The Marquess of Chatton brought his new marchioness home to the castle a week later, to a warm and lively welcome. He found that his mother had already moved back to the dower house, a pleasant, roomy residence half a mile away across the park. Lord Macklin remained and was soon exercising his genius for keeping out of the way when he wasn’t wanted.
Roger was delighted to install Fenella as the new mistress of the household. The servants knew her, of course, but not in this role. And if, now and then, a thread of worry nagged at him, he was able to push it away. There must always be a period of adjustment in the early days of a marriage, he told himself. His life with Fenella was pure bliss compared to his first foray into matrimony. She would soon settle and regain her spirits. Not that she moped or drooped, he hastily amended to himself. She was happy. He was nearly certain she was happy. He had no reason to suppose that there was some spark missing. Probably, she was still worried about her father’s legacy. That could be easily remedied.
The next morning, he prepared himself to visit her former home and settle the matter of her inheritance.
“I should go with you,” Fenella said. “Though I must admit I don’t really wish to see my brothers-in-law.”
“Symmes and Gissing will expect me to handle the business,” he replied.
“Oh yes. What could a mere female have to say?”
“An idiotic attitude. You know I don’t share it. But I would be delighted to do this for you.”
She bowed her head. “Thank you.”
Roger rode over on the familiar lane and was admitted to the Clough House by a doleful-looking maid. He found that a very different atmosphere had descended over the place since he’d last been inside. What had been a warm, well-run establishment now felt slipshod. There was dust in the corners. Tension showed in the set of the maid’s shoulders as she took him upstairs.
Fenella’s brothers-in-law, when he was brought to them in the drawing room, scowled at him. “This is the height of effrontery, showing your face here,” said Gissing, trying to use his bulk to loom.
Macklin had warned Roger about the man’s habit of bluster. “We are married to sisters,” Roger replied, trying with his tone to suggest that it was best they get along.
“Now that Fenella has money,” replied slender, satirical Symmes, openly mocking. “When you refused her before.”
Roger’s temper flared, but he suppressed it. He wasn’t going to be baited or pulled into side arguments.
“And you’ve caused a scandal,” said Gissing. “An outrage!”
Roger raised his eyebrows. This couldn’t be allowed. “I beg your pardon?” He outranked them, and he offered Fenella every advantage. Though he didn’t enjoy the process, those points had to be made. The brothers-in-law had no worldly reason to object to the match.
“Running off to Scotland,” said Gissing. “Disgraceful. Not to mention inconvenient. Kept us hanging about this wretched place far longer than we planned.”
“You might have gone home,” said Roger.
“With this scandal hanging over us?” asked Symmes. “I think not.”
“I really don’t know what you mean. We have been staying with Fenella’s grandmother, her favorite relative. Are you acquainted with Lady McClaren?” He knew that they’d barely met her. They didn’t move in such exalted circles. Pretension was tiresome, but these two deserved a setdown.
“She is part of this?” said Symmes.
“Our marriage, you mean? Of course.” And if this suggested that she’d known in advance, well, Fenella’s grandmother had agreed to the plan.
“We are looking into having this runaway marriage set aside,” said Gissing. “There is a case to be made.”
Pure bluster, Roger thought. Macklin was right. Gissing was accustomed to getting his way by intimidation. Still, Roger couldn’t believe he would dare hint at annulment. That was out of the question. He hated the very idea. He gave the two men his coldest, hardest stare. “If you try, you will be very sorry. Your wives will not appreciate the results.”
“Do you dare threaten us?”
“I defend my own,” replied Roger. “With every resource at my command.” He didn’t need to say that these were considerable. Here, in the neighborhood where his castle dominated the countryside, this was obvious.
The two men looked as if they’d tasted something foul.
“Perhaps we could get to business?” Roger continued. “And put the rest of this nonsense behind us.” He didn’t like them, but he didn’t want to be at odds. They were the ones fomenting trouble.
“We have no—” began Gissing, but Symmes silenced him with a gesture.
“You’ll receive Fenella’s portion of the estate,” said the latter sourly. “Most of that will come once this place is sold.”
“I might take the lead in that,” Roger offered. “I’m right here and know the local values.”
Gissing scowled at him. “We’ve already written to a top fellow in London,” he said. “Handled the sale of Rivington last year.”
“We should get a good price,” Symmes added. The thought seemed to lighten his mood. “I’ve ridden about the land. It’s in good order.”
Roger couldn’t resist. “Fenella did a superb job managing it throughout her father’s illness.”
“Did she say so?” Gissing’s laugh was patronizing. “I expect that was the steward. Already living under the cat’s foot, are you, Chatton?”
He meant it as an insult, but Roger didn’t care. It was a step toward accepting their marriage, and that was all he wanted from these two. Along with an honest accounting of Fairclough’s legacy, which he would see that they got. Beyond that, he and Fenella would let some time pass, and then they’d see them only at family gatherings now and then. He would do his best to get along with his new in-laws, if it was humanly possible.
* * *
She would have preferred that her husband did not return to a shouting match in his drawing room, Fenella thought with a mixture of amusement and irritation. Surely her sisters’ husbands would have provided him with enough friction for one day? But here was Roger back to find a sullen, near tearful John Symmes refusing to hear that he could not come to stay at Chatton Castle without consulting his father.
“Mebbe your dad would be glad for you to make a visit,” said Tom, who had, reluctantly, reported John’s presence to Lord Macklin, who had brought both of them along to Fenella. It seemed that her nephew had tried to persuade Tom to go back to his rambling life and take John along. And when he could not, he’d tried to convince Tom to hide him at Chatton, like a stowaway on a great ship.
“He won’t be!” said John. “He doesn’t care about anything I want. He brought Wrayle, who’s been prosing on and on about all the things I do wrong. They’ll drag me home and shut me up in my room until school begins. With Wrayle there persecuting me.” Hands tightly clasped, he gazed up at Fenella. “I’m to be in the pageant next week. I promised. With the mud and all. Can’t you make him let me stay?”
“I doubt he would listen to me,” she had to tell him. “He’s rather angry with me just now.”
“Because you got married? Why does he mind about that?”
Fenella tried to form an answer that John would understand. She wanted to help him, but she was certain that his father would refuse requests just to spite her at this point. And Greta would go along with him because apparently she always did. She hadn’t gotten rid of Wrayle, for example, despite Fenella’s warning about him.
While she was still searching for a reply, John turned to Roger. “Couldn’t you ask him, Lord Chatton?”
She watched Roger ponder the problem. He was so kind; he’d try to find a way. But there wasn’t one. “What about Colonel Patterson?” he asked.
Everyone gazed at him in surprise.
“He’s overseeing the pageant,” Roger went on. “He’s got John all prepared for his part. He won’t want to lose him. And he’s a hard fellow to refuse.”
“A highly influential man,” said Macklin. “In London and the country. Far more than his military title suggests. Any sensible person would be glad to do him a favor. A good idea.”
If Sherrington Symmes saw an advantage, he would jump to take it, Fenella thought. She caught Macklin’s eye. “But will John’s father know this?”
“Someone will have to drop a word in Symmes’s ear,” the earl replied. “I can attempt it, if you like.”
The adults in the room exchanged doubtful looks. Symmes was not pleased with Macklin after their earlier encounter. He was unlikely to listen to any of them.
“Ought to hint about it to that Wrayle fella instead,” said Tom. “He likes to winkle things out. Secrets, like. And then tattle about them to his master.”
John, who had been looking back and forth anxiously, nodded. “He does. Better than anything.”
“Very clever,” said Macklin. “Could you find an opportunity to speak to him, Tom?”
“Easy. He comes ’round the village tavern, poking and prying, asking what’s happening up at Chatton. Driving the barmaid distracted.” Tom looked disapproving.
“But how would you bring the talk around to Colonel Patterson?” Fenella asked.
“People must be discussing the pageant,” said Macklin.
Tom nodded. “I could say as how I’m in it, and everybody praises the colonel.”
“I will give you some details that might be mentioned,” the earl added. “And would definitely impress.”
It was agreed that Tom would foster an awe-inspiring image of Colonel Patterson in Wrayle’s mind. And that Roger would ask the colonel to intervene. The plan was explained to John, who hadn’t followed all of it. “We’re supposed to go in two days,” he objected. “There’s no time.”
“I’ll find Wrayle today,” Tom said. “Right now. Go over to the house and hang about the kitchen if I have to.”
“And I’ll go and see the colonel later,” said Roger.
Fenella wondered if the older man would fall in with their scheme. He seemed a high stickler and was not acquainted with her brother-in-law, as far as she knew. On the other hand, he was militant about the success of the pageant. He treated it like a campaign over which he had been given command, and did not intend to lose.
Tom took John away, the younger boy having promised that he would go home. Macklin soon followed them, saying he had letters to write. Roger sat beside Fenella on the sofa.
“Is it right to hope this works, I wonder?” she asked. “I should wish, rather, that John was happy with his family. And we could find a way to reconcile him and his father.”
“That may well happen on its own. Fathers and sons butt heads and then reconcile.”
“Do they?”
“My father and I certainly did. Yet we got along rather well most of the time.”
“I often envied his pride in you,” Fenella said.
“It’s part of a father’s job to be proud and encouraging.”
She made a soft sound, like a puff of skepticism.
That remark had been inept, Roger realized, remembering occasions when he’d overheard Fenella’s father express disappointment in her. Fairclough had been a fool in this area, failing to see the gem in his household. “That’s what I think, at least,” he said. “A father can support the spirits of his children. I hope to be such a father.”
Fenella gave him a startled look. His point appeared to sink in as she held his eyes for a moment. She looked down. “I’m sure you will be.” She bit her lip. “It’s such a responsibility, becoming a parent. I sometimes wonder what sort of mother I will make.”
“You’ll be an exemplary mother.”
She gazed at him again. “You’re quick to compliment, but why should I be? I’ve had no mother to emulate since I was fifteen. Even before that, we had so many disputes over my want of conduct. Greta and Nora may remember her as a kind parent, but I do not. I’ve never been around children. Until John, this summer. With his snakes.” She gave a half laugh, though her expression remained worried. “Can he be a representative example?”
“You’ll be a fine mother because you’re kind and sensible.” Roger wanted to add loving, but they hadn’t spoken of love. Somehow he couldn’t say the word.
“That hardly seems enough.”
He hadn’t known of this doubt in her. She’d appeared so strong and confident since her return from Scotland.
“Of course we have your mother nearby to help,” Fenella added. “She’s a wonderful model of motherhood.” The idea seemed to comfort her.
He’d seen Fenella as beautiful and spirited and sometimes annoyingly stubborn, but never so vulnerable. “Mama and I have had our disputes.”
“Really? You always seem in harmony.”
“I don’t think that’s true of any family. Not always.”
The word seemed to startle her, as if it had struck her before in some conversation. “I suppose not.” Suddenly, she smiled. “Grandmamma used to ring tremendous peals over her son. And he was a fierce Scottish laird! Yet I know they were extremely fond of one another.”
Having experienced a hint of that lady’s disapproval, Roger didn’t envy her progeny. But he said, “There, you see?”
Fenella looked at him. “See what?”
Roger was lost in her blue eyes, which had regained their lovely spark, and for an instant couldn’t remember the subject. “Not always harmony,” he managed finally.
Her smile widened. “I wager I could learn to shout like Grandmamma. She certainly had a marked effect on you.”
“Please don’t!”
“No.” Her smile faded. “I couldn’t carry it off.”
He took her hand. “Are you happy?”
“Of course.”
He thought she spoke too quickly, and then chastised himself for being over-nice.
“Things did go so very fast,” she added, making Roger’s heart sink a little. “We’d barely acknowledged that we…were drawn to each other, and then we were eloping. We were so pressed by circumstances.” She frowned at him. “Where would we have ended up, if not for Papa’s death?”
“There’s no way of knowing, but—”
“Exactly. Were we forced into a false position?”
She’d cut him off before he could insist that they would have been wed in any case. “You think our marriage is false?”
“No, of course not. I didn’t mean that!” She squeezed his hand. “Our situation is so new. I expect that adjustment takes time.”
Though he’d had the same thought, Roger wasn’t satisfied with this. But he didn’t want to probe farther for fear of hearing worrisome revelations. He longed to kiss her, but felt this might be the wrong moment. He was certain of his choice of wife. Did she feel the same?
* * *
Their scheme with Colonel Patterson was successful, and John came to stay at Chatton Castle when his father departed. But they were forced to accept Wrayle into their household along with the boy. Fenella saw it as a sort of punishment from her sister’s husband. Wrayle’s smirking presence was a constant reminder of Symmes’s disapproval. That did not mean that the valet would be allowed free rein, however. Fenella took the man aside before he had even unpacked and said, “If I find you’ve spoken inappropriately to any of the maids—”
“You’ll what?” he interrupted. “You can’t send me away this time. I shall do as I please.” His arrogance was insupportable.
“I’ll order William to stay at your side,” Fenella replied. Another reason to be glad she’d been able to hire all the Fairclough servants who couldn’t find other positions when the house was closed up, she thought. With Roger’s mother in an establishment of her own, they’d needed additional help. “At all times,” she added. “It would be quite a tedious duty for him. And put him in a foul mood, I expect.” Actually, the tall footman enjoyed the role of protector. And he was itching for an excuse to floor Wrayle.
“I’ll appeal to Lord Chatton,” Wrayle sputtered.
Fenella shrugged.
The valet regained some of his sly insolence. “He won’t want the neighborhood to hear that he’s under the thumb of a managing female.” He smirked. “There are other things I might tell about your affairs as well, Lady Chatton.”
Tell or fabricate, Fenella thought. Certainly he would have gotten an earful about the elopement. But she doubted that he’d be limited by the truth. How did a person become so unpleasant?
“And I daresay people may wonder why a hulking footman is required to keep me silent.” Wrayle clearly thought this was the coup de grâce of his argument. He waited for her capitulation with his familiar smirk.
There was no reasoning with the man. “William will join you directly,” Fenella replied, and left Wrayle with his mouth open in surprise.
As she walked downstairs to speak to the footman, she knew that William would gladly play his part for the few days until John and Wrayle departed. And he would prevent Wrayle from spreading his venom both in the house and out of it. There was no danger that the young footman would be swayed by Wrayle’s stories. The man’s treatment of William’s friends among the maids had hardened his, and the whole household’s, opinion against him.
Symmes and Gissing left the neighborhood. The last August days lazed past, with only the approach of the festival on Lindisfarne to vary the household’s routine. John settled in, irritated by Wrayle but companioned by Tom. Fenella enjoyed her role as mistress of Chatton Castle, creating the beautiful, cozy retreat she’d imagined for herself when she first saw her grandmother’s.
There was, naturally, widespread curiosity about their hasty marriage, and a few spiteful remarks were an irritant or a hurtful disappointment, depending on the source. The anonymous letters had sown malice that would take time to fade. Nothing to be done about that but show people the truth of her character, Fenella knew. It helped that there had been no sign of letters since their return. Fenella told herself that they’d stopped. She even hoped that perhaps the writer regretted sending them.
When she said as much to Roger as they were going up to bed one night, he said, “I’d like to think so. But I don’t believe the sort of person who’d write them is likely to be sorry.”
“I suppose not.”
“Too occupied with making trouble and gloating over the havoc they cause,” he added.
At this description, a thought struck Fenella. “I wonder if it could have been Wrayle?”
“That valet fellow Symmes foisted off on us?”
She nodded. “He’s exactly the sort of person you just described. And he has a grudge against me.”
“You?” Roger looked offended at the idea. “Why should he?”
“Because I won’t allow him to creep about the maids, and I keep his bullying of John to a minimum.”
“Why do we have such a servant in the house?”
“Well, I don’t wish to, but John’s father insisted, as a condition of allowing John to stay. You needn’t worry. I’ve given William the task of watching Wrayle. He won’t let him go beyond the line.”
“And rather enjoy it, if what I’ve seen of William is anything to go by.”
“Precisely.” Fenella sat down at the dressing table and began to pull pins out of her hair. She’d taken to dispensing with her maid at bedtime. She and Roger had evolved some more…delightful routines.
“Anonymous letters would be precisely Wrayle’s style,” she said. “He is a pernicious snoop and underhanded.”
Roger’s voice came from the dressing room off the bedchamber. “Didn’t the letters begin before the fellow returned to the neighborhood with Symmes?”
Fenella ran over the timing in her mind. “Yes. That’s true.”
“So he would have had to find someone to deliver them.”
“He could have paid someone.”
“Right. Would he have known the…sorry tale well enough?” Whenever the topic of the letters came up, Roger sounded guilty.
“He makes sure to hear everything.” But William had reported that Wrayle wasn’t much more popular in the village than in the castle. Would anyone have passed along a stale bit of gossip, which was what the story had been before the letters revived it? It didn’t seem very likely. Fenella was disappointed to see the holes in her theory. She would have liked to place the blame squarely on Wrayle rather than one of her neighbors. “Well, if it was him, he won’t be sending any more. William won’t give him the opportunity.”
Roger came out of the dressing room in his shirtsleeves and stocking feet, and Fenella was distracted by how very handsome he looked. “Macklin’s lad Tom is still on the track of the letter carrier,” he said. “He’s certain he’ll find something.”
“Tom is a kind boy and seems intelligent. I like him. But”—she sighed—“best just to get on with life, I suppose. It’s not as if I have nothing to do.”
He bent to kiss the back of her neck. “And you are doing it all splendidly. You are a superb mistress of Chatton Castle, as I knew you would be.”
Fenella met his gaze in the mirror. “Why? What made you think that the girl I was, or even the woman I became, would be superb?” There was a hint of challenge in her voice, as if the accolade was inappropriate.
She never quite seemed to see what a marvel she was. Roger didn’t understand that. It seemed so obvious to him. And she wasn’t easily fobbed off with empty compliments either. On the one hand, that was good, because he could never think of any empty compliments. On the other hand, it presented difficulties, because he had to find a way to put her wonderful qualities into words. That would require a speech, as she had so many, and the chances of him saying it right were slim. Perhaps a distraction? He held her eyes in the mirror as he undid the top button of her gown. A small smile curved her lips, as if she knew what he was doing and didn’t mind in the least.
Roger undid another button. Together, they’d developed a glorious nighttime ritual, an undressing game that drove both of them wild. Slowly, and deliciously, until they couldn’t wait a moment longer to leap into bed. He undid another button. The sleeve of Fenella’s gown fell off her shoulder, and he dropped a kiss on the bare skin. He heard her breath catch and reveled in it, as he did every time he was able to make that happen.
Roger was making a study of his new wife’s body, on a quest to discover everything that brought her pleasure. It was the most enchanting study he’d ever undertaken. And he felt he was doing rather well—certainly better than he ever had in school, he thought with a smile.
Another button. The bodice of her gown slid down. Fenella rose and let the garment fall to the floor. Now there were lacings and a petticoat and stockings, in an escalating pattern of arousal. Her fingers went to the fastenings of his shirt. Which had to be taken slowly, in concert with his efforts. Because when she moved on to the breeches, well, that was usually where the game broke down and they tumbled into bed.
They’d found their way to a heady combination of breathless need and tenderness and shattering release. Roger reveled in it, and he was pretty certain she did as well. She seemed to have dedicated herself to a similar sort of study from her side. He was undoubtedly a very lucky man, he thought, before a flood of desire wiped all thought away.