Lavauden was waiting outside the door. She gathered Cecilia to her and held her until the stifled sobbing had subsided and she dried the girl's cheeks. It was not long before Cecilia was able to ask quietly, “How long do the doctors give him?”
“They do not know. One says it is a matter of weeks, another gives him some months, a third suggests he could live into next year. I trust Groves mostâhe is honest and says he cannot tell. He has seen cases like this and there is no fixed rule, and certainly no fixed remedy. There have been signs of improvement. His speech is better than it was a week ago. But he still cannot move his right side at all. But now, you must go to your aunt.”
The governess pushed Cecilia down the corridor to the finest guest room, where Lady Ketley waited. Amelia and Reggie were both with her.
“I have tired Papa out, but once he has had a little rest, he wishes to see you, before you sup. You must be preparedâhe is not at all strong, but do not be frightened, and run up and give him a warm kiss when you see him.”
“Is he going to die, Ceci?” Reggie's anxiety could not be quelled.
“I do not know, darling, nor does he. We must all die sooner or later. Even if he doesn't die, he is very weak and it will take a good deal for him to get any strength back. But you will see for yourself very soon.”
At this, the children returned to the schoolroom, leaving Cecilia with Aunt Letty. After repeating the little that Marchmont had said, she shook her head.
“I know my duty. When you return to Paris, I will stay with Reggie and Amelia. Between us, Reggie and I must learn how to manage the estate. But I want him still to have some freedom, some time to run wild and do foolish things as young men seem to need to do.”
Letty laughed. “Clear-sighted even in adversity. Of course your duty is here. But it need not be so very gloomy. You have scores of friends who will wish to visit you, and there can be no great difficulty in coming up to London during the Season. We have fallen into the way of thinking that our home is your home, and so it is and will continue to be, whenever you need it. But you are by no means alone, as Marchmont has pointed out. Dacre has been a constant visitor here in recent years, according to your father's letters, and he knows the ways of Sawards better than I, I'd wager.”
Lavauden later put it more poetically, as she came to Cecilia's room just before supper, intent on keeping her former charge in spirits.
“Your father is a wise builder. He has been a support in this world, but he has made sure that his family has plenty of other supports. When we come to look at the building, we miss the pillarâwe know it has been there, but the whole structure will not come tumbling down with the loss of one column.”
Cecilia grinned, as Lavauden knew she would, at this extravagant flight of fancy, but she also acknowledged the underlying truth of the governess's words. So the next day, she sought out Kitson, who had acted as steward and bailiff on Marchmont lands for as long as Cecilia could remember. Together, with the assistance of a footman, they took the ledgers up to Marchmont's room and together they sat for twenty minutes or half an hour at a time as the invalid's strength waxed and then waned again.
Whether it was Cecilia's return or the need to pass on his knowledge and intentions, Marchmont did rally for some weeks. The family made his sick room the hub of the house, but throughout the estate, all were conscious of living in a state of suspended animation. While none expected great changes with the death of their lord and the accession of the young master, tenants and domestic staff, as well as the family and its intimates, kept catching themselves asking only about the latest news from the big house. The daily round continued, tasks were set and completed, but there was an unsettling sense of impermanence that infected them all.
For Cecilia, constantly attending the sick room and immersed in the minutiae of running the estate, time seemed to sink into an abyss. The more she learnt about the lands and their governance, the more she was conscious of needing to learn. In her spare moments, she prayed earnestly for her father's recovery, and failing that, for him to remain alive and available for consultation, but these were rare interludes now that she was actually taking the reins of managing the estate.
Lavauden had sent a letter to Dacre only a day after the first seizure, since he stood godfather to Marchmont's children and was his closest friend. But the marquis had been travelling in the north, according to a letter from Powell, his secretary at Hatherley, and although he had forwarded Lavauden's letter to the marquis, Powell did not expect it to reach him before the end of March. Sure enough, some six weeks after her return, Cecilia found herself opening a letter from the marquis and reading it to her father. It was brief, recounting only that Dacre intended to meet Ormiston off the boat and then repair immediately to Sawards to visit his old friend. While in Kent, the marquis thought it was time to decide the future of their children. Cecilia folded up the letter with trembling hands as she considered this ominous postscript.
The letter cheered Marchmont, although it reminded him of his daughter's unresolved affairs. For the first time since her return, he addressed the question of her premature marriage.
“Ceci, what are your wishes concerning this match?”
“I hardly know, sir. If you wish it, and if Ormiston accepts it, I am willing to make the marriage public.”
“You are a good girl, Ceci. Let us see what happens when they get here.” But Marchmont was destined never to see his old friend again. A few days after receiving Dacre's letter, he slipped away in his sleep, and was found, at peace, by his valet, who summoned Letty and Cecilia immediately. Although she had fully expected her father to die soon, now that the time had come, Cecilia felt bereft, adrift and nauseous. When Lavauden and Lady Ketley pressed her to eat, she could scarcely swallow her food and it came up almost immediately. So they sent her to her bed, adamant that at this time, she must regain her strength and support her orphaned brother and sister.
In bed, Cecilia for the first time since her return home considered some feminine mathematics. Suddenly chilled, she counted again and again and came to the same unalterable conclusion.
Seven
At Dover, Dacre waited for his son's boat with some anticipation. The prospect alleviated the grief of hearing from Letty Ketley about Marchmont's untimely death. Speculating about the possible alterations in Ormiston's bearing and beliefs distracted him from the worry of managing the Marchmont brood, including his lovely goddaughter, who was, more pressingly, his daughter-in-law. He did go down to the quay to meet the packet that carried his heir from France, and distinguished Buchan's burly figure without difficulty. Beside the Scot stood a trim, elegant young man, almost dapper. Dacre schooled his expression into unconcerned calm, despite the leap of excitement that far exceeded the interest any female had managed to arouse in him. But then, reflected Dacre, it was always lunatic, unrequited love which led to trembling and palpitations, according to the poets, and if any love had been unrequited in his life, it was his tender affection for his son.
Dacre took the opportunity of his son's arrival to draw the young man into an embrace as soon as the travellers were on dry land. Ormiston did not immediately recoil. The old man had never before shown him much affection, and while the warmth of his greeting astonished, it did not offend.
“Come along to the inn. They have ale, coffee, chocolate, even some decent port. Then we must be off. A stirrup cup and away.”
“Off? Back to Hatherley?”
“No, alas. Welcome, Buchan. I'll explain all at the inn.”
As they passed the yard, Ormiston noted that his father's great landau was being readied for departure. Once in the parlor, he asked for tea. Once it was served, Dacre began his explanations.
“Marchmont has died. As my letter told, he was taken with a seizure some months ago, but the trouble ran too deep and now he has died. From here, I go to Sawards to attend his funeral. I hope, Ormiston, you will attend it with me.” Dacre paused uneasily. “I must speak of that which will cause you anger, I fear, but it must be done. This would be an apt time to discuss your future with Cecilia, your wife. I am named an executor by Marchmont, so my ties with the family will continue, but once you have made this visit and you have both settled on the most suitable course of action, your connection with the Marchmonts may be allowed to dissolve.”
“Sir, is this truly the time? When she is newly an orphan?”
“Your feeling does you credit, sir, but it was Marchmont and she who requested such an arrangement. I believe she wishes to free herself, provided you are in agreement.” Dacre was intrigued by his son's attitude.
“I have heard it is a most complicated and undignified process.”
“Do you wish to remain leg-shackled?” asked Dacre, astonished now by his son's hesitation.
“By no means. Certainly not if she does not desire it.”
“Well, I shall see what I can arrange that will minimize the indignities. We are fortunate in that the whole business has been kept so private. She has made her debut in Society but as a maiden, of course.”
“How has she been received?” Ormiston tried to keep his query casual.
“You show an astonishing interest in a young woman you professed to loathe.”
Buchan could not suppress a broad grin. The marquis had only voiced what he had been thinking himself. Ormiston smiled thinly also, then murmured, “Curiosity merely, sir. She was over-endowed in many areas, but sadly not in looks or demeanor. I only hope she was not mocked or ridiculed.”
“She has a good enough name to hold her head up high whatever her looks. I believe she did no better and no worse than any of the other chits. Marchmont did say he'd had to refuse her hand on more than one occasion.”
“No doubt her dowry was thought to be sufficient to compensate for her appearance.”
Dacre quirked an eyebrow and replied, “No doubt.”
The arrangements were soon made. Buchan was to travel by stage to the London house, while Dacre and Ormiston travelled the few hours between Dover and Sawards in the landau. They would all meet up again in London once the obsequies had been performed and the next step in unravelling the viscount's marriage decided upon.
The marquis did not talk once they were en route. Ormiston was glad of this. It gave him time to consider his own future.
Since the masque at the Comtesse de Ferrières's mansion, he had spent all his spare time searching for Alice. But she had vanished, effaced from the city as though she had never been. He had not wished to question the servants too closely, nor to pique the interest of the comtesse, who would, he knew, if he made inquiries, press him to reveal his reasons for inquiring about the identity of her guests. He had tried to identify the English admiral, but there seemed to be a flotilla of admirals in Paris that Season, all involved in some delicate negotiation between the French and the Americans, intended, so far as he could gather, to scuttle the expansionist plans of the Spaniards in the colonies. He could not remember which admiral it was he had seen accompanied by the Viking lady, and after several tedious encounters with his fellow countrymen, he dismissed any further time spent with them as being entirely wasted.
Ormiston could not tell why he could not forget Alice. He had spent just over an hour with her, but the memory of that time was indelible. While his common sense told him that he would never see her again, that she was a light-skirt, a faithless wife of a foolish husband, that their interlude meant nothing, some other part of him could not dispel the enchantment she had woven about him for the brief time they had had together. She had been a virgin. How? He no longer cared. Having lost her, he ached with wanting, with solitude, with longing. Now everything seemed empty and worthless because it could not be shared with that strange, elusive creature, and instead of making her his by making love to her, she had enslaved him. Those moments in the
cabinet des merveilles
made a bitter mockery of the years he had spent courting Giugliana, believing he loved her, plotting how to be with her and how to remain with her. That love seemed insubstantial now, and the memory of that chilly letter informing him of her future with Prince Vergara more a cause for wry amusement at his own folly than heartache for a lost love. But how could he love someone whose face he had never seen, whose name he did not know, whose whole existence seemed as fantastic as a fairy tale constructed by Perrault? This conundrum gnawed at Ormiston, although he did his utmost to conceal it from the world, and even from an intimate as close as Peter Buchan had become.
In this state, he wondered whether it would not be better to settle for the marriage that fate and his father had arranged for him, for he could imagine no union satisfying him unless it were with Alice. If Miss Marchmontâthe viscountessâhad formed no lasting fondness of her own for any beau, it might be best for her, too. She had been prompt enough to do her duty five years since, thought Ormiston. She might as well fulfill her duties to her husband now she had no father.
Somber in mind and dress, Ormiston arrived at Sawards prepared to deal with his wife fairly and frankly. But he was not to encounter her immediately. Marchmont's sister, Lady Ketley, a spare, austere-looking woman, greeted Dacre and Ormiston, glancing at the viscount with a shrewd eye which alerted him to the understanding that she knew of the secret marriage.
“I must make Cecilia's excuses. She is unwell. She has pushed herself too hard since returning home, and I fear that exhaustion has overtaken her. I felt that she needed rest if she is to comport herself creditably at the funeral, so I packed her off to bed.”
It was with some sense of anticlimax that Ormiston went to his room and waited for someone to bring hot water and a change of clothes. The Italian who had accompanied him to Paris quite happily had decided that England was too barbarous a destination to remain with the marquis. Ormiston imagined that up in London it would be simple to find a replacement from one of his father's household. In the meantime, Lady Ketley had mentioned that Marchmont's man was available to assist either Dacre or his son. It seemed that Ormiston was to be the fortunate recipient of this man's attentions, which he imagined would provide an opportunity to discover more about this family. However, it was clear that the man was half distracted with grief for his late master. Quizzing the fellow about Marchmont's daughter would lead nowhere other than to make Ormiston appear unfeeling and lecherous.
The funeral was scheduled for the following Monday. Ormiston hoped that Cecilia would make her appearance before then. It was not to be. Her siblings, Reggie and Amelia, he did meet, and to his astonishment, liked immediately. Despite their recent loss, they were lively and polite to their guest. He first encountered them in a music room, where he had wandered by accident.
The room, pale in the sunshine of early spring, seemed empty and dusty. He picked a few notes on the clavichord, then saw a grimy lute and lifted it onto his lap. But as he started picking at the strings, the catgut split and sprang back at him, whipping at his cheeks. He gently replaced the lute and began searching about the room for something with which to replace the worn strings. Behind a curtain, he heard a furtive, smothered giggle. He drew back the heavy damask and saw there two bright faces, slightly smudged with the grime of playing in deserted corners of the house.
“Where can I find some spares to restring this blasted instrument?”
“In the bottom drawer of that bureau, under the music.”
“Who played? Your sister?”
The impish faces creased up in amusement. “Not in an eon. I think it was our mother. But we never heard her, for she died when we were very small.” The boy scrambled from the windowseat and stood, his hand outstretched.
“I am Reginald Marchmont. But you may call me Reggie. This is my sister Amelia. Come, Amy, make your curtsey. Are you Lord Dacre's son?”
“I am. Who has spoken of me?”
“No one properly. They only mentioned that you would be coming with Lord Dacre. Is it true you have been in Italy these many years?”
“It is.”
“I have heard they have very fine fencing masters in Italy. The best in the world. I should like to see that. Not that swordplay is of any use nowadays. We may not duel and in war, I believe that cannon and muskets are of more value.” As Reggie spoke, Amelia harrumphed and went over to the bureau, where she started rummaging.
“I've heard it said. But if you are interested, we may try a few passes, you and I?”
“May we?” The boy's eyes were incandescent with delight.
“Is Italy where you learned the lute?” inquired Amelia. She was kneeling now, a sheaf of music in one hand, catgut in the other.
“A little. I am a better swordsman than musician. But I like best to paint.” Ormiston came over, took the various rolls of catgut, all of different densities, and found also a little tin of resin to oil the strings. He set about restringing the lute. It was a laborious process. Amelia's nimble fingers were more successful at the task than his. Finally, the instrument was ready. They all three took turns at plucking at the strings, and then Ormiston began picking out some of the simpler tunes which Giugliana had taught him. Amelia hopped onto the seat at the clavichord and began accompanying him. They drew their music-making to a close and he looked on the child in some awe.
“You have a natural ear.”
“It is what Lavauden says. She was going to ask Papa if I might have a music master. But then he fell ill.” All three fell silent, and the girl swallowed and Ormiston could see her jaw clench with the determination not to cry. But it was too late, for the tears had welled up and then trickled down her cheeks. It was Reggie who went to her, pulling out a great handkerchief from his jacket and mopping her up and holding her close.
“There, there, Amy, it will all come out right. Ceci has promised it will.”
“I know, and I am sorry to be such a big baby, but I do miss him.”
“As do I. But Ceci spoke true when she said it was better this way than him lying in bed for years and years, never properly better again.”
“But what if Ceci goes away again? What shall we do then?”
“We must all try to see that she never has to leave you.”
The two children looked up in surprise as Ormiston's determined statement sank in. They did not ask what business it was of his, but he was conscious of his own presumption. He could not tell from where sprang this passionate desire that these children should have certainty and stability in their lives, but it was suddenly there, decided, intent, resolute.
That night, as he lay awaiting the oblivion of sleep, he reflected on his words to Reggie and Amelia. The firmness of his resolve that despite their loss, they should be allowed to enjoy the remainder of their childhood, had surprised him, for it meant that in some corner of his mind, he had accepted the need to remain married to a plain and ungainly frump. There was in his mind no doubt that someone must supervise the Marchmont estate until Reggie was ready to come into his responsibilities. It did not occur to Ormiston that his own wife might be capable of managing this without his assistance.