by May Burnett
“I wonder you dared argue with Madame Tarcassi like that,” Emily observed as the carriage began to roll. “She is getting awfully imperious these days, and bullies even her most distinguished customers. They complain that she consents to sell them only what she considers suitable. You saw for yourself how she tried it on us.”
Margaret had nothing but admiration for the woman’s business acumen. That show of eccentricity only made her more popular, and helped justify her outrageous prices. “Let her try. After all, we knew her before she became all the rage, and even helped her become established. I must have answered dozens of questions where I bought my wardrobe in her early days.”
“Yes,” Emily said, “so have I, but by now she no longer needs us to advertise her talent. She actually made me feel privileged that she designs dresses especially for us.”
“Even so, you will note that I won the argument. Those big bows she suggested would have broken the overall outline to no good effect.” Madame Tarcassi might know all about colour effects and contrasts, but Margaret’s eye was unerring in matters of design. Briefly she considered avoiding future arguments by sketching the gowns she wanted herself, leaving only the choice of material to Madame Tarcassi. But she rather enjoyed pitting her will against the older woman’s.
The carriage stopped at an intersection. “Did the fittings tire you greatly, Emily? Or are you fresh enough for more shopping?” It was only four weeks since her sister’s confinement. Emily might claim she was fully recovered from the ordeal, but even Margaret felt a little fatigued. She did not crave rest, however. Movement, especially brisk walking would be far preferable to reclining against the blue silk swabs of Emily’s carriage.
Emily shrugged. “If you don’t mind, I would prefer to go straight back. I don’t care to be away from little Marcus so long.”
“As you like.” Margaret swallowed her disappointment. She had hoped there would be time to swing by that intriguing corner shop someone had mentioned the previous evening, a place that specialised in rare music scores. Had Margaret asked, good-natured Emily would probably have agreed to pass by, but an impatient companion took all the fun out of browsing. Margaret would have to visit it some other day, with a footman to carry the dozens of scores she would buy if the price was right. Tomorrow, if possible.
Emily closed her eyes and leaned back. “Is it odd of me that at barely twenty, I only want to go home?”
“Not when you have a baby waiting for you.” Home, Margaret repeated in her mind. It was her sister’s home, not hers. She had not had a true home since their family estate had been sold for their father’s gambling debts, nearly four years ago now. Margaret had not even tried to see the old place when they had been in Derbyshire for Emily’s wedding; it would have been too lowering, now that it belonged to strangers.
“If you walk some distance every day, Emily, it should help to regain your strength faster.” In truth, Emily had already done quite well this afternoon. It was amazingly tiring to stand still while hems were pinned and seams fitted.
“I hear that Lord Massingley has sent you roses again,” Emily said. Her voice sounded sleepy. “Are you going to accept him?”
“So eager to be rid of me, Emily?”
At that, Emily opened her blue eyes wide. “Not at all. I just want you to be happy, as I am. What is wrong with Lord Massingley, that you treat him so coolly?”
“Nothing. He is amiable and well-bred.” If his chin was a little weak, and the legs spindly, those were minor faults in a rich baron determined to place his hand and heart in Margaret’s keeping. “I simply don’t feel any particular wish to bear his children.”
The carriage stopped once again. They would have made better time walking. Margaret repressed a sudden urge to jump out and stride ahead. But that would have been irrational and unladylike, while the carriage was comfortable and safe. Lord Pell only employed his most experienced coachman for his wife’s outings. The springs and furnishings were the best to be had in London, and the horses unflappable.
“You don’t think love can grow later, over time?” Emily asked.
“Maybe, but what if it doesn’t? What if dislike grows instead?”
“Lord Massingley is too inoffensive to arouse anyone’s strong dislike. You would rule him from the first day. Some women would consider that an advantage.”
“That would bore me very quickly. You would not want Anthony to always defer to you, would you? Besides, I don’t want my future children to inherit Massingley’s chin.”
“Fair enough.” Emily closed her eyes again. “Though whoever you marry, your children will be handsome enough if they take after you.”
“A pretty compliment, dear. We shall see. Of course not all babies can be as perfect as your son.”
Emily did not rise to the bait. “That goes without saying. But maybe yours can come close, with luck, and a handsome husband.” After a moment she asked, “Do you care so much about a man’s looks, Margaret? I suppose it is only natural, with your artistic sensibilities, but it excludes so many worthy men from consideration.”
“You make me sound shallow, but I imagine beauty or ugliness cannot easily be overlooked when you share a household and bed. Christopher was exceptionally handsome. I wonder if I would have been so infatuated as a young girl, had he had a weak chin and spots? Somehow I doubt it.”
Emily grinned. “So do I. When we saw him last January, he was still almost too attractive for his own good.”
“Yes, but he no longer affects me to the same degree. Now that I am older and wiser I have a different conception of male beauty. Strength of body and character are essential elements. On balance I would rather have an ugly, masculine man, than a pretty effeminate one.”
“I quite agree. I am very lucky that I got the best of both worlds.”
Margaret did not consider Emily’s husband anything out of the ordinary as far as looks went, unless you had a partiality for green eyes. But her besotted sister considered him the most handsome of mortals, and it would have been futile to argue the matter. Besides, she must never forget she was living on Lord Pell’s bounty. Her brother-in-law was the source of the elegant gowns Margaret had just ordered. Even with their special discount it would be a hefty bill.
No wonder if Emily was speculating how soon her sister would marry one of her suitors. Margaret had already rejected several eligible bachelors, for no good reason she herself could have given. Once she married, the expense of supporting her elegance would be transferred to her husband. Whoever he might be, he would presumably consider himself repaid by having her in his bed, bearing his children, and presiding at the other end of his dinner table; and of course Anthony would give him that dowry. It was the way of their world. Considering how desperately poor she had been just a year earlier, Margaret was very lucky that her admirers sought her hand rather than insulting her with less respectable offers.
There was no reason in the world to consider marriage to a man she didn’t love just a little sordid. After all, since that childish infatuation with Christopher Dorringley, Margaret had not felt more than the most transitory emotions for any man. Rather strange, really, when her feelings could so easily be roused by a symphony, a masterful painting or a fast gallop.
If Margaret remained so capricious, as her mother termed it, she might live out her days as a spinster. That would be a horrible waste. She really had better make up her mind and accept one of her admirers soon.
Why did the prospect of a splendid wedding not inspire her with even a smidgen of enthusiasm?
Chapter 2
The ninth Marquis of Pell paused at the entrance of the nursery to watch his wife and her sister unpack infant clothes, silver cups, toys and other presents that had been sent by their friends and well-wishers for his heir’s christening two days earlier. The indifferent owner of these objects was slumbering in his crib.
“Anthony,” Emily said, catching sight of him. “Do come in and close the door, the draught is not good fo
r little Marcus.”
As Anthony bent to watch his son he was filled once again with pride and astonishment that this tiny scrap of humanity had come from his loins … though already, the babe was distinctly bigger than at his birth four weeks earlier. They had named him Marcus (after his paternal grandfather) George (after his godfather, Lord Amberley) and Michael (because Emily liked the sound of it.) As Anthony’s heir, he also bore the courtesy title of Viscount Berleyford.
“Where is your mother, Emily?” Anthony asked as the child’s nurse discreetly withdrew. “I have some news that will interest her too.”
“She is walking in the park with Mrs. Carney. Mother grumbled but gave in eventually.”
That was all right, then. Anthony paid a princely salary to Mrs. Carney to ensure that Mrs. Bellairs regularly took the air, and would never sink back into the debilitating melancholy that had engulfed her after her husband’s death and ruin.
“Is it good news?” Margaret asked. “If so, I wish you would tell us at once, without waiting for Mother. I hate suspense.”
“Very well. My man of business has acquired Bellairs Hall from that merchant in Liverpool. He drove a hard bargain, but we still got it at a very acceptable price. Your ancestral estate is once more in family hands.” Anthony had given the order weeks earlier, when Emily had told him about her youth in the pretty Derbyshire village where the sisters had grown up.
Both sisters stared at him for a long moment without speaking, a somewhat deflating reaction.
“I am grateful, Anthony,” Emily said at last. “This is just the sort of generosity so characteristic of you. But do we need yet another residence?”
“Well, I am happy to know my family home will not be allowed to fall to rack and ruin,” Margaret declared. “Thank you, Anthony.”
He nodded at his sister-in-law. “According to the report I received, the Bellairs estate is already dangerously close to that lamentable fate. The roof in particular seems in urgent need of repairs.”
“We did not have money to spend on upkeep even before we lost the estate.” Margaret looked guilty; yet as she had been barely nineteen when the family was ruined, still a minor, its poor state could hardly be considered her responsibility. “Did you buy it furnished? Much of the older furniture was in the attics, under dustsheets – I wonder if the former owner sold it separately, or if it is still there? And what became of the portraits of our ancestors, not that they had any great artistic merit? I would like to see for myself.”
“Mother will want to do so as well, once she hears of the purchase,” Emily predicted.
“Will she want to reside there again, do you think?” Anthony strongly felt that his mother-in-law should have a separate residence now that her health and spirits were restored, but it would be preferable if the suggestion came from someone else.
Margaret dashed his unvoiced hopes. “No – Derbyshire is much too far from her grandson. Mother will want to visit the place, no doubt, but I would be very surprised if she elected to settle so far from little Marcus.”
Anthony nodded, resigned. The baby’s unparalleled brilliance and prospects were Mrs. Bellairs’ main subjects of conversation lately, only equalled by her interest in Margaret’s suitors. She eagerly anticipated the day when her first-born daughter also married a lord.
“How much did you pay for the estate?” Margaret asked.
“About nine thousand pounds. It would be worth rather more but for the extensive repairs it requires. The grounds have also been neglected, I understand.”
“That is close to the sum you set aside for Margaret’s dowry,” Emily mused. Her eyes met his.
Anthony shrugged. “Before we can take any decisions, the estate needs to be set right. I have asked my man of business to find someone reliable to travel to Derbyshire to oversee the repairs, which he estimates will require two to three months, depending on the availability of labour and materials. Work must start immediately, as the roof cannot wait until spring.”
“I can do that,” Margaret volunteered. “I remember our house in its glory days, before we were ruined, and where every piece of furniture, every picture goes. I could do sketches of how it is supposed to look, for the workers to copy.”
“You?” Margaret was the last person from whom he had expected the suggestion. “But what of your suitors, the balls and entertainments you would miss?” Margaret had taken to fashionable society like a bee to flowers. She enjoyed the posies, compliments, and offers of marriage she received on a regular basis. At least three had been from perfectly eligible men, even by Anthony’s exacting standards.
“They will still be here when I return – the Season will not properly start until after the New Year. You would not be in London now, if you were not reluctant to move little Marcus.”
“True,” Anthony allowed. He had engaged the best specialist in town for Emily’s accouchement, which had fortunately proceeded without complications. His wife was young and healthy, but that was no guarantee. He preferred not to think back to those nerve-wracking hours. Anthony would move his family to his principal seat when the babe was at least three months old and thriving, not a day earlier.
“If you go to Derbyshire, Mother and Mrs. Carney would have to go with you,” Emily warned Margaret. “Are you sure you would wish for that? It will bring so many sad memories to the fore. I am not certain that it is advisable.”
“I feel I must do this,” Margaret held her chin held in that obstinate way she had.
“If you can persuade your mother to accompany you, it may be a good idea,” Anthony said. Though he did not dislike his in-laws, a respite from having them always in the house, and present at every meal, was by no means unwelcome.
“While you are in Bankington you might also do something about father’s grave.” Emily was apparently reconciled to her sister’s plan. “It looked so poor and bare compared to that of our other ancestors. Ornate graves are in fashion now.”
“Gladly. That will also please Mother.”
“You should have said something earlier,” Anthony told Emily, “that you wanted your father’s grave embellished. That detail could have been seen to long since.”
“You have already done far too much for us, Anthony.” She came to him and placed a quick kiss on his cheek, ignoring her sister’s smirk.
“Very well, discuss your plans amongst yourselves, and let me know,” he said. “I shall send an architect to help with the major work, if one can be found willing to travel at such short notice. There will be noise and dust, I must warn you.”
“We shall cope.” Margaret’s fine brown eyes were sparkling with determination.
Emily’s idea to give the estate to Margaret in lieu of the dowry might be worth considering. After all, the place had belonged to the Bellairs family since Elizabethan times. Once repaired, it would be a worthy dowry in itself. Anthony had half intended it for one of his younger children, but these were as yet unborn. Had it not been for her father’s addiction to gambling, as the older daughter Margaret would always have been the heiress to Bellairs Hall.
And in the meantime, he would enjoy several months alone with Emily.
As though able to divine his father’s thoughts, Viscount Berleyford opened his green eyes and emitted a loud wail of protest.
Not quite alone, Anthony amended with an internal sigh. Where was that nurse?
Emily lifted her son out of the crib and held him against her shoulder, making rocking motions and humming in a soothing manner. The wail subsided almost at once.
“He is hungry, I expect,” she said apologetically. “I shall join you in your study presently, and we can discuss this further.”
“Make it my rooms,” he murmured, and she nodded imperceptibly. They could not be more explicit in her sister’s presence.
As Anthony left the nursery he pondered the suitable disposition of his wife’s relatives. It should not be that hard; Margaret was beautiful, intelligent and spirited. When he had first met her in
Verona the previous year, Emily’s older sister had made no secret of her intention to marry some titled gentleman. Yet when offered the chance – several times, to Anthony’s knowledge – she had spurned it. Could it be that Margaret was still wearing the willow for that handsome physician in her old neighbourhood? Dorringley, that was the fellow’s name. Did she regret rejecting him, and was that why she had offered to oversee the repairs at her ancestral estate? There were only four of five families in Bankington that could be considered gentry. Margaret would inevitably meet her first love again and could easily engineer their reconciliation, if the fellow was still unmarried.
No, more likely she merely enjoyed this period of courtship and infinite possibility. If Margaret fell in love with any of the men swirling around her, surely she would accept him. So why hadn’t she? Could the disappointment over Dorringley have soured her on men in general? She might have hardened her heart, reluctant to entrust it to any of the fickle males of the ton. Not many were truly reliable, of course; she was not wrong to be cautious.
Expecting every moment to hear the rustle of his wife’s skirts, Anthony put all thoughts of her relatives out of his mind. It had been surprisingly hard to renounce marital relations for those weeks immediately before and after his child’s birth, considering that he had endured celibacy for much longer periods on shipboard not that long ago. They had to be careful not to create their next child too close on the first, for the sake of Emily’s health, but there were means … since the previous weekend they were at last making up for lost time.
There Emily stood now in the door connecting their suites, the smile of a seductress on her pretty face.
He pulled his wife to him and gave her a thorough kiss, the kind that let her know exactly what was going to follow.
Chapter 3