True to his word, Marcus accompanied Penelope as she visited the Snow family, who managed to display better manners than he had expected. He accompanied her on a few other calls, watching as Penelope’s impeccable manners and natural charm managed to win over the ladies of the neighborhood.
He realized that in many ways it would have been easier for society to accept if he had married an actress or an opera dancer. Such misalliances were frowned upon, of course, but society knew how to behave when faced with such a couple. But there were simply no rules governing proper conduct toward a duke who had advertised for a wife as he might for a housekeeper, or toward the duchess who had presumably answered that advertisement. It was no wonder that the proper folk of the Lake District had no idea what to make of their new neighbors.
Gradually the curiosity seekers faded away, leaving only those souls who were genuinely prepared to welcome them into the neighborhood, and they began to receive a few invitations in return. They dined once at the Applebys’, and Penelope took tea with Mr. Abercrombie’s daughter Pamela. Marcus was invited to join Sir Harold Stevenson on a day of fishing, an outing he thoroughly enjoyed, while Penelope had luncheon with Lady Stevenson.
For her part, Penelope found country life pleasant enough, in its own way. And she knew that given time she and Marcus would become an accepted part of the country set. But she missed Edinburgh, with its intellectual atmosphere and the lively conversation of her friends. Here none of the ladies she had met admitted to reading poetry, although several had confessed to an addiction to romantic novels.
A month after their arrival, Marcus passed her the newspaper at breakfast one morning. She raised her eyebrows, for she had stopped reading the newspapers weeks ago, having no wish to read her own name in the society news.
“Page four, in the bottom left corner,” Marcus said.
She looked at the masthead and saw that this was a two-day old copy of the Edinburgh Courant, which must have arrived along with yesterday’s mail. Her eyes scanned down the columns, and then it leapt out at her.
Mr. Robert Carstairs is pleased to announce the engagement of his daughter Miss Amelia Carstairs to Mr. James Hastings, a gentleman of Edinburgh. The couple plan to be married this autumn.
She felt a hot flash of anger. Could James not have written to her, out of common courtesy? She was still his sister, his only living relative.
“I am certain they will be well suited,” she said, after a moment’s deliberation. Carefully she folded the newspaper and handed it back to her husband.
“So you approve of the match?”
“I think Miss Carstairs is precisely what my brother deserves,” she said venomously.
Marcus nodded, placing the newspaper on the table. He took a sip of coffee. Then, in an apparent change of topic, he said, “You never did tell me who penned the response to the advertisement.”
“No, I did not,” she said. “Nor did you ever tell me how it managed to appear in the paper in the first place.”
Marcus leaned back in his seat, the fingers of his right hand tapping idly on the table. “After learning that I had less than a month to be married, I confessed my difficulties to my brother. He and I drank rather more than was wise, and in a jest he suggested that I advertise for a wife, and wrote out the particulars.”
He grimaced. “It would have remained nothing more than a poor joke, except the next morning rather than sending the advertisement for a kennel master to the paper, he sent in the jest instead. By the time we realized the mistake, it was too late. The rest you know.”
It made a strange sort of sense, and fit with what he had told her before. Marcus had implied that the advertisement had been written in jest, but the more she had learned of his character, the less likely it had seemed that he was the one who had done so.
It was time for some truths of her own. “As you have no doubt guessed, I recognized Miss Carstairs’s handwriting on that letter. Though I do not know what she hoped to gain by penning it. The chances that you would choose my letter out of the hundreds you received were small indeed.”
“It is lucky for me that I did,” Marcus said. “I believe I may owe her my thanks.”
“I think not,” Penelope said tartly. “The minx needs no encouragement. It is enough for me to know that she will no doubt drive James miserable with her demands.”
Echoes of their conversation stayed with him throughout the day. It lingered in the back of his mind, even as he wrote letters authorizing payment for his cousin’s newly discovered debts, and later, when he was at Squire Turner’s, inspecting the new drainage machinery with which the squire planned to turn acres of muddy swamp into productive fields.
He had been more than half serious when he declared himself indebted to Miss Carstairs. Without her meddling, he might never have found a bride who suited him half so well. In these past few weeks he had grown to count himself a lucky man. His new wife behaved as if she had been born to her rank. The household ran smoothly, and Penelope showed great refinement and tact in the face of impertinent questions from the curiosity seekers who came to call.
And most wondrous of all, he found that he genuinely liked Penelope. Superficially she was the kind of woman he never would have imagined himself attracted to, and yet the more he knew of her, the more he found to like. He had come to enjoy those hours he spent in her company. The tension of the early days of their marriage now seemed a distant memory, as they grew comfortable with one another. She listened patiently as he explained his plans for the estate, and offered intelligent suggestions of her own.
His only regret was that they had not consummated their marriage. And yet, having decided to wait until they grew to know one another, he now felt awkward. Perhaps it would have been easier to have had a true wedding night. Now, after these weeks had passed, what was he to do? Could he simply announce that he saw no reason to wait any longer? Or should he wait until the right moment occurred?
If that moment ever came, that is. She had shown no signs that she would welcome his attentions.
And there was another matter. This morning’s conversation had reminded him that the benefits of this marriage were very much one-sided. He had been the one in need of a bride to secure his inheritance. Penelope had been forced into this marriage by a conniving minx and a heartless brother. A brother who cared so little for his sister that he did not bother to inform her that he was to wed.
When he returned to Edinburgh, Marcus intended to pay a visit to James Hastings. It was time that Penelope’s brother learned a few simple truths. Marcus had both wealth and position on his side, and he intended to use them to protect his wife. James and his intended bride would treat Penelope with the courtesy she deserved, or they would suffer the consequences.
But satisfying as such thoughts might be, they did not provide an answer to his dilemma. True, this marriage had been conceived as a marriage of convenience, but he had grown fond of Penelope. Was it possible that she had found her own share of contentment? He knew he was far from what she would have chosen for herself. Her tastes ran to intellectual pursuits, while he made no pretensions to great learning. Indeed he detested time spent in cities, and would far rather spend a day tramping through muddy country fields than to stay inside, with his nose buried in some musty tome. Yet, despite their differences they seemed to rub along well enough together.
And there was another factor to consider. The date they had set for their return to Edinburgh was fast approaching. If he was to woo his wife, he had little time left.
At dinner that evening, Penelope asked him to describe his visit to Squire Turner’s.
“I found Squire Turner to be a most affable gentleman,” Marcus said. “Indeed, he was so hospitable that I stayed far longer than I intended, and he seemed most disappointed that I would not stay to dine.”
Unlike the gentlewomen of the county, their menfolk had been far more accepting of Marcus. Perhaps it was because he was now the most important landholder in the county. Or perhaps it was simply that they sensed in him a kindred spirit. After all, a few months ago he had been the same as any of them, occupied with the affairs of managing a small country estate.
“And the project he wished to show you?” Penelope asked, taking a spoonful of the clear fish soup.
“I was quite impressed. The squire has acquired mechanical pumps and has used them to drain acres of unproductive marsh, which will soon be ready for planting. Over one hundred acres so far has been reclaimed,” Marcus said.
It was indeed an engineering marvel, one made possible by the latest in agricultural technology. A generation before such a project would have been ruinously expensive, if one had to rely upon laborers to man the pumps. Now, once the ditches were dug, each mechanical pump did the work of a dozen men laboring around the clock without rest.
“I have never seen the likes of those pumps. Of course in the highlands we do not have the same challenges with marshy ground that the landowners here face,” Marcus said. “I shall have to talk to Michaels about doing the same for the unused lands near the Home Farm.”
“It sounds most interesting. Perhaps someday I could see it for myself. Did you know that physicians have observed an increase in ill health among those who dwell near marshes and swamps?”
Marcus shook his head. Penelope was proving quite a surprise, full of the oddest bits of knowledge. No doubt it had to do with her passion for learning in all forms.
“I recall an article by a Dr. Brown who theorized that the prevalence of sickness was caused by the miasma associated with such places. The squire is not only improving his land, but no doubt the health of his tenants will benefit as well,” Penelope said.
“There is indeed much to be gained from applying the latest scientific farming methods,” Marcus said.
At Greenfields his efforts had been limited because of the small size of his estate. But now, as a landowner with plenty of capital and holdings in four counties, he would have full scope to apply his talents to the improvement of his properties, not to mention well-trained stewards to carry out his wishes.
As the footman set out the main course, roasted lamb in curry sauce, Penelope shared her own news.
“We received more wedding gifts today,” she said.
He nodded, taking another forkful of the richly spiced dish. Since their arrival they had received a number of gifts, a few from friends but many from strangers they had never heard of, acquaintances of the old duke perhaps, or simply those who wished to curry favor. There had been a truly ugly set of china, packages of linens and lace that Penelope, at least, seemed to appreciate, along with various curios and knickknacks.
His Uncle Quigley had sent a pair of shotguns from London’s finest gunsmith. Not a typical wedding gift, but one that spoke of how well his uncle knew him.
He believed Penelope had received several sonnets composed in honor of their marriage, which had the advantage of being far more portable than the giant Grecian urn that his Aunt Fulton had sent.
“Was there anything of interest?” he asked, since she seemed to want a response.
“Do you know a Josiah Dickson?” she asked. “And is he a gentleman fond of playing jokes on others?”
“I know him, yes, but I would not say he is a man given to jokes,” Marcus said. “Why, what did he send us? Another urn? An insipid painting?”
“Nothing so ordinary, I’m afraid. When the gifts arrived, I was busy with the laundress. I told the footman to put them in the front parlor with the others.” She smiled. “Imagine my shock when a quarter hour later the footman arrived to say that one of the gifts had just chewed the carpet Lady Muir had sent us.”
He blinked, certain he had misheard. “Chewed?”
“Yes, chewed,” she said. “It seems your friend Mr. Dickson had seen fit to send a half-dozen dogs for your kennel. By the time I arrived, five of them had escaped, and it took us two hours to round them all up.”
“Beagles? Southern hounds?”
“I can not tell which breed, but the boy who brought them assured me that they were beagles. Five bitch puppies, and a year-old dog. Of Champion George’s lineage, if that means anything to you.”
It did indeed. “Champion George was a legend, and his litters breed true to his form. Truly, Mr. Dickson has been more than generous.”
A gift of puppies from Champion George’s line was a princely gift indeed. His own beagles were the smaller North Country breed, used most often as gun dogs. Until he had retired a few years ago, Josiah Dickson raised the larger Southern hounds, which were favored for hare hunting. Marcus had corresponded with Mr. Dickson over the past dozen years, forming a friendship. Often he had thought of experimenting with a cross of the two lines, to breed a heavier dog who could stand up to rougher country. Now, thanks to his friend’s generosity, he could do so.
“Where did you put them? I should go see if they are all right,” he said, pushing his chair back and preparing to rise.
“They are in the stables and you will do no such thing, Marcus,” Penelope said with mock severity. “The servants already think that we are mad. Having you rush away from dinner to inspect your puppies will only confirm them in their opinion.”
“Very well,” he said, resuming his seat, although he could not repress his disappointment.
“Honestly, you are like a child,” she said. “We must hope your own children show more patience.”
It was the opening he had sought. He waited until the footmen had left the room, after clearing away the last course, and leaving him and Penelope with their tea, as had become their custom.
“We never did talk about children,” Marcus said, gathering his courage in both hands.
“No, we did not,” Penelope said softly.
“Do you want children?” Even as he asked the question, he wondered what he would do if she answered no.
“I suppose all women do,” Penelope said, her eyes fixed firmly on the table.
“I can not speak for all men, but I know that I would like a family of my own. A son, and perhaps a daughter.”
Penelope lifted her gaze to his. “I do not claim to be an expert in these matters, but if we continue as we have, then there will be no children,” she said. Her cheeks colored but she held his gaze firmly.
“Then perhaps we should change our ways,” he said, feeling a tingling anticipation. “It would please me greatly if you would let me come to you tonight.”
“I would like that,” she whispered.
He rose, and gave a slight bow. “I will leave you, to give you time to make your preparations,” he said.
“And so you can inspect the puppies,” Penelope said, with a twinkle in her eye.
The puppies. Distracted by anticipation of what was to come, he had completely forgotten about the beagles that were awaiting his attention.
“Right. The puppies. It will do no harm to see that they are set for the night,” he said.