The making of his marchi.., p.15
The Making of His Marchioness, page 15
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He assumed as much when he was summoned here. I didn’t correct him because I was worried that he wouldn’t treat Mrs Mills if someone in the family hadn’t summoned him. Your rules of society are confusing and complex.’
Nodding, Roger gave himself a moment to think. He had no reason to not believe her, but there was also no reason for the doctor to have assumed such a thing. Other than this was the first time in his life he had brought anyone home. People certainly could make assumptions from that. ‘What about the pedlar?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t tell him that, either, but again, I didn’t correct the way he addressed me or his assumptions that I was the lady of the house.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, with still flushed cheeks. ‘It was just simpler to not say anything, and that was wrong. I’m sorry, I should have corrected him, and the doctor.’
He believed she hadn’t purposefully led people to believe they were married, but someone had, and he knew who. His mother wouldn’t stop until she had what she wanted, and he wouldn’t stop until she didn’t get it.
Clara stood. ‘I am sorry, I assure you it wasn’t on purpose.’
‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘I’m sure my mother was behind it.’
‘Your mother? How?’
He leaned back against the door as a clearer picture formed in his mind. ‘I should have seen this coming.’
‘Seen what?’ she asked, frowning deeply.
Frustration grew. ‘She’s attempting to make you a marchioness.’
‘Make me...’ Looking more confused, she asked, ‘Why?’
‘My mother would like nothing more than to see me married and hasn’t kept that a secret, therefore, all the servants here know that’s her goal. I’m sure the moment I sent word that I was bringing guests here, a message was sent to her.’
‘It is her home,’ she reasoned.
‘True, and because I’ve never shown an interest in taking it over completely, she continues to oversee the staff. Staff who would have spoken to the doctor, to the pedlar, prior to them meeting you. Staff who would do anything she asked.’
Clara was staring at him like he’d lost his mind.
He knew he hadn’t. ‘Doesn’t it seem strange to you that a shelf that has never been unstable before would suddenly fall over?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said, quietly, thoughtfully. ‘But it could have just been an accident.’
‘I don’t think so. Nor do I think it was the pedlar’s idea to mention new material for draperies to you. Someone wanted you to take over Mrs Mills’s duties so I would see how capable you are at running a house. Of becoming a marchioness.’
‘Why would they want that?’
‘Because getting married, having an heir to inherit titles and holdings, is of the utmost importance to those of noble backgrounds. It’s priority number one to my mother, and to my grandfather. Both have expressed concerns over my vow of bachelorhood.’
‘I don’t want to be a marchioness. I’m returning to America,’ she said, nearly breathless.
‘Yes, I know.’ She’d told him about returning to America several times. Roger rubbed his chin. There had to be a way to use this to put an end to his mother’s goal. Put an end to it for ever. ‘I should have seen this coming, known they would have taken advantage of your situation, and now that I know their scheme...’ He walked across the room to look out the window, hoping to come up with a plan.
‘Now that you know their scheme, what?’ Clara asked after several moments.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ he replied, ‘but I may need your help.’
‘My help?’ she asked, with a quiver in her voice. ‘Doing what?’
He turned around, faced her. An odd pang struck at the idea, but still he said, ‘By simply telling people exactly what you’ve told me. That you will be returning to America as soon as the war is over. And that I will be assisting in your return.’
‘You will?’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘What if the war doesn’t end for months?’ she asked, ‘After we’ve gone to live with Annabelle?’
‘Whenever it ends, whenever you are ready to return, I will provide transport for you on one of my ships.’
‘How will that help you?’ she asked.
He wasn’t upset with her. None of this was her fault. It was his mother’s, for turning even this, his want of helping Clara into something he couldn’t have. That angered him, and he walked to the door. ‘Because it will show my mother that her little scheme didn’t work. That her meddling will never work.’
Once in the hallway, he let out a muttered curse. Clara was still in love with her husband, would always love her husband, and it angered him that his mother’s meddling had tried to manipulate her into something she didn’t want.
* * *
Hours later, Clara was still thinking about her conversation with Roger. She could understand his desire to not be tricked and felt a keen sense of loyalty to him over that. So keen that telling people he’d take her back to America after the war ended felt disloyal. He’d helped her so much, and she’d done so little in return, yet still expected him to do more by providing transportation back to America. That wasn’t like her.
She needed to return, but couldn’t expect him to help her get there. She wouldn’t expect it, yet had said that she would say that, hadn’t she?
It was all so confusing. All she could think to do was to fulfil her promise of having the house in perfect shape by the time his mother arrived.
That wasn’t very difficult. It was already a beautiful home, and with so much help, the drapes for the drawing room were completed and hung up by that evening. A new table cloth covered the round table near the window, and just as she’d imaged, the room looked utterly stunning.
The front parlour, which Mrs Mills explained was Roger’s mother’s favourite room, would get new curtains next. A lovely rose-coloured material to match the room’s furniture, with gold cording to tie them back. Then the study, which had been his father’s favourite room. She’d chosen a tan brocade for that room to match the brown leather furniture, and the final room would be the second parlour, which was called the tea room because it is where guests were normally served tea, again according to Mrs Mills. The material for that room was a light yellow with tiny specks of white.
All the draperies would be sewn and hanging by the time his mother arrived, she’d make sure of that. None of her seedlings were large enough to display in pots, but she found some lovely ferns growing near a wooded area beyond the manicured yard and asked Donald to dig them up. She planned on planting them in some of the decorative earthen pots and setting them on stands in the rooms near the windows. Each of those rooms would need to have a few pieces of furniture rearranged to give them a fresh look.
‘Are you sure you don’t want this one?’ Suzanne asked. ‘It’s extraordinary.’
Clara glanced at the dress. For the last hour, the two of them had been going through the trunks and crates, dividing out the gowns, dresses, shoes and slippers, underthings, and nightgowns and accessories.
‘That is beautiful,’ Clara admitted. ‘The blue is nearly the same shade as your eyes and will look stunning on you.’ It was most certainly a ball gown, not simply a dress, and Clara was certain she would never have need for that. She was choosing the dresses she would keep by a simple standard: dresses that she thought a housekeeper would wear. The staff at Clairmount all wore matching dresses, uniforms one might say, and that might be true wherever she found a job. Even though Roger had said that he’d provide her with transportation home, she was going to find a job and pay him for both her and Abigail’s passage.
‘This will be the last one for me,’ Suzanne said, laying the dress with a pile of others.
‘But there are still several left,’ Clara said.
‘I have over a dozen,’ Suzanne said. ‘The rest are for you.’
Clara glanced at the gowns draped on the bed, over chairs and trunks, and already hanging in the standing wardrobe. ‘I’ll never need all of these. I’ll certainly never be able to haul them all back to Virginia.’
‘I think that’s something we can figure out when the time comes,’ Suzanne said. ‘I’ll help you hang all these up, and then you can help me carry mine to my room.’
Clara helped, and later, while lying in bed, she couldn’t help but think about why Roger’s mother wanted him to get married so badly. As a mother, she hoped that Abigail would someday fall in love and get married, because she wanted her daughter to know how wonderful it was to share her life with someone she loved. Even though Mark had died, the time they had shared had been wonderful and had created Abigail.
Is that what his mother wanted, too?
Why didn’t Roger want that?
Grief. He’d told her that was the reason, and she’d agreed, but there is grief in loneliness, too.
There had to be more to his reasons, and though it was none of her business, she wanted to know what had put him off marriage. At one time she’d looked forward to spending the rest of her life married, now she was destined to spend it alone.
Not completely. She had Abigail, but Roger didn’t have anyone, and that didn’t feel fair.
He would make a wonderful father. Abigail adored him. Other children would, too. His children.
She could imagine a little boy, with green eyes, black hair and a quick, charming smile, exactly like his father’s. He would be kind and generous, and loving. Very loving. She dreamed about that little boy, that night. A sweet dream that she couldn’t quite remember in the morning, but knew it hadn’t turned into a nightmare because she’d slept soundly and woke up even more determined to get the house in order for Roger’s mother’s visit.
* * *
The days that followed were busy, but many hands make light work. All of the draperies were sewn and hung and several rooms hosted potted ferns and vases filled with fresh cut flowers from the flower gardens. She also prided herself on how well the rooms looked where she’d requested the furniture be moved about. Roger had helped with some of the heavier pieces, and during those times, she realised that a friendship had formed between them. A fun one, where they laughed and teased each other.
‘My mother is going to love this room more than ever,’ he said, walking into the parlour.
That was another thing Clara had noticed the last few days. He actually seemed excited about his mother’s visit. How can that be if he distrusted her so much?
‘You’ve done an amazing job, with all of the rooms. All of the house,’ he said.
‘I’ve hardly touched all of the house,’ she replied. ‘Nor can I take credit for all the work. Everyone helped, including you, but I am happy with how all the rooms look. Especially this one. It’s so welcoming.’
‘It is.’
She glanced at the single vase of flowers. ‘I am afraid that I’m cutting flowers faster than the garden can produce. I hope your mother won’t be disappointed by that.’ Although she was nervous about meeting his mother, she was also very curious.
She was also torn by the relationship between him and his mother in another sense. He’d said his mother was kind, and that she had nothing to fear in meeting her. Then why was there contention between the two of them? It couldn’t totally be because his mother wanted him to marry. Bertha had said the contention between them had been there for years. Ever since his father had died.
‘Do you ride?’ he asked.
She chuckled slightly at his abrupt change of subject and instantly noticed how good that felt. How good a question that sparked a memory about her father felt. Up until now, she’d refused to recall happy memories. ‘My father owned a livery stable, and I was his only child. I learned to ride at a very early age in order to help exercise the horses. Lucky for me, though, Annabelle loved tending to their other needs.’ After Clara and Mark had married, Annabelle had continued to help with the horses at the livery, which had been so thoughtful. Clara had worried a great deal about her father when she’d moved out to the farm Mark had purchased. That had been the most difficult part of her marriage, leaving her father alone.
‘Would you care to take a ride with me?’ Roger asked. ‘I’d like to show you something.’
The last time he’d said that, he’d shown her the growing room, therefore, she didn’t question her quick response, ‘Yes, I would.’ Only then did another thought form. ‘But...’ She left the rest hanging in the air as she walked towards the doorway.
He lifted a brow. ‘But?’
‘I can’t ride in a side saddle.’ She stopped next to him in the doorway. ‘I never learned and I don’t want to.’
His frown was a bit mocking. ‘Is that proper?’
She understood his frown, because he was teasingly mocking her. That had happened during the past few days more and more often, as their friendship had formed and become stronger. Teasingly in return, she slapped his arm. ‘I don’t care if it’s proper or not. I’m not hanging both legs over the same side of the horse. That’s an accident waiting to happen.’
‘Very well. I don’t have a Western saddle, though, only English ones.’
‘As long as there are two stirrups, one on each side of the horse, I can ride in it.’
‘All right, then.’ He gave her a quick up-and-down glance. ‘Do you need to change?’
She was wearing one of her new dresses, a lovely lilac coloured one, with a V shape of white lace down the front and around the sleeves and hem. However, it was also very practical and serviceable, and lightweight enough to tuck around her legs and out of the way once she was in the saddle. ‘No, this one is fine, but I will collect a bonnet and let Bertha know where I’m going. Abigail is sleeping.’
He bowed slightly. ‘I will meet you out front in fifteen minutes.’
Excitement filled her as she hurried up to her room. She hadn’t ridden a horse since before Abigail was born. Once she and Mark had married, they always travelled in a wagon, especially after she’d become pregnant, and then the horses were stolen and she never left the farm. She had to pause for a moment and acknowledge how those memories didn’t pull her down into a dark and gloomy place. They were just memories. Some of them, like riding, she could smile about, remember fondly.
She had always enjoyed riding and was looking forward to whatever he wanted to show her, and being excited right now, felt good.
In fact, she’d felt different ever since she’d bawled her eyes out in his arms and told him about Mark. About needing Abigail to know her father had loved her. Roger had been right about keeping things locked inside her. Things had been festering. Things that she couldn’t do anything about. All she could do was accept that her life was different than before. She could never go back to that life, but she could remember it with joyfulness rather than sorrow. That was how she wanted to remember things, and that was how she would tell Abigail about things when she was old enough—with joyfulness, not sorrow.
Clara was waiting on the front steps when Roger rode up on Smokey, leading a brown horse with three white feet named Buck. Due to Abigail’s love of the stable—her grandfather would have been so proud of that—Clara knew all of the horse’s names, and also knew that Buck didn’t buck.
The English saddle didn’t have the deep swells of the Western ones she’d grown up using, but it served its purpose.
They rode across the back yard, past the barn where the animals, other than the horses, resided, and was another one of Abigail’s favourite places—her daughter’s love of animals was never-ending—and into the woods. Clara hadn’t ventured this far before, and was surprised when after a short distance, the trees gave way to rolling hills.
Hills that were covered with wildflowers. Everything from bluebells in the open areas, to cowslips in the more shaded, wet lowlands. There were also primroses, purple orchids and foxgloves, as well as several varieties that she’d never seen so didn’t know the names of, but would soon learn. There were so many flowers, in so many different directions that she pulled on the reins, stopped Buck so she could simply stare.
After a moment, she turned to Roger, who was grinning.
He also held up an empty feed sack. ‘I brought a couple of bags so you can collect as many as your heart desires.’
She laughed and once again scanned the colourful displays in all directions. ‘Let me just say this in advance.’
‘What?’
‘I won’t blame you if you get bored and return without me,’ she shouted while urging Buck into a gallop.
Roger quickly caught up to her, and they galloped, side by side, through fields and valleys, and up the side of a hill, all the way to the peak, where she could smell the sea.
The happiness inside her was light, wonderful, and she lifted her face to the sunlight, breathed deeply.
‘How close are we to the ocean?’ she asked. The smell reminded her of home, of the farm, where the distinct scent of the sea would fill the air on certain days. It was such a good memory, one that made her smile grow.
‘The English Channel is about two miles from here. We can ride over there if you want to see it.’
She pondered that for a moment. ‘Are there fields of flowers along the way?’
‘No, just crops that belong to the tenant farmers.’
That, too, she pondered before saying, ‘Donald claims you are the fairest landowner for miles around. That others stand in line, waiting and hoping that a piece of your property becomes available.’
He looked directly at her, as if pondering something himself. She couldn’t say what, but as usual, was curious.
‘I wouldn’t know about standing in line,’ he said, glancing away. ‘But I do believe that the farmers are the ones who put in the work and that they should be the ones to reap the rewards.’
