The Man in the Green Coat (23 page)

“Of course, Mama. We are happy to welcome Lord Charing, are we not, Henry?” She nudged her husband, who sighed and said everything proper.

The Marquis of Charing, suffering severely from gout, was carried into the house by his servants. Some seventy years of age, he looked much older than the Ipswiches, his contemporaries. He wore his hair unfashionably long, tied behind, and it was as white as if it had been powdered in the mode of his youth. His lean face was deeply lined, giving an impression of constant weariness and regret.

Lord Everett took one look at him and reached for his wife’s hand. Squeezing it meaningfully, he whispered, “Family name: Darcy!”

She turned to him, startled, and when she resumed the duties of a hostess, greeting the unexpected guest and directing the servants to see to his comfort, she scrutinised his face intently.

Lord Charing retired to a hastily prepared bedchamber. The countess went straight to the schoolroom to see her younger grandchildren, while the earl visited Rolf on his sickbed.

“I see no resemblance,” said Lady Cecilia to her husband.

“It is not obvious,” Lord Everett responded. “I caught a hint of young Gerard about the eyes. But he is the one the Darcys reminded me of, I’d wager on it. The resemblance must have been closer when he was younger.”

“He is something of a hermit, is he not? I know nothing of his family.”

“I was never well acquainted with him. He is older, and his heir, Lord Darcy, younger than I. I have a vague recollection of seeing in the Gazette, oh, perhaps fifteen months past, that Darcy was killed in some sort of accident.”

“Where does that leave Gerard and Gabrielle?”

“Precisely where they were, except that we can guess at a connection. Just what it is, is still a matter for conjecture. There must be cadet branches of the house, and the connection might be distant, the resemblance pure chance.”

“My parents probably know more.”

 Lord Everett frowned. “Don’t ask them, Cecilia. We have no right to delve into the matter.”

“As you wish. But I shall invite the marquis to stay for a few days, until his leg pains him less. We shall soon find out if you are right.”

“We shall?”

“To be sure. Either he knows about the relationship, in which case he may repudiate it and leave at once, or he may wish to further it, so he will stay. Or else he does not know of it, in which case he will stay to investigate, if he has only an ounce of curiosity in him! But if you are mistaken in the resemblance, he will hum and haw and make a to-do about putting us out, and consider a thousand pros and cons.”

“All right, all right!” The baron laughed. “I daresay you have the right of it, unless Charing happens to be a man of quick decisions, or fails to note a resemblance which is there. In which case we shall learn precisely nothing!”

Lord Ipswich made Gerard’s acquaintance in Rolf’s room, and his wife met Gabrielle when she returned with Dorothea from a walk to the village. They were pronounced respectively “a promising youth” and “a pretty-behaved young woman.” Neither the earl nor the countess remarked upon the coincidence of surnames, nor appeared to notice any likeness.

Of the rest of the household, children and staff alike, only Lord Charing’s servants were aware of their master’s family name. They were a taciturn lot, not given to gossiping in the servants’ hail or stables; if they felt any unusual interest in the young Darcys, they kept it to themselves.

When the marquis limped into the long gallery before dinner, on the arm of his footman, Lady Cecilia’s gaze never left his face. She presented Dorothea to him, but was pleased to note that his eyes kept straying to Gabrielle and Gerard, who were waiting to be introduced. When he heard their name, his look of puzzlement changed to a wary interest.

Gabrielle, having but recently nursed her brother and Luke, was quite ready to practise her new skills on another invalid. She took charge of Lord Charing, brought a stool for his bad leg, a screen to shield him from the draught, a cushion to set behind him. All was done with such an utter lack of self-consciousness that he could not possibly suppose that he was being toad-eaten. She sat down beside him and conversed politely on subjects of general interest, the very picture of a demure, well-bred young lady in her evening gown of apricot mull.

“Do you make a long stay at Wrotham, Miss Darcy?” he asked abruptly.

“Until next month, sir. Lady Cecilia has been kind enough to ask us to stay several more weeks.”

“And then?”

“Then we return to town, sir.”

“To your parents, no doubt.”

Gabrielle chose to disregard this query. His sudden curiosity seemed odd compared to his previous courtly, somewhat old-fashioned manner.

“We have very much enjoyed spending the summer here,” she said. “The countryside is magnificent, is it not? If it were only the view across the Weald from the top of the hill, it would be worth a visit.”

The marquis looked a little put out at her evasion but did not press his question. Instead he described his home to her, the village of timbered houses and the remains of a palace once belonging to the Archbishop of Canterbury.

“You can still see the Great Hall,” he said, “where both Henry VII and Henry VIII were entertained. It is within my grounds, so I have never had to construct an artificial Gothic ruin to please romantic ladies.”

She laughed. “It sounds delightful! Are you close to Canterbury?”

“Some twelve miles.”

“You must often have visited the Cathedral then. Describe it to me, pray. Is it not the oldest in England?”

“It was founded in 597, burned down in 1067, and subsequently rebuilt. It is something of a hodgepodge of styles, but well worth a visit. As is the city, which has still a great many medieval buildings.”

“I should like to see it,” said Gabrielle, “but Mr Everett said it is much too far for a day’s outing.”

Lord Charing fell silent, looking thoughtful. They soon went in to dinner, where he ate so sparingly that Lady Cecilia felt every justification, later in the evening, when she invited him to stay until he felt more the thing.

He agreed with alacrity.

Lady Cecilia was not in the least surprised, the next day, when the marquis asked to meet Rolf. After all, Gerard spent most of his time with his friend. With a touching wistfulness, his lordship angled to be included in their limited pastimes; and since they both had excellent manners, he frequently succeeded.

“Imagine having a bad leg all the time!” said Rolf to Gerard, aghast at the thought.

Lady Cecilia was mystified, however, by the marquis's determined cultivation of her daughter. Dorothea had grown worrisomely pale and wan since Alain’s departure. Never talkative, she had lately become silent, and if it had not been for Gabrielle’s animating presence she would have retired to her chamber to mope the days away.

Heartsick herself, Gabrielle was not one to go into a decline. She conceived it her duty to her kind hosts to encourage Dorothea to exert herself, and when Lord Charing arrived she did her utmost to see that the charge of entertaining him did not fall on Lady Cecilia.

The Everetts were grateful. When Lady Cecilia at last found an opportunity to approach her father on the subject of money, she did it as much for Gabrielle as for Luke.

Lord Ipswich was entirely unsurprised when she laid the situation before him.

“Had a notion it was low tide with you, Cecy,” he said. “‘Well, I mean, your old father knows the time of day, what? Stands to reason you can’t play deep for as many years as Everett did without getting a trifle scorched. You would marry him though.”

“And I have never regretted it, Papa.”

“Was going to offer a helping hand when he came down here. Reformed character, what? Your mother thought he’d be insulted.”

“She was right. But things have changed now.”

“Not run off your legs, are you? I’ve been looking about the place, and it looks as if Everett’s brought the land into good heart, doing well.”

“It is. He has a touch for estate management, now that he has put his mind to it. It’s the old debts: mortgages and liens and other things I don’t understand. If it was just the two of us we could get by, but the children are growing up. So far, Luke has provided for them, but . . .”

“Not another word, my love! Your stepson is an admirable young man, but there’s no call for him to take care of my grandchildren when your mother and I don’t spend the half of our income—in spite of her wretched hats! I shan’t live forever, and when I go there will be a fair bit coming your way, without embarrassing your brother in the least. You shall have it at once, no strings attached, except I’ll thank you not to let Everett gamble it away again!”

“Papa! If I didn’t think you were roasting me . . . But I knew I could count on you.” Lady Cecilia hugged her father, feeling like a little girl given a shilling to spend at the fair. With the debts paid off, the estate could easily support Luke with a wife and family.

Now all she had to do was to make sure he married Gabrielle!

Chapter 21

Gabrielle had come to like Lord Charing. She felt she was genuinely useful to him, and though she had heard him cursing his servants when his leg was particularly painful, he was unfailingly polite, even charming, to her.

She was walking in the garden one morning when she overheard a snippet of conversation. Unaware of her presence, Lady Cecilia’s parents were sitting on a bench on the other side of a bed of gloriously scented red roses.

“I’ve known Charing any time these sixty years,” Lord Ipswich told his wife, “and I’ve never seen him behave so obliging.”

“Irascible is the word,” agreed my lady, nodding her vast hat with its own rose garden about the brim. “But I noticed last time we met him in town that he had mellowed prodigiously. And his son has died since. That’s enough to make a man ponder his life.”

“That’s as may be, my lady, but I’ll wager that young woman has something to do with it, with her pleasing ways and the little attentions an old man likes. I’m half in love with her myself, I vow.”

Gabrielle blushed and hurried away.

That same day when the marquis descended at noon, as was his custom, to join the rest of the company, he announced that he felt himself sufficiently recovered to depart on the morrow.

“My daughter-in-law will be wondering what has become of me,” he explained to his hostess. “The tone of her mind has been much affected by her widowhood. In fact, I do not believe I have seen Lady Sarah smile since my son’s death. It is unfortunate that she has no children to distract her thoughts.”

Lady Cecilia murmured her sympathy.

With an effort the old gentleman continued. “I have found my own sorrow much eased in your house by the presence of young people. I hardly dare to ask it, ma’am, but could you see your way to allowing your daughter to come with me to Charing, in the hope of cheering her? Accompanied, of course, by Miss Darcy. Miss Darcy has expressed a wish to see Canterbury, an expedition. easily accomplished from Charing.”

Lady Cecilia was hard put to it not to reveal her triumph. The marquis had most certainly recognised a family resemblance, and at the very least did not intend to repudiate the connection outright. Having gone so far, he might be expected to do something for Gabrielle and Gerard even if it turned out to be a left-handed relationship.

“What a delightful idea!” she said quickly. “I am sure a change of scene cannot but benefit Dorothea, and I trust the scheme will serve to raise Lady Sarah’s spirits too. Naturally I cannot answer for dear Gabrielle, but she is the most obliging girl. I doubt she will be hard to persuade if there is some expectation of doing good. I shall speak to them both, at once.”

Gabrielle’s only concern was for her brother. Being assured by the Everetts that he was welcome to stay at Wrotham, she went to find him in Rolf’s room. She told him of her invitation.

“I cannot leave now,” he said in alarm. “Rolf will be able to leave his bed in a few days and I mean to take him out in the gig.”

“That is what I am afraid of! You are bound to fall into some sort of scrape if I leave you here on your own.”

“Don’t fuss so, Gaby! How can you say I shall be on my own when I am surrounded by Everetts? If anything comes up, Lord Everett will tell me how to go on.”

“Don’t call me Gaby. You promise you will send to Charing if you are in a hobble?”

“I promise,” he said with a sigh of exasperation. “Now do go away, there’s a good girl. We are in the middle of a game.”

Gabrielle went back to the marquis and curtsied.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, “I shall be happy to go with you to Charing.”

* * * *

The seat of the Marquis of Charing was situated, like Wrotham, on the southern slopes of the North Downs. The house, a vast Elizabethan mansion, was largely shut up. Only the marquis and his daughter-in-law resided there now, and even before his son’s fatal accident they had rarely entertained.

It was raining when Gabrielle and Dorothea arrived. The great hall was gloomy, its huge fireplace a black cave, the suits of armour guarding the stair sinister in the half-light. His lordship was suffering severely after the journey, though they had travelled less than thirty miles. Preoccupied with his pain, he left the girls to his housekeeper, a depressed-looking woman who took them to adjoining, connected bedchambers and sent a maid for hot water.

The rooms were decorated in a style outdated twenty years before. Dorothea’s abigail snorted as she unpacked their clothes.

“I been in houses like this afore,” she said. “Time the water comes from the kitchen it’ll be lukewarm, you mark my words, miss.”

Dorothea looked ready to weep, and Gabrielle could not help feeling dismal. At least Lady Sarah could have made an effort to greet them, she thought.

At that moment there was a knock on the door of her chamber and a tall, pale lady drifted in. With grey hair and a grey gown unadorned by so much as a strip of lace, she might have been a ghost.

“Miss Everett, Miss Darcy?” she said in a low,, lifeless voice. “I am Lady Sarah. It is kind of you to visit this unhappy house.”