Anne O'Brien - Marriage Under Siege

Mansell found Foxton hovering at his elbow, an expression of some concern on his lined face.

‘Is everything to your satisfaction, my lord? We did what we could. But you must understand … Forgive me, my lord, but—’

‘Yes. Thank you, Foxton. It is better than I could have expected in the circumstances.’ He made no attempt to cloak his knowledge of the state of the once-magnificent castle of Brampton Percy. It was clear for all to see. A run-down estate. No money, no care over past decades, no stores to draw on in any emergency. Where the money from the rents went, Heaven only knew. If, indeed, they had ever been collected as he’d been led to believe. It had taken Mansell less than twenty-four hours to see the dire need here. And, as Josh had pointed out with delicate malice, it was now all his. ‘You have made the guests feel most welcome, Master Foxton. You have my gratitude.’ A smile of genuine warmth touched his harsh features. ‘I think that Lord Edward was not aware of the debt which he owed to your stewardship. But I am.’

Foxton bowed his appreciation. ‘It is my duty and an honour to serve your family, my lord. As my own father did before me. But this—’ he gestured with his hand ‘—is Lady Mansell’s doing, my lord. She was most particular that we should be able to offer some hospitality, and, not knowing who or how many would wish to mark the passing of Lord Edward … If anyone wishes to stay the night, my lord, a number of bedchambers have been made ready.’

Mansell raised his brows in some surprise at the foresight, but made no comment other than, ‘Thank you, Foxton. I am grateful.’

He turned from his Steward to locate the widow. There she was, almost invisible in the gloom in her black gown, moving between the guests, exchanging a word here, supplying another glass of wine there, listening to a whispered confidence or an offer of condolence. The grey shadow of the huge wolfhound had emerged from its temporary incarceration in the stables to attach itself firmly to her skirts once more. Lady Mansell carried herself confidently, gracefully, apparently having recovered from her momentary dislocation in the churchyard. But although she conversed with ease there was no animation and she did not smile. Her aloof composure struck Mansell anew. But perhaps even more remarkable, he quickly noticed, was the care and deference of the servants towards her. They watched her, ready to anticipate her needs, to respond to her every desire. Even Foxton. She might only have been mistress of Brampton Percy for a bare four weeks, yet in that time, however fickle the loyalties of servants might be, she appeared to have been taken under the caring wing of the whole household.

How did she do it? Mansell mused as he watched her from a distance and later voiced his thoughts to Sir Joshua over a mug of ale. ‘She would appear to have no conversation of any merit—or certainly no desire to entertain. No charm. No warmth. Yet even Sir Edward’s hound follows her every step and appears inseparable from her. What is it that they respond to?’

Sir Joshua shrugged. ‘I know not. I have not seen her smile or show pleasure. I watched Thomas Rudhall try to engage her in conversation a little while ago.’ Joshua turned to survey the assembled group, to locate the gentleman.

‘Oh? Another family connection, I presume.’

‘Yes. A cousin of yours, I would think. And a very important one—in his opinion. And, more to the point, a widower. There he is—the large rumpled individual propping up the fireplace, scattering crumbs as he speaks. From Rudhall Park. Poor Thomas tried very hard to flatter the grieving and wealthy widow with his consequence and attention.’

‘And?’

‘She drew in her skirts as if to avoid contamination and looked at him as if he had crawled out of the slime in your inner courtyard.’ Sir Joshua’s face split in a reminiscent grin. ‘Our self-important Thomas made a hasty exit towards the ale. His dreams of a rich, youthful widow with a handsome jointure to warm his bed shattered by one sharp encounter. I could wish to have heard what she said to him.’

‘At least she has good taste.’ Mansell’s lips curled as he assessed his unprepossessing relative, who was at present waxing eloquent and loudly on the strength of local Royalist forces and the certain defeat of Parliament. ‘I imagine that the past four weeks have not been a source of amusement for her. She might not regard wedlock with any degree of tolerance and I wager few women would be attracted by Rudhall’s dubious charms. I remember little of my cousin Edward, but marriage to him must have been … a trial.’ Mansell hesitated a moment, a frown drawing together his heavy brows. ‘Perhaps even worse than that for a gently brought-up girl. Perhaps that is the problem.’

‘At least she now has her freedom. The lady should be rejoicing.’

‘She should indeed. Ah … my own rejoicing is over, Josh! I believe that I must brace myself. Sir William Croft is striding in this direction and I fear I cannot escape. I think the time is fast approaching when I must answer for my sins.’ Mansell’s smile was wry. ‘But I do not believe that I wish to be too apologetic!’

‘When are you ever?’ Josh raised his brows in mock surprise. ‘I will leave you to work out your own salvation, Francis—meanwhile, I will go and talk to the widow and try my own charms on her. If only to ruffle the Rudhall feathers, scruffy as they are. Just try not to shock your powerful relative too much on your first meeting.’

Sir William Croft approached, a tankard of ale clasped in one large hand. In spite of his advancing years he remained robust and active, his broad features ruddy and weatherbeaten, a force to be reckoned with. Authority wrapped him round like a velvet cloak and he wore it comfortably.

‘I suppose I should say that I am sorry about Edward’s demise,’ he stated brusquely, without preamble. ‘But I have to admit to being even more sorry about your brother’s death last month. A terrible thing, to have lost James so young.’

Mansell’s reply was tight-lipped and curt. ‘Yes. A great waste.’

‘And your own tragic loss. Both Katherine and the babe. More than a year ago now, isn’t it? And then your father …’ He shook his head at the terrible unpredictability of life and death. ‘A desperate time for your family.’

‘Yes.’

‘Forgive me, boy.’ Sir William closed a large hand on Mansell’s rigid arm, the warm pressure indicating the depths of sympathy which he would not convey in words. ‘I see you have no wish to speak of it, but it would have been discourteous not to express my condolences—and those of my Lady. Your mother wrote to her about Katherine. We never knew her, of course.’

‘No.’ If Mansell’s response had been coldly controlled before, now it was glacial. The rigid set of his shoulders discouraged further comment on the subject.

Sir William shuffled uncomfortably, then took a deep, spine-stiffening draught from his tankard. ‘Your mother. I suppose she is taking it hard?’

‘Yes.’ Mansell visibly relaxed a little, and took a glass of wine from a servant. ‘She is in London at present with Ned and Cecilia. I fear she finds time heavy on her hands. And is in constant despair that either I or Ned will also become victim of a stray bullet, as James was.’

‘And, of course, it has handed you a lot of unexpected responsibility. How do you feel about it?’

‘Uncomfortable.’ Mansell responded to the older man’s obvious concern with more honesty than he might usually allow. And besides, the new direction held no vicious memories, guaranteed to strike and tear at the unwary with cruel talons. ‘I suddenly seem to have inherited two titles. First my father’s knighthood, and now Edward’s barony, making me responsible for not only my father’s possessions but also Edward’s acres. It was not the life that I had planned.’