A Wedding In Springtime

chapter Six

Penelope Rose followed the duchess to her new bedroom, wondering if her decision to act as the elderly woman’s companion was entirely sound. She had not anticipated being engaged with company quite so soon, and there definitely appeared to be something amiss in the Marchford household.

“Here is your room,” said the dowager, sweeping into a bright room of sky blue and cream. The mahogany poster bed was draped with light blue curtains, which matched the drapes on the window. There was a delicate blue and cream flowered paper on the walls and a dressing table of the same rich mahogany wood. The drapes were pulled back to reveal large windows with a fine view of the garden in the back of the house. It was an elegant room, better than any room Pen had ever had. And it was all hers, not to be shared with one or two of her sisters.

“It is beautiful.” In her excitement over the room, Pen moved her hands around the side of the bandbox, forgetting she had to hold it just so or it would… “Oh!” exclaimed Pen as the bottom ripped out of the box and the contents spilled onto the floor.

“Your box seems to have ripped,” commented the dowager.

Frantically, Pen sank to her knees to snatch her belongings off the floor and pile them next to her on the writing table. Her diary, a stack of letters tied in ribbon, a parcel of her sketches and watercolors even she had to admit were poor, her needlepoint workbag, but where was her book?

Debrett’s Peerage of England had slid across the floor near the dowager. Pen made a quick grab for it, picking it up by the spine. She placed it on the table with the rest of her belongings, but multiple sheets of thin paper fell from the volume to the floor.

“What is this?” The dowager picked up one of the sheets and began to read.

Pen scrambled to grab the other pages and regained her feet, her brain racing to find some rational explanation. “It is nothing. Nothing of importance.”

“Why, it has the name of Mr. Grant with an entry just like out of the peerage, his date of birth, holdings, family, connects, estimated annual income. That is not part of Debrett’s. What is this?” For an elderly lady, she certainly had no difficulty reading the tiny script on the page.

“Please, Your Grace, it is nothing, just a bit of schoolgirl silliness,” said Penelope in an octave a bit higher than her own. She had promised her sisters the precious volumes of Debrett’s guide would not fall into enemy hands. Much to her horror the dowager walked to the table and picked up the copy of the Peerage.

“Why some of these entries have a good deal of writing in the margins.” The dowager flipped through the pages and Pen resisted the urge to grab the book from the dowager’s hands. “You have listed every man… no, every bachelor between here and Hadrian’s Wall.”

“Not every bachelor, just the ones we have met or learned about since coming to London.” Pen winced at her own words. She was not helping her situation. It was unbearably hot in the room.

The duchess gave her a cold look. “I do not know what you are playing at, but we are a respectable household,” said the dowager with a voice like thin ice.

“Oh no, Your Grace, it is nothing like that.”

The duchess’s clear suspicion compelled Penelope to explain herself further lest she be accused of keeping a book of men to arrange a less conventional sort of arrangement. “When we first came to London, my two elder sisters and I entered society first. It was hoped we could find suitable husbands. My eldest sister became quite popular. Within a month, my uncle had received ten offers for her hand. Within two months, men were coming to speak to him almost daily.”

“Yes, I recall your eldest sister was the diamond of the season,” said the dowager.

“My sister was flattered of course, but it all became very confusing. We needed to sort through her suitors and find the ones who were the most eligible.”

“So, you naturally investigated their bank accounts and chose the one with the most blunt to spend,” drawled the duchess.

“The wealthiest suitor was forty years her senior with cold hands and wet eyes. No, ma’am, we did not choose the wealthiest,” said Pen.

“You chose a love match?”

Penelope paused. “My sister came to fancy a very charming man, handsome of face and well established in society. However, further inquiries into his habits revealed that he was also charming to several other ladies… married ladies. Perhaps this is customary in some circles, but it would have made my sister quite unhappy.”

“So you used Debrett’s Peerage as a guidebook for eligible marital partners?” The dowager rifled through the pages.

“Yes. Marriage is nothing to be entered lightly. We found that when men are wooing, they rarely share their true nature with their intended. We needed to look at the situation logically, soberly, to help guide affection along its proper course.”

“Well, I can understand your motivations,” conceded the dowager, somewhat mollified. “Look here, what do these letters mean? Is this written in code?”

“We had some abbreviations.” Pen again resisted the urge to snatch her book away from prying eyes.

“So what does ‘EOF’ next to the Earl of Wentworth stand for?”

Another rush of heat crawled up Pen’s neck. Could this first day get any worse? “It means ‘embarrassed of funds.’”

“I declare! Wentworth is hardly at a standstill.”

“If you say so, Your Grace,” demurred Pen.

“Wait, no, I did hear just last night that he was quite in dun territory.” The dowager looked her over as if weighing her worth. “I congratulate your ingenuity.”

“These few notes were only intended to help secure the happiness of my sisters,” murmured Pen. She was not sure if the dowager’s comments were praise or censure.

“You ought not show this to anyone. Find a suitable place here where it will not be found by a curious housemaid.”

“Yes, indeed. So… you are still interested in having me serve as a companion?” asked Pen.

“Quite, my dear.” She gave Pen a wicked smile. “It will take more than an index of bachelors to shock me.” The dowager’s eyes flashed lightning blue. “He thinks he has won, but I shall show him. I shall support myself. I will not be put out of my own home!”

“Your Grace?”

The dowager gave her a sweet smile that made Pen wary. “I propose we assist Lady Bremerton with her errant niece.”

“I should like to help her,” said Pen with sincerity.

“You may have overheard me earlier,” said the dowager, her head held high, as if daring Pen to find fault. “I had just received a letter from my grandson, informing me that he intends to cut me off. I can hardly believe he could be so hateful, but it is quite true.”

“Why, that is terrible!” Penelope gasped. Her low opinion of the Duke of Marchford was now sealed.

“Yes, yes, quite,” said the dowager, pleased to have someone agree with her. “Such a hateful thing to do to one’s own grandmother.” She reclined morosely yet gracefully into a chair, her hand smoothing her white, precisely coiffed hair.

“I am shocked! But can he do this? I do not mean to pry into your affairs, but surely you have your own funds.”

“Yes, of course, I have my pin money, but the duke, four subsequent dukes to be exact, have always supplemented my allowance. Why, without this support, I would have only fifty pounds a week. Fifty! How am I to live on such a paltry amount?”

Penelope held her tongue. Fifty pounds a week was to her a small fortune.

“If nothing can be done to increase the allowance, we shall be forced from London.”

“Could it be, I mean with the strictest economy, that you could manage on fifty pounds?” asked Penelope, careful to add just a hint of anxiety to her tone, as if she truly had concern that fifty pounds would be inadequate to meet her needs.

The dowager shook her head. “No, no, it is not possible. Unless…” She paused, giving Pen a steely glance with glittering eyes. “Unless we can do something to raise our fortunes.”

“But what could we do?”

“I have an idea.” She rose majestically from the chair, her back as straight as a lance. “Come, Penelope, we must not keep our company waiting.”

Pen followed the dowager back downstairs to the drawing room, wondering what sort of scheme the dowager was plotting. At the dowager’s request, Pen rang the bell for tea.

“Cora,” said the dowager in a voice smooth as silk, “I have been thinking and I believe I may know someone who can help.”

“Truly? You are my only hope.”

“What if I knew a discreet lady who creates eligible matches for those in society whose prospects are few?” asked the dowager.

“A matchmaker?” asked Lady Bremerton.

“A discreet purveyor of eligible unions.” The dowager gave Pen a knowing smile that made Pen quite nervous about the direction the dowager was heading. “The lady is very discreet, very exclusive, with a proven record for finding the most eligible of matches.”

“Oh, that is exactly what I need. Who is this lady?”

“I cannot say, for her identity is a closely guarded secret. Please do not repeat this to anyone.”

“No, of course not.” Lady Bremerton lowered her voice and leaned forward.

“She has a written ledger of eligible bachelors,” said the dowager in hushed tones. “Their worth, their connections and proclivities, it is all written in her secret book. She is an expert in marriage and how to extricate damsels from difficult situations.”

Lady Bremerton’s eyes were wide. Genie’s were likewise afflicted. Pen was alarmed that the dowager was speaking about her annotated version of Debrett’s and tried in vain to catch the dowager’s eye.

“Antonia, please, you must tell me how I can contact this lady. She is precisely the miracle I have hoped for.”

“I do not wish to disappoint you, but her fees are rather high. I would even call them extravagant.”

“Price is of no concern.”

“What would you be willing to pay?” asked the dowager, her blue eyes gleaming.

“Anything!” said Lady Bremerton recklessly.

The tea cart arrived and Pen made a point of rattling the china to disturb the conversation as much as possible with the hope of shaking the dowager off the topic. Pen could not feel comfortable with what the dowager was proposing.

“I might be willing to contact Madam X if you can tell me what you would be willing to spend to see your niece married before the end of the season,” said the dowager, undeterred by Pen’s clattering teacups.

Lady Bremerton’s eyelids fluttered and she glanced around wildly. “If Eugenia could be married before the end of the season, oh, that would be something. I would… I would match her dowry!”

“Aunt Cora!” exclaimed Genie. “You could not possibly.”

“Hold your tongue, child!” exclaimed Lady Bremerton. “’Tis nothing but a trifle in comparison to having my reputation tarnished.”

“Certainly,” said the dowager evenly, “a wise investment to be sure. I shall be in touch with Madam X and let you know her answer.”

Pen stifled a gasp. The dowager was auctioning off Pen’s questionable services in the marriage mart for a shocking amount. Pen clinked her teacup down on her saucer, trying to get the dowager’s attention but in vain.

“Your Grace—” began Penelope, determined to end this farce, but the dowager interrupted her.

“Marchford? Is that you dearest?” called the duchess.

A rustle from the corridor was silenced. Penelope could imagine the duke judging whether he needed to respond or if he would best make a run for it. At length, he came to the open doorway.

“Yes, Grandmother?”

“Marchford, may I present to you Miss Talbot? She is the cousin of Lady Louisa and is lately come to London.”

“Ah, yes. Louisa’s cousin.” The duke gave Miss Talbot a discerning look. “I have heard of her arrival.” His wry smile was not shared by Lady Bremerton.

“Please be a dear and show the young people a tour of the house,” continued the dowager. “I have a few things I need to discuss with Lady Bremerton. You were not on your way out, were you? You are always so considerate, so obliging, that’s a dear.”

Marchford, wearing a midnight blue, double-breasted, cutaway riding coat over suede breeches and top boots, was almost certainly going out for a ride. He gave a perfunctory smile and spun the riding crop in his hand. “I would be pleased to take the young ladies on a short tour of the house.” He bowed politely and even though he said and acted as he ought, Pen had no question that he was displeased with this turn of events.

Pen and Genie walked toward the door to begin their tour; indeed, they had no other choice. Pen glanced back at the dowager, sure she had found a way to get the dissenting voices out of the room so the dowager could plot more efficiently with Lady Bremerton. She had a nagging suspicion she should not leave poor Lady Bremerton undefended, but there was nothing to do but follow the duke out the door.

Marchford led the two ladies through the house, showing them the briefest glance at the drawing rooms, the salon, and the library. The library appeared extensive and Pen was drawn into the room, admiring his collection. She was roused back to order by the duke standing at the door, watch in hand. She barely made it out of the room before he strode off again, rapidly commenting on fluted moldings and ionic columns.

“I would have liked to explore the library too, but I did not dare,” whispered Genie, falling into step beside Pen.

Pen smiled at her. “You must come back, and we will explore it together.”

Genie gave a tight smile. “Thank you. Though I warrant I will be returning soon to the country. I cannot possibly allow my aunt to pay such an amount and I know there is no way for my father to pay her back.”

“Begging your pardon, but you may have some difficulty controlling what those two old campaigners do.”

“You are very right,” conceded Genie. “Might there be any hope for my reputation?”

“There is always hope. I have seen the most outrageous behavior tolerated by the haut ton from one of their favorites.”

“I doubt I shall be graced with the honor of being a society favorite,” said Genie, her eyes growing bluer.

Pen gave Genie a bracing smile as they followed the duke into the spacious ballroom. “You never can tell. My sisters received considerably more attention than we thought possible. I am learning the Duchess of Marchford holds her own power in society. Do not pack your gowns quite yet.”

“Thank you, Penelope. I am so glad I have met you today. You have given me hope!”

A sudden silence caught the ladies’ attention. The duke had ceased his rapid narration and stood before them the picture of maligned dignity, one eyebrow aristocratically raised. “I do hope I am not disturbing your conversation.”

“Not at all,” blurted Pen. “Your home is truly impressive.” The ballroom in which they stood was well lit with windows along the far wall. Several crystal chandeliers hung from the ornately painted ceilings. Pen could only imagine the splendor it would be when lit at night. The ballroom appeared to open into a courtyard garden in the back. Pen was curious to have a peek, but Marchford was already walking back to the door.

“I do like the gold and blue wallpaper,” commented Genie.

Marchford turned and glanced around at the walls as if noticing them for the first time. “Yes, I believe my grandmother had everything redecorated in my absence.”

“Then Her Grace has done quite a bit,” commented Pen.

“Yes. She has quite taken command of the house,” replied Marchford, a slight bite to his tone.

“It shall be very hard for her to leave it,” said Pen with more feeling than she ought to have.

“Indeed, I imagine it will be.” This was spoken with cool disregard, and Pen could not help but be annoyed. She opened her mouth in defense of her new mistress, but Marchford stalked out of the ballroom. “The gallery is upstairs.”

Pen bristled under the weight of his disregard. The Duchess of Marchford deserved more compassion than what he deigned to show, and certainly no family member should be cut off from her accustomed funds and banished to the country. Pen followed him into the entrance hall and up the white marble staircase. Marchford walked quickly with long strides and she had to hustle to keep up, with Genie trailing along behind.

At the top of a white marble staircase, the gallery was a long hall, running the length of the spacious house. Large windows illuminated the long row of portraits along the far wall and the elegant marble statues situated artistically throughout the gallery. The sun shone brightly, giving the marble a rosy hue. Marchford strode down the length of the hall, circumventing the marble statues as if an inconvenience, impatiently swatting his riding crop against his thigh.

Pen was forced to pick up her skirts and run a few steps to catch up with him. A glance behind ensured that Genie was sufficiently out of hearing distance, giving Pen the opportunity to speak her mind.

“Forgive me, for it is not my place to say,” began Pen, “but I am shocked at your disregard for what your grandmother will suffer. Forcing her to leave her home, which she so carefully maintained in your absence, is a hardship no person, even such an esteemed person as yourself, should impose on his own grandmother. And leaving a note declaring your intentions to cut off her funds should she disobey you is as cowardly as it is cruel.”

The duke looked down at her with cool civility. “You are right. It is not your place to say.”

He turned on his heel and stalked off down the hall. She had been given the cut direct, which, considering her rather inappropriate outburst, was well deserved. She sighed and walked after him. She was always speaking her mind in a manner most unbecoming in a female. Her outburst was impolitic too, since she had rather hoped to remain in the house more than a few days. She hustled to catch up with him again, knowing what she must do.

“Please forgive my outburst, which reveals so clearly why I am the only Rose sister to remain unmarried. I shall leave your house at once if you wish it,” said Penelope.

Marchford stopped, his back to her. Silence filled the hall and Pen waited on the duke’s timing for when he should next speak.

“You are also right about another thing. It was cowardly.” He turned back to her. “Stay her companion. She will need the company, and it is refreshing to have one not afraid to speak her mind. Perhaps she has not told you, but my grandmother has had many companions in the past. They often do not stay long. You, I am convinced, will not be so easily frightened.”

“I like your grandmother very well,” Pen said with a smile. “Though she can be most insistent when she wants her way.”

“Yes. Quite.” Marchford turned absently to the portraits before him.

“Is this family along the wall?” Pen asked, changing to a safer subject.

“Yes. A long line of Marchfords.”

“And does your portrait hang among them?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. Do not, I beg you, put the idea into my grandmother’s head, or I shall find my time consumed with standing for the portrait maker.”

“Being a duke, I presume this fate will befall you sooner or later. I am surprised you have not been forced to sit for a portrait yet.”

“I have been away since my ascension to the title.”

“Is this a portrait of your father?” Pen guessed, motioning toward a man elegantly dressed in a powder blue coat with elaborate gold embroidery and a large, curled white wig.

“Yes, the seventh Duke of Marchford. And next to him his first wife, Sophia of Lincolnshire.” Marchford gestured toward a portrait of a delicate creature with a hint of a smile on her rosebud mouth.

“Charming,” pronounced Pen. “Was the portrait like her?”

“I am told so. I never met her.”

“Oh, did she die in childbirth?”

“Yes, but not giving birth to me.” Marchford pointed at the portrait next to hers of a young man. He resembled Marchford in his eyes, but he had a smaller, more delicate frame like his mother. “This is my elder brother, Frederick, the eighth Duke of Marchford.”

“I did not realize you had an elder brother,” said Pen.

“Yes, poor Frederick was never strong. He had scarlet fever as a boy and never entirely recovered. He died about three years ago.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

Marchford stared at the portrait of his brother. “He had been close to death so many times, I never thought he would actually die.”

Despite her resolve to dislike this man, a lump developed in her throat. She remembered all too well the pain of losing her parents. “I felt the same when my parents passed away. They both contracted the fever and were gravely ill. Even after the doctor said there was no hope, I still thought they would recover.”

Silence again filled the hall. Pen expected Marchford to resume his rapid tour of the house, but he remained gazing at the portrait of his brother, his expression unreadable.

“Does your mother’s portrait hang here?” asked Pen, trying to move beyond the somber mood.

“No.” Instead of lightening the mood, Marchford’s face grew more solemn. “Grandmother would never allow it.”

Pen stared at him, surprised. “Your grandmother has chosen a more suitable place?”

Marchford glanced at her, a wry smile on his lips. “According to my grandmother, the most suitable place would have been the burn pile.”

Pen opened her mouth and closed it again. What could she possibly say to that pronouncement?

“If you are to best serve my grandmother, you should understand my father had two wives. One favored”—Marchford motioned toward the pretty picture of Sophia—“one not.” He motioned to himself.

“After his first wife died bringing Frederick into the world,” Marchford continued, “my father married again. Unlike his first marriage, it was not arranged by my grandmother, it was indeed a love match.” He whispered the words, as if revealing a shameful family secret. “My father died in a fire at his hunting box when I was five. My mother and grandmother…” Marchford’s voice trailed off and he exhaled slowly. “My mother’s portrait will never be hung as long as my grandmother lives under this roof.”

“I am sorry,” said Pen weakly. She had been convinced Marchford was heartless for his treatment of his grandmother, but she could see there was considerable family history driving his decisions.

“The billiard room is this way in case you have the desire to play.” Marchford abruptly changed the subject and led her down a side stairwell. The notion of Pen playing billiards was absurd, but she followed along, trying to arrange her thoughts enough to form words.

“The billiard room,” said Marchford, entering an unlit room with rich mahogany woodwork and burgundy velvet curtains. Compared to the airy, white gallery it was a warm, intimate space.

“I believe in love matches,” blurted Pen.

Marchford raised an eyebrow. “Do you now?”

“Yes. I ensured my sisters all made good matches with men who would not only be able to give them a comfortable life, but also where there was mutual affection.”

Marchford took a step toward her, his eyes dark in the dimly lit room. His features were handsome but strong with a decided nose and chiseled jawline. “The Duke of Marchford is engaged to Lady Louisa. It was intended to be my brother, but with the peerage, I also inherited a bride.”

“Perhaps love can grow. Affection can develop between two people who are often in each other’s company.”

Marchford’s eyes never left hers. “Perhaps you are right.”

Pen looked away, wondering why the room had suddenly grown so hot. What could she be thinking, speaking of love matches with the duke? “Thank you for the tour, Your Grace. It was most informative.”

“It seems, Miss Rose, we have a problem,” he drawled in a low tone.

“A-a problem?” she stammered.

“We have lost Miss Talbot.”