by Fiona Monroe
That morning, as they all sat around the breakfast table, Lord John received a letter which seemed to cause him some surprise. Mindful of Emmeline's speculations, Margaret watched his face as he studied the envelope. From what she could see from where she was sitting, it appeared to be a long letter written on good-quality paper and sealed with an impressive crest, and the perusal of the direction alone made her husband frown and turn the missive over in his hands a few times. He did not break the seal at the table but excused himself soon after and left his breakfast half-finished to hurry from the room, letter in hand.
Margaret made short work of her own bacon and potato scones and went in search of him.
John stared for a few minutes more at the crisp imprint of the Dunwoodie seal in the blob of wax on the back of the envelope and turned the letter over again to look at his brother Gordon's handwriting. It was very like his own but had acquired an extra dash and flourish through Gordon's long years of writing solemn letters of state. From the postmark, it seemed that Gordon was still at Dunwoodie House.
He supposed that he ought to have written to inform his brother of his marriage. He was not too keen to do that. Besides, he was not sure who ought to be considered the head of the family, now. The role could hardly fall to the second-eldest son, Charles. Admiral Lord Charles Dunwoodie had lived in London, or on board ship, for decades, and had had little practically to do with the family for as long. Before James' marriage to Lady Arabella Grenfell and the birth of their son, Charles's wastrel son, Robert, had been heir apparent to the marquisate; nevertheless, Charles's very busy professional life meant that he had not been to Dunwoodie for many years. John was not certain whether he would still recognise his second brother, were they to meet unexpectedly.
The arrival of this letter had given him a jolt. Well, he would have to write back to Gordon and inform him of his changed circumstances, and Gordon could assume the role of paterfamilias and disseminate the information if he wanted to. Although…
Post could be intercepted.
He remembered the dark-looking blighter who had been lurking across the other side of the street, watching the small wedding-party emerging from St. Andrew's. He had not thought everything through. Why had they not escaped via a discreet side-door?
At last, he broke open the seal as best he could with his bitten-down fingernail and unfolded the letter. How Gordon had found his address in town was a slight mystery, perhaps worrying in itself.
My dear brother,
I trust this finds you well. It seems fitting that you should be informed that our noble brother, James, was laid to his eternal rest on the fourth of this month, in a most moving ceremony at the family vault in Kirkton. He joins our late honoured father and our many forefathers, and it is my pious hope that the good Lord has had mercy upon his soul, and that, God willing, we shall meet again in the Great Hereafter.
"Yes, yes," muttered John impatiently. James was doubtless boring their ancestors in the Great Hereafter already, and he felt no urgent desire to join them in the immediate future. He felt a sting of indignation in having been forced to miss his brother's funeral. But after all, funerals were dreary affairs.
It was a great misfortune that you could not be present, and I can have no doubt that you now regret the misadventure that led up to this circumstance. I was somewhat relieved in my mind to hear, only two days ago, that you are resident in Edinburgh as the guest of Sir Duncan Buccleuch. Up until that time, I had no idea where you might be living, and knowing that you have few resources to command, I admit that I was concerned for your very safety.
"Brother, I am touched. You care after all!"
However, I feel compelled to take up my pen to warn you that a return to Dunwoodie House is not to be contemplated by you in the immediate future. Indeed, if you knew the whole of it, you would not wish to be here just now. It pains me to speak ill of our sister-in-law, but Lady Arabella is making great difficulties at present.
John sat up in some surprise.
The new Marquess is a child of thirteen months' age. While, of course, I have every respect for the person of our noble nephew and a profound loyalty to the Marquisate of Crieff as an institution, its present incumbent is an infant far below the age of reason. Common sense dictates that there must be a legal guardian to oversee the estate and to stand in proxy for the fifteenth Marquess until the child is old enough to assume the mantle of these great responsibilities.
"It is a medium-sized estate in north-east Scotland, not a kingdom," said John, but he knew that was a facile observation. To all who lived there, Dunwoodie might as well be a kingdom.
As you know, brother, I have had a long and, I may venture to say, a distinguished career in Parliament. Whatever my duty to my country, however, I regard my duty to my family to be paramount. I have expressed my entire willingness to resign my post in the cabinet, to stay at Dunwoodie and to take over the running of the estate on my nephew's behalf.
A noble sacrifice, John thought, not lessened at all by the fact that Gordon's party was liable to be ousted from government in the elections to be held in a month's time.
Lady Crieff, however, has stated and continues to insist that she is the appropriate person to perform the Marquess' functions until he comes of age. She, a young lady three and twenty years of age, considers herself qualified and competent to oversee the management of the entire estate, to make decisions about its present and its future, simply because she happens to be the widow of the late Marquess and the mother of the current Marquess. I have explained to her that she is not a Dunwoodie, that, in fact, in law, she does not even have the right to continue residency at the House but could be required to relocate to the Dower House. I have pointed out her inexperience, her youth, her sex, her present delicate state of health. She is obdurate and irrational.
I have considered writing to her noble father, the Duke of Westmorland, to express my frustration with the stance his daughter is taking and to beg the favour of his intervention. Several factors have, however, stayed my hand. The duke is known to be in poor health, and it would not be charitable to burden a frail old man with reports of his daughter's ill conduct. I have also considered, however, that the duke is also known to be a highly eccentric character, who was fully compliant with his daughter's wish to be educated almost like a gentleman and allowed her many unwise liberties. It is not at all certain that he might not take her part.
Clearly, I cannot, in good conscience, throw my brother's widow out of her home, even to the comforts of the Dower House, nor can I bring myself to separate her from her infant son. The child must remain at Dunwoodie, and so, perforce, the mother must, too. In addition, there may well soon be another child to consider, a child which, if male, will provide further invaluable insurance against the title and estate falling into Robert's hands.
All these factors make it almost impossible for me to assert my authority with her ladyship. It does not help that she has, for the most part, the servants in sympathy with her. Mr. Rennie sees things from my point of view, I am persuaded, but the rest of the senior staff are in her thrall, as is perhaps natural. She has lived here for the past two years and treated them indulgently; I am, despite being a member of the family, seen as an interloper. If I were to take drastic measures against her, despite being legally entitled to do so, I would be casting myself in the role of villain.
The discomfort of my situation here will not, however, prevent me from attempting to do my duty. That is something I have never shirked. I am writing to you with such frankness in the hope of enlisting your assistance. As I have suggested, a return here would be unwise at present. A letter, however, might not go amiss. Dear brother, I implore you to write to our sister, at first apologising for your part in the distressing events leading up to your departure, and then setting forth your own opinion that the estate must be properly managed by a proxy laird and the infant Marquess guided by an adult, male Dunwoodie.
"Good God," said John aloud.
&
nbsp; I am writing also to Charles, Douglas, Malcolm, Mary, Louisa, and Henrietta, to inform them of the situation at Dunwoodie and to request their help, either by letter or in person. I am hopeful that if everyone in the family writes or visits and puts the case to Lady Crieff, she will see reason and capitulate.
John banged his hand down on the letter, stretched back in the chair, and stared up at the ceiling. Though not the world's greatest admirer of Arabella, Dowager Marchioness of Crieff, he could not help now feeling sorry for the girl. She had just lost her husband to a wholly unexpected apoplexy, she was alone in a foreign land in a house that was no longer even her own, she was about to have a baby, and Gordon was attempting to round up the remaining Dunwoodies to attack her en masse.
There was a slight sound in the room, and John looked toward the door. He was sure he had heard someone coming in, but whoever it was had evidently changed their mind.
He went back to the letter and skim-read the closing paragraphs, which were full of platitudes and hot air.
Without giving himself time to think, John went to the writing desk by the window, found ink and paper, cut a pen, and dashed off a reply.
Gordon,
You are an ass. Arabella might have turned me out the house, but she had every right to do so because it is her home now. If little what's-he-called, his young lordship, the infant Marquess could speak, do you think he would want his mother or his pompous old uncle in charge of his affairs? Take my advice and go back to Parliament where you can conceivably do some good. I would rather remain an exile from my childhood home all my days, than see you rule the roost there over the head of James' chosen partner in life. He was an ass, too, but a good hearted one. Leave the poor girl alone.
I remain, sir, your most humble and obedient servant or possibly merely your disgruntled brother.
He folded it, sealed it with his own signet ring, and tossed it into the post basket.
Margaret heard a voice from within the study and pushed the door open as quietly as she could.
Lord John was in a winged chair near the empty fireplace, bent forward over the letter in his lap, one hand clutched in his hair. He seemed to be much moved by its contents, muttering and exclaiming. He had not noticed her.
She watched the progress of his perusal of the letter, rooted to the spot, too afraid to make her presence known and interrupt him. Finally, he exclaimed aloud, threw himself back in the chair, and seemed to be thinking deeply.
Then he launched to his feet with energy and headed over to the writing desk. As he rooted in the drawers, presumably looking for writing materials, Margaret slipped away. Whatever news he had received in the letter had moved him deeply; that was clear. Perhaps this was correspondence from the woman he had gotten with child and was now claiming breach of promise and threatening an action.
By the time Margaret had retired to her own bedroom, she had elaborated the story in her mind. It seemed to grow within her in monstrous spurts, each speculation taking on a horrendous certainty as soon as it entered her mind. Perhaps he was in love with the girl, but she was beneath him, and marriage had been impossible. Perhaps he had married her, Margaret, for her fortune alone, but he intended to remain faithful to his true beloved, and she would have to live out the rest of her life in enforced celibacy, in a lonely, sterile facade of a marriage.
It was monstrous, if so, and unfair. Emmeline had been right. She was quite justified in attempting to discover the truth, no matter what means she had to employ.
Chapter 15
The date for the move to the apartments in Princes Street was set for Friday, as the property was empty and fully furnished and nothing need delay them beyond the time it would take the servants to pack their belongings. Margaret had gone with Lady Buccleuch to the rooms to have a look around in advance of the move and had found them neat and clean but hardly the distinguished establishment she wanted for herself. There was a drawing room, a smaller parlour, a study the size of a cupboard, a good-sized bedroom, a dressing room, and the usual domestic offices to the rear. Meals would have to be taken in the parlour, as there was no separate dining room. There was a stable block, coach houses, and further staff accommodation in the mews behind, but these belonged to the tenants on the ground floor.
The drawing room would one day have a lovely view over the pleasure gardens being constructed across the road and currently did have a spectacular enough outlook on the castle. But it was a rare window in Edinburgh that did not afford some kind of view of the castle, and Margaret mourned the fewness of the rooms. She could not hold literary soirees here, not when there was scarcely space enough to accommodate three servants.
"It will do very well for a couple newly-married," said Lady Buccleuch cheerfully, presumably happy in the prospect of shortly getting rid of her unwanted houseguests. "I think you said you are from the country and not native to town?"
"Yes, I lived the first few years of my life at Leuchers House, my uncle's seat in Fife."
"If, like me, you had grown up in Old Town, you would consider these apartments extremely spacious. Fifty years ago, even the wealthiest lived in three rooms, a quarter this size, with no separate accommodation for servants. My mother's maid slept on the floor in front of the fire."
Margaret had heard this kind of talk often enough before, usually from elderly associates of her uncle, who remembered the days when all the land north of the Nor' Loch had been undisturbed meadows and bogs, and the whole population of the city had crammed into the towering, toppling tenements along the castle ridge. It meant nothing to her, whose earliest memories included trips to town to watch the south side of Charlotte Square, and her uncle's new house, being raised up from the ground like a great stone skeleton. She had never known anything but light and space and comfort, and she considered her new home to be rather small.
Still, it would be hers. She was also interested to note that there was only one bedroom in the property, not including the servants' rooms. Surely, when they were forced to share a bed, her husband would overcome whatever scruple was keeping him from performing his marital duties?
On Friday morning, a cart was duly laden with their few possessions packed in boxes and trunks and driven round to Princes Street while the family had breakfast. After breakfast, Margaret and Lord John walked to their new home together, to oversee the unpacking.
Unsatisfactory though Margaret felt the apartments were, and troubled though she was in her mind about what secret her husband might be keeping from her, it was impossible not to feel a surge of energy and cheerfulness as she helped unwrap the set of china which the Buccleuchs had given them as a wedding present and arranged her collection of books on the shelves of the parlour.
"That is a great many books," said Lord John. "And not all novels, either!"
"What, sir, did you think that women read nothing but novels?"
"Of course. Everyone knows that. And in justice, I would point out that there are a great many novels in amidst the poetry and the histories and the travelogues."
"Some novels are veritable works of art," she said defensively. "Quite as much as poems or plays. Where are your books? Shall we combine them?"
"Alas, nearly all of my books are either gathering mildew in Venice or languishing, safe enough, but untouched and neglected at Dunwoodie House. I left both places so precipitously that I took with me almost nothing but the clothes I stand in. I have no books. Not even a copy of my own poems."
"Oh. I should like to read your poems."
"You would not. They are foul. The folly of youth, I blush for them now."
"Might we travel? I should love to see Venice for myself, and then we could attempt to rescue your books from there."
A shadow passed over his face. "No! I shall never set foot in that accursed lagoon again. I made a vow, Margaret."
He left the room abruptly, leaving Margaret kneeling amidst her volumes, rebuffed but thoughtful. The woman who had his heart, could she be a Venetian girl? And perhaps the ba
rrier to their union had not been station, but religion. She recalled the warmth with which he had spoken of the Papists and their belief that the rest of Christendom was damned along with the heathens. She was not entirely certain, but she was sure that she had read that Roman Catholics were not permitted to marry non-Catholics. The girl must have spurned him on those grounds, or her family had forbidden the match.
Tears stood in her eyes as belief seized her. It all made sense. The poems he affected to despise with so visible a shudder, they must have been written for her. That was why the very thought of them caused him pain now. That was why he seemed to hate Venice and had made a vow—a vow, no less—never to return to the place that was overcast by the shadow of lost love.
She would make an attempt, at any rate, to talk to him about it. He could not have meant what he said, that he would not discuss his reasons for their celibate state, not really. And before she made any dubious investigations into his possessions, she ought to give him the chance to unbend and explain himself.
So that night, she prepared herself. The cook, a young woman who had been sent by an agency in Old Town and seemed remarkably competent for a servant obtained via such a doubtful route, had made a hearty dinner of grilled chops followed by stewed plums. They had eaten this first meal in their new home in the parlour, on the rented but rather pretty little gate leg dining table overlooking the moonlit silhouette of the castle. Margaret had insisted that the curtains and shutters be kept open so that they could enjoy the view while they dined. Lord John talked intelligently about the modern poets and turned out to have known Lord Byron in Venice.