2 Expectations

Bertram's mother burst into tears. He exchanged a look with his father, seeing the same disbelief written there as he felt himself. This could not be true!

"Is it certain, my lord?" Bertram said. "Is there no possibility of a mistake… a misunderstanding?"

The earl shook his head. "None. I have discussed the matter with the Archbishop of York, and he is quite sure of it. Nicholson was not ordained, and a marriage is only valid if conducted by a Church of England clergyman, that is absolute."

"Then Izzy…?" someone said. "Nicholson married her and Farramont."

"Yes, Izzy's marriage is invalid, too, and her two daughters rendered illegitimate. Thank God she has no sons to be disinherited, as Birtwell… Walter has been."

"But Josie is safe, one assumes?"

"She had some archdeacon fellow to marry her — someone from Woodridge's family. Yes, she is safe, for although she is illegitimate, that no longer matters now that she is married."

The questions went on, but Bertram heard little of it. His own fears buzzed in his head so loudly that nothing else penetrated. He was heir to an earldom… There were men who would relish such a change in their fortunes, but he was not one of them. An earl! And he would have to marry, that was the worst of it. He would have to go to town and caper about in ballrooms and do the pretty to well-connected but dull females, instead of mouldering in his library for the rest of his life. He had two younger brothers, after all, to do what was necessary to continue the family line. Not that he was against the idea on principle, but the only woman he could imagine letting into his life would be someone as bookish as he was. If a wife would sit quietly in the library, as engrossed in her reading as he was, then he would have no objection, but as he had never met such a creature, he remained unwed.

But after a while, as he looked round the room, he realised that others were far worse off than he was. Walter, for instance, had lost his entire inheritance. The rest of the cousins were rendered illegitimate. Lady Rennington was not even a wife any longer! That was a quite undeserved punishment when they had done nothing wrong… none of them had done anything wrong, yet they were all cast down, and Bertram and his father unexpectedly uplifted. He should not be ungrateful… but he was, for all that. No one was pleased by this turn of events.

The room eventually fell into a deep silence, broken only by the occasional sob from Bertram's mother. Everyone had run out of questions, it seemed.

After some time, Eustace said, "I suppose you will have to give up Miss Franklyn, Walter."

Bertram had forgotten Bea Franklyn. She and Walter had been betrothed for the best part of a year, awaiting a favourable moment to marry. She was an odd, forward sort of girl, who had set her cap at Walter almost from the moment she had moved into the parish. Walter had been amused by her persistent assault, but she had forty thousand pounds and some very distinguished connections, so he had yielded gracefully in the end.

But now, even if the marriage were to go ahead as planned, the Franklyns needed to be informed of the change in Walter's circumstances. He was dispatched to deliver the news, and everyone else was bundled out of the room, the ladies to see the ailing Dowager Countess, and the men presumably to congregate in corners of the library and discuss the disastrous turn of events at inordinate length.

"We will talk more of this later," the earl said. "Pray leave me now. George, you and Bertram may stay."

Olivia was about to leave the room, but now she stopped. "Does that mean Izzy is not Lady Farramont?" she said, wide-eyed. "Is she Lady Isabel again?"

"No, because she is illegitimate," Eustace said, his voice harsh. "She is merely Miss Isabel Atherton, you are Miss Olivia Atherton and I am not even an Honourable any more. We are all stripped of our titles, little sister, just like Walter, so you had better get used to it."

She burst into tears, and raced from the room.

"That was unkind, cousin," Bertram said to Eustace.

He had the grace to look a little ashamed. "You are right, but… it is such a shock, and coming after the business with Nicholson… it is hard to be rational when one has lost everything. And what did I say that was untrue? We must all grow accustomed to our new place in society. You must not be too severe on us, you whose station in life is so immeasurably improved."

"Has it?" Bertram said, astonished. "You think I want this?"

"To be rich? To wield great power? To hold a rank which commands respect from the entire world? Why would you not want it? Anyone would."

"I had sooner be respected for my character and my achievements than for something that came to me only by an accident of birth, cousin."

Eustace laughed and shook his head. "What an unnatural creature you are, to be sure. Yes, yes, Father, I am going."

The door closed behind him with a soft thunk, and then Bertram was alone with his father and his uncle.

"Brandy," Father said. "You need a brandy, Charles, and so do I, God knows. Bertram, will you do the honours? Lord, this is far worse than any of us could have dreamt. Our imaginations were well exercised by your letter, but nothing we thought of came close to the truth. This is appalling, Charles."

The earl sighed. "It is not quite as bad as it seems. The marriage vows can be made again, so Caroline may be comfortable. For the children, Walter is the worst affected, but at least he is engaged to be married already. He will have Miss Franklyn's fortune to support the life of a gentleman, and I will honour my side of the settlements, naturally — the house, and an increased allowance. I shall not cut him adrift. Eustace has his own estate and independence, Josie and Izzy are married, and Kent and Olivia are young enough to make a recover from this blow, as we all shall, in time."

"You might, but what of us?" Father said. "I shall do my duty, of course, as your brother, and accept the burden when it falls to me, as I was raised to do, but do consider Bertram's plight. By the time he was born, you already had two sons. He has never had the least expectation of succeeding to the title. It is a great upheaval for him."

"True, but a good one, surely?" the earl said. "Look at the opportunities that will now open to him — no longer merely the son of a country gentleman, but a future heir to an earldom. He will have the world at his feet, and may take his pick of eligible young ladies. If he comes to town with us next spring—"

"No," Father said firmly. "I will not have him hounded to make a suitable match, as I was — and as you were, Charles. Lord, the so-called eligible young ladies who were paraded under our noses! It was dreadful, and I will not have Bertram pressed in that way. He has never shown the least interest in females, and that has never mattered to me because I have two other sons. Lucas is already showing signs that he will want to marry sooner rather than later. You may take him to town with you if you wish, but not Bertram."

"You let your children run rings round you, brother," the earl said, but with a glimmer of a smile. "Very well, it shall be as you wish, but nevertheless he is now second in line for the title and estates, and I should like him — both of you, in fact — to have some idea of what you will be taking on in the future."

"Well, if we must," Father said dubiously. "Clarke takes care of everything for you, does he not? Good fellow, Clarke."

"An excellent man, although I never wanted him. I thought to leave Nicholson to handle everything, as he used to do for my father, but when the estates passed to me, the lawyers thought it better to have someone from outside the family. The awkwardness if there were any mistakes in the accounts, you see."

"Oh, quite," Father said. "We will have a word with Clarke, then, and he can explain it to us. Not that we need to. I am sure your affairs are in good order, and you will be with us for many more years yet, God willing."

"Will tomorrow suit you — about twelve, say? I shall look out the account books."

They agreed to it, although not with much enthusiasm. Bertram's father had married a wealthy woman and lived comfortably on her fortune without ever needing to think about money, and so Bertram had never had to think about it, either. Their modest estate and a sum in the four percents did not require much in the way of management. The prospect of, one day, being responsible for the earl's numerous holdings and investments sank them in gloom.

As they waited in the entrance hall for the carriage to be brought round, Bertram said quietly to his father, "Thank you for protecting me from the Marriage Mart. I appreciate it."

His father chuckled. "Bertram, you are five and twenty years old, and sensible enough to know your own mind. If ever you feel the desire to take a wife, you can manage the business perfectly well without any help from me or anyone else. Even with this great burden thrust upon you, I would never want you to feel obliged to marry to ensure the succession. It is hardly necessary. Just as my father had more than one son, so did I, and failing that, we have a multitude of cousins. The succession lies in no danger."

"You are very good," Bertram said, with the utmost sincerity. He had encountered many young men, both at Harrow and at Cambridge, whose fathers beat them or expected the impossible or even ignored them entirely. He was singularly fortunate in having a father with whom he seldom disagreed, and with whom he could not quarrel even if he tried. His mother was more of a trial, but so long as he displayed no signs of incipient illness, she, too, was undemanding.

As they drove home to Westwick, his mother kept up a never-ending patter of concern for the Dowager Countess, for any issue of health, even one that merely marked the end of a long and fruitful life, was of inexhaustible interest to her. The two men remained silent.

Lucas and the girls were waiting for them when they arrived, and were told the story in the baldest of terms.

"Will you have a title, Papa?" Penelope said.

"No, only the direct heir has a title, and I am only the heir presumptive. If… when I become the earl, then Bertram will be Viscount Birtwell, just as Walter is… was."

"But why, Papa? That is most unfair! You should have a title of your own, so that we could all be called Lady, or at least Honourable. I should very much like to be Lady Penelope."

"And I should like that, too, my dear, but unfortunately, that is not how it works. The titles only work from father to son… or daughter, and with very good reason. Walter had a title of his own because nothing could stand between him and the earldom. Any other sons his father had would be younger. But I cannot have the title of Viscount Birtwell because there is always the possibility that the earl could father another son… a legitimate one, that is, and he would have the right to the title."

"Aunt Caroline is too old to have more children," Julia said scornfully.

"True, but if she were to die and the earl were to marry a younger woman, he could father any number of sons… legitimate sons."

"So he could," Mother said softly.

"Yes, that would let us off the hook very prettily," Father said with a wry smile. "Happily for the countess, she is exceedingly healthy."

"Never mind titles," Lucas said impatiently. "Who cares about titles? Will we have to move to Corland Castle?"

"Not immediately," Father said. "We can stay here until Lord Rennington dies, but your mother and I will have to move there eventually. It is the earl's principal seat, after all."

"I give you due notice, George," Mother said, a set look to her mouth, "that I shall never live at Corland Castle, never."

"But the castle is so much more spacious than Westwick," Lucas said. "I should love to live there."

"You are not attached to Westwick, Lucas?" Father said.

"Not especially."

"That is good, because once the dust settles on this business, I intend to offer Westwick to Walter and Miss Franklyn as their marital home, since he has been deprived of his rightful inheritance."

Mother burst into tears again.

***

Miss Beatrice Franklyn sat on the terrace in front of her easel, paintbrush suspended in hand. She was supposed to be painting the flowers spilling over the edge of a stone urn, but she had long since lost interest and sat motionless, gazing out at the park. The trees were still small and protected by fences, but the ha-ha was in place and deer roamed freely. Surrounding her was the bright new stone of the terrace balustrade, punctuated by the giant flower-filled urns. Below, several gardeners laboured to plant box hedging around the parterre en broderie. Highwood Place had been a modest country house when they had moved there five years ago, but a vast new frontage had tripled its size, and now her stepmother's plans for the garden were reaching fruition.

A shifting of the breeze brought a sudden scent to Bea's nose, something earthy and herbal and oddly familiar. Instantly her mind was thrown back to a different time and place — the cosy little back garden of the Newcastle house, when Papa had still been an attorney. Not much had grown there, only a few ancient apple and pear trees, and the tubs of herbs that Aunt Betty used. Above the herbs and between the trees hung a hammock, and there Bea had passed endless summer afternoons with her books, reading, always reading. At dinner, Papa had quizzed her on what she had learnt and so they talked of people long dead or lands far away, of new ideas and old, and a myriad different subjects.

But that time was long past, before Papa inherited his great fortune, before the move to a much grander house, before he had married the Lady Esther Bucknell and become a gentleman. Before Lady Esther had set about turning Bea into a lady. It was a dull business, being a lady, but Lady Esther had assured her that if she practised diligently, then she and her dowry of forty thousand pounds would be able to marry into the nobility, and so it had proved. Bea was betrothed to the Earl of Rennington's heir, and sometime in the future she was going to live at Corland Castle and be the Countess of Rennington, and she would never have to paint flowers again.

"How is your painting progressing, Beatrice? I confess to having a little trouble with the geranium — that particular shade of pink is hard to capture. It is almost red, and yet with a hint of purple. Very challenging. Do you not agree?"

"Yes, Mama."

Thus prodded, Bea turned her attention back to her watercolours, which was exactly as her stepmother intended. How dreary a way to pass the time! There must be a thousand more interesting things to do. Even looking through her wedding clothes once more would be more exciting than trying to paint a flower. Not that Bea was particularly enamoured of clothes, but a great many had been made up in town in preparation for her wedding. In the end, Walter could not leave his ailing grandmother, who was likely to die at any moment, so it had not happened. Still, her stepmother had dreamt up an even better scheme, for them to be married at Marshfields, the Duke of Camberley's seat. Now that would be something!

Walter had jibbed at that, too, but she had no doubt she would persuade him in time. He was so easy to steer in whatever direction she chose. However much he shied away at first, she could twist him round her thumb. Walter was essential to her plans, for he was going to take her away from this bleak life of submission to her stepmother. Lady Esther Franklyn was a daughter of the Duke of Camberley and thought herself far grander than a mere gentleman's daughter. But one day, very soon now, Bea would marry Walter and be Viscountess Birtwell and then no one, absolutely no one, would tell her what to do.

Hobbs appeared and bowed to Lady Esther. "The master asks if you and Miss Franklyn would be so good as to join him in the library, my lady. He has Lord Birtwell with him."

Bea bounced to her feet so abruptly that the easel wobbled. "Excellent! He has come to set a date for the wedding, I imagine."

"Gently, Beatrice," her stepmother said. "Pray moderate your actions to move with graceful deportment."

Lady Esther wiped her brushes without haste, then rose to proceed into the house with the graceful deportment she had tried but failed to instil into her stepdaughter. Bea sighed as she followed, as demurely as she could manage.

The library was in the new part of the house, a large and much ornamented room. Bea was not fond of excessively large rooms, although there was something breathtaking about the gallery on the floor above. Its pillared grandeur was one hundred and eighty feet from end to end, and one could never complain about a room large enough to house a ball. It was reputed to be the largest gallery in the North Riding, outranking Corland's paltry one hundred and ten feet by a large margin. But then Mama always had to have everything bigger, and had been mortified after the plans for the new wing had been settled to discover that Highwood would not, after all, be larger or have more rooms than Corland. Only the size of the gallery and a more imposing entrance hall outclassed the castle.

Walter looked more serious than usual, and greeted her without so much as a smile. Such treatment always put her on her mettle, so she slipped one arm through his, smiling up at him.

"Why did you not join us on the terrace, Walter, instead of calling us into the stuffy library? There is a most refreshing breeze outside."

"There is some information to impart to you, Bea," her father said, and he was not smiling either. That was a worrying sign! "Atherton?" he said, turning to Walter expectantly.

Atherton! That was not his name, yet Papa was always so correct.

Walter said nothing, so Father went on, "Bea, there has been a change in the circumstances of your future husband. It transpires that the earl and countess were married by Mr Nicholson, who was not in fact ordained at the time. That means that their marriage is not valid, and all their children have been rendered illegitimate. This does not materially affect their standing with their friends, naturally, and the earl will continue to treat his sons and daughters exactly as before, but it means that he has no legitimate heir, and Mr Atherton is not Lord Birtwell and cannot now inherit."

"So he will not be an earl?" Bea said, grasping the important point.

"No, but that need not affect your plans," Mr Franklyn said. "Lord Rennington and I are of one mind on that, and you need not worry about money, Bea. Your settlement will not be any the worse for this change in Mr Atherton's circumstances."

"What about the castle? He will have that, surely?"

"It is entailed, Bea," Walter said. "Almost everything is entailed. Not Langley Villa, fortunately, so we shall still have a place to live."

"But you are still your father's eldest son. He cannot cut you out completely."

"Lord Rennington has no choice, my dear," Papa said. "When property is entailed, then, like the title, it can only go to the eldest legitimate son."

She frowned. "So… Eustace gets it?"

"He is illegitimate, too," Walter said. "We are all illegitimate, Bea. Father has no legitimate children, no heirs. We are all disinherited. The title and estates will go to Father's younger brother, Uncle George."

"And then Bertram," she cried triumphantly. "Very well, I shall marry Bertram instead."

It was a blow, of course, for now she would have to begin all over again, but Bertram would do just as well.

"Bea!" her father said, shocked. "Surely you cannot… there is no need… were you only ever interested in Walter for his title, then?"

"Oh no, for he is much better looking than Bertram, but I should very much like to be a countess, Papa. I certainly will not marry a man who is not even a proper son and cannot inherit. I have forty thousand pounds, after all, so I am entitled to marry into the peerage, or at least a baronet. Even Sir Hubert's wife is Lady Strong, and I want to be a proper lady, too. If Walter cannot do that for me, then I will not marry him. May I go now?"

Papa made no protest, and she made haste out of the room, for she had plans to make. She had a new betrothal to arrange, with Bertram Atherton.