The Notorious Marquis of Wickerley Page 4

  He turned to her, seeing the offense and challenge flash in her eyes. The girl was clearly insane, with the righteousness of an offended puritan no less. But then he knew exactly what kind of stock she came from. "Do let’s be clear, Marquesa Wickerley. This marriage was the result of a card game. Your father traded you away on a turn of cards, a privilege normally the reserve of horses, but you make an exception. Your righteous indignity hardly stacks up well when it comes to the truth. You might see yourself at lofty heights, but seemingly no one else does."

  Her mouth drew tightly together and her eyes blazed with hatred. At least this expression was honest compared to the inane banter about their evening supper, pretending that any part of this was as it should be.

  Rising quickly, she drew her skirt up and turned sharply to march out of the room. No doubt her indignity would be endless. But then she dropped her skirt and turned back, striding toward him with her hands on her hips. "You're an odious man. You've ruined your own life and now you've managed to take a hostage. I refuse to be threatened with complete isolation. I have done nothing wrong, and you have done everything wrong. I will not live like this." Now she was making demands of him. How exactly would she carry this threat through? He raised an eyebrow. Didn't she understand that she had nothing to bargain with?

  "Then you are welcome to leave. In fact, I would prefer that you do. Why don't you seek out your pastor to see if he will help you? No doubt, he wouldn't fare well with you burdening him, but better him than me. Good riddance. Jenkins will see to your conveyance." It hadn't been his intent to rid himself of her, but this opportunity felt like a weight lifting off him, this dread that had settled the moment she'd arrived.

  Her face screwed up even more and she marched away. Jenkins stood by, his expression grave. "My lord?" he asked.

  "Prepare the carriage and deliver her to the cottage in Marshall field," Symon said and turned back to the fire. She could stay in the unused cottage at the edge of the estate. That way he could stash her out of sight until such time as the purpose of this marriage could be enacted later in the year, and he didn't have to be burdened with her presence, and she with his.

  "It has grown dark, my lord," Jenkins said and Symon looked out the window.

  "I doubt that will deter Miss Alderman." He did recognize the pride in her—offense at being treated such. Women always thought their offense was a punishment, but pity rarely intruded on his consciousness, particularly when relations with women were involved. They played the game like everyone else; they were just sore losers.

  The girl was noisy in her departure, ordering the servants about, too offended to care she was heading out into the dark to a destination unknown. It was perhaps a stupid reaction. A more intelligent reaction would be to beg his forgiveness, but Miss Alderman's back did not bend, it seemed.

  As the carriage left, Symon sat down in the chair and savored the silence. This was better for both of them. Neither sought the company of the other and she would fare fine in the cottage. It might not have been the manor she hoped for, but she wouldn't starve. Provided she didn't produce any bastards, he didn't give a damned what she got up to.

  Chapter 7:

  * * *

  Darkness had settled when she reached what looked like a white cottage, set in a sea of blackness. The carriage had taken off as soon as she'd gotten in after storming out of the marquis' manor, retrieving practically nothing from upstairs. Her marriage had lasted a matter of days and now they were separating, leaving her feeling like an utter failure. But then, who could make a success of a marriage with a man like that? It was impossible. He lacked basic manners, let alone plain decency. As for being such a great seducer, she couldn't see how he had the social skills to come by the reputation.

  Now the driver had dropped her off at a cottage, without her having had any idea where they were. Was this supposed to be where she lived, or was this just for the night? She didn't know and the driver wasn't forthcoming as he hopped off his perch and walked past her to open the door with a large key. It was heavy when he dropped it in her hand and tipped his hat at her, taking heavy steps, he moved back to the carriage.

  "I have no light," she said, dreading the thought of stumbling around in the dark, all alone. Moving to the back of the carriage, he rummaged through the box and returned holding a small lantern, which he lit with a stick of kindling from one of the carriage lanterns.

  The lantern was handed to her without another word and the man walked to the carriage, the contraption rocking as he stepped up. A slap on the horse's rump and they were off down the road, fading quickly to small orbs of light moving across the darkness.

  Cecily turned back to the dark door of the cottage and stepped into a small, whitewashed hall. It smelled musty and thick dust covered every surface. This was the second time the Marquis of Wickerley had left her to sleep in a dirty and unprepared space, but at least she was away from him.

  The kitchen was cold, looking like the hearth hadn't seen a fire in years. Old ashes lay at the bottom and the room smelled stale. Maybe she was supposed to live here. At least she had a kitchen with a hearth. A small bucket of charcoal sat on the side of the fireplace and she poured the black lumps on the grate, then searched for anything she could use as kindling, settling on some pamphlets dated three years back.

  Once the charcoal was glowing, she could see her footsteps in the dust on the floor. She'd be scrubbing for a month if she stayed here, particularly as there was no one to help her. The marquis didn't have enough staff to spare her a maid, and from the state of his house and clothes, he didn't have a great deal of wealth to spare. Hopefully he had enough to provide her with food, or she would starve in short order.

  If all else failed, she would have to make her way back to London, across lawless roads to search for her father. The chances of her making it to London wasn't a probability she wanted to consider.

  Walking around the rooms, her steps echoed off the walls. The cottage had two bedrooms, with tiny windows. Dust covered every surface. A heavy mahogany bed stood in one and she considered it from the doorway, holding the lantern ahead of her. The hay in that mattress was likely three years old if not more—probably rotten or eaten away by vermin.

  A shuddering sigh escaped her lips and she cursed her father for getting her into this situation. If what the marquis said was true, and her father had gambled her away, then he truly was to blame. Surely he could not be so callous with her future, but even as the thought entered her mind, she knew full well that her father committed himself to stupid things without fully realizing the implications. She was the one who ended up paying, standing by as her mother's things were sold, or their furniture taken away. It had been quite some time since she’d believed her father had somewhere preserved a dowry for her. Now here she was, married to an impossible man, relegated to a deserted cottage somewhere in the wilds of Cornwall.

  *

  Cecily woke, huddled on a sofa in what was the parlor. Dust coated the side of her face and sunshine made a thick column of light from the window to the floor. Her frozen hands fisted repeatedly, trying to get her blood flowing. The house was a little warmer than the winter morning outside, thanks to the fire she'd lit in the kitchen.

  The trail of her footsteps went from the door, walked around in a circle and came to the sofa. The amount of dust in this house was overwhelming, and she had to let it air, let the wind clear the staleness. Shouldn't be hard here; there was certainly no shortage of wind.

  Walking around the cottage, she opened every window and door she could find. At least the sun shone, which made everything seem a little brighter. A garden surrounded the cottage, the frozen plants dreadfully overgrown, but would have been nice in its day. Granted, she doubted any delicate blooms would grow here, but as the cottage was located inland, it had more shelter than Wickerley Manor.

  At least the thatched roof looked in relatively good order as far as she could tell. She'd never had to judge the health of a roof before
, but she saw no holes or rotten areas.

  A round, stone well protruded out of the ground in the corner of the property, but the bucket was missing, as was any wood that had been in the wood store—both likely pilfered.

  The bedroom and kitchen were most important, although there was no food. Hunger started to gnaw around midday, after hours of relentless cleaning and scrubbing. The coal bucket had to be repurposed for a water bucket, but luckily she found a sack of charcoal in the kitchen pantry, so she could keep the fire going.

  "Lady Wickerley," a male voice called from outside. Walking out, wiping her hands on the now filthy apron, she saw Reverend Hapstill standing by the gate, dressed in black with a wide, white collar. He carried a basket. "News travels fast around here and I have heard of the changes in your circumstances."

  Cecily smiled tightly. So everyone in the district had already heard that the marquis had thrown out his new wife. Wasn't that wonderful?

  "I heard you were here and I brought you some provisions."

  She almost crumbled with relief. Food was exactly what she needed. "Thank you." She wanted to invite him in, but the marquis' demand reverberated through her head—although he'd thrown her out and she was a married woman, able to receive visits from a godly man. The benefit of being married was that the strict social limitations alleviated somewhat. Although not everyone saw that—the marquis amongst one of them, unreasonably forbidding her from seeing anyone. "I'm afraid the cottage is not in a state to receive visitors."

  The parson's smile crinkled his cheeks. "Perfectly understandable. I just came by with some things. Thought you might need them."

  "Your concern was correct, and I am most thankful." She took the basket from him across the gate, and his eyes roamed over the cottage behind her.

  "No one has lived here in quite some time, I believe."

  "The dust inside would attest to that."

  "The house likely pleased to harbor some life again. It used to belong to the fields supervisor, but he was taken by the New Model some while ago, they tell me."

  "So this cottage belongs to the estate?" she said before she realized she was revealing how little knowledge she had about her own situation.

  A tiny frown flashed across his brow before he smiled again. "It belongs to the Wickerley estate," he said calmly and Cecily smoothed back an escaped curl, in a vain attempt to soothe the awkwardness of the moment. It seems this was the marquis' cottage, which might mean this was intended to be her new home. The relationship between her and the marquis wasn't even cordial enough that she could ask. "Well, if you need anything, you have but to ask. Although I am sure your husband will provide for you." There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "If you need anything, anything at all, please ask."

  Tears prickled the back of her eyes, thickening her throat. It felt a while since someone had been kind and decent to her, as if they really did care. She nodded awkwardly. "When I am able to receive visitors, I would be pleased have you in my house." It sounded peculiar saying her house. This could actually be her house, where she lived from now on—away from the beastly man who was her husband. A sense of perverse pleasure ran through her at counteracting the marquis' ridiculous mandate. There was little reason she had to bow to his insanity.

  As she waved goodbye the parson continued walking down the road. The basket was heavy and she unveiled a loaf of bread, cheese, a half dozen eggs and some ham when she brought the basket to the kitchen. In truth, food wasn't the most extravagant gift she'd ever received, but it was exactly what she needed, which was the best possible gift.

  * * *

  Chapter 8:

  * * *

  Winter was too deep set to attempt a rescue of the garden, the frozen plants slumbering through the cold. She had what she needed—wood for the fire, charcoal for the kitchen, and food delivered intermittently from the manor. It wasn't perhaps a happy existence, but it was comfortable enough.

  The gravel of the road crunched under her feet as she walked through the cold morning air, making her way into the village for Sunday service. The skies were gray, having barely lightened up, but the winds weren't too bad—relatively.

  A heavy wool shawl warmed her shoulders and back, and Cecily wore wool stockings under her skirts. Nervousness clenched her gut at the thought of seeing the marquis at service, but from what Reverend Hapstill had said, he rarely attended. There was still a chance though, she thought, unsure how she should act during such an encounter. There hadn't been a single encounter with the marquis where she had known how to act.

  People stood around the small, wooden church, waiting for the service to begin, although a dower-looking man stood separately. He had long, blond hair, curling at his shoulders over the wide linen collar on his otherwise black-clad person. His hat was tall and slender, and his eyes darted suspiciously across the gathered congregation.

  Reverend Hapstill stood on the steps in his white surplice and cape, speaking to one of the men. Cecily didn't know him well, but she could tell his smile was tense as he asked everyone to enter.

  The church was small on the inside with a stained glass window facing towards the sea. The dark day made the colors dull.

  For a moment, Cecily didn't know where to sit, particularly as she was so uncertain of her status, but Reverend Hapstill indicated for her to sit in the first pew, signifying her elevated position in this community. A murmur spread behind her as she sat down. This was the first view these people had of their new marquesa. Cecily looked down into her lap, feeling intensely uncomfortable.

  The reverend addressed her directly as he started his sermon, urging them of finding joy in everyday things and how God was in the details. It was a lovely, uplifting service and Cecily enjoyed it—would have done more so if the reverend's gaze didn't dart nervously to the puritan sitting on the other side of the church, one pew back. She couldn't help growing aware of his discomfort.

  Again, he welcomed her to the parish, before speaking of other notable events, which included one birth and the sad death of a Mrs. Horrich from a lung ailment.

  The service ended and everyone stood, speaking amongst themselves until they received the harsh looks from the puritan, driving them out the door.

  "That was a lovely service," she said when Reverend Hapstill walked towards her.

  "Do you think so?"

  "I do."

  "Unfortunately, I don't think everyone agrees," he said, his eyes again seeking out the darkly dressed man.

  "His is not a usual attendee?"

  "No," the reverend said, looking like he wanted to say more, but instead smiled unconvincingly. "I best see to the congregation, but it was good you could attend." He moved by her toward the entrance where he spoke to members of his congregation as they passed.

  "And where is your husband, Lady Wickerley?" a voice said behind her as she picked up her shawl. Turning, she faced the puritan, who had silently moved toward her. It was an awfully direct and forward question. "Does he not attend service?" Discomfort spread up her spine. The man's directness was an affront, even to her identity as Miss Alderman, let alone as a titled, married woman.

  "I am sorry, have we been introduced?"

  "I am Gerald Carsten," he said with a smile that didn't reach up his cheeks, let alone his eyes. Dislike followed the discomfort, creeping up her back. She stared at the man for a moment.

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance, I am sure," she said tersely, whipping her shawl around her before walking toward the church doors.

  "You didn't answer my question," he said, his voice sharp and direct.

  Cecily clenched her teeth, considering how she should deal with this man. He obviously made the reverend intensely uncomfortable, but also he had no right to enquire so directly. It was rude beyond the pale, but puritans sometimes refused to adhere to etiquette, seeing their righteousness before their behavior.

  "He is infirm," she said, suspecting it was a lie, but she certainly wasn't going to give this man whatever inform
ation he sought about the marquis.

  "I understand he never attends," the man said, lowering his head as if coaxing her to agree with him.

  "He certainly attended our wedding, which happened just recently. Prior to that, I couldn't attest to his activities," she said as sharply as she could, turning without giving him a chance to ask any more questions—which she would ignore if he did.

  Villagers and people from the surrounding area were leaving, either by foot or by cart, whispering amongst themselves.

  "Are you walking today, Lady Wickerley?" Reverend Hapstill asked.

  "I am. A bit of exercise does the body well." Not that she had a choice, but she wasn't about to gripe about choices in that regard. Her living in a cottage on the marquis' estate was enough scandal, she was sure. These people would likely judge her by the marquis' rejection of her.

  "Again, it was a good thing you could attend today. I trust we will see you next Sunday as well."

  "Assuredly," she said with a smile.

  He returned the smile, but it slid from his face as he turned his attention back inside the church where the puritan was still waiting. Cecily felt sorry for him, suspecting he was perhaps in for a similarly unpleasant treatment she had just received. Perhaps this puritan's interest in the marquis would persist and he would now take his questions to the reverend.

  *

  Cecily frowned as she walked home. The marquis' catholic heritage might be a burden to him in this new world, where accusation of popery were serious. As far as she knew, Parliament's tolerance of Catholics hadn't been rescinded, but perhaps that was about to change. Maybe Mr. Carsten was here hunting for Catholics. Unease settled deep in her stomach, not that it had ever really left her.

  The skies had darkened by the time she reached home, perfectly mirroring the unease she felt inside her. The wind was picking up too, whipping stray hairs across her face. The calm of the morning had clearly passed. Luckily, she made it home just in time before the rain started, lightly at first, then intensifying. Wind howled around her windows before long, and rain pricked sharply at the glass. It was almost dark as night.