“Wherein Crecy gives a pep talk and Belle starts her own manoeuvres.”

 

It was hard to face Crecy the next morning, but Belle knew there was little point in hiding her humiliation and her husband’s troubled mind from her sister. Besides, Crecy would never judge her and it would be too hard to try and shut her closest kin, and indeed her only real confidant, out of this, her greatest challenge.

So, after breakfast, and with a confiding smile in her sister’s direction that promised revelations - though not of the kind she might be expecting - they returned to Crecy’s bedroom. Waiting until the lady’s maid who had been appointed to Crecy - Violette’s hand, once more - had left them alone, Belle let out a sigh of relief.

Crecy was wide eyed as she flung herself down on the bed, heedless of creasing her lovely dress and demanding, “Tell me everything! What was it like?”

Belle gave her a rueful smile and shrugged. “I have no idea.”

A while later, once Belle had given her an outline of the events of the night before, the two sisters sat together in silence. Belle felt guilt at having discussed her husband with her sister; after all, such matters should be private, but without Crecy, she had no one in whom to confide. Yes, Violette was growing to be a friend, but they knew each other so little. Her sister knew her inside and out, her talents and her failings, and her heart. That was comforting.

Crecy sighed and sat up, staring at Belle with an air of determination that was really rather unnerving. “Everyone I have heard speak of your husband always talks of him before the war. The man was not only well-liked, he was loved, Belle. He was invited everywhere, and it seems no one was surprised by his heroics on the battlefield. All of this speaks of a man with a good and noble heart, don’t you think?”

Belle nodded; after all, she could hardly disagree when she’d remarked the same. But that man did indeed seem to have died and been lost somewhere in France. “Yes, Crecy, I do. But how do I find that man if he is determined not to return?”

Crecy pursed her lips and lifted her hand, holding up one finger. “You need a strategy,” she said, sounding oddly sure of herself. “Firstly, you must get to know him. Speak to the staff about him, find out what he likes and doesn’t like, and try to use that information to your benefit. Show an interest in things that interest him. Follow him if you have to, go where he goes, force him into conversation with you, even if you argue. Don’t be frightened off. If you don’t interact with him, even if it’s not exactly a positive experience, well, you’ve already lost.”

Belle frowned a little, but shrugged. It made sense, she supposed.

Crecy held up a second finger.

“You are now the Marchioness of Winterbourne. Take control. Find your own place here. If he sees how capable you are - and you are capable, Belle,” she said with such a warm smile that Belle could only return it. “Well, he won’t be able to do anything else but respect you. I doubt a man like that will give his confidence or his heart into the keeping of a woman he doesn’t hold in high esteem.” Belle looked doubtful at that but sat up a little straighter as Crecy tutted and rolled her eyes. “Belle, you have kept the both of us, and that wretched woman, clothed and fed on a shoe string. You may not have managed a grand household, but truly, keeping us respectable on the budget you’ve had to work with, that’s nothing short of a miracle. And you know how good you are with people, the staff will love you and want to please you, you mark my words. Longwold will be child’s play in comparison.”

Belle bit back the retort that was brewing on her tongue, feeling her sister was coming in a bit strong there. Still, she couldn’t doubt the confidence and assurance she saw in Crecy’s eyes. So ... well, she’d do her best to live up to that expectation.

“Thirdly.” Belle watched with growing trepidation as Crecy lifted a third finger. “You’ll have to seduce him, Belle.”

“Crecy!” she exclaimed, feeling very uncomfortable at discussing this with her younger sister. Maybe Violette would have been a better choice?

“Oh, Belle,” Crecy replied, mimicking her shocked tone. “Do stop being such a goose. I know what happens between a man and a woman.”

“You do?” Belle replied, her voice faint and vaguely horrified. “How?”

“Oh, never mind that!” Crecy said, sounding impatient now. “The point is that what does go on is powerful. If you can get him into your bed, you’ve a far greater chance of getting into his heart, and that is point four and five!” she added, her tone fierce.

“You’re beautiful, Belle, inside and out. You just have to make the man see that. Once he realises what he has in you, perhaps he’ll focus a little more on the here and now and a little less on the past.” Crecy sighed and put her arms around Belle, leaning her head on her shoulder. “It’s not going to be easy, I imagine, but, then, nothing worthwhile ever is.” She paused then and looked up at Belle, her lovely lavender grey eyes enquiring. “You do think he’s worth it, don’t you, Belle?”

Belle nodded, finding that there was no question of that in her heart, at least, despite the terrible start to their married life.

“I do,” she said, smiling and hugging Crecy in return before frowning at her in concern. “And when did you get so wise?” she demanded. It was a real question, she realised. Crecy spoke almost as though she’d faced something similar, or at least thought it through. But surely that was impossible?

Crecy just shrugged, though she looked a little wary. “Oh, well, you know how I love to fix broken things,” she said, with an airy wave of her hand. Belle nodded, accepting the fact as it was true enough, though a niggle of anxiety lingered.

“Well, then?” her sister demanded, giving Belle a little shove. “What are you waiting for?”

Belle took a breath and got to her feet, smoothing down her dress.

“Oh, and that’s another thing,” Crecy added, eyeing Belle’s serviceable rather than elegant day dress. “A good soldier is always smartly turned out. Speak to Violette about sorting out a new wardrobe. If you’re going to win this particular war of hearts, you’ll need to go into battle wearing a suitable uniform!”

***

Belle headed downstairs, wondering where her husband might be hiding himself today and how to go about finding him.

“Good morning, Lady Winterbourne.”

Belle turned her head as she descended the stairs to see the butler waiting for her, and the rest of the household staff standing in neat lines. She ground to a halt, feeling out of her depth, horrified and actually rather touched at the formidable display.

Garrett walked to greet her. “I hope you will forgive the presumption on my part, my lady, but I felt perhaps you would like to make the acquaintance of the staff?” He gave her a warm smile before adding in an undertone. “And we all wish you very happy, and are very glad indeed to welcome you to Longwold.”

Belle blinked, as this had been said with such sincerity that she felt a little overcome. “Thank you so much, Mr Garrett,” she said, feeling dreadfully shy and inadequate in front of what looked like an ocean of staff.

Belle did her best to tread what she knew was an important line of noblesse obliges between friendliness and over familiarity as she greeted each member of staff in turn.

The marquess’ steward was first: an older man with a paunch and a serious air, he seemed to look upon Belle with an approving eye. Perhaps judging, quite correctly, that she was not a woman to fritter away his lordship’s wealth on clothes and jewels and gambling, or anything else of the kind.

Charles was next, as Winterbourne’s valet, and was introduced as Mr Davis. As she took his hand to greet him he slipped a piece of paper into her palm with a discrete wink, and then grinned. Assuming this would be information regarding her husband, she slipped the paper into the pocket beneath her skirts and carried on down the line.

The housekeep and the cook were next, and two more different women it was hard to imagine. Mrs Puddleton was as warm and round as a freshly baked loaf of bread and brought with her a no-nonsense, motherly aura that Belle could imagine warming to in short order. Pleasant visions abounded, of visiting the kitchens and being plied with cakes and scones fresh from the oven.

The housekeeper was another matter. A tall, sparse woman without an ounce of spare fat on her lean frame, her eyes glittered with shrewd intelligence and no little judgement. Whilst not exactly hostile, Belle could see there might be a skirmish or two to get over before they could reach an accord. Refusing to be intimidated despite her lack of experience, Belle gave Mrs Scorrier a cool nod.

“I shall look forward to speaking to you in greater detail, Mrs Scorrier,” she said, holding the woman’s eye. “As I’m sure you are aware, I have no experience in managing an important household such as this. I am, however, a quick study, and I’m sure with your obviously expert assistance, I shall take the reins without causing an upset to the smooth running of the household.”

Mrs Scorrier pursed her lips, and for a moment Belle had the impression that the entire staff was holding their breath. Apparently, she had passed this first engagement without a scratch, however, as the housekeeper nodded. Her smile was not exactly warm, but her eyes lost a little of their suspicion as she spoke.

“I’m sure we’ll deal together admirably, Lady Winterbourne,” the woman replied, which, from the soft sigh of relief that came from Garrett, appeared to be a sign of approval. Thank heavens.

After that, there was an endless parade from the head maid, through to the abigails – though, of course, she had met those already - to upper footmen, lower footmen, house maids, kitchen maids, scullery maids, laundry maids, coachmen, grooms, and stable boys.

By the time they were done and the staff dismissed, Belle felt positively giddy and rather exhausted.

“May I suggest tea in the parlour?” Garrett suggested, apparently deciding Belle was in immediate need of sustenance.

“You may indeed,” Belle replied, feeling Charlie’s note burning a hole in her pocket.

Whilst she was waiting for the tea to arrive, she fished it out and unfolded it. The writing was scrawling and hard to read but said simply, “Sparring. The ballroom.”

Belle smiled and slipped the note away. Sparring, she deduced, was the training part of the process that preceded boxing.

Drinking her tea so fast that she scalded her tongue, she was about to rush off in search of her husband when Aunt Grimble walked in. Belle took a breath. She had been both looking forward to and dreading this moment, but it was best to strike while the iron was hot.

The woman immediately launched into her demand that one of the better bedrooms be given over to her use, and vented her indignation that the housekeeper would sanction no such change until Belle had given her consent.

“Which is ridiculous, of course,” she said with a sniff of disgust, arranging the skirts of a truly disturbing puce gown as she sat. “As if one of my status should reside in one of the lesser bedrooms now, when my niece is a marchioness.” She gave a smug titter of laughter and Belle returned a thin smile.

“Actually, Aunt Grimble, I have already instructed that your bags be packed up for you,” she said, finding that this was rather easier to do if she remembered all the spiteful little words and deeds that her Aunt had treated her to ever since her father’s death.

“Of course you have,” the wretched woman continued, apparently oblivious to Belle’s demeanour. “You know what is due to me, after all the kindness and charity I have shown you and your poor sister, when you might have been destitute if not for the goodness of my heart.”

“Oh, Aunt Grimble,” Belle said, smiling broadly at the woman and really quite enjoying herself now. “I assure you, I will never forget the goodness of your heart, which is why your bags are being loaded onto a hired carriage, which will take you home the moment you have collected the last of your things. I don’t expect we shall see each other again, so I will bid you a good day.”

With that, Belle swept out of the room, feeling rather like a duchess, never mind a marchioness, and was left with the pleasing picture of her spiteful aunt’s mouth opened in shock as she closed the door on her for good.

Hurrying across the hall to Garrett, she took great pleasure in confirming that the woman would never be allowed entry to the house again. Of course, Belle wasn’t so cold-hearted as to do nothing for the woman, and decided that she would speak to Winterbourne about giving her aunt an allowance to add to her own, which would enable her to live very comfortably and without fear of any hardship. But that was all, and, in Belle’s opinion, far more than she deserved.

Once she had confirmed directions to the ballroom with Garrett, he sent her on her way with a suspiciously approving smile. She couldn’t help but wonder if he was in league with Charlie.

Belle was gifted with the most wonderful view as she slipped into the room, and had to wonder if the clever valet had arranged it purposely.

Lord Winterbourne was turned slightly, though his back was towards her, affording her a spectacular vantage point of a truly magnificent physique - without being noticed. There had even been a chair provided. How thoughtful! With an amused smile, Belle took her place and watched the show.

It carried on much as before, with Charlie calling the moves and the marquess repeating them until a new set was called. It was almost hypnotic, watching that muscular body as it moved, hearing the grunts of effort and the swift inhale of breath.

As before, however, the effect on Belle was ... intriguing.

Her own breathing came quicker, her skin feeling almost prickly as she realised that she truly did desire this man, her husband. She wondered what it would feel like to watch him actually fight an opponent. The idea was in some ways appalling, the possibility of him being hurt, one that was surprisingly frightening to her, and yet ... The idea of him taking on and beating an opponent made something that might have been pride swell in her chest.

It was pride, she decided, as the training session continued. She was proud to be married to this angry, damaged man. After everything he had been through he was still fighting, in his own way. He was going about it all wrong, of course, but perhaps when a soul became that lost, the way back was impossible to see. A strange ache wrapped itself around her heart. Stubborn and headstrong was what Charlie said the marquess needed. Well, then, that was what the marquess would get.