7 A Matter Of Wives

F or a moment, Izzy was too shocked to speak, but then she began to chuckle. "You old rogue, Godfrey! Parading round town pretending to be single, inspiring who knows what hopes in many a maiden breast, and all the time you have a wife tucked away— Oh! Your housekeeper!"

"Yes, Beth Carter, for my sins, and it is all your fault, Izzy Farramont. When you decided to marry Farramont, I thought, well, bad luck for me, but there are plenty more fish in the sea. Another year, another season in town, another crop of hopefuls who will brighten my life the way you did. But they were all dire. You were the great shooting star in the firmament, and they were piffling little candle flames by comparison. You were late in reaching town four years ago because of your first confinement, but when you arrived, you threw everyone into the shade once more. Izzy, you were so… so radiant , that I was dazzled by you all over again. I left town that year in despair. I knew I would never find anyone to compare with you, so I decided I would never marry. Lord, I have spilt half my brandy. That was foolish of me. Look at these breeches — ruined, I dare say."

"I should think you can afford another pair," Izzy said, with an indifferent lift of one shoulder. "Do go on, Godfrey. I am longing to know why you married your housekeeper."

"Of course I can afford another pair! That is not the point. They should have lasted me for years, and now I shall have to throw them away. I cannot abide waste."

He found another glass and poured himself a generous measure, drinking half of it at a gulp, then threw himself back into his chair. "Do you ever stop moving, Izzy? It is incredibly distracting. Be a good girl, and stop prowling , will you?"

With a huff of displeasure, she perched on the arm of a sofa, one leg kicking. It was as near as she could get to immobility. He glared at her, but made no further complaint, merely taking another large gulp of brandy.

"At the end of the season," he went on, "I came here and the first thing that happened was that Beth came to hand in her notice, if you please. Two years of this place and she had had enough. Said that twenty pounds a year was not sufficient compensation for the amount of work she had to do, even with most of the house under holland covers. Well, I was not prepared to pay her a penny more, but I could not let her leave. I had lost two housekeepers in three years before that, and I could not see where I could get another. So I married her. And not only can she not leave now, but I no longer even have to pay her."

He chuckled, but Izzy jumped up, quite unable to respond to this perfidy without prowling.

"So you married her to save yourself twenty pounds a year, did you?" She laughed suddenly. "I think she will cost you a lot more than that in the end, Godfrey. For sons, there will be tutors and school and then Oxford or Cambridge. Younger sons will want a pair of colours bought for them, or a living or two. And daughters! Oh, daughters are so expensive, you cannot imagine. I was, anyway. You know the cost of a pair of evening breeches, but have you any idea how much it costs to hold a coming-out ball in town? Multiply that by three, at least, to do the season properly. And the dinners, routs, card parties, outings… and the presentation at court. Oh, heavens the court dress! And then there will be—"

"Very amusing, but I am resolved not to bring any children into the world."

"Such plans tend not to be infallible," she said gently. "In fact, it may already be too late for such a resolution."

He groaned. "You mean she is—? Women! Once, I slipped up, just once, and she has to get herself with child. Well, she must rear it herself. I want nothing to do with it."

Izzy gave a strangled cry of frustration. "Men! Oh, you—!" Then, in alarm, "Quickly, take this glass from me!"

"What? Why?"

But he took it from her all the same, while she paced back and forth, back and forth. If only she were at home, where she could express her feelings openly. But not here.

"What is it, Izzy?"

"Put it out of my reach, or I am liable to throw it at the wall," Izzy said.

He actually laughed. "That is ridiculous! How melodramatic you are. You should be on the stage." Then he frowned, wondering. "You would not… would you?"

"I would. Followed by all the decanters, and then those pretty figurines on the mantelpiece. And if that did not work, I should start overturning furniture."

"But… but that is shockingly wasteful! Have you any idea how much those decanters cost? And the porcelain — Chantilly, Limoges, Vincenne! Do you do that with Farramont?"

That brought a pang of sorrow. Such a gentle soul, her husband. "I do. He never seems to mind."

"Well, I would mind!" he said explosively. "If ever you had been my wife, I would have minded very much, and if you had tried it, I would have had you locked up as a lunatic."

"Well," she said, the anger abruptly washed out of her. "That answers the question of whether you would have suited me better than Farramont. You are a mean-spirited nip-cheese, Godfrey Marsden, and I should probably have murdered you within six months."

"Unless I murdered you first," he said, scowling. "All these overwrought displays of temper would not suit any rational man, Izzy." He tossed back the last of his brandy. "I am going to bed."

He left, leaving Izzy alone in the room. Purely in a spirit of defiance, she refilled her brandy glass almost to the brim. Then she lit every candle she could find, and taking the brandy with her, left the room brilliant with light.

As she passed through the hall on her way to the stairs, she heard a distant sound. Something clattering below stairs? Silence fell again, but the door to the service stairs stood wide open, and Izzy needed no further invitation. Still bearing the brandy glass in one hand and a candlestick in the other, she descended to the basement.

The kitchen was not hard to find, and there, busy scrubbing the kitchen table, was the housekeeper. She looked up briefly and gave Izzy a wan smile, without ceasing the movements of her scrubbing brush. From the scullery beyond came the sounds of splashing and an occasional murmur of voices.

Izzy set her candle and brandy glass on the dry end of the table, and sat down. "You should not be doing that, Mrs Marsden."

The scrubbing stopped abruptly. "He told you, then?"

Izzy nodded.

"Married or not, work's got to be done." She began scrubbing again.

"When were you married?" Izzy said.

"Four years since. It'll be four years at the end of this month. Much good it's done me."

"Stop that. It is not fitting for the mistress of the house to be in the kitchen at this hour. It is past midnight. You should be in bed with your husband."

The scrubbing brush stopped abruptly, and she almost fell into a chair, bursting into noisy sobs. "I wish I were! I thought… I thought he cared for me at least a bit, and he never did. I told him, I'd never have interfered with his London life, but I thought at least I'd get more help here, but he just laughed. Then he went away again. Never even touched me until—" She blushed furiously, mopping her eyes on her apron.

"Around Lady Day, I should judge," Izzy said. "He had no idea about the baby, can you believe it? Men are so obtuse." She pushed the brandy glass down the table. "Have a sip of that. You will feel much better." Two faces peered at her from the kitchen door. "Do come in. Which one of you is the cook?"

They giggled. "Neither."

Once she could see them better, she realised they were both too young to be employed as a cook, even in so benighted a house as this. One was perhaps eighteen, and the other younger.

"My sisters," the housekeeper said. "Molly works here, but Meg's just helping out while you're staying. Me ma were here earlier, too, but she's gone home now."

"Oh, you live locally, then?"

"Home farm."

"Tell me about your wedding, Beth… may I call you Beth? Mrs Marsden seems far too formal. And keep sipping the brandy. It will do you good. Who married you, the local parson?"

"Aye, at the church. Bishop's licence."

"And you have your wedding lines?"

"Aye, for all the good that bit o' paper does me."

"You know, your father should make sure you are treated properly."

"Mr Marsden said he'd throw him off the farm if he said owt. Pa says at least I've got a roof over me head. Milady, I don't expect him to parade me round London nor nothing. I'd just like a bit more help with the house, but he don't listen to me. Mebbe he'll listen to you."

"I doubt it. Oh, but—" She laughed suddenly. "I know who he will listen to." Another laugh. "Oh, Beth! We shall have you treated properly or I am a Chinaman. But you must be strong and stand up to him. I shall tell you what to say, and if he still will not listen, then… well, then you must summon the Generals. That will teach him!"

***

I an arrived at Marsden Hall in the tail end of a storm, the roads awash and the bright blue paint of Izzy's carriage almost obscured by mud. Samuel splashed through the puddles on the drive to ring the doorbell and knock. After some time, the door was opened by a very young footman in old-fashioned livery, still pulling on a coat that was rather too large for him.

In the entrance hall, his greatcoat dripping even from the brief dash from carriage to house, Ian looked around him with interest. Marsden had never talked much of his ancestral home, and certainly never entertained here, but there was nothing wrong with the place that a little redecoration would not improve. The hall smelt of lavender polish and the scent of the fresh roses emanating from a vase on a table.

The housekeeper emerged from the service stairs, a gaunt woman of around thirty who looked at him in surprise.

"Lord Farramont to see Mr Marsden. The innkeeper in the village told me he is in residence."

"Lord Farramont!" She smiled abruptly, looking almost pretty. "I'm right glad to meet you. I'm Mrs Marsden."

Mrs Marsden! He was married, thank God! Ian laughed. "And I to meet you, ma'am."

He made her a deep bow, and she wobbled into a curtsy.

"I suppose my wife is not still here?" he said hopefully.

"No, milord. She left… oh, a week since."

"Do you happen to know where she planned to go?"

"No, milord."

He sighed. "No, of course not. Although I have an idea." He fell into gloom again. If Marsden had failed her, then she would go to Northumberland next.

"Are you staying, milord? Only I'll need to warn the cook."

"One night, at least, I am afraid. I must talk to your husband. I have my valet and a manservant with me."

"Will they serve at table, milord? Because Mr Symes — that's Mr Marsden's man — won't do it no more, not with me there, and Matthew's not trained for it. He's new."

He assured her on that head, although wondering a little why their footman was so young. He handed his greatcoat, hat and gloves to Wycliffe, then followed Mrs Marsden through long panelled corridors. They passed a room where two maids were busy removing holland covers, clouds of dust filling the air, but the furnishings beneath were solidly built and in good condition. At the very furthest end, she threw open a door.

"Lord Farramont, Mr Marsden."

"Farramont!" Marsden had been sprawled full length on a chaise longue, but he sprang to his feet with every sign of pleasure. "My dear fellow! What a delightful surprise!"

From the doorway, Mrs Marsden said to Ian, "Would you like anything to eat or drink, milord?"

"Thank you, ma'am, but I see all the refreshment I need on the sideboard there."

"Very good, milord." She bobbed another curtsy, more housekeeper than mistress of the house, and disappeared.

"One brandy coming right up," Marsden said, but then paused, gazing thoughtfully at the brandy glass in his hand. "Does she truly break things, Farramont? Glasses, porcelain… furniture ?"

"Oh, yes," he said, with a little smile. "I lost an heirloom set of four decanters and a dozen glasses before I learnt to put breakable objects out of sight. No, not quite the full dozen. I found one undamaged in the devastation. I drink from that when she is away from home, to remind myself of her." He paused, the smile widening as he remembered. "There is usually advance warning of the impending storm, so the porcelain goes on a high shelf, the ink pots in a drawer. The furniture… well, that is only in extreme circumstances."

"You are as insane as she is," Marsden said. He poured the brandy, and another one for himself, then waved Ian to a chair. "Are you following your wife on her tour of the north? You are well behind her, you know. You will never catch her up."

"She is bound to stop moving eventually — or run out of money. I shall catch up then."

"When you do, will you wring that pretty neck of hers for me? She has cut up all my peace, I can tell you. How you put up with her is more than I can tell."

"What has she done to you, Marsden?" he said, smiling.

"She told Beth about the Generals, that is what she has done."

"Oh, no!"

"But yes. So unless I do what Beth wants, she will write to all my aunts and they will come here and beat me into submission. I can face a man at dawn — I have done it twice, and never wavered — but I cannot face my aunts. Women!" Marsden sighed. "Do you know why Izzy came here, Farramont?"

Ian shifted uncomfortably. "I… can guess."

"She wanted to see if I would have suited her better than you." He chuckled. "We agreed that I would not, even if I had not been already married. Farramont, is it true? That your marriage is invalid?"

"Quite true, but I have a special licence so we will be married again and everything will be as it was."

"But only if you can catch up with her… before she marries someone else."

Ian shivered. "She will not," he said hoarsely. "She must not!"

"But you must know where she will go next."

He nodded. "Harringdon. Or Strathinver."

And then he would have lost her for good. He had never felt so empty and alone.

***

D inner was an odd affair, just Marsden, Mrs Marsden and Ian gathered at one end of a massive dining table. Ian had always thought of Marsden as an urbane man, good company in whatever society he found himself, but tonight he seemed ill at ease, merely toying with his food and staring morosely at his plate.

Mrs Marsden ate sparingly, although she tried every dish. She had no conversation, however. By dogged questioning, Ian discovered that she was the daughter of a local farmer, had several younger brothers and sisters, had never been further than twenty miles from her home and expected to be confined at Christmas, or a little before. She seemed to have no ambition to be introduced into society at large, and looked terrified at the thought that the local gentry might call on her, or she on them. Her sole interest seemed to be Marsden Hall, and nothing beyond.

As soon as was decent, Marsden told her to leave, which she did with relief in her eyes.

"Let us go through to the parlour," Marsden said, picking up the decanter of port. "We can be comfortable there. I hate this room."

"Why use it, then?" Ian said, following him down several passageways.

"That is her idea, not mine. I was happy to eat in the breakfast parlour, but that wife of yours has filled Beth's head with grandiose ideas, so now we sit down to dinner in the dining room."

They reached the parlour, and Marsden set the port down and hurled himself onto the chaise longue. "Pour me a glass, will you, Farramont? I am too fatigued at present. That woman will be the death of me, and it is all Izzy's fault. She took her into Beverley, you know. Took my own carriage and went into town, advertised for a butler and a lady's maid and all sorts of nonsense, bought swathes of material for gowns, and hats! Three hats, if you please, and gloves and boots and a fur muff! A farmer's daughter, parading about in a fur muff — have you ever heard the like? If she thinks I am paying for fripperies like that, she is very much mistaken. And now she has opened up the dining room. I hate that room, Farramont. Hate it!"

"It seems a pleasant room to me," Ian said, sipping his port.

"That is because you never saw it with my father in it. Day after day we sat in there while he complained about every single thing I did. Nothing was ever right for him. In twenty-five years, I had not a single word of praise from him, nor a kind one. He was never glad to see me when I came down from school. He was never sorry when I went back. He was a miserable old man, and this place makes me a miserable old man, too."

"Then change it," Ian said. "Make it yours, not his. Or knock it down and build something new, although there is not a lot wrong with it, frankly. Or you could let that wife of yours run it properly, with a full staff, and fill it with children."

"Children! I want no children… not from her or from anyone. I never wanted to bring another unhappy child into the world, but I got drunk last time I was here and… well, you know how these things happen. Or perhaps you are better disciplined than I am."

"Marsden, surely you know by now that I am the world's dullest man. I never get drunk. I have tried, in fact, but I only managed a slight feeling of dizziness. I went to bed, and woke up as right as rain. So no, I have no idea how these things happen, but now that it has happened, in a few months you will be a father, whether you want it or not. But what kind of father you will be is entirely in your hands. Bad fathers rear unhappy children. So choose to be a good father. Treat your child with affection. Give him the love your own father withheld from you. Do not let history repeat itself."

"You had a good father," Marsden said.

"I did. He taught me well, and although he never said so, I always knew that he loved me. His grief was overwhelming when my mother died, and then my brothers, and last of all, my little sister. We stood at her bedside as she breathed her last… we both cried… four times we cried together. Then he put one arm round me and said, ‘Now it is just you and me, Ian.' And then he said, ‘You are not going to leave me, are you?' I said, ‘No, Father.' And he just said, ‘Good. Very good.' . But after that, he sent for my cousin Henry, who was the next in line, so he must have wondered whether I would die, too. Life is very cruel, sometimes."

Marsden stared at him. "You are getting maudlin, Farramont."

Ian gave a bark of laughter. "True. This business with Izzy has rubbed me raw. I want her back! I shall never stop chasing her, unless… unless…"

"Unless she marries someone else?"

Ian nodded. "But I have to try! This is a trial, but I cannot meekly surrender. She is worth fighting for."

"Unlike my wife," Marsden said gloomily. "What am I to do with her, Farramont?"

"Let her make this place a proper home."

"But she wants a dozen servants, all eating their heads off, no doubt. Think of the expense!"

Ian laughed. "Marsden, what is your income — twenty thousand a year, yes? And your present expenses cannot be more than… at a guess, three or four thousand."

"Two and a half," he said sheepishly.

"There you are then. Give her a thousand a year—"

"What!"

"—and let her manage this place within that budget. She seems a sensible creature, so she will not run you into the ground. It cannot be done on less, I believe."

"Is that what Stonywell costs you to run?"

"No, a lot more than that, but we live there for much of the year, including Henry and his family, and we entertain there. But you will not be entertaining here, I dare say. You may choose to live elsewhere a great deal. But Mrs Marsden is your wife, and although she may be a farmer's daughter, she is now the wife of a gentleman, and should be allowed to live with the dignity and style that rank bestows on her. I am not at all sure why you married her, but whatever your reasons, it is done now, and cannot be undone, so you must make the best of it."

"That was Izzy's fault, too," Marsden said, draining his port and crossing the room to refill his glass. "After she married you, it hardly mattered who I married, because there would never be another Izzy, so I might as well marry my housekeeper as anyone. That first season Izzy was out was amazing, was it not? We all followed her about, jostling for primacy with her. I thought she would settle for Osborn in the end."

"Did you? My money was on Davenport. All that poetry he wrote for her!"

"Do you remember that time at Lady Jolley's garden party? We played pall mall, and we were all trying to hit a shot into the shrubbery with Izzy so that we could snatch a private moment with her."

"She still cannot hit a ball straight," Ian said, laughing. "I think Osborn was the only one who managed to get her alone."

"For about ten seconds, before we all followed them into the undergrowth. But then you cleverly suggested she retire from the game, and you ended up sitting on that bench with her for hours , deep in conversation. So clever of you! What were you talking about so intensely? And laughing together, damn your impudence!"

"Frogs," Ian said at once, laughing. "She was telling me some tale about her brother Eustace who thought it a fine joke to gather frogs from the pond and release them in the schoolroom. They were hopping everywhere, the girls were screaming, the governess was up on a chair… it must have been highly entertaining."

"Frogs? You were talking about frogs the whole time?"

"She was talking about frogs. I was watching the way her hands move constantly, and the expressions on her face that change second by second, and the way her eyes become a much brighter green when she is excited, and the way the ribbons of her bonnet make her throat look so smooth and white."

Both men sighed.

"Ah yes," Marsden murmured. "And you have been married to her for five years, you lucky, lucky man."

"And another fifty, I hope," Ian said grimly.

He must get her back — he must!