Chapter 6
Beth was astonished how easy it was for two people to avoid meeting at Belcraven, especially when one seemed set on it. Beth only encountered the marquess at dinner and for the social interaction which followed. Moreover, after that first occasion, it was never just the family.
There was a resident chaplain at Belcraven, the Reverend Augustus Steep, who also served as the family archivist and historian. A Mrs. Sysonby turned up from time to time. She was a distant connection of the duke's who had found herself impoverished in widowhood. She had been taken in as companion to the duchess but as the duchess felt no need of a companion and Mrs. Sysonby was an enthusiastic entomologist, the lady lived independently in her rooms pursuing her hobby, coming and going as she pleased.
The duchess's émigré aunt and uncle, the Comte and Comtesse de Nouilly, inhabited one whole wing along with a crippled daughter and a handful of faithful servants. Occasionally they, too, without the daughter, appeared for dinner.
Mr. Westall, the duke's secretary, and Mr. Holden, his steward, were entitled to dine with the family and did so from time to time, though the steward had his own family in a house on the estate, and Mr. Westall ate frequently at the vicarage where the interest, Beth gathered, was the vicar's daughter.
In fact, Beth found Mr. Westall exactly the kind of quiet, studious young man with whom she felt comfortable. She enjoyed his occasional company, but whenever she conversed with him she would look up to see the marquess's eyes on them, hard and suspicious.
Beth wished she could wipe away that suspicion but, even if she found the words, when was there occasion to say them?
During the evenings the marquess did not again attempt to take Beth aside despite hints from the duchess. During the days, he disappeared. The duke maintained a pack of hounds, though he rarely hunted himself, and the marquess was spending some days chasing foxes. Beth gathered most of the rest was spent riding and angling. Anything that took him out of the house.
When they met, his manner was always impeccably courteous and formidably distant. Beth matched his courtesy as best she could and waited for an opportunity to undo the damage, to convince him of her purity. Two attempts to have him go apart with her having failed, she was driven to desperate measures and wrote him a note, asking to speak with him privately.
When they met that evening before the meal he said coolly, "I received your note, my dear. Is your need so urgent?"
Understanding him, Beth felt her face go red and snapped, "No."
Afterwards she wondered with despair if she should have invited him to her bed. It might be her only chance to speak to him in private and presumably then he would discover she was a virgin, or had been.
As they hardly ever spoke to each other, surely no one could believe this farce of a betrothal. The duke and duchess, of course, simply smoothed over the surface, though Beth was aware of the duchess's concern. The Comte and Comtesse de Nouilly were entirely absorbed by their own bitterness. But the upper servants—Mr. Holden, Mr. Westall, and the Reverend Steep—must have surely found the situation very strange. If so, they were careful to give no sign of it.
All the same Beth had reason to be grateful to Napoleon Bonaparte. Without the increasingly bad situation on the Continent certainly even the de Vaux family would sometimes have been short of something to say. Instead, each evening, they plunged with relief into the day's news.
One evening the marquess shocked everyone. "I think it is every man's duty to oppose the Corsican," he said. "I wish to offer my services."
The duke and duchess both paled. "Impossible," snapped the duke.
"It is perfectly possible," replied the marquess, and Beth knew this was his attempt to escape. Even into death? Or did he think himself invincible?
"You forget, Arden," said the duke, once more calm and controlled, "your wedding is set for a few weeks hence. After that and what is now called the honeymoon, we can discuss this subject again." The words were accompanied by a warning look. Beth knew the duke was reminding his heir of the weapon he held over his head.
For once the marquess broke the pattern of decorum, pushed back his chair, and left the table. The comte and comtesse looked blankly astonished.
"Is something amiss?" the comtesse asked.
"No, Tante," said the duchess. "It is merely that Arden has finished."
The comtesse sniffed. "The manners of the English youth leave much to be desired." With that she returned to her cake.
For once silence was allowed to take hold of them all. Both the duke and the duchess were pale. The duke's pallor could well be simple displeasure; the duchess's was fear.
How many mothers, Beth wondered, were living with fear as the dark shadow of war crept once more over Europe and sons decided they must join the fight?
When the duchess looked up and their eyes met, Beth sent her a look of compassion, and the duchess smiled back. It was the first moment of true understanding Beth had experienced since coming to Belcraven. She found it strangely frightening. Perhaps it was the first tentative feeling of belonging, and that was what troubled her.
Beth found herself increasingly fond of the duchess's company. The lady was clever, witty, and kind. One day, as they sat in ladylike occupation embroidering a new frontal for the chapel, the duchess ventured a mild criticism. "Elizabeth, my dear, our story, for the curious, is that you and Lucien are madly in love. It would help the fabrication if you were to spend more time together."
Beth kept her eyes on her stitches. "I suppose that is true, Your Grace. The marquess, however, shows no inclination to spend time in my company."
"Do you wish that he would spend more time with you?"
Beth looked up. "Not particularly."
The duchess frowned slightly. "Elizabeth, are you perhaps, as they say, cutting off your nose to spite your face? What more could you want in a husband than Lucien? He is handsome. He can be delightfully charming."
"I do not care if my husband be handsome or not, Your Grace," Beth replied, "and if Lord Arden is charming, he has not been so to me. I find him cold and arrogant." But then she had to admit to herself that he had not been so until she had said those terrible things.
"It is not really like him, my dear," said the duchess. "He does not like this situation any more than you. But someone has to give a little. Could you not make the first approach?"
Beth had tried that. She shuddered. "No."
The duchess sighed. "I will speak to Lucien then." If she did so, it had no effect.
Apart from the problem of the marquess, Beth became somewhat reconciled to life at Belcraven. She grew accustomed to the scale of the great house with an ease which surprised her and could soon find her way to all the principle rooms unaided. She could not deny that she obtained enjoyment from the beauty of the spacious chambers, the exquisite moldings and decorations, and the priceless works of art. Who could complain, being able to sit in private contemplation of a Rafael Madonna, a Van Dyke portrait, or a landscape of merry Breughel villagers? Who could be totally unhappy in a marvelously well-stocked library?
This lofty, magnificent room with its two tiers of gilded, glass-fronted shelves became Beth's primary haunt. Here were all the classics and many newer and exciting works. It soon became known that if Miss Armitage were needed, one need look no farther than one of the three deep window embrasures in the library.
Nor did Beth often have to share the room with the Reverend Steep. Though he held the position of librarian, his passionate interest was the muniment room and the family archives. Only if his researches required it did he invade Beth's territory.
She encountered a different invader one day, however. She was sitting curled up on the brown velvet window seat when clipped footsteps caused her to peer around the curtains.
"Good morning, Mr. Westall," she said cheerfully, always pleased to see the pleasant young man.
He turned with an open smile. "And to you, Miss Armitage. I should have known I'd find you here. I don't suppose I can prevail upon you to assist me, can I?"
Beth willingly laid down the entrancing adventures of Sir John Mandeville. "Of course. What is it you require?"
"The duke is interesting himself in a new invention by a Mr. Stephenson. It is a traveling machine, a locomotive which is driven by steam. He believes there is an article on a similar subject by a man called Trevithick, but," he added with a twinkle, "he cannot recollect in what journal it was published."
Beth chuckled in sympathy. "It cannot be so very long ago, though," she said, "for I surely heard of Mr. Trevithick not ten years since."
"Less than that, I believe. Where shall we start?"
Beth thought for a moment. "I haven't seen any purely technical collections here, such as those put out by the Royal Society. Have you?"
"Indeed no. I cannot say the duke has shown much interest in engineering before now. Now, however, he says he is resigned to such engines being the key to the future and is determined to understand them."
"I think either the Annual Register or the Monthly Magazine then. There are complete collections of both. Which do you choose?"
With a shrug the young man said, "The Annual Register." Then he looked at Beth suspiciously. "Now why are you looking triumphant, Miss Armitage?"
"Why," said Beth saucily, "because the Monthly Magazine has an index, sir, while the Annual Register has merely a list of contents."
They were both laughing over this when the marquess walked in. His eyes narrowed. If he had hackles, Beth thought, they would have risen. She knew she was blushing guiltily when there was absolutely nothing about which to be guilty.
He nodded coolly at the secretary. "Westall."
Mr. Westall made a more substantial inclination, "My lord." He quickly retreated to the other end of the room to begin his search.
Beth held on to cool composure and just looked a question at her husband-to-be. What could have brought him to seek her out? The answer was the duchess.
"My mother asked me to bring this to you," he said, offering a copy of Ackerman Repository. "She has apparently mentioned to you some designs for a wedding gown."
Beth had no enthusiasm for choosing such a gown and took the magazine with limp fingers. "Thank you."
The marquess looked at Mr. Westall, skimming through bound copies of the Annual Register. "Perhaps you would like to drive, Miss Armitage?" he said at last.
"No, my lord, I don't think I would," said Beth firmly. Surely he couldn't believe she and Mr. Westall....
Of course he could. With frozen features he sat in a heavy library chair and prepared to watch their every move. Though the back of her neck prickled, Beth forced herself to take up the business of helping the secretary. She saw Mr. Westall cast one or two nervous glances in the marquess's direction and wondered if she were being fair to the secretary. He, after all, was an employee here and could be easily dismissed. The one thing of which Beth could be sure was that no one was going to cast her out of Belcraven.
She could not bear to quiver into submissive silence under the marquess's glare, however, and when she came upon a relevant article she took it over to the secretary.
"See, here is an account of a steam carriage in use in a Yorkshire mine. It could be of interest."
"Indeed it could," he said, taking it. "And here is an article about Trevithick which must be the one the duke had in mind. Thank you, Miss Armitage."
Clutching his volumes, Mr. Westall left, clearly relieved to escape the atmosphere in the room.
Beth turned to look stonily at the marquess. "There," she said, "not a lascivious moment."
He rose with slow arrogance. "I will tell Westall he is not to be here alone with you again."
Beth was so angry it took a moment for her to get words out. She was still spluttering, "You—you—" when he left the room. Ferociously she slammed a glass door shut and a crack shot out from the beveled edge. She looked at it with horror. "Heavens above," she whispered, "what does one of those cost?"
Then she remembered she had no need to fret about such things. Willy-nilly she was one of the family. She walked briskly to the center table and rang the bell there. Promptly, a footmen entered.
"A piece of glass has cracked," she said. "Please inform someone so it may be fixed, Thomas." All the footman were known as Thomas when on duty. It simplified things a great deal.
"Yes, Miss Armitage," said the young man with a slightly startled look and left. Beth realized it was the first time she'd addressed a member of the staff with the crisp arrogance of one born to it. She didn't know if that was progress or defeat.
She knew she still felt embarrassment that the footman might have heard or guessed some of what had happened here but then she shrugged. She had soon come to realize that the only way to endure life at Belcraven was to pretend the servants were wooden dummies.
It occurred to her that she would, in fact, be much happier as a servant at Belcraven rather than one of the family. An upper servant, of course. The housekeeper or at least one of the senior maids. Then she could spend the evenings discussing the strange goings-on among the ducal family and relax and be herself.
It only later dawned on her that she had been given an opportunity to speak to the marquess and clear up the matter of her morals and had thrown it away.
The duchess's maneuvers had failed and so the duke took a hand. During an evening en famille, he looked sternly at his heir. "The notice is in the papers, Arden," he said, passing over a copy of the Gazette. "It is time to formally introduce your bride to our people here."
"As you will, sir," drawled the marquess in a bored voice, with only the briefest glance at the newspaper. He had been reading a book and kept his finger in his place.
"Don't doubt my will," said the duke coldly. "There is to be a reception for the tenants and a ball for our neighbors. You may expect a great many callers. You and Elizabeth will greet them together and behave appropriately."
Beth could see the marquess tense as he looked over at the duke. She wondered if he would rebel, but he merely repeated in a mechanical voice, "As you will, sir."
The duke's face became tinged with anger, and the duchess hastily intervened. "Even the servants think your behavior peculiar, Lucien. You are supposed to be in love. Besides, how are you and Elizabeth to come to an understanding if you avoid each other?"
The marquess smiled at Beth, a smile that could have frozen the oceans. "I believe Elizabeth and I have come to understand each other very well, maman."
The duchess looked helplessly between the two of them.
"Tomorrow," stated the duke, "you will take Elizabeth on a tour of the house and estate, Arden, and explain it to her."
The two men stared at one another, and Beth saw the duke silently promise retribution if the marquess repeated his abrasive "As you will." The silence stretched beyond bearing.
Then the marquess turned to her, impersonally courteous.
"Of course," he said. "What time will be convenient, Elizabeth?"
"After breakfast, my lord?" said Beth a little squeakily. "Half-past nine?"
He inclined his head and, after a sardonic look at the duke, returned to his book.
Beth looked around the room. The duke was glaring at the marquess as if he would demand something more. The duchess was glancing between her husband and son with concern. The marquess was ostensibly absorbed in his book. Beth found the atmosphere in this family so hard to bear. Was it just this marriage, was it the past infidelities, or had it always been so? She was surprised to find she would like to help them in some way, then put the thought away. She had enough to do to save herself and had no strength to spare.
She quietly excused herself and escaped to her rooms.
In bed she considered the next day, a day to be spent in the marquess's company. Her nerves were already jumping at the thought. But perhaps, she thought, she would find an opportunity to undo the damage her silly words had caused. Then at least they could start afresh and seek to build some basis for an honest marriage out of all this.
* * *
Though she had found her way about the dozen or so rooms in family use, the next day Beth realized she had not grasped the scale of the enterprise which was the Duchy of Belcraven. The marquess, on the other hand, knew the great house from cool cellars to dusty attics. Despite his apparent arrogance, he knew of and understood all the servants who maintained the place, and even knew many of their names.
They spoke with the butler, Morrisby; and the senior housemaid, Kelly; the head laundress, Margery Coombs; and one of the stillroom maids, Elspeth.
In addition, there were the many anonymous workers, some clearly startled to find themselves face-to-face with one of the family. There was the clock winder, for example, and two men whose sole task was to pass through the house trimming and replacing candles. There were the carpenters, painters, masons, and roofers who worked constantly to maintain the great house, the home farm, and the myriad of attendant buildings. In addition to the services for the family—the food, the laundry, the housecleaning—all this had to be done as well for the three hundred people who kept the machinery running. There were servants for the servants.
There was a brewery, a bakery, a vast laundry, and a bevy of seamstresses. Soap was made and vinegar, and all the produce of the home farm was cooked, preserved, or used in some manner.
The higher servants—the estate manager, the steward, the groom of the chambers, and the housekeeper—supervised the machine and lived in the state of country gentry.
As he guided her around and explained all this, the marquess was polite, so dauntingly polite that Beth found it impossible to raise a personal subject.
After lunch the tour continued. They progressed through the kitchen gardens and the orchards, the herb gardens and the succession-houses. They passed by the kennels full of hounds and on, by way of the farriery, to the huge stables which housed forty horses and could accommodate a hundred more when there were guests.
Mentally and physically exhausted, Beth called a halt. The marquess obviously loved his home, and she felt he had relaxed a little during the tour. If she was to attempt an explanation it had best be now. She began with simple conversation.
"How do you begin to understand such a place?" she asked him.
He shrugged twirling a piece of straw in his fingers. "I know it as the place where I grew up. I spent my childhood, when I could escape from my tutors, under the grooms' feet, or sticking a finger into a cook's mixing bowl, or wandering with Morrisby through the wine cellar looking at the wine laid down for my coming of age. But as for running it, I only know how to direct the people who run it. That is all you will need to know."
Beth could only hope the day was long distant.
"I never asked you," the marquess said. "Do you ride?"
"No. I never had the opportunity."
"We must get you a habit and I'll teach you. It will give us something to do on our honeymoon."
Beth stared at him in surprise and he stiffened, memory and coolness returning in a second.
"Surely you don't want to spend every moment in bed?" he asked unpleasantly. "Even if you do, my dear, you must excuse me. No matter how lusty your previous lovers, I have only the capacity of a normal male. But I forget," he added with a sneer, "you satisfied yourself with plurality, didn't you? That I cannot accept."
Beth turned away to hide her burning cheeks. "I didn't," she muttered.
"I beg your pardon?"
Beth swallowed hard and turned to face him. "I didn't... what you said. I haven't...."
He didn't thaw a bit. "It's a little late for maidenly modesty, Elizabeth, though I congratulate you on your acting. It relieves my mind. You will have no difficulty in persuading the local people we are in love."
"I am not acting, Lord Arden," said Beth desperately.
He leaned against a stall door and studied her. "Let me understand you. You are now claiming to be what...? Surely not a virgin?"
Beth felt as if she would be sick. "Yes."
"Why?"
Beth shook her head in bewilderment. "Why what?"
"Why lie about it now? The truth will out. I am not likely to be fooled by the bladder of blood hidden in the bedroom to stain the sheets."
Beth took a deep breath. "I am telling you the truth, my lord. I am untouched. I... I said what I did that first night in the hope you would end the engagement. I didn't realize you couldn't."
He walked over to her thoughtfully and raised her chin with a finger. Beth knew there were tears in her eyes and hoped they would work for her.
"The trouble with a lie, Elizabeth, is that it poisons truth. How do I know you are telling the truth now?"
"As you said," Beth replied hoarsely. "You will know."
He released her sharply and strode away to stand looking out at the stable yard. "You don't know how strong the temptation is to ravish you here and now. If you spoke the truth before, it is doubtless what you want. If you lied, it is what you deserve. No matter how untouched, no decent woman could have spoken so."
"You choose to define 'decent woman' to suit yourself, my lord," said Beth angrily. "Yes, I believe marriage to be an oppressive institution best avoided by women, but lust is another kind of prison. I would never give myself to a man I did not love and trust, and," she added formidably, "I have not met such a man yet."
He turned then, eyes cold and hard. "And if you meet him after we are married? I meant what I said. I will not be cuckolded."
Beth raised her chin. "I will keep my marriage vows if I make them," she said with something of a sneer. "Will you, my lord?"
She was pleased to see him flush, but her sense of victory was short-lived. He stepped closer and smiled unpleasantly. "It all depends," he said with smiling menace, "on how well you serve me, my sweet. Let us hope the men who have handled you have taught you something."
Beth gasped. "No men have handled me!"
He raised his brows. "And yet you stood so coolly as I did? Come now, Elizabeth, let's not stretch credulity too far. I'm willing to believe, with admiration, that you have controlled your swains so as to retain your maidenhead, but that you have never been handled in that manner before? No."
Tears were streaming out of her, and Beth could hardly see. She pressed a hand over her eyes as if to push the weak tears back. "Oh, let me be, my lord. I am sorry, truly sorry, to have said what I did..." She shook her head and swallowed. "And now I am punished."
She tried to push past him, but he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. "You consider this punishment? You deserve a whipping!"
Beth pulled against his tight hands. "Let me go!"
Someone nearby cleared his throat.
Shocked, Beth and the marquess turned to see Jarvis, the head groom. He looked white and scared to death but he said, "Perhaps I could escort Miss Armitage back to the house, my lord."
The marquess sucked in a sharp breath and his hands tightened on Beth's shoulders so that she gave a choked cry.
"If you want your post, Jarvis, leave now," said the marquess in a voice of ice.
The man said nothing, but stood there.
Beth knew that in a moment the marquess would vent all his frustrated fury on the gallant man. He'd probably kill him. He was also well on the way to destroying the credibility of their betrothal. As it seemed they must go through with it, Beth wanted as little talk as possible. She just hoped she was as good an actress as he thought.
"My lord," she said softly. "Jarvis thinks you mean to hurt me. He doesn't know you would never do such a thing."
She dragged out a smile and raised a shaking hand to touch the marquess's cheek, hoping he would stop looking death at the servant. He turned to her, and she flinched at the flame of fury still burning in his eyes.
"Our lovers' quarrels," she said in a whisper, for it was all she seemed to be able to produce, "must seem real to him. Surely you do not blame him for wanting to protect me?"
Control smoothed the frown from his face and he too smiled, though his eyes still betrayed his feelings. "Of course not, my darling. I can only be pleased you have such champions."
He moved his hands to lay an arm at her waist and hold her close. Very close. Beth had to fight not to pull away from his body. "Don't be concerned, Jarvis," he said calmly. "Both Miss Armitage and I are merely suffering from prenuptial nerves."
The man, visibly relieved, touched his forelock and moved off. Beth let out a long shuddering breath.
"You keep your wits remarkably," said the marquess softly.
"Please let me go," said Beth, pulling away. But his arm was like iron. If anything, he pressed her closer, so that she could feel the hard shape of his chest, his hip, his thigh....
"Why?" he asked, grasping her chin and turning her face up toward him. "Don't you think an open demonstration of our fondness would be in order?"
"No!" Beth could imagine nothing worse than to be kissed with hate. She pulled harder. "Let me go!" It was hopeless.
"I have a bargain for you," he said with a smile she distrusted.
Beth stilled. "What is it?"
He ran a finger down her cheek. Beth flinched. His smile became even wider and colder. "I will refrain from forcing my unwelcome attentions on you, sweeting, and from throwing your disgusting exploits in your face, if you will act your part to the full."
"I am," Beth protested.
"I want you to dress properly, assume the appropriate manner for a future marchioness, and give all the appearance of being in love."
Beth shuddered. "You are asking for total submission."
He drew her even closer, turning slightly so that he pressed against her sensitive breasts, and smiled a conqueror's smile. "In return, you are free of my attentions except for polite public performances. That is what you want, isn't it, Elizabeth?"
Beth had absolutely no choice. She needed to escape from this situation before it once more ripped out of control. "I agree. Let go of me."
He released her at last. "So be it."
Beth moved quickly to leave the stables, to leave him. His hand fastened around her arm. Beth jerked around like a scalded cat. "Gently, my dear. Our pact begins here. Dry your eyes." He offered a handkerchief and Beth used it to wipe the tears. Dear Lord, what now?
Then he extended his arm and she laid her hand upon it. Sedately, a proper lord and his lady, they walked back to the house.
* * *
Jarvis watched them go. He'd thought he'd lost his place, perhaps his life, for a moment there, but he couldn't stand by and do nothing. He'd perched the marquess on his first pony and taught him nearly all he knew about horses. Arden was a good lad, but he'd always had the devil's own temper when crossed. Back in those days, Jarvis had held the duke's permission to cuff him if he were stupid. He remembered taking his riding crop to the marquess one day when the boy had worked out one of his rages on a horse.
The lad had then run to his father, and the duke had come out to inspect the poor mare. Then he'd ordered Jarvis to give the lad six more strokes there in the stable yard. There'd been no more trouble after that, and the marquess had not held a grudge. Pity there was no one to take a whip to him now, treating a pleasant lady like Miss Armitage so. Lovers' quarrel indeed. Funny kind of love.
There was talk in the servants' hall about those two, though no one could figure out what was going on. Some thought the marquess had given her one in the basket, so to speak, but there wasn't that much hurry about getting them wed. They certainly didn't act like lovebirds, though.
Miss Armitage was a very well-liked lady as far as the staff went—pleasant, ladylike, but with no airs and graces. But hardly the marquess's type. Hardly his type at all.
Jarvis shook his head as he went back to care for his horses. Nags had more sense than people any day.