Sauce for the Gander (The Marstone Series Book 1) Page 8

  Before Will could get bored, Lady Wingrave thanked the verger for his time, and promised that she would try to return to learn more about the cathedral.

  “My lord, do you have any coins on you?” Her voice was too low for the verger to hear.

  Will patted a pocket. “Some, yes.”

  “Could you put something in the poor box for me? I should do something for the time this gentleman has given up for my education.”

  “If you wish, my lady.” Will suspected that the verger would rather have the money for himself, but the man nodded in approval as the coins clinked into the box near the door. Another misjudgement?

  A stout young woman stood as they left via the porch.

  “You accompanied Lady Wingrave here?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Will handed her a coin. “I will escort Lady Wingrave back to the inn.”

  The girl smiled, gave a brief curtsey and walked off. His wife stood by the door, hands folded in front of her.

  “I’m sorry for not leaving a message, my lord, I would not have inconvenienced—”

  “I wished for a walk in any case, so it is no matter. Shall we return for supper?”

  She took the arm he offered, resting one hand lightly on his sleeve. They crossed the grassy area towards the river without speaking, and she released his arm before they reached the bridge, stopping to look back. It was a lovely scene, he had to admit. The low sun cast long shadows and warmed the colours of the cathedral. He breathed the air, cooling now as dusk approached, and glanced at his wife’s face. She was smiling, but he thought she had a wistful air, gazing at the scene as if she would never return.

  “Why were you not accompanied by your maid?” he asked as she finally turned back towards the river.

  “She said her feet hurt. It was easier to ask for someone from the inn to accompany me. Jen knew the way.”

  And doesn’t scowl, Will added to himself. “Why do you employ such a woman?”

  Her head tipped to one side. “I thought you had employed her. She said you had.”

  Either the maid was lying, or his wife was. He’d lay money on it being the maid—unless it was a misunderstanding.

  “What exactly did she say, can you recall?”

  She thought for a moment. “She said ‘My lord employed me as your personal maid’.”

  “She must have been referring to my father.” Milsom would be another spy in his household. “Did he know you were to leave your own maid at home?”

  “I’ve never had a personal maid, my lord.” She took his arm again, and they continued along the river path.

  No maid? What gently bred lady managed without a maid? “I’m sure we can find someone better,” he said, and was rewarded with a smile mostly concealed by the brim of her hat.

  To his relief, talk over dinner proved easy. He knew something about Salisbury, and he mentioned that they’d often stopped at Stonehenge on his boyhood journeys to or from Ashton Tracey.

  “Oh, may we see that too?” Then her face fell. “I suppose we have no time. It is a long journey tomorrow, is it not?”

  “I’m afraid so; we need to make a very early start. Are you interested in antiquities?”

  “I am interested in anything, my lord. I have never been above three or four miles from Nether Minster in my life. It is a pretty enough place, but there are so many fascinating things to see in other parts of the country.”

  “Have you not had a season in Town?”

  “No. What is Stonehenge like?”

  Any other woman of his acquaintance would have been asking him when they would remove to London, not enquiring about some ancient stones. This new wife of his was certainly a puzzle.

  Connie sent Milsom away that evening as soon as the maid brought in her washing water, preferring to manage herself, as she always had. She stood before the mirror on the chest, combing out her hair, the events of the evening passing through her mind again.

  Lord Wingrave hadn’t minded her going to see the cathedral, and had proved surprisingly knowledgeable about Stonehenge. She’d even got the impression that he imagined they would visit it together at some point.

  There was more to him than the image of a womanising duellist that rumour had painted. From Stonehenge, he’d gone on to talk about the stone circle at Avebury, and an ancient hill fort at Old Sarum, showing a breadth of knowledge she hadn’t expected. Their conversation had remained fairly impersonal, but she was pleased that he had been happy to discuss such things; her father would have told her to stick to women’s business.

  His acceptance of her interest might not extend to other areas, but there was at least a possibility that Martha could be proved right in the end.

  Chapter 14

  Wednesday 25th June

  Will watched as Archer loaded their luggage. Should he ride on the roof for the morning or join Lady Wingrave inside the coach? Inside, he decided. He’d enjoyed last night’s conversation with his wife, her face animated as she asked questions.

  Their route that morning led across rolling chalk downland. Lady Wingrave peered out of the windows. “Did you say there were forts here?”

  “Ancient ones—with only circular mounds and ditches left,” he replied. “Nothing like the one near Salisbury.”

  “But still, think of the people who lived there long ago…” Her face took on a dreamy expression. “Could I see one sometime, do you think?”

  “Not today, I’m afraid; we have too far to go.”

  Her eager look faded, but she nodded. “Of course.”

  “We can certainly see such things some other time. Later this year, perhaps, when you have settled in.”

  Her smile was the widest he’d seen yet, and he felt a warm glow somewhere inside at being able to please her.

  “Thank you, that would be wonderful.” She shifted on the seat, rolling her shoulders.

  “Are you uncomfortable, my lady?”

  “No, I am perfectly…” Her voice tailed off as he raised an eyebrow. “Well, yes, then. I am not used to sitting still for so long. At home I was used to running the house, and there was always much to do.”

  “Did you have many servants?”

  “No. It was only a small household. Are there many at Ashton Tracey?”

  Connie awaited his answer with some trepidation. Although he’d referred to the house as small when he’d been describing it on the first day of their journey, he might only have been comparing it with Marstone Park. Something half the size of that would still feel enormous.

  “Not many,” he said. “I do not go there often, and my father never, but there is a skeleton staff on board wages. A butler, housekeeper and cook, a footman, and maids.”

  That didn’t sound too bad.

  “There are plenty of walks in the gardens and grounds,” he went on.

  Walks? Oh, he was referring to her discomfort again.

  “Did you say it was near the sea?” She had never seen the sea.

  “Yes, it’s a mile or so to the cliffs from the house. Mama would take us there for picnics when we were young. My brother and I used to watch for smugglers.” A wry smile lifted one side of his mouth. “In broad daylight—it was no wonder we never saw any.”

  “Smugglers?” Connie shook her head. “I should not be surprised. I suppose smuggling is common along much of the coast.”

  “And is just a business,” Lord Wingrave said. “Not the romantic adventure that young lads dream of.”

  A criminal enterprise, Mr Fancott had called it. He’d shown her stories of intimidation and even murder of riding officers and informers. The Hawkhurst gang had been dealt with more than thirty years ago, but their brutality was still notorious today.

  It was a little worrying that Lord Wingrave did not seem to regard smuggling in the same light. That was not something she felt she could discuss with him now, though. Instead she asked him about Exeter and the area around Ashton Tracey.

  After they stopped for refreshments, Lord Wi
ngrave produced some newspapers. “I’ve got behind on the news,” he said, indicating them. “Do you mind if I read?”

  “Not at all,” Connie replied. When she opened Tristram Shandy, the silence did not feel as awkward as it had the day before.

  Connie gave up on her reading as the shadows lengthened. When Lord Wingrave turned his attention to the scenery, she guessed they must be nearly there.

  “We’ve made good time,” he said as they passed a row of cottages with a squat church beyond. “This is Ashton St Andrew. Ashton Tracey is only a couple of miles further, at the top of the valley leading down to Ashmouth.”

  “A bit of a theme in the place names,” Connie said, under her breath.

  “Indeed.” He turned to her, smiling. “The River Ash flows down the valley.”

  The land was hillier here than at home, the lanes narrow with the hedges atop steep banks almost brushing the sides of the coach. More hilly than Hertfordshire, Connie corrected herself as she peered out of the window. Her home was to be here now.

  Finally they turned off the road in a patch of woodland. A few minutes later they emerged into open ground, the house coming into view ahead on a slight rise. When Lord Wingrave had described the house two days ago, she had been too nervous about the consummation of their marriage to pay attention properly. Looking at it now, she could understand some of his enthusiasm.

  The house at Ashton Tracey was built of red brick, its corners picked out with quoins of some pale stone. A low terrace spanned the width of the building, with steps up to it from the gravelled drive. Formal gardens below the terrace were blocks of shadow at this late hour. It was small in comparison to Marstone Park, having only nine windows across the first floor. Her lips turned up at the corners.

  “You like it?”

  “It looks lovely. Not too big.” Would he see that as a criticism?

  He held her gaze for a moment, then smiled himself. “I’ve always liked it far better than Marstone Park.”

  Two servants stood at the top of the steps as the coach drew to a halt. The man was lanky and thin-faced, dressed neatly in brown coat and breeches, with a grey wig perched on his head. The woman was a little shorter but just as spare, her gown dark with a lacy white fichu and cap.

  “Butler and housekeeper,” Will explained, as they mounted the steps. “My lady, this is Warren, and Mrs Strickland.”

  “Welcome to Ashton Tracey, my lady.” Warren’s voice was unexpectedly deep for such a slender frame. His smile, although small, did look like a genuine welcome, and some of his many wrinkles might turn out to be laughter lines.

  “My lady.” Mrs Strickland curtseyed, her eyes flicking to something behind Connie, then back to her face. “Do you wish to see the house first, or have supper? Mrs Curnow can have dinner on the table within half an hour.”

  Will caught Mrs Strickland’s sideways glance, and looked around himself. Milsom stood by the coach, giving orders to Archer—Will could see the man’s scowl from here. Then he caught the droop of his wife’s shoulders as the housekeeper spoke. If she’d never been more than a few miles from home before, she must be exhausted by three days of jolting on the rutted roads. He put out a hand, touching her elbow.

  “It’s late, and you look tired. There will be plenty of time to see the house tomorrow, and you may have something to eat in your room if you wish.”

  “Thank you, I am weary. Is… can someone other than Milsom attend me?”

  “Mrs Strickland will arrange it,” he promised. And he would arrange for Milsom to be on the coach when it returned to Marstone Park in a few days’ time. “Do you wish for a meal?”

  “Just tea and toast would be lovely, if possible.” Her eyes met his, and she smiled. “Thank you for your consideration, my lord.”

  “It’s a pleasure, my lady.”

  Strangely, it was. Grateful smiles from young ladies had previously been bought with gifts—never had he been thanked so prettily for toast.

  He ordered a light meal for himself in the library, and arranged for Lady Wingrave’s repast. Then he walked around the outside of the house, looking out over the gardens and park in the gathering dusk.

  He was fond of the place because of its memories—playing hide and seek in the formal gardens when he and Alfred had been small enough to hide behind the low hedges, then later chasing Lizzie and Theresa through them. By the time Bella could toddle he’d thought himself too old, at fifteen, to play with his younger siblings, and had spent his summers trying to persuade the men in Ashmouth to take him on a smuggling run. They had, naturally, denied all knowledge of such activities. It was just as well they’d refused—if his father had found out he’d even attempted such a thing, it would have been his last visit here.

  He came to the stables where Archer was rubbing the horses down alongside Stubbs, the old groom who had been at Ashton Tracey since Will’s childhood. Archer was putting in considerably more effort than Stubbs, who appeared to be as lazy as Will remembered, and probably as incurious: most men would be questioning Archer about the new Lady Wingrave. He made a mental note to put Archer in charge of the stables.

  From what she’d said, his wife’s life until now had been quite restricted; he should make an effort to take her around the countryside, even if they didn’t yet have the finances to entertain the local gentry. She’d need some kind of carriage to take her about if she didn’t ride, or for the two of them to use together. The old one-horse open chaise stood in a corner of the stables and Will went over to inspect it. It needed cleaning, but seemed in good repair otherwise. He’d get a horse for the chaise, and another for her if she rode.

  He entered through the back of the house, hearing a clatter of pots from the kitchen. As he went through the hall to the library, he tried to look at the place as a stranger might. It must be thirty years since anything other than cleaning or basic repairs had been done, and it showed. The rug on the library floor was worn, the curtains were fading, and the leather on the chairs and desktop showed signs of cracking with age. He didn’t mind for himself; he was used to it, and it was all comfortingly familiar.

  What would Lady Wingrave think, though? She seemed to approve of Ashton Tracey’s modest size. He realised that he wanted her to like the place—not only because she was going to live here, but because he liked it.

  Chapter 15

  Thursday 26th June

  Connie awoke at her usual early hour, and stretched luxuriously. Sunlight entered the room in flashes as the curtains fluttered in the breeze through the open windows. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she did not have to get out of bed if she did not wish to. But there would be more such mornings, and at the moment she was curious about her new home.

  Last night she had taken in only a sizeable room furnished with a small table and chair, and an armchair near the fireplace. In the lamplight, the wood panelling on the walls had made the room seem gloomy.

  Now, sitting up in bed, she inspected her surroundings properly. She had a corner room, with windows on two walls. The silk damask bed hangings and coverlet were embroidered with swags of ivy on a cream background, the same cream colour used on the chairs and window seat. Although the hangings were faded, and the chairs appeared worn in places, everything was spotless and the wooden floor and wainscoting had a warm glow from much polishing. Perhaps she could replace the fabric at some point, but she rather liked it as it was. It looked lived in—much friendlier than the cold splendour of Marstone Park.

  The door opened quietly, and the same young maid who had brought her food last night crept in, strands of black hair curling out from under her cap. She was angular, skinny wrists protruding from her sleeves. Connie found it difficult to guess her age. Fifteen, perhaps?

  “Oh, my lady,” the girl gasped, seeing Connie sitting up in bed. “I didn’t think you’d be awake yet. I come for the slops.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Sukey Trasker, my lady.” The girl curtseyed awkwardly.

/>   “Sukey—who else is up and about?”

  “Mrs Curnow’s making the bread, my lady. And Mary and Katie.”

  Other maids, Connie guessed. Her stomach rumbled at the idea of fresh bread. “When you’ve taken the slops, please come back and show me the way to the kitchens.”

  The girl’s eyes went round. “You want to go to the kitch—?” One hand flew up to cover her mouth. “I mean, yes, my lady. Shall I wake Mrs Strickland?”

  “No, I think not.” She wanted to get to know the staff, and that would be easier without the housekeeper’s presence. Sukey bobbed another curtsey and quietly let herself out of the room.

  Connie explored the room once she had dressed. The door Sukey had used opened onto the main landing. The other door in that wall led to a small chamber that must be her dressing room. A whole room for her clothing, when she only had enough to fill a small trunk! Well, two, if she could alter her mother’s old dresses. She smoothed the gown she wore, aware of the faded pattern and the contrast with the heavy and ornate Marstone wedding ring. Such clothing was adequate for Miss Charters; Lady Wingrave probably required a better wardrobe.

  Back in the bedroom, she had her hand on the latch of a third door before it occurred to her that this must be the connecting door to Lord Wingrave’s room. There was a keyhole, but no key.

  That didn’t matter, she told herself. Lord Wingrave would keep his word.

  Connie followed Sukey onto the landing. It looked down over the entrance hall, which was open to the second floor. An oak staircase descended around two sides of the hall to reach the ground floor near the front door. She was pleased to see the banisters were well polished, and the black and white tiles on the hall floor were clean and shiny.