The Westerby Inheritance (30 page)

Perhaps one reason was that, as Philadelphia was pouring tea for him, she was making an inventory of all the things she did not like about him, something she had begun to do almost as soon as the couple had announced their engagement.

“And another thing,” Philadelphia said sharply to her large fiancé (what had happened to her soft, cooing voice?), “I think you carry too much bulk. Mama has some very good purges in the stillroom, and I shall give you some. Also, you must take two rhubarb pills with your breakfast—and, talking of breakfast, tea and toast will suffice. I noticed you ate a vast quantity of York ham, two cold pigeon pies, and a great deal of bread, all washed down with eight tankards of beer.”

“You
see
,” interposed Anthony eagerly, “I have made a start. That is less than half of what I usually eat.”

“And your clothes,” went on Philadelphia remorselessly. “They are not becoming in a man of your girth. A more simple mode, I think, would suffice.”

Sir Anthony winced. His wardrobe was his pride and joy. “What’s up with my clothes?” he demanded crossly. He looked down with some pride at the rich brocade of his coat, at his long grass-green waistcoat with its embroidery of wild roses, and at the fashionable height of his heels.

“They are too tight,” said Philadelphia awfully. “They make you look fat.”

The insult was so great that Sir Anthony’s hand instinctively flew to his sword. The erotic visions of bedding Philadelphia were being replaced in his mind by some quite sadistic ones of wife-beating.

But Sir Anthony swallowed his hurt. He prided himself on being a man of reason. Hadn’t he himself felt strangely nervous because he had not even kissed her on the lips? She was reacting to the fact that he had not even made love to her!

A slow smile crossed his face, and he carefully put down his teacup. Unaware that he had arisen and was walking purposefully around the table toward her, Philadelphia complained on.

She was suddenly stunned into silence as Sir Anthony jerked her to her feet and kissed her resoundingly. Shock made her remain passive in his embrace. A sudden wave of revulsion, following immediately after, made her tremble and turn red as fire. Sir Anthony misinterpreted her agitation for passion and smiled slowly.

“A lot more of that, my girl,” he said, laughing heartily, “and I’ll get less of your complaints.”

Philadelphia poured herself another cup of tea with a trembling hand. She had never been afraid of anything in her life before. Now she was afraid of Sir Anthony. Very afraid.

Philadelphia had firmly set her mind to the main goal of marrying a man, any man, rich enough to supply her with a wardrobe and a fashionable home. Her brief interest in Lord Charles had merely been because she considered him a decorative addition to her dress.

Strangely enough, she had never thought about what her marital duties might entail. She had vaguely thought of a husband content with a few chaste kisses, and had not once guessed at the healthy masculinity that lay under Sir Anthony’s foppish clothes.

Sir Anthony eyed her bent head indulgently. Give her time to recover, he thought, and then I’ll have another go!

Philadelphia looked up and caught the expression on her fiancé’s face. “Mama!” she suddenly called loudly. “Mama! I have need of you!”

This must be stopped now, she thought. Faugh! All that groping and pawing. Her gowns would be ruined!

It is a pity Philadelphia had never met Mr. Braintree. Two hearts would have beat as one.

Mrs. Syms came hurrying into the room, too big with news to wonder over her daughter’s agitation.

“Mr. Syms has just heard that Lord and Lady Charles arrived at the Chase an hour ago,” she cried.

“Charlie!” said Sir Anthony, leaping to his feet with surprising agility. “’Fore George! It will be good to see him again. I shall call on them now.” He bustled out, only remembering at the last minute to make his good-byes to his beloved.

It would be good to gossip with old Charlie again, thought Sir Anthony, as he waited impatiently for his horse to be brought round. He had had too much of women of late.

It was a freezing cold, bright sunny day as the Welbourne coach turned in through the gateposts of Eppington Chase. Frost sparkled red and silver on the hedgerows, and one large scarlet leaf, brave survivor of autumn, hung like a small banner over the path.

Jane was sitting on the very edge of the carriage seat, tense with excitement. “I am going home!” she cried, clapping her hands together.

Lord Charles fought down a feeling of irritation. Had she not a good enough home at Upper-park? Instead he said, “Sit back and try to relax. You will harm the baby, jumping about so.”

“Oh, but look there—and there!” cried Jane as the half-built home came into view across an area of bricks and mortar. Statues lay on the grass, waiting to be erected. The new ornamental lake looked raw and chilly, its waters frozen to black glass. Workmen scurried here and there like ants.

“The west wing had been completed,
exactly
the way I wanted it,” enthused Jane, undeterred by his lordship’s jaundiced stare. “There was quite a part of it rescued from the fire. I feel quite kindly toward Mrs. Bentley. She seems to be carrying out my instructions correctly.”

When the carriage stopped, he jumped quickly down and tenderly helped her to alight. He had delayed this visit for as long as he could. But when Jane had announced she was pregnant, he had been so overjoyed he was all too ready to grant her any wish and so had finally, if reluctantly, agreed to set out for the Chase.

“This is a temporary entrance hall,” said Jane, leading the way into the west wing. “I will turn it into a grand reception room when the rest of the house is built.”

The old Westerby housekeeper, Mrs. Butter-worth, was there to greet them and give my lord and my lady the news that Mrs. Bentley and her daughters had gone to the neighboring town to do some shopping and were expected back quite soon.

Holding his wife’s arm, Lord Charles followed the housekeeper up the stairs. “What a strange atmosphere this house does have,” he mused to himself. “I declare, I feel almost as if it were
repelling
me.”

“We have to share the same apartment, Charles,” said Jane gaily, “since we are a trifle cramped for space. Ah, here are our quarters! Only see, they have followed my plans for decoration so nicely!”

The suite of rooms prepared for Lord and Lady Charles was in Wedgwood blue and white, with prodigious use of the novel West Indian wood mahogany. Watercolors of pretty Italian landscapes graced the walls; the late Marquess had taken his own watercolorist along with him on the Grand Tour. The chimneypieces were of the finest marble and festooned with vases in blue-john and ormolu.

It was not odd that Lady Jane should have such excellent taste, such a love of literature and painting. It was an age when any well-bred individual was expected to revere books, music, and art. But it seemed odd to Lord Charles that she had shown none of this enthusiasm at Upperpark, even though he had begged her to make any changes in his home that she wished.

He walked to the long palladian windows and looked out at what would be a magnificent manmade piece of landscape when it was finished.

Behind him, he could hear his wife singing a little song as she unpacked. Over in the west, great blue and black clouds were massing, climbing swiftly over the blue of the sky. All at once the sun was blotted out and a great shadow like a giant demon’s wing swept over the Chase.

He was overcome by sadness, a chill, cold sadness that seemed to come from outside him and seep into his very marrow. Jane had stopped singing. The room was very quiet. Down below in the garden, the workmen were glancing up at the steadily darkening sky as they scurried about, packing away their tools.

In the distance, he could see a carriage bowling along the ribbon of road, and then it was hidden by the woods. Mrs. Bentley and her daughters. Coming home before the storm. Riding before the storm. Now what had made him think of that?

He was all at once anxious to be back in his own home. He could sense danger, feel it in his bones, a danger emanating from the very walls.

Then the carriage appeared at the end of the long, straight drive. The outriders had lit their torches, for the day had turned as black as night.

He watched as their dancing lights jogged closer. One by one, snowflakes began to fall, and through their eddying, swirling hypnotic dance he could see the carriage turn to stop almost directly below the window, and the pale glimmer of Mrs. Bentley’s face as she stared up.

Lord Charles stirred and shivered and turned. His wife was kneeling in front of a trunk of books she had been unpacking. She was very still, staring straight ahead.

“Mrs. Bentley is back,” he said, his voice sounding strange in his ears.

She gave a little nod and said, “Let us go and meet her.”

He led her with reluctance to the top of the stairs, just as the door in the entrance hall opened.

Lord and Lady Charles suddenly stood motionless on the landing as Mrs. Bentley threw back the fur-lined hood of her cloak. Fanny came behind her, stamping her feet on the tiles of the hall floor to warm them.

Mrs. Bentley looked up to where Lord Charles and his wife stood on the landing. She smiled her small, curved smile.

“Welcome home!” she said.

Lord Charles put an arm round his wife’s shoulders and held her close.

He was afraid.

He felt a slight tremble run down his wife’s body and knew that she shared his inexplicable fear.

Together they went slowly down the stairs to meet Mrs. Bentley.