6 Marsden Hall

I zzy paced back and forth in the rather dingy hotel room. Three days in Scarborough and she was ready to scream. But with so many prominent people visiting, it was the best place to obtain all the useful newspapers.

At least she had good company. Sophie Bayton had been one of her friends during that unforgettable first season in town, the sort of friend who never minded if Izzy had more partners at a ball, or more flowers sent the next day, or more invitation cards on her mantelpiece. At the end of that season, Izzy had married Ian and Sophie had married Martin Hearle, and their ways had parted, but they had written often, and Izzy had been truly sorry when first Sophie's father and then her husband had died. Since her brother was in India, Sophie had gone to live with Martin's relations, and that was when her letters had ceased.

Now Izzy knew the reason why — her husband's family had been treating her like an unpaid servant. And now her brother Olly had returned from India wraith-like from long illness. His weathered complexion from years of exposure to the sun hid the worst of it, but he still tired easily. Was there no end to their bad luck?

But they were cheerful and willing, and kept Izzy amused during long hours of confinement in the chaise, or in overnight stays in indifferent inns. Each morning during their stay at Scarborough, they had ventured out to obtain the latest newspapers.

"Here are all we could find," Sophie said, as she and Olly came back to their hotel that morning. "Two London newspapers, that is all, but several others… Newcastle, York, Hull, another from Newcastle, Leeds—"

"The Hull one," Izzy said. Quickly she flipped through the pages to find the society notices. "Ah! Here it is at last. He is at home — excellent. How useful it is to have all one's comings and goings announced in the newspapers. Olly, engage a post chaise and pair, if you please, to leave as soon as it can be ready for us."

"Where to?"

"Marsden Hall. Near Kilnwick on the Wolds. Wherever that is."

Olly nodded, grinning at the prospect of moving on at last, and disappeared on his errand.

Sophie's eyebrows rose at the name, for she surely recognised it, but she said only, "Tired of Scarborough at last?"

"Heartily," Izzy said with feeling. "I have never liked the place much, even when every other circumstance is favourable. Seaside resorts are full of people who have uprooted themselves from civilisation, and having gone to so much trouble, are determined to be pleased about it, even when there is nothing to do or see, and no people of fashion to make that circumstance tolerable. It would not be so bad if we could go to the theatre."

Sophie laughed. "Easy for you to say, Izzy, but for us this is a rare treat, even without the improvements to our wardrobes that you have seen fit to bestow on us. I am very glad to escape from Martin's relations for a while, so I do not repine about the details. A little jaunt along the coast is just the thing to raise my spirits, and Olly's, too. He has come on wonderfully already."

Izzy smiled at her, and gave her hand a squeeze. "It delights me to see Olly improving so much, and that strained look on your face fading a little with every day that passes. What a miserable life you were leading in Durham."

"Olly certainly, for the Hearles would have thrown him out if they had known he was there. There is no Christian charity in their souls, not even for a sick man. I am so grateful to the man who brought him to me from the ship, for poor Olly was so feverish he hardly knew where he was or what he was doing. He would have died but for his friend. I managed to hide him, for my room was a little apart from the others, but poor Olly could not leave it except at night, sometimes. I could not afford proper food for him, that was the worst of it. I used to take a mug of soup to my room each night… for my supper, I told the cook, and since it would have been thrown away else, or eaten by the servants, she allowed it. Apart from that, it was bits of stale bread or cake, whatever I could hide in my reticule or work bag, and his friend brought bits and pieces, too, whatever scraps he could get. No meat, and there was no money to buy any. You cannot imagine what a treat it is to have proper meals again. We are very grateful, as I am sure you know."

"Since you tell me so a hundred times a day, I can be in no doubt about it," Izzy said. "But as I keep telling you , the gratitude is all on my side. I could not have managed this trip without you, my dear friend. Or Olly. It is such a comfort to have a man with us. One man with a loud voice can achieve better service at inns and hotels than any number of females, even one so young as he is. But he will soon be well enough to take possession of Bayton House again, and that will be so comfortable for both of you."

Sophie's eyes dropped, and she looked conscious. There was some difficulty with the house, but unless they confided in her, Izzy could do nothing about it.

Avoiding the subject of Bayton House, Sophie said, "You would have no difficulty with service if you travelled in your own carriage with your own servants and your own name. I wish I knew what game you are playing, Izzy. I will not quiz you about it, for your secret is your own, but I wonder at it, all the same. Does Lord Farramont know what you are up to?"

But Izzy only laughed. If Sophie would not share her secrets, she could hardly expect Izzy to share hers. "Ian brought me here shortly after we were married, for a few days. It rained every day, as I recall. He thought it would compensate me for not going to Brighton that year. It was my own fault, for wanting to be married from home by our own chaplain. If we had stayed in town and been married there, we could have gone to Brighton. I have been well punished for that mistake!"

"Not going to Brighton?" Sophie said, puzzled.

"Going home to be married by the chaplain. That man!" The familiar rage bubbled up inside her, and she paced across the room to dispel some, at least, of the anger. It would never dissipate entirely. How could it? Arthur Nicholson, her own uncle by marriage, had ruined her life, and her father and husband had stood by and allowed it to happen.

No. He was not her husband. She must keep reminding herself of that.

Olly came back with the news that the post chaise was ordered, but the postilion was not confident she would reach Marsden Hall in one day.

"It is three stages, and although you might be lucky in Bridlington, you might end up in some tiny little wayside inn for the Sabbath. Ostler recommends you stay in Bridlington."

"Very well. If we must."

"Ostler was informative about Marsden Hall. Mr Marsden is a single gentleman of great fortune, seemingly. Lives alone."

He eyed Izzy speculatively.

"He is an old friend," she said. "Besides, I am a married woman with another married woman as chaperon, if that is what concerns you."

"And is Mr Marsden expecting you?"

Izzy smiled. If she were a cat, she would be purring. "Oh, no. He is not expecting me."

***

M arsden Hall was a monstrosity of a house, built in the medieval style but with no attempt at elegance. It was a raw statement of power, with no concession to comfort or convenience, and Izzy recalled that Mr Marsden had grumbled constantly about it. Once his parents were dead, he had resolved never to spend more than two weeks in it every year. He came for Lady Day, to collect the rents, and again at the end of the season, to check that all was progressing well on the farms. Apart from that, he lived in his London house, his Leicestershire hunting box or visited friends.

Now that she saw the house, Izzy understood his reluctance. The house towered over them as they decanted from the chaise, its ugly patterned brickwork and dark, mullioned windows making Izzy shiver. She wondered why Mr Marsden, with his vast wealth, did not make improvements, or even knock the place down and build something more appealing.

The ladies waited on the drive as Olly rang the doorbell, then knocked, then rang again.

"He may live alone, but surely he has servants?" Sophie said. "Is it coming on to rain? Shall we get back in the chaise?"

Izzy marched up to the front door and tried the handle. It turned, she pushed and the door creaked open.

"Well! Sophie, you and I will go in and look around. Olly, you may unload the boxes, but please do not let the postilion leave until we are sure we will be staying."

The hall was huge, with a high ceiling with arched wooden beams, moth-eaten heads of bears and stags on the walls, and a carved stone fireplace big enough to burn half a tree. Through a narrow archway, the main staircase with its carved wooden newel post and balusters was glimpsed. The furnishings were dusty and uncared for, however. A circular table in the centre bore a vase of roses, but they had wilted, their petals scattered on the table. The draught from the door sent a few floating to the floor.

"I say!" Izzy called. "Anyone about?"

There was no answer, no sound to be heard anywhere.

"Perhaps there is no one here," Sophie suggested.

"The door was unlocked," Izzy said, prowling round the hall. "Someone must be in the house. Ah, here are the service stairs. Shall we go down?"

"Wait! I thought I heard something."

An anxious face appeared on the main stairs above them. "I beg your pardon. The bell's broken and I didn't hear the knocker."

A woman of around thirty, dressed in grey and with a chatelaine dangling at her waist, descended to the hall. The housekeeper at last.

"Lady Farramont to see Mr Marsden," Izzy said briskly, removing her gloves. "He is at home, I take it?"

"I… well, I'm not sure."

"He will see me. I am an old friend. Sophie, run out and tell the postilions they may leave. Where is the butler, Mrs—?"

"Carter. There's no butler."

"Well, a footman, then. A manservant. Someone to take the luggage to our rooms."

"There's no rooms ready," she said.

"I do not imagine that is an insuperable problem," Izzy said. "You have above twenty bedrooms, for Mr Marsden told me so, and at this time of year, we need not worry about damp mattresses. Sheets, blankets, towels… what else is needed?"

"But the dinner! How will I feed three of you… oh, and a gentleman, too," she cried, as Olly followed Sophie into the hall. "Four people to feed, instead of one! It can't be done, milady."

"Nonsense! A joint or two, some soup… we shall not mind if there is no fish, then cheese and whatever fruit you have in the kitchen garden. A manservant, Mrs Carter? For the luggage?"

She straightened her back. "There's no manservant, apart from Young, Mr Marsden's man, and he's too grand to do any actual work. There's only me, the cook and another girl. There's a couple of men do the gardens, but they live out."

Izzy was astonished into silence. Why would a man with an income of twenty thousand pounds a year keep his principal seat so poorly staffed? It was incomprehensible. The rattle of carriage wheels outside as the post chaise departed reminded her that they were now committed to staying at Marsden Hall.

Fortunately, the practical Sophie took charge. "I shall go down and talk to the cook, Mrs Carter, and offer whatever help is needed there, while you and the girl make up a bed somewhere. Lady Farramont and I will share, and my brother will sleep in any corner with a couple of blankets. But before you do anything else, show Lady Farramont to wherever Mr Marsden is hiding."

"Yes, ma'am." She bobbed a curtsy, relieved to be given clear orders to follow. "This way, milady."

When Izzy was shown into a small parlour at the back of the house, one of the few rooms not swathed in holland covers, Godfrey Marsden was hunched over a small table in the window, writing with furious speed. He was not a handsome man. He bore a face that, even in repose, looked as if he were scowling. Only when he smiled did the dark look melt into something more approachable. It was a pity, then, that he so seldom smiled. But he was excessively rich, well-mannered and liked to dance, so he was a popular man, invited everywhere and the object of great hopes in many a female breast. He had never married, and Izzy wondered now whether he ever would.

"Lady Farramont, sir," the housekeeper said.

Marsden dropped his pen, and spun round. "Lady Farramont? Good God, it is you! By all that is wonderful, what are you doing here?" Then, a faint frown appearing, he went on, "Is Farramont with you?"

"No, although I have a couple of friends with me. How are you, Godfrey?"

He started at the use of his first name. Only once had she addressed him thus, many years ago and she had no right to do so now, but it would, perhaps, help him to understand.

"Well enough," he said, puzzled. "No better and no worse than when we last met… a month ago, was it? I need not ask if you are well, for you are always in the bloom of health. But what brings you to this part of the world?"

"Oh… I was travelling nearby and thought you might be here. But where are all your servants? There seems to be no one here but the housekeeper and a couple of women."

"I have no need for more. The place is empty for most of the year."

"Well, it is very inconvenient, for I do not like staying in a place where my friends have to scramble about making up beds or kneading bread."

"You are surely not intending to stay?" he said in shocked tones.

"Naturally I am. The post chaise has gone back to Driffield, and you are not going to turn me out to sleep under a hedge, I trust."

He gave a little laugh, then shook his head. "You always were the most unaccountable girl, Izzy! Always up to some game or other. May I call you Izzy? You have called me Godfrey, after all."

"Of course. We are old friends, are we not? Do you remember when…"

His face softened at once, and he countered every reminiscence with one of his own from those early days of their acquaintance. The good days, as Izzy had begun to think of them. The days when the world was at her feet and anything was possible. Not like now, when she was nothing… worse than nothing. Illegitimate , and not even a respectable wife.

Ruthlessly she forced the anger down. It never entirely left her, but whenever it blazed up, she could now beat it down to a sullen glow at the back of her mind, so that she appeared calm on the outside.

"Ah, you have not changed a bit, Izzy," he said eventually, but he sounded sad.

The door opened.

"Here are my friends," Izzy said. "Do you remember Sophie? She was Miss Bayton before she married Martin Hearle. She is a widow now. And this is her brother, Mr Oliver Bayton, of Bayton House in Northumberland. Sophie, is all well below stairs?"

"The cook is having some kind of minor apoplexy, but we will manage for tonight. I have taken the liberty of ordering tea, and I am optimistic we might get some before dark. Izzy, do you want to see your room now?"

It was not the most appealing room in which Izzy had ever slept. It was dark and dingy, the window panes almost grey from years without a proper clean, and the rug had probably not been beaten that century. But there was a large bed with clean linen and plenty of blankets, and a ewer of warm water on the wash stand.

"Will it do, do you think?" Sophie said anxiously. "It is not what you are used to but—"

"It will do. We shall not be staying here very long, I imagine. Who would have thought so rich a man would be content to live in such squalor?"

"Is he truly rich?" Sophie said. "I know everyone said his income was above twenty thousand a year, but he lived in a couple of rooms in town, you know."

"But he has a house on Berkeley Street!"

"Yes, but apparently he only lived in part of it, and the rest was leased out."

"Oh. Well, he was… is a single man, so I suppose he does not need the whole house, but yes, he truly is rich. When he offered for me, my father had the lawyers look into his circumstances, and it was all there. Leasing out part of his own house… that is eccentric, perhaps, but if he does not need it, why not? But this! A property like this to be so neglected? That is not prudent. Only three servants to manage all this? It is monstrous."

"Did you observe Mrs Carter — the housekeeper?" Sophie said. "A married woman, judging by the ring, but I should very much like to know where Mr Carter is. He was here about four or five months past, I should say."

"Oh! I did not notice that," Izzy said. "No wonder she looks tired. I looked positively haggard when I was increasing. But Sophie, four months ago was around Lady Day. Marsden would have been here then."

The two women looked at each other. "He never had that sort of reputation," Sophie said dubiously. "In fact, he was never in the petticoat line at all, everyone said, until you came along. You had them all mesmerised, Izzy."

"We shall see how mesmerised he is now, shall we not?" Izzy said brightly, amused by the flash of bewilderment on Sophie's face.

Poor Sophie! It was almost a shame not to let her into the secret of the plan, but she was such a strait-laced person that she would likely have been shocked. She would have been sure to point out to Izzy how wrong it was, and that she should dutifully accept her fate, like a good little wife. Perhaps she would have refused to go along on the trip at all, and that would have been a great hindrance.

Dinner was not at all as bad as Izzy had feared. The dining room was clean, if small, the furniture polished and the cutlery gleamed in the light of the candles, although so few were lit they could barely see what they were eating. Marsden's valet served, with the aid of the harassed housekeeper, who ran back and forth to the kitchen. Whether through Sophie's efforts or the cook's, there was a good array of dishes with a couple of removes, even if they were somewhat widely spaced on the table.

Marsden had excellent manners and acted throughout as if he were delighted to have guests. Izzy was always at her best in company, so the two of them carried the conversation along without difficulty. Marsden took the trouble to ask some of the questions that had been preying on Izzy's mind, too.

"Tell me of your estate, Bayton. In Northumberland, I believe?"

"It is, yes. Leased to tenants at the moment. I am but newly returned from India."

"India? John Company?"

Olly laughed. "Who else? I was there for some eight years with an uncle, but when my sister was widowed, she suggested I come home."

"So now you wait for your tenants' lease to expire, and then you may reclaim your estate," Marsden said. "I hope the tenancy is a sensible one, for once tenants get themselves well settled in a place, it is the devil's own job to winkle them out of it, I find. More claret, Bayton?"

"Thank you, I will."

Olly's thin face was already beginning to fill out, Izzy thought, and both he and Sophie looked more relaxed, although they said little unless addressed, focusing most of their attention on their plates. They were the only ones to do justice to the cook's efforts, for Izzy never ate much and Marsden, too, merely toyed with his food.

Although he was too well-bred to ignore the Baytons altogether, his attention was firmly fixed on Izzy. Indeed, his eyes scarcely left her face, and time after time he returned to the memories of that time five years ago when they had first met, and he had courted her with determination. He made no mention of Ian or the children or her life since she had married. His only interest was the past. Which was exactly what she wanted, was it not?

Yet his neglect of his own house niggled at her, like a burr. Why would so rich a man allow his principal seat to fall into decay? And, a deeper question — if she had accepted his offer five years ago, would he have allowed her to bring it back into proper use and refurbish it, as Ian had given her the freedom to do at Stonywell? Would Marsden have thrown out his tenants in Berkeley Street and opened up the house for her? Surely he would!

After dinner, all four of them moved through to another small but respectable room, although the carpets and silk coverings on the chairs were faded and worn. There was a harpsichord, but given the state of the rest of the house, it was most unlikely to be in tune, so Izzy ignored it. Instead, Marsden sat in a chair beside the hearth, while she paced about, ever restless, her wine glass still in her hand, and let him lead her back into the past again.

Sophie and Olly sat side by side on a sofa, she with her work basket, for she was adjusting a spencer that Izzy had given her, and Olly reading an old newspaper he had found. They said nothing, except the occasional murmured comment to each other. It was Izzy and Marsden who talked, as if they had not seen each other for five years, instead of meeting regularly every spring. But then they had never talked like this in town. Their meetings had been fleeting, with little said beyond the usual meaningless chatter.

The housekeeper and the girl came in with the tea things, but Izzy left Sophie to pour for herself and Olly, for she and Marsden had moved on to brandy by then. They scarcely noticed when the others made their courtesies and retreated to bed.

"More brandy?" Marsden said.

"No, I still have plenty."

"I wish I knew how you do that — hold a glass in your hand for hour after hour, yet not drink any of it."

"I like to have something to hold," she said with a quick smile, "but I am not fond of brandy… or wine, either."

He refilled his own glass, then settled back in his chair again, his legs sprawled out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. It was extraordinarily intimate, this sharing of brandy and memories, late at night.

Clearly his own thoughts were similar, for he said, "Do you ever wonder, Izzy… about that year when we all chased round after you? If things might have been different… if you had not married Farramont? If you had married me, for instance?"

"I do wonder, yes. But then I look at this place that you have allowed to fall into ruin. I could never have lived in such dilapidation, Godfrey."

He gave an uneasy laugh. "And I should never have expected you to do so. You would have been an expensive wife, Izzy. I dare say you would have run through my fortune in no time."

"I have not run through Farramont's," she said with some asperity. "Give me credit for some common sense!"

It was true that she had never once exceeded her allowance, but she thought ruefully of the wasted lengths of wallpaper and pots of paint for her misguided attempts at improvements, the shockingly expensive carriage, the lavish entertainments she held. Then, guiltily, of the broken plates and ornaments, the carpet ruined by spilt ink, the scars on the dining room door from the decanter she had hurled at it. And yet, when life tormented her beyond measure, when everything felt out of control, it drained a great deal of her frustration to break things. At least Ian never grumbled about it. He never grumbled about anything she did. What an understanding man he was!

Marsden swirled his brandy thoughtfully. "You are making me very maudlin, Izzy. Is that why you came, to remind me of what I lost when you married Farramont? Does he know what you are about? If I were him, I would not like my wife visiting the homes of other men."

It was the moment she had waited for. "But I am not his wife," she said softly. "Did you hear about our chaplain — the one who was murdered? He married me to Farramont, you might recall. It now transpires that he was never ordained, so my marriage to Farramont is invalid. I am not married anymore."

Marsden jumped to his feet with a great shout. At first, she thought it was exultation, but then he cried, "Hellfire and damnation !", waving the brandy glass about so forcefully that a few drops splashed on Izzy's gown.

"Godfrey?" she said uncertainly. "I had thought you might be pleased to hear that I am not married."

"You may not be married," he said, "but I am!"