“In a trice, madame?” Marfield swept off his cap and returned her greeting. “It means quickly, or in an instant.”
“Tres bien. That is wonderful. Just as I hoped. Mrs. Marfield told me that you offered to repair the dower house for her and said that it could be done ‘in a trice.’”
“Yes it can, madame, but please, I never suggested that Mrs. Marfield and I move into the dower house. No, it was Lord Crandall’s idea.”
“Was it? It sounds very generous.” Especially when you considered that it came from a man who had done his best to stop their marriage.
“Most certainly. Lord Crandall insisted that no one was using it, nor would anyone for his lifetime and we were welcome to it. You must realize, as I told him, that it would be beyond presumption for us to take up such a residence.”
Marguerite tried not to be annoyed by his sensibilities. It was a house and he had needed one. There were times when position took second place to need and availability. After all, the marquis was currently living in a cottage. “I thought you offered it to your wife, at least she spoke to me of it once.”
“Yes, I did. Lord Crandall convinced me that we would be seen as caretakers and not interlopers. So I did make the offer. I hoped it might soften her dislike of coming here.”
This could prove interesting. Marguerite waited and hoped for more of their story.
“In the end,” he continued, “Jenneth preferred the cottage and when Lord Crandall suggested we incorporate the second cottage into ours, well, that was ideal.”
Given their prospects for a family. Yes, she could understand that. She wanted to know how he and his wife met, why he thought she hated the idea of leaving London when Jenneth had told her that Marfield’s proposal had been “a gift.” Had her dislike of Lord Crandall lessened her pleasure at leaving Town?
Despite her curiosity, Marguerite had more pressing questions, and truly, she could not see Mr. Marfield as the kind of man who would freely discuss his courtship. And not only because he was conscious of his place and hers. “I am wondering, sir, if you would give me an hour this afternoon, before we lose the light, to show me the dower house and describe to me what is wanting to make it habitable?”
Marfield nodded slowly and smiled. “Are you considering moving the household there?”
“Yes, though it is little more than a hope, you understand.” She waited for his nod. “There are many questions to be answered first.”
“The dower house has a suite of rooms on the first floor that would be appropriate for Lord Crandall.” Marfield spoke with enthusiasm. “I could easily arrange the remaining rooms into a suite for the marquis.”
“The stairs could prove to be difficult for him. Is there space on the ground floor that could be converted to his use?”
“Why, yes I think so.” He paused considering. “If I recall correctly, one of the dowagers had the north dependency converted into a suite when the stairs became too much for her. It may be that it was never restored to its original use. And if they had separate floors, his lordship and the marquis would be guaranteed the privacy they so value.”
Marguerite nodded her approval. “Well put, Mr. Marfield.” It was hard to imagine the viscount and his father living together in a place smaller than Braemoor with its dozens of rooms.
An hour later they met at the front entrance to the relatively new Georgian mansion. Less than two hours after that, they were standing again at the entrance, grateful for the fresh air after the offending mold and gloom. The fading light took the warmth of the day with it, but they stayed a moment at the foot of the steps, discussing what seemed to her to be a formidable list of repairs that were the minimum necessary for the family to live in any more comfort than they were at the moment.
“The rats are easily ousted.” Marfield said. “The barn cats would make short work of them. I’m afraid the damage to the wainscoting will take real skill to repair.”
“Yes, I can see that is true, Mr. Marfield, but a perfectly appointed dining room is not essential to the family’s ease. A fireplace that draws properly is.”
“Madame, it can be done quickly. However, it will mean taking a number of the laborers from the salvage work you are doing. The mason, certainly, and I think the roofer is working on the team with the under butler.” He paused and his excitement faded. “Do you think that you might consult Lord Crandall first?”
“Yes, I suppose I should.” She thought about it a moment. “Why do I have the feeling that he will see it as an unnecessary move?”
“The truth is, Madame, that eventually Braemoor must be abandoned. Once an architect is chosen, it will be only a matter of time before he completes his plans. It will surely mean that the whole house, even the part in working order, will be gutted for the new design.”
“Yes, of course, you are absolutely right. And if I tell Lord Crandall that more of the staff will be returned to full employment it will have the ring of good stewardship even if the family is our first priority.”
“I would call it mutually beneficial.”
“Oh yes, exactly!”
They were smiling at each other like the schemers they were, when they heard footsteps. Turning, they found Lord Morgan Braedon walking toward them wearing riding clothes and still carrying his crop. He waved in greeting and came closer. He bowed to Marguerite and exchanged pleasantries before turning to the land agent.
“Marfield! I have been down to your drainage project. It looks as though it will solve that problem admirably.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Where did you come upon the concept? There is a field on my property in Wales that would be wonderfully arable if I could only drain it better.”
“I read of the technique in a pamphlet I brought back from London several years ago. If you would like, my lord, I could pass it on to you.”
“Yes, shall I come by your cottage? I would like a word with Madame Voisson and then I will see if my father is receiving visitors. He is staying in one of the cottages near you, is he not?”
“Yes, my lord. Very well.” With a brief nod of farewell, Marfield hurried down the path toward home.
Morgan turned to Marguerite with a smile, all rueful charm. He bowed to her. “Once again, Madame, I must apologize for my earlier misapprehension.”
Marguerite curtseyed formally to him, as if they were in a drawing room. “Thank you, my lord, it was a mistake that will, I trust, go no further than the three of us and, as such, is hardly worth concern.”
“It is not very often that I hear James sing the praises of anyone as wholeheartedly as he endorses you.”
They had talked about her after she left. She tamped down her curiosity since she could think of no way to draw more from him.
The front door stood open still and he walked up the steps, waiting at the door for her to join him. “Tell me, are you thinking of opening the house up?”
Marguerite nodded. “Now that Mr. Marfield has convinced me that repairs can be made in a trice.”
He stepped inside. She followed him. He looked around the entry hall, the details barely visible in the half-light. “I am completely on your side in the effort. This has to be better than that office James is using, which is like a mausoleum. And he can never get away from the smell of the ash and rot.”
“Exactly so, my lord. It is as though he is trying to punish himself for not being able to foretell the fire. Mr. Marfield and I have devised several arguments that I hope will convince your brother that opening the house will go a long way to reestablish some sense of the regular routine for the staff.”
“That is an excellent notion.” He spoke with a note of surprise in his voice as though he had not expected such insight from her. “He has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility.”
“Yes, and I have wondered if he has been that way forever? I suppose so. He is the oldest and the heir and must always feel the burden.” He might see this as presumption, but she would risk his set down.
“James more than most. He seemed to always feel the need to prove himself a Braedon. He excelled at his school work, learned all about estate management.”
He stepped toward the door, looking out to the fields as though they were proof of his brother’s good education.
“By the time I was old enough to understand the undercurrents, he had long since given up trying to win the marquis’ approval, much less a word of praise. Father thought sending him to school was banishment. James considered it an escape.”
He looked at her, a speculative gleam in his eye. “Are there any other family secrets you wish to know? You do have a way of hanging on my every word.”
“Please, do not ever think I am a gossip. It is as I have told Lord Crandall. There is not a person here who knows less about the Braedons than I do. And I can hardly ask the staff. Nonetheless, a little knowledge does seem essential to my work.”
“And what has James told you?”
“Only the barest of the family history. Of his mother and yours.”
“For James even that is close to sharing a confidence.”
“Yes, yes, I know that.”
He added nothing more, but stepped back into the entry hall. Using his crop, he pushed open the door to the room nearest the doorway. He did not go in.
“After our grandmother died, my younger brother Rhys and I used to play hide and seek in there, all over this floor. Not upstairs though. Ghosts lived there.”
Marguerite had been upstairs. She could believe that a child might look for an excuse to avoid the dark paneled rooms with the heavy drapes that covered the windows.
“I used to hide under the holland covers. If I could keep from moving, Rhys would look for hours before he ever found me. It was torture, staying still for so long.”
“Did Lord Crandall play with you?” Marguerite did not have to pretend fascination.
“Never. He was too old by half. I do recall once that Rhys could not work his way out of the nook he had hidden in. And I ran to get James. I knew I could rely on his help and he would not give us a tongue-lashing. He came readily and managed to pry Rhys loose.”
He pulled the door shut. It would not stay latched and with a shrug he left it slightly ajar.
“It was so very funny.” Lord Morgan shook his head, the memory drawing amusement to his eyes. “At first James insisted that there was no way out, that Rhys was trapped forever. And suddenly Rhys was free. He was furious with James for frightening him so badly. The next few minutes were all flying fists and kicks, Rhys angry, and James trying to protect himself.”
“You were not able to stop them?”
“Madame Voisson,” he pretended dismay, “Of course not. I stayed on the other side of the room and watched. For it is always the peacemaker who bears the worst of the injury.” He paused, “You have no brothers, do you?”
He nodded, assured of his insight, when she shook her head.
“We had great fun until the steward, the one before Simon Marfield, came to investigate the open door and the noise. He had not one jot of humor and he led us all to our father without a moment for explanation.”
Morgan moved to the front door and Marguerite followed him outside again.
“James took the blame, insisted that Rhys and I were innocent and we were scared enough of the whip to let James take the beating. He can be overbearing and as autocratic as father, but there were times when I swear he appeared from nowhere. Always around to rescue us, stand up for us, show us how to get on.”
One more piece in the puzzle of the viscount’s relationship with his family fit into place. She locked the door, wondering if the viscount would recall this story. What memories of his were stored here?
“Madame, that is all the family history you will have from me. I am on my way to see my father and James tells me that you have been instrumental in achieving a new level of communication with him.”
Marguerite nodded and decided to accompany him. As they moved down the path, he offered her his arm and matched his stride to hers. He might not be as tall as his brother or have nearly as imposing a presence. He was, however, far more charming.
“You are engaged, Lord Morgan?”
“Yes, I am. Miss Lambert and I hope to be married later this spring.”
“Has your fiancée met your father?”
“Not yet. That is part of the reason for my visit. If father seems healthy enough, if his mind is sound enough, I expect I will bring Christiana and her family here for a visit before the wedding. It is unlikely he will be well enough to attend the ceremony itself.”
The marquis’ blessing seemed to be important to his second son.
When they arrived at the cottage, Marguerite would have left him at the door, but Mrs. Beecher stopped her, urging her inside. “He be that upset that you’ve not been here today.”
Marguerite closed her eyes and prayed. Please, let Lord Morgan understand this sham. Before she stepped over the threshold she turned to him. “My lord, the marquis is improving, truly he is, however there are times when he mistakes me for your mother. When I assume the role, it seems to calm him, though I do have mixed feelings about the charade.”
Morgan did not respond with more than a nod and let her enter ahead of him.
The marquis sat neat the fire, as he usually did at this hour. He did not look up until Marguerite settled in the chair near him. When he did, his whole expression shifted from fatigue to delight. “My dear, how are you? Where have you been? What discoveries did you make today?”
“My lord, what a wondrous day! Do you think that it will ever rain again? I had heard that Sussex has the rainiest springs. I think it is a lie you tell to keep this beauty all to yourself.” She detailed briefly the trivia of her day, anxious that he not be too tired to talk with his son. And she completely avoided mention of the long lost jewels, exactly as the viscount had asked.
She answered two or three questions that showed his mind still somewhat disordered: What were the girls wearing to the assembly? When would Mrs. Lanning be back from her most recent confinement?
She stood up and stepped closer to him. “My lord, your son, Morgan, has come to visit.”
The marquis looked pleased and scanned the room. His rheumy eyes could not make out anything beyond the light cast by the fire.
Morgan came forward cautiously. When had he last seen his father, Marguerite wondered. He looked uncertain. When he stepped into the light the marquis finally saw him and the two stood staring, sizing each other up. The marquis looked at her and nodded.
“He’s the good one.” He turned to Lord Morgan. “Come here, boy, sit down, before I break my leg looking up at you.”
Morgan looked at Marguerite before he came closer. He took the chair Marguerite had vacated and jumped up like a shot when his father railed, “You would sit while your mother stands! If I had a crop, I would beat you!”
He looked at Marguerite and she sighed an apology. He needed no more explanation but turned to his father, using his charm like a weapon. “I would never slight my mother or you, sir. I thought that she had left the room.”
Marguerite walked forward with her shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “Indeed, with your permission, I am gone, my lord. I must close the house for the night.”
“Come back.”
“I will, my lord, but not until tomorrow.”
Lord Morgan escorted her to the door and stepped outside with her. “I assume he meant neck when he misspoke leg?”
“Yes, it is not an uncommon effect of apoplexy.”
He nodded. “And mistaking you for my mother. Is that common?”
She shook her head. “Not that I ever observed before, though my experience is very limited. In the early days he mistook me for one or the other of your sisters as well. Over time I have become Lady Gwyneth alone.” She turned and looked at him. “You do appreciate, my lord, that I have done my best not to further his misunderstanding. There seems to be no way I can convince him that I am not his Gwyneth.”
“What harm can it do? And if it makes him happier and easier to manage....”
“Could we say that it is mutually beneficial?” How useful a term that could prove to be.
“Yes, yes, I think so. I hope so.” He looked down at the path and back at her. “When I first saw you in that awful room James uses for an office, with that generous length of pearls around your neck, I wondered what god of mischief had sent you to Braemoor. Now, madame, seeing how seriously you take your work, your care for my father, and watching you make James laugh, well, I suspect it is a more caring god than a mischievous one that has brought you to us.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “Thank you for all you have done to ease our burden. May the gods bless you for caring so much.”
It was so charmingly said that Marguerite felt the sting of tears and could do no more than nod. As she walked down the path she heard laughter from the cottage. Lord Morgan was teasing his father out of his imperious mood.
Her tears disappeared and a great burst of happiness took their place. This felt so like home. She had finally found one in this place, with these people. Indeed, God had blessed her.
And she felt hope for this family. The marquis could feel affection, did feel it for his second son.
Lord Morgan had a way with words, truly he did. Had he learned that charm as a way around a difficult parent? If he had, then the viscount had perfected the opposite: a cool aloofness that made most people avoid him, or at the very least avoid confronting him.
Lord Morgan’s smile alone guaranteed that he would never be without a partner on the dance floor or anywhere else.
Viscount Crandall would never be lonely either, but it had nothing to do with charm. His arrogance worked like an armor that few could penetrate. His quiet watchful strength made him a man of mystery. It was an aura to which she was far more susceptible.