Anne O'Brien - The Disgraced Marchioness

He should never have allowed himself to kiss her, to reawaken the desires and needs that now snapped at him with sharp teeth.

He set his teeth against the vivid intrusion and snarled at his valet after another restless night.

On a bright morning Lord Henry, this time alone, made a private and intensely painful visit to the church of St Mary the Virgin, which served the spiritual needs of the estate and the small village of Burford. There in the graveyard, dark head bowed, he stood beside a new grave, the turned earth still raw, although now softened with a faint sheen of spring grass. A simple plinth had been erected, its clean lines topped by a classical urn. The words and dates that recorded the life of his brother were sharply incised, all very proper and tasteful, but telling nothing of the vibrant life of the young man who lay beneath the earth in untimely death. Sorrow clawed at Henry’s heart, regrets flooded his mind. It felt, as the sun warmed his skin and the dappled shadows from the elm trees flirted playfully across the mown grass, that he had lost a part of himself, which it would never be possible to recover. With a gentle finger he traced the letters. The depths of the tearing grief that stopped his throat and stung his eyes shocked him as he damned the monstrous twist of fate that had robbed his brother of his life.

But at least Thomas had left a son, to carry on his blood line and the family name, so that there might always be a Faringdon living at Burford House. It was some comfort, Henry supposed, as he brushed the smooth curve of the urn. It must be.

As he would have turned away, his loss in no way assuaged, his attention was drawn to the fresh posy of primroses arranged at the foot of the plinth.

Eleanor’s work? Henry hoped so. His lips curved with a cynical edge as he remounted his horse, turned his back on the calm tranquillity of the dead. Whatever motives had driven Eleanor to reject his own love, to send her headlong into marriage with Thomas, he hoped that in the end she had cared for his brother more than a little.

At the beginning of the second week, the family gathered in the dining room for a late luncheon. During the first course of a range of cold cuts of meat, Lord Henry took the unusual opportunity to address himself directly to Lady Burford across the table.

‘You should know, ma’am, that I have arranged passage for America. I shall leave next week.’

‘So soon?’ Eleanor’s gaze moved from her plate to his eyes and she lifted her napkin to lips gone suddenly dry.

‘Why not?’ His face held no warmth, but perhaps a little surprise in the consternation that he read in Eleanor’s momentarily unguarded expression. ‘My business will not prosper in my absence, whereas you do not need my help here. Nick is more than capable and far more interested in developing the land than I. And Hoskins has his finger on all the legal niceties. The inheritance and your jointure are secure, ma’am. There is nothing to keep me here.’

‘Very well. I … we shall be sorry to see you go, of course.’ Her tone was low with no inflection but, to his disappointment, her gaze now quickly fell before his. She rarely allowed herself to look directly at him so that he had presumed her uninterest. And yet he realised, beyond any sort of logic, that he had been hoping that she would care. It seemed from her reply that she did not. He allowed himself a sardonic smile at his foolishness. If Eleanor had been prepared to reject his offer two years previously in the face of better prospects, she would hardly show any concern for his presence—or his absence—now.

But, on hearing Hal’s announcement, Nell’s heart had fallen to the region of her fine kid slippers, her nerves skittering like mice in an underdrawing. She did not want him to go. She was afraid of him, of her reactions to him, but she did not want him to leave Burford Hall.

Mrs Stamford took up the conversation, breaking in to her daughter’s distraught train of thought. ‘I am sure that life in America has much to entice you to return, my lord. And I expect there are friends who will be missing you.’

‘It has indeed. And, yes, there are some who will have missed me.’

Eleanor heard and came to her own conclusions. Of course. She should have realised. Her heart sank even lower, if that were possible. There was nothing to hold him in England. And there would be a lover waiting for him there, a woman who loved him and fretted for his return. A woman who was without doubt beautiful and who enjoyed the intimate attention of his mouth and hands. Her own hands clenched on her knife and fork. Of course he would wish to go back. How ridiculous to think that he would even consider her own needs. Not that she had any true idea of what they might be!

She put down the knife and fork, the slices of chicken un-tasted, her appetite suddenly gone. And began a detailed conversation with her mama with respect to a planned visit to a neighbouring family during the afternoon. Should they take the landaulet or the barouche? And what was the possibility of inclement weather?

And Hal bitterly accepted that, yes, there was nothing to keep him at Burford Hall.

The plates from the cold collation had hardly been cleared from the table and dishes of fresh fruit and cheese set out when Marcle entered to approach Lady Burford.

‘My lady. There are a lady and gentleman come here.’ He frowned his disapproval of such lax adherence to acceptable visiting hours.

Eleanor raised her brows a little in some surprise. ‘Now is not a very convenient time, Marcle. Perhaps you could show them to the red parlour and supply them with refreshment. We shall be finished here in half an hour.’

Marcle persisted, if reluctantly. ‘The gentleman apologises for the unwarranted interruption, but claims urgent business. Of a highly personal nature, which requires immediate attention from your ladyship.’

‘I see. Who is he? Do we know him?’

‘Sir Edward Baxendale, my lady.’ Marcle presented a neat visiting card on a silver salver. ‘And Miss Baxendale, his sister, I believe.’

Eleanor looked at the tasteful lettering on the card and then across the table to Nicholas, who was in deep and detailed conversation with Henry about the merits of a favourite hunter. ‘Do we know a Sir Edward Baxendale, Nicholas? Does he live locally? I think I have not heard that name, but he might be one of the hunting fraternity. In which case you will be acquainted at least.’

Nick shook his head. ‘There is no one of that name who lives in this part of the county, I am sure.’ He looked to his brother for confirmation. Henry shook his head, uninterested.

Eleanor decided. ‘Very well. Since it is an urgent matter …’ She nodded to her butler. ‘Show them in, if you please.’

Within minutes, Marcle ushered the visitors into the dining room.

‘Sir Edward Baxendale and Miss Baxendale, my lady.’

The gentleman was a man in his early thirties, perhaps a little older than Hal, of medium height and stocky build. Eleanor gained a general impression of quiet elegance and understated fashion in his clothing and appearance. He was without doubt a gentleman of some means. The lady who accompanied him was younger, slight of build, clothed in black as if recently bereaved, but again with a distinct air of fashion. Behind them came a young woman, clearly a companion or governess from her plain and serviceable dress, carrying a young child who squirmed to be set on his feet.

The gentlemen bowed. The ladies curtsied. Marcle hovered with interest in the background.

‘Well, Sir Edward. What is this personal business that cannot wait?’ Eleanor smiled to put the visitors at their ease. ‘Perhaps we can offer you a glass of wine. If you would care to sit—’