1 News From Corland

STONYWELL, NOTTINGHAMSHIRE: JUNE

I an, Viscount Farramont, woke at his usual time. He invariably woke at his usual time, wherever he was, whatever the season. He rose and dressed himself in his old clothes and went for his walk. At least at Stonywell, he could take the dogs with him. Their boundless energy and endless enthusiasm for yet another pile of leaf litter, indistinguishable from every other such pile, always lifted his spirits.

Not that he was truly downcast. How could he be, married to Izzy? But today she would leave him again for a visit to friends. So many friends, so many visits. Ian supposed he could go too, if he wanted, but Izzy never suggested it and he knew these gatherings were often overcrowded. They might have to share a room, and he hated to encroach.

The exercise in the cool early morning air did him good. He disliked being in town, when he was forced to walk the streets. The Brook Street house was too far from any of the parks for easy access, and there was nothing uplifting about London's filthy streets.

Discarding his muddy coat and donning indoor shoes, he made his way to the one room in the upper part of the house where he could find lively company at this hour. Peeking his head round the nursery door, he was greeted with squeals of glee from his two daughters. Helena, the elder at four, was all Izzy — the same wiry form and vivid green eyes. Aurelia, just three, had Ian's more solid frame, his washed-out blue eyes and a touch of his red hair. Fortunately, there was enough of Izzy's dark locks to render it auburn.

Sweeping Aurelia into his arms, he said, "Now, what are you two mischiefs up to, eh? Or are you behaving yourselves today?"

"They're good as gold, milord," the maid said bobbing a curtsy. "No trouble at all. They never are."

At least they did not take after their mother in that respect.

"Will you read to us, Papa?" Aurelia said.

"No, play a game with us," Helena said. "I can play cup and ball for ages now."

"What is your record?"

"Twelve," she said proudly.

"Well, let me see if I can best you. I used to be a champion with cup and ball when I was… well, perhaps a little bigger than you are."

The toy was found, and Ian soon discovered that skills enjoyed at the age of seven or eight could not be depended upon at the age of five and thirty. It amused the girls to see him struggle, however, and he never minded being a source of amusement to them.

"I can see I shall have to practise. Where did this come from? It looks just like the one I used to play with."

"It might be, at that, milord," the maid said. "Milady took the girls into the attics yesterday and found boxes of toys."

"Mostly wooden soldiers," Aurelia said in disgust.

"And there were spiders. And dust everywhere," Helena said. "We had to change all our clothes and have our hair washed."

"Still, it was kind of Mama to find some new toys for you."

"It was because Madame Marie broke her head," Helena said sadly.

"Madame Marie? One of your dolls?"

"The one with the strange gown that sticks out. Mama said she was French because of her gown, but yesterday I dropped her and she broke her head. Mama said she'd buy me a new doll next time she's in London, but she doesn't know when that will be, so we went to the attics to find another doll. But there weren't any."

"I have to attend Parliament next month, so I can buy one for you then," Ian said. "At least you have something new to play with while you wait."

After the nursery, it was time to submit to Wycliffe's ministrations and turn himself from his rather scruffy and dishevelled early morning appearance into a gentleman. Wycliffe had only one mission in life, and that was to transform Ian into a sprig of fashion, so that when he walked down St James's Street or danced at Almack's, heads would turn and everyone would be so dazzled by his sartorial elegance that they would all want to know the name of his valet. In this regard, Ian was a sad disappointment to him. Wycliffe had assumed that a viscount would want to strut a little, but Ian had never had the least ambition to strut, and if asked, would not even be able to describe what such an activity entailed.

He was very glad to be properly and soberly dressed, however, as befitted a gentleman, wearing dark colours, clean linen and no jewellery beyond a signet ring and a single fob. Such a style had graced his father and his grandfather before him, and Ian could not, for the life of him, see why he should consider changing it.

"There, sir," Wycliffe said at last, brushing a final speck from Ian's coat and stepping back to admire his handiwork.

"Thank you, Wycliffe," Ian said gravely. "You look after me very well."

"It's a pleasure to dress a gentleman so imposing as your lordship," Wycliffe said with a bow.

Imposing. That meant tall with bright red hair, he supposed. Ian could never lose himself in a crowd.

Since Wycliffe was satisfied that his master was presentable enough to meet the world, Ian turned his steps to the highlight of his day — breakfast with his wife. Not that she had conceded the privilege easily, but it was a point which, for once, he had demanded.

"Why do you want to see me so early in the day?" she had said, pouting a little. "I shall not even be dressed, and I dislike conversation at such an hour."

"Izzy, I must know what you have planned for the day — whether you will be out for dinner, whether we are expecting company, that sort of thing."

"Mrs Worthing can tell you such things."

"I have no intention of asking the servants about my wife's engagements. I wish to hear them from your own lips, and breakfast is a convenient time to do so. We need not talk at all, apart from that, but I so rarely have you to myself, even when we happen to be under the same roof, that I must have one meal each day with no distractions. I insist upon it, Izzy."

She had surrendered gracefully, perhaps assuming that he would tire of the arrangement when he saw her déshabillé, but he never had. Whether she wore a robe over her nightgown, her hair tumbled down her back, or her grandest ball gown, her hair piled on her head and crowned with jewels, she was just as beautiful to him. He never tired of her.

Thus it was that he made his way with eager steps to his wife's sitting room. It had never quite recovered from Izzy's first disastrous attempts at redecoration, and even though she had subsequently received good advice on the subject, and had even listened to some of it, the results had never pleased her. Every time she stayed at Stonywell, she had one wall or another redone, so that now four entirely different styles glared balefully at each other.

Ian had no interest in what was on the walls, so long as Izzy was there. She was late, of course. Izzy never could get anywhere on time. She joked that she would probably be late for her own funeral.

She had certainly been late for her wedding. Ian had stood in the chapel at Corland Castle, Izzy's home, as the minutes ticked away, so utterly terrified that she would not come that his legs would barely hold him up. At any moment, he expected a footman to come in with a note for him. ‘Fooled you! There will be no wedding. Whatever made you think I would marry anyone like you?' But miraculously, there she was on her father's arm, coming nearer and nearer. She stopped beside Ian and smiled up at him, and he had melted all over again, just as he had the first time he had seen her. Then Nicholson had begun the service, the words had been spoken and it was done. She was Lady Farramont. His wife!

Today, she was only twenty minutes late, still yawning, her eyes heavy with sleep. As always, his heart somersaulted at the very sight of her. Five years married, yet he was just as besotted as ever. Did it never get any easier?

There were no greetings. He had quickly learnt that, however loquacious she was at other times, at breakfast she was as taciturn as he was, completely calm for once. She sat, he poured her chocolate for her, she crumbled a piece of cake. Today there was nothing to say, for he knew her plans — she was going away to visit friends, leaving him alone once more. He waited for just the right moment to produce the purse.

"For your visit to the Cotterills," he said, as he placed it on the table in front of her. "Two hundred. I know they play high, and you will not want to refuse to join in. Besides, if you should happen to go into Lincoln, there might be something you want to buy."

"Thank you!" she said, pleasure lighting her face. "You are very good to me, husband."

He never knew what to say to her at such times. Some men managed it easily, the glib words falling from their tongues without effort, but he had never had the way of it. So he merely grunted and continued to work his way through a mutton chop. She turned back to her slice of cake, now reduced to an almost perfect mound of crumbs.

"Will you be sure to tell me where you are?" he blurted into the silence.

She looked surprised. "You know where I will be — at the Cotterills. Somerton Manor."

"Yes, but if you should decide to move on… go elsewhere… there could be news from Corland any day."

"Grandmama? I have seen her not a month since, and if she should die — Or are you talking about this ghastly business of the murder of Nicholson? Who would murder the chaplain , Ian? Who would go to his room in the middle of the night and hack him to death with an axe? It is quite unbelievable!"

"Your father has engaged people to discover the murderer. I was not thinking of that particularly, no. There are a number of issues which might arise for your father and mother. I need to know precisely how to locate you, should anything occur which you would need to know. All I ask is that you inform me if you decide to leave Somerton Manor."

"Of course," she said vaguely, her attention already drifting away.

After breakfast, Ian went to his library to begin work for the day. His cousin and heir, Henry Farramont, who acted as his secretary, was already at his desk, head down, pen scratching across the paper.

"The Caswell papers are on your desk ready for signing, also the new leases, and I am just drafting a letter to Hillman," he said, without looking up. "Three personal letters for you." The head lifted briefly to catch Ian's eyes. "Still nothing from Corland."

"It could be weeks."

"True. There is a vestry meeting on Thursday to talk about the roads — again! But I can go, if you prefer. It is deadly dull stuff. The new curate would like to pay a courtesy call to introduce himself. I have tentatively made an appointment for tomorrow."

"How efficient you are, Henry."

Henry looked up and grinned. "I was well taught. Besides, I have to catch you while you are here. Whatever whim brought Izzy back from town so soon, I am glad of it, for it brings you, too. You will be back there soon enough to support that bill of yours." A hesitation, then he went on, "Izzy is off again, I hear."

"To the Cotterills, yes."

Ian heard the implied criticism in Henry's voice, but chose to ignore it. It was one of the few points on which they disagreed. From the day Henry had arrived on the doorstep at the age of eight, his dark eyes filled with awe at the imposing scale of Stonywell, he and Ian had been the best of friends. The two boys had gone to Eton and Oxford together, made their first steps in society together, grieved together at age fourteen when Ian's father had died, and when Ian had come of age and gained control of his fortune, had learnt to manage the estate together. Not once had they fallen out until the day the Lady Isabel Atherton entered their lives.

"She is too overwrought, if you ask me," Henry had said. "Likely to be firing off in all directions at the least setback, you mark my words. Too unstable a female for a steady fellow like you."

But Ian, deep in the throes of his first passion, could not be deterred. "She will liven me up," he said. "A wife as staid as I am would be dreadfully boring."

"Izzy will certainly never be boring," Henry had said. "You deserve better, Ian."

Ian violently disagreed, and since he had not yet come to regret his decision, the two cousins skirted around the issue by never mentioning it.

For his part, Henry had taken a different route, marrying early to a clergyman's daughter. They and their growing family had initially lived in Stonywell, but moved out when Izzy arrived, and now lived contentedly in a cottage in the village, although they dined at Stonywell more often than not.

The two men worked diligently for an hour or so, then Henry went off about his own affairs, while Ian settled down with an inner glow of pleasure to the accounts. There was something extraordinarily satisfying about columns of numbers, some added and some subtracted, the totals in perfect alignment. And at the bottom of every page, the line that read ‘To Savings'. Sometimes it was only a shilling or two, sometimes several pounds, but every week there was something left over to increase his wealth and stave off the terrifying possibility of debt and bankruptcy and the loss of everything.

As he worked, he was aware of the signs of Izzy's imminent departure. In the hall, mysterious thumps and the mutterings of the footmen suggested that luggage was being assembled. Then Izzy's carriage, an elegant affair in bright blue paint with yellow wheels, was brought round. That carriage always made him smile, with its jaunty colours and the blue velvet interior. A great extravagance, but Izzy loved it and it was so much in tune with her character that he loved it too.

Izzy was late, needless to say, so the luggage was loaded up and still the carriage waited. But then something else caught Ian's eye as he glanced through the window — a rider, coming fast up the drive, although the horse looked close to exhaustion. The rider wore the livery of the Earl of Rennington, and Ian knew that the wondering was over, and the news from Corland was not good.

He went out himself to greet the rider on the drive as he slithered to the ground in ungainly fashion, stumbling and almost falling.

"Urgent message for Lord Farramont!" he called out, as Eastwood and two footmen rushed out.

Ian was there before them. "I am Farramont."

Holding his hand out, he waited as the man prised off his gloves and reached into a deep pocket for the letter. It bore Lord Rennington's wayward writing and his seal. Tearing it open, Ian scanned it quickly. It was as he thought.

Folding it neatly and tucking it into a pocket, he said, "You did well to get here so quickly. Thank you. John, show this fellow the way to the stables and see that he gets a decent meal inside him. He will need somewhere to sleep for a day or two." He turned back to the house, his long legs taking the steps two at a time, then striding into the hall, as the butler struggled to keep up with him. "Eastwood, I need to talk to Lady Farramont. On no account is she to leave this house before I have seen her, is that understood? You have my permission to hold her forcibly if she tries. Tell Wycliffe to pack for me. A trip to London for a few days, personal business, so I shall need nothing formal. Ah, there you are, Henry. Library, if you please. Remember, Eastwood — bring Lady Farramont into the library as soon as she comes downstairs."

"The letter has come then?" Henry said, closing the library door on the servants scurrying about the hall.

"Yes, and it is just as Rennington feared. I shall go straight up to town with Izzy — Ah, I hear her. Quick, man, move the porcelain."

In the hall, Izzy was tapping her foot impatiently as her maid, Brandon, drew gloves over her slender, white fingers. Ian loved those delicate fingers, always in motion, always busy about something.

"Lady Farramont, I should like a word with you in the library, if you would be so good."

"Not now. I am in the most almighty rush to get off. Come on, Brandon! Do get a move on!"

"This cannot wait. There is news from Corland."

"Grandmama?" she said, suddenly alert.

"No, everyone is well. It is a different matter entirely."

"Then tell me here and now, while Brandon is dilly-dallying."

"The library," he said, in his most uncompromising tones.

Her eyes flashed angrily. "Really, Farramont! I truly cannot spare a moment. I shall be late for dinner as it is."

"I am quite prepared to pick you up and carry you," he said calmly.

The servants stood statue-like, pretending to ignore the argument. Ian gave them no thought. They were surely used to Izzy's ways by now. He held the library door open just as Henry scuttled out. With an exasperated sigh, Izzy finally accepted the inevitable and strode through the door, swirling round to face Ian as he followed her into the room and quietly closed the door.

"This had better be good, Ian. If I have to spend a night on the road because of you—"

"It is not good. It is very bad, and when you have heard all, you may not wish to go to Somerton at all. Will you not sit down, Izzy?"

"Just tell me whatever it is and get it over with, for heaven's sake."

She paced up and down, and Ian automatically checked the room. The valuable porcelain was all on an unreachable shelf, the ink pots hidden away in the desk, important papers hastily tidied away. There were still books scattered everywhere, and the globes, not properly repaired since the last time, were vulnerable, but it would have to do.

"Your father writes with news of Nicholson."

"Has his murderer been caught?"

"No, not yet. It is not about the murder."

Izzy made a strangled noise in her throat. "Just tell me!"

"Amongst his papers was a letter from Winchester, suggesting that Nicholson had not been ordained there. Your father has made enquiries, and it appears that Nicholson was never ordained as a clergyman at all."

Izzy laughed. "The old rogue! I always thought there was something not right about him. So he has been sitting pretty all these years, has he, married to Aunt Alice, his feet well and truly under the table, and acting as our chaplain when he was not even a clergyman?"

"Do you understand what that means, Izzy? He was not entitled to conduct marriages."

"Nonsense! He married us, as I am sure you will remember. I think you were there at the time."

"Yes, he married us, but he was not qualified to do so. It means our marriage is invalid , Izzy. That is the law. A marriage can only be valid if it is conducted by an ordained clergyman. We are not married, and the girls are illegitimate. Now you must not panic about this, because we can set most of it right. We can go to town and get a special licence so the marriage, at least, will be on a proper footing. The girls… there is nothing to be done about that, but—"

"Ian, I know you have very little humour, but is this your idea of a jest?"

"I only wish it were. But if we—"

She was breathing heavily now, almost quivering as emotions boiled up in her. "That man has been chaplain at Corland Castle forever — since long before I was born. Of course he is ordained! How can he be chaplain otherwise?"

"I cannot say how it came about. It was your grandfather who engaged him. He must have taken Nicholson's word for it that he was ordained."

"And no one checked? You never checked before we were married by some… some charlatan!" Her voice was rising now, and her pacing had diminished to angry twitches from side to side. "How could you do this to me? How could you expose me to the ridicule of the world? I shall never, ever be able to hold my head up in society again. To be… unmarried and yet the mother of two children — it is… Ian Farramont, you were supposed to shelter me from the world and keep me safe, and you have ruined me! You have taken everything from me — my very position in society is gone! I am no one!"

"Temporarily," he said, placatingly. "You will be Lady Farramont again in just a few days, as soon as we can get a special licence."

"But I am not Lady Farramont!" she wailed. "How can you humiliate me like this? I am nothing without my title. At least I still have my birth title. I am still Lady Isabel Atherton."

"No," he said firmly, for she had to be made to understand the enormity of the disaster. "No, because Nicholson married your parents, too. They are not married, either, and all their children are illegitimate. You are illegitimate."

Izzy screamed. With one delicate hand, she swept everything within reach from Ian's desk, so that they fell to the floor in a great clatter of books, the standish, the wooden boxes holding paper and the metal stand used to melt sealing wax. Then she screamed again. The terrestrial globe was next, kicked across the room by a daintily booted foot. The silver salver on the sideboard was hurled at the window, but fortunately fell short, then she toppled a small table heaped in books.

Ian waited patiently, ready to step in only if Izzy seemed likely to hurl herself through a window. He had learnt very early in their marriage to keep out of her way when these storms overtook her, as well as the wisdom of locking away decanters and wine glasses, and moving anything to which one was attached out of reach.

Eventually, she collapsed like a burst balloon, sinking to her knees on the floor. Then she lifted her head and howled in impotent rage.