Janice Preston - Mary And The Marquis

Some time later—an hour, a day, a week?—he roused to the sense of a cool hand on his forehead. Julia. The name gained shape in his mind. He felt his lips move. Did he give voice to the name? He knew not. He tried to prise his eyes open, but the effort was too great. Then he felt hands take hold of him. The pain spiked through every nerve in his body and he sank—gratefully this time—back into oblivion.

Chapter Two

‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Vale. Have the bairns settled?’

‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Lindley. Susan did a splendid job with them. They are fast asleep,’ Mary replied as she entered the huge kitchen at Rothley Hall. Despite the traumas of the past hours, her tensions melted away and she relaxed for the first time since she had left the cottage. At least, tonight, the children were safe and warm, with food in their bellies, thanks to Susan, the young housemaid, who had taken them under her wing the moment Mary and the exhausted children had arrived at the Hall.

Well, maybe not the exact moment, Mary reflected, recalling the scene with a wry smile. The Hall had looked deserted as she rode up the overgrown drive to the front of the house. She had ridden around to the rear and, spying a flicker of light in what she now knew was the kitchen window, she had pounded on a nearby door.

Mrs Lindley had responded, presenting a most intimidating appearance. She was almost as wide as she was tall, with arms as big as hams folded across her bolster of a bosom as she looked suspiciously from Mary to the children and stoutly declared her master was overseas and expected to remain there for the foreseeable future.

Her conjectures about Mary had been blatant, but Mary had taken no offence, instead silently admiring the woman for her devotion to Rothley. Upon hearing of her master’s injuries, however, Mrs Lindley had swung into action, rallying the rest of the staff and begging Mary to return with the men to show them where Rothley lay.

Toby and Emily had been left in the care of Susan, with whom they had bonded immediately. Later, deemed too young and innocent to remain whilst the doctor ministered to Lord Rothley, Susan had continued in her role as nursemaid and settled the children in bed. Mary had not been as fortunate. It had been clear she was expected to play her part. The sound of Rothley’s moans as the doctor removed the bullet from his thigh still echoed in her ears, sending shivers down her spine. He had thrashed around on the bed and, in the end, it had taken five of them to hold him still for the doctor. Mary’s arms still ached with the effort.

‘She’s a good lass and a hard worker. She has to be, living here,’ Mrs Lindley continued, as she turned to the kettle singing over the open fire and lifted it. ‘I hope she’s gone straight to bed, like I told her. It’s going to be a long haul, I fear, till the master is up and about again, and we shall all have to pull our weight, even young Susan.

‘Sit yourself down, Mrs Vale, do. Doctor’ll be down in a minute, then we’ll have some coffee and maybe a slice of my cake. I think we’ve earned it this night.’

Mary sank on to a chair next to the large, well-scrubbed table that dominated the centre of the room.

‘May I ask where the rest of the staff are?’ Mary asked. ‘Surely a house of this size requires more than the few I have met here tonight?’

The house was huge and rambling, but the staff appeared to consist of a mere four souls, plus two stockmen-cum-grooms. Mrs Lindley had introduced herself as the cook-cum-housekeeper. It seemed to Mary almost everyone served a dual purpose in this house. No wonder it looked uncared for.

Mrs Lindley cackled. ‘Bless you, dear. We’re all his lordship can afford and he can barely afford us, truth be told. Am I right, Ellen?’

Mary glanced round. The other maid had entered the room, followed by the doctor. Ellen was older than Susan, a cheery woman of around five and forty summers, as slim as Mrs Lindley was wide.

‘You are indeed, Mrs Lindley, aye,’ she said, then grinned at Mary. ‘Worked to the bone, we are, ma’am, and no mistake. But, for all that, I wouldn’t never leave ’is lordship and nor would any of us, and that’s a fact. Started ’ere when I wasn’t much older than Susan, I did. Seen ’is lordship grow up, aye. My, the tales I could...’

‘Now, now, Ellen,’ said the doctor. ‘I am sure our visitor doesn’t wish to hear all that old nonsense.’

Ellen coloured, but laughed, ‘Right you are, Doctor, I was forgetting myself. I’ll pour some coffee and take it to Mr Trant and then I’ll take myself off to bed, if there’s naught else you need me for, Mrs Lindley?’

At the shake of the housekeeper’s head, Ellen bade them all a cheery goodnight and left the kitchen.

The doctor put down his bag and spoke to Mrs Lindley. ‘I have asked Trant to stay with his lordship until someone can relieve him. It is imperative someone remains with him at all times in case of fever. It will prove a burden, I make no doubt, as short-staffed as you are, but you do at least have the benefit of... My apologies, ma’am,’ he continued, now directing his attention to Mary, ‘but I’m afraid, in all the excitement, I failed to catch your name?’

He was a spare man of around thirty years of age, of medium height, with close-cropped fair hair and grey eyes. He had a straightforward manner that Mary found appealing, although she was taken aback by his ready assumption she would help to nurse Lord Rothley. At first, she was inclined to resent such presumption but, upon reflection, it would at least provide her and the children with a welcome haven—a place, and the time, for them to recoup their strength before they must move on.

‘I am Mary Vale, Dr...?’

‘Preece; Robert Preece, ma’am, at your service.’ He bowed, then rounded the table to sit opposite Mary. ‘I understand it was you who discovered Lord Rothley in the woods this afternoon?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did he tell you how he was shot? Or by whom?’

‘I’m afraid not, Doctor. I did ask but, well...’

‘Quite. You both had other priorities, I make no doubt.’ He contemplated her in silence for a moment, then commented, ‘It was most fortunate you were passing.’

Mary was thankful he dropped the subject; she was altogether too weary to field questions about why she had been in the woods. Her eyes drifted closed, exhaustion near overwhelming her, as her mind travelled back over this most difficult of days.

‘How has he been, Mrs Lindley? In himself?’

The quiet question penetrated Mary’s reverie. She feigned sleep, shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation. Her interest in the marquis was, she assured herself, transient.

‘Oh, you know, Doctor. Much the same,’ Mrs Lindley replied, her voice at the same low pitch as the doctor’s. ‘He drives himself relentlessly. Won’t listen to no one: not his mama, not none of us. He’s been a sight worse since she’s been away.’

‘When is she due home?’

‘We’re none of us sure. If his lordship knows, he’s keeping it tight to his chest, that’s for sure.’

‘We have seen very little of him in the village in the past couple of years—he has become something of a recluse since his return. He would appear to have gone from one extreme to the other, if the tales of his time in London are to be believed. What I cannot understand, though, is his reluctance to socialise with his old friends.’ There was a note of bitterness in the doctor’s voice.

‘No more can any of us, Doctor. When I think how much you two shared as lads...but he’s changed, sir. You’d hardly recognise him. It’s as if he cannot trust another soul. ’Tis a pity: he was always such a bonny, carefree lad, despite that father of his.’