The few other aristocratic investors she’d met by chance at her father’s London office either ignored the young woman who served them tea as a servant far beneath their notice, or gave her a considering glance that sized up her feminine charms before realising the engineer’s daughter was unavailable, upon which they, too, ignored her. Investors from her father’s own merchant or business class treated her with avuncular indulgence, as a pretty little thing who brightened her father’s office.
Not one of them—and if she were truly honest, not even Austin—had ever expressed a particle of curiosity about her fascination with mathematics.
When she recalled the singular conversation she’d had with Dellamont—in which she’d imparted more information about what mattered to her than to anyone but her father—she had to laugh at the absurdity of it.
Perhaps it was the absurdity of Miss Marcella Cranmore exchanging personal information with someone she’d only just met—and a high-ranking aristocratic someone to boot—that had made the whole exchange possible. She’d probably not have been as candid with someone from her own world, someone she might encounter again.
An odd little wave of disappointment went through her at acknowledging that fact, as it had each time she recalled their meeting—which she did far too often. The disappointment, probably, of knowing she’d not be able to further an acquaintance with the one gentleman who seemed to find her odd and unfeminine interest in mathematics intriguing and her ability to figure geometric problems admirable, rather than simply strange.
And then there’d been that...flash of attraction between them at the end, warning her it was past time to terminate their discussion.
Before she could mull over the implications of those unexpected feelings, a knock at the door, followed by her mother’s entrance, put an end to her recollections.
‘How lovely you look!’ Mrs Cranmore exclaimed. ‘Didn’t I tell you that deep bronze satin would be a wonderful foil for your eyes and hair? And your hair so cleverly arranged, with the curls on top and to the sides.’
‘The gown is very pretty, Mama. I’m glad you are pleased.’
‘Especially pleased to have you looking so fine when we are having an important guest tonight!’
A shock of excitement zinged through her, quickly suppressed. It wouldn’t be him. It could never be him. ‘Who, Mama?’
‘Your papa had to work late again, unfortunately, but your grandda just arrived in town and will be able to join us.’
‘Grandda?’ Marcella repeated, delighted. ‘How wonderful! I haven’t seen him in ever so long.’
‘Well, you know he doesn’t like London. Give him the good country air at Tynemouth.’
Marcella laughed. ‘Since he spent most of his youth down in the smoke and ash of the mines, I don’t see how he could complain about the air in London!’
‘That’s why he prizes fresh air so highly,’ her mother responded. ‘I’m glad you are eager to see him. You do love him, don’t you?’
‘Of course! Oh, I know he can be all brusque and blustery on the outside, but he’s a darling underneath. As you very well know, Mama.’
Her mother sighed. ‘Indeed I do. He worked hard so Ma, God rest her soul, and I could have all the luxuries he never did. You do want to make him happy, don’t you?’
A vague apprehension tempered Marcella’s enthusiasm. ‘Of course I do. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, no reason. I’m just...making sure. You get so involved in your figures and daydreams sometimes, I worry that you lose sight of anything else.’
Marcella felt a pang of guilt. Her mother was a sweet darling, too, entirely content to immerse herself in furnishing and running her household, purchasing fashionable clothing, and visiting and gossiping with her friends. She’d never understood her odd duck of a daughter who preferred learning about mathematics and geometry and natural sciences rather than being schooled by her mother in household management, stitchery, and fashion.
She knew it hurt her mother when she escaped from those endeavours to join her father in his office, fascinated by his drawings and eager to discuss engines and mechanics.
Father had been so encouraging, she’d once hoped he’d allow her to take her elder brother’s place. But though he’d consoled his grief by permitting her presence and indulged her eager interest in his profession, by now she’d realised that, though he would let her peek in on the periphery of his work, he would eventually turn over the operations of his firm to one of his apprentices, many of whom he’d tutored and then assisted on to distinguished engineering careers of their own.
Turn the business over not to her, but to someone like Austin Gilling.
Trapped into the traditional female role, one day she’d have to marry. Were she to marry a businessman or tradesman, she’d swiftly find herself relegated to caring for the household and the eventual children.
The thought was unendurable.
To have any chance of hanging on to some involvement in the mechanical world that fascinated her, she would have to marry an engineer.
Someone like Austin Gilling.
Despite, she thought with a sigh, the fact that though he treated with avuncular affection, he hadn’t yet seemed to notice that she was no longer a child.
Having been father’s apprentice, then assistant, for many years, he seemed to still see her as the little girl in braids who’d sat at her father’s knee to console him after the death of his son.
He’d consoled her then, too—igniting a gratitude and appreciation that had turned from a child’s hero worship into a deep affection that convinced her, once she gave in to the necessity of marriage, she would prefer him over all others.
She just needed to make him see she was now a woman grown. A woman whose familiarity with her father’s business would be a considerable advantage, were he eventually to take it over. She’d need to work harder at opening his eyes, because time was running out. In another year or two at most, both her mother and her father would expect her to marry.
‘Have you heard a word I’ve said?’ her mother’s exasperated tones recalled her.
‘Sorry, Mama. But honestly, when I’m dressed in such a gorgeous gown, as if I truly were a princess, I have trouble stringing two thoughts together!’
Fortunately, that response mollified her mother. ‘I can well imagine! Come along then, Princess! My da is waiting.’
Putting worries about matrimony from her mind, determined for this evening just to enjoy this rare visit from her grandfather, Marcella took her mother’s hand and followed her out of the room.
* * *
Although her father didn’t return in time to join them, dinner with her grandfather was still a merry affair, with him teasing both his daughter and his granddaughter. But after the meal had been cleared away and Marcella escorted him to his favourite chair in the parlour to enjoy his after-dinner cigar, he clasped her hand, halting her beside him.
‘I’d have a word with ye, missy.’
‘Of course, Grandda. What did you want to say?’ she asked, seating herself beside her mother on the sofa by his chair.
‘Ye know I’m not like to drag my weary bones to London for no good purpose.’
‘No. But if you’d make the journey on one of Papa’s railways, your old bones would be much more comfortable.’
‘Cheeky lass,’ he reproved with a smile, chucking her under the chin. ‘I prefer a strong horse under me, and well ye know it. And there’s no’ of yer father’s railroads from Newcastle to London anyway.’
‘Maybe not yet. But there will be.’
‘That’s as may be. What I really want to see before I die is my only grandchild safe and settled.’
A frisson of alarm trickled through her. Hoping he wasn’t going to press her about what she feared he was, she said, ‘I am safe and settled, Grandda. You don’t need to worry abo
ut me.’
‘Nay, lass, ye know what I mean. I want to see ye married to a good man, established in yer own house, and bringing up babes of yer own.’
‘There’s still plenty of time for that,’ she replied. ‘I’m not past my last prayers yet.’
‘Ye’re a beauty still, and well I know it. But that’s no reason to dally. Ye’re one and twenty now, lass! When yer ma was that age, yer brother Dickie, God rest his soul, was five years old, and ye a feisty three-year-old. I want to dandle my great-grandbabes on my knee afore I turn up me toes.’
‘Don’t even talk about that!’ Marcella cried, squeezing her grandfather’s hand. ‘We want you with us for years yet.’
‘Aye, and so I will be, God willing. Still, I’d like to know a fine man had taken over caring for ye well before that. It’s yer ma’s fondest wish as well, something she’s been hoping for these last five years and more,’ he added, nodding at her mother.
‘I never wanted to press you, darling. But I do think it’s time,’ her mother said.
‘I... I know you’ve been urging me. So...what do you both want me to do? Start attending the assembly in Newcastle?’ She hated the idea of leaving London, but there were a number of engineering firms in the northern cities. Attending cotillions in Newcastle might introduce her to other candidates, if she failed to secure Austin Gilling’s regard.
After a glance at her mother, her grandfather said, ‘I’d have better than that for my darling girl. Yer pa’s done well by my one chick; she lacks for nothing. It’s ye that will inherit all that’s mine, child. Newcastle isn’t a grand enough stage for the granddaughter of the “Factory King”. Ye’ll be a prize worth winning, even in London.’
Marcella knew her grandfather was wealthy—one of the leading developers of the factory system, as a boy he’d turned his mechanical aptitude into designing machines to streamline first the mining, then the weaving industries. But she’d had no idea he intended to make her his sole heiress.
So shocked was she by the news, it took a moment for the significance of the rest of his words to penetrate. ‘A prize worth winning in London?’ she repeated. ‘Are you saying you want me to enter society here? You’re joking, surely!’
‘And why not? I hadn’t yet the wealth to make yer ma’s dream of wedding a lord come true, but I have it now, and plenty besides. Why else do ye think I accepted the baronetcy? Not that I care two flicks of my finger for being called Sir Thomas, but the nobs value it. Ye’re every bit the equal of any lady born. And all those fine gentlemen will fight to win the hand of Sir Thomas Webbingdon’s heiress!’
‘You needn’t worry that you won’t fit in,’ her mother inserted earnestly. ‘That’s why I insisted you attend Miss Axminster’s School for Young Ladies! There’s not a trace of North Country left in your speech, your manners are as fine as any lady’s, and you’re more beautiful than all those gentlemen’s daughters put together.’
The memories of her miserable sojourn at boarding school returned in a rush. Yes, she’d managed to shed her regional accent, but that had hardly made her accepted. She recalled the slights, the snide remarks, the condescension. The loneliness.
The very idea of trying to force her way into association with the girls who had snubbed and ridiculed her filled her with revulsion.
‘Mama, just because I can speak and act like one of them, I assure you, I will never be accepted by society. Even if I wanted to be, which I certainly do not! How can you believe I’d even be invited to any ton parties? Only those born into that class are admitted to Almack’s and society balls!’
Her grandfather shook his head. ‘Money still talks. And ye’d be admitted sure enough, as long as ye have the right sponsor. And ye will.’
‘A sponsor?’ she echoed. ‘What society lady would sponsor me?’
‘A baron’s wife,’ her mother broke in excitedly. ‘Da told me before dinner this evening that Lady Arlsley agreed to sponsor you for this Season!’
A rapid search of her memory produced no recognition of that name associated with her society classmates—not that she would have expected someone related to any of them to take on such a role. ‘Who is Lady Arlsley, and why would she agree to sponsor me?’
Her grandfather chuckled. ‘Lord Arlsley rowed himself rather far up the River Tick a few years ago. Came cap in hand to my bank, wanting a loan on the quiet to pay back the moneylenders that were threatening him. I told him I’d lend him the money, nothing said to no one, and for simple return of principal with no interest, if he’d agree one day to do me a favour. He couldn’t wait to snap up the bargain. And now his lady wife will honour it.’
A cold shudder went through Marcella. She could well believe Arlsley had consented on such favourable terms—and was now relieved to pass the burden of fulfilling the deal on to his wife. His wife, who had almost certainly been coerced into agreeing, and would bitterly resent the embarrassing burden she’d been shackled with.
It would be Miss Axminster’s all over again, only worse.
While she sat speechless, horror-struck, her grandfather reached down to pat her knee. ‘It will be just fine, chick, ye’ll see. Now, we know not to aim for a duke or an earl or a viscount, someone that high in the instep. But a baron or baronet—that’d be enough to win ye the title of Lady and make all yer ma’s dreams come true. And win ye a well-placed husband in the bargain.’
‘Oh, Marcella, can’t you just see it?’ her mother exclaimed. ‘When I read in the newspapers about all the glittering balls and dinners and routs, I’ll be able to picture you there, beautifully gowned, with handsome and elegant young men vying for your attention!’
Her mother might believe in that fantasy, but Marcella knew better. ‘It sounds lovely, Mama, but I truly think I would have a better chance of finding a responsible, caring husband from among our own class. Surely you wouldn’t want me to wed someone who courts me merely for my dowry?’
Which, she was pretty sure, would be the only kind of aristocratic gentlemen interested in wedding the daughter of an engineer and the granddaughter of a man who’d begun his life working in a coal mine.
‘Don’t sell yerself short, lass,’ her grandfather said. ‘I’m not saying ye have to wed some nob just for the sake of it, but there’s no harm in looking about. Not when doing it will delight yer ma. And give Lord Arlsley the chance to redeem his promise. If there’s no one to yer liking, ye can be finished with it, and no harm done.’
The fact that she wouldn’t be pressured into marriage made her feel a bit better. But she still couldn’t view the prospect of a Season with less than revulsion.
She had no doubt whatsoever that she would end the Season unwed. And by wasting several months attending society events, she’d lose not just time working with her father, but also the opportunities coming into Papa’s office would offer her to entice Austin Gilling into seeing her as the eligible young woman she now was.
‘Now, lass, ye’re not going to kick over the traces and disappoint yer ma, are ye? Not when it would be such a simple thing to make her and yer old grandda happy. All ye’d have to do would be buy lots of pretty gowns and go to parties. How hard would that be?’
Marcella looked from her grandfather’s entreating expression to her mother’s exuberant, excited face. Both of them had done nothing their whole lives but protect and indulge her. Knowing she had the final choice, could she be selfish enough to deny them what would obviously delight them both?
Pushing the memories of Miss Axminster’s out of her mind, she said, ‘Would it really make the two of you that happy?’
Her mother reached over to hug her. ‘It would be a dream come true, my darling!’
‘Aye, a dream come true for yer grandda, too, to see his only chick so thrilled. Only wish my dear Nan would be able to see it, too.’
‘She will, Da—from Heaven,’ her mother said.
Dismay well
ed up in her. She couldn’t quite force herself to agree—but neither could she find it within her to disappoint them. ‘I... I’ll consider it,’ she said at last.
‘Wonderful!’ her mother said, leaning over again to hug her fiercely. ‘Oh, my sweet, you will be a triumph!’
A disaster, more like, Marcella thought glumly. If she agreed to do this. Although she’d only said she’d ‘consider’ the possibility, Mama was already acting as if she’d given her wholehearted consent.
Just then, the sound of the front door closing and booted feet on the stairs caught her ear. Eager for an excuse that would send her away from any further entreaties, she jumped up.
‘That must be Papa arriving! Mama, why don’t you get Grandda his pipe? I’ll meet Papa and arrange for his dinner.’
Nodding, that beaming smile still on her face, her mother went over to fetch her grandfather’s pipe and tobacco. ‘Oh, Da, thank you!’ she heard her mother exclaim as she walked out of the room. ‘I’ll see my little girl elevated where she belongs at last!’
Trying to still the trepidation that made her heart race and her palms sweat, Marcella met her father halfway up the stairs. ‘Welcome home,’ she said, leaning up on tiptoe to give him a kiss. ‘Grandda’s here. Shall I have Cook bring you some dinner in your office before you go in to see him and Mama?’
After getting home late, her father normally preferred taking a tray in his office rather than inconveniencing the staff by eating at the dining room table that had already been cleared and reset. ‘Yes, dear, that would be fine.’
‘Go wash up, and I’ll bring dinner in to your office in a trice.’ Giving her father a hug, Marcella headed down the stairs.
The Railway Countess Page 3