“Married or not, work’s got to be done.” She began scrubbing again.
“When were you married?” Izzy said.
“Four years since. It’ll be four years at the end of this month. Much good it’s done me.”
“Stop that. It is not fitting for the mistress of the house to be in the kitchen at this hour. It is past midnight. You should be in bed with your husband.”
The scrubbing brush stopped abruptly, and she almost fell into a chair, bursting into noisy sobs. “I wish I were! I thought… I thought he cared for me at least a bit, and he never did. I told him, I’d never have interfered with his London life, but I thought at least I’d get more help here, but he just laughed. Then he went away again. Never even touched me until—” She blushed furiously, mopping her eyes on her apron.
“Around Lady Day, I should judge,” Izzy said. “He had no idea about the baby, can you believe it? Men are so obtuse.” She pushed the brandy glass down the table. “Have a sip of that. You will feel much better.” Two faces peered at her from the kitchen door. “Do come in. Which one of you is the cook?”
They giggled. “Neither.”
Once she could see them better, she realised they were both too young to be employed as a cook, even in so benighted a house as this. One was perhaps eighteen, and the other younger.
“My sisters,” the housekeeper said. “Molly works here, but Meg’s just helping out while you’re staying. Me ma were here earlier, too, but she’s gone home now.”
“Oh, you live locally, then?”
“Home farm.”
“Tell me about your wedding, Beth… may I call you Beth? Mrs Marsden seems far too formal. And keep sipping the brandy. It will do you good. Who married you, the local parson?”
“Aye, at the church. Bishop’s licence.”
“And you have your wedding lines?”
“Aye, for all the good that bit o’ paper does me.”
“You know, your father should make sure you are treated properly.”
“Mr Marsden said he’d throw him off the farm if he said owt. Pa says at least I’ve got a roof over me head. Milady, I don’t expect him to parade me round London nor nothing. I’d just like a bit more help with the house, but he don’t listen to me. Mebbe he’ll listen to you.”
“I doubt it. Oh, but—” She laughed suddenly. “I know who hewilllisten to.” Another laugh. “Oh, Beth! We shall have you treated properly or I am a Chinaman. But you must be strong and stand up to him. I shall tell you what to say, and if hestillwill not listen, then… well, then you must summon the Generals.Thatwill teach him!”
***
Ian arrived at Marsden Hall in the tail end of a storm, the roads awash and the bright blue paint of Izzy’s carriage almost obscured by mud. Samuel splashed through the puddles on the drive to ring the doorbell and knock. After some time, the door was opened by a very young footman in old-fashioned livery, still pulling on a coat that was rather too large for him.
In the entrance hall, his greatcoat dripping even from the brief dash from carriage to house, Ian looked around him with interest. Marsden had never talked much of his ancestral home, and certainly never entertained here, but there was nothing wrong with the place that a little redecoration would not improve. The hall smelt of lavender polish and the scent of the fresh roses emanating from a vase on a table.
The housekeeper emerged from the service stairs, a gaunt woman of around thirty who looked at him in surprise.
“Lord Farramont to see Mr Marsden. The innkeeper in the village told me he is in residence.”
“Lord Farramont!” She smiled abruptly, looking almost pretty. “I’m right glad to meet you. I’m Mrs Marsden.”
Mrs Marsden! He was married, thank God! Ian laughed. “And I to meet you, ma’am.”
He made her a deep bow, and she wobbled into a curtsy.
“I suppose my wife is not still here?” he said hopefully.
“No, milord. She left… oh, a week since.”
“Do you happen to know where she planned to go?”
“No, milord.”
