They settled into a comfortable routine. Each morning Marcus withdrew to his study, and busied himself with the accounts and ledgers that were part and parcel of his inheritance. He kept up a brisk exchange of letters and instructions with his solicitor in Edinburgh, and the various stewards who oversaw the Torringford properties. In the afternoon he would sometimes join her for luncheon before finding some errand that took him out-of-doors. Penelope soon realized he was a country man at heart, far more comfortable talking with his field workers or riding the paths of the home woods than he was indoors.
They certainly made for an odd pair, the city-raised bluestocking and the athletic sportsman. She found herself curious about Marcus, who was so different from any other gentleman she knew, and used every opportunity to draw him out. To get to know him. In a way it was an odd courtship, where the couple grew to know each other after their marriage.
Marcus, she learned, was seldom given to talking about himself. Or to long speeches of any kind, although once started on his enthusiasms he could get carried away, until he realized from Penelope’s glazed expression that he had lost her. But by dint of patient questioning, she had begun to form a picture of his character.
“Your morning was spent profitably I trust?” Penelope asked.
Marcus held the chair for her as she took her place at the table, and then took his own seat across from her. They had fallen into the habit of lunching in the small parlor, in part because it was smaller and less oppressive than the grand formal dining room where the old duke had been accustomed to take his meals. And the large windows offered a splendid view of the lake, which even on a gray and rain-soaked day was still an impressive sight.
“I will never get these ink stains off my fingers,” Marcus said, holding up the offending hand and glaring at it critically. “I will be fit for nothing but a clerk, if this keeps up.”
Indeed there was a faint stain on his first finger, and the beginning of a callous from gripping the pen. But this did nothing to detract from his hand, which was large and well shaped, though she could hardly tell him such.
“You should hire a secretary to assist you,” Penelope said. “But until then I would be happy to help. I have a fair hand, and considerable practice, having scribed hundreds of letters on behalf of worthy causes over these years.”
Marcus nodded. “I have a man who clerks for me at Greenfields, when need arises. But a duke’s correspondence is far greater than a mere landowner’s, and I refuse to become a slave to it. When I return home, I will see about hiring a secretary.”
So he did not consider the Abbey his home, though by rights it was the duke’s family seat. And yet, could she blame him? It was hard to imagine anyone cheerfully calling this enormous pile their home. As it was, the two of them rattled around like peas in an empty pod. It would take a large family to make this place feel like home.
“You will make your home at Greenfields?”
“Of course,” Marcus said. “Though as you know I have asked McGregor to find us a place in Edinburgh, which will be yours. And I suppose we will need to visit here from time to time, to inspect the property and for the sake of appearances.”
Such had been their agreement. She to live in the city, and he to live in the country. Each would get what they wanted, and would meet on formally arranged occasions. It was all very civilized, if a trifle cold-blooded.
He seemed to sense her mood had grown dark and sought to cheer her. “Although, one can imagine the Gormley’s chagrin should I decide to make this my home. The two of us were uproarious enough; I dare not contemplate how they would react to the addition of a hundred hounds and their keepers to this establishment”
She had a sudden vision of a long line of coaches pulling up the driveway, and commencing to unload their precious cargo of beagle hounds, to the horror of the serving staff. Penelope chuckled, and Marcus’s eyes twinkled in response.
“They would be suitably horrified,” she agreed. “Nor do I believe that the beagles would enjoy their stay.”
“There is that as well,” Marcus agreed.
They finished the lunch in a companionable mood.
“Are there more letters to write? I would be happy to help you,” Penelope said, glancing out the windows. The sullen skies had opened up and a heavy rain was now falling.
“No, I am done for the day. I am to meet Michaels at two,” Marcus said, referring to the capable steward he had inherited along with the property.
“In this rain? It is a veritable deluge out there,” Penelope said.
Marcus shrugged. “It is only water. We will not melt. And a rainy day is perfect. We can inspect the roofs of the outbuildings for leaks, or check the drainage pits.”
She was absolutely certain that there was indeed no other duke in all of Scotland, or England for that matter, who would consider a rainy day as a perfect opportunity to inspect his properties for water damage. Then again, what did she know? Perhaps all countrymen were as mad to be out-of-doors as her husband.
“Go then,” she said. “And stay dry.”
“And you?” he asked.
“Have no worries about me. I have plenty to keep me busy, and if my occupations run out, there is always the library to explore. There is no friend on a rainy day like a good book.”
Marcus shook his head in polite disbelief, and she realized that he found her as incomprehensible as she found him.
Indeed, Penelope had plenty to keep her busy, although she missed Edinburgh and the friends she had made there. Still there was the household to run, for despite her newfound spirit of cooperation, Mrs. Gormley bore careful watching. And after so many years as a bachelor household, there were a myriad of things to be set right. Not that she intended to reside at the Abbey permanently, but for appearances’ sake she and Marcus would probably spend at least some time here each year, and she wanted them to be comfortable. Marcus had provided her a very generous household allowance, so as she toured each room of the house, she took careful note of the items that needed to be refurbished or repaired.
There was one room, however, that she did not know what to do with. The old nursery was set up on the top floor, and had not been used in decades. Now all it held was a dusty crib with two broken spindles, a battered dresser, and a wooden chest that held a moth-eaten rag doll and a spinning top.
“No doubt you will want this quickly set to rights,” Mrs. Gormley said, her eyes drifting toward Penelope’s stomach as if she suspected Penelope was already pregnant. “Shall I send for the painters?”
“No,” Penelope said.
“No?”
“No,” Penelope said, instinctively loathing this barren and ugly room. “I see no reason to relegate the nursery to the inconvenience of the attics. There are plenty of spare bedrooms on the second floor. When the time comes I will fit one of them up as a nursery.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mrs. Gormley said.
Of course there would be no need for a nursery, if their marriage was never consummated. And for that she was grateful. She felt barely adequate as a wife. She was not sure if she was ready to be a mother as well. Not yet, though someday she would have to face having children. After all, when she had agreed to marry the duke, there had been the unspoken expectation that Marcus would expect her to provide him with an heir. She had resigned herself to doing what was necessary, but her husband had yet to show any desire to fulfill his part.
If only there was someone she could talk to. She longed for Harriet Lawton’s sage advice. But there was no one here, and so she pushed aside her troubled thoughts, and concentrated on those things where she could make a difference.
Four days after their arrival, Penelope was busy on the third floor, having discovered yet another chest of linens that needed to be inventoried. Dust flew everywhere as Betsy, the cheerful maid, pulled out the topmost stack of folded cloths.
“These are sheets. I think,” Betsy said.
Indeed no doubt they had once been sheets of the finest white linen but time had turned them dull yellow and musty smelling. Not a surprise really, for the linen closets she had discovered had been in much the same state. Since the duke had few visitors and no wife to oversee the household, such niceties had long been overlooked.
She fingered the topmost sheet, and found that the cloth was still good.
“Put those in the basket for washing,” she directed. Though no amount of bleaching would restore them to their pristine condition, it would be a shame to waste good fabric. “They can be used in the servants’ quarters or as furniture covers if needed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Betsy said. “There’s a dozen, in all.”
Penelope made a careful note on her inventory. “What’s next?” she asked. Peering into the chest, she saw bundles of squares tied with ribbons. Napkins? Handkerchiefs? They would all have to be counted, she realized with a sigh.
Deliverance came in the form of a footman bearing a summons to join Marcus and a guest in the library, at her convenience.
“Betsy, please continue with the chest, and when finished in this room check the others in this wing,” Penelope said. “Robby, would you ask Mrs. Gormley to come assist?”
There was a certain satisfaction in giving that order. Since Betsy could not write, Mrs. Gormley would have to take over the inventory, a task she should have done on her own these past years.
Penelope stopped by her chamber to brush her hair and wash the dust from her hands, and then went to the library.
As she opened the door, she saw Marcus speaking with an elderly gentleman dressed in an old-fashioned frock coat. Both men put down their sherry glasses and rose as she entered.
“May I introduce Mr. Abercrombie, the Vicar of Torringford? This is my wife, Lady Torringford,” Marcus said.
“Your Grace, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Mr. Abercrombie said. With his white hair and kindly blue eyes he was the very embodiment of a country parson.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance as well,” Penelope said.
She took a seat and the two men resumed their own. She glanced at Marcus, but he seemed quite at ease, considering that Mr. Abercrombie was the first visitor they had had. She felt nervous, wondering how the vicar saw them. No doubt he knew of the circumstances of their wedding. Would he be shocked? Disapproving that they married in a civil ceremony? Or perhaps he was simply here to curry favor. No doubt his living was one of many that fell within the duke’s patronage.
“Sherry?” Marcus asked. “I have asked the footman to bring tea, if you prefer.”
“Tea will be lovely,” she said. “The dust has left me quite parched.”
“I must beg your pardon for intruding in this way,” Mr. Abercrombie said. “I met your husband in the village, and when he mentioned that you were in residence, I am afraid I imposed upon him to make the introduction. I hope I did not interrupt anything of importance.”
“You are most welcome,” Penelope said. “And in truth, I am glad for an interruption. The linen inventory is necessary, but hardly diverting.”
Mr. Abercrombie nodded. “It has been a long time since this house saw a woman’s touch. The late duke was alone for many years, poor soul, and a bachelor household is simply not up to a woman’s standards. Or so my daughter informs me, almost daily.”
He smiled with self-deprecating humor, and she found herself warming to this kindly gentleman.
The footman arrived with the tea cart, and Penelope poured a cup for herself, and one for the vicar as well. Marcus elected to stay with sherry, and refilled his glass.
“So tell me, how do you find the countryside? Have you had a chance to view the neighborhood?” Mr. Abercrombie asked.
“It is quite a change from Edinburgh. What I have seen is lovely, though I have been so busy with the household affairs that I haven’t set foot off the grounds since we arrived,” Penelope said diplomatically.
Not to mention that she had no idea of how she would be received in the village. And as for the neighbors, etiquette dictated that they be the first to call upon her.
Until now they had had no callers. Perhaps the neighbors were simply being polite, allowing the newlyweds their privacy. Or perhaps they had already judged the new residents of the Abbey, and decided not to associate with such scandalous beings.
“I have no doubt that there are many who will be as eager as I to make your acquaintance,” Mr. Abercrombie said. It was as if he could read her thoughts. “Tell me, will you be staying here long?”
“Our plans are not fixed, but we should be here through July at least,” Marcus said, with a glance toward Penelope, who nodded. Such had been their agreement.
“Good, then you will be here for our summer festival. We hold it every year on the third Saturday in July. It is quite the event, with musicians from all over the county, mummers, games for the children and contests for the men. It is the highlight of the summer.”
“I am sure it is quite the occasion,” Penelope said. She found herself looking forward to the event with an almost childlike glee. Would there be Gypsies, she wondered? She was curious, having read accounts of country fairs, though of course she had never been to one.
“If we are still in residence, we will attend,” Marcus said. He did not seem to share her excitement, but then having been raised in the country he had no doubt been to dozens of fairs in his time. It would not be a special treat for him, though as the landlord he would need to make an appearance.
They spent a pleasant half hour chatting with Mr. Abercrombie about the other diversions that were to be found in the county, and the personages she was likely to encounter. When the time came for the vicar to take his leave, she was surprised at how quickly the time had passed. Marcus walked the vicar to the door, and then returned to join her in the library.
“I thought that went well,” Penelope said. “Mr. Abercrombie seems like a very pleasant gentleman.”
“Pleasant and persuasive,” Marcus said. “I met him in the village and before I knew it we were riding back here, so he could make your acquaintance.”
“Well now we shall see if the rest of our neighbors are anxious to follow his lead,” Penelope said. “Until then, I must return to my linens.”
The corners of Marcus’s mouth turned up. “Till this evening, then,” he said.
Indeed, it was as if Mr. Abercrombie’s visit was a signal to the rest, for starting the very next day the neighbors began to call. Some came out of curiosity, and seemed rather disappointed to find that Penelope was gently spoken and not given to wearing low-cut scarlet gowns. They were equally disappointed to find that Marcus was not the witless fool that the newspapers had painted him. Penelope bore their ill-bred curiosity with civil restraint, maintaining her composure as she deflected the most impertinent of questions.
By unspoken agreement Marcus and Penelope turned a deaf ear to all questions regarding how they had met, or the circumstances of their marriage. When asked, Marcus would merely reply that he was fortunate to have found Penelope, and change the subject. Penelope gave a similar answer. But even that was not enough to deflect the more persistent of their inquisitors.
After one particularly trying afternoon, Marcus breathed a sigh of relief when he was once again alone with his wife. Penelope watched through the window as a pony cart drove away with the last of this afternoon’s visitors.
“There now, that’s the last of them,” she said. Returning to the sofa, she sat down and then lounged back, letting all her weariness show. “I vow I would rather inventory china and linens for the next two weeks than endure another afternoon like this one. Polite callers, indeed.”
Marcus rose to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of Spanish wine. After a glance at his wife, he poured a second one, and carried it over to her. Penelope did not drink wine in the afternoon, but after entertaining callers for the last two hours surely she was as much in need of fortification as he was.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a sip. She placed the wine on the table beside the sofa, and closed her eyes.
“I reckon there were half a dozen families represented here today,” Marcus said. “By now we must have seen all of the gentry within an easy drive.”
“I would not be so optimistic,” Penelope said. “With our luck, there will be several more days of this. And then, of course, we must begin to return these calls. Out of courtesy, of course.”
He had not thought of that. And naturally, most of the burden would fall on Penelope. As the Duchess of Torringford, her social duties were clearly defined. Everyone who had called was entitled to have Penelope pay them a visit in return. A gentleman, even a titled gentleman such as himself, had fewer demands placed upon him. He could allow Penelope to bear the burden of their social obligations, accepting only those invitations that interested him.
“Miss Pamela Abercrombie was quite pleasant,” Penelope said, referring to the vicar’s middle-aged daughter. “I will start my visits by paying a call upon her and her father.”
If only all the neighbors were as pleasant as the Abercrombies, they would have few difficulties indeed. But that would be too much to expect, human nature being what it was. He was not even certain how his own neighbors would react, when faced with the reality of his marriage. Although they, at least, had the advantage of having known Marcus since he was a boy. Here, in Torringford, both he and Penelope were very much unknown quantities.
“I am at your disposal, should you wish my company on these calls,” he said in a fit of generosity. He knew he would be heartily bored by such expeditions, but it did not seem fair to allow Penelope to face the neighbors on her own.
Penelope smiled. “You are generous, but I will not impose upon your good nature.” She thought for a moment, her brow wrinkling. “Except, perhaps, for the Snows. Miss Phoebe Snow was particularly vexing, and I can only imagine her four younger sisters are cut from the same cloth.”
Indeed, Miss Phoebe Snow had been among the most impertinent of their callers. She had pestered Penelope for nearly a quarter hour, asking dozens of questions about Penelope’s family and background. Eventually, seeing the tight set of Penelope’s lips, and realizing that she was holding on to her temper by the slimmest of threads, Marcus had stepped in to rescue her, diverting Miss Snow’s attention to himself.
“I will come with you to the Snows’, and see the other daughters for myself,” Marcus said. “And with luck, they will not let their envy overwhelm their good manners.”
“Envy?”
“Could you not see it? Miss Snow was practically green with envy,” he said.
“Of me?” Penelope asked incredulously.
He would never understand women. How could she have missed something that was so obvious to him.
“Think of it,” he said. “You are young, beautiful, titled, and with a fortune at your disposal. You have lived in Edinburgh where you are part of the most sophisticated circles of society. Of course she envies you. Miss Snow has probably never been outside the county in her life.”
There was a faint color to her cheeks, and Penelope appeared suddenly fascinated with her glass of wine. “I had not thought of it in that way,” she said, her eyes downcast.
“Then it is time you did,” he said.