Izzy smiled. If she were a cat, she would be purring. “Oh, no. He is not expecting me.”
***
Marsden Hall was a monstrosity of a house, built in the medieval style but with no attempt at elegance. It was a raw statement of power, with no concession to comfort or convenience, and Izzy recalled that Mr Marsden had grumbled constantly about it. Once his parents were dead, he had resolved never to spend more than two weeks in it every year. He came for Lady Day, to collect the rents, and again at the end of the season, to check that all was progressing well on the farms. Apart from that, he lived in his London house, his Leicestershire hunting box or visited friends.
Now that she saw the house, Izzy understood his reluctance. The house towered over them as they decanted from the chaise, its ugly patterned brickwork and dark, mullioned windows making Izzy shiver. She wondered why Mr Marsden, with his vast wealth, did not make improvements, or even knock the place down and build something more appealing.
The ladies waited on the drive as Olly rang the doorbell, then knocked, then rang again.
“He may live alone, but surely he has servants?” Sophie said. “Is it coming on to rain? Shall we get back in the chaise?”
Izzy marched up to the front door and tried the handle. It turned, she pushed and the door creaked open.
“Well! Sophie, you and I will go in and look around. Olly, you may unload the boxes, but please do not let the postilion leave until we are sure we will be staying.”
The hall was huge, with a high ceiling with arched wooden beams, moth-eaten heads of bears and stags on the walls, and a carved stone fireplace big enough to burn half a tree. Through a narrow archway, the main staircase with its carved wooden newel post and balusters was glimpsed. The furnishings were dusty and uncared for, however. A circular table in the centre bore a vase of roses, but they had wilted, their petals scattered on the table. The draught from the door sent a few floating to the floor.
“I say!” Izzy called. “Anyone about?”
There was no answer, no sound to be heard anywhere.
“Perhaps there is no one here,” Sophie suggested.
“The door was unlocked,” Izzy said, prowling round the hall. “Someone must be in the house. Ah, here are the service stairs. Shall we go down?”
“Wait! I thought I heard something.”
An anxious face appeared on the main stairs above them. “I beg your pardon. The bell’s broken and I didn’t hear the knocker.”
A woman of around thirty, dressed in grey and with achatelainedangling at her waist, descended to the hall. The housekeeper at last.
“Lady Farramont to see Mr Marsden,” Izzy said briskly, removing her gloves. “He is at home, I take it?”
“I… well, I’m not sure.”
“He will see me. I am an old friend. Sophie, run out and tell the postilions they may leave. Where is the butler, Mrs—?”
“Carter. There’s no butler.”
“Well, a footman, then. A manservant. Someone to take the luggage to our rooms.”
“There’s no rooms ready,” she said.
“I do not imagine that is an insuperable problem,” Izzy said. “You have above twenty bedrooms, for Mr Marsden told me so, and at this time of year, we need not worry about damp mattresses. Sheets, blankets, towels… what else is needed?”
“But the dinner! How will I feed three of you… oh, and a gentleman, too,” she cried, as Olly followed Sophie into the hall. “Four people to feed, instead of one! It can’t be done, milady.”
“Nonsense! A joint or two, some soup… we shall not mind if there is no fish, then cheese and whatever fruit you have in the kitchen garden. A manservant, Mrs Carter? For the luggage?”
She straightened her back. “There’s no manservant, apart from Young, Mr Marsden’s man, and he’s too grand to do any actual work. There’s only me, the cook and another girl. There’s a couple of men do the gardens, but they live out.”
Izzy was astonished into silence. Why would a man with an income of twenty thousand pounds a year keep his principal seat so poorly staffed? It was incomprehensible. The rattle of carriage wheels outside as the post chaise departed reminded her that they were now committed to staying at Marsden Hall.
Fortunately, the practical Sophie took charge. “I shall go down and talk to the cook, Mrs Carter, and offer whatever help is needed there, while you and the girl make up a bed somewhere. Lady Farramont and I will share, and my brother will sleep in any corner with a couple of blankets. But before you do anything else, show Lady Farramont to wherever Mr Marsden is hiding.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She bobbed a curtsy, relieved to be given clear orders to follow. “This way, milady.”
When Izzy was shown into a small parlour at the back of the house, one of the few rooms not swathed in holland covers, Godfrey Marsden was hunched over a small table in the window,writing with furious speed. He was not a handsome man. He bore a face that, even in repose, looked as if he were scowling. Only when he smiled did the dark look melt into something more approachable. It was a pity, then, that he so seldom smiled. But he was excessively rich, well-mannered and liked to dance, so he was a popular man, invited everywhere and the object of great hopes in many a female breast. He had never married, and Izzy wondered now whether he ever would.
