8 On The Road To Lincolnshire

The Franklyns were two days on the road to Landerby Manor in Lincolnshire, and with every mile that passed Lady Esther's smile widened a fraction. An invitation from the Duchess of Wedhampton was exactly calculated to set her in a benign mood, for she was returning to her rightful place amongst the nobility.

Bea's father, who had elected to join them on the visit, was not of noble blood, but he looked so very much the part that he might as well have been. His well-fitting, expensive clothes and patrician air were impressive, and he was still fit and active, despite being beyond forty years of age.

Only Bea herself was out of place, for she was neither elegant nor especially ladylike. Her stepmother reprimanded her at regular intervals for her slouching deportment or excessive boisterousness. "A lady is restrained at all times," she said loftily. But Bea preferred to remember the way Bertram had described her. ‘Full of energy. Enthusiastic. Animated, and let me tell you, that is a great deal better than being spiritless and drooping, like so many fashionable young ladies.' Spiritless and drooping! How dreadful that sounded. So even as she obediently straightened her back and lowered her head and suppressed her instinct to point out every landmark they passed, she kept the flame of her enthusiasm burning within her.

She had not enlightened her stepmother about the real reason for this visit. Bertram had said only that the Duchess of Wedhampton had asked them all to bring young ladies along, to lighten the otherwise heavily male atmosphere of the gathering, and he had thought it might amuse Bea. Lady Esther had agreed to it instantly, added herself and Papa to the invitation, and set a date, the whole being decided within no more than ten minutes. But nothing at all had been said about finding a suitor for her, or about her pact with Bertram.

Bertram… she could not make up her mind about him. On the one hand, his immovable resistance to the very idea of marriage was disappointing, but on the other, he had very kindly arranged this visit so that she might meet other, less reluctant, gentlemen. Two of his friends, he had said, were actively looking to marry, both able to give her the place in society she craved. Perhaps she would never fly so high as her stepmother, but no one could sneer at her if she were a Lady… not openly, at least.

Mama was always slow in dressing in the mornings, so Bea and her father waited patiently in their parlour at the George Inn at Selby. Her father had buried himself in a local newspaper, but Bea sat by the window, her legs tucked under her, gazing down at the market square below. There was no market today, but there were a few carts selling fresh vegetables and cheese, wagons and riders passing by, a bustle of people scurrying about and a fine view of Selby Abbey. After the emptiness surrounding Highwood Place, it was delightful to watch the endless motion and ever-changing sights of town.

Her father laid down his newspaper and folded it neatly. "Have you heard anything of how Walter Atherton is going on in London?"

Without turning away from the window, Bea said, "No. Why should I have?"

"I should have thought it a matter of interest to you. After all, you almost married him. Had his grandmother not been so ill, you would have been married by now."

She looked at him, then said with a sigh, "I suppose I should have asked. I saw Lady Strong not two days since, and she would have known. No doubt Winnie is an assiduous correspondent. But his name was not mentioned, and I did not think to ask." Another sigh, and she turned fully to face him, swinging her legs to the floor. "You think me unfeeling, I am sure, and perhaps I am. Did you expect me to go into a decline? Or to marry him anyway, even though he is not the man I betrothed myself to?"

"I expected you to show some sign of distress, yes," he said. "After all, you showed a marked preference for him right from the start, and that was five years ago. Can all of that be set aside so easily? Surely you must feel some… not regret, perhaps, but pangs of loss. He was a fine young man, after all — handsome, charming, well-mannered."

"And entirely indifferent to me, Papa," she said, with a sudden spurt of anger. "He made it very clear that he cared as little for me as I did for him. It was a matter of convenience to both of us. He got himself a wealthy wife without exerting himself in the slightest, and I—"

"You got a title," he said softly.

"Yes! Lady Birtwell, and eventually Lady Rennington, but without that, Walter is just another lazy, arrogant aristocrat. If he has to work for a living now, it will do him a great deal of good and perhaps teach him a little humility."

Her father's eyebrows arched a fraction. "If you despise him so much, I wonder you wished to marry him at all, title or no."

"I do not despise him, I merely see him as he is, Papa. Would you think better of me if I had been in love with him? What good would that have done?"

"Love is not a prerequisite for a contented marriage," her father said slowly. "Not love… but one must at the very least respect one's partner in life, and if you did not respect Mr Walter Atherton, it is better that you should not marry him. And if you do not respect Mr Bertram Atherton, you should not marry him, either. Marriage is a bond for life, Bea, and that can be a very long time with a spouse for whom you feel nothing but contempt."

"I shall respect my husband well enough when I have his ring on my finger, you may be sure," she said with a gurgle of laughter. "I understand the rules of the game, Papa. You have taught me well that I must marry for advantage above all else."

He shifted uneasily. "It is true that both my marriages were advantageous, the first for my career and the second socially, but that was not the reason for them… not the sole reason. I had an affection for both my wives before I married them."

"And would you have married either of them if they had not been advantageous?" Bea said.

"Certainly! Well… possibly… who can say? The situation did not arise. My principal reason for marrying was to provide myself with the comfort of my own family. For a man, female companionship and a pleasant home are powerful inducements. For a woman… well, you have no need to marry at all, Bea. I understand why you refused Walter Atherton in the end, but this rush to replace him, and with a member of the nobility at all costs…" He shifted again, folding and then unfolding his arms. "I do not interfere with how you and your mother address your marital prospects. My task is only to ensure that the man you choose is financially sound and not a scoundrel. However, I hope you will not marry without the most careful thought. A hasty marriage…" He paused, looking at her thoughtfully. "Well, I do not wish you to regret it, that is all I have to say on the matter." He pulled out his pocket watch. "Time is passing. I shall go and see what is delaying Lady Esther. Ah, here she is at last!" The relief in his voice was palpable. "Now we shall be soon on the road again."

Bea was glad to be on her way again, too. A whole evening confined to an inn parlour with her parents reminded her forcibly of the long-ago time when her father was a mere attorney and the two of them lived in perfect contentment, sitting one each side of the fire with their books after dinner, not needing the company of any third person. Or so she had thought.

Then her father had unexpectedly inherited his fortune, bought a larger house, become a man of fashion and set out to distance himself from his humble roots. Lady Esther had come into their lives soon afterwards, and although Bea was very glad of the wider society the daughter of a duke could offer, she could not but regret the loss of those long, companionable evenings. Books were set aside now in favour of elegant embroidery or tapestry or music, and if she were allowed to read at all, it must be an improving work suitable for young ladies. Nor was she left to read even such dull material in peace, but was exhorted to read certain passages aloud, or questioned closely to ensure she had understood the moral. It was all very well for her father to advise her not to marry in haste, but another summer under her stepmother's tutelage would surely have her fit only for the asylum.

Of course she must marry! And soon, for she was one and twenty already, practically an old maid. There was an urgency about the matter that had not been there before. Three seasons in London with the humiliation of no betrothal… not even a sensible offer. But Walter had always been there, always in her orbit, just waiting for her to bring him to the point. And when one is only seventeen… eighteen… nineteen, oh, there is all the time in the world.

No longer. She must find herself a husband and a title before the winter, or she would have failed utterly. But if Eustace and Walter would not do, and Bertram would not surrender, then she must take whatever opportunities presented themselves. She had a month to find a husband from amongst Bertram's noble friends.

Here she quailed a little. A month! So little time to find the right one and bring him around her thumb. How would she know? With the Atherton men, she had known them now for several years and had a very good idea of their characters. How could she meet a man for the first time and decide instantly whether he would do or not?

But then she reminded herself that the men she would meet at Landerby Manor were aristocratic, and therefore they would all be gentlemen. They were not like some of the men she had met in London, whose only interest was in her fortune, or those in Newcastle who had unwelcome designs on her person. A gentleman had no need of her fortune and would respect her person, so she need only find one who appeared responsive to her overtures. Surely she had decision and will enough to bring this off? She would be betrothed within the month or her name was not Beatrice Franklyn.

***

Nothing occurred to delay the journey and by the middle of the afternoon the Franklyns' two carriages turned aside from the turnpike onto a narrow, badly rutted track. Two small villages came and went, children and geese and dogs scattering before the horses and then running excitedly after the carriages until exhaustion or boredom or the clouds of dust overcame them. Bea let down the window, leaned out and waved enthusiastically to them, until her mama chided her.

They came to a long, moss-covered wall, crumbling in places, and eventually two stone gate posts, one of them leaning slightly. The gates stood wide open, so they drove through at a smart pace onto a carriage drive liberally coated with weeds, and shaded by elderly lime trees in rigid lines. The avenue was short, and very soon they reached the house. Bea had seen many imposing houses while visiting her stepmother's relations, but there was something unspeakably sad about the decaying splendour of Landerby Manor. The stonework was stained from overflowing rainwater pipes, the high mullioned windows showed cracked panes stuffed with sacking, and monstrous untrimmed shrubs loomed menacingly over the lower windows. And yet beneath the neglect lay a fine Tudor house.

Lady Esther sniffed. "I hope the interior is in better condition, or we shall be most uncomfortable."

The great wooden front doors, bleached almost white by the sun, slowly opened and a stream of liveried footmen poured down the steps, supervised by a most superior butler. Lady Esther's face brightened. Barely had they decanted from the carriage than a small figure, dwarfed by the great doors, emerged from within and raced down the steps, holding her skirts high enough to reveal shapely ankles.

"Lady Esther! Lady Esther!" the figure cried, slithering to a halt so late that she almost crashed into them. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for coming. I doubt you remember me, but we met several times in town three years ago, and I so admired your elegance… your deportment… oh, everything about you! Of course you will not remember, for I was merely Lady George Medhurst then, and George had no expectation of the title. Why, no one ever thought of it, least of all me! But here we are, and here I am with not the least idea how to go on, and no mother-in-law to advise me, and my own mother simply throws up her hands and says she knows nothing about it, but you were brought up in a ducal household, you see. Oh, is this your daughter? So pretty! Such lovely hair you have, my dear. Are those curls natural? How lucky you are! And Mr Franklyn — welcome, sir, welcome! You are all welcome."

She paused for breath, and Lady Esther, who had long since made her curtsy, now said in faint tones, with just the hint of a question at the end, "Your Grace."

Bea was trying very hard not to laugh at this most unregal duchess. She caught her father's eye, and saw the unholy amusement therein, and that almost undid her. Fortunately, she managed to turn her laugh into a cough, and Lady Esther, never over-endowed with a sense of humour and certainly not when it involved a duchess, had taken charge of the situation.

"We are honoured to be here, Your Grace. Such a fine residence! So imposing. Shall we go inside?"

"Oh… yes, yes, of course. Do mind the steps, Lady Esther, for some flags are cracked. Landerby may be imposing, but the late duke neglected it terribly. Not that I mean any disrespect to my father-in-law, naturally, for I am sure he had many other calls on his purse, but it does seem a shame. We have thrown an army of servants at it this past month, so I hope you will not— Oh, careful, Miss Franklyn! The steps are so worn. Do take the greatest care. Now just down here is the Great Hall. I had hoped, Lady Esther, to house you and Mr Franklyn in the Great Chamber, but sadly the damp could not be got out of it, despite weeks of blazing fires. We have men on the roof mending all the leaks. This way, if you please. Do mind these steps, they are so uneven. Miss Franklyn, pray hold the rail. This way! This way!"

Passing through great echoing chambers, their stone floors only partially covered by threadbare carpets, the damp air chilling even now, in the height of summer, Bea thought it would take more than an army of servants to bring Landerby Manor to any degree of comfort. It needed a small fortune spent on it. But then the Duke of Wedhampton was reputed to have a very large fortune, the late duke having been reluctant to spend so much as a single unnecessary farthing if he could possibly help it, or, even better, if he could persuade someone else to spend it on his behalf. But that was how the rich became even richer, she supposed, by hanging on to their farthings.

They ascended a staircase lit by newly cleaned windows, which only revealed in starker detail the cracked stonework and dust in the air. Their feet threw up clouds of it as they passed by, and a scattering of half-filled buckets here and there suggested that the men on the roof would be kept busy for some time.

"Here we are," the duchess said, throwing open a door. "This is for you, Lady Esther, and there is a dressing room beside it. And Miss Franklyn, your room is just through here."

It was not large, but it was a corner room with windows on two sides, coloured buttercup yellow by the afternoon sun. One window had a view over lawns to a church and a line of trees that perhaps marked a stream, and the other overlooked the stable yard, where their carriages were just arriving. As she watched, grooms moved forward to unhitch the horses for the postilions to return them to the last staging post.

"Do you think you will be comfortable here?" the duchess said anxiously, following Bea into the room. "We have contrived as best we may, but the house is in such a state of decay I scarcely know what to do about it. I hope Lady Esther will advise me, for I have not the least idea how to go on. I was never intended to be a duchess."

"It was all very sudden, was it not?" Bea said sympathetically.

The duchess nodded, sitting down with a sigh on the bed. Next door, the thumps and huffs and grunts suggested that trunks were arriving. Lady Esther's imperious voice could be heard giving instructions. Bea sat down beside the duchess.

"When I married George, he was the second son of a second son, Miss Franklyn, with four people ahead of him in the succession. No one cared who he married, and I was only a lowly squire's daughter… not even an eldest daughter! Youngest of five, and not a bean to my name. But Henry and George both offered for me… Henry was George's elder brother, you see, but he never expected to inherit, either, so it was left up to me to choose which of them I wanted… or neither!"

"How did you choose?" Bea said, for the question of choosing a husband was much on her mind.

The duchess roared with laughter. "I kissed them! At least, Henry kissed me, and that was pleasant enough but it did not set me on fire, if you understand me. Have you ever been kissed, Miss Franklyn?"

"No, never."

"Oh, then you will not know, but with the right man, something magical happens when you kiss. So having kissed Henry, I wanted to kiss George, too, and so I did and I knew… I just knew. And so did he. If ever you want to know about a man, what kind of man he is, then you must kiss him, Miss Franklyn, then you will know."

"So you kissed Lord George," Bea breathed, enchanted with the story, "and you just knew."

"Yes, and so we were married, and we had our sweet little house and our sweet baby came along and we were so happy. And then… it was dreadful! So many deaths! First George's father, and then his uncle and cousin, one after the other. And then poor Henry was the heir and he rushed out and got himself married, and then he died too! And bless me, but the old duke went and died straight after. I was so terrified that George would die, too. It was quite horrid, as if we were being punished for something. But then we were in a dreadful state because Louisa… Henry's wife, that is… his widow, poor girl. Can you imagine, only married a month and then widowed? Anyway, she was with child and so was I, so we all had to wait to see if she had a son who would be the new duke, but she had a girl, poor thing, so it was all for nothing. Although she is still at Rodmersham, for George has not the heart to ask her to remove to the Dower House. And in the end, I was the one who had a son, and so the succession is secure… for the moment. But Thomas… he is George's younger brother, you see, and everyone is wild for him to marry soon, and start producing more sons."

"Lord Thomas… he is here, is he not?"

"Oh yes, but how much we will see of him I cannot say, for he is one of these learned men talking Latin to each other. But two of my cousins are here — you will like them, I am sure. Several other young ladies, too. We shall find much to amuse us, shall we not? Do you ride, Miss Franklyn?"

"I do. My horse is being brought here in easy stages."

"Excellent. This is supposed to be good riding country, although I have not had time to explore myself. Oh good, here are your boxes at last, and this is Peggy, who will unpack for you. Do you have a maid with you?"

"My stepmother's maid will see to both of us."

"Of course, but send for Peggy if ever you need any additional help. The ladies tend to gather in the State Saloon in the afternoons. Ask a footman to direct you. There are no bell pulls here, just hand bells and footmen everywhere — you cannot go far without finding one. And there are names on all the occupied rooms, so that you don't wander into one of the gentlemen's bedrooms by mistake. I shall see you later, Miss Franklyn."

And in a flurry of muslin skirts, she was gone, leaving Bea amused, if a little breathless.