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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
The page-turning Regency romance from the author of Kingscastle First published as Bless Thine Inheritance by Sophia Holloway. Celia Mardham's first London Season should have been a great success, but a near fatal riding accident has left her with a pronounced limp which means she cannot even curtsy, let alone dance. Condemned it seems to spinsterhood, her mother Lady Mardham makes one last effort. She draws up a list of guests for a country house party, picking only young ladies who will not be rivals, as well as some potential suitors. Among the gentlemen is Lord Levedale and when he meets Celia he sees her, not the limp. However, a number of accidents, misunderstandings and spiteful interventions litter the path ahead, and may succeed in driving them apart for good.
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Seitenzahl: 446
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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CELIA
SOPHIA HOLLOWAY
For K M L B
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Lady Mardham disliked her sister-in-law intensely, and the feeling was mutual. They sat on either side of the Chippendale tea table with forced smiles, and exhibited the degree of civility that only appears when people loathe each other. Lady Blaby remembered when the chinoiserie style had been all the rage and the table was new. Like everything else at Meysey, she thought it behind the times; she herself had a far more fashionable example with delicate sabre legs and satinwood stringing. Lady Blaby was the proud possessor of a rich and indulgent husband, and changed the decor of her town house with every vagary of fashion. She was several years Lady Mardham’s junior, and relished the knowledge that not only was she done up in the latest style, but that the few grey hairs she possessed could still be disguised with ease, and that her figure, despite bearing three children, was still remarkably good.
‘I do hope you are keeping in comparatively good health, Pamela,’ she cooed, with patently false concern.
‘I am in the most robust of health, I assure you, my dear sister. We Cossingtons are renowned for it. My own dear Mama never suffered a day of rheumatism or loss of faculties until the day she died, at the age of three and eighty.’
‘How reassuring, then, that you have a few more years left of well-being, however you may look.’ Lady Blaby’s coo became a commiserating purr. She was well aware that Lady Mardham was still two years short of fifty.
Lady Mardham coloured, and changed the subject, ‘How is Sir Marmaduke?’
‘He is, alas, confined with the gout at present, poor man, but has assured me that I should go and visit Lavinia and Charles in any case. He does not like a fuss to be made over him. I am so looking forward to seeing the baby, though the thought of being “Grandmama” is quite horrifying. Fortunately nobody would believe it to look at me.’
‘No, my dear, you never did look the least maternal.’ Lady Mardham could not resist the chance to launch a barb of her own, but Lady Blaby seemed to ignore it.
‘Anyway, since I am travelling down to Batheaston I thought I would break my journey for an hour at my own old home and see how you were all getting on.’ Lady Blaby stressed the ‘getting on’. She paused for a moment, and then dropped her stone of information into the pool of conversation and watched the ripples. ‘You know, time flies by so fast. It does not seem five minutes since Charles was a babe in my arms, and here we are, with him a father, and my little Jane already excited at the thought of her come-out in the spring.’
Whilst simple arithmetic would have prepared Lady Mardham for this announcement, she did not often think about her niece, and as Lady Blaby had anticipated, it came as a shock.
‘Goodness, already?’
‘Why yes. She is so very promising too. A few more months and her figure will have developed a little more, but at least she is not inclined to put on excessive weight. Dumpy girls cannot be shown off to advantage, whatever one tries. I did worry that she might be throwing out a freckle last month, but it was a false alarm, and besides, as disfigurements go …’ Lady Blaby left the sentence hanging, and gave Lady Mardham a look of sympathy which was really smug superiority.
Lady Mardham’s smile became more fixed.
‘Celia’s complexion has always been faultless.’
‘Ah yes, but who considers her complexion, these days?’
‘More tea, Aurelia?’ Her hostess did not look her in the eye.
After Lady Blaby’s departure, Lady Mardham was closeted with her lord for some time. He had carefully avoided meeting his sister, and had taken refuge in his library. His spouse found him sympathetic, but disinclined to hold out much hope of success.
‘By all means, my dear, do as you think fit, but for all the good it will do … And are you sure poor Celia is up to facing company again?’
‘She must be. I declare this news will bring on my nervous spasms.’
Lord Mardham pursed his lips. His lady’s ‘nervous spasms’ always managed to set the house by the ears and ruin his peace. He was a man who liked a quiet but convivial life. Having guests again would be pleasurable, for he was naturally social, but he feared it would all be rather daunting for poor Celia. He thought she had come to terms with things remarkably well, for she was a level-headed and sensible girl. It was all rather tragic for her, but there was nothing more that could be done, and she accepted her prospects with equanimity. He sometimes thought his wife still thought of the whole thing as some bad dream from which they might waken if they only put their minds to it.
‘I recommend that the energy that might be expended in spasms, my dear, be channelled instead into your preparations. You will be wanting to make up a suitable party.’
Lady Mardham responded to this gentle guidance and went away to write lists – many of them. It was lacking but an hour until dinner when she asked to see her daughter in the yellow saloon, where the late afternoon sunshine gave the room a cheering golden glow. Lady Mardham fiddled with the lace at the cuffs of her gown. The door opened, and her daughter entered.
‘You wished to speak with me, Mama?’
‘Ah, Celia, dearest.’ Lady Mardham addressed her younger child, but did so without quite looking directly at her, blissfully unaware how much it hurt her daughter. ‘Come and sit down, my poor child. I have something we need to discuss.’
Celia Mardham did as she was bid, coming haltingly across the room, and set her stick beside her chair. She was a little short of twenty years old, but months of pain and discomfort had made her look older. She folded her hands in her lap. She was without doubt an exceedingly pretty girl, with rich brown hair, delicately arched brows, a straight nose, generous mouth and the complexion which her mother had extolled. Lady Mardham had been confident of her successful come-out, for who but a man with eyes only for blondes or raven-locked brunettes could not fail to be charmed by her. It was clear that she would make an excellent debut in Society and be snapped up in her first Season, except that her Season never took place. On a cold February day, only a couple of months before they were to remove to London, she had suffered an accident in the hunting field. Her horse had stumbled upon landing after a ditch and rolled onto her, and it had resulted in a broken femur, from which at first it was feared she might not recover. The local surgeon, knowing the high morbidity of such an injury, had prepared her parents for the worst and sent for the bone-setter from Cheltenham. At that expert gentleman’s hands she had endured much, but he had successfully aligned the ends of the bone as best he could, and splinted the leg tightly. Initially, her survival was so great a relief that any other considerations were set aside.
Only very gradually had she regained her health. Three months she had been bedridden, the leg held straight to mend, but the knee so immobile that thereafter it had remained stiff, and impossible to flex fully. This meant that when she sat, her left foot stuck out a little before her, rather than being hidden demurely beside the right under her skirts, and advertised her as ‘different’. The leg itself was now scarred from the ulceration that had been the consequence of that immobility, but at least that was only known by her maid and closest of relatives. What was more important was that Celia also had a pronounced limp. For months she could barely put her weight upon the limb, and every step was a struggle. Her mama had clung to the hope that the limp would disappear as she grew stronger, despite the doctor telling her that the shortening of the leg by some three inches meant that this was an impossibility. Thereafter Lady Mardham found it difficult to watch her daughter walk. Every ungainly step shouted at her that she was condemned to spinsterhood, unable to ever take her place in a dance set, or glide across a drawing room floor. Her good looks counted for nothing when people only saw the limp, and a Season would be both a waste and an embarrassment. In view of Lady Blaby’s news, however, ‘something must be done’ to try, just once, to find the poor girl a husband.
‘Your Papa and I are going to invite a few guests to stay.’
‘Do you wish me to remove to Grandmama in the Dower House?’ Celia frowned slightly. She could think of no other reason why her mama should look so embarrassed at disclosing this news. They had not invited anyone to Meysey in the eighteen months since her accident, and she had seen nobody outside the family except one of her brother’s friends who had come into Gloucestershire with him after New Year.
‘No, no, my dear.’ Lady Mardham’s confusion increased. ‘You see, I … your papa and I, think it only fair that you do get the chance to meet people again. It is terribly unfortunate that … not that we blame you in any way, of course … and with your cousin Jane coming out next Season …’
Her daughter’s frown remained, since none of this made a lot of sense.
‘Forgive me, Mama, but when you say “meet people”, do you mean gentlemen? I assure you that I have become perfectly accustomed to the idea that I will not marry, and Richard has assured me that I will always have a place in his home when he weds, or that I can, in time, have the Dower House.’ Celia smiled, a little wryly, at her mama. ‘I have no wish to be paraded as an object that some man might pity, and I can do none of the things a gentleman would expect in a situation where courtship is involved. I cannot dance, or ride, or even stroll. The situation is hopeless, but I do accept it.’
‘You do not fully understand, my love. Richard is a dear boy, but marriage is the mark of success for a woman in this world. It gives you freedom. To make no effort at all to see you established would be neglectful, and … you will not know about your Grandpapa’s will, for you were still playing with your dolls when he died, but he made provision … and none of us, even Grandmama, understood why … but there is a considerable legacy to whichever of his granddaughters weds first, and before her twenty-first birthday. Jane is being brought out next year, and of course you will reach that age next September.’
‘You think I need the security of an inheritance? Am I to be indigent?’
‘My dear Celia, the legacy is considerable. We are talking thirty thousand pounds, and seeing it go to her daughter would be the outside of enough.’ Lady Mardham’s tone became acid.
‘Ah.’ That, thought Celia, was the nub of the issue. Aunt Aurelia was loathed by both her brother and sister-in-law, and not popular even with her own mama, from what she had gathered from Grandmama, who regarded her daughter’s second marriage as wilful disobedience. Sir Marmaduke Blaby might have been well-heeled, but old Lady Mardham castigated him as a ‘snivelling worm’. ‘So you want to make a push to get me married off to spike Aunt Aurelia’s guns.’
‘That is not a lady-like term. I assume you picked it up from young Wakehurst when he came home last. Please do not use it in front of our guests.’ Lady Mardham spoke repressively, but Celia knew she was just trying to avoid admitting the truth.
‘So have you anyone in particular whom you think would not object to me?’ Celia’s smile was now fixed, and her eyes challenged.
‘“Object”? You are not objectionable, Celia, but we have to be pragmatic. Sir Marcus Cotgrave told me last year how much you reminded him of his late wife, and that he could learn to ignore your deformity.’
‘How generous of Sir Marcus. He is, by the way, five and forty at the least.’
‘Mr Wombwell is not yet thirty, and his mama, with whom I correspond regularly, as you know, is very keen that he marry and settles down.’
‘That is because he is rackety beyond belief. He is hardly a paragon of virtue. In fact you yourself have said how very wayward he has become. Indeed you told me that some of his recent exploits were not for delicate ears, so I can only assume that he is some form of libertine.’
‘But he is the right age.’
‘If there is the chance of thirty thousand pounds, Mama, why not let it be known and have all the fortune hunters who missed out this Season flock to our door?’ Celia’s sarcasm was obvious enough, but her words were again ignored.
‘There is a stipulation that the gentleman must himself be solvent, with at least five thousand pounds of his own in the Funds, a regular income, and able to support a wife. Also the bequest is invalidated if used as an inducement; it may only be revealed once the betrothal is agreed.’
‘What was Grandpapa thinking of?’
‘He had a sister who died years ago, an unmarried sister who was determined not to marry. He saw her life, and was, apparently, keen that his granddaughters did not follow that path. He thought all women needed a husband to guide them.’
‘I cannot see Grandmama being “guided” very often, even by him.’ Celia gave a wry smile, for Grandmama was a force to be reckoned with, and her relatives treated her with utmost respect.
‘Very true, but I think he clung on to the idea that he could guide her, even though he did not.’
‘And why not simply divide the sum and make it available to Jane and myself upon marriage, not turn it into a race, and winner takes all?’
‘Oh, do not ask me that, my poor Celia. Do you not think we have all of us wondered at it over the years? Whatever we think, that is as it stands, and … I have given it some thought, and so as not to make it too obvious, I will invite the Corfemullens, and get Richard to bring one or two of his friends, and you could invite that girl you were at school with, the one who writes all those meandering letters.’
‘Marianne Burton? She is a nice girl but, Mama, you know full well her father came up from trade.’
‘And is a Member of Parliament, and knighted, so it does not mean we may not invite her, but of course she will not be eligible so no threat to you, my dear. And your papa says Sir Thomas is a very decent man.’
‘Poor Celia’ ignored the implication that any other woman in the party had to be married or ineligible through birth.
‘When last we met she showed every sign of becoming very pretty.’
‘Yes, but you were but sixteen dear, and she is younger. And she is not married yet so perhaps that came to nothing.’ Lady Mardham looked upon the bright side.
‘And I gather Sir Thomas is a man of wealth and she his sole heiress.’
‘Yes, well … He is in the stoutest of health at present, as far as we know.’ It was Lady Mardham’s turn to ignore an implication. ‘I shall write to your brother and see if he can find someone.’ She rose, already formulating phrases in her head.
Celia remained seated some time. What she had said was truthful. She had accepted that her future was not the one she had always imagined. She also knew that what Mama said was equally true. Marriage was a freedom, and being the dependent relative was not. Everything about the bringing up of a daughter was focused upon the aim of ‘seeing her established’, from how she looked to the list of her accomplishments. The seminary had taught French, and Italian, and Celia, whilst not revealing such a thing to Mama for fear of being denounced as a bluestocking, had even cribbed a little Latin from her brother’s school books. She had learnt to draw, to paint watercolours, to set a sleeve and embroider, to sing and play the pianoforte; there had been a dancing master and hours spent upon deportment. Even arithmetic had been taught so that she, as mistress of a house, could look over the quarterly accounts. As her brother’s pensioner she would never see an account book. She had been condemned, in one moment of misfortune, to missing out on the practical advantages of marriage, and also that other side. She, like her peers, had dreamt of a handsome man falling in love with her, and she with him, followed by some vague matrimonial idyll. Well, no man would look at her now, other than with pity, and how she had come to hate pity. She gave herself a mental shake. Self-pity was the worst form of all. She had resolved to make the best of things, to be grateful for what she did have, but sometimes it was so very hard.
‘And now I am to be exhibited in the hope that pity will win me a husband, and a fortune.’ Celia voiced her thought aloud. ‘What foolishness, and how very, very lowering.’
‘Well, if that don’t beat all,’ the Honourable Richard Mardham, resplendent in what he considered a tasteful, deep purple, paisley silk dressing gown, and with a forkful of rare beef poised between plate and mouth, put down the missive he had received from his mother and heaved a sigh.
His friend, Lord Deben, who was a rather earlier riser, and had discovered him still at his breakfast, raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Can’t say one way or the other if you don’t tell what it is, my dear fellow. Not a nasty shock, I hope?’
‘Not exactly, but … my mama has decided to invite a load of people down to Meysey to try and …’ He suddenly thought that telling his friend his family were downright desperate to get his sister married off was not quite the thing, and ended, lamely, ‘cheer my sister up.’
‘Er, is your sister blue-devilled? I mean, must be dashed unpleasant for her, hobbling about and whatnot, but last time I saw her she seemed remarkably stoic. Brave girl, I thought her.’ Lord Deben was a young man without an excessive intelligence, but possessed of a very kind nature.
‘Yes, well, Mama thinks she needs a fillip and has said she wants me to toddle down to the family seat and, mark you, to bring a couple of my friends with me.’
‘Sounds very reasonable. I mean, not much fun being there with people you don’t know or dislike. Much nicer to have a couple of your own friends about. Place might be packed with some very fusty old types for all you know. Not sure they would cheer the poor girl up very much. When is this to be?’
‘Fortnight Wednesday. And I was thinking of heading up to Yorkshire and staying with Rufus Leeming for some grouse shooting. Who would want to come into Gloucestershire with me?’
‘Well, it will be the beginning of September, so there will be partridge. As I recall you do well for partridge, and if you want company, well, yours truly would be glad to oblige,’ Lord Deben offered, diffidently. ‘Not sure how my being there might cheer your sister up, but only too happy, etc …’
‘Jolly decent of you, Debs. Sure you do not mind?’
‘Not at all. To be honest, finding myself at a bit of a loose end at the moment, and I have no inclination to make a bolt for home. Father keeps asking what I am doing to occupy myself as if he thought I should actually do something specific. Just because he keeps writing long essay things, like one had to do at school, but all about some plant or other. Odd fish, my Pater, I sometimes think. I was complaining about it to Pocklington only yesterday evening. Now, there’s a thought. What about inviting him too? Pocklington, not my father.’
Mr Mardham, ignoring the part of the letter which had suggested his friends be the sort hanging out for a wife in the near future, willingly assented to this idea. Lord Pocklington was a gentleman keen on outdoor pursuits, and had only remained in the Metropolis because his family seat was, in his words, ‘infested with aunts’.
‘At least you will be assured of good food, Debs. Nothing fancy served at Meysey, but Cook has a way with patties …’
‘I remember the last time I went down with you, and there was that raised pie. Melted in the mouth it did.’ Lord Deben’s mouth watered at the memory, and the whole idea suddenly seemed far more appealing to both gentlemen. Richard Mardham set aside his letter, requested his friend to await him while he dressed, and suggested they then go in search of Viscount Pocklington, via their club and Tattersall’s ring.
CHAPTER TWO
Sir Thomas Burton was a man who knew his limitations. He was not ashamed of his comparatively humble beginnings as the son of a Bristol wine merchant, and exceedingly proud that he had risen to be an alderman of his city and then a Member of Parliament. He knew full well, however, that many of his aristocratic acquaintances tolerated him for his wealth and acumen, but yet looked down their noses at him for his origins. It did not bother him a whit for himself, but it did concern him that his only child, upon whom he had begrudged no expense at a very select Queen’s Square seminary in Bath, might find her path to social acceptance blocked by ‘trade’. That very ‘trade’ would one day make her, and thus her husband, very wealthy indeed, but for all the talk of young women who had risen above far more humble birth in the past, he had fears that his beautiful Marianne would end up a simple ‘Mrs’ when she ought to be a titled lady. Purchasing Embling Grange shortly after the death of his wife, he had gentrified himself to a degree where he frequently brushed shoulders with the aristocracy, but was not close. He was therefore quite surprised to find himself singled out by the Earl of Curborough in a Gloucester gunsmith’s.
‘Ah, Sir Thomas, thinking of acquiring a new gun for the shooting season, eh?’ The earl’s manner was that of a close friend, although they were but nodding acquaintances.
‘Er, yes, my lord.’ In truth, Sir Thomas, very much a townsman, had never owned a shotgun before, and was hoping his gamekeeper might take him somewhere out of the way and teach him what to do so that he would not disgrace himself in the months to come. ‘Mr Prosser here has been checking what length of stock would suit me best.’
‘Ah, yes. Let Prosser see you right and, well, perhaps I could offer you some shooting once the pheasant season begins.’
Sir Thomas blinked and mumbled his thanks, conscious that he would always accord the gunmaker the courtesy of ‘Mister’ because he respected the man’s skill in his trade, just as the earl would never think of addressing the man with more than his surname.
‘How is Miss Burton these days? Not “flown the nest” yet, has she?’ Lord Curborough laughed at his own wit. This made up for the fact that it was extremely unlikely that anybody else would do so.
‘No, my lord. She is a great support to me still, but I suppose it won’t be long before some fine gentleman comes asking for her hand. She has just had a very kind invitation from Lady Mardham to stay with her friend Miss Mardham, at Meysey.’
‘Has she, indeed. I know Mardham. The thing is, my boy Levedale needs to set up his nursery. Since my poor Laurence died, he is the last of our name and … Illustrious name of course, though we are not as plump in the pocket as once we were.’ Lord Curborough sighed, but was watching Sir Thomas very closely. ‘My elder boy was a little wild, though good at heart. Levedale was always the steadier of the two. Make a good, thoughtful husband.’
Sir Thomas was not sure how to respond. To agree would be to imply a knowledge of the young man he did not possess, and to disagree would be even worse.
‘Quite so, my lord,’ he managed, noncommittally.
‘You would like having your daughter not too far placed from you, no doubt, mistress of a nice estate, and a countess.’
This was all going a little fast for Sir Thomas, but he nodded nonetheless.
‘I shall see if Mardham will extend his invitation to Levedale, and you never know, perhaps it will be my boy asking for a private interview with you in the near future, what.’
Sir Thomas nodded again. He did not know whether to be delighted or worried.
Lord Curborough’s ancestral seat was some twenty miles distant from Meysey, and he knew Lord Mardham through mutual acquaintances rather than being a close friend. In pursuance of his plan – and Lord Curborough considered it a very excellent one – he arranged to see several of these mutual acquaintances over the course of the week, playing upon the fact that he was a ‘lonesome widower rattling about his home’, and on the third foray found himself in luck, for the Mardhams were also dining. Some judicious eavesdropping led him to understand that the underlying reason for the house party was to show off Miss Mardham, though why they were bothering to do so eluded him, since surely she was some form of cripple.
It was a simple matter to engage in private conversation with the viscount, as they joined the ladies after the port.
‘How is your son? Robert, isn’t it?’
‘Richard. He does very well. He is up in Town still, as the young bucks like to be, you know, but coming down to Meysey next week, which will please his mama.’
‘Ah yes, my own poor wife doted upon our boys.’ Curborough sighed, heavily. ‘I am glad she did not live to see Laurence depart this life so young. But there. Arthur – Levedale as he now is – well, he’s a sound fellow, but there is little to interest him at home, and he is kicking his heels rather.’
As a hint, it was not subtle, but Lord Curborough was not a subtle man.
‘He is in Gloucestershire?’
‘Why yes,’ lied Curborough, unblushingly.
‘Er, perhaps he might care to join the younger set with us then, from the eighth.’
‘You know, that sounds the very thing.’ Curborough managed to look as if this was a delightful surprise to him. ‘He is at low ebb, you know, not having found any filly up to his weight, so to speak, this Season.’ That, thought Curborough, ought to be the clincher. No need to say that he would not be taking a second glance at a ‘filly’ that trotted out lame.
‘He would be very welcome to spend a few weeks with us. Not that we have anything more than some fishing, a little shooting, and some jolly company. I shall get my lady to send an invitation.’
Lord Curborough’s delight was not feigned, and he returned home to write, that very evening, commanding his son and heir to return forthwith to the family seat as a matter of urgency.
‘I am not sure we do not need another lady, after all, you know.’ Lady Mardham looked down her final list of guests. There were several names with lines scrawled through them, and scribbled superscriptions. ‘The Corfemullens cancel each other out, if you see what I mean, and Richard does not count of course, but he is bringing Lord Pocklington and Lord Deben, and Sir Marcus Cotgrave has accepted, and Mr Wombwell, and his mama is coming as my own friend, and now it seems we are to have Lord Levedale also, but the good news is that Curborough has hinted he is on the lookout for a wife, so … That is five gentlemen and only two young ladies. Oh dear! I cannot think of three more. No, wait! We could invite the Darwens’ daughter. She is back after an unsuccessful first Season.’
‘That might be because she has a very uncertain and spiteful temper, Mama. You have described her as “that awful girl” on several occasions.’ Celia did not sound delighted.
‘True, but that was before her come-out. Besides, if it is true, do you not see that as to your advantage?’
‘No, since for the majority of the time I will be the one having to entertain her.’
‘Nevertheless, she evens up the numbers a little, so I will send out an invitation. Oh, now what about my cousin Cora’s girl? If she is anything like her mother in her youth she will not turn heads. Very average, was Cora. Came as a total surprise when she married Colonel Clandon. I am sure Cora would be delighted for her to have the opportunity of mixing with the right sort of people. Now what is her name? Sarah, or Susanna, or is it Sophia?’
Celia said nothing. After all, her mama was talking to herself more than to her. For her own part she was not looking forward to a house full of gentlemen before whom Mama would expect her to use wiles, which she did not even think she possessed, to catch one as a husband. It was embarrassing, for her and for them. She would far prefer to live quietly where everyone, except Mama, had got used to her limp. The guests would either stare at her, or do as Mama did, and look away, pretending not to notice. At least everyone except Lord Deben. He had come down with Richard while she still felt very unused to her bad leg, and was rather overwhelmed by it, and he had treated her in much the same way as Richard himself. She could happily treat him as she did her brother, but the thought of him as a suitor was perfectly ridiculous.
Viscount Levedale drove up the curving drive towards the house in which he had been born. He had happy early memories of it, before his brother Laurence, and then he himself, were sent off to school. He smiled, recalling how enormous even the small formal gardens had seemed to them, as they played chase, hid from Nurse, or pretended to be hunting dragons. It was as if that was another world, for in later years everything had changed. Laurence and he had grown apart after his elder sibling was sent down from Oxford and given himself up to a life of gambling, loose women and frequent inebriation. Mama had grown hollow-cheeked and ill, ravaged as much by worry as disease, and since her death, three years past, her younger son had only been home the once, and that was six months ago, when his brother had been interred in the same family vault. Now he came because he was summoned, and an air of melancholy and slight dilapidation clung to Silvertons.
His groom jumped down to take the chestnuts’ heads, and his lordship climbed down, thanked him, and went to ring the bell that he heard echo through the house. A stooped and elderly butler opened the door after some minutes, and looked up at him with rheumy eyes.
‘Good afternoon, Pawston.’
‘My lord! You were not expected until tomorrow.’
‘I am early, yes. Will that discommode everyone?’ He gave the butler a smile, and Pawston, as always, fell under its charm.
‘Not at all, my lord. His lordship is not at present at home, however. He is gone over to Squire Huxtable this afternoon, but is due home to dine. May I say as how it is a great pleasure to see you home again, my lord.’ Pawston positively beamed at him, as befitted a butler who had been in service in the house since before his lordship had made his entry into the world.
‘Thank you, Pawston. It is good to be home.’ This was not entirely true. There were sad ghosts in Silvertons, and Levedale was at a loss to understand what his sire had considered so important that he had commanded – and it was no less – that he come up from Devon immediately. He had always been a poor second in his father’s eye, largely because Laurence was so like his father in looks and temperament. ‘Young Arthur’ had been more in his mother’s mould – quiet, thoughtful, and completely uninterested in those things in which Laurence had found entertainment. Not for him a life of tawdry women, high stakes gambling and heavy drinking.
Lord Curborough seemed to have regarded his heir’s lifestyle as one of which to be proud, and his younger son correctly assumed that it was the same he himself had followed in his youth. That in itself ought to have been a warning to Laurence, for Lord Curborough was florid of face and large of girth, and the Romney which hung in the long gallery showed him a rakish, dark and handsome young man of lithe build. Laurence had once looked so similar that his mother described him as a walking portrait of his father.
That his debauchery would ruin not just his figure but his health and empty what little remained in the family coffers had been obvious to everyone except father and son. Arthur, living within his allowance, was castigated by his father as ‘boring’, and when he had inherited a neat little Devon property from his maternal grandparent and chosen to go and live there, Lord Curborough had gone so far as to question his paternity. ‘Why any son of mine should want to play farmers in the middle of nowhere I cannot imagine. Almost I might have imagined your mother had played me false.’ This had been an unfounded slur upon his countess. Lady Curborough had been accounted something of a beauty in her youth, with glossy chestnut locks, and near perfect features, if with rather too tall and slender a figure. From her, Arthur had inherited colouring and inches, for he was an inch or two over six foot, whilst his brother and father were of a very average height. The bond between mother and son had been close. When in adulthood he understood the reasons for his mama’s gentle melancholy, his relationship with his father had deteriorated to the point where he came to Silvertons only to see her, and usually when his father was away. Her death had grieved him deeply, whilst it was the death of Laurence from a disordered liver that had nearly broken Lord Curborough. His grief was exacerbated by the discovery that his heir had been far more deeply in debt than even he had thought possible, and the discharge of those debts, on top of the earl’s continued extravagances, had resulted in much of the estate being mortgaged or put out to long-term lease.
Stepping into his brother’s shoes had not given the new Lord Levedale any pleasure, nor improved his relationship with his father. The urgency of the missive demanding that he return to the family seat meant that he had obeyed it, but without any enthusiasm. Now, as he looked about him and mentally reviewed all that the house needed in renovations, he became quite despondent. He settled himself in the library with a volume of Juvenal which had clearly not been taken from the shelf in decades, and a glass of what he had to admit was a devilish fine burgundy which cleared the dust of travel from his throat, and waited.
It was some two hours later when Lord Curborough arrived home. Levedale heard his blustering voice in the vestibule, and his terse comment that he would see his son when he had changed for dinner. The Juvenal was replaced, and the viscount made his own way upstairs to the chamber he had occupied since late adolescence. There were signs of moth in the curtains, which had faded from a rich green to a muted drab, and the paint on the window embrasure was yellowed with the sun, and cracked. It was not a room much used, but he had seen that even the public rooms were little better. He compared it to his own modest residence, a neat house of local stone with a simple stuccoed facade and of seven bedchambers, which was amply served by a butler, cook, two serving men and two maids. His only extravagance had been to increase the size of the succession house in the kitchen garden to provide his household with earlier produce and exotic fruits.
His man, Welney, had laid out his evening clothes in readiness, and called immediately for hot water, since his lordship liked to shave before dining, being a gentleman whose chin could lose its smoothness in the course of the day.
‘I regret that this chamber being so far distant from the kitchens, my lord, I cannot vouch for the water being as hot as you would wish it.’
‘Oh, I am used to that, Welney, do not worry.’ His lordship rubbed his jawline and grimaced.
‘Will we be remaining long, my lord?’
‘I cannot say, until my father has disclosed the reason for his summons. I think I will stop off in Bath on our return journey for a few days. You have been muttering over the state of my shirts and I could invest in some new ones.’
Welney made a noise which was both a denial that he did anything so impolite as mutter and yet was also approving of this plan.
Until such time as the servants withdrew, Lord Curborough confined his discourse with his son to platitudes, which that gentleman found frustrating. However, the food, whilst far too much for one of Lord Levedale’s abstemious appetite, was very good, and he sent his plaudits to the cook. Eventually, Lord Curborough nodded dismissal to Pawston, the staff withdrew, and father and son were left alone.
‘So, sir, what is the reason for your hasty summons?’ The viscount’s tone had an edge of challenge to it.
‘You are my heir. I am not as young as I was, and we need to discuss your nursery.’
‘My what?’ The viscount choked over his port. ‘Good God, Father, even if you had notice to quit, which I doubt, having seen you enjoy a more than sufficient dinner, there is no urgency for that. I am not yet seven and twenty.’
‘You never know how long you have. Look at your poor brother.’
‘There are no guarantees, I will concede, but Laurence’s lifestyle is not mine. I say again, there is no rush for me to get myself leg-shackled.’
‘There is every need. I will not disguise from you that the state of our finances is … weak. A good marriage will bolster our position, keep the creditors from the door.’
‘From your door, sir. And I thought that Laurence’s debts had been paid off.’
‘Since then luck has not been on my side.’
‘You mean that after all that we went through, you have not curtailed your own … entertainments?’ Lord Levedale looked horrified.
‘Don’t come over all puritanical, Levedale. A man must have distractions, especially after the misery of bereavement.’
‘Not if they make a dire situation even worse.’
‘It is academic why we have reached this position. Suffice to say if you make a good match the bank will hold back on any foreclosures.’
‘That far gone? And stop saying “we”. This is your mess.’
‘And you are all the family remaining to me, so it is “ours”. I had thought of remarriage myself, but the thought of some chit maundering about the place trying to change everything is too much.’
‘So you expect me to go heiress-hunting like some cheap fortune-hunter.’
‘No need to hunt. I have found the ideal girl for you, and she is the heiress to a cool fifty thousand. You should applaud my foresight. I met with Sir Thomas Burton and discovered his daughter is to be one of a house party at Mardham’s place, from next Wednesday. Got you an invitation. She is considered a good-looking girl, so I am not making things difficult for you.’
‘Thank you, sir, for that. Not that you would have held back if she were cross-eyed and bald.’ Lord Levedale was not appeased by this information.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I would not expect you to marry a freak. And for that matter nor would I have suggested a cripple, even if she had a good sum coming with her.’
‘A cripple?’ Lord Levedale frowned. This seemed very specific.
‘Yes, Mardham’s girl. All I ask is you turn up at Meysey, do the decent by the Burton chit, and she will accept you. You don’t possess Laurence’s good looks and charm, but you are not ill-favoured and you are the heir to an earldom. Her father is mighty keen to see her go up in the world.’
‘If she is so pretty, why wasn’t she snapped up during her London Season?’ Levedale was now suspicious.
‘She wasn’t presented.’ Lord Curborough did not look his son in the eye.
‘You mean her papa is some cit.’
‘Sir Thomas Burton is a Member of Parliament.’
‘Doesn’t stop him being a cit.’
‘And your grandfather married the heiress to a “tin baron” so I do not know that you should turn your nose up at money. Besides, the girl has been raised properly. She won’t disgrace you and smell of the shop, you know.’
Lord Levedale’s brain was reeling. He had no inclination to marry for several years yet, and here was his father, not only demanding he marry, but lining up the prospective bride.
‘I won’t do it. It is the outside of enough. Economise, sir, and the bank will …’
‘The bank won’t, I tell you. You may not care if I am dragged off to a debtor’s prison, and everything is sold off, but would you have our name dragged through the mud, the Earls of Curborough become landless objects of ridicule?’
‘Pity you did not think of this earlier, sir,’ remarked Levedale, running his hand through hair. ‘Why you didn’t show some sense after Laurence died I will never know, and do not spout that “diversion” flummery at me again. If you had but made an effort, kept things steady, it would have saved a lot of trouble.’ He sighed. Whilst he might harangue his father for his stupidity, he could not improve matters except by doing as he requested. Like it or not, and he liked it not at all, he was in a difficult position. ‘Alright. I will agree to go to Meysey, and I will see if this Miss Burton and I could make a match of it, but I make no promises, mind you, none at all. I’ll be damned if I marry a woman I have not the slightest tendre for, simply to save your skin.’
‘You’ll be saving your own, and that of your own heir, and without a good match you are damned too, my boy.’ Lord Curborough gave a grim half-smile.
The sad truth was, he was right.
CHAPTER THREE
Lady Mardham had known Maria Wombwell from the time of their first Season, and if her friend had not married a title, then she had certainly married a gentleman with lineage and money. The two ladies were frequent correspondents, though they met less often. Mrs Wombwell had withdrawn from Society upon the untimely death of her husband a dozen years previously. She had been a devoted wife, and had thereafter channelled all her energies into being an even more devoted and doting mother. Her son, at an age where doting parents of either gender were a source of embarrassment, had taken full advantage of her ever open purse whilst simultaneously doing as many things as possible to prove he was not the paragon she fondly imagined. He went about with a rackety set, of which the then Lord Levedale was a member, but his fondness was not for cards, or blue ruin, but rather the fair sex. He ran a succession of expensive mistresses in the way many gentlemen ran a string of racehorses, and interspersed this with leading eligible young ladies into falling head over heels in love with him, only to disappoint them at the last. He had developed a reputation as ‘dissolute and dangerous’, but, as his mama wrote to her ‘dear friend Pamela’, all he needed to steady him was ‘a good sort of girl who would not expect too high a degree of permanent devotion’. Lady Mardham thought Celia sensible enough to see him for what he was, and grasp any opportunity that presented itself.
It was shortly after luncheon on the eighth that Mr Wombwell, with what his parent described as a sick headache, and Lady Mardham privately considered to be ‘in a bad mood’, arrived at Meysey. Mrs Wombwell arrived in a very stylish travelling carriage and he was driving his high perch phaeton. He was scowling, his thick, dark brows beetling, and his lips compressed in a pout, and his mother glanced at him with patent concern even as Lady Mardham advanced, smiling, to greet them. Fortunately for Mrs Wombwell’s nerves, her son could not resist getting even matchmaking mamas eating out of his hand, and the scowl was replaced with a charming smile as he bent over his hostess’s hand.
‘Lady Mardham. How kind of you to invite me. I am sure I will have a perfectly splendid time.’ Voice and look won her over, and she actually blushed. She seemed quite unconscious that he had cut his parent out of the greeting entirely.
‘I hope we may entertain you, Mr Wombwell, tolerably well. There is quite a young set here, so you need not fear to be kicking your heels among the older generation. My son is coming down with Lord Deben and Lord Pocklington, and my dear Celia has her cousin Miss Clandon, and her friends Miss Burton and Miss Darwen coming to stay.’
‘Then both entertaining and charming company is assured, ma’am.’ His eyes danced, and as they worked the magic he expected, Lady Mardham was blissfully unaware that it was not from delight but the knowledge that she was ignorant of his deception. He was some four or five years older than the other young gentlemen and of a very different set. He considered himself far more polished, and a proper man of the world whilst they ‘paddled’ at the edge of excitement. They would bore him. He also had little doubt his mama had persuaded him to join her so that she could parade another line of mediocre and simpering maids before him. Any young woman worth noting he had already seen during the Season. None of the four young ladies named conjured up any image in his mind.
He would not have come, had it not been prudent to remove himself from London and his creditors until after Quarter Day, and remaining with his parent obviated the need for any day to day expenditure. Furthermore, if any tradesman sought to dun him, they would find the trail very cold if he and his mama were not at home. She would, of course, pay up, but the sighs and Tragedy Jill looks were always so very wearing. He had come into his inheritance upon reaching full age, but although it had been ample it had been frittered away, so that whilst he had initially complained at how large a jointure his father had reserved for his mama, he now had reason to be very grateful for it.
Celia, who had been showing her cousin to her allotted chamber and generally trying to encourage the very shy Sarah Clandon to look less as if she wished the ground would swallow her up, appeared at the head of the stairs with that damsel. Mr Wombwell looked up, and was dazzled for a full half-minute, right up to the point where Celia laid her hand carefully upon the bannister and began to descend, one stair at a time. His amazement turned to fascinated horror, and Celia reddened. Miss Clandon, waiting to come down a little behind her cousin, frowned. It seemed very rude to stare in that manner.
Fortunately for Celia, it was at that moment that hearty voices were heard outside, and distraction arrived in the form of her brother and his two friends. They had spent two days on the road, breaking their journey at Speenhamland, and had engaged in a light-hearted ‘race’ between Lord Deben and Mr Mardham, who was driving himself and Lord Pocklington. Lord Deben had won by the slimmest of margins, and the other two gentlemen were trying to declare it at worst a draw, since their vehicle had been carrying the greater weight. It was three very jolly young men who entered the hall, with Mr Mardham leading the way, and greeting his mama with more affection than politeness, giving her not only a peck upon the cheek but thereafter an exuberant hug, and complimenting her upon her looks.
‘We had a fine run down, Mama, and here are Deben and Pocklington come to eat you out of house and home.’ He waved an arm in the direction of his friends, who came forward more respectfully, and bowed over her ladyship’s hand with words of thanks and assurances that their appetites, whilst healthy, would not lead to this calamity.
As they did so, Celia came down the stairs unobserved, as she thought, but Lord Deben, in advance of Lord Pocklington, looked to her and smiled.
‘Miss Mardham, your servant, ma’am.’ He bowed. She made the sketchiest of curtsies, for it was something else she could no longer do with grace, and then extended her hand. He came to take it in a firm clasp. He had an open, pleasant countenance, and spaniel brown eyes that were twinkling.
‘I trust we find you in tolerably good health. The weather has been quite stultifying up in Town and if it has been so here, then you might feel a little jaded.’
‘Ah, but my lord, in the country it is a little cooler. We have more breeze.’ She dimpled, and added, ‘Had you not been “loitering” in the Metropolis, you would have discovered this.’
Lady Mardham frowned, but his lordship laughed, comprehending the bantering tone.
‘Got me there, ma’am. I cannot deny it, but I can blame Mardham. If he had not remained, then I would have bolted for the verdant pastures.’
‘Hey, don’t lay the fault on me!’ Mr Mardham grinned at friend and sister and then held out both hands to Celia. ‘You look very well, my dear. Shall I apologise straight away for bringing Deben to tell you faradiddles?’
‘Not at all, Richard. I believe every word he tells me.’ Her eyes danced. ‘Unlike yours.’
‘Dash it, I didn’t expect to return to the bosom of my family and be abused.’ He feigned horror.
‘No?’ Her eyebrows rose further, and he laughed.
Lord Pocklington, still engaged in pleasantries with his hostess, looked across to the source of laughter. Having been told by his friend Mardham of his sister’s situation, he was surprised by how she could be so at ease. The poor girl must be virtually housebound, and he could think of nothing worse.
Mr Wombwell, who found himself, most unusually, not the centre of attention, interrupted the sibling exchanges, and Celia retreated instantly within her shell of cool politeness. He made his bow with grace, said all the right things, but she was distant, even vaguely disapproving. This took him by surprise. He was used to young women doing everything to encourage him, whatever their mamas might have warned. To find one patently uninterested dented his pride. How dare she treat him in such a manner. He scarcely listened as Lady Mardham invited her guests to divest themselves of their travelling raiment and meet in the drawing room for tea.
