Sauce for the Gander (The Marstone Series Book 1) Page 7

  Beneath the bag were books. Lifting them out, she turned them to read the titles on the spines. Several were novels, while the rest were essays and other books belonging to Mr Fancott that she’d expressed an interest in reading.

  She still had friends, even if they were not here.

  Will brushed a speck of dust off his jacket and went downstairs to meet his wife for dinner. The private parlour he’d arranged was empty, so he went into the taproom and bought a pint of ale, wishing he’d made clear arrangements for their meal. Women did seem to take longer to change their clothing than men, so he spent half an hour exchanging tedious remarks with other customers about the hot weather before going back to the parlour.

  It was still empty.

  “You ready for your dinner, my lord?” Mrs Farthing stood in the doorway behind him.

  “I will wait for Lady Wingrave.”

  “My lady is dining in her room, my lord.”

  Damn. He needn’t have bothered getting changed to eat in splendid isolation. How could he get to know her if she wouldn’t even dine with him?

  On the other hand, at least his meal wouldn’t be ruined by the strains of polite conversation. They’d had hours together in the coach today, with hardly a word spoken. He had a month; there was no great rush.

  “…bit of game pie left, or the beef…”

  He’d missed Mrs Farthing’s recital of the dishes on offer. “Game pie,” he said, latching onto the first words he’d registered. “And a bottle of burgundy, if you have it.”

  “I’ll send Farthing in to sort out the wine, my lord.”

  A decent bottle of wine, and perhaps a game of cards in the taproom afterwards, might enliven the evening sufficiently.

  Perhaps.

  Chapter 12

  Tuesday 24th June

  Will groaned as the banging on the door continued, his head pounding in time to the knocking. The bottle of wine had relaxed him enough to enjoy playing cards in the taproom, and he’d ordered another bottle. Or was it two?

  Stupid.

  “Come in,” he called. He had a vague recollection of telling Noakes to wake him up at seven, so they could get an early start. What a stupid idea!

  “Mornin’ my lord.”

  “Archer?”

  “Yes, my lord. Noakes sent me up.”

  “Damned coward,” Will muttered as he sat up.

  A muffled snort from Archer seemed to indicate his agreement.

  “What time did you get here last night?” Will remembered seeing Noakes and the coachman drinking in the taproom, but not Archer.

  “Quite late, my lord, went straight to bed. Mercury’s fine, though. I reckon it’ll take me a couple of days longer than you to get there without tiring him too much.”

  Will hadn’t given much thought to the staff he’d need at Ashton Tracey, but he recalled that Archer had been the quickest thinking of the three grooms who’d been following him around for days. This man might be worth having. “Get some coffee sent up, will you? And tell Noakes he’s to take Mercury down. You can go on the coach.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  When Archer had gone, Will checked his pockets, spreading the coins out on the bed. He was relieved to find he had a little more money than he’d started with. They’d been playing for small stakes and, surprisingly, he’d enjoyed the game as much as the higher-stakes ones he was used to in London.

  That would have to be the last gambling for a while. He had only the money his father had given him to run Ashton Tracey, and he wasn’t going to risk losing that.

  Used to rising early, Connie was already awake and dressed when Milsom knocked on the door, bearing a breakfast tray.

  “Leave it on the table,” Connie said, ignoring the way the maid’s gaze swept over the old muslin gown she’d donned. The prospect of remaining cooler had won over looking well turned out.

  Connie poured coffee from the jug and broke a piece from one of the sweet rolls. Unlike her wedding day, she had an appetite this morning. She’d spent the first part of the night wondering if Lord Wingrave would come to her room, in spite of what he’d said in the coach, but had slept well when it became clear he would not.

  Milsom fussed about brushing down the green gown and folding it into the trunk. When she fastened the lid, Connie dismissed her. She’d pack the books up herself.

  Half an hour later she stood in the inn yard, the air still pleasantly cool. Lord Wingrave was the last of their party to appear, squinting against the morning sunlight. Had he over-indulged the evening before?

  Martha and her husband thought it would be well, she reminded herself. One evening’s drinking did not make a man a drunkard.

  She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or sorry when the groom closed the door behind her. With any luck, riding on top of the coach would give Lord Wingrave a taste of Milsom’s sour temper and make him more likely to allow her to be replaced.

  She’d chosen a book from the selection the Fancotts had given her. When she opened Volume I of Tristram Shandy she found a note written in Mr Fancott’s hand, saying that if she liked it, she should be able to buy the complete set quite easily as there was a good bookshop in Exeter.

  Connie paused as that idea sank in. If her husband gave her an allowance, as Martha thought he would, she would be able to buy books whenever she wished.

  It was only much later that she wondered how Mr Fancott knew she would be living near Exeter.

  Will clambered up to the roof of the coach, the effort making his head pound. Lady Wingrave’s pinch-faced maid was already sitting on the bench behind the driver, and had the temerity to look down her nose at him.

  “Sit with the driver,” he ordered, and sat in her place with his hat tipped forward to block out the sun.

  Archer sat next to him, but twisted himself around to look behind. Following his gaze, Will saw he was watching Noakes riding out of the inn yard on Mercury.

  “You’re not happy to be on the coach?” Will asked, suspecting what the answer would be.

  “I do what you say, my lord,” Archer said, now staring straight ahead.

  As he thought—he’d offended the groom. Damn. Best get this over with now, then, before Archer’s resentment built up any further.

  “Noakes will be going back to Marstone Park with the coach,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind staying on in Devonshire.”

  Archer’s head turned towards him, eyes widening.

  “You don’t want to?” Will asked. “Got a girl in Hertfordshire?”

  “No, my lord. I mean…no girl.”

  “Just say it, Archer,” Will said, when the groom hesitated before speaking.

  “You’re asking me what I want?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t make a habit of it.” He was pleased to see that this raised a brief smile. “I will be paying the staff at Ashton Tracey, not my father. I want some people there who will be working for me, not for him. That means people who want to be there, not ones who’ve been made to move to Devonshire against their will.”

  If his head didn’t hurt, he’d have been quite amused by the changing expressions on Archer’s face. The groom’s initial smile was followed by a frown as he worked out the implications, then a stare into the distance.

  “You’ve got a brain, Archer, you’re wasted as an under-groom. But you’d have to be loyal to me. Think on it.”

  Will closed his eyes, wishing the bench had a higher rail at the back so he could doze without risking falling off the coach.

  “My lord?”

  “What?” He opened an eye to see Archer holding a stone bottle.

  “Mrs Farthing gave us some elderflower cordial. Might help your head.”

  Will took the bottle and pulled out the cork. The stuff smelled sweet, but that could be a good thing.

  “Thank you, Archer. Is that a ‘yes’?”

  “I reckon.”

  The coach made good time on the sun-baked roads and Will’s head had c
leared by the time they stopped for refreshments. He’d ride inside when they resumed the journey—he’d had enough of his eyes and mouth filling with dust.

  His wife descended from the coach before he could offer his arm. Her gown today was even less fashionable than the green one she’d worn the day before, the pattern on the muslin faded. He knew a dowry hadn’t been his father’s priority when he chose the next Countess of Marstone, but he was surprised she seemed to have so little in the way of decent clothing.

  How many people had his father approached? Surely not many; he’d only had a couple of days, unless he’d been planning this for some time. Had he needed to find someone desperate for money to get anyone to accept?

  Connie asked to use a private room at the inn, then joined Lord Wingrave in a parlour where the landlord had provided a cold collation of sliced beef and a raised pie, with a lemon syllabub. She took food from the dishes he offered with a word of thanks, but did not eat much. It was too hot.

  Lord Wingrave ate sparingly too, his brow creased—in thought or annoyance, she couldn’t tell. Her father, on the rare occasions she ate with him and guests, had not wished to hear anything she had to say. Lord Wingrave seemed little like her father, from what she’d seen so far, but she didn’t want to risk irritating him when they had another day and a half to travel together.

  When they were ready to set off, he followed her into the coach. She sat gazing out of the window for a while, fascinated by the changing scenery. Glancing at his face now and then, she could see that he seemed to be lost in thought.

  “What is this town?” she asked, as they slowed to pass market stalls in a wide street between tall buildings.

  “Andover.”

  She had hoped for a little more information, but it was clear Lord Wingrave still did not wish to talk. With an inaudible sigh, she picked up Tristram Shandy again and found her place. Better to pretend she did not wish to converse at all than to be ignored, so for the rest of the journey she divided her attention between the window and her book.

  They arrived in Salisbury late in the afternoon. Connie caught a glimpse of the cathedral spire from a turn in the road, but as the coach rumbled on through the streets it passed out of view behind them.

  “Did you say we were stopping here?” she asked, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice.

  Lord Wingrave turned his head. “The Rose and Crown is just over the river.” As he spoke, the coach began to slow.

  “I trust you will dine with me this evening, madam,” Lord Wingrave said as he handed her out of the coach.

  “If you wish it, my lord.”

  “How else are we going to get to know each other, my lady, if you always eat in your room?” He didn’t smile, but neither was he frowning.

  You had the whole afternoon to talk to me in the coach.

  “Excuse me, my lady.” The new groom interrupted before Connie could reply.

  Lord Wingrave nodded and headed into the inn.

  “My name’s Archer, my lady. I was wondering which of your trunks you need this evening?”

  Connie’s eyebrows rose and she smiled. “Has Milsom not told you? The small valise, and that one, if you please.” She pointed to the trunk that held her own clothes. Archer climbed up to the coach roof.

  The maid waited by the door.

  “Milsom, please find out what time my lord intends to dine.”

  The woman pursed her lips. “Very well, my lady.”

  In her room, Connie washed her face and hands, and tidied her hair. They would be moving on in the morning and, in spite of feeling weary from the heat, she wanted to see the cathedral.

  “He hasn’t said, my lady.” Milsom entered the room behind her. “I’ll get your gown out. You’ll be wanting to—”

  “Milsom, knock before you enter a room.” Connie finished pinning her hair and turned to see Milsom’s expression turn from a scowl to merely sour.

  “I’ll just brush off your green gown, my lady, then you’ll—”

  “I intend to walk to the cathedral, so I will need you to accompany me. The gown can wait.”

  Milsom’s lips tightened. “It’s not proper for you to go about the town on your own, my lady.”

  “I know. That is why you will be with me.”

  “I can’t walk far, miss. My lady, I should say. My feet hurt.” She turned to the trunk and began to lift out the green gown, as if that were the end of the matter.

  Connie sighed. She knew she should address Milsom’s truculence, but they might not pass this way again and she didn’t want to waste time arguing now.

  Downstairs, she asked the landlord if someone could accompany her to the cathedral. He scratched his head, then his face brightened. “I reckon our Jen wouldn’t mind a break. Save her nag—” He cleared his throat. “I’ll fetch her, my lady.”

  Jen proved to be a stout girl with a distinct resemblance to the landlord. She was also a girl of few words. “Quickest way or by the river, my lady?”

  Connie chose the river and Jen set off at a brisk pace. It wasn’t far to the riverbank, and Connie paused to admire the sight of the cathedral across the water meadows, its stone walls glowing warmly in the early evening light. She hurried to catch up with Jen as they crossed a footbridge. Seen from so close, the spire seemed to touch the sky. With the tall windows and carved stonework, the building was a far cry from the small parish church in Nether Minster.

  “I would like to look inside, Jen.”

  “This way, my lady.” Jen stopped outside the porch. “I’ll wait here, my lady.” She grinned, lightening her face. “Nice to have a rest here in the cool instead of working in the kitchen.”

  The interior was a contrast of dark corners and bright patches where the sun streamed in through the stained glass. Connie was still gazing in awe at the tall pillars and vaulted roof when she was interrupted by a small cough.

  “Can I help you, miss?” The man wore the black gown of a verger, bulging out over a slight paunch. He straightened his wig as he spoke.

  “Thank you, but I have come only to admire the building. I have never seen anything so magnificent as this.”

  The verger seemed to stand taller. “I can tell you a little of the history, if you wish, miss.”

  Connie recognised the gleam of enthusiasm in his eyes, and hesitated a moment. But Mr Fancott always said that knowledge only enhanced awe, so she accepted with thanks.

  “The cathedral was completed in the thirteenth century, after the land it stands on…”

  The verger moved off down the aisle as he spoke. Connie missed parts of the history as carvings or tombs took her interest, but the verger seemed to need nothing more than an occasional murmur of appreciation to keep him going.

  Chapter 13

  Will set the empty tankard back on the table. The ale had revived him a little; now he needed some exercise to ease the stiffness in his limbs from a full day on the road. Perhaps his wife might like to accompany him.

  His comment about getting to know her had been a little unfair. She had asked him about the places they passed through, but he knew little more than the names of some of the major towns. Then she’d started to read and it had seemed churlish to interrupt. He laughed—he hadn’t wanted a chattering, giggling wife, so he shouldn’t complain.

  He was about to find the landlord to ask if there was a path beside the river when he noticed his wife’s prune-featured maid sitting at a table in conversation with the coachman.

  “Why aren’t you attending Lady Wingrave?”

  The maid hurriedly got to her feet. “My lady said she did not need my assistance, my lord.”

  “Very well. Go and ask if she wishes to accompany me on a short walk before dinner.”

  The maid pursed her mouth and left the taproom. What possessed his wife to keep such a person about her?

  Milsom’s expression was more worried than ill-tempered when she returned. “I thought she was in your private parlour, my lord, but she’s not there
, nor in her room.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there, woman, find out where she’s gone!”

  “My lady…” Milsom stopped and cleared her throat. “Er, my lady did express a desire to see the cathedral, my lord. I reminded her it was unseemly for her to walk about unaccompanied.”

  Will’s eyebrows rose. Hopefully his wife was not wandering around Salisbury alone, but it might be worth going to the cathedral to check.

  Several people sat or knelt in the nave, but none of them was Lady Wingrave. A murmur of voices came from a side aisle; he recognised her voice, then a man spoke in reply.

  An assignation?

  He shook his head. That was impossible; she hadn’t known until yesterday that they would come to Salisbury. He would turn into his father if he wasn’t careful, assuming the worst of everyone.

  Approaching quietly, he rounded a pillar to see his wife standing by a stone knight on a tomb, her face intent as a man who must be the verger pointed out features of the armour and sword.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Oh!” She spun round to face him, one hand flying to her mouth. “I’m sorry, my lord, I forgot to leave word for you.”

  “You came here alone?” He tried to keep censure from his voice—if a reprimand was due at all, it should be given in private.

  “No, one of the women from the inn came with me. She should be waiting in the porch.” She dropped her eyes. “Do you wish me to return?” Her tone was resigned.

  “Not if you wish to continue your tour,” he replied. It was cool in here, and they had the whole evening to get through together.

  Her smile was hesitant, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was not being summoned back.

  “Do carry on, sir,” Will said to the verger.

  “Er, yes, my lord. I was saying that we have an older tomb, showing chain mail armour.” The verger moved off down the aisle, listing names, dates, and battles as he went. Will caught snatches of information as they walked, but he was more interested in the way his wife was listening and responding to the torrent of details. She clearly had some knowledge of the period the verger was discussing.