by Mary Balogh
“Oh, Great-aunt Bertha,” Maria said. “It was not your fault, what happened.”
“There is no point in dwelling upon it anyway,” Lady Maple said. “Ring the bell for my maid, please. It is time I got dressed.”
“Great-aunt Bertha.” Maria did not move for the moment, and Lady Maple looked up at her. “Justin and Estelle will be newly wed and wishing to be alone together at least some of the time each day. I have had several invitations, all of which would involve some traveling alone— apart from all the servants Justin would undoubtedly send with me. I was wondering …”
“Well, out with it, girl,” her great-aunt said. “Or I will be missing luncheon in addition to breakfast.”
“I was wondering,” Maria said, “if you might wish to come and live here. Oh, not necessarily for always. I know you have your home in London and your friends and your social life there. I do not suppose it would be terribly exciting for you to spend your days with a … a girl. But … Justin has said I may ask, and Estelle thinks it is a good idea. I asked her before I came up here. So … I thought I would ask.”
Lady Maple blinked a few times, remembered that her book was still open across her lap, and busied herself putting a folded handkerchief between the pages to mark her spot before closing it.
“Well,” she said at last. “I suppose I could come back here for the wedding and then stay for a while. And you will certainly need company if those relatives of yours in Cornwall persuade you to go there or if the family in Yorkshire wants you to go there for a while. You will need a chaperon when you go to London next spring, and you cannot expect that Lady Estelle will always be either able or willing to accompany you. It would not be fair either to her or to Brandon. Will you ring my bell, girl, or must I do it myself?”
“I will do it,” Maria said, smiling at her. It had not really occurred to her until Justin spoke to her just after breakfast that perhaps Great-aunt Bertha was lonely and had been for a long time. It was bad of her not to have noticed. She really must cultivate a greater sensitivity to other people. Like her brother had.
Twenty-four
They arrived at Redcliffe Court in the middle of a wet afternoon. They had traveled in a carriage together, the three of them, though two other carriages came behind them— Justin’s, in which the two valets and Estelle’s maid were riding at their leisure, and Bertrand and Estelle’s baggage coach, which was empty apart from their bags.
The two men got along well together, Estelle was pleased to discover. They had both studied the classics at Oxford. Both had been on a rowing team there. Both had an interest in politics and religion and philosophy. Both were also sensitive to the fact that they were not alone together. Their conversation always included Estelle, except occasionally when she had been settled for a nap in her corner of the seat facing the horses, though she had not always been asleep. And it was not as though they felt obliged to discuss the newest fashions in bonnets or the weather or other mere frivolities when she was not asleep. She too was interested in the topics they favored, with the possible exception of the ancient classics. She had views and opinions of her own to express.
Justin was planning to spend a few days at Redcliffe— unless your father tosses me out on my ear after taking one look at me, he had told Estelle. Then he was going to go to Gloucestershire to attend Wesley Mort’s wedding to Hilda, and to persuade them to move to Everleigh if they were wavering. He wanted it too much himself to be confident of success, Estelle suspected. Ricky had known of the possibility before they left Everleigh. Apparently the blacksmith had inadvertently talked about it in his hearing. By the time he came to say goodbye to everyone, Ricky had been moving rather as though he had springs beneath the soles of his boots and was so excited about coming back and living in that house up in the village, where he would have a room all of his own that was not even up in the attic, that his words fell all over one another and were barely coherent.
Justin was going back home after Wesley’s wedding in order to prepare for his own. Though he predicted that he would have little say in the matter. After drawing up endless lists the day before their departure and consulting both Mr. and Mrs. Phelps and the head gardener and even the vicar in a brief visit to the vicarage, Lady Crowther had announced during the evening that she was staying.
“I cannot possibly organize everything from Cornwall, Justin,” she had declared, as though he had asked her to do just that. “And we cannot expect the Marchioness of Dorchester, Lady Estelle’s stepmother, to come here in person to organize the wedding. Maria has no experience in planning anything on such a grand scale, besides which she is going to spend a few weeks with Rosie, which is an excellent idea as the past few years have been very gloomy and stressful for her. I know Everleigh. I even know many of the people here. I am staying. So is Felicity. Everyone else will go home, as planned, and return for the wedding.”
And when Lady Crowther, Justin’s aunt Augusta, decided something, Estelle had realized, no one argued. It must have felt strange to Justin when he left Everleigh with Estelle and Bertrand to be waved off by two of his guests. He had even apologized to his aunts for abandoning them.
“But of course you must go to Redcliffe, Justin,” Lady Felicity Ormsbury had assured him. “It is only right that you apply formally for Lady Estelle’s hand to the Marquess of Dorchester. Besides, we do not need you here. There is nothing for you to do.”
They had laughed about it in the carriage, the three of them.
“Relatives,” Justin had said, shaking his head as the carriage rumbled over the Palladian bridge before tackling the climb out of the valley.
“Are they not wonderful?” Estelle had said. “I am so glad you did not fight your aunts on the issue, Justin, and order them to leave your house. They will enjoy themselves enormously in the coming weeks. And they will organize a really magnificent wedding, with a great deal of help from your servants and your secretary. You will surely find that there really is nothing for you to do.”
The two men had exchanged sober glances.
“Except put in an appearance at church at the right time on the right day to marry my sister,” Bertrand had said.
“I think I can manage that,” Justin had said. “Provided someone reminds me the day before.”
“I will do that,” Bertrand had said. “Provided Estelle reminds me.”
“I think I can manage that,” she had said.
They arrived at Redcliffe on a rainy afternoon. Unexpectedly, of course. They had sent no advance notice that they were on their way. But they must have been spotted from the drawing room windows. The marchioness was hurrying down the stairs even as they came dashing through the front doors out of the rain. She looked her usual elegant, lovely self, her face lit up with a smile of welcome.
“Well, this is a wonderful surprise,” she said, catching first Estelle and then Bertrand up in her arms and smiling politely at Justin beyond them. “Marcel is with Oliver in his office. He will be here in a moment. He is going to be so happy to see you.”
Oliver Morrow was the steward at Redcliffe— Estelle and Bertrand’s cousin, Aunt Jane and Uncle Charles’s son.
“The Earl of Brandon has come with us,” Estelle said. “The Marchioness of Dorchester, our stepmother, Justin.”
“But of course,” she said, extending a hand toward him. “Estelle and Bertrand have been staying at Everleigh Park with Lady Maria Wiley, your sister, have they not?”
“They have indeed, ma’am,” he said, shaking her hand. “To my great pleasure.”
“Justin and I are betrothed,” Estelle told her.
“Oh?” Her stepmother looked from one to the other of them. “Oh, goodness.”
But the marquess was striding into the hall, looking dearly familiar to Estelle— tall and solidly built, still wondrously handsome though he was close to fifty and silver hair had almost overtaken the dark at his temples.
“What is this?” he asked as he came toward them, smiling. “No warn
ing? You are going to be giving our cook an apoplexy.”
“Papa.” Estelle did what she had always longed to do as a child and young girl. She dashed into his arms, which closed tightly about her and made her feel instantly safe. “We have come home. Oh, Papa.” She had had no idea she was going to be so emotional.
“What is it?” he said, his voice suddenly full of concern. “You are not crying, are you, Estelle? Has something happened? Bertrand? Why has the mere sight of me reduced your sister to tears? Ah. Brandon. You have come here with my twins, have you?”
“I have, sir,” Justin said. “And I think I may be a bit responsible for Estelle’s tears. I have come to ask if I may take her off your hands. For all time, I mean. I hope to marry her. I am going to marry her. But I would rather do it with your blessing, if it is something you are willing to give.”
“I am not weeping,” Estelle protested, horribly embarrassed. She loosened her hold on her father and swiped at her eyes with two fingers. “I am just happy to see you and Mother again and to be back home. Temporarily. I am indeed going to marry Justin, but I would rather it be with your blessing than not, Papa. Bertrand approves.”
“Well, that is a high recommendation indeed,” her father said, sounding perfectly serious. “But here are Viola and I, coping with the double surprise of your descending upon us without warning and your announcement that you are betrothed to Brandon, with whom I have the slimmest of acquaintances and Viola none at all. You must all make allowances for our advancing age. Shall we sit down in the drawing room to discuss these matters and perhaps sip on a glass of wine while we do so? Possibly champagne— if, that is, I discover that my blessing is available to be given. And see how you have all sent my manners packing? Welcome to Redcliffe, Brandon.”
He strode toward Justin and shook his hand.
* * *
The following weeks were busy ones for both Estelle and her stepmother, even though they did not have a full wedding to plan. It seemed to Estelle that they spent more than half their days in the morning room, one of them at the escritoire, which had been placed beside the window to catch the morning light, the other at the table, which was usually used to hold needlework supplies.
There were invitations to write and send out to all the people on the list Estelle had compiled on the last day at Everleigh. It was a lengthy list, even though the decision had been made on both sides to confine the guests to family members. They had been fortunate with Justin’s family, of course— all of them had been at Everleigh to be invited in person, except for Sarah and Thomas Wickford.
Estelle divided the list of her own family members with her stepmother and they set to work. Then, of course, over the coming weeks there were the replies to read and compile into two lists, of those who could and would come to the wedding, and those few who could not for various reasons. The former list had to be sent on to Lady Crowther at Everleigh so that she could plan accordingly.
Estelle’s stepsiblings— Camille, Harry, and Abigail— would come, though Camille’s family was too large to travel en masse. They had done it in the spring for Harry’s birthday and surprise wedding, but it had been a heroic undertaking. This time Joel would remain at home with most of the children while Camille came with Winifred, her eldest daughter, and with Andrew, her deaf son, and Robbie, the son who gave them the most trouble, though he was devoted to Andrew.
Anna, Duchess of Netherby, would be unable to travel, as by October she would be getting close to her confinement. But the duke would attend with Josephine, his eldest daughter, and Jonah, his son. Mrs. Kingsley, the marchioness’s mother, would come from Bath with Camille. The Reverend Michael Kingsley, Viola’s brother, and his wife would come all the way from Dorsetshire. The Earl of Riverdale, head of the Westcott family, would come with his countess, though Elizabeth, the earl’s sister, Lady Hodges, and her husband sent their regrets as they were about to embark for Ireland, where Lord Hodges had relatives. The Dowager Countess of Riverdale, once Viola’s mother-in-law, and her sister also declined with regrets, as the countess’s physician—“that old tyrant”—had ordered her to travel less if she hoped to live into her eighties. Her daughters would attend, however— Matilda with Viscount Dirkson, her husband; Louise, Dowager Duchess of Netherby; and Mildred with Lord Molenor, her husband. Jessica, Countess of Lyndale, the dowager duchess’s daughter, was in the early stages of a second pregnancy and was suffering wretchedly and annoyingly just as she had the first time. The mere thought of a carriage ride was enough to prostrate her.
Sometimes Estelle felt she was inviting half of England to her wedding. She even briefly regretted not suggesting to Justin that after all they do what Anna and Avery had once famously done and go off somewhere to marry privately without a word to anyone until afterward. For all she really wanted was to be married to Justin and living with him at Everleigh.
Though no, she always realized just moments after entertaining these treacherous thoughts, that was not all she wanted. She wanted to be married to Justin and living at Everleigh with him, with strong, active connections with every single member of their families, including the extended branches— the Westcotts, the Yorkshire group, and the Morts. She wanted her marriage to be a family affair— and her wedding too.
So she returned to all the letter writing.
Aunt Jane and Uncle Charles and Ellen would come, of course. So would Uncle André, Estelle’s father’s brother, and Aunt Annemarie, his sister, with Uncle William and their children. Cousin Isabelle and her daughter, Margaret, would be there with their husbands.
Letters came from Everleigh with great frequency. The Ormsbury ladies were as relentless in their planning as the Westcott ladies’ committee had ever been in Estelle’s experience. They were planning everything down to the finest detail and were meticulous about keeping the Marchioness of Dorchester informed. All their letters were addressed to her. Estelle, it seemed, was as unimportant to the process as Justin was. There was apparently nothing for either of them to do— except play the parts of bride and groom when the time came.
A few years ago, Estelle’s stepmother had discovered a young dressmaker whose work was exquisite, in her expert opinion. She was also a talented designer and did not rely upon fashion plates, as other dressmakers did. She lived a mere three miles from Redcliffe and was beginning to thrive as word spread that she had the exclusive dressing of the Marchioness of Dorchester, who was known far and wide for her taste and elegance.
The dressmaker was brought to Everleigh and given accommodation there for three weeks while she and her two assistants designed and produced Estelle’s wedding gown and a selection of bridal clothes, as well as an outfit for the marchioness herself and one for Oliver’s wife. Both Estelle and her stepmother spent hours looking over designs, making suggestions, rejecting, approving, and being measured and fitted.
Bertrand and his father meanwhile did what men were inclined to do when there was a wedding looming. They went out together for hours on end about estate business with Oliver. They went fishing. They spent time, Estelle suspected, at the village tavern, though Bertrand did not drink alcohol.
Estelle’s father had given his blessing to Justin, though he had acknowledged that it was not necessary. Estelle was of age. More important, she knew her own mind and had always been extremely discriminating. If she believed she would be happy with Justin Wiley, Earl of Brandon, then that was recommendation enough for her father. Nevertheless, he did take Justin away to his own private domain that first evening and questioned him over everything in his past and present that might disqualify him as a husband for his daughter. And he took Estelle to the same place the following morning and spent a whole hour with her there making sure that she had not simply had her head turned by a practiced charmer and woman chaser—though I have never heard of his being either of those dastardly things, Estelle.
He gave his blessing formally at dinner that evening, when he did indeed propose a toast with champagne— he had drunk a gl
ass of wine in the drawing room the first day while everyone else had drunk tea.
Justin had left a couple of days later to go to his friend’s wedding. Estelle would not see him again until their own wedding in October. Six long weeks.
“But I will write,” he had assured her as he hugged her to him before climbing into his carriage. “Every day.”
She had smiled a bit ruefully as she waved him on his way a few minutes later. Every day, she thought. Perhaps once a week if I am fortunate, she had told herself.
He wrote every day. Mostly just a single sentence or two, sandwiched between the rather flowery opening, “My beloved Estelle,” and the closing, “Yours forever and perhaps beyond that, Justin.” She came to live for the arrival of the daily post and that single sentence or two.
“Wes as a happy newlywed is a fearsome sight, but I am envious! Not to mention impatient.”
“I love you.”
“Ricky loves ‘that nice lady, Juss,’ and looks forward to seeing you again. So do I!”
“Captain loves you too— he was delighted to see me back but searched the carriage in vain for you and then looked mournful as only he can.”
“The aunts are driving me insane. I have come to the library to dream of you.”
“Writer’s cramp? Stop writing this minute— though not to me.”
“The grotto felt lonely without you this afternoon. I want my female resident hermit back.”
“I had a letter from Hilda today to say they really are all coming next week. I wish you were coming next week too.”
“What was I saying yesterday? I wish you were coming today.”
“I do not suppose I could interest you in eloping?”
“I love you.”
“I watched the sunrise from the Palladian bridge this morning. Come home!”