She closed her eyes. But Belinda did not want to be left alone with thoughts of the marquess.
‘Did you always want to travel?’ she asked.
Hannah shook her head. ‘For a long time, I was content, working my way up. But when Mrs Clarence ran away, half the servants were dismissed and half the house shut up. It was sad and gloomy, and without guests there was little work to do compared with what had gone before. Thornton Hall began to seem like a prison. I would rise very early each morning, make tea, and then slip up to the drawing-room and open the windows and wait for the first stage-coach to go hurtling by, far away from Thornton Hall.’
‘Was Mr Clarence kind?’
‘Oh, he was a good employer. I wish he had been a better husband. Sir George, his brother, told me that Mr Clarence was always a difficult and moody man and it was that which had driven his wife away.’
There was a note of pride in Hannah’s voice when she mentioned Sir George.
‘This Sir George Clarence, do you know him well?’ asked Belinda.
‘Quite well,’ said Hannah. ‘He was most kind after my employer died. He arranged a bank account for me and he took me to tea at Gunter’s.’
‘Is he married?’
‘No,’ said Hannah stiffly.
‘But he took you to Gunter’s.’
‘As I said, he is most kind.’
‘How old is he?’
‘What questions you do ask, my child. Fifties.’
‘Aha!’ said Belinda.
‘And what does that “aha” mean?’
‘It means, Miss Pym, that a marriageable bachelor took you to Gunter’s.’
‘Sir George is an honourable and kind gentleman, that is all,’ said Hannah, suddenly cross with Belinda, but not knowing why. ‘Go to sleep!’
Belinda turned over on her side. Between a crack in the bed-hangings shone a spark of light from the rushlight on the bedside table. She stared at it, hypnotized, trying to concentrate on that pin-point of light and empty her brain of thoughts of the marquess. But the thoughts came just the same … What was he doing? … Did he think of her?
The Marquess of Frenton was being prepared for bed by his Swiss manservant. He turned over the day in his mind. Penelope had started to give orders to the servants as if she were already the lady of the castle. He had to admit he felt trapped. He had at no time expressed a wish to marry her, and yet by inviting her and her parents to the castle as his only guests, he had led her to believe he would marry her.
He must get away. But he could not bear to leave the Jordans in residence.
But where?
He had a married sister, Mary, Lady Arnold, who lived in Bath. He had not seen Mary in some time and a visit was long overdue. He was not very fond of his sister, for Mary, older than he by three years, had seen no point in his determination in the early days to keep the castle and estates. She was anxious to secure a good dowry and saw the maintenance of the castle as eating up any possible dowry she might have. But she had married well, although she was fond of saying it was thanks to her own efforts and no thanks to her brother. Still, she was his sister and he should pay her a call.
He wondered about Miss Earle and what she thought of him, or if she thought of him. He should be grateful to the redoubtable Miss Pym for interrupting them. He wished now he had not been in such a hurry to be shot of the stage-coach passengers. Miss Pym had entertained him with her forthright manner and the singing of the Judds had been a delight. Belinda Earle had enjoyed the music, to which Penelope appeared totally deaf. He remembered Belinda’s expressive face and the emotions flitting across her large eyes. Why was it considered bad ton for women to betray emotions? On reflection, he considered it was only considered bad ton to show real emotion. A lady could not laugh out loud with pleasure, but she could give that high, chiming, artificial laugh taught by her music teacher. She could not betray either horror or disgust, but she was allowed to faint or cry genteelly to show sensibility. And passion? Never! Never was any lady supposed to burn and sigh and moan in his arms like Belinda Earle. And on that thought came a craving, a hunger, to see her again.
His valet slipped a night-gown over the marquess’s head, saw his master into bed, and then retired, slipping out of the room as soft-footed as a cat.
Why can I not see her again? thought the marquess suddenly. This is ridiculous. She is young, unmarried, and of good family.
He began to make plans. First he must get rid of the Jordans.
The Jordans rose early, or rather, early for them. Nine o’clock and the castle was resounding with scrapes and bangs and thumps. The smell of paint was everywhere.
Struggling into his dressing-gown, Sir Henry rang the bell and demanded testily to know what the deuce the infernal row was all about.
The chambermaid bobbed a curtsy and said his lordship was having every room redecorated.
‘He can’t!’ wailed Lady Henry, sitting up in bed, her nightcap askew. ‘Penelope!’ For their darling daughter was highly sensitive to the smell of fresh paint.
Sir Henry dressed at great speed and went in search of the marquess. There seemed to be paint-pots and ladders and workmen everywhere.
‘Ah, Sir Henry,’ called the marquess cheerfully as that gentleman ran him to earth in the breakfast-room.
‘You must send all these decorators away,’ said Sir Henry wrathfully. ‘The smell of paint makes my poor Penelope ill.’
The marquess affected concern. ‘My dear Sir Henry. What am I to do? It is hard for the local artisans to find work in the winter. I cannot cut off their employ. But as I am leaving shortly, it might be a good idea if you started on your journey as well.’
‘But you have not yet proposed to my daughter, or have you?’ barked Sir Henry, almost beside himself with fury and thwarted hope.
The marquess’s eyes went quite blank. ‘I have not yet proposed to your daughter, nor shall I. I fear I am a confirmed bachelor.’
‘You led us to believe the knot was as good as tied.’
‘I did no such thing.’
‘Damme, that trolley I bought you at great expense, mark you, at great expense, was by way of an engagement present.’
The marquess turned to the butler, who was standing by the sideboard. ‘Hemmings,’ he said, ‘take said trolley from the dining-room, parcel it up, and give it back to Sir Henry; or better still, put it in his carriage with his baggage and have his carriage brought round to the front door in readiness. Unfortunately, Sir Henry finds himself obliged to leave.’
‘Pah!’ said Sir Henry, hopping up and down in rage and disappointment. ‘Pah, pah, and pooh to you, sir!’
The marquess picked up the morning paper and began to read it.
It was hard to tell, when the Jordans left, whether Penelope was crying with rage or weeping from the effects of the paint. Her eyes were red and swollen.
‘I shall never forgive her. Never!’ said Penelope as the carriage drove off.
‘Who?’ asked her mother.
‘That Belinda Earle creature and her sluttish ways.’
‘Put it all out of your mind,’ said Lady Jordan. ‘Frenton is quite mad. Have you your book, Sir Henry?’