Dilemma in Yellow Silk (2 page)

Mrs. Lancaster and most of her cohorts carried out their duties in the library. The family only kept precious books here, the ones they rarely read. Between each bookcase was a marquetry wooden panel depicting a literary figure. Mrs. Lancaster was applying a liberal amount of honey and lavender polish to Chaucer’s nose. “Ah,” she said, looking over the tops of her spectacles at Viola. “I wondered when you’d get here.” Since she was standing at the top of a stepladder, she could look down at Viola. The rest of her staff, half a dozen maids, all sweeping, buffing and dusting. “Could you go into the music room and check the instruments? The tuner came last week, but nobody else can try them.”

Viola had undergone torturous music lessons because one of the marquess’s daughters, Lady Claudia, had hated learning, and Viola had to help her. Claudia still avoided musical instruments when possible, although her twin, Lady Livia, could hammer out a piece if forced to it.

Viola had hated the lessons, but once she could pick out a tune, she changed her mind. Not that she would ever make a professional musician, but she was at the level of a decent amateur. None of the maids could play.

Delighted she was spared the dirtier work, she went into the music room.

The instruments here were precious. A gold-encrusted harp stood in the center of the Aubusson carpet. She padded over to it and tested the strings. They sounded all right to her, but she didn’t play the harp. Such a lovely instrument, with nobody to play it.

The room also contained an old set of virginals dating back to the time of James the First. Viola knew better than to touch that. It was a relic, not a real instrument. The king had presented it to one of his gentlemen as a token of his thanks for some favor long forgotten. A case contained wind instruments, but they would be fine. A mandolin stood in one corner.

Viola turned to the harpsichord. The inner lid bore a painting of a woman dressed as the Muse of music, Euterpe. Viola lifted it carefully and put the prop under it. The strings gleamed, daring her to touch them.

She dared.

Sitting on the broad padded bench-like seat, she ran her hands over the white-and-black keys. They trilled. She did some scales, up and down, the automatic movement of her hands lulling her into a state where she could link with the keys. Each note sank into her. She absorbed them and made them hers. She could have stopped there. It sounded fine.

The piece of sheet music propped on the stand was a two-hander. She could always play one part of it, but mischief led her into doing something else. The locals had a wonderful collection of music, some of it scurrilous, some quaint. She started with a few quaint ones, and when she sang the verses, a few voices rose in song from the next room.

How far could she take them? An urge took her to hear the ditties in this beautiful treasure-chest of a state room.

Viola began with a few more local songs, the innocent kind about lovers losing their ladies, ladies losing their soldier lovers and running away with the gypsies. Moving closer to her goal, she played a tune about a poacher and his boy.

The song described poaching from a more innocent age, when peasants snared creatures for the pot instead of gangs of organized ruffians stealing animals by the dozen. It bled innocence. Except in the last verses, when the song revealed the uncomfortable punishment demanded in those days—the stocks, where a man could die if the crowd took a dislike to him.

She grew a little bawdier in her choice. Not all the way, or Mrs. Lancaster would call a halt to her playing, but the maids would work well for a little entertainment. Mrs. Lancaster would not have been the superb housekeeper she was if she had not understood that.

They sang. She joined in, singing of maids lying in the fields, tossing up their skirts for their swains and paying for their sins, or simply marrying. The keys, cool to the touch, warmed, the ivory taking on the heat from her fingers as she progressed.

She’d played with the notion of finding someone who could help her assuage the need she occasionally felt, but then dismissed the notion as foolish. At her age, she would probably never marry. The prospect didn’t worry her as it might another. In fact, she had agreed with her father that she was probably better remaining a spinster. She would inherit a comfortable income and a house, the one her father owned in Scarborough, so she would not want. But sometimes, when she allowed herself to think about it, her body heated and the memory of kisses seared her.

Several people next door joined in, so she continued on to a local song she’d found in a gossip paper recently. At first she played just the tune, a folk tune from another part of the country. Many people hereabouts considered Yorkshire the only part of the country that mattered. Although loyal to the county where she lived, Viola was aware of what was going on elsewhere. She had to be. Her father and she shared more knowledge than most, and they had to maintain a certain level of vigilance.

This tune spoke of the King, and the other king—the one in Rome—and the confusion between the two together with the futility of choosing one side or the other. The cheerful jig-like tune belied the underlying cynicism in the words.

This one took some concentration, for she had only just learned it. She failed to notice the silence that had fallen until too late.

* * * *

Marcus loved coming home. He always regarded Haxby as his home, not the London mansion his family occupied during the season. This time he’d come with his father alone, a fast journey to see Gates and arrange affairs for the estate manager’s period of infirmity.

The gatekeepers barely got the huge iron gates open in time, but the coachman was stopping for no one and he swept through. Any faster and he’d be taking the corner on two wheels.

The impetus pressed Marcus against the side of the coach. “You need to tell Harrison not to travel so fast,” he said to his father.

“Ah, but his thoughts of seeing his sweetheart engross him,” the marquess said, smiling. “He left her behind to take us to London. We’ll find someone else to take us back.”

Marcus groaned. “Do I have to return? It’s the end of the season. Surely there is no need to have me there.”

“Your sister is marrying, and your mother is on the verge of betrothing two of your sisters. What do you think?”

The curse of being the eldest of a large family. They expected Marcus to wish them well and substitute for his father, if necessary, when he’d prefer to stay here. He’d had enough of London and its intrigues. With the season nearly over, he’d hoped to remain at home, one of the main reasons for accompanying his father.

“Could they not marry from home?”

“If they marry at all.” He cleared his throat. “Besides, I have something particular to discuss with Gates. It seemed an opportune moment to do so.”

Another sweep of the drive and the house came into view. As always, Marcus feasted his eyes on the place. The central structure boasted a tower in the middle capped by a lantern dome. It was not the largest of the great houses in the county, but to his mind it was the most beautiful. The central block rose a story above the side wings, the huge pilasters fronting the façade creating a grand display.

When his father died—may that be many years hence—Marcus would inherit this and all the responsibilities that went with it. The notion of becoming the marquess had always shocked him, an emotion he kept to himself, as not worthy of the heir to the marquisate. Hundreds of people would depend on him for their livelihood.

They swept up the elm-lined drive, the spaces between the trees affording glimpses of the parkland beyond. The occasional sheep, kept here to keep the grass down between scything, lifted its head to watch the coach going past. The sight warmed him. This—not the house in London—was home for Marcus.

“Your mother says she will look out for a likely bride for you,” his father said.

Marcus sighed. “I would like nothing better than to select my own bride. I swear I will choose someone suitable.”

“She has eyes and ears that penetrate further than ours. She knows the most promising young women about to make their debut in society.” Lord Strenshall shifted in his seat. “Devil take it, these seats are damnably uncomfortable. I’ll have this carriage reupholstered when we return to town.”

“There are people perfectly capable of doing the job locally,” Marcus pointed out. “Then you won’t have to pay London prices.”

“But we need to get back in it.” His father sighed. “Perhaps I can wait until the summer.”

Considering this was June, Marcus considered summer well under way. The day was fine, and they had come home. It had taken three days, since they could move faster without the ladies to cater for. Both Marcus and his father preferred to travel for longer and eat quickly rather than linger on the road.

“We’ll have a shooting party, come August,” his father said.

That gave Marcus a clear eight weeks until he needed to concern himself with entertaining guests, including the ones who wanted to marry him. He didn’t fool himself. They wanted his title and his family name as much, if not more, than his person. While not exactly unprepossessing, he wasn’t the kind of person who enjoyed dallying with ladies when there was work waiting for him.

There was always work. Mostly Marcus told himself he didn’t mind, but sometimes he fretted at the bit. When he dreamed, he soared free, but he rarely remembered his dreams. Just the sensation of flying remained for a few moments after he woke.

While here he’d talk to the gamekeeper, and ensure the coverts were well stocked. “If Gates is—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He’d known Gates all his life—and his daughter, although they had drawn apart recently. Necessary, because they lives were destined to take different paths. His duty took him somewhere she couldn’t join him. Much to his regret. But he would not burden the free spirit he remembered with the duties that belonged to him.

She didn’t deserve that.

The carriage drew up outside the front door and the efficient machine that ran Haxby Hall clicked into action, its cogs running to the inevitable conclusion. When the liveried footman unfolded the steps of the carriage, Marcus got out and stood before the magnificence of his house with his hat in his hand. The butler stood at the top of the stone staircase. As his father climbed down to join him, Marcus took his first step, and then hesitated.

The spirit of rebellion stirred within him, as if it had remained dormant until now.

“I’ll go around the side way,” he said.

“Trying to catch out the servants?” his father said with a grin.

Marcus returned the smile. “Something of that nature.”

He would avoid going through the “Good afternoon, my lord” ritual the footman, and then the butler, and then the maids would go through. His father enjoyed it as little as he did, but Marcus didn’t have to endure it yet.

He strode off to the side of the house. That in itself was a fair walk, but one he enjoyed, as he reacquainted himself with the place. He’d been in London too long. In November he would refuse to rush to town at the start of the Parliamentary season. What was the point? They never got anything done.

Scents assailed him as his feet crunched on the gravel path. Flowers, mostly, the kind women enjoyed, but they made a fine show in the beds at the front of the house. His mother had decided to remodel, and they were looking into replacing the formal Tudor gardens with a more informal stretch of parkland.

While the house would appear more à la mode, Marcus would miss the bright displays. Perhaps they could keep something. He wanted the flowers.

The stone walls were not entirely even, partly from design and partly because the Palladian façade covered a much older house. Parts of the central block dated from Tudor times, when a courtier of Elizabeth won the land for singular service to his queen. Marcus’s grandfather had extended the house, making the E shape into a closed double quadrangle and adding to the wings on either side. He’d created the grand enfilade of state rooms from a hodgepodge of salons, creating the house Marcus had grown up in.

Marcus descended a staircase, opened a door, and entered the servants’ quarters. He looked to neither right nor left as he took the well-remembered shortcut to the side door. That cut out traversing the wings. He wasn’t in the passage long enough to create a commotion; in fact, nobody saw him as far as he knew. He was into the inner courtyard before anyone could register his presence.

A short walk along the stone paved path took him to the side entrance, and the shortcut to his rooms. His valet had set off early that morning, so he could arrive early and have everything ready for his master. Marcus prayed that included a decanter of burgundy and something to eat. Freshly baked bread and local cheese would not come amiss.

Then, fortified, he’d return to being the Earl of Malton and join his father for whatever duties awaited him.

Entering the side door without ceremony, Marcus enjoyed the sight of a large footman scrambling into his silver-laced coat. “My lord!”

“Good afternoon, Tranmere. How is Gates?”

Tranmere stared at him and then found his voice. “Broken ankle, my lord. He’s resting at his house.”

“Ah.” Well. That was one concern dealt with. Gates had fallen from his horse and hurt himself, but the messenger had left in such haste they had not ascertained precisely what was the matter. Marcus had been glad to use the excuse, but worry for the estate manager had also driven him to discover for himself.

Leaving the man stammering, Marcus climbed the stairs two at a time, not giving the poor footman a chance to sort himself out. His childish amusement was not worthy of him, he knew that. But the welcome had suited him in his present mood more than the ceremonial one awaiting his father.

Pausing at the state rooms, he decided to go through them. His rooms were equidistant if he took the corridor with guest rooms or the state rooms.

He opened the first door. He recognized the sign that maids were about. The door at the end was closed, but the others were open. That meant they’d finished up to the closed door.