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‘Damn and blast it!’
Henry had released her and stomped off, but not without a last look at Marianne. I shall win, it had promised. You cannot escape me for ever.
Mrs Bailey had stayed to soothe and calm Marianne. ‘Oh, my poor dear girl! That he would do such a thing!’
‘Please go—do not draw his anger,’ Marianne had urged, though her whole body had been shaking. ‘If the mess is not cleaned up quickly who knows what he will do!’
‘The footmen are already cleaning it,’ the housekeeper had reassured her. ‘My maids will not serve them in the evenings.’
They both knew why. The maids had also experienced the licentious behaviour of Henry and his drunken friends.
During the day their behaviour was rowdy, but they were usually reasonably restrained. In the evenings, however, fuelled by port and brandy, they became increasingly vulgar, ribald and uninhibited. And the entire household suffered as a result.
Marianne, pleading the conventions of mourning, had always avoided the ordeal of eating with them, choosing instead to consume a simple dinner each evening in the smaller dining room. She barely knew who was here this time—apart from his two closest friends, Henry’s guests were different for each house party.
Oh, their hairstyles and clothes were more or less the same—they were all ‘men of fashion,’ who spent their wealth on coats by Weston or Stultz, boots by Hoby and waistcoats by whichever master tailor was in fashion at that precise moment. Their behaviour, too, was more or less the same—arrogance born of entitlement and the belief that they could do whatever they wished, particularly to defenceless women. Including, it seemed, Marianne herself.
Knowing he would be criticised by society if he continued his customary carousing in public too soon after the tragic deaths of his father and stepmother, Henry had told Marianne that he had hit on the ‘genius notion’ of inviting all his friends for a series of house parties. Every few weeks, her home had been invaded by large groups of young men. They stayed for five or six nights each time and were up for every kind of lark.
The housemaids had learned to be wary of them, and Mrs Bailey had hired three older women to serve them, keeping Jane and the other young housemaids as safe as she could. Some of the servants—maids and footmen—had left already, to take up positions elsewhere. Very few long-serving staff remained—chief among them Mrs Bailey and Jane. Mrs Bailey had expressed the hope that once their year of mourning was completed, in March, Henry would return to his preference of living in the capital, and they would again have peace.
His attempt to assault Marianne herself this evening had changed everything.
While the behaviour of Henry and his friends had been gradually worsening, last night’s incident had been different. It had not been simply a lewd comment or a clumsy attempt to embrace a chambermaid. Henry had dark intentions, and Marianne now knew for sure that she was in danger. Running away was her only option. Mrs Bailey agreed.
‘Here is the direction for the registry I told you about.’ The housekeeper pressed a note into Marianne’s hand. ‘I have heard that they will place people who come without references. Lord knows we may need it ourselves before long.’
‘Thank you.’ Marianne secreted the note in her pocket, where her meagre purse also rested.
Although she had never wanted for food, new clothes or trinkets, and had a generous allowance, nevertheless she did not normally need access to much cash. This was an unusual and urgent situation, so she would have to make do with the pin money she’d had in her room. She drew her cloak around her and picked up her bandboxes again, this time hefting one in each hand.
‘Mr Harris will meet you at the gates.’ The housekeeper named one of the tenant farmers. ‘He will take you in his cart as far as the Hawk and Hound, where you can catch the stage at five in the morning. It comes through Cambridge from Ely and you will be in London by nightfall. I’ve also written down the names of two respectable inns. Hopefully one of them will have a room free. Stay there until you find a situation as a governess.’ She gripped Marianne’s hand. ‘I am so sorry that you have to leave your home, miss. Please take care of yourself.’
‘I will.’
Marianne nodded confidently, as if she knew what she was doing. But as she walked up the drive in darkness, away from the only home she had ever known, her heart sank.
How on earth am I to manage? she wondered. For I have never before had to take care of myself!
Grimly, she considered her situation. She had been gently reared, and could play the harp and sing, sketch reasonably well and set a neat stitch. She had been bookish and adept at her lessons when she was younger.
But she had no idea how to buy a ticket for the stagecoach, or wash clothes, or manage money.
She had also never been in a public place unaccompanied before. Mama had always been with her, or her governess, or occasionally a personal maid. But those days were gone. She must learn to dress by herself now, and mend her own clothing, and dress her own hair. And somehow she must keep herself safe in the hell that was London.
London! She knew little of the capital—had never visited the place. But in her mind it was associated with all kinds of vice. London was where Henry lived. London was where his arrogant, lecherous friends lived. London, she had come to understand, was a place overrun with wicked young men, drinking and vomiting and carousing their way through the streets, gambling dens and gin salons.
Mama and Papa had hated to visit the place, and had always exclaimed with relief when they’d returned home to country air and plain cooking. They had never taken her with them, leaving her safely in the care of her nurse or governess, and Marianne had never objected. Even as a child she had understood that London was a Bad Place, and she had been puzzled by Henry’s excitement at going there.
When he had become old enough he had insisted on having lodgings of his own in the city, and with reluctance Papa had given in to his son’s demands. Henry had moved to London, rarely coming home to visit, and everyone at home had breathed a little easier.
And now here she was, leaving home in the middle of a cold January night, with little money, no chaperone, and no notion of how she was going to manage. And she was choosing to go to London, of all places.
She stifled a hysterical giggle. Strangely, the absurdity of it all had cheered her up. That she could laugh at such a moment!
She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and trudged on.
Netherton, Bedfordshire
William Ashington, known to his friends as Ash, rubbed his hands together to keep away the cold. The vicar’s words washed over him. ‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God in his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed: we therefore commit his body to the ground—earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust...’
Ash threw a handful of earth onto John’s coffin, feeling again the loss of the man who had been much more to him than a cousin. In truth John had been like a brother to him—at least until that summer when they had both turned eighteen. In recent years they had recovered something of an awkward friendship, but it had never been the same.
How could it?
He turned away as the service ended, accepting a few handshakes and murmuring appropriate responses to the expressions of sorrow being offered.
‘My Lord?’ It was the vicar. Ash started, realising the man was addressing him. Strange to think that because of John’s death he was now not simply Mr Ashington but the Earl of Kingswood.
‘Yes?’
The vicar shook his hand and thanked him for attending the service. ‘A funeral is always a sad occasion, but laying to rest such a young man is doubly sorrowful. Why, he was not much more than two and thirty!’
I know, thought Ash. For John and I are—were—almost the same age.
‘And to think of his widow and daughter, now left alone in the world...’ The vicar sighed, then looked at Ash intently. ‘Lord Kingswood—er...the previous Lord Kingswood spoke about them often to me in his final weeks.’
‘Indeed.’ The last person Ash wished to think about was John’s widow. Thank goodness women did not attend funerals.
‘He also spoke about you.’ The vicar’s warm brown eyes bored into Ash’s. ‘I think he regretted the distance between you.’
Ash was feeling extremely uncomfortable. He was unaccustomed to discussing his personal affairs with someone he had just met. In truth, he was unaccustomed to discussing his personal affairs with anyone. He preferred it that way.
Adopting his usual defence in such moments, he maintained an even expression and said nothing.
The vicar made a few more general comments and Ash listened politely. He thanked the man and turned away to where his coachman, Tully, waited with the carriage. If he left now he could be back in London by tonight.
‘Er...’
The vicar. Again.
‘Yes?’ Ash’s patience was beginning to wear thin, but he forced himself to maintain a courteous expression.
‘I was asked to pass this to you.’ He offered Ash a sealed note.
Ash frowned but took the paper. Opening it, he ran his eyes over the contents.
‘Confound it!’ he snapped, causing the vicar to raise an eyebrow. ‘I am requested to go to the house after the funeral. By the family lawyer.’
The vicar looked bewildered at his reaction to what must seem a perfectly reasonable request. They were literally standing together at the Fourth Earl of Kingswood’s funeral, and Ash was now the Fifth Earl.
But he had never expected to accede to the title.
Why, John had been only thirty-two, with plenty of time to sire a son with Fanny. Everyone—including Ash—had assumed that John would eventually have sons, and that he—Ash—would never have to worry about the responsibilities John had carried for so long.
Ash debated it in his mind. Could he ignore the note and leave immediately for London, as planned? He could ask the lawyer to see him there. No. It would look churlish and impolite. Damn. He would have to comply as a courtesy. Which meant possibly seeing her again.
Fanny. John’s wife—John’s widow, he corrected himself. After all these years of successfully avoiding her.
Placing his hat firmly on his head, he bade farewell to the vicar and made for his carriage. If he must face this ordeal, better to get it over with.
Chapter Two (#u1c8cfdd4-a808-5734-8021-39de660cecd1)
Marianne reminded herself to breathe. Her shoulders were tense and she could feel fear prick her spine. She had paid the fee and entered her name into the registry book at the office recommended by Mrs Bailey, and now she waited.
Well, she acknowledged, not her actual name. Her made-up name.
She had decided during the long journey to London that she must not go by her usual name, for fear Henry might look for her. She would use her father’s surname—her real father—as it would give her comfort, and she was confident Henry would not remember or recognise it.
After being known as Marianne Grant for most of her twenty years, she would now go back to the surname she had been given at birth—Bolton. Charles Bolton had given her her dark brown eyes, her dark hair and, according to Mama, her placid nature. The Grants were altogether more fiery.
She was seated in an austere room with a dozen other would-be servants, all patiently awaiting their turn to be called. Among the would-be grooms, scullery maids and footmen she had espied two other young ladies, respectably dressed, who might also be seeking employment as governesses. She had exchanged polite smiles with both of them, but no one had initiated conversation.
It was greatly worrying that on a random Tuesday there were three young ladies of similar social standing all seeking positions at the same time.
The door to the inner office opened and everyone looked up. The young man who had been called a few moments earlier now emerged. His demeanour gave no sign as to whether he had been offered a position or not, but he kept his head down as he left.
I wonder, thought Marianne, if he is a footman?
‘Miss Bolton? Miss Anne Bolton?’
With a start, Marianne realised that it was her turn. The lady in charge—the one who had been calling people in for the past hour—was standing in the doorway. Anne Bolton was, of course, the false name Marianne had written in the registry book, and her ears had not responded when the name had been called.
Blushing, she stood. ‘I am Miss Bolton.’
My first lie. Or is it?
The lady eyed her assessingly. ‘Come with me.’
Trying to maintain a dignified expression, and hoping that her shaking hands were not obvious, Marianne followed her into the inner chamber and closed the door.
‘Please sit, Miss Bolton.’
Marianne complied, watching as the registry lady took her own seat behind an imposing rosewood desk. So much depended on the next few moments and this woman’s decision!
‘I am Mrs Gray.’
She was a stern-looking lady in her later years, with iron-grey hair, dark skin, piercing dark eyes and deep lines etched into her face. She wore a plain, high-necked gown in sombre grey and no jewellery. Despite this, it was clear that she was a person of authority. It was something about the way she carried herself, how still she was, the way those dark eyes seem to pierce right through Marianne’s flimsy defences.
‘I see that you are seeking a position as a governess,’ she stated, ‘but you have come with no recommendation. Tell me about your situation and why you are here.’
Mrs Gray’s tone was flat, expressionless. Marianne could feel her heart thumping in her chest.
Haltingly, then with increasing fluency, Marianne told the tale she had concocted. Mrs Gray listened impassively, giving no indication whether she believed any of it. Doubt flooded through Marianne. Perhaps she should not have pretended that her father was a lawyer and that he had left her with little money and no connections. What if Mrs Gray asked for some proof? Her heart fluttered as anxiety rose within her.
‘When did your father die?’
‘Six months ago.’ Marianne’s throat tightened as it always did when she thought about Papa.
Mrs Gray’s eyes narrowed. ‘And your mother?’
‘Also dead.’ Marianne swallowed. Her hands clenched into fists as she fought the wave of grief that threatened to overwhelm her.
Mrs Gray’s gaze flicked briefly to Marianne’s hands, then she leaned back slightly in her chair. ‘Tell me about your education, Miss Bolton. What are your talents?’ Mrs Gray spoke bluntly, giving no clue as to whether she would favour Marianne.
Hesitantly, Marianne spoke of drawing and painting, of her musical skills, her ability to sew and to converse in French and Italian—
‘And what do you know of Mathematics, Logic and Latin?’
Marianne blinked. Mrs Gray had asked the question in perfect Italian! ‘I have studied the main disciplines of Mathematics,’ she replied, also in Italian.
Mrs Gray quizzed her on these, then switched to French, followed by Latin, to discuss the finer details of Marianne’s knowledge of Logic, improving texts and the Classics.
Thankfully Marianne’s expensive education had equipped her well. She had been an apt student and had enjoyed her studies. Was that, she wondered, a glimmer of approval in Mrs Gray’s eye?
The woman paused.
Marianne forced herself to sit still. Please, she was thinking, please. If she could not gain a position as a governess she had no idea what she would do. Returning home was not an option. That door was closed in her mind. She had no home. So everything depended on Mrs Gray.
* * *
This house is freezing, thought Ash, stepping towards the fireplace in John’s study. Hopefully he could be on his way quickly—the last thing he needed was a prolonged encounter with the grieving widow.
He paused, holding out his hands to the pathetic fire, but there was little heat to be had. The door opened and closed, sending smoke billowing into the room. Ash coughed and stepped away from the fire.
Have the dashed chimneys ever been cleaned?
He had not been in Ledbury House for many years, but he could not remember it looking so dilapidated.
‘Lord Kingswood, thank you for coming.’ The lawyer, a bespectacled gentleman in his middle years, bowed formally. ‘My name is Richardson.’
Ash nodded his head. ‘I received your note asking me to come to the house after the funeral. I understand you wish to read the will immediately.’
He kept his tone polite, despite his impatience with the entire situation. Every moment he spent here meant a later arrival in London.
‘I am required to outline the extent of your inheritance, plus a number of other matters added by the Fourth Earl to his will.’ The lawyer pushed his spectacles up his nose, where they balanced precariously. He went behind John’s desk and began taking papers out of a small case.
Ash stood there, wishing for nothing more than to leave and never return. Every part of him was fighting the notion that he was now Earl of Kingswood. The last thing he needed was ‘other matters’ complicating his life further.
