  They reached the hallway. Charles pointed vaguely up the main staircase. "This way."

  Julia braced her shoulder under his as they made their wobbly way upstairs.

  "After London," Charles continued, "I just... I needed to... forget."

  "What happened in London?" Julia asked. It was more to make conversation than anything else. Whatever haunted the Marquess was really none of her business.

  Charles surprised her by unleashing a cold burst of laughter. "Nearly got married, Miss Mallory. Can you imagine? Lucky escape there."

  "The lady refused you?" Julia wondered what sort of woman would possibly refuse a handsome Marquess with as much money as her employer was rumoured to have.

  A woman who had an inkling of his nocturnal activities, she thought uncharitably. Perhaps Lord Kit had also been in London.

  "She was in love," said Charles. "Not with me. Smart girl... but not smart enough to keep away from marriage. Bad business. Miss Mallory?" He stopped walking with an abruptness that made Julia stagger. Charles caught her face in his hands and turned it towards him with a deadly serious expression.

  "My lord!"

  "Never marry," he told her, solemn despite his wine-slurred tones. "It's a fool's game, marriage. Snapdragon's better." He meant the game young men played with flaming brandy at Christmastime. "Less chance of a burn."

  "Who burnt you?" Julia asked, searching his face for a clue. Charles's eyes flashed darkly.

  "I was not born for happiness, Miss Mallory."

  "You have time for happiness yet, my lord." She knew it was only the drink talking, but she felt a great desire to comfort him all the same.

  "No." Charles shook his head. "I had my chance. I had my chance and I squandered it."

  "My lord!" A deep voice called down the corridor. Julia turned to see a man in Chiltern livery hurrying towards them. "My lord, are you alright?"

  Julia gratefully handed the care of the Marquess's unsteady form to the newcomer. The man looked at her curiously.

  "I am Peter Kildare, his lordship's valet," he said eventually. Julia felt all the ridiculousness of the situation descend on her at once, and stifled a nervous giggle.

  "Julia Mallory. Lady Annabelle's new governess."

  Peter nodded as politely as though it were completely normal to make someone's acquaintance in the dark of night in the middle of an ancient mansion, while staggering under the weight of a drunken Marquess. "Thank you, Miss Mallory. I take it Lord Christopher came to visit?"

  "I heard voices," said Julia, embarrassed now by her frightened imaginings of burglars and intruders, "and I thought..."

  "They do make an awful racket together," said Peter. Charles grunted in protest. "I'm sorry, my lord, but it's the truth. You have roused Miss Mallory from her bed."

  "The very place I should be getting back to," said Julia. "If you can manage alone?"

  "Oh, I'm no stranger to his lordship's...moods," said Peter easily. "Goodnight, Miss Mallory. Thank you for your help. Oh... and I'd be grateful if you kept this to yourself in the morning."

  "Naturally," Julia agreed. She didn't know much about running a household of this size and importance, but she was sure it would do no good for the servants' morale if they knew the state their master had drunk himself into. "Goodnight, Mr Kildare."

  She hurried off up the rickety staircase that led to her own rooms. Only when she sat on her bed, and thought to read a little to calm herself before attempting sleep again, did she realise that she'd left the candlestick on the floor in the Marquess's library.

  The thought of Lord Kit waiting for her with his cruel smile and his glittering eyes was enough to make Julia resolve to appreciate the darkness. She lay down and listened to the slowing thump of her heart until sleep took her once more.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Pounding head be hanged. Charles had breakfast with his daughter to attend.

  And as long as he was trapped here at Harding Hall, he would be the perfect father. No-one could fault his attentions to his daughter...when he was there.

  He sat at the table and sipped cautiously at a cup of coffee, trying to ignore the roiling in his stomach. Curse that blackguard, Kit Yardsley! He had a talent for disgrace, and a positive genius for dragging Charles along with him.

  No, but it was useless blaming Kit. Charles had drunk too much because he wanted to forget himself, that was the truth of it. And because he couldn't stand the thought of another nightmare. Thank goodness his sleep that night – drunken as it was – had been black and dreamless.

  Though it had to be said he had gone a little far in forgetting. His memories of the night before were hazy to say the least, but they involved a great deal more of Miss Mallory than seemed reasonable.

  Surely she hadn't been there? Surely he hadn't told her...what exactly did he remember telling her? Something about marriage. His thoughts on that awkward business with Lady Emily Albemarle.

  Hopefully nothing too personal.

  "Good morning, my lord," was all that Julia said as she took her place beside Annabelle at the breakfast table. She looked as ravishing as Charles felt wretched, fresh and bright as a spring daisy.

  "Ah, Miss Mallory. I hope you passed a pleasant night?"

  A slow flush crept up Julia's neck, and she avoided his gaze. Ah. So she had been there, after all. Charles made a mental note to wring the finer details out of Peter Kildare, later.

  "My room is very comfortable," said Julia blandly. Charles could have applauded, if not for the pain in his head. A response so diplomatic it would grace the lips of any Duchess!

  "I have something for you here. A letter which was slipped in with my correspondence by mistake. It's addressed to you." He passed it across the table. He had to admit to a certain curiosity over who exactly Julia corresponded with. The exact nature of her friendship with the Westbourn
e household remained a mystery.

  Julia took the letter and read the address. It was plain to see that she recognised the handwriting, and that it was unwelcome to her. She blanched, and for a moment looked as though she were about to throw the letter away in disgust.

  "An undesirable pen friend?" asked Charles. Julia composed herself with admirable speed.

  "Not at all, my lord. Why on earth would I receive a letter from someone...undesirable?"

  "You're right, of course. I didn't mean to give offence."

  Julia smiled blandly and continued with her breakfast. Charles cursed himself for mishandling the situation so badly. Every time he tried to pry some personal details from Julia, he was taking one step forward only to fall two steps back.

  The moment breakfast was finished, it was back into his study to look over the latest figures from his Cornwall estates with his steward. Stevens's natural propensity to gloom was, in this instance, justified; it was more apparent than ever that Charles would have to leave Chiltern and take matters in hand himself. The last year's harvest had failed, the farmers were unwilling to adapt to more modern methods, and there were even reports that those with large families were turning to smuggling simply to provide food for their children. Charles could not allow people under his protection to endure such a plight – even if it meant disappointing Annabelle once again.

  He made the decision to leave before Stevens left the room, and, just like always, he felt guilty over how easy it was to decide. His heart was not really in Harding Hall. It had not been for years.

  Charles cancelled his next appointment and made his way to the schoolroom to break the news to Annabelle.

  "Papa!" she cried. Her little voice, so full of delight at seeing him, almost made him reconsider. Almost. Julia watched impassively from the blackboard as Charles bent down and explained to Annabelle that he would be leaving the next morning, earlier than she would even be awake.