As they waited in the entrance hall for the carriage to be brought round, Bertram said quietly to his father, “Thank you for protecting me from the Marriage Mart. I appreciate it.”
His father chuckled. “Bertram, you are five and twenty years old, and sensible enough to know your own mind. If ever you feel the desire to take a wife, you can manage the business perfectly well without any help from me or anyone else. Even with this great burden thrust upon you, I would never want you to feel obliged to marry to ensure the succession. It is hardly necessary. Just as my father had more than one son, so did I, and failing that, we have a multitude of cousins. The succession lies in no danger.”
“You are very good,” Bertram said, with the utmost sincerity. He had encountered many young men, both at Harrow and at Cambridge, whose fathers beat them or expected the impossible or even ignored them entirely. He was singularly fortunate in having a father with whom he seldom disagreed, and with whom he could not quarrel even if he tried. His mother was more of a trial, but so long as he displayed no signs of incipient illness, she, too, was undemanding.
As they drove home to Westwick, his mother kept up a never-ending patter of concern for the Dowager Countess, for any issue of health, even one that merely marked the end of a long and fruitful life, was of inexhaustible interest to her. The two men remained silent.
Lucas and the girls were waiting for them when they arrived, and were told the story in the baldest of terms.
“Will you have a title, Papa?” Penelope said.
“No, only the direct heir has a title, and I am only the heir presumptive. If…whenI become the earl, then Bertram will be Viscount Birtwell, just as Walter is… was.”
“But why, Papa? That is most unfair! You should have a title of your own, so that we could all be called Lady, or at least Honourable. I should very much like to be Lady Penelope.”
“And I should like that, too, my dear, but unfortunately, that is not how it works. The titles only work from father to son… or daughter, and with very good reason. Walter had a title of his own because nothing could stand between him and the earldom. Any other sons his father had would be younger. But I cannot have the title of Viscount Birtwell because there is always the possibility that the earl could father another son… a legitimate one, that is, and he would have the right to the title.”
“Aunt Caroline is too old to have more children,” Julia said scornfully.
“True, but if she were to die and the earl were to marry a younger woman, he could father any number of sons… legitimate sons.”
“So he could,” Mother said softly.
“Yes, that would let us off the hook very prettily,” Father said with a wry smile. “Happily for the countess, she is exceedingly healthy.”
“Never mind titles,” Lucas said impatiently. “Who cares about titles? Will we have to move to Corland Castle?”
“Not immediately,” Father said. “We can stay here until Lord Rennington dies, but your mother and I will have to move there eventually. It is the earl’s principal seat, after all.”
“I give you due notice, George,” Mother said, a set look to her mouth, “that I shall never live at Corland Castle, never.”
“But the castle is so much more spacious than Westwick,” Lucas said. “I should love to live there.”
“You are not attached to Westwick, Lucas?” Father said.
“Not especially.”
“That is good, because once the dust settles on this business, I intend to offer Westwick to Walter and Miss Franklyn as their marital home, since he has been deprived of his rightful inheritance.”
Mother burst into tears again.
***
Miss Beatrice Franklyn sat on the terrace in front of her easel, paintbrush suspended in hand. She was supposed to be painting the flowers spilling over the edge of a stone urn, but she had long since lost interest and sat motionless, gazing out at the park. The trees were still small and protected by fences, but the ha-ha was in place and deer roamed freely. Surrounding her was the bright new stone of the terrace balustrade, punctuated by the giant flower-filled urns. Below, several gardeners laboured to plant box hedging around theparterre en broderie. Highwood Place had been a modest country house when they had moved there five years ago, but a vast new frontage had tripled its size, and now her stepmother’s plans for the garden were reaching fruition.
A shifting of the breeze brought a sudden scent to Bea’s nose, something earthy and herbal and oddly familiar. Instantly her mind was thrown back to a different time and place — the cosy little back garden of the Newcastle house, when Papa had still been an attorney. Not much had grown there, only a few ancient apple and pear trees, and the tubs of herbs that Aunt Betty used. Above the herbs and between the trees hung a hammock, and there Bea had passed endless summer afternoons with her books, reading, always reading. At dinner, Papa had quizzed her on what she had learnt and so they talked of people long deador lands far away, of new ideas and old, and a myriad different subjects.
But that time was long past, before Papa inherited his great fortune, before the move to a much grander house, before he had married the Lady Esther Bucknell and become a gentleman. Before Lady Esther had set about turning Bea into a lady. It was a dull business, being a lady, but Lady Esther had assured her that if she practised diligently, then she and her dowry of forty thousand pounds would be able to marry into the nobility, and so it had proved. Bea was betrothed to the Earl of Rennington’s heir, and sometime in the future she was going to live at Corland Castle and be the Countess of Rennington, and she would never have to paint flowers again.
“How is your painting progressing, Beatrice? I confess to having a little trouble with the geranium — that particular shade of pink is hard to capture. It is almost red, and yet with a hint of purple. Very challenging. Do you not agree?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Thus prodded, Bea turned her attention back to her watercolours, which was exactly as her stepmother intended. How dreary a way to pass the time! There must be a thousand more interesting things to do. Even looking through her wedding clothes once more would be more exciting than trying to paint a flower. Not that Bea was particularly enamoured of clothes, but a great many had been made up in town in preparation for her wedding. In the end, Walter could not leave his ailing grandmother, who was likely to die at any moment, so it had not happened. Still, her stepmother had dreamt up an even better scheme, for them to be married at Marshfields, the Duke of Camberley’s seat. Nowthatwould be something!
Walter had jibbed at that, too, but she had no doubt she would persuade him in time. He was so easy to steer in whatever direction she chose. However much he shied away at first, shecould twist him round her thumb. Walter was essential to her plans, for he was going to take her away from this bleak life of submission to her stepmother. Lady Esther Franklyn was a daughter of the Duke of Camberley and thought herself far grander than a mere gentleman’s daughter. But one day, very soon now, Bea would marry Walter and be Viscountess Birtwell and then no one, absolutely no one, would tell her what to do.
Hobbs appeared and bowed to Lady Esther. “The master asks if you and Miss Franklyn would be so good as to join him in the library, my lady. He has Lord Birtwell with him.”
