Amy Lake (8 page)

“Fiona, I promise you, we will get to the bottom of this. This Wilfred Thaxton, whoever he is, will not take your home.”

She shrugged in both anger and despair, feeling more vulnerable than she ever had in her life. Even when her husband had died and she’d been left alone with a baby, there had always been Tern’s Rest.

“And if not—”

She looked up at Dee with eyes that were suddenly clear. “Oh, no,” said Fiona. “We’ve been through this before.”

“I cannot be
that
bad,” he teased her. “Would it be so awful for us to marry?”

“Not for me, perhaps,” she countered. “But someday you will fall in love.”

Dr. Fischer was amused. “And someday,” he said, “ you will be the Duchess of Devonshire.”

  * * * *

It was agreed that Lord Ashdown would be told nothing of this new situation nor, of course, would Madelaine. Dee knew Fiona, and he suspected that no matter how worried she might be, she would simply carry on as if nothing had happened, and try to put the approaching visit from some unknown cousin out of her mind. The doctor had pointed out this tendency on more than one occasion, and Mrs. Marwick agreed that it was a weakness, but she preferred to avoid unpleasantness as long as she was able. Dee remembered full well the days leading up to Joseph’s death; Fiona had carried on in absolute calm until the last moments, and when the blow fell she had simply collapsed, in silence, on the floor.

Perhaps it was best that way, but the doctor couldn’t help thinking that some situations demanded a cry of outrage.

Such as the impending loss of Tern’s Rest. Although he had promised to say nothing of Mrs. Marwick’s cousin to Lord Ashdown, the doctor had no intention of leaving the matter as it was. The law was the law, and if it came down to it he would look into hiring a solicitor. But in the meantime Deandros Fischer decided that he would find out something more of Wilfred Thaxton.

Chapter 13: Unbidden Visitors

Nearly a month had passed since Lord Ashdown had broken his leg and come to stay at Tern’s Rest. He remembered little of the first few days; then there had been an interminable period spent in bed—in reality, no more than a fortnight—after which the Bath chair had arrived. At first the marquess had accounted himself happy in the chair, especially since it gave him access to the kitchen, and considerably more time spent in Mrs. Marwick’s company. The crutches made a further improvement, but his progress had now stalled; the injury had pained him rather more after he had attempted them and Dee insisted he return to spending most of his day in the Bath chair.

“It’s because you tried too much and too soon. A bone knits at its own rate.”

Colin was tired of the Bath chair. He was, on the other hand, becoming rather a dab hand at stringing beans and slicing carrots with a cutting board laid across his lap. Mrs. Marwick was amused at the sight of an English lord preparing vegetables, and her laugh—a soft, silvery peal—affected Lord Ashdown at some level that he could not even identify.

The kitchen was his refuge, a place to avoid beginning the rest of his life.

  * * * *

Two mornings after Fiona received the letter from Wilfred Thaxton—a letter which Colin, of course, knew nothing about—he was relaxing in front of the kitchen fire with a cup of strong tea. Fiona had gone with Madelaine to visit ‘old Mrs. Cadogan’ who was apparently doing quite poorly and needed, as he recalled, a tisane of tansy and beth root.

Lord Ashdown was feeling particularly self-satisfied at that moment. He had finished shelling a large bowl of peas and was also making considerable progress with the carrots. Mrs. Marwick’s kitchen was nearly the most agreeable room he had ever spent time in, and he thought that only his tiny study at Kirriemuir, with its outsized fireplace, could come close to providing such a degree of warmth and comfort on a late autumn day.

Lord Ashdown heard quick footsteps approaching, and felt the sudden chill of an open door. He turned the Bath chair, with some difficulty, and saw Sir Irwin standing in the kitchen doorway. Colin frowned.

“This is a cozy sight,” drawled Ampthill.

The man looked almost angry. Lord Ashdown made a quick mental calculation. He knew Sir Irwin’s name, but should he admit to it?

No.

 The marquess waited, saying nothing. He had found that people would say the most extraordinary things if one simply waited.

“I,” said the man, “am Sir Irwin Ampthill, Baronet of Ferndale.”

Colin could have laughed out loud. “Ah,” he said, nodding.

“And I suppose you are Lord . . . Ashgown?”

The marquess would have bet his finest carriage and the team that drew her that the mispronunciation was deliberate. He did not reply to the baronet and several moments went by. Sir Irwin seemed to hesitate coming any further into the room. He was wearing a ridiculous outfit for an informal visit, a frilled shirt topped by a satin waistcoat in a violent shade of green.

“I am also the owner and resident of Marsden Hall,” the man said finally, adding, “and a close friend of Mrs. Marwick.”

Colin longed for a healthy leg, so that he could plant a facer on this popinjay. Close friend? He thought not.
“I see,” he replied.

There was another pause.

“I was given to understand that Fiona’s guest was a lord of some kind,” said Sir Irwin, who appeared to be growing more irritated by the second that Colin had chosen not to introduce himself. It was the prerogative, as they both knew, of the higher-ranked gentleman.

For a moment the marquess contemplated telling Ampthill who he was, and just exactly where a baronet with a shady reputation stood in the ranks of society. But he never had the chance, in fact had barely drawn breath, before several other things happened in close succession.

The door opened, bringing another draft of chill air. Mrs. Marwick entered and saw the baronet. Her eyes flashed and Colin was pleased to see a spark of anger. “Sir Irwin,” she acknowledged, flatly. “I’m afraid I cannot receive visitors at the moment.”

Oddly, her cold reception seemed to have no effect on Ampthill. He seemed almost to be smirking.

“Oh, ’twas curiosity, my dear, merely curiosity,” he said. “I hear you’ve had a letter.”

A letter? Colin was watching Fiona and he thought he saw a flash of dismay. But—

“Mum, I can’t carry this!”

Madelaine now entered, struggling with a basket of food that looked nearly as big as she was.

“Here, I’ll get it.” Dee was on Maddie’s heels; he reached down for the basket, saying, “Ah! Now that’s a fine bird. Your mother will have it roasted in a trice.” The doctor saw Colin before noticing Sir Irwin, and he smiled. “Any more pain?” Dee asked the marquess.

“Very little.”

“I want you to stay off your feet until there is none whatsoever.” The doctor nodded shortly to Sir Irwin, and returned his attention to Lord Ashdown. “But you should move the leg a bit, if you can. Very gently at first—”

Mrs. Marwick again addressed herself to the baronet. “I’m sorry, Sir Irwin, but as you can see we are all quite busy here.”

Dee had finished giving instructions to Lord Ashdown. “Fiona,” he said, “where would you like all this food?”

Ampthill began a complaint that he and Lord Ashdown had never been properly introduced. And worse— “If further recovery is needed, he should be moved to Marsden Hall. There’s no reason for him to remain here, Fiona.”

“
Mrs. Marwick
,” corrected Lord Ashdown.

“Indeed? What have
you
to say of—”

And then his lordship heard a voice, from outside the kitchen window. A woman’s voice, loud, strong and very familiar.

“Take the horse, my good man.”

It could not be.

’Twas impossible.

Gods.

  * * * *

Fiona wanted to scream at Sir Irwin to get out of home at once. But she did not wish to make an exhibition of bad temper in front of Lord Ashdown, or Madelaine, and she was also worried about the baronet’s mention of a letter.

What would he know of the letter? She got very few, of course, but certainly a person could receive one without it being village gossip, and what possible interest could the baronet have? Did he know about Wilfred Thaxton? How could he?

In the kitchen everyone was talking at once. Even Agnes Groundsell—who, to no-one’s surprise, had been napping in her room—was roused from sleep by the hubbub.

“Mum—”

“Sir Irwin, you really must leave.”

“What is all this commotion? A body can hardly get a moment’s rest!”

Dee had taken Ampthill’s arm and was trying to steer him outside. The baronet was protesting, and Mrs. Groundsell, thinking better of her complaint in his lordship’s presence, was offering him tea and another biscuit.

Only Lord Ashdown said nothing. In fact, as Fiona chanced a look, he appeared stunned.

This flustered her. He must think that we are entirely without manners, she thought. I suppose they do not have such scenes in London. If only Sir Irwin would just leave. But—what about the letter? Fiona was hesitant to throw the man out without first discovering what he knew.

Suddenly the kitchen door opened with a bang, nearly knocking into Dr. Fischer. A woman stood at the threshold. She was tall and dark-haired and . . . a
lady
, thought Fiona. Somehow there was no doubt, even without consideration of her attire, which was a riding outfit of the first stare.

Fiona had never seen the woman before in her life.

“So,” said the lady, “Where is he?”

She was looking around the kitchen, clearly unimpressed with what she saw. Her eyes flitted past his lordship in the Bath chair and then, with a frown, returned.

“My gods, Colin. What have you done to yourself?”

Fiona could not understand the woman’s tone. She seemed more annoyed than anything else.

And his lordship appeared—chagrined.

“Who is this person?” said Sir Irwin.

This was the outside of enough, decided Fiona. There were now five other adults in her kitchen, two of whom—Sir Irwin and Agnes Groundsell—she longed to see the back of, and one whom she had never met. She was about to raise her voice when the baronet again demanded to be informed of the newcomer’s identity, as if ’twas any of his business.

“Enough,” said Colin, in a tone that stopped all conversation.

Everyone turned to look at him. The lady tapped her toe impatiently on the kitchen floor, as if to say—well, get on with it, then.

“Mrs. Marwick, my deepest apologies for this further intrusion on your life.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. Fiona thought she saw a slight, ironic smile.

“This is my sister, Lady Edwina Ashdown.”

Agnes Groundsell stared open-mouthed, Mrs. Marwick curtseyed, and the men bowed. The lady inclined her head in acknowledgement, very slightly. But for a few moments there was silence, as no-one seemed to have any idea how else to respond.

His lordship’s sister, in Barley Mow? Lord Ashdown had written his man of affairs weeks ago, so why had she only decided now to visit?

“You must do something immediately about that waistcoat,” said Lady Edwina, addressing herself to the baronet. “Burning the thing would not be too extreme. And now,” she added, “perhaps someone will explain to me how the Marquess of Carinbrooke happens to be here, confined to a Bath chair, when he is supposed to be in Newcastle, at Elswick Manor, and meeting his fiancée.”

Chapter 14: Lord Ashdown’s Fiancée

Gods.

Colin’s eyes went to Mrs. Marwick’s face, where he saw no emotion, not even bewilderment. Maddie, however, was not as composed.

“Marquess?” she said, in evident outrage. “Who’s a marquess?”

“Ah,” said Lady Edwina. “I see. That gentleman—” She pointed to Lord Ashdown. “—is the Marquess of Carinbrooke. A fact which he has evidently neglected to mention.”

“You mean
Colin
? Colin doesn’t have a fiancée!”

His sister’s eyes narrowed.

“Madelaine,” said the girl’s mother, quietly. “Come with me.”

“But—”

“Now. We have chickens to feed.”

’Twas not the usual time for this activity, but Maddy looked at her mother’s face, and went.

  * * * *

Sir Irwin had turned pale at the word ‘marquess’ and was finally convinced that he should leave, thank the gods. Edwina accompanied Hobbs to the stables, to give what would no doubt be detailed instructions about the care of Artemis, her mare. For the moment Lord Ashdown was alone with Dr. Fischer.

“Fiancée?” said Dee.

Colin groaned. “Not really.”

“Usually, one either has one, or one doesn’t.” There was more than a hint of accusation in the doctor’s tone, which Lord Ashdown knew he deserved. He had allowed himself to grow overly fond of Mrs. Marwick. Apparently Dee had noticed.
 So the marquess explained.

  * * * *

Colin had never enjoyed London society. As an unmarried marquess he’d been surrounded by females, all of them seeking his attention while pretending not to. It was depressing, and demeaning to the lot of them. After a few seasons in Town he had witnessed enough of so-called romance among the higher classes to know that one could not expect happiness from it.

Witness the florid Lord Pettigrew and his wife, each with more than one affair outside the marriage, both of them prowling the balls and soirees of London, looking for younger blood. Or the gentleman they called ‘Viscount Mayhem’, as handsome and self-assured as they came, who had disgraced more than one young daughter with promises of eternal love.
Ton
gossip consisted of one such story after another, and the marquess had long-since wished to hear the end of it.

But there was the matter of an heir. Lord Ashdown had no intention of allowing the marquisate to devolve onto some mewling third cousin, of which there were more than a few. A heir required a marriage, and a marriage a wife.

The young women of society seemed interchangeable to Colin; he remembered their names because a gentleman did so, but little else. So the previous spring he had spoken to Eddie. Find me a young woman to marry, he told her, giving only the briefest list of requirements, most of which centered around the absence of too many annoying relatives. Edwina had been only too happy to oblige.