Dinner was not at all as bad as Izzy had feared. The dining room was clean, if small, the furniture polished and the cutlery gleamed in the light of the candles, although so few were lit they could barely see what they were eating. Marsden’s valet served, with the aid of the harassed housekeeper, who ran back and forth to the kitchen. Whether through Sophie’s efforts or the cook’s, there was a good array of dishes with a couple of removes, even if they were somewhat widely spaced on the table.
Marsden had excellent manners and acted throughout as if he were delighted to have guests. Izzy was always at her best in company, so the two of them carried the conversation along without difficulty. Marsden took the trouble to ask some of the questions that had been preying on Izzy’s mind, too.
“Tell me of your estate, Bayton. In Northumberland, I believe?”
“It is, yes. Leased to tenants at the moment. I am but newly returned from India.”
“India? John Company?”
Olly laughed. “Who else? I was there for some eight years with an uncle, but when my sister was widowed, she suggested I come home.”
“So now you wait for your tenants’ lease to expire, and then you may reclaim your estate,” Marsden said. “I hope the tenancyis a sensible one, for once tenants get themselves well settled in a place, it is the devil’s own job to winkle them out of it, I find. More claret, Bayton?”
“Thank you, I will.”
Olly’s thin face was already beginning to fill out, Izzy thought, and both he and Sophie looked more relaxed, although they said little unless addressed, focusing most of their attention on their plates. They were the only ones to do justice to the cook’s efforts, for Izzy never ate much and Marsden, too, merely toyed with his food.
Although he was too well-bred to ignore the Baytons altogether, his attention was firmly fixed on Izzy. Indeed, his eyes scarcely left her face, and time after time he returned to the memories of that time five years ago when they had first met, and he had courted her with determination. He made no mention of Ian or the children or her life since she had married. His only interest was the past. Which was exactly what she wanted, was it not?
Yet his neglect of his own house niggled at her, like a burr. Why would so rich a man allow his principal seat to fall into decay? And, a deeper question — if she had accepted his offer five years ago, would he have allowed her to bring it back into proper use and refurbish it, as Ian had given her the freedom to do at Stonywell? Would Marsden have thrown out his tenants in Berkeley Street and opened up the house for her? Surely he would!
After dinner, all four of them moved through to another small but respectable room, although the carpets and silk coverings on the chairs were faded and worn. There was a harpsichord, but given the state of the rest of the house, it was most unlikely to be in tune, so Izzy ignored it. Instead, Marsden sat in a chair beside the hearth, while she paced about, everrestless, her wine glass still in her hand, and let him lead her back into the past again.
Sophie and Olly sat side by side on a sofa, she with her work basket, for she was adjusting a spencer that Izzy had given her, and Olly reading an old newspaper he had found. They said nothing, except the occasional murmured comment to each other. It was Izzy and Marsden who talked, as if they had not seen each other for five years, instead of meeting regularly every spring. But then they had never talked like this in town. Their meetings had been fleeting, with little said beyond the usual meaningless chatter.
The housekeeper and the girl came in with the tea things, but Izzy left Sophie to pour for herself and Olly, for she and Marsden had moved on to brandy by then. They scarcely noticed when the others made their courtesies and retreated to bed.
“More brandy?” Marsden said.
“No, I still have plenty.”
“I wish I knew how you do that — hold a glass in your hand for hour after hour, yet not drink any of it.”
“I like to have something to hold,” she said with a quick smile, “but I am not fond of brandy… or wine, either.”
He refilled his own glass, then settled back in his chair again, his legs sprawled out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. It was extraordinarily intimate, this sharing of brandy and memories, late at night.
Clearly his own thoughts were similar, for he said, “Do you ever wonder, Izzy… about that year when we all chased round after you? If things might have been different… if you had not married Farramont? If you had married me, for instance?”
“I do wonder, yes. But then I look at this place that you have allowed to fall into ruin. I could never have lived in such dilapidation, Godfrey.”
He gave an uneasy laugh. “And I should never have expected you to do so. You would have been an expensive wife, Izzy. I dare say you would have run through my fortune in no time.”
“I have not run through Farramont’s,” she said with some asperity. “Give me credit for some common sense!”
It was true that she had never once exceeded her allowance, but she thought ruefully of the wasted lengths of wallpaper and pots of paint for her misguided attempts at improvements, the shockingly expensive carriage, the lavish entertainments she held. Then, guiltily, of the broken plates and ornaments, the carpet ruined by spilt ink, the scars on the dining room door from the decanter she had hurled at it. And yet, when life tormented her beyond measure, when everything felt out of control, it drained a great deal of her frustration to break things. At least Ian never grumbled about it. He never grumbled about anything she did. What an understanding man he was!
Marsden swirled his brandy thoughtfully. “You are making me very maudlin, Izzy. Is that why you came, to remind me of what I lost when you married Farramont? Does he know what you are about? If I were him, I would not like my wife visiting the homes of other men.”
It was the moment she had waited for. “But I am not his wife,” she said softly. “Did you hear about our chaplain — the one who was murdered? He married me to Farramont, you might recall. It now transpires that he was never ordained, so my marriage to Farramont is invalid. I am not married anymore.”
Marsden jumped to his feet with a great shout. At first, she thought it was exultation, but then he cried, “Hellfire anddamnation!”, waving the brandy glass about so forcefully that a few drops splashed on Izzy’s gown.
“Godfrey?” she said uncertainly. “I had thought you might be pleased to hear that I am not married.”
“You may not be married,” he said, “but I am!”
7: A Matter Of Wives
