The Accidental Bride (33 page)

In a corridor leading off the main gallery, Jane opened a door and showed Lizzie into an exquisitely beautiful room decorated in tones of rose and burgundy. The furnishings were rich, but a combination of modern and older pieces, expertly chosen to harmonise.

‘The Rose Room,’ said Jane with a flourish. ‘One of our prettiest. I think you’ll be very comfortable here.’ As she strode across to open the window a little wider, one of the footmen brought in Lizzie’s weekend bag and set it on the top of a low chest.

‘It’s gorgeous! I love these colours.’

‘Yes, it’s not long been renovated, along with a number of others.’ The Marchioness’s wrinkled face twisted in a wry little smile. ‘And you’ll find a nice little bathroom through there.’ She pointed to a panelled door. ‘We had the plumbing system of the whole house replaced a few years ago … Thanks to … Well, I think you know who.’

The older woman drew close, laying her hand on Lizzie’s arm, looking into her face, intently. ‘My dear, I know you must know something of the situation between Jonny and his family. But we do all know to whom we owe
our comfort and the continued upkeep of Montcalm. And our privacy … Very few families nowadays are able to live in houses like these, mainly as private homes. Even my husband knows that, although he chooses not to speak of it. But underneath, he’s as profoundly grateful to Jonny as the rest of us are … and, in his own bull-headed way, enormously proud of him.’

There was such a look of pride and love in Jane’s eyes that Lizzie couldn’t help but clasp the hand that lay on her arm. ‘John … or should I say Jonny …? He’s an amazing man. You
should
be proud of him. I am.’

Jane beamed. ‘Wonderful! Wonderful!’ she said, briskly vague. ‘Now, my dear, I’ll leave you for a little while to powder your nose and all that. Just come down when you’re ready. We’ll take coffee in the Red Salon. That’s along the corridor back the way you came, then to your left, and looking down, you can’t miss it. But if you’re unsure, just ring the bell and someone will come along and show you the way.’ She gave Lizzie another quick hug. ‘See you in a little while, Lizzie.’ With a satisfied nod, she strode away, out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

It was easy to find the Red Salon. You’d have had to be blind to miss it. Lizzie paused on the gallery, looking down, just taking a moment to compose herself. Thus far, things weren’t too scary. She’d no doubt that the Marchioness could be as stately and aristocratic as the next toff, but at the moment she seemed to Lizzie more like a kindly aunt or granny than a terrifying prospective mother-in-law from a vastly different social class.

And she seems to want me here. Really want me here.

Lizzie held her station another moment or two, smoothing down her dress, and the hem of her toning cardigan. Not sure what to arrive in, she’d chosen a very simple but quite elegant 1950s-style frock, in a small blue print; one of her own making that she’d run up quickly during the week when she really should have been doing New Again work.

It was no use trying to be something she wasn’t, she’d decided. She’d kept her signature style. And if Jane Wyngarde Smith’s reaction had been anything to go by, she’d made the right choice. John had smiled
too, approving her choice of outfit when they’d set off.

And yet, as Lizzie looked down, she couldn’t help admiring her hostess’s tweeds. Even shivering with nerves and awed on arrival, she’d noticed them. Beautifully cut, soft and light, in a subtle heathery blue.

Heck, one day I might wear something like that.

She imagined herself older, clad in a tweed skirt and jacket, and sensible shoes, her hair in an elegant coil, and suddenly couldn’t help grinning like a twit. She was almost looking forward to it. If she hadn’t got a suitable pattern in her vast collection, she’d find one, make the outfit in secret and then spring herself on John as a surprise, dressed as a country lady.

Pulling herself together, she stepped out smartly and made her way down another of Montcalm’s wide, gracious staircases. John had been standing in front of the empty fireplace, discussing his father’s health with his mother, by the sound of it, but he strode forward immediately to greet her, his eyes alight.

‘OK, love?’ he said in a low voice, leading her to the place of honour on a wide, no doubt priceless, brocade upholstered settee beside the Marchioness. In a flash, she had a cup of coffee in her hand, prepared just how she liked it, strong and delicious.

‘I’m sorry Augustus isn’t here to greet you too,’ said Jane. ‘His health is up and down a lot these days and I suspect –’ she glanced at John ‘– that he’s probably just as nervous about today as either of you two have been. And that’s affecting him.’

Lizzie half expected John to refute the suggestion, but he looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps you’re right, Mother. I’ve spent so many years with my festering resentment of him,
that somewhere along the line, I forgot to remember he’s human. And that I’ve inherited every bit of his stubbornness myself.’ He drew in a deep breath, as if the weight of those years was suddenly heavy.

‘He’s never stopped loving you, Jonny,’ said his mother, reaching out her hand to her son, who stepped forward to take it, and squeeze it. ‘Oh, he’s hated you too. That’s his bloody-minded way. But I really believe we’re past that now.’ She turned and smiled at Lizzie. ‘Especially now Lizzie is here.’

A spasm of anxiety made the coffee taste like mud for a moment, and sharp-eyed Jane seemed to see it. ‘Don’t worry, my dear,’ said the Marchioness. ‘Don’t worry at all. You simply have to live your life with Jonny, and be happy. That’s all you have to do.’ The older woman’s kind smile was beautiful, and Lizzie almost gasped, seeing John in her face, her expression.

‘Well, that’s no hardship,’ she said, grinning back at the pair of them.

The moment had been intense, but clearly a consummate hostess of decades, Jane turned the conversation to lighter topics. Talk of the house, of Tom’s new plans for the home farms and the rare breed livestock; questions about Lizzie’s sewing, about New Again, about the new bridal shop.

Lizzie could see Jane dying to ask more.

‘I do plan to make my own wedding dress when the time comes,’ she said, grasping the nettle. ‘I thought something along the lines of Grace Kelly’s gown, when she married Prince Rainier of Monaco. Simple, elegant, refined, you know?’

‘Oh, my dear. How wonderful! That would suit you perfectly.’ The older woman hesitated. ‘This does
mean … doesn’t it? What we’re so desperately hoping …’

‘Yes, Mother,’ said John, pulling a footstool from the side of the hearth, setting it in front of Lizzie and his mother and subsiding gracefully onto it. He fished into the pocket of his jacket. ‘Lizzie and I are engaged. We …’ His eyes flashed to Lizzie. ‘We were just waiting for the right moment to tell you, but this seems to be it.’ Reaching for Lizzie’s hand, he slid on the ring.

For the second time in an hour, Lizzie was hugged breathless by a Marchioness, and then by her son. Jane chatted joyfully, reiterating again and again how happy she was, clearly as all a-flutter as Lizzie felt.

‘We shall have Champagne with lunch!’ The Marchioness turned to her son. ‘Jonny … Will you tell your father now? Please … It’ll mean so much to him.’

‘I was planning to have a quiet word with him first. You know, open up lines of communication face to face. Letters and phone calls between us aren’t quite the same.’

The Marchioness rose to her feet, drawing Lizzie up too. ‘I know you’re being cautious, Jonny. Considerate, too. But I do feel that this news is the very best thing for him. The best gift you could give him.’

A few moments later, they were being ushered into the Marquess’s bedroom. On the threshold, Lizzie pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was bashing so hard, it felt as if it had to be visible: thud, thud, thud. John reached for the hand, grasped it tight and squeezed it. In his blue eyes, Lizzie saw the nerves, just like her own, and somehow that helped.

The Marquess was propped up on a day bed, by the window. At first, Lizzie thought he didn’t look too ill, but then she saw oxygen nearby, and a raft of medications on a
tray on a side table. Ominous. Lizzie guessed there was a nurse within call.

But the man himself was full of life, fiery life, despite his health problems. And, oh crikey, he was handsome. For a man of eighty, he was breath-taking. The genes, the genes … This was where John got his looks!

‘Well, well, well …’ The Marquess’s fierce blue eyes flashed, brilliant and hypnotising, the mirror of his son’s. His mane of white hair was far longer than John’s but had the same wild, precocious curl, still thick and full, despite his years. ‘The prodigal returns at last.’ The bright gaze flicked to Lizzie, and suddenly a rakish smile flooded the old man’s face. ‘And goddammit, he’s brought Bettie Page with him!’

As if energised, the Marquess sat up straighter, tutting at his wife, who rushed forward to adjust his pillows. He reached out his hand towards Lizzie. ‘Come here, my dear, let me see you. I’ll thrash out my differences with that sod soon enough –’ he said, nodding at John, his look reassuringly benign ‘– but you’re the one I want to see now. Come closer.’

Lizzie felt the gentle pressure of John’s hand on her back like a boost of energy. Her confidence rose. She walked towards the old man on his couch, and John drew up a chair beside his parent for her.

The shrewd eyes narrowed. ‘I take it you do know who Bettie Page is?’ He lifted his hand in an indicative gesture, pointing out Lizzie’s thick, carefully coifed black fringe and the long pageboy style brushing her shoulders, and her 1950s dress. ‘All this is deliberate, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, your lordship. If it wasn’t, I might not be here. I think it was “Bettie” who most caught John’s eye when we first met.’ Standing beside her, John squeezed her shoulder.

‘I’d have come over anyway, Bettie or no Bettie,’ he said.

The Marquess’s scrutiny was intense, but she noticed his eyes flick to his son’s momentarily. Was there a faint look of approval there? Possibly …

‘I should think so!’ said the Marquess. ‘And by the way, young woman, I’m “Welbeck” or “Augustus”. I’d prefer the latter.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure I could …’

‘I’ll have you thrown off my land if you don’t!’

Shock froze her, even with John’s fingers against her shoulder. Then she saw it. The electric blue twinkle in those uncannily familiar eyes. The genetic sense of fun, that even an old and cantankerous man still possessed. Augustus was John, and sounding uncannily like his son, he laughed.

‘Only pulling your leg, Bettie. Call me whatever you feel comfortable with. The Old Sod if you must.’ His expression gentled. ‘But just … be here … Now, tell me a little about yourself. I’ll deal with this reprobate later, but you’re the important one now.’ He reached for her left hand in a surprisingly strong grip, and raised it. ‘Good! Capital! Pleased to see this here.’ He nodded at the ring, and flashed a look at John. ‘Getting it right at last, Jonny. Thank God for that. I thought I’d probably shuffle off this mortal coil first.’

What followed was an unexpectedly easy ‘interview’. The fact that she was young, and so obviously of childbearing age, clearly made her a person of worth in the unreconstructed Marquess’s eyes, regardless of her background. Although that didn’t stop him questioning her.

‘One of three girls?’ He frowned.

‘But I have quite a few male cousins! My father is one of four brothers. And my mother has two brothers.’

‘That’s more like it.’

Lizzie flashed a look at John, who seemed to be trying to avoid laughing.

‘Stop sniggering, you young shit!’ the Marquess shot at him, but his expression was warmer than his words. ‘So, Bettie, I understand you work. Tell me about that.’

Lizzie launched into a description of New Again, and how she’d come to be part of it, and what she did.

‘Pretty frock,’ commented Augustus, when she told him she’d made it herself. ‘Now, obviously, I’m interested in when you’ll stop working … and start producing … but I know women prefer to have a career these days.’

It was bizarre. It could have been grotesque. But Lizzie could feel the old man’s pain, and the weight of dashed hope and disappointment over the years. Some of that was John’s fault – it had to be faced and admitted – but also some brought about by the misfortunes of Augustus’s elder son George, and his wife.

‘I’d like to work full-time for a couple of years,’ she said firmly. She felt for Augustus, but she had to have her own life too, and she sensed he’d respect that. ‘But after that, well, it would be nice to start a family. And I can still design and sew afterwards too. I mean …’ She glanced around her, at the beauty of the room, and the entire magnificence of Montcalm beyond. ‘It’s not as if we’re going to be short of a bob or two, so I won’t have to do everything alone. I’ll have a bit of help.’

‘Fair enough, my dear,’ said Augustus, taking her hand again. ‘I think I can hang on that long, and this devil will give you all the help you need. Or I’ll personally get up off my sick bed and horsewhip him until he pulls his weight!’

They spoke a little more, then the Marquess seemed
to be tiring. ‘Now, my dear, you go down and have a spot of lunch with my wife, and my son and I will have our discussion.’ He gave John a very old-fashioned look, that almost made Lizzie giggle. She’d seen that look from John, so many times. ‘Jane, come along, take this lovely young woman and feed her up well. She’s got a nice figure, but a bit more meat on those curves wouldn’t go amiss.’

John came to the door with Lizzie and his mother, and gave them both a hug. ‘Don’t worry. You’ve put him in a good mood, love. You go and enjoy your lunch. I’ll be OK.’

And as she and the Marchioness made their way down to the dining room, Lizzie rather thought he would be.

A most difficult hurdle, maybe the most difficult, was behind them.

‘You don’t think they wish I was Clara, do you?’