The Notorious Marquis of Wickerley Page 2

  The wind tugged at her hair. No wonder it howled along the windows and doors of the house. Walking around the corner, she saw a maid beating the blankets from her room with a twitch, plumes of dust coming off with each strike. The maid was older, well past marrying age, dressed in a mob cap and apron. She turned and bowed slightly, neither friendly nor unfriendly, just acknowledgement before resuming her whipping.

  As she continued, Cecily came to the front of the house where white gravel crunched under her feet. The gravel stretched along the driveway as far as she could see. This house was completely isolated, stuck out by this harsh coastline, buffered by frozen fields. The land was being managed at least, the remnants of last year's harvests standing like stubble in the fields. When the spring came, the earth would be tilled and sowed, she expected.

  There were a few outhouses, other than that, not much was around. Cecily had never lived in the country, having been born and bred in London. This seemed the loneliest, most desolate place she had ever seen. It certainly represented exile, cast out of society to exist at the very edge of the country.

  A well stood at the side of the main courtyard, and stables ran along the side. The kitchen garden was behind, showing rows of cabbage, onion and leeks—winter harvest.

  The cold had started to bite and Cecily couldn't stay outside any longer, instead returning to the main hall to stand by the fire again. Her breakfast had been cleared away and there was nothing for her to do. Her room was being tended and she really had nowhere else to go, other than to walk around the hall and look at the paintings of the previous marquis'. From them, she tried to imagine what her husband would look like. They looked like handsome but formidable men. There were also women, looking stern in high collars and beaded dresses—definitely Elizabethan in fashion. Even some older with elaborate headdresses. The marquis' family was old. A set of armor stood by the side of the stairs. She hadn't noticed it there yesterday.

  Her wanderings led her to a library, filled with old, dusty books from floor to ceiling along a wall. Many of them were old tomes, hand created with elaborate and colorful drawings edged with gold. There were French, German, Italian, Latin and Greek books in the collection, mostly scientific or philosophical in nature, but it had been some time since the collection was added to.

  Not only was she marrying this man, she was marrying into an ancient family, one whose reputation he had irreparably tarnished. So far, she had seen no hint of a dowager marquesa—in fact, there seemed to be no other family members in this house, which might be why the Marquis of Wickerley was so desperate to marry. He needed to sire an heir, and that was her purpose here.

  Clutching a pillow, she sat down in a large chair, wrapping her arms around the soft brown lump, wondering if her future here was as bleak and colorless as these books. Did she dare hope for more?

  Chapter 3:

  * * *

  That woman was in his house, and Symon had a compulsive urge to be out of it since the moment he'd woken. She'd arrived late at night, unannounced and unexpected. Jenkins had taken care of her. It was rude and unconventional, but understandable considering the news that came chasing with her. The king was dead. The grumblings over his trial had filtered all the way out here, and now the unthinkable had happened. Although admittedly, not all that unthinkable perhaps—Symon would gladly have killed the man himself at some points in the not too distant past. He understood the sheer aggravation the parliamentarians felt dealing with him. Not that Parliament had the right to take the steps they had.

  He sat down in the carriage house, having rescued a bottle of whiskey from the case that had just been delivered, still waiting in the carriage house to be taken in the cellar of the manor. It might have been there for weeks for all he knew. Jerry wasn't exactly quick on his feet these days, even if the carriage was barely ever in use. The man had been requisitioned as a land manager and none too happy about it—but they needed the land tended more than they needed carriage rides of late.

  Symon never went anywhere. There was nowhere to go. People were uncomfortable around him, initially fearing his disease or the king's wrath. Lately, it was more Parliament's wrath and the New Model who roamed the district looking for men and taxes. Every man fit enough to lift a hay fork had been taken, leaving no one to work the land. Somehow they'd managed in the late summer.

  And now here she was, his bride. She couldn't have come at a more inopportune time. They barely had enough to eat amongst them, but they would have to make it stretch for one more. The last thing he wanted was a screeching, demanding woman in the house. Although in the start he never thought he would, he had grown used to the solitude.

  Jenkins had gone in search for a wedding gown for the girl. She, apparently, came without one, without anything from what Jenkins told him this morning, which was a shame, because he was not in a state to keep her in silks and gowns if that's what she was expecting. Mrs. Morton would have to see what could be salvaged from the attics. Surely there would be enough material spared by the moths to sew together a gown or two.

  He drew his lips back with the burn of the whiskey and returned the glass to the chair arm. The quality of whiskey had declined along with the quality of the country, but he was well used to the rough after-burn by now. He resented that he would have to shave to be presentable this afternoon. Looking down, he took in the worn velvet of his breeches, where the material was pale and drawn over the knees. It had been years since he'd bought new clothes; there seemed no point out here. Increasingly no one came to visit, and he rarely went elsewhere. He was starting to prefer it that way.

  This bride of his was a long time coming, but she was too early. As of yet, he couldn't beget an heir, having to ensure the heir was free of disease and the terrible affliction syphilis left on children. The heir had to be healthy and strong. It was his only real purpose in life these days, and the only purpose for why she was here.

  Finishing the glass, he got up and walked around the rough wooden floor of the carriage house, inspecting the vehicle that had been in the family since his youth. He'd been a stupid young man, gambling and whoring, intent on destruction. He hadn't seen that at the time, blaming his father's constant demands, demeaning words and loathing. His father had left the family finances in a dismal state, the family reliant on the land of this estate. Court was always a distraction and why sit around and watch the fields grow when there was amusement to be had? Court was also where the power was, where gain was secured. Unfortunately, Symon had been more influential in bedrooms than by the king's good graces.

  Then he'd fallen ill, starting with a small rash, but he'd been strong and his body had shaken the disease someone had brought into the rarified society in which he’d existed. Symon had always taken care to not indulge with the lowly whores, preferring the intrigue and games of the ladies at court. He had excelled at it, but someone had invited disease into their midst and Symon had in turn infected Arabella Fennwyck, the woman Charles had sought to make his mistress. The king's fury and punishment had been swift and complete. Symon was exiled, banished from the only life he'd really known since reaching adulthood. There was nothing other than court.

  The treatment had been painful—arsenic ointment, but his body had expelled the disease quickly, which the physicians indicated as a strong sign of recovery. A period of seven years had to pass to ensure there were no latent infectiousness. It had seemed like a death sentence at the time and in a sense it had been. The man he had been was dead and buried. Many times, he wondered if it wouldn't have been kinder to execute him. The slow, lonely death of isolation in this sparse and empty land was more painful than any blow from the executioner's axe.

  With a snort, Symon realized he resented this girl, even as it was him that has insisted the contract be honored. A bride so low in standing it was practically ludicrous. Or perhaps it was that she signified so completely how low he had fallen. Marriage had always been his greatest bargaining chip, but circumstances had forced him to give it away,
for nothing in return.

  *

  The wheels of the carriage crushed the gravel as she approached the church where Symon waited in silence with the village parson. The church was inland and about a mile away from the Wickerley estate. The awkward silence continued as the girl was helped out and made her way up the steps, heavily veiled.

  "If you would stand here, my lord," the parson said. Jenkins had sent the stable boy to inform the man of the marquis' intention to wed that afternoon. If the parson objected to the suddenness or the lack of consultation, he didn't let anyone know, just as he didn't let anyone know about the marquis' constant absence from Sunday service. What the man sought in return for this silence, he hadn't eluded to yet. As the Wickerley family had always been Catholic, Symon expected that the parson suspected he lent himself to private popish services, the young man probably preferring it to the truth: the marquis' complete absence of faith in any form. Least of all was he going to sit here on Sundays and suffer the lectures on sin by a man who knew nothing on the topic. Symon could tell anyone who asked about sin and its pleasures.

  The girl was slim under the heavy veil. He had seen her last night, enough to know she would never be a celebrated beauty. They stood in silence and she folded back the veil. Perhaps the awkwardness resulted because it was something he was supposed to do. He was no expert on weddings, and he was not amused by pointless traditions.

  He looked down on her. She was plain and drab like any mouse belonging in this church. Red hair and pale skin. Her eyes were clear and comely, but they held none of the mischief and intelligence he preferred in his women. Saying that, not a single one of those women would more than laugh at his offering these days, although most were likely in equally deprived circumstances now that the king was dead. Naturally a few would have spotted which way the wind was blowing and switched sides to salvage their family's fortunes. For being a notorious wastrel, Symon could never abide switching sides, side with the insipid Puritans and their ridiculous notions of supremacy. The king was the king, like him or not. Whatever sins Symon had committed in his life, he would never add treason to it. If he was young and gullible like the parson, he would say that every man had to have a line they wouldn't cross, but he knew better.

  "Commence," Symon ordered and the parson's smile faltered slightly.

  "We are gathered here …," the parson started in a lofty tone, as if he was addressing a room full of people when there was only Jenkins and Mrs. Moreton present, to serve as witnesses.

  "There is no one here, man. The fineries are wasted." Symon's tone was brusque, ill at ease at suffering the pointless trappings of this service.

  "As you wish," the young man said with a strained voice, putting his book away. "Do you, Symon Harrow, Marquis of Wickerley, take Cecily Alderman as your wife?" Symon barely more than grumbled his consent. Her hand shook as she held it up for the ring, which he placed on her slim finger. It was cold and clammy, and for a moment, he felt revulsion for this whole act—marrying a perfect stranger. This was surely an act of desperation on monumental scale. He was getting a bride and she was getting a title in return. It was a transaction if he'd ever heard of one, but marriages always were, no matter what you dressed it up as.

  The ceremony concluded and they signed the relevant registry. As expected, Jenkins and Mrs. Moreton signed as witnesses and it was finished without incident. The girl's face was drawn and tight as she stood by in a white silk dress he'd never seen before. It was perhaps old fashioned by today's standards, but significantly more refined than the dress she'd arrived in, which wouldn't have looked out of place on a scullery maid. The dress did smell musty and it stung his nose when too near it. A flashing pity for her crossed his consciousness, but he conceded she was getting a bargain for what she presented. She had no dowry to speak of, no family power or prospects; although technically of gentle birth, if you were generous and stretched the definition to include Gerald Alderman.

  Chapter 4:

  * * *

  The fire roared in the great hall, but Cecily barely felt it as she clasped and reclasped her fingers to chase the chill out. They felt numb, but at least she was out of the icy rain that had started as the carriage brought her back over the rough and potholed roads.

  "Cook has made a special feast in honor of this momentous day," Jenkins said and guided her to the far side of the table, away from the fire. "Some sherry to start? It will warm you."

  "That would be lovely," she said and took her seat, wishing she could get out of this dreadful wedding dress.

  The marquis sat at the other end, leaning back in his chair with a whiskey in hand. He didn't smile, only watched as Jenkins helped her to her seat. He sighed audibly and swallowed the remaining liquid in his glass, pouring himself another.

  "On behalf of myself and Mrs. Moreton, I would like to give you our warmest congratulations and wish you welcome to Wickerley Manor." His tone was droll, as if he was repeating what was expected of him. No one involved with this entire charade seemed particularly happy with this development. At least they were all in agreement, she smiled discreetly to herself.

  "That is most kind of you," Cecily replied. They all had to play their part. A woman came, bringing a covered tray. Cecily had to assume this was Mrs. Moreton. The woman with round, red cheeks made an awkward bow and left the tray with Jenkins. It would seem master and staff dispensed with the etiquette most of the time, which surprised her a little as she'd assumed being a creature of court, the marquis would be well versed on etiquette. But then he hadn't been for six years, and those years seemed to have changed him.

  Searching her mind, she tried to think of something to say to break this persistent silence he seemed to have no problem prolonging. It was still astonishing that this man was her husband. Looking at him, he didn't seem fit for the role. "It is very windy here," she said, her voice sounding thin as it echoed off the walls.

  The marquis' eyes lifted to her, but he didn't smile, likely cringing at the obviousness of her statement. No one responded for a while.

  "You get used to the wind," Jenkins finally filled in.

  Cecily took a gulp of her sherry, wishing she could be released from this awful supper. "Are there many families around the district?"

  "No," the marquis said sharply. "Are you ready to serve?" he said, addressing Jenkins.

  The man took the cover off the tray and started carving. It did smell delicious and Cecily was famished, willing to forgive quite a bit for a tasty, hot meal at this point.

  Jenkins served the marquis, and then Cecily in turn. Roast lamb and carp. There was also a pear tart. It wasn't a banquet exactly, but it was a good meal, and Mrs. Moreton was a decent cook.

  Picking up his cutlery, the marquis started a little early, the sounds of his cutlery to the plate the only sound surrounding them. Jenkins left to retrieve a bottle of claret and Cecily started her meal. The food warmed her belly, making her instantly feel better. The wind was still the loudest noise, whining and tearing, voicing the unhappiness she felt at this situation. "Does the wind ever stop?"

  "No."

  Ungenerously, Cecily started to wonder if it was the only word he knew—a word she wanted in relation to the real question she had: would he come to her room that night? It was the one question she couldn't bring herself to ask this stranger sitting across from her. Did she even have a lock on her door? She hadn't even noticed before. Everything had happened so quickly.

  Picking up the glass of claret Jenkins had poured for her, she took a sip and watched the marquis, whose attention was on his plate. The suit he wore looked out of place on him. His shoulders were broad and hair had escaped from the queue in the back, holding it away from his face. He had a handsome face, but unscrupulous living had slimmed its youthfulness and lines were starting to form. His lips were full and firm, although she had never seen him smile as such. A powerful jaw worked as he chewed and a straight nose added to his handsomeness. He ate with precision, wasting no movement. It barely
looked like he tasted the food; he just ate quickly and consistently.

  Suddenly, he got up and threw his napkin down beside his place setting, hesitating for a moment, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Raising his chin, he looked over at her and frowned slightly. Cecily felt the force of his eyes on her. Maybe he didn't like what he saw. Perhaps she wasn't what he had expected. Her cheeks flared red under his scrutiny, which went on a moment longer. A huff and he strode out of the room.

  Had she displeased him in some way, she wondered. He'd barely spoken to her. "Is he coming back?" She hadn't really meant to say it out loud; it had just come out.

  "I should think not."

  "I see." She frowned and blinked. The barest of manners was how they were to regard each other, then?

  "Would you like some more pear tart?"

  "No, I've eaten sufficient, thank you."

  "There is a parlor upstairs. The maid has aired it today."

  "I think I will retire," she said with a weak smile. If she didn't have to, she wasn't willing to sit around in this awful gown in a parlor this evening. Her guess was that the marquis would not be joining her there, and at this point, she really didn't want to have any further encounters with him that day.

  That one question still plagued her mind as she walked upstairs, getting lost and trying a few doors on her way to her bedroom. Most rooms looked completely uninhabitable, with dusty, jumbled furniture. Finally, she found her own and there was a fire lit in the grate, taking the worst of the chill away.

  Reaching back, she undid the dress, pulling the stays awkwardly until she got it off and placed it across a chair on the far side of the room. It was made of heavy white silk, and it was a nice dress. There just hadn't been enough time to prepare it properly. Likely it would now go back into storage somewhere, waiting for the next bride, or destruction by the vermin in this manor. What had been a beautiful thing, left to molder and rot in this unhospitable place.