The Rogue's Return (33 page)

She moved closer and put an arm over him, stroking, comforting.

“My father is a wonderful man,” he said, covering her tender hand with his own, “and strong in many ways. He doesn't avoid problems.”

“So this shows how difficult it is for him,” she said.

“Yes. Leaving Brideswell has to be close to unthinkable.”

“So why do it? I gather he has no choice about becoming earl, but he can still choose where to live, can't he?”

“Strictly speaking, but the earldom brings many obligations. A seat in Parliament, an honorary position at court, and such. But above all, it brings Marlowe. The house. That's its complete name. Just Marlowe. He'll feel duty bound to live there at least half the year.”

“But why?”

He dropped a kiss on her temple. “As I said, duty. It's a great house with extensive property attached. It's
lifeblood to hundreds, even thousands, from the lowest servants to powerful stewards, from local farmers to a host of businessmen. There are farms, villages, vicarages, mills. Even the paupers suffer without personal interest from a local magnate. An empty house is a blight on a whole area.”

“Then lease it.”

“Good God, no.”

He felt her flinch as she said, “I'm sorry.”

He held her close. “No, love, it would be the sensible thing, but it can't be done. Not a place like Marlowe. As well suggest the Duke of Devonshire lease Chatsworth. And besides, tenants never take the same care as a conscientious owner.”

“So the family will have to move backward and forward?”

“I suppose so. Or perhaps just my parents. The youngsters should have the life I had here, with half a county as a playground and every soul for miles around a friend or relative.”

“It sounds wonderful, but better than being with their parents? Surely the area around Marlowe is pleasant, too.”

The area around Marlowe was as indescribable as Brideswell, so Simon didn't try. “Possibly. I suppose it will sort itself out, but it's going to be a painful mess, whatever is arranged.”

He pulled Jancy closer into his arms, resting his head against hers. “Thank heavens for you, my love. You are my rock and my strength.”

Her arms tightened around him. “I don't know how that can be when you are my blood and bones, but I thank God. What's the matter?”

He'd tensed to listen. “A galloping horse.”

“It could be anything.”

“At this hour?” He climbed out of bed and pulled on essential clothing.

She followed. “Go on. I'll be down as soon as possible.”

He left in just shirt and breeches and knew as soon
as he started downstairs that he was right. The bad news hung in the very air.

His parents were in the family parlor, sitting on a sofa in their nightwear, holding hands. Almost like children, he thought. A liveried groom was standing there, looking at a loss.

“The news?” he asked the man, who looked relieved to turn his attention to him.

“Viscount Austrey died at ten last night, sir. The earl's in a very bad way. Lady Austrey sends to ask that Mr. St. Bride come to Marlowe to take charge of matters.”

Simon wanted to say that if Austrey had been failing for months, there was no urgency now, but of course Cousin Dorothy needed support. Who better than the man who would soon own Marlowe and all it entailed? Putting it off wouldn't change anything.

But he said to his father, “Would you like me to go? You can follow.”

His father seemed to twitch to life, or perhaps shudder. “No, my boy. Or rather yes, if you feel able to accompany me, I would appreciate that, but I must go. Poor Dorothy must be very low.” He patted his wife's hand. “You stay here, my love. I know you can take care of everything.”

Simon heard footsteps but knew before he turned that it was Jancy. She was in one of her plain York gowns, her hair loose down her back, her eyes clear and alert.

He held out his hand and she took it. “I'm going with Father to Marlowe to help Austrey's widow. It seems likely that the earl will follow his son soon.”

“Can I come with you?”

Breath caught with longing, but he said, “I've dragged you around enough. Stay here and rest awhile.”

“I'm perfectly rested and I want to come with you.” But then she added, “Unless there's some reason that I shouldn't . . .”

“No, of course not. But we must leave after a hasty breakfast.”

She nodded. “Then I must pack.” She left with a briskness that reminded him wonderfully of his mother.

A cleared throat reminded him of the rest of the world. He turned to see his mother smiling. “You chose well, Simon. There's a girl with her feet on the ground and strength enough to be a good wife and mother. It's a delight, too, to see you starry-eyed over her.”

He laughed, knowing he was blushing. Parents could be the very devil.

 

Jancy had been in Brideswell for less than a day, yet she felt the wrench of leaving as she took her farewells. The throng had appeared again, but she still hadn't sorted out most of them.

The young woman with the baby was Mary, wife to Simon's brother Rupert. He was the Brideswell estate steward, and he and his family lived in the home. A plump excitable girl and a plump quiet one were Simon's young sisters Lucy and Jennifer, but she wasn't sure which was which. The ancients were a maternal grandfather, a paternal grandmother, and a great-aunt and -uncle connected who knew where.

There were some other old people who might be family connections or retired servants, and two young boys she hadn't placed. She hesitated to ask questions, though she'd be comforted to learn they were accepted by-blows. It would make her own birth a little less shocking.

She wouldn't want them to be bastards of Simon's father, however. She wanted to believe his parents were as devoted as they seemed. When packing, she'd realized that this was her first experience of a happy family. She wanted it true as a model for her future.

Simon's mother hugged Jancy in a warmer way than undemonstrative Martha ever had but with tears in her eyes. “Take care of them for me, my dear.”

She seemed to regard the departure of her husband and son as if they were heading off to Canada, rather than traveling fifty miles into Nottinghamshire. But
perhaps that was the effect of Brideswell. Jancy found herself sniffing back tears as the post chaise rolled away, a dozen people waving, the lads running alongside until they were through the arch and into the big, wide world.

Jancy settled back, thinking that her life had certainly been one of continuous motion for a very long time. She would have liked to talk to Simon about his family, but they were sharing one chaise with his father so instead she asked about their destination.

“You said Marlowe is a grand house. Is it like Long Chart?”

“Grand in a completely different way,” Simon said. “Do you know your architecture? It's Palladian.”

She didn't mind admitting, “That means nothing to me.”

His father spoke up. “Built after the fashion of Andrea Palladio. Italian fellow. Sixteenth century. Wrote books about classical architecture—Roman villas and such. Last century a lot of people took up his ideas and unfortunately Great-uncle Marlowe was one of them.”

“It means,” said Simon, “facades that look like the Acropolis and a central hall that goes up to a skylight in imitation of a Roman atrium. As England lacks Italy's climate, the effect is chilly. Perhaps to compensate, the style has smaller villas attached by corridors to house ordinary living. Marlowe is widely admired, however. People travel from around the world to see it.”

It was impossible to tell what Simon thought about that, but his father let out something that could be a growl or even a moan.

“The park matches Long Chart in beauty,” Simon continued. “There's a lake close enough to the house to reflect it on calm days. A remarkable effect, especially with a rise, darkly treed, behind it.”

She smiled at his tone. “You make it sound fit for a gothic novel.”

“Not at all. No dusty corridors, ancient chapels, or priests' holes. The entire place was built only sixty years
ago and an army of servants keep it pristine. Any skeletal monk would be run out in a moment.”

Talk turned to other matters, mostly father and son reviewing the state of affairs, locally, nationally, and internationally. Jancy listened and learned, impressed by the way they took it for granted that all these matters were their business and, to an extent, their responsibility. If problems were discussed, such as unrest and poverty, it was hand in hand with proposed action.

Hereward the Wake's bloodline.

Her bloodline was nothing but irresponsible trouble. She put the Hasketts out of mind. Simon had taken action to deal with Dacre and he believed her deception would never be revealed. Let it be so.

She began to look forward to playing a small part in steering the fate of a nation and was amused to see Simon persuade his father that a seat in the House of Lords was not a total burden—that he would be able to use it to promote rural causes dear to his heart. Mr. St. Bride even promised to lend his weight to Simon's fight for justice in Canada but added with a mock scowl: “I suppose I'll end up tangled with those Rogues of yours. London. Plaguey nuisance.”

Traveling in luxurious efficiency, they arrived at Marlowe in the afternoon and Jancy peered for her first look. She needn't have strained. Some great houses sought privacy behind walls and trees or flickered coyly from behind carefully arranged hills and coppices. Marlowe stood on display.

The park was almost flat in this direction and lightly wooded. Now, with most trees bare, the white house glowed from miles away, framed, as Simon had said, by a rise of dark evergreens behind.

It did resemble a Greek temple, the central part presenting a triangular pediment supported by tall pillars. On either side, two pillared arms curved to the villas—miniature copies of the central house, even to pediment and pillars. Like offshoot plants, she thought, her
wanton imagination seeing gardeners having to scurry around trimming buildings before they overran the park.

The curving arms could have looked like a welcoming embrace, but to Jancy Marlowe stood aloof. It did not say, “Enter and be warmed.” It said, “Look on my beauty and bow low in awe.” She was grateful to be dressed in Lady Thea Debenham's elegant black.

They came to a halt at the foot of massive double stairs, where somber servants awaited to open the chaise door and usher them up to large white doors hung with an escutcheon draped in crape.

As they entered the house, Jancy supposed that an army of servants constituted a welcome, but that was the only one she felt. She reminded herself that this was a house of long-term sickness and recent death. The powdered footmen and uniformed maids all wore signs of mourning—black armbands and gloves for the men, black caps and aprons for the women.

Perhaps sickness and death explained the overall chill, but this hall, lit palely by a domed skylight, could never be cozy. The floor and walls were gray marble, the wall broken at regular intervals by black half pillars separating black alcoves holding white classical statues.

There was not a touch of color.

Could the St. Brides ever warm this place or would it freeze them to death? She felt only relief when a gentleman in elegant black bowed and said, “Lady Austrey awaits, sirs, ma'am,” and led them down a corridor.

Once away from the hall, the house did have some color. As the corridor curved—it had to be one of the arms—the walls were painted blue to better show off landscape paintings. They passed through a door and into another hall, but this time a small one, paneled in rich golden wood. Their usher tapped on a door and they entered a room made gloomy only by drawn curtains. It was a drawing room of modest size, well warmed by a fire and with a flowered carpet on the floor.

The slender woman rising from a sofa, dressed in
deepest black, must be the widow, Cousin Dorothy, Lady Austrey. She dismissed a hovering maid and smiled with obvious effort.

“Uncle Sim, thank you for coming. And Simon. I didn't know you had returned. How good that is for everyone. I'm sorry to send for you, but there are so many things.” She gestured vaguely. “Legal matters, the funeral. Everyone seems to need direction. And I simply can't . . .”

Jancy had thought Lady Austrey calm, for the death couldn't have been a shock, but perhaps she had hoped until the end. She certainly looked exhausted, and the prominent bones of her face were probably not her natural state.

Simon's father took her hand and sat her down, taking a seat beside her. “Of course not, after all that nursing. Simon and I will see to everything, never you fear, my dear. How is Marlowe?”

She sighed and simply shook her head.

Mr. St. Bride sighed, too. “Ah, well. Now, here's Simon's wife, Jancy. Will it be all right if she sits with you while we have a look at how things are? And what about Lady Taverley or one of your sisters?”