Chapter Twenty-Five
Bertie had not availed himself of Lady Catherine’s invitation but had gone straight back to Oxfordshire after the trial. He did not want her gratitude to compel her in any way to return his feelings, which he had surely made clear. Miss Sybil Anderson had broken her engagement to Lord William Cumberwell, and for weeks he had daily been in expectation of an announcement that he and Lady Catherine were again engaged.
But it had not happened. That day he had received a note from Penelope telling him that she had been to visit Lady Catherine and that she had found her cast down. Penelope was of the opinion that the lady was pining for him. Lady Catherine had apparently inquired after him in great detail.
He was now contemplating the very real possibility that she did indeed care for him. In consequence, he took a walk alone over his property, trying to see it through Lady Catherine’s eyes. The estate was situated among gently rolling emerald hills dotted with sheep and bisected by a creek where he had learned to fish during his boyhood days. A flatter portion was cultivated with oats, rye, and corn. Blooming in variegated colors, the hedgerows were lovely at this time of year. Romantic ruins of a medieval abbey rose behind him. Standing on a rise, Bertie’s house was sheltered by venerable oaks and covered in climbing roses. To him, it was idyllic.
He had always been perfectly content with his lot in life, never wanting more than what lay before him. Now, he just wished it were enough to tempt a lady who had been raised in a castle with extensive holdings in Dorset and London. He didn’t like the fact that he was discontented.
Lady Catherine probably took all she had for granted. If she truly pictured him as a suitor, most likely she hadn’t even considered what it would be like to live with less.
It occurred to him that he was imagining her to be far shallower than he knew her to be. She took her work to better the lives of the poor very seriously. Nevertheless, she had been ready to marry Cumberwell, and his inheritance was vast.
But should he really make her decision for her? He respected her intelligence. And her father clearly had no problems with Bertie’s rank or they never would have invited him down to Somerset.
Bertie knew himself to be far more accomplished with the pen than he was with speech. Shouldn’t he put the matter into a letter and let her have plenty of time to consider the matter rationally? Shouldn’t he invite her to Heyford Abbey to let her see his estate for herself?
The more Bertie thought about it, the more convinced he became that this was the course he should follow. Why should he think he could make such a decision for her?
He grew calmer. By the time he walked back to the house, he was already composing a letter in his head. He sat down in his study to write.
Heyford Abbey
Lower Heyford, Oxfordshire
Dear Lady Catherine,
I want to apologize most abjectly for refusing your kind offer to visit you at Westbury Castle. The truth of the matter is that I have taken it into my head to make the decision for you about whether or not to further our connection. Now I am wondering if that was wise or even fair to you.
I need to tell you that I have loved you from the very beginning. The feelings struck me there on the beach that first day and have only grown stronger over time. You are the only lady for whom I have ever had these feelings. But, also from the first, I have felt the difference in our stations most keenly. I convinced myself that you would regret any alliance between us. Now I realize that you are not without sense and would surely not take such a step without your eyes wide open.
Can you forgive my officiousness? If you truly do wish to further our acquaintance with a view to a future together, would you and your father care to be guests here at Heyford Abbey? While it most assuredly is not a castle, it is comfortable.
I await your pleasure.
Yours very truly,
Sir B.
The letter really was not adequate. It sounded like a business letter. On such an intimate matter, however, he found that he could not write with any less gravity. Perhaps if he included one of Marianne’s pressed flowers, it would seem more personal.
Accordingly, he enclosed a red rose, still fragrant.
* * *
Her answer came quite promptly.
Westbury Castle
Somerset
Dear Sir Bertie,
Your letter was such a surprise. I had it in my head that I was never going to hear such words from you. I cannot express myself as you do on paper, so you will have to be satisfied when I tell you your sentiments were very welcome to me.
You are correct. It was officious to take such a decision out of my hands! I have missed you exceedingly, and my father and I shall both be more than happy to pay you a visit. Would July 12 be too soon?
If anyone could have told me six months ago that I should ever find happiness, I don’t think I would have believed them. I am so very glad to be out of London.
I look forward to seeing you with unladylike impatience.
With fondest thoughts,
Lady C.
Bertie’s heart swelled. He had been right! He had made the right decision. He did not fully understand how she had come to think of him so fondly, but he had sensed that her regard was real. What a good thing he had finally trusted to that sense.
Her brother’s trial and subsequent hanging must have been a horrible ordeal for her. Three instances of attempted murder were too much for the House of Lords to swallow. The execution had swiftly followed the trial. He knew Lady Catherine to be strong, but such an event would assault even the most well-ordered senses. Bertie now saw his failure to appear in Somerset as cruel and unfeeling. He wondered that she still cared for him at all.
His eagerness to see Lady Catherine was upset, however, when Gweet came to him in his library as he was studying his rubbing of the Rosetta Stone under a magnifying glass.
“Uncle Bertie, Mama is crying.”
He looked up at her little face, which was screwed up in concern. “Did she hurt herself?”
“No, she is just looking out of the window.”
Consequently, he went to Marianne in the children’s playroom. She hastily wiped her eyes when she saw him.
“I was just missing Ian. It comes upon me sometimes.”
Bertie was mystified. He had an uncomfortable sense that she was not telling him the truth. Marianne was not easily given to tears.
* * *
The Marquess of Westbury and his daughter arrived in time for the noon meal at Heyford Abbey. As he watched her descend from the crested carriage, Bertie felt he hadn’t seen her in an age.
Lady Catherine was dressed in a carriage dress of amber velvet trimmed in brown. Her saucy little bonnet sported an orange feather, while her eyes sparkled as she approached him. She extended both gloved hands.
“Welcome to Heyford Abbey,” he said, taking those hands in his. He brought them both to his lips and kissed their knuckles. His heart soared at the sight and feel of her.
Turning to her father, he gave a bow. “My lord, thank you for accepting my invitation. I trust you will be comfortable.”
“I am certain I will be,” the marquess said. “This is a lovely property. I was at Oxford years ago and have always had a fondness for this part of the country. The Cotswolds have a charm all their own. The honey-colored stone reminds me of my college.”
Lady Catherine said, “How lovely the roses are! Fancy having a house with roses climbing up the front!”
“I am glad you like it, Lady Catherine. Come inside now. My sister is most anxious to see you. She has ordered a restorative luncheon. I hope you don’t mind, but the twins are to be present.”
“I am anxious to meet them,” said Lady Catherine.
The luncheon of vegetable broth, turbot, lamb cutlets, new potatoes, and fresh peas received praise from both the marquess and his daughter. Afterward, the children went outdoors to their fort, Marianne retired to write letters, and Bertie took his guests on a tour of Heyford Abbey.
“The house is not as old as the abbey,” he explained. “The great hall is original to the abbey, and the monks’ quarters were knocked together to create the dining and drawing rooms.”
He showed them the bedrooms they were to stay in on the second floor. Marianne had placed fresh flowers in their rooms. The beds were covered with quilted counterpanes that his sister had fashioned.
“How lovely,” said Lady Catherine. “I am afraid I am not at all handy with a needle. It is an art that has passed me by.”
“But you are a splendid gardener,” said her father. Turning to Bertie, he said, “She is very good with our rare orchids and a dab hand at roses.”
Lady Catherine laughed. “You sound like you are offering me up for sale,” she said.
Bertie relaxed at their banter. “There’s a view of the gardens from your windows. I claim no credit. Marianne is the gardener.”
It occurred to him for the first time that there might be difficulties with Marianne if he were to marry Lady Catherine. There couldn’t be two ladies in charge of the household. Was that what Marianne had been crying over? What a dunce he was not to have thought of that.
But she had Warrie’s estate awaiting her in the next county. It was far grander than his.
Oh well. Those were matters that needn’t concern him at this stage. Nevertheless, was it something that Lady Catherine would worry about?
Bertie was very proud of his library. Bookshelves lined the room, ascending all the way to the ceiling. A wheeled ladder reached the higher shelves. Then there were Ian’s artifacts, covering a shelf before the fireplace
“Ah, here are the famous artifacts. I shall enjoy inspecting them at my leisure.”
“You’re apt to find Warrie in here exploring. Likes to climb up and look at the old books on the top shelves—illuminated manuscripts dating back to the monks’ time.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Lady Catherine. “I should love to see them. And I am so happy to see that you collect poetry. You have a lovely selection here.” She pulled out a volume of Blake and paged through it. “You have actually read it, too. The pages are cut!”
“Of course I have read it,” he said, laughing. “Is that so strange?”
“Some might find it so,” she said, looking at him with a twinkle in her eye. “But I do not. Your facility with the written word is outstanding.”
The marquess was by far the most interested in Bertie’s conservatory. “It is pretty basic,” he said. “I got a lemon tree start last year, and as you can see, it is coming along. Marianne grows flowers here in the winter.”
“Father lives for his succession houses,” Lady Catherine said. “Tell him about your experiments, Father.”
As they strode into the afternoon sitting room, the marquess recounted his efforts to grow hardier wheat and his success with different grasses. Bertie was impressed by his diligence. He apparently did not take his aristocratic title too seriously. The man would probably have been happier as a farmer.
Marianne entered the sitting room during the discussion to tell him that one of his tenants had been injured in a plowing accident.
“Has the doctor been called?” Bertie asked.
“Yes. It was he who sent for you. I am sorry to bother you, but apparently it is rather serious.”
Concerned, Bertie stood. “Perhaps you will remain with our guests while I call on Mr. Timms.”
It transpired that the accident was serious, indeed. A surgeon was sent for; one of the tenant’s limbs needed to be amputated. Bertie spent the remainder of the afternoon with the Timms family, offering support to the wife and children while the grisly operation was performed in the kitchen.
When he returned to the house, it was time for dinner. Marianne had been waiting for him in the front parlor.
“How fares he?” she asked.
“He’ll live, if an inflammation does not carry him off.”
“I must go to Mrs. Timms,” she said, avoiding his eyes.
Something was amiss. Laying a hand on her arm, he inquired, “What is wrong, Marianne?”
“I am not the most sparkling of hostesses. I am afraid your guests have gone up to their rooms.”
For some reason he could not identify, Bertie felt a qualm. He said, “I am sure you were a lovely hostess. They have had a tiring journey. The marquess is not a young man.”
Her eyes flew to his. “Perhaps that is it,” she said. “I shall stop in the kitchen and make up a basket, then I shall be along to the Timms’. Do not hold dinner for me.”
Puzzled as to what could have transpired in the time he was gone, Bertie went up to his room to change for dinner.
The meal was a solemn one. Lady Catherine had lost her sparkle for some reason, and it was clear the marquess was indeed tired. Never an easy conversationalist, Bertie floundered about for a topic. He settled at last on Dorset.
“I was quite impressed with Dorset. I had never been there before Tony’s wedding at Christmas. You must enjoy your home there, Lady Catherine.”
“Yes,” she said. “When I am old and gray, I shall spend out my life there. Father has left Fortuneswell House to me.”
Bertie furrowed his brow. This did not sound like a lady who was hopeful of marriage. Her manner was distinctly different than when she had arrived.
When the marquess retired for the night, Bertie planned to get to the bottom of the matter.