Grace Gibson (2 page)

Before the end of his initial visit to Greenly Manor, Lord Eversham had had little difficulty in wrenching an invitation for the Marquis of Denley from his amiable old friend.

At first, upon being told frankly that Denley was known to be a seasoned rake, Mr. Fanley was understandably angry. In the morning, after an early breakfast and once Mary and the serving maid had left the parlour, he vented his feelings in the agitated manner of one who knew himself to be perfectly unassailable.

“I have thought overnight on your proposal, and I must tell you I’ve no intention of marrying off Mary, for she has not got her heart set on it in the least. She is not romantic, you know. I have provided her with a competence, and her brother will of course have her to live with him here at Greenly when he settles. All that aside, I cannot think why you would insult me by offering someone you admit is wholly unsuitable. It is not to be borne!”

“True, Fanley. My housekeeper’s daughter is too good for him. But you will consider that Mary’s situation, though respectable, cannot be entirely satisfying to someone as intelligent and sensible as she. She will want to see the world you know, and Denley would take her on as wife with no expectations beyond a basic companionability. She will tie him to Treehill, where he will become accustomed to regularity and respectability and economy. He will no longer have the income to support his habits of dissipation, yet he and she will have the means to travel to family properties and even to Ireland on occasion if it is what she likes.”

“She will not like Ireland,” declared Fanley, but his voice lacked conviction and he fell into a momentary rumination. “Riversham, you will have to speak plainly. We are of long acquaintance but our societies are very different — and, you will never convince me you have Mary’s best interest in mind. You have known her only since yesterday afternoon!”

Lord Riversham bowed in his chair. “Very well, William. I intend to marry Denley off to — you will forgive me — a woman of no consequence and few expectations. The purpose of such an unfashionable alliance will be solely to alienate him from all temptation and rebuild the fortune he has already spent. Put simply, I intend to rusticate him permanently, with the aid of, again your pardon for such frankness, an uninteresting alliance. If you will not agree to a meeting I will take him off to Somersetshire to visit Bromley.”

There was shrewdness in my Lord’s gaze then, for he knew from experience the power such a suggestion would have on a man of Farley’s virtue. He could not want the connection with Denley. Perhaps even more, though, he would not want any chance for his daughter’s happiness ruined by his own lack of foresight. She was being offered a titled position — and no less than a Duchess, at that.

“Bromley has a daughter then?” Farley asked a little weakly. “I have not heard of him since we left school…”

“Yes, of the right age, though I understand she is not fortunate in her looks or accomplishments.”

“And what — how?…How is this to be managed? She will not like it! And I cannot blame her, for I myself do not like it above half.”

Riversham did not smile; it was not his habit to smile at his minor victories. “I am only asking they meet for now, William. She cannot be expected to be party to this plan. If Denley is half as bright as he is purported to be, he will make his impression on her. When they are thrown much into society together, he will make himself agreeable and pay his addresses. That is all I expect.”

“But what trick will make him fall in with such a scheme?” cried Fanley. “If he is such a high flyer as you say, he will find Mary plain and impossibly below him. I will not see her despised by anyone, even if he is the titled heir to Devonshire!”

“I can safely say, William, I have never had to use trickery in all my life. I do not call this any form of scheme. The Marquis of Denley will arrive here of his own will, when he is fully apprised of his…standing. I cannot say more without compromising him more than is due his title if not his person. Suffice it to say, if he comes to Greenly, he will not be inclined to find much fault with your Mary.”

“If? This is outside of enough! I have all but agreed to welcome him, in spite of the severest misgivings, every natural disinclination and all the warnings of good sense, and now I am to be held in suspense lest he cry off?”

Riversham looked at Fanley with something close to sympathy. “The Marquis will have a choice, for, as I have said, I am not indulging in any scheme. He will come here or he will take his chances with ruination.” He paused. “I have trespassed on our old acquaintance for my own purposes, William. Yet I would never have done so without the certainty that your daughter could benefit materially from such a change in circumstance. I am not without principles, and I am sure enough of Denley’s position to suggest that
this time
you remember to mention to Mary that she can soon expect another guest.”

“The Marquis of Denley?” Mary cried. “You astonish me, Papa! I had thought I had met all the lords of your acquaintance already.” Her amused gaze fell on Lord Riversham.

“The Marquis is my nephew, Miss Fanley,” Riversham explained with a brief bow. “Son of the Duke of Devonshire. He intends to make Treehill his country seat. It is but seven miles from Greenly.”

The dinner conversation enlightened Mary a little. Treehill, an ancient wreck of a mansion overlooking a neglected tract of arable land, was an object that much animated her father. He had not seemed entirely like himself since Lord Eversham’s arrival, but the prospect of witnessing, and perhaps influencing, such a project would surely explain his revived spirits.

“What of the orchards?” he asked with interest.

“Oh, they are all overrun.”

“Overrun! Are they to be cut or can they be salvaged? If they are pruned properly, they may well bear fruit from new wood — but, of course, if they are neglected beyond a certain age, I am afraid they will have to be dug up for new stock. Does he have limes? I wonder at it. To have let such a large estate go fallow…”

“My good William, my abilities end with a certain acumen that has helped me pick a good steward for my estates. I bring Denley to you for wisdom and guidance. If you educate him about apples and limes, you have my blessing, I assure you.” Regardless of his asperity, his Lordship was almost amiable over dinner. He even surprised Mary by inviting her father to ride out with him to Treehill on the following morning.

When Lord Eversham took his leave of Miss Fanley that same afternoon, he was very nearly warm. “Miss Fanley, may I have the honour of sending the Marquis of Denley to you in three days’ time?”

“Of course he is welcome — but he may not care to stay long when my father locks him in the library and begins to talk of sheep.”

“Sheep? Oh, my dear, that land is no good for sheep!” cried Mr. Fanley.

At this even his Lordship let a small laugh escape.

Mr. Fanley bade his old acquaintance farewell and remained complacent for several hours, talking about the ravages of neglect on poor Treehill. But in the evening, when he had exhausted his plans for twelve cottages, five or so tenants and a home farm for the Marquis, he seemed to become a little subdued.

“Of what are you thinking, Papa?” Mary asked gently. “Is Treehill beyond hope do you think? For you have gone into a silence I cannot like when we have at last been left alone.”

Mr. Fanley roused himself. “Oh, Treehill? It will be a fine estate in five years’ time — passable in three. In ten years it will surpass Greenly in the neighbourhood I am sure.”

“Good!” she replied. “We can expect a little society from a good house and a respectable family. I think I should like it if the Marquis intends to settle here. If he is amiable and gentlemanlike we will have a new friend, and if he is arrogant and strange we will have a constant source of amusement.”

This speech, meant to rally her father, did nothing but add to his abstraction. He became weary long before tea was brought in. As he made his way to bed, he stopped and looked at his daughter in a peculiar way. “Do you think you would like Ireland, Mary?”

“Good gracious Papa, you are quite done up!” she cried. “If you mean to take me to Ireland, why, yes, I would like it, but I know you are not a travelling person. There is too much that requires you here, and Will is years away from being ready to settle and manage the estate. Besides, the Marquis of Denley will need you, and you must not forget you have put yourself in a fair way of promising his uncle to oversee him as he is established at Treehill.”

Mary, a young lady whose habit was to laugh at the ridiculous, found nothing quite so absurd as the pretentions of the
bon ton.
She had been acquainted with many fine young ladies at Miss River’s Seminary, and had visited several great houses on holiday. On these occasions she had been treated to a taste of the ostentation, affectation, and bald social aspiration of The Polite World. When it became apparent to her (the daughter of a mere country squire) that she would never be truly welcome in that world, she naturally came to despise it.

This being the case, Mary made some preparations for the arrival of a new guest. But having been overawed by Lord Riversham, she had worn out her sensitivity to grandeur. She could not bring herself to a state of dread over a mere nephew, ducal heir notwithstanding.

Their guest arrived punctually at noon, astride a huge dapple grey horse which he officiously put into the care of Mr. Grantley, the steward, as if he were the stableman. Mary, witnessing Mr. Grantley’s startled assumption of the reins from the window, immediately decided to greet this arrogant person at the door rather than expose her housekeeper to the shocking manners which highborn persons were known to assume. As first lady of Greenly, she believed she, at least, would command a degree of civility that would set her apart from the common help.

Braced by this naïve sense of superiority, she opened the door upon a tall man of passable looks, who surveyed her with half an eye while thrusting his hat, riding crop, and gloves directly into her outstretched hands.

“My dear girl,” he said in a bored voice, “do not just stand there. Fetch Mr. Fanley and tell him the Marquis of Denley is at his service.”

This treatment, being precisely that from which Mary thought to spare Mrs. Darlington, shocked her to such a degree she could not think what to say or do, beyond obeying his Lordship. Even as her cheeks turned scarlet, she laid his things on the table, shut the hall door and said with subdued dignity, “Mr. Fanley is expecting you, sir, if you will follow me…” Mary’s mind had been suspended, but, as she escorted the Marquis of Denley the few short steps to the back parlour, she began to wonder precisely how to go on.

She need not have spared a thought for it, as her father, unheeding of her heightened colour and imperceptive to a fault, managed to put the Marquis of Denley in possession of the facts in the most awkward manner possible. “Oh! Welcome sir, welcome!” he said, amiably rising and gracing his lordship with a country bow. “And this beauty here is my Mary.”

Before Denley could register his feelings on the occasion, Mary said, a little too quickly, “Oh, yes, Papa, the Marquis has made himself
quite
known to me already.” She did not favour his lordship with a look, but kept her eyes upon her father, until the moment came when she could excuse herself to see to nuncheon.

During their meal of cold red sirloin of beef, Cornish pasties, pickled relishes, new baked bread and black ale, she busied herself with her responsibilities as hostess. She assumed a cheerful and unconcerned disposition, but proved, by her attempt to appear uninjured, to have been gravely hurt in the area of her pride. She did not spare the offending party a single look, but looked past him or nearly at him, as the situation demanded.

Mary Fanley’s opinion of the Marquis of Denley was forming rapidly. He had blond curls, clubbed loosely at his nape and fastened with a black silk tie. Rather than make him appear angelic and gentleman-like, as would be expected, his curls only added a sternness to his countenance.

He was harsh, she decided. Lines of dissipation around his eyes and mouth made him appear worldly and careworn. In his speech she detected impatience, mingled with the barest hint of his being above his company — a fact she would readily own if it were not her father who bore the brunt of such lowering condescension. While the servants attended to the party with their best manners, these were not altered much from the casual air they knew with her family. In his Lordship’s treatment of
them,
she felt he was trying to be well-mannered without any real notion as to how to go about it.

When it came time for the Marquis to be shown his room, Mr. Fanley called upon Mary to do the office, but her pride would not allow her to yield to courtesy. She rang the bell, saying crisply, “We do not have a need for a butler at a country house, my Lord. Should you need a man above stairs — as I see you are not in company with your valet — we have several who could be sent to you. You will let Mrs. Darlington know what you require and she will attend to it.”

This chilliness reduced his Lordship to a simple bow toward his hostess, a salute on which she turned her back the instant it was completed.

Morning found Mary’s martial feelings much quelled. She directed herself to look upon Denley’s face when he greeted her at breakfast, as he arrived so late that the platters were nearly too cold to serve. She found he looked rather worse than the day before. “Are you well, my Lord?”

“Oh, yes, I thank you. I am unused to sleeping so well as I did. It is prodigiously quiet here is it not?”

“Quiet? Oh, indeed, we are quiet here,” Mr. Fanley said jovially. “We are not used to anything beyond a few card parties with the neighbours — although not too often, so do not be put off at the thought. We will not subject you to that, will we, Mary? I should think they would be below your touch.”

Much struck at her father’s odd speech, Mary chided him openly, as she was used to doing from a young age. “We will not protect his Lordship from company, if it is what he likes, just because
you
do not like it, Papa.”

“Oh, but he does not like it,” Mr. Fanley said with a little agitation. “Eversham himself told me. Denley, you do not enjoy cards too much, do you?”

Before Lord Robert could answer, Mary laughed. “He cannot now own whether he likes it, sir. You have said it is impossible; if he were to disagree he would have to trample on both his uncle and his host. My Lord,” she said directly to Denley, “be so good as to give me a hint and on any evening of your choosing we can arrange a party of whist or loo. Deeper we do not go here, for there are ladies among the company, but I daresay you could meet our neighbours for faro — ”

Looking as discomfited as ever, the Marquis interrupted. “Eversham was quite correct in telling Mr. Fanley that I do not play cards. But if you will have a party of guests, I can make myself agreeable to your neighbours in any way you wish.” He bowed stiffly.

“No, no, Denley!” Mr. Fanley cried. “We cannot spare the time for company. It is devilish thin here at this time of year. If you were to meet the Himmels I daresay you would find yourself o’ertaken by a fit of yawns. I swear they are the worst sort, genteel only in birth and fortune. Why, with Himmel’s cattle all over with never so much as a thought to what cottager’s place is trammelled, he does not deserve an estate.”

“Now you have erred, my Lord,” Mary said to her guest in a grave undertone. “We will hear nothing else but what is wrong at Blevington.”

Denley graced her with an appraising look she could only wonder at.

The following day a trunk bearing clothing and necessities arrived, courtesy of Eversham. A second riding horse also came, along with a groom from Devonshire. Although undoubtedly welcome, these luxuries appeared to do little to soften the blow of banishment to the country. The Marquis continued to appear less than well for several days, but upon being questioned if he was sure the country air did not disagree with his health, he denied the possibility.

“No, Miss Fanley, the air is most refreshing I am only a bit fatigued by the pace at which I have lived in London. This rest is precisely what agrees with me. I assure you I will become quite devoted to country life.”

There was bitterness in this speech, as if the country were an unbearable evil, that, Mary could not like. “Oh, if you insist you like it here then I shall disregard all your looks,” she said blandly, retreating into her needlework.

They were sitting in the parlour after an early supper. Mr. Fanley sat with a book in his lap, and several more surrounding him on the table, engrossed in the search for some far-reaching fact he urgently felt must be related to the man who would take over Treehill.

“Is it not possible for someone to feel better and look worse?” Denley asked her with his customary annoyance.

Mary looked up and saw to her astonishment that the Marquis of Denley was making an attempt at conversation. This was a novelty, indeed! She found she could not resist it.

“Oh, when one is titled anything is possible,” she laughed. “But, for the remainder of us, I am fairly certain that to look ill is a sure sign one is not feeling quite the thing.”

Denley looked unsure of how to construct a rejoinder to such a remark. At last, he seemed to settle on a different subject altogether. “The venison you served this evening was quite the best I’ve had in an age.”

Mary repressed a smile at such banality from a gentleman who did not seem much used to it. “We strive to satisfy, my Lord,” she said archly.

“What’s that?” Mr. Fanley asked, coming out of his book at the very word
venison.
“Oh, indeed, Denley, you will not find so neat a table anywhere in this county. Even your uncle Eversham went so far as to compliment my Mary on her housekeeping.”

“Papa!” she gasped as this nerve was struck.

“What have I said?” Mr. Fanley cried. “I am only agreeing with Denley that you keep a neat house, my dear.”

In spite of the deep blush that came to her cheeks, Mary said, as teasingly as she could, “Oh, you will all cast me into despair! You must know, Papa, that the Marquis of Denley mistook me for the housekeeper on his arrival. All this talk of my prodigious abilities to keep a house has me quite struck down.”

“The housekeeper?” Mr. Fanley was much amazed. “You are mistaken Mary. He cannot have taken you for Mrs. Darlington. She is much too large a woman to be taken for you, and twice your age. One need only look at you to know you to be the daughter of this house.” At this Mr. Fanley went back into his book. “I am nearing the passage I think, sir; I am most anxious for you to read it.”

Throughout this exchange, the Marquis had sat, not entirely at his ease; once ready to jump out of his chair and bow his apologies, and twice on the edge of his seat in anticipation of what these two might say to one another. It would be safe to say he had never encountered any woman so wholly impertinent and so lacking in the demure, polished manners to which he was accustomed. Miss Fanley seemed capable of laughing at anything, even herself, and now, at him. Indeed, once her father seemed to be engrossed, she gave a barely audible, low chuckle.

Only then, with a slight brittleness of manner, did his Lordship say in a near whisper, “You are long overdue an apology from me, Ms. Fanley. May I make the attempt?”

“Oh, never!”

With a furious look he asked, “May I inquire why not?”

“I find it more interesting to despise you,” she said impishly, “and I do not know how you can apologize for a circumstance in which your behaviour was an honest representation of your feelings. I must truly appear to be a country miss.” At this admission her eyes went shyly up to his for just an instant.

“I find you less so every hour.” What he did find her was pert. He broadcast this in a look of vast disapproval.

“Have I made you angry?” she asked, again fully composed and engrossed in tatting a lace.

“I begin to be afraid of you,” he said, his right eyebrow raised high. But Denley could not engage Mary Fanley in any more swordplay, for at that moment Mr. Fanley exclaimed, having found a reference to Treehill in the Common Registry of Antiquities, “See here, it is as I said, Mary. ‘…
there abides a large herd of uncommon red deer in the deep woods surrounding the second outcrop…and etc…’”
Turning the page, he continued, “‘
…said to be the largest seen in the western counties.’”
He looked earnestly at his guest. “I congratulate you, sir. You may yet have some of this stock.” And then an unfortunate reflection, “Unless — good God! The poachers have no doubt robbed you long since.”

“Indeed, it is possible sir,” Denley replied absently.

Mary threw him a crushing glare. “Of course it is not possible, my Lord. You are to inherit it and you must know it to be very nearly impossible to penetrate such a place. Papa, recall yourself. The King’s own wood lies on the western edge and on every border the estate is flanked by managed land.”

This suggestion revived Mr. Fanley’s spirits. “She is right, I believe. Those properties have game wardens, and I make no doubt they are reliable men. I have heard Crimping speak of someone there…Yes, it is very possible that your wild lands are preserved, Denley…” He then fell into deep rumination over the management of those forests, recalling as much as he could of all he had ever heard about the deer at Treehill.

“You may thank me,” Mary said very quietly.

“For what?” Denley hissed.

“Oh, I have rescued you from a very long homily on poachers. You must become more acute, sir! I forbid you to even say the word ‘poach.’ My father is very easily alarmed.”

“Whereas nothing unnerves his daughter?”

This caustic observation failed to wound her. Smiling at her lacework, Mary Fanley replied with great amusement, “Oh, we housekeepers have no time for hysterics.”