Читать книгу Lord Ravensden's Marriage - Anne Herries, Anne Herries - Страница 9

Beatrice took her sister up to her room half an hour later. She had offered to help her unpack her trunks, being reasonably certain that Olivia had never had to do so for herself before. Olivia had accepted and was now showing her some of the lovely clothes she had brought with her.

“These are only a few of my gowns,” she told Beatrice. “I left some of the more elaborate ones behind. I shall scarcely need the gown I wore to be presented to the Regent at my coming out…or most of my ballgowns. Lady Burton did say she would send them on…” Olivia blinked rapidly to stave off the tears gathering in her eyes. “She was kinder than Lord Burton…she said she would be prepared to forgive me, but that he was adamant the connection must be cut.”

“Well, perhaps he will relent in time…”

“No.” Olivia’s lovely face was pale but proud. “I do not wish to return to their house…ever. What I did was right, and I shall not grovel to be forgiven.”

The subject was dropped, for Beatrice did not like to see her sister so upset. Instead, she exclaimed over the gowns they were unpacking, especially the one made by Madame Félice, the extraordinary French modiste who had suddenly arrived in town some months earlier.

“It is very lovely,” she said, holding it against herself. The jewel green of the fine silk actually became Beatrice very well, setting off the colour of her hair, and was, of course, far more stylish than anything she had ever made for herself. “No wonder everyone is so anxious to order from her—but does no one know where she worked before she came to London? Was it in Paris?”

“No one seems to know anything about her before she set up her shop…but they whisper that she is the mistress of a very rich man.”

“Oh, why do they say that?” Beatrice looked at her curiously.

“They say she brought money to Madame Coulanges’s salon. It stands to reason. She must have a protector—where else would she get the money to set herself up in a fashionable establishment? If she had no money, she would be desperate to take any order…”

“Yes, I see the reasoning behind such gossip,” Beatrice replied. She frowned. Her education had been to say the least unusual, and her opinions were strong in such matters. “But I do not see that the money must have come from a protector. Why cannot a woman be successful for herself, without the aid of a man? Why must everyone always assume the worst? There could be other reasons why she was able to bring money to Madame Coulanges. Perhaps she inherited some from a wealthy relative, and used it to set herself up in business. She might even have won it in a game of cards.”

“It is intriguing, isn’t it?” Olivia said. “I dare say her story will come out eventually—and that will set the tongues wagging again. For the moment, she can do no wrong—no one would think the worse of her for having a wealthy protector. She does not mix in society, other than to dress her wealthy clientele, of course, and could never hope to marry into a good family.”

“Alas, I fear you are right. We are all too much governed by convention. I am sure we shall hear more in time,” Beatrice said. “The news may be slow in filtering through to the four villages, but it arrives in due course.”

“The four villages…” Olivia stared at her in bewilderment. “I am not sure what you mean?”

Beatrice laughed. “Oh, I am so used to that way of speaking of our neighbours. I mean the villages that lie to the north, south, east and west of Steepwood Abbey, of course: Abbot Quincey, which is really almost a small market town these days, Steep Abbot and Steep Ride…which is tiny and remote, and lies to the south of the Abbey—and our own.”

“Oh, yes, the Abbey. We passed by its outer walls on our journey here. Is life affected much by what goes on there?”

Once again, Beatrice laughed. “We have a wicked Marquis all our own,” she said. “The stories about him would take me all night to relate, but I will only say that I cannot vouch for any of them, since I have scarcely met him—except for the night he almost knocked me down as he rushed past on his horse, of course.”

“That was very rude of him,” Olivia said. “If he is so unpleasant I do not wonder that you do not care to know him.”

“No one cares to know the Marquis of Sywell—except perhaps the Earl of Yardley. I am not sure, but I think there is some story about them having belonged to the same wild set years ago, before either of them had come into their titles. It was a long time ago, of course. Before the old Earl, who was the seventh to bear the title, I believe, banished his son to France, lost the Abbey, which had been in his family for generations…since the middle of the sixteenth century…to the present owner, and then killed himself.”

“Indeed?” Olivia looked intrigued. “Why was the son banished? Oh, pray do tell me, Beatrice—was it because of a love affair?”

“Have you heard the story?”

Olivia shook her head. “No, but I should like to if it is romantic…to die for love is so—so…”

“Foolish,” Beatrice supplied dryly. “Perch on the window-seat, Olivia, and I will sit here on this stool. It is a long story and must be explained properly or you will become confused with all the different Earls and not know who I mean.”

Olivia nodded, her face alight with eagerness. For the first time since her arrival, she seemed truly to have forgotten her unfortunate situation. Beatrice took heart, determined to make her story as interesting and entertaining as she could for her sister’s sake.

“Well, the present Earl of Yardley, the eighth if I am right, was not born to inherit the title or the estate. His name when this story begins was Thomas Cleeve, and his family was no more than a minor branch of the Yardleys. It was then that he and his cousin (the last Earl before this one: I told you it was complicated!), some folk say, were both members of the rather loose set to which Lord George Ormiston belonged—he, to make things plain, is our wicked Marquis of today.”

“Yes, I see. He is now the Marquis of Sywell and he owns the Abbey,” Olivia said. “Please do go on.”

“Lucinda Beattie, the spinster sister of Matthew Beattie, who was our previous vicar and died in…oh, I think it was eleven years ago…told our mother that Thomas Cleeve was disappointed in love as a young man and went off to India to make his fortune. That part was undoubtedly true, for he returned a very wealthy man. I know that he married twice and returned a widower in 1790 with his four children (twin boys of fourteen years, Lady Sophia, who I dare say you will meet, and his elder son, Marcus). He built Jaffrey House on some land he bought from his cousin Edmund, then the seventh Earl of Yardley…Are you following me?”

“Yes, of course. What happened to the romantic Earl?” Olivia asked, impatient for Beatrice to begin his tale. “Why did he banish his son—and what was his son called?”

“His son was Rupert, Lord Angmering, and I believe he was very romantic,” Beatrice said with a smile. “He went off to do the Grand Tour, and met a young Frenchwoman, with whom he fell desperately in love. It was in the autumn of 1790, I understand, that he returned and informed his father he meant to marry her. When the Earl forbade it on pain of disinheritance, because she was a Catholic, he chose love—and was subsequently banished to France.”

Olivia was entranced, her eyes glowing. “What happened—did he marry his true love?”

“No one really knows for certain. Some of the older villagers say he would definitely have done so, for he was above all else a man of honour, others doubt it…but nothing can be proved, for the unfortunate Lord Angmering was killed in the bread riots in France…”

“Oh the poor man—to be thrown off by his father…” Olivia’s cheeks were flushed as the similarity to her own story struck her. “But you said his father killed himself?”

“As I have heard it told, the Earl was broken-hearted, and when the confirmation of his son’s death reached him in 1793, he went up to town, got terribly drunk and lost everything he owned to his friend the Marquis of Sywell at the card tables. Afterwards, he called for the Marquis’s duelling pistols and before anyone knew what he intended, shot himself—in front of the Marquis and his butler—the same one who remains in Sywell’s employ today.”

“It was sad end to his story, but it had a kind of poetic justice—do you not think so?” Olivia asked. “He blamed himself for the loss of his son and threw away all that had been precious to him…”

“It may be romantic to you,” Beatrice replied with a naughty look, “but it meant that the people of the four villages have had to put up with the wicked Marquis ever since. And according to local legend, there was a time when no woman was safe from him. He has been accused of all kinds of terrible things…including taking part in pagan rites, which may or may not have involved him and his friends in cavorting naked in the woods. Some people say the men wore animal masks on their heads and chased their…women, who were naturally not the kind you or I would ever choose to know.”

“No? Surely not? You are funning me!” Olivia laughed delightedly as her sister shook her head and assured her every word was true. “It sounds positively gothic—like one of those popular novels that has everyone laughing in public and terrified in private.”

“Dear Mrs Radcliffe.” Beatrice smiled. “The Mysteries of Udolpho was quite my favourite. How amusing her stories are to be sure. What you say is right, Olivia…but it is not quite as funny when you have to live near such a disreputable man.”

Olivia nodded. “No, I suppose it would be uncomfortable. Tell me, did the present Earl inherit his title from the one who banished his son and killed himself?”

“Yes. After the death of the Earl and his son Lord Angmering there was no one else left—or at least, if Rupert left an heir no one has heard of him to this very day.” Beatrice shook her head. “No, I am very sure there was no child. An exhaustive search was made at the time, I have no doubt, and no record of a marriage or a child was found. Had it not been so, the title could not legally have passed to Thomas Cleeve, and it was all done according to the laws of England, I am very sure.”

Olivia nodded, acknowledging the truth of this. “Besides, even if Lord Angmering had by some chance had a son…what would there be for him to inherit if his grandfather had lost all his money gambling?”

“Nothing in law, I suppose. You may be certain, had there been an heir, he would have come forward long ago, to claim his title and anything that might still belong to his family.”

“I suppose so…” Olivia was reluctant to let her romantic notion go, and smiled at her sister. “That was a fascinating story. I wish someone would come back to the villages and declare himself Lord Angmering’s son, don’t you?”

Beatrice threw back her head and laughed heartily. “I should never have told you—you will be expecting something to happen, and I do assure you it will not. No, my dearest sister, I must disappoint you. I think the Earl of Yardley is secure in his title—and since his fortune is his own, he does not need to prove anything.”

“No, of course not.” Olivia stood up and went to embrace her sister. “Thank you for telling me that story—and thank you for taking me in with such kindness.”

“You are my sister. I have always loved you. I would not have wished for you to be in such circumstances—but I am happy to have you living here with us.” Beatrice looked at her intently. “You have not regretted your decision to jilt Lord Ravensden?”

“I regret that I was deceived into accepting him,” Olivia replied, “but I do not regret telling him that I would not marry him.”

“What did he say to you?”

“I—I wrote to him,” Olivia said, her cheeks pink. “I could not have faced him, Beatrice. I was so…angry.”

“What made you change your mind about marrying him, dearest?”

“I was told by a rather spiteful girl…a girl I had hitherto thought of as my friend…that Ravensden was marrying me only to oblige Lord Burton, that he wanted me only as a brood mare, because he desperately needs an heir. He is past his green days, and no doubt imagined I should be grateful for the offer…”

“He could not have been so cold-blooded?” Beatrice was shocked. “My dearest sister! I believe you have had a fortunate escape. Had you not learned of his callousness before your wedding, you would have been condemned to a life of misery at this brute’s hands.”

Olivia took her hands eagerly. “You do understand my feelings,” she cried, her lovely eyes glowing. “I was afraid you would think me capricious—but when I realised what he had done…I realised I could not love him. In fact, I saw that I had been misled by his charm and his compliments.”

“His charm?” Beatrice frowned. How could this be? It did not equate with the monster she had pictured. “Was he so very charming?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so. Everyone thought so…but I found his humour a little harsh. Though of course he was toadied to by almost everyone because of his wealth, and the Regent thinks him a great wit.”

“It seems to me the man was eaten up by his own conceit,” said Beatrice, who had never met him in her life. “I see what it was—you were the catch of the Season and Burton’s heir. He wanted the fortune…”

“But most of it will be his anyway,” Olivia said, frowning. “That is what is so particularly cruel. He had no need to oblige his cousin. Why propose to me if he did not care for me in the least?”

Beatrice saw that her sister was not so indifferent as she pretended. Whether it was her heart or her pride that was most affected, it was equally painful for her.

“Well, we shall talk of this again,” she said. “Do not distress yourself, dearest. You will have no need to meet Lord Ravensden again, so you may forget him. One thing is certain, he will not dare to follow you here…”

Beatrice spent a restless night dreaming of dis-inherited heirs, pagan orgies and—inexplicably!—a man being boiled in oil. She woke early, feeling tired and uneasy. Which served her right for spending a great deal of the evening recounting stories of the wicked Marquis, making them as lurid as possible for her sister—who was clearly of a romantic disposition.

Had Olivia been other than she was, she might have settled for the comfort marriage to Lord Ravensden could provide, but she could not help her nature, and Beatrice could not but think she had made the right decision.

“Let me but get my hands on that creature,” muttered Beatrice.

Oh, he should pay, he should pay!

Olivia was certainly trying to settle to her new life, and had so far been very brave, but it was bound to be hard for her. They must all do whatever they could to lift her spirits in the coming months.

Such were Beatrice’s thoughts as she left her father’s house that morning, the day after her sister’s arrival. It was the beginning of November now and a little misty. Mindful of the cold, she had wrapped up well in her old grey cloak, which was long past its best.

She had decided to visit the vicarage, her intention to ask the Reverend Edward Hartwell and his wife to dine with them the next week. She would also send a message to Ghislaine, and beg her to come if she could. It was the best she could offer Olivia by way of entertainment, though obviously not what she was accustomed to…The sound of hooves pounding on the hard ground gave her a little start.

She paused, watching as horse and rider came towards her at a gentle canter. This was not the bruising rider who had almost knocked her down a week ago, but a stranger. She had never seen this gentleman in Abbot Giles or any of the four villages.

His clothes proclaimed him a man of fashion, even though he was dressed simply for riding. As he came nearer, she could see that he looked rather attractive, even handsome, his features striking. He had a straight nose, a firm, square chin, and what she thought must be called a noble bearing.

Beatrice realised the rider was stopping. He swept off his hat to her, revealing hair as thick and glossy as it was dark—almost as black as a raven’s wing. He wore it short, brushed carelessly forward in an artfully artless way that gave him a dashing air. He might have come straight from the pages of Sir Walter Scott’s poems, some noble creature of ancient lineage.

“Good morning, ma’am,” the stranger said, giving her a smile that was at the same time both sweet and unnerving in that it seemed to challenge. “I wonder if I could trouble you to ask for directions? I have lost my way in the mist.”

“Of course. If I can help, sir.” Beatrice glanced up into his eyes. So startlingly blue that she was mesmerised. Goodness! What a remarkable man he was to be sure. “Are you looking for somewhere in particular?”

“I do not know the name of the house,” he replied. “But I am looking for the Roade family of Abbot Giles…Miss Olivia Roade Burton in particular.”

An icy chill gripped Beatrice’s heart. Surely it was not possible? She had been so sure that Lord Ravensden would not dare to come here. Yet who else could it be? This man was handsome, his smile charming—and now she looked at him properly, she could see that he was arrogant, too sure of himself and proud. A despicable man. Indeed, she wondered that she had not noticed it immediately.

Why had he come here? Beatrice’s mind was racing frantically. If this was truly Olivia’s jilted suitor, he must not be allowed to take her sister by surprise.

“Ah yes,” she said. “I do know of the family—but I fear you are travelling in the wrong direction.”

“Is this not the village of Abbot Giles?”

“Has Ben turned the milestones round again? It really is too bad of him!” Beatrice said in a rallying tone. “He will do it, poor foolish fellow. It all comes from the bang on the head, but it is most confusing for visitors.”

“Pray tell me,” the stranger said, a gleam in those devastating blue eyes. “How did poor Ben come to receive such a damaging blow to the head?”

“It is a long story,” Beatrice said hastily. She pointed to the open gates of the Abbey grounds. “If you follow that road, the narrow lane there, then keep on past the lake and turn to your right near the ruined chapel, you will come to the village in time.”

“That sounds a little complicated…”

“It is a short cut, any other route would take you miles out of your way.”

“I see, then I shall follow your instructions. Thank you, ma’am.”