Bride by Contract

by Margaret Rome

  'Some of the happiest years of my youth were spent as a lumberjack,' he confirmed her theory, 'but these days,' he ran rueful fingers through a thick black fleece of hair, 'I spend most of my time behind a desk; sitting inside stuffy offices and conference rooms; rushing to airports, working during flights, concluding a deal, then rushing all the way back again. There are drawbacks to being an only child,' he confessed. 'I delegate as much authority as I deem wise, nevertheless, it would be nice to have a brother or Sister to help lighten the load.'

  Morva's eyes widened, startled by the unexpected revelation of wealth and status. But her grandmother's reaction was almost comically riveting.

  'When you referred to a family business, Belvoir, I formed an opinion that you were somehow connected with trade…?'

  'With numerous trades,' he corrected casually. Then to her intense annoyance he allowed himself to become side-tracked, waiting until Morva had relaxed on to a sofa before following her example and gingerly easing his bulk into a spindle-legged chair. His expression of relief when it gave no indication of collapsing beneath his weight was so amusing Morva was forced to choke back a giggle, knowing that the least hint of levity would incur her grandmother's frown of displeasure.

  'Please do go on!' her grandmother prompted when he relaxed with his long legs stuck well out in front of him, apparently in no hurry to appease her curiosity. 'I'd be most interested to learn more of your family history.'

  'It's not half so interesting as your own, Lady Lucy.' His eyes had adopted a cobalt blue twinkle. 'But if you insist…?'

  'I do,' she pressed, dismissing her usual decorum far enough to lean forward in anticipation.

  'Well,' he obliged, in an unhurried, almost lazy drawl, 'for some reason known only to himself, my grandpa emigrated to Canada sometime around the mid-nineteenth century. He headed straight for the Rocky Mountains, bought a shovel and a pack mule, and for the following few years tramped from one prospectors' site to another in search of pay dirt. At times he must have felt terribly disheartened, striking a little gold here, a little silver there, but never raising sufficient colour in his pail to do more than replace his depleted provisions.

  'Most ores were played out, most mining camps had been abandoned, by the time he found his Eldorado— nuggets the size of hens' eggs scattered along the bed of a stream that had been supplying him with drinking water!'

  'He was a bachelor at that time, I suppose?' Lady Lucy posed the question Morva was too spellbound to ask.

  'He sure was. Wives were looked upon as a liability in pay dirt country. But he wasted no time at all remedying that omission. Once he'd registered his claim and bought himself a suit, he went looking for a young, healthy wife to bear his children. As luck would have it, she bore him only one, but that one was sufficient to ensure that the Belvoir dynasty could begin to grow.'

  'And did it grow?' Her grandmother's sharp, terse question caused Morva to jump.

  'It grew and grew,' he affirmed, his voice echoing with the assurance of a race which, unlike the British, saw no shame in boasting of successes, in advertising achievement—saw no point at all in making money if one was not prepared to flaunt it. 'Our assets include oil wells in America; banks in Toronto; a sheep station in Australia; offices in Toronto, London and New York, not to mention grandpa's original gold contracts and investments in sterling.'

  'Then you must be a millionaire!' Morva barely recognised her grandmother's voice tinged with an unusual note of awe. 'Perhaps even a multimillionaire…?'

  'We… ll, Lady Lucy,' he smiled, 'as to that, I really couldn't say.' His nut-brown features became split with a wide, teasing grin. 'Where I come from we have a saying: "A man can't be counted rich if he can count his money"!'

  'How utterly unjust life can be!' The statement jerked from Morva's lips, riveting her grandmother to her seat, causing the Earl's vivid blue eyes to narrow then cloud darkly as skies gathering around a mountain peak. The realisation that her remark must have sounded envious, even snobbish, released a rush of shamed colour into her cheeks.

  'Forgive me, it was not my intention to sound offensive,' she mumbled, wishing that the multi-flowered carpet were a garden into which she could flee to hide her shame. Conscious of two pairs of eyes demanding an explanation, she attempted a blundering justification.

  'It's just that… I couldn't help comparing the Belvoir family's exorbitant rewards with the pitiable returns achieved by my own and many other aristocratic families who are struggling against impossible odds. The high cost of living in stately homes has forced many to move out of huge country houses into small farmhouses. Art treasures, and even whole estates, are having to be sold in order to pay death duties, and some peers have even been forced into exile because they've been unable to meet crippling tax bills. Daddy must have worked every bit as hard as you have, Lord Howgill,' she gulped, unable to force a less formal form of address past her lips, 'yet Ravenscrag continued to be a drain upon his resources. Even during good years, the estate lost thousands of pounds, in spite of overheads having been cut to the bone. Perhaps it's just as well that you are a wealthy man,' she warned a trifle bitterly, 'considering the fact that the rates bill alone is more than five thousand pounds a year.'

  'You say your father worked hard,' he encouraged sympathetically. 'Which chore placed the most strain upon his time, d'you reckon, Lady Morva?'

  'Doing the estate books.'

  'Writing endless poetry!' her grandmother snapped in unison.

  Morva resented the way his expression changed from tolerant to faintly cynical, hated the dry note of censure in his voice when he dared to sit in judgment upon her late father.

  'In my country, the links of fortunes are forged with blood, sweat and tears! Any man nurturing an ambition to become a poet, should first of all store up sufficient fat—like bears and marmots—to allow him to sit on his haunches all winter!'

  Morva trembled to her feet, struggling to subdue an emotion that was unfamiliar to her calm, placid nature, a sweeping, fiery sensation that was knotting the muscles in her stomach; causing her knees to shake, making her fingers itch to slap the tanned-hide insensitive cheek of the grizzly Canadian.

  Her lips had begun forming around an excuse to flee his presence when her grandmother darted a sharp look of warning before proceeding upon a tactless act of betrayal.

  'Belvoir, dear boy, it's time the servants were instructed to prepare your rooms. As I expect to be kept busy for the next couple of hours, I suggest you make a tour of the castle grounds. Morva will be pleased to show you around, and to supply all the information you're likely to need.'

  'That sounds great to me!' Displaying surprising agility for one of his size, he bounded to his feet and crossed a width of carpet in two giant strides. 'Lead the way, Lady Morva.'

  Giving her no time to protest, he gripped her elbow and began forcibly propelling her towards the door. She felt swept by the force of a tornado, her feet barely touching the ground as his ranging stride carried them down a sweep of staircase, across the marbled floor of the Great Hall and out through the main doors, slackening only when a stretch of formal gardens dotted with fountains, stone benches and marble statuary had been left far behind.

  She was flushed, wide eyed and panting for breath when he suddenly halted to stare straight ahead, hissing a whistle of appreciation through set teeth.

  'That's a mighty impressive set-up!' His admiring gaze travelled slowly along range upon range of greenhouses spun like a huge glass cobweb to trap every available ray of sunshine from dawn until sunset.

  'Let's look inside!'

  But when he began urging her forward she dug in her heels, making him hesitate just long enough to allow her to comb her scattered wits in search of a plausible explanation.

  'There's nothing to see. They're empty…'

  'Empty? Are you telling me that all that naturally heated space is being allowed to go to waste? Why, for heaven's sake?' His furrowed brow suddenly cleared. 'Have you had
trouble with bugs… with plant diseases, perhaps?'

  Because his oblique criticism of her studious, dreamy father was still rankling, she found it easy to be very angry with the hustling, done-everything, been-everywhere Canadian who had erupted into her quiet pasture with all the finesse of a rampaging bull.

  Resenting the need to defend her father's economic measures, she iced.

  'There was a time when those greenhouses supplied dozens of house guests with exotic fruits, flowers, and out-of-season vegetables; when the Home Farm was able to meet the needs of kitchen staff demanding daily deliveries of chickens, eggs, milk, cream, butter and cheese. Then, large parties of guests were occupying every bedroom in the castle. Every night tables were laid differently for dinner, sometimes there'd even be a band playing on the lawn. But in those days,' she stressed hardly, 'the castle was staffed by a butler controlling a retinue of footmen, ladies' maids, scullery maids, kitchen maids, housemaids, a cook and a housekeeper. Dozens of servants were also employed in the garden. Today, there are only two!'

  Unable to trust her voice to remain steady, she cast him one last look of scorn then turned on her heel and ran, ignoring the many lessons in dignity that decreed young ladies must be unfailingly polite; must look cool and serene however much provoked; must behave with dignity and grace throughout every form of crisis.

  She slipped inside the castle through a rear entrance and was just about to sidle past the door of her grandmother's sitting room when it was flung open and an imperious hand beckoned her inside.

  'Close the door behind you, my dear.' Her grandmother sounded surprisingly affable. 'Sit down, you and I must have a little chat.' She waited until Morva had obediently perched on the edge of the chair she had indicated. 'You're looking rather pale, my dear, would you like me to order a pot of tea?'

  'No, thank you. Granny. I have a slight headache, I was just on my way to my room, intending to lie down for a while.'

  'Very sensible my dear. However, that can wait,' her grandmother decreed, displaying scant sympathy, 'there is a very important matter I wish to discuss.' . She sat upright, hands folded neatly in her lap, her frail frame dwarfed by the high, curved back of a capacious leather armchair.

  'What opinion have you formed of the new Earl of Howgill?' she surprised Morva.

  The question struck her as ludicrous. Dumbly, she withstood her grandmother's probing gaze, wishing she possessed a sufficiently large fund of furious adjectives with which to outline his faults in detail.

  'Obviously, the man's a fool!' Her grandmother supplied the answer to her own question. 'Capable of making money, but utterly ignorant of social etiquette, sartorial sense, and of the sort of behaviour expected of a member of the English aristocracy.'

  Morva's kind nature rebelled against agreeing with such caustic condemnation, nevertheless, she could not truthfully deny that, cast in the role of a Right Honourable Lord, the Canadian appeared to be a total misfit.

  'He has less polish… less refinement than society will expect of him.' The mild criticism was all her troubled conscience would allow her to utter.

  'What a masterly understatement!' her grandmother chuckled. 'However, it is not unknown for gold to purchase honours and even love—or at least a passable imitation. And that, my dear, is where you come in!'

  'I…? Morva felt completely bewildered. 'Whatever do you mean?'

  'I've thought of a way of solving all our problems!' Her grandmother leant forward, her cheeks highly flushed, an almost fanatical gleam in her eyes.

  'You must marry him, my dear! Once you become Lady Howgill, we will be installed for life in our rightful home. You must leave all the negotiations to me. I promise you, my dear, that when I broach the subject to the new Earl—stressing the benefits to be accrued from a suitable marriage—I will do so with the utmost tact and delicacy…'

  CHAPTER THREE

  Granny must have taken leave of her senses, Morva weakly concluded, feeling fear like the grip of a tightly clenched fist in the pit of her stomach. Listlessly, she began dressing for dinner, depressed by reminders of previous defeats suffered on the very few occasions when she had rebelled against her grandmother's iron will.

  But the plan Granny had conceived solely to protect her own interest, to ensure that she remained established for the remainder of her life in what she regarded as her rightful home, was outrageous even when judged by the standards of a Victorian matriarch who had been inculcated from early childhood with the duty to obey rules of tradition laid down to ensure that privileges were maintained—whose own marriage had been arranged purely to protect the continuity of blue blood running through the veins of two noble families.

  A glance at the clock sent her hurrying to pick a dress at random from her wardrobe. Family dinners were informal affairs, nevertheless her grandmother was a stickler for punctuality, quick to rebuke anyone who dared to keep her waiting. Hastily she slid a simple brown dress over her head, fumbled with its row of tiny buttons, then rushed to smooth a brush over hair tumbling over her forehead, against flushed cheeks, then down on to her shoulders where it settled in a beech-brown cloud shot with the bronze; gold and reddish tints of autumn. When the clock struck the last of eight chimes she flung down the brush and fled without bothering to pat make-up over cheeks flaunting a march of brown freckles, or to rouge lips gnawed pink, trembling with shy uncertainty.

  Her conviction that some phantom hand of destiny was guiding her towards misfortune increased when her eruption into the Great Hall coincided with the arrival of the aggravating Earl. He sauntered out of the library looking slightly bemused, then quickly homed in her direction.

  'I've managed to find my way across miles of uncharted territory, yet this place has me foxed. I'm darned if I can find the dining room,' he confessed, casting a rueful glance around many identical doors ranged four square around an expanse of marble floor laid out to resemble an enormous chess board.

  'The dining room is this way.' Turning stiffly unforgiving shoulders upon the newly elevated nobleman dressed in a formal grey suit that made him appear almost distinguished, she hurried on ahead, intending to keep two paces in front of his ranging stride, then regretted the impulse when she sensed twin orbs of interest exploring her outline, probing, deliberating, deciding… what?

  She had been reduced to a blushing quiver of embarrassment by the time she opened the door leading into an ante-room where her grandmother and Percy were waiting.

  'Shall we go straight in to dinner?' Her grandmother's frosty enquiry was accompanied by an imperious wave towards a door leading into the dining room. 'The two men have already been introduced. Fortunately, Percy arrived from London this afternoon just in time to take over the duty of conducting Belvoir over the estate. A duty which you, Morva, had so rudely abandoned!'

  Swallowing hard, Morva evaded the mocking glance the Canadian tossed her way as he extended an arm to escort her grandmother into dinner. Meekly, she joined Percy to follow in their wake then gasped, feeling amply revenged when she caught sight of the dinner table.

  Either as a mark of respect to the new Earl, or, which was much more likely, in a bid to impress and overawe an unwelcome usurper, her grandmother had obviously supervised the laying of elaborate place-settings. In place of the small circular table they used regularly, a grand oblong table with extra leaves added was groaning under a weight of silver cutlery, crystal glasses, and fragile china. A bewildering array of knives, forks, and spoons—large, small, and medium— were positioned either side of place mats edged with priceless antique lace, and set a little way apart were separate items of cutlery invented so long ago, and for such obscure purposes, that even she was baffled, able to recognise only one peculiarly shaped fork as an implement for spearing pickles.

  An almost complete suite of glasses—for water, white wine, red wine and port—were placed diagonally and at a precise distance away from the blades of dinner knives, and mitred linen napkins reared stiff, pointed heads in the direction of ca
ndles casting a soft glow over silver candelabra and brilliantly daubed arrangements of fragrant, short-stemmed flowers.

  'Belvoir, dear boy, as host, you must take your place at the head of the table,' her grandmother smiled sourly, 'and provided you have no objection, I will occupy the role of your opposite number by sitting at the foot. Morva can sit on your right hand and Percy on mine.'

  His hint of hesitation was barely perceptible, the merest suspicion of a pause, the slightest squaring of shoulders before, displaying a quality of cool composure that earned Morva's grudging respect, he embarked upon his first official duty as Earl of Howgill.

  But Morva's thrill of triumph quickly turned to shame when, as she sat down opposite Percy, he cast her a glance of amusement which was intercepted by their keen-eyed host. With cheeks flaming, her eyes downcast, she fumbled for a spoon determined to make amends for her family's show of malice by acting as a guide through the intricate maze of cutlery, to lay a trail for the bewildered backwoodsman to follow.

  'You made very few comments when we toured the estate, Belvoir.' Percy strove to sound affable as he waited for his soup to be served. 'It's rather impressive, wouldn't you say?'

  Carefully, the Earl selected a spoon and tasted his soup before dropping a laconic bombshell into the atmosphere of snobbish condescension.

  'It's rather small, run-down, and badly in need of modernisation. Nevertheless, it could be made viable if sufficient time and money were to be invested.'

  'Small…!' Lady Howgill paused, outraged, with a soup spoon raised halfway to her lips.

  'Run-down…!' Percy sounded equally incensed. 'The estate cannot be classed as a goldmine, but at least it pays its way!'

  The Earl continued eating his soup, looking coolly unrepentant. 'By that, I take it you mean that after having employed men to labour on the land for twelve months of the year you feel amply rewarded by the knowledge that you've broken even. Has no one ever felt an urge to make a profit?'