“Your grandmother is still alive?”
He nodded.
“My lord—Philip—I am not so sweet and gentle as your mother seems to have been. I am not at all sure that I will be able to forgive your grandmother.”
He stared at her and then put his arm around her, holding her close to his side without speaking.
They were still sitting that way, holding each other close, when their coach turned onto a smaller road heading toward the sea. The change in direction shook them back into the present. Anne pulled herself up and tried to pat her hair into place. She made an exasperated noise and just shoved it up as best she could and tied her bonnet on to hide it.
They traveled through a village clustered around a small harbor and Anne leaned forward to look about. It was a gloomy place of grey houses that seemed to verge on the edge of poverty. None were actually decrepit, but any paint was worn and faded; the windows on the few shops were dingy, as if seeking to hide, not display, the goods on offer. It was not a cold or wet day, yet not a soul could be seen, though Anne would have sworn she saw a few curtains twitch. Finally, there was a sign of life at the pub. A man stood at the door, feet spread apart and arms folded. Anne essayed a smile and a nod yet received naught but a stony glare in response.
“It truly is a sullen, gloomy place, is it not?” said Penworth. “I thought perhaps it was only my memories coloring it.”
Anne tried for a smile, but settled for a shrug. “Perhaps it will not be so bad when it is more familiar.”
Penworth raised an eyebrow at her, as if he did not think she believed that any more than he did. But if this was going to be her home, she saw no point in assuming the worst. If nothing else, there was the harbor, and a bit of sunlight glinting off the water in patches.
Shortly after they passed the village, the coach traveled uphill for a mile or so and then took a turn into a gateway. It would have been imposing, with its high brick pillars, but the gates themselves were pushed to the side, hanging not quite straight on their hinges. The drive led through a woodland of oak and elm, which opened to a clearing with a good-sized house built of the local stone. It was of pleasant proportions, but dilapidated—the windows in need of paint, the paths in need of weeding, the shrubs in need of trimming.
The coach continued on its way. Anne looked at Philip in surprise.
“No,” he said, “that’s not it. I believe that is just the dower house.”
Anne had not wanted to be impressed, but she was. Then the coach rounded a curve and Penworth Castle itself came into view.
“Heavens! It really is a castle.” Anne stared at it.
It could not be called inviting. Two towers, with crenellated tops and slit windows, flanked a massive door that must have been built to fill the space once occupied by a drawbridge. Ivy tried—and failed—to soften the uncompromising stone walls. The few windows, with tiny panes of thick glass, could allow in little light. Set back from the central tower, two wings reached out. The windows in these were larger, high and narrow, but still made of tiny panes.
The coach came to a stop in the court. The massive doors swung open and a butler and several footmen stepped out, followed by a few other servants. Anne felt no eagerness to cross this threshold, but one footman had opened the coach door and another had lowered the steps for her to descend. Philip squeezed her arm and murmured, “Courage, wife.” She gave him a glare, lifted her head, stiffened her spine and stepped out.
By the time she had shaken out her skirts, Philip was standing beside her. Or rather, she realized when she looked at him, this unsmiling man beside her was a stranger. He was the Marquess of Penworth, every inch the arrogant aristocrat. Well, if that was his desire, she could play this role as well. He held out an arm, which she took, and together they approached the waiting servants.
The butler welcomed them and introduced himself as Crane. The name suited him, since he was tall, thin, and somewhat ungainly. Penworth nodded to him, unsmiling, and she did likewise. They were then introduced to the housekeeper, Mrs. Hendley, the cook, Mrs. Tripp, and a half dozen footmen and housemaids. Penworth nodded to each one, and Anne did the same, repeating each name as the bearer was introduced. It was not a warm or friendly greeting on either side. Anne had every intention of keeping her distance until she was certain she was not entering a vipers’ nest. She suspected that Penworth felt the same.
Even aside from that, she could not help feeling that the servants were an unimpressive group. The footmen’s liveries were shabby, the maids’ caps and aprons were dingy, their faces were sullen and none too clean, and there were simply not enough of them—not even as many as took care of the house on Mount Street. Either there must be far more of them keeping out of sight or the castle was far smaller than one would suspect from the intimidating façade.
Penworth and Anne entered, accompanied by Crane and Mrs. Hendley, the rest of the servants having been dismissed with a nod from Crane. The castle certainly did not seem small. They stood in a cavernous hall to divest themselves of their outer garments. Anne could feel the tension emanating from Penworth. This would be one of the rooms he remembered. He had not exaggerated when he called it gloomy. Any sunlight that managed to penetrate the small mullioned windows was swallowed up by the dark paneling and flagged floor.
“Is the dowager in residence?” Penworth asked in an admirably offhand tone.
“I fear not,” said Crane. “She departed for London a few days ago.”
The tension abated somewhat, and Penworth turned to Anne with a slight smile. “Indeed,” he said. “As soon as she received word that we were coming, no doubt.”
Crane looked uncomfortable and seemed about to speak, but Penworth waved a dismissive hand. “Now, if you would show us to our rooms, my lady and I would like to refresh ourselves.”
Crane continued to look uncomfortable as he led them up the broad staircase, and Anne could not quite see why until he opened the door to a large, imposing, and gloomy room. It looked out over the front of the house through narrow windows of leaded glass almost covered by damask draperies of deep red. The room was dominated by a huge bed, covered with matching damask. Above it was a shield depicting, Anne supposed, the Tremaine coat of arms. It was almost impressive, but only “almost.” Once Anne’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she could see that the paint on the shield was faded with age and dimmed by dust. The draperies were dull as well, and she suspected that just touching them would be sufficient to raise a cloud of dust.
“The marquess’s chamber,” intoned Crane.
“Good God,” said Penworth under his breath.
Anne looked coldly at Crane. “Would I be correct to assume that this chamber has been untouched since the fifth marquess’s death?”
“Yes, my lady, in accordance with the dowager’s instructions.”
“And the marchioness’s room?”
Crane looked truly miserable now. “It is through that door, my lady,” indicating the door in the left wall, “but I am afraid…” He swallowed and tried again. “Lady Penworth—the dowager, I mean…” He took a deep breath. “She was occupying that room and said we were not to touch her things.”
Anne nodded thoughtfully. “Show me,” she said. Philip looked furious, but she laid a hand on his arm and stepped in front of him to follow Crane. The butler opened the door on a room almost the size of the first and its equal in gloom, though this one had the virtue of cleanliness. The draperies and hangings were gold instead of crimson and numerous bits and pieces that must have belonged to the dowager were scattered about.
Anne looked around without comment, then turned to Philip. “My lord, you did say that is the dower house we passed on our way here?”
Penworth looked startled and then gave a slow smile. “I believe it is, is it not, Crane?”
“Yes, my lord, but…”
“Fine,” said Anne, turning to the butler. “Have the dowager’s things packed up and moved there. If she wishes them sent to her e
lsewhere, she will doubtless let us know.”
“But my lady,” said Crane, “the dower house—it is in poor repair. The roof leaks, and some of the windows are broken.”
Anne looked coldly at him. “Such neglect suggests that someone lacked foresight. Find a reasonably dry spot and store her things there. Meanwhile, these rooms are too dreadful to be considered habitable. They manage to be both gaudy and shabby. Are there no other bedchambers in a decent state of cleanliness?”
Crane looked nervously at Philip, who now looked to be enjoying himself and shook his head at the butler. “My lady is the one in charge of household affairs. She is the one you must satisfy.”
She was not easy to satisfy. She finally decided on a pair of rooms at the rear of the house, in a part of the house that was clearly of more recent date. They were not as spacious as the official chambers, but they had large windows that let in the light and looked out over gardens. She gave orders for mattresses to be aired, draperies to be shaken out, carpets to be brushed, windows to be washed, hearths to be swept, furniture to be polished, fresh flowers to be brought in, and—while that was being done—hot baths to be prepared for herself and the marquess.
Philip joined her by a window seat as Crane hurried off to arrange all this. “You are a hard taskmistress,” he said with a smile.
“Not at all. But I know when a house is being properly run, and I know when servants are simply not doing their jobs. Perhaps they are under the impression that they are still in the service of your grandmother and are seeking her favor by undermining us. Or perhaps they simply think we will not know ill service when we see it. They need to understand that they are mistaken. You are the marquess, and you are the one they serve. If they prefer to serve the dowager, they are free to leave and follow her.”
She stood stiff with irritation, arms folded, glaring at the disorder. Philip watched her in bemusement, and then suddenly smiled as he realized that while she was establishing her authority here, she was also defending him. It was a strange feeling. He was not too sure what to do about it, but he thought he rather liked it.
The next morning Philip woke feeling the sunlight coming through the open curtains on his face. Anne liked to leave the curtains open. They had made love in the moonlight, slowly and gently. Now he reached out and pulled Anne close to his side. It felt so right to have her there. He was surprised at how right it felt.
Chapter Nineteen
In which our hero loses his temper
Breakfast the next morning was as lukewarm and ill prepared as dinner had been the night before. Anne poked at a bowl of watery porridge and humphed. “I think I shall begin today’s discussions in the kitchen.”
“Please do,” said Penworth. “I can survive unpolished furniture, but I would like a decent meal.”
“And a properly prepared cup of tea.” Anne stood up. “I am curious to see if the tea served in the kitchen is as weak as this poor excuse.”
Penworth stood as well, giving up any attempt to eat. “I sincerely hope your efforts meet with success, or we are likely to starve. Should you need me, I will be in the library. I am meeting with the estate manager.”
Anne marched down the hall and found the kitchen after two false turns. The delay irritated her even further, so she was in no kindly mood when she flung open the door to the kitchen. Mrs. Hendley and Mrs. Tripp were seated at the table in the center of the room and leaped to their feet at her entrance. They looked remarkably alike, Anne thought, all bony angles. Sisters, probably, since they also shared slightly protuberant pale blue eyes and faded ginger hair. She glanced down and noted that the steaming tea in their cups seemed as weak as the beverage she and Penworth had been served, even though the liquid here was at least hot. There was no one else in the room but a rather grubby girl who gasped and disappeared into what was probably the scullery when Anne entered.
“I am glad to find you both here. We have a good deal to discuss.” Anne pulled out a chair, seated herself and put on her most arrogant face. “Now, have you any explanation for the state of this house and the quality of the meals?”
The two servants looked at each other and then turned resentful faces to Anne. “It is not our fault, Lady Penworth,” said Mrs. Hendley. “We’ve done the best we could—the best anyone could—but it is too big a house to manage with so few servants.”
“What do you mean? Do not tell me that the servants who greeted us yesterday were the entire staff.”
Mrs. Hendley nodded stiffly.
“That’s preposterous,” said Anne. “What happened? Did the dowager dismiss the other servants or did she take them with her?”
“No, my lady,” said Mrs. Hendley. “They left when she told them there was no money to pay their back wages.”
“And the tradesmen don’t want to give any more credit unless their bills are paid,” put in Mrs. Tripp.
“That’s preposterous,” Anne repeated. “Lord Penworth sent money for that very purpose.” She turned to Mrs. Tripp. “Money to pay the tradesmen’s bills as well as the servants’ wages.”
Anne stared in astonishment as the two sisters shook their heads. She knew Penworth had ordered everything to be paid—he had told her about it. Indeed, he had still been angry at the way servants had been left unpaid for a year or more.
“I do not believe this,” said Anne. At the gasp of outrage from the housekeeper, she waved a hand and said, “No, no, I do not mean that I doubt your word. It is the entire situation that is unbelievable. There must be some explanation.” She stood up and headed for the door, then paused, remembering her false turns on the way to the kitchen. “If you would be so good as to direct me to the library?”
With Mrs. Hendley’s guidance, Anne was at the library door in moments. She had just raised her hand to knock when there was a furious roar from within.
“She did what?”
It was Penworth’s voice, though she had not heard that tone before. It was not a tone she cared for, being too similar to Uncle Craddock’s tone when he was displeased, so she did what she had so often done in the past. She forced herself to enter the room calmly.
Penworth was in a rage. He turned to her and demanded, “Do you know what she did? Do you know what that arrogant old witch did?”
“I know she did not pay either the servants or the tradesmen,” said Anne, keeping her voice soft.
“She stole the money. She stole the servants’ wages. And do you know why? To order a marble monument for her husband. The vicious beldam!” He swung around and smashed a fist into the wall.
Anne stepped up to him and caught hold of his fist. “Nothing will be changed by breaking your hand.”
“My pragmatic wife!” His mouth twisted bitterly but then softened as she examined his hand to be sure there were no broken bones. “No need to fear. One thing I have learned is how to throw a punch safely.”
She looked up and raised a brow, still holding his hand. “I had never realized the importance of such a skill.”
He continued to glower. “She is lucky she had the foresight to remove herself before I arrived. If she were still here, I would wring her neck.” He pulled away and slammed open the door to the hall. “Crane!” he shouted.
The shout had hardly been necessary. All the servants seemed to be gathered within earshot of the library. The butler stepped forward. “Yes, my lord?”
“Those things of the dowager’s that you are having packed up—put them in a barn or shed or something. She will not be moving to the dower house or anyplace else on this estate. In fact, she is not to set foot on this estate, ever again. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Crane.
Anne had been watching from behind her husband, and noted that while all of the servants were listening avidly, none of them seemed distressed at the prospect of the dowager’s banishment. Interesting, she thought, stepping aside to let Penworth back into the library.
He took a deep breath, and then looked over at the untidy bear o
f a man standing beside the desk. “My dear, this is Mr. Galveston, our estate agent. Mr. Galveston, my wife, Lady Penworth.”
Lady Penworth nodded. Mr. Galveston bowed. Civilities over, Penworth glared at the estate agent. “Now, Mr. Galveston, can you explain how you allowed this to happen?”
“I did not exactly allow it, my lord,” he protested. “It just…happened. I came here with the money from the bank, just as you had ordered, to pay the servants and get the tradesmen’s bills, but she took it. She just picked up the bag and took it.” He managed to sound both unhappy and outraged. “I told her she should not do that, but she said that she knew what was right, even if you did not. And off she went.” He shrugged helplessly. “She’s an old lady, my lord. I do not know what I could have done.”
Penworth lowered his head. They all waited. Finally he looked up and hissed out a sigh. “Very well. I suppose you could not be expected to physically wrestle the money from her, though it would have been no more than she deserved. So wages and bills still remain to be paid. You will have to go to the bank in Weymouth to get the money. If you hurry you should be back this evening. But first you will tell me from whom she ordered this monument.”
“Yes, my lord. That would have to be Jack Ickleston. He’s the only stone carver hereabouts.”
“And where might I find Mr. Ickleston?”
“He’s right here in Penworth village, my lord. Just before you get to the harbor. Shall I tell him to come up here?”
“No. I’ll ride down. I want to speak to him as soon as possible.” Penworth went to the door and shouted again, “Crane!”
This time the butler’s appearance was not quite so instantaneous, as he had been sending the maids to deal with the packing of the dowager’s things, but it was prompt. “Yes, my lord?”
“Are there any horses in this place?”
“Of course, my lord. Your uncles were noted horsemen…” He trailed off at Penworth’s glare.
“Have one saddled for me at once.” Crane hastened out once more, this time headed for the stables. Penworth turned to the estate agent and snapped out, “You will excuse me, Galveston, but I must see to this at once. I will meet with you when you get back from Weymouth.” With that, Penworth strode down the hall, snatching up a riding crop and snapping it against his leg. Only a fool would have failed to notice that the lord was in a fury, and the footman nearest the door was not a fool. He dragged the great door open quickly enough so that Penworth did not even have to break stride, and breathed a sigh of relief, as did they all. Penworth had looked as if he would have gone right through anything or anyone that dared to block his passage.
A MATCH FOR THE MARQUESS Page 13