“Sarcasm,” commented Margery bluntly.
“Far from it, my lady,” said Mr. Jessieman. “The countess appeared… well, jealous.”
“Then she is a fool,” snapped Margery. “Damn these mushrooms who care neither for land or heritage!”
“The countess comes from a very old family,” suggested Mr. Jessieman timidly.
“Pah!” Margery rose to her feet and began to pace the room. “Blood means nothing. There is more good breeding in one of my stable lads than there is in the Countess of Chelmswood.”
Mr. Jessieman reflected that this was probably true, since a large number of the staff bore a remarkable resemblance to the earl, but did not consider it politic to mention the fact.
Amelia came in with the tea tray and was quickly apprised of their fate. Chuffley passed round the tea things, his expression like wood.
After drinking his tea in worried silence, Mr. Jessieman retired to his rooms, leaving Amelia and Margery alone.
“It is almost a relief now that the blow has fallen,” said Margery slowly. “I wonder who has bought Chelmswood.”
The doorbell clanged loudly and both women jumped.
“That will be our answer,” said Margery, getting to her feet.
There was the sound of an altercation in the hallway and then the door burst open. The Marquess of Edgecombe stood staring into the room.
“I tried to refuse him, my lady,” shouted Chuffley over the marquess’s broad shoulder, “but he pushed his way in.”
“How dare you, sir!” stormed Margery.
“I dare because I have your father’s permission,” said the marquess with a sweet smile. He sat down uninvited and stretched his long legs, encased in a pair of gleaming Hessians, out in front of him.
“You see,” he added, “I have bought Chelmswood.”
CHAPTER NINE
“You!” said Lady Margery Quennell in a voice of loathing. “I might have known. Could you not have waited until we had left, my lord? Needs must you come to gloat?”
“Oh, I didn’t come to gloat,” he said laconically, flicking a speck of dust from one of his boots. “I have a proposition to put to you, Lady Margery… in private.”
He got to his feet and walked to the door, looking at Amelia and pointedly holding it open. Amelia looked from Margery to the marquess in bewilderment, but Margery gave a slight nod of dismissal and Amelia dropped a curtsy, which was more like a stagger, and left.
The marquess slammed the door behind her and rested his shoulders against it.
Margery clasped her trembling hands and summoned up her courage. “What is your proposition, my lord?”
“Marriage,” he said bluntly.
She looked at him in stunned silence. He seemed very sober.
“That is what you wished, Lady Margery, is it not?” went on the marquess with infuriating calm. “Marriage in return for the safety of your home?”
“I c-can only gather that you are funning,” said Margery. “Did you not have enough revenge at Carlton House?”
His thin face flushed. “This proposal of marriage is by way of making amends for my behavior, Lady Margery. You yourself are not entirely blameless, you know.”
“Indeed, I must have been mad,” admitted Margery, raising her small hands to her hot cheeks. “But it was cruel to let me believe that Freddie was at death’s door. I suffered agony until my servants reported to me that he had suffered no more than a flesh wound. But you have had your revenge. I have been left with neither character or home.”
“I am offering you a way to regain both,” he pointed out. “Come, Lady Margery, you do not appear to be lacking in common sense. There is not only yourself to think of you know.
“You must think also of the future of your servants… and of Lady Amelia.”
“Where should we live if we were married?” asked Margery, wondering why she should even entertain the thought of marriage to this terrifying rake.
He gave her an enigmatic look from under heavy lids. “You may live here… for a time… until you become used to the idea.”
Margery’s ever-optimistic mind did not hear the “for a time” and grasped at the rest.
“You mean, I could stay at Chelmswood? With Lady Amelia?”
“But not indefinitely,” he murmured. “You will be my wife, you know.”
Margery looked at him quickly. He seemed so remote, his eyes betraying only polite interest. She had heard of many marriages where the couples seemed to suit themselves.
“If it makes it easier for you,” he said. “I wish a wife, and you, my dear… er… wish Chelmswood.”
It all seemed so beautifully simple. Margery gazed round at her beloved home. The threadbare patches seemed to vanish from the carpets and the worn stains from the upholstery.
“A marriage of convenience,” she cried.
The marquess made a slight bow. “If it pleases you to call it that.”
There had been a note of mockery in his voice, and Margery looked into his eyes. But his face was a polite mask.
He watched with quiet amusement the different emotions chasing each other across Margery’s mobile little face. Margery was convincing herself as hard and fast as she could that this was an answer to her prayers. He would surely… he had indicated… that she need not expect any intimacy from the marriage. Amelia would be safe. And Chuffley. And the rest of the old servants.
She took a deep breath.
“Very well, my lord. I accept.”
The marquess moved towards her and Margery nervously took a step back. But he only raised one little hand to his lips.
“You have made me very happy, Margery,” he said, releasing her hand and gazing down at her. Her face was very pale, he noted, and she had lost a great deal of weight. Her tiny figure seemed as frail and delicate as porcelain. He was seized with a sudden rush of tenderness for her. He wanted to draw her onto his knee and comfort her. Instead he asked, “I trust a wedding in two days’ time would not be too rushed?”
“S-so soon,” faltered Margery.
“We have no reason to wait,” he pointed out. “We can be married by special license. Your father in all probability will have returned to Paris. My father is in poor health and avoids social occasions. Come! Say ‘yes.’ Think how joyful the servants will be.”
“Oh, very well,” muttered Margery ungraciously.
He looked down at her with some amusement. “May I also suggest that we pretend that this is a love match? You surely do not wish to distress anyone by letting them think you are sacrificing yourself.”
“Do you mean I have to… to… kiss you in front of people?” asked Margery, horrified.
“It will be sufficient if you hold my hand,” he said calmly. “Now, call them in and get it over with.”
Margery rang the bell. Chuffley appeared with suspicious promptitude. The marquess was sure he had been leaning against the door outside. His old face was wreathed in smiles.
Margery was assailed with a sudden feeling of unreality. The marquess had moved over to stand beside her and was encircling her shoulders with a strong arm. She forced herself to smile up at him.
“Bring everyone here, Chuffley. I have good news for you all,” she said.
Amelia was the first to arrive, looking breathless and worried, then Mr. Jessieman, bleary and sleepy, and then the upper servants. Margery opened her mouth and emitted a strangled squeak and looked wildly at the marquess for help.
The marquess felt her thin shoulders trembling beneath his arm and gave her a reassuring squeeze.
“I have the honor,” he said, addressing the curious crowd, “to announce my forthcoming betrothal to Lady Margery.”
There was a stunned silence and then a tremendous crash. Lady Amelia had fainted dead away.
For the next forty-eight hours the marquess swept all before him with ruthless efficiency. The special license was procured, the wedding was to take place in the Chelmswood church, and a squad of workmen were
employed to transform a dusty suite of rooms in the deserted east wing into a bridal suite. Margery and Amelia spent the time in a frenzy of sewing, transforming Margery’s mother’s wedding dress into a more fashionable line. It was heavily encrusted with gold and seed pearls which had an irritating habit of escaping from their threads and rolling under the furniture.
Amelia had just recovered what she felt to be the thousandth, her back was aching, and her head was in a whirl. The first shock of surprise had gone, leaving her worried and anxious about her young niece. Margery had been strangely quiet and withdrawn, only occasionally rousing herself to parry Amelia’s curious questions. When had Margery first realized that she was in love with the marquess? Margery could not say. Would they eventually be moving to the marquess’s home? Margery had no idea. Amelia had delicately asked if Margery had planned to order new nightclothes, and Margery had snapped, “Oh, any old thing will do,” and when Amelia had shown her surprise, Margery had muttered something incoherent and fled from the room.
Margery could not understand her own feelings. Every time she saw him, the marquess looked more disturbingly attractive than ever. He was extremely affectionate in public and cold and withdrawn on the few short occasions when they were in private together.
But she would have gone to the altar hoping he were a little in love with her were it not for the unexpected arrival of the earl and the countess, complete with retinue of servants, on the day before the wedding.
The earl was looking remarkably shamefaced and said that “his little puss” had pointed out to him that he was behaving like an unnatural father in avoiding his only daughter’s wedding.
Margery privately thought it would have been more natural as far as her father was concerned to avoid the whole thing, not favoring any occasion where he could not roll the dice or hold a hand at cards. They planned to leave after the wedding breakfast, and Margery settled herself to endure their short visit.
The earl and the countess retired to their rooms before dinner, and Margery retired to hers in the hope of catching some much-needed rest. Her looking glass told her that she was rapidly degenerating into the Margery of old, and no amount of dressing or paint could disguise the strain in her eyes or the hollows in her cheeks.
As it turned out, she was not fated to be left alone for long. There was a slight scratching on the door and then, without waiting for a reply, Desdemona sailed into the room, resplendent in paper-thin Indian muslin that left little of her charms to the imagination.
She tiptoed forward and wound her arms round Margery’s neck and deposited a moist kiss on her cheek. “My poor, poor girl,” she sighed.
Margery turned away from her and began to brush her hair vigorously, “Indeed, I am more to be congratulated than pitied,” snapped Margery.
“Poor innocent,” murmured Desdemona. “I have been talking to your father, dear—now please turn to me and attend—and although we are happy that you are marrying a fortune, we feel you are rather like a little baa-lamb being led to the slaughter.”
“Fiddle,” said Lady Margery.
The countess gave a pretty sigh. “Oh, I see you have not the faintest idea of what I am talking about.” She leaned forward. “Tell me, dear Margery, do you know aught of the relations between a man and a woman?”
Margery put down the hairbrush and surveyed her slowly. She was aware of a multitude of mixed emotions: fury with Desdemona for her impertinence; visions of animals coupling in the fields; and memories of the marquess’s reputation.
“Please leave,” she said finally. “I shall manage very well without any advice from you, Desdemona.”
Desdemona’s eyes narrowed angrily. “Then I shall not try to help you, you ungrateful drab.” And before Margery could guess her intent, Desdemona had seized her by the shoulders and twisted her round so that she was facing the looking glass.
“Look at yourself!” hissed Desdemona. “And think… think why the notorious Marquess of Edgecombe should wish to have you in his bed.”
Margery looked miserably from her own careworn face to the glowing if vicious one of Desdemona.
“I will tell you why,” said Desdemona, her long nails digging through the thin material of Margery’s dress. “It is because our notorious rake has a soft place in his heart for lame ducks. And you, my dear, are very lame. Notice that hound he always has with him when he goes out riding? Not a distinguished animal, you must admit. He found it being beaten to death in a London gutter. But it was not enough for the marquess to put the beast in his stables. He needs must make it his favorite hound and take it with him everywhere. Poor Margery. A little pet mongrel, that is all you are!”
Margery stared at her dressing table. The sunlight filtering through the lace curtains of her bedroom window flickered across the bottles of scents and lotions. There was a large bottle of patchouli, a scent Margery particularly loathed, lying unopened. With one deft movement, she twisted off the top and poured the contents over Desdemona’s immaculately coiffed head.
“Take that,” blazed Margery. “’Tis a scent for strumpets and it becomes you well!”
Desdemona’s nails flashed out and clawed at Margery’s cheek, and then she burst into noisy tears and ran from the room.
Margery sat for a long time as if turned to stone, a thin trickle of blood dripping from her scratched face and falling unheeded onto her dress.
There was a clatter of hoofs in the driveway below, and, walking like a martinet, she crossed to the window and pushed open the lattice.
The marquess was dismounting from his horse. A shaggy, lolloping mongrel with enormous paws danced round and round him, panting in adoration. The marquess smiled and stooped down and scratched the dog behind the ears and the animal looked up at him with its heart in its eyes.
“I shall not become like that,” thought Margery, backing from the window. The poison of Desdemona’s words had dripped into her soul. She had begun to wildly hope that the elegant marquess had indeed formed a tendre for her.
He had said he was trying to atone for his behavior at Carlton House and she had not really listened to him, having a certain amount of natural feminine vanity. Had Desdemona not mentioned that wretched dog, then Margery would have believed her to be merely jealous. It was too late to cancel the marriage. The servants were singing about their work and Amelia was once more the plump and happy matron she used to be. She must go through with it.
The marquess looked across the drawing room that evening at the spectacle presented by his bride, with some irritation. There was no denying that her hair and dress were all the crack, but her face and manner were colorless and she hardly spoke. In contrast, Desdemona chattered and flirted and giggled and ogled. The earl was slumped in a wing chair, not quite drunk and not quite sober, gazing with doglike adoration at the countess, and Margery shuddered. He looked remarkably like the marquess’s dog.
The marquess was impeccable in black and white evening dress. A sapphire stickpin winked in his cravat, matching the intense blue of his eyes. He suddenly crossed to Margery’s side and put an arm round her shoulders. She cringed at his touch and his brows snapped together in irritation. He was about to ask her what on earth was the matter when the supper bell was rung and everyone started filing towards the dining room.
The marquess was seated on Margery’s right and he set himself to please. Nothing could have been more loverlike than his various attentions, and nothing, Margery reflected, could have been harder than the expression in his eyes.
The marquess was beginning to suffer from an extreme bout of premarital nerves. He looked at his drab and silent fiancée, at her father, who was now definitely bosky, and at the beautiful and empty face of the countess. He had a longing to run from the dining room, jump on his horse, and ride and ride as far and as fast from Chelmswood as possible.
The interminable evening came to an end at last. Lady Margery cried herself to sleep and the marquess dreamed long and horrible dreams of life imprisonment.
Her father began to cry great sentimental tears—“one part salt and two parts old wine,” thought Margery cynically. He was also sweating profusely, from alcohol, nerves, and remorse.
“Are you sure you ain’t throwin’ yourself away?” bleated the earl, mopping the accumulation of liquid from his face with a large handkerchief.
“Yes, yes!” said Margery testily. “Let’s get on with it!”
“See how anxious our bride is!” tittered Desdemona. “You’re a bit late to be worrying about it now, Jimmy.”
The earl turned on her in a sudden fury. “You’re common, Des, that’s what you are. Never told you before. Common as dirt!”
Desdemona let out a hiss of pure rage. “And you’re a drunken old fool. D’you think it’s fun for me to share your bed—to have that great body—?”
Amelia let out a squawk of alarm and threw herself between the earl and countess. “You will please curb your arguments on Margery’s wedding day,” she said in her haughtiest voice. “James! Take Margery’s arm to the carriage, and you”—here she gave Desdemona a hard stare—“will follow with me.”
The sun blazed down on a perfect day. The earl was mercifully silent on the road to the church.
Chelmswood Church dated back to Norman times, with a squat square tower and a pleasant shaggy churchyard where the gravestones stood at lopsided angles and every bird in England seemed to gather to sing.
Margery breathed in the familiar Anglican smell of wood smoke, damp prayer books, dry rot, and incense and felt a great calm descending on her. The village organist was murdering Bach as he had done on all the Sundays stretching back to her baptism. The familiar faces of her tenants smiled at her out of the gloom, and the only unfamiliar things were the tall figure of the marquess standing at the altar and that of his best man—no other than Freddie Jamieson.
Lady Margery's Intrigue Page 11