The Railway Countess

by Julia Justiss

  If they could continue to ride together, it wouldn’t happen again soon. After their bargain ended, he would have to leave London, escorting his mother into the country before taking himself off on that extended trip around England to avoid the wrath of his father.

  She’d be riding in the park alone, attended only by her groom, for the foreseeable future.

  The sound of hoof beats drew her attention to the entry gates. Her upsurge of delight at seeing him was doubtless magnified by knowing how soon their days together would end. Never, she thought with a sigh, had she imagined when they struck this bargain how dear his presence would become.

  Now she was lapsing into melancholy again, something she’d promised herself she would not do.

  Putting a determined smile on her face, she wheeled her mount and rode over to greet him. ‘A lovely morning, is it not, my lord? Lady Margaret is not accompanying you today?’

  Some emotion passed swiftly over his face, instantly concerning her. ‘What is it? Nothing has happened to her, has it? She’s not ill or injured?’

  He gave her a wry smile. ‘Knowing how impulsive and careless she can be, you might well wonder. But no, she is in perfect health.’

  ‘It’s unusual for her not to ride, especially when she could secure your escort. Your lady mother has her engaged on more important business? Fittings for gowns, or calls to charm society dragons?’

  Crispin blew out sigh. ‘I could prevaricate, but I probably should just tell you straight out. Especially since Maggie is so incensed, I wouldn’t put it past her to try to sneak out and contact you on her own.’

  With a chill of foreboding, Marcella braced herself for what she feared was coming. ‘Go on,’ she said, her initial excitement at this ride in the park evaporating.

  ‘Not that we tried to keep our rides together a secret, but we’ve not gone out of our way to advertise them either. I don’t recall noticing anyone in particular the last time we were in the park, but someone did make note of us. Some gentleman, who apparently joked to my father at his club that he must be pretty sure of my capturing your dowry if he was allowing his unmarried daughter to risk her reputation being seen with you.’

  ‘The Earl was not pleased,’ Marcella said drily.

  ‘No. He came home in a tearing rage, delivered my mother a thunderous scold that saw her take to her bed, and restricted my sister to her rooms, telling her if she had so little discernment—’ Breaking off, his face colouring, he continued, ‘I expect you can imagine the rest of what he said.’

  She’d acknowledged from the first that his family might be happy to get her wealth, but wouldn’t want her ill-bred presence to contaminate their innocent daughter. ‘He railed that if you should somehow fail to secure my hand, and marriage didn’t elevate my position, her association with me could harm your sister’s chances of a successful presentation next year.’

  He nodded. ‘That was the gist of it, yes.’

  It shouldn’t hurt so much, but it did. She’d come to enjoy the uninhibited, plain-speaking Lady Margaret, to laugh at her verbal excesses, to try to gently recommend that she not pursue some of her more outlandish ideas. To feel that they were...friends.

  What an insulting and bitter reminder that however much her money might be sought, his family and his peers would never consider her worthy of associating with them.

  Suddenly she was furious—with the Earl, the whole condescending, superior, pampered lot of the ton, and with the man who’d beguiled himself into her affections when his family looked on her with contempt.

  How could she have been such a fool?

  ‘I’m sorry, Marcella. I know you’ve experienced this sort of ill treatment before, but I feel terrible that you are suffering it now at the hands of my own family.’

  ‘Please, think nothing of it,’ she said icily. ‘It’s only what I expected, after all.’

  ‘Surely you know I don’t share the Earl’s views! I may have grown up blindly accepting them, I grant you, but I’ve had years of riding the country, meeting and talking in depth with engineers, builders, and craftsmen, most of whom possess more skill than I ever will and many of them more intelligence. No one class has a monopoly on talent, ability or inherent worth.’

  ‘How enlightened you’ve become. But I must let you go. I don’t believe I will ride in the park after all.’

  She wasn’t sure where she meant to go, only that she was too angry, disturbed, and yes, wounded, to tolerate riding where she might encounter any other obnoxious, supremely self-satisfied members of the ton. Nor, until she got her emotions under control, did she wish to go home, where Mary was certain to push and pry, trying to discover what had upset her.

  A destination suddenly occurred. ‘We’ll head out the gate at Hyde Park Corner, Thompson,’ she told her groom. Turning to nod at the Viscount, she said, ‘Goodbye, Lord Dellamont.’

  She rode off without a backward look—but soon heard the hoof beats of his mount following her. ‘So I’m Dellamont again?’ he said as he caught up to her. ‘I know you’re angry, and I don’t blame you. But please don’t lay this insult at my door.’

  She ignored him, stemming back the tears that threatened by running a map of London through her head, trying to determine the best route to reach her chosen destination.

  ‘Where are you going?’ the Viscount asked after they rode out of the park and turned south, evidently not heading back to her family’s home north of Oxford Street.

  ‘Nowhere that would be of interest to a society gentleman. A place where engineers and common people of low birth work. A location that would be beneath the dignity of a viscount to visit.’

  ‘If you think I’ll allow you to ride off around London with a single groom to attend you just because you’re in tearing rage, you’re mistaken,’ Dellamont countered.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she said, determined to ignore him lest her turbulent emotions get the better of her and the threatening tears leak out.

  Not sure of the fastest way to proceed, she led the groom from Hyde Park through Green Park and St James’s Park, then threaded her way down to Westminster Bridge.

  ‘Where exactly are you going?’ Dellamont, who’d silently trailed her thus far, rode up to ask.

  ‘If you must know, I want to look at the foundations being built for the London & Greenwich Railway,’ she said, her anger beginning to dissipate, although the hurt was still there and she refused to look at him.

  ‘Ah, yes. I understand the bill for that passed Parliament last year. Quite a project it will be, since the legislators insisted that the entire span must be elevated.’

  ‘Papa says the viaduct will be more than three miles long when it’s completed, with more than eight hundred brick arches. Mr McIntosh, the engineer in charge, told Papa last winter that he planned to begin construction in February. I want to see how it’s progressing.’

  ‘Should be interesting. I’ll come with you.’

  Marcella shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

  * * *

  It took them the better part of an hour to weave their way through the busy streets, transiting through Mayfair to Westminster, across the bridge and then through the less crowded roads south of the river to London Bridge. Finally arriving near the building site, Marcella found the area swarming with activity, some workmen unloading bricks from barges, some mixing mortar in large tubs, and others laying the bricks. Forgetting her anger, she pointed towards several immense brick arches that were rising on top of the excavated foundations.

  ‘I’ve seen prints of bridges like the Menai, but never a bridge like this up close,’ she said, awed. ‘Those arches are massive. How magnificent the viaduct is going to be!’

  ‘Have you never ridden on a railway?’

  ‘Yes, but just some of the smaller ones constructed for the collieries around Newcastle.’

  ‘You should travel on
the Liverpool & Manchester. There aren’t as many bridges and viaducts, but the ones that were constructed are very fine. It’s thrilling, racing through the countryside faster than a horse can gallop.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. Papa has promised to take Mama and me for the whole journey from London to Bristol once the Great Western is complete.’

  ‘With the bridge crossing the River Avon and the Box Hill tunnel, that will be a fascinating ride. I can’t wait to travel the line either.’

  ‘And see your investment prosper?’

  ‘That, too.’

  She fell silent, studying the half-completed arches, estimating what the radius would be and mentally calculating the angles of stress.

  ‘Working out the geometry of the support system?’ Dellamont asked, bringing his mount closer until his booted leg nearly touched hers.

  Despite her unsettled emotions, she felt that familiar shiver of awareness as he drew near. Finally, she looked over at him. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Because you are an engineer through and through.’

  ‘Certainly not a proper ton maiden,’ she said ruefully. ‘And I should apologise. Your father’s reaction is only what I expected to receive from members of the gentry. It was silly of me to become angry, and I certainly shouldn’t have directed that anger at you.’

  ‘No apologies necessary. How could you not have felt insulted when the Earl has been pushing me to court you?’ Dellamont said quietly. ‘And then insinuating that you are somehow unworthy to associate with my sister? When in truth, you are a far superior companion for Maggie than that impulsive scapegrace is for you.’

  ‘I liked her, too,’ Marcella admitted. ‘But I should have known better than begin to imagine us friends. I won’t make that mistake again.’

  She should let go of her anger, but it would be wise to hold on to the hurt. Store it away so she could remember and relive it any time she indulged in the foolish daydream that somehow, somewhere, she and Viscount Dellamont, heir to the Earl of Comeryn, could meet as equals and friends.

  How wise she’d been to reject from the outset any temptation to marry into the ton. To imagine they might be more than friends.

  It would also be wise to let this experience begin to wean her from her unrealistic desire to remain in close contact with him once she returned to her proper place. Any attempt to meet him outside her own world would invite more condescending disapproval from any of his friends or family who chanced to learn of it.

  He’d fallen silent, but at length, he said, ‘Maggie considers you her friend, too. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she tried to see you, or at least write to you. Though you have every right to be, I hope you won’t be too...dismissive with her if she does contact you. None of this was her fault.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. But I can hardly maintain a friendship with your sister, given your father’s serious objections.’ Recalling Lady Margaret’s frequently expressed dislike of her sire, Marcella laughed. ‘Even if Lady Margaret would probably relish doing something he’d forbidden.’

  Dellamont laughed, too. ‘She probably would. But...have you forgiven me? I value your friendship and esteem. I’d be loath to discover something my imperious father had done caused me to lose it.’

  She would be so much wiser to give him a polite reply and steel her heart and mind against him. And yet...this was the man who’d delighted in discussing mathematics with her. Who’d gone out of his way to protect her from bounders like Lord Hoddleston. And who, against his better judgement, had allowed her to experience the most stimulating afternoon of her life.

  How could she turn away from him?

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she said at last. Despite knowing she should armour herself against him, somehow, she couldn’t.

  He blew out a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. I was beginning to fear not even the credit the Stephenson lecture had earned me was going to be enough to salvage my standing in your eyes.’

  ‘The Stephenson lecture will cover a great many faults,’ she admitted.

  ‘Good. So I may redeem myself further, will you let me buy you tea and ices at Gunter’s? We can take it out under the plane trees in the square, all perfectly respectable. After a long ride, you must be ready for refreshment.’

  She should refuse. She needed to begin preparing herself to see less of him, which would be easier if she curtailed rather than extended her time in his presence. But the voice of prudence was countered by an irresponsible longing to eke out as much as time with him as she could while she could.

  In the end, irresponsible won out.

  ‘I could do with a cup of tea,’ she admitted. ‘Then I must get back. Mama ordered me a new gown for the Thaxford ball that is to be delivered this morning. Mary wants me to model it so she has time to make corrections if she’s not satisfied with the fit, after which I shall have to attend Lady Arlsley. Thank goodness I am able to dine with Papa and Mama tonight!’

  ‘We’d better go quickly, then.’

  * * *

  Relief foremost among his tangle of emotions, Crispin escorted Marcella towards the refreshment establishment in Berkeley Square. He must have redeemed himself somewhat, since she allowed him to ride beside her, rather than ignoring him while he trailed behind her like a glorified groom as she had on the way to the Tower Bridge construction site.

  He was as angry as she was about his father’s illogical double standard. Guilty and appalled at the pain he’d seen in her eyes when he’d first revealed the reason his sister had not accompanied him, before anger overtook her hurt and surprise.

  She deserved to be angry. Once again, he found himself much more in sympathy with her than with the views held by most of his own class. As he’d told her, after several years of exploring plans for building the new railway technology, he’d developed a high regard for the industry and expertise of the ‘lower class’ men who made it possible.

  How could he not consider them at least equal, if not superior, to so many of his peers? Some, like his friend Gregory Lattimar, worked hard at managing and improving their estates, but many he knew from Oxford or in London felt their privileged status belonged to them by right. As Marcella asserted, they never spared a thought to the needs of their servants or the burdens their demands placed upon the people who worked for them, taking service as their due.

  Privileges, for most part, won in antiquity by ancestors who’d served as soldiers in battles supporting the throne. Privileges the current holders had done nothing to earn.

  He’d have to summon every bit of charm he possessed while he beguiled her with tea and ices. He hadn’t realised until she’d suddenly withdrawn from him just how much he’d come to count on her sunny companionship, her straightforward friendship untainted by the usual feminine wiles. Her approval of the man he really was.

  It was more important than he could have imagined that he win back that approval and make sure he never placed it in jeopardy again.

  With the streets busy, they didn’t attempt any further conversation until they arrived at their destination. Not wanting to press his luck, Crispin allowed her groom to assist her to dismount.

  ‘Thompson, isn’t it?’ he asked as the man guided her to her feet. After the groom nodded, Crispin continued, ‘Can we impose on you to walk the horses one more time? I realise this additional delay must be keeping you from completing your other duties. For which you deserve additional thanks.’ He pressed a coin into the groom’s hand as he passed over his reins.

  After the groom left to walk their mounts, Marcella turned to him. ‘I’m quite capable of compensating my staff for extra services performed,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Are we going to brangle over payment again?’ he asked, hoping to disarm her by teasing, and relieved when her frown lifted.

  ‘No. Because I will take care of my servant.’

  ‘Very well. I will tak
e care of tea. Have you tried Gunter’s ices before?’ he asked, waving her to a table under one of the trees.

  ‘The ices have been featured at several ton entertainments.’

  ‘Pineapple is the most exotic. I prefer strawberry myself.’

  ‘I enjoy all the fruit ices. Their turtle soup is quite good, too.’

  After he gave their order to the waiter who trotted over, Crispin turned back to her.

  Recalling her plans for the evening, he said, ‘What sort of suppers does your family prefer when you dine together? Truly, I’d like to know,’ he asserted when she gave him a suspicious look. ‘Our family dinners were always stiff, uncomfortable affairs. You describe yours as being so different. Knowing so little about what a happy family life is like, I hoped you might describe them further.’

  And he did. He longed to discover more about the environment that had moulded her, not just into an accomplished mathematician, but also into the compassionate person who was concerned about a servant’s aching arms, the kind person careful to spare the feelings of an earnest but unintelligent suitor. A woman who increasingly intrigued and excited him.

  At the mention of his own experience, her wariness dissipated. She even gave him a sympathetic look he found vastly encouraging. It appeared this topic would not only satisfy his curiosity, but would further reconcile her to him.

  ‘Papa doesn’t like a fuss. No enormous dinners with five courses and ten removes for us, even if Mama would love to try some from time to time. We have simple hearty fare. Papa enjoys fine ale and a brandy after dinner, but he takes it in the parlour with us. After dinner, I often read aloud to them, or play the pianoforte, especially if we are with Grandfather at Faircastle House. Or we’ll sometimes play a few hands of cards, if Papa is not too tired.’

  ‘Do you play cards or music when friends come to dine?’

  ‘Yes. Though we more often host Papa’s business associates or staff, like Mr Gilling, than friends.’