Page 10 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess (Marriage Mart Scandals #3)

They all fell silent when the carriage slowly and grandly turned into a long, wide drive. The silence was for different reasons, of course.

Patrina saw Lady Emma draw herself up, gathering her composure, ready to greet the household and return home. The lady of the manor making a gracious return.

Cynthia was brimming with excitement, peering out of the window, keen to get the first glimpse of home.

It was hard to tell how Neil felt. His expression was smooth and serious, unreadable. He met her gaze once, and gave her a brief, tight smile.

For her part, Patrina’s nerves tightened with each forward rattle of the carriage wheels.

This is it. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest. This will be my home. I’ll have to learn to live here.

What if it’s not what I expected? What if I hate it here?

It doesn’t matter. This is home for me now.

With a twist of the coach, the house came into view. Heart sinking, Patrina saw that the entire household had come out onto the front steps, lining up on either side of grand marble stairs, waiting.

Waiting for her.

The house was every bit as grand and formidable as she had expected, a vast, winged manor with countless windows and no doubt endless corridors and linked rooms for her to get lost in, shuffling red-faced around the house like a nervous visitor.

“This really isn’t necessary,” Patrina stammered, gesturing to the servants, shifting their weight and smothering yawns. “Let the poor servants go inside. It’s cold, they must be freezing.”

She addressed her question to Neil, but it was Lady Emma who answered.

“This is the way things are done, Patrina,” she said coolly. “It is proper. It is respectful. It is tradition. I should have been quite furious if we had come back and the servants were not waiting to greet the new Marchioness. Now, we shall all climb out of the carriage first, and you shall come out last, Patrina. Do you understand?”

Patrina was rankled by being spoken to in that manner. Do you understand? As if she were a child.

“Of course,” she responded, as calmly as she should.

It was pretty clear that Lady Emma hoped that her daughter-in-law would be as quiet and mild as her own daughter. That would leave Lady Emma as the Marchioness in all but name.

Patrina had already decided that that was not going to happen. She would inevitably find herself at odds with Lady Emma sooner or later, that much was evident.

Not today, though.

She had seen the genuine, anxious concern in Lady Emma’s face when she looked at her son, and the tight worry in her voice when she talked about his poor state of health and the importance of Mr. Blackburn.

Perhaps I should pick my battles. I am not, after all, a physician. Lucy was right about that.

The carriage rolled to a halt. Lady Emma climbed out first, smiling benignly around at the servants. Cynthia came next, then Neil, and then it was Patrina’s turn.

Praying she wouldn’t trip on her skirt and somehow humiliate herself, Patrina climbed out of the carriage and pasted a smile on her face.

The servants all craned their necks to get a good look at her. The lower servants openly stared at her, taking in details of her hair, her dress, the way she walked, whereas the upper servants inspected her more subtly.

Still, there were dozens of eyes on Patrina, and she hated it.

“This is Smith, our butler,” Lady Emma said breezily, gesturing to a tall, middle-aged man in a black suit, “And Mrs. Black, the housekeeper.”

Mrs. Black was a diminutive woman, of the same age as Smith, with a smooth face and a cool expression. They both made bows and curtsies, and murmured greetings.

“I hope you will find everything to your liking, Lady Morendale,” she said, meeting Patrina’s eye squarely. “Please do let me know at once if anything must be changed.”

Patrina was aware of Lady Emma bristling behind her. Of course, Lady Emma would have taken care of running the house, but now that she was here, it was meant to be her.

The idea of taking charge of a large, complicated house like this one made Patrina shiver.

“Of course,” she said aloud, trying to sound confident. “But I am sure everything is just as it should be, Mrs. Black. I shan’t disrespect your years of experience insisting that you change the way you do things.”

Mrs. Black blinked, as if taken aback. Just for an instant, her eyes flicked over Patrina’s shoulder to where Lady Emma stood.

Then her composure was back, and she made a neat little curtsey.

“As you please, Lady Morendale. Tea has been laid on in the blue parlour. That is, the front parlour. It is the one that Lady Tidemore prefers.”

Lady Tidemore was, of course, Lady Emma. They were going to Lady Emma’s parlour.

Patrina kept the smile on her face. “Naturally. Lead the way, Mrs. Black, please.”

As they passed through the large, arched doorway, she heard the butler take Neil aside and murmur in his eye.

“Mr. Blackburn is waiting for you in the study, your lordship.”

***

Neil was a little shocked to notice a frisson of nerves as he approached the study. Harry had some business to attend to, but Neil had already determined that his cousin would join them for dinner. Patrina seemed to like him, and he was sick and tired of his mother and sister turning up their nose at their cousin.

This is my house, after all.

Drawing in a breath and resisting the urge to tap at the door of his own study and wait, Neil pushed open the door.

Mr. Blackburn was a large man, well over six feet tall, and remarkably liberal. In his youth, Neil had considered the man rather snobbish , strictly saving his skills for those who could afford to pay for his expertise.He boasted a pair of remarkably prominent black sideburns that dominated much of his visage. In recent times, these distinguished adornments had begun to fade to a silvery hue, yet the small, dark orbs above the striking features remained as keen as ever.

When he entered, Mr. Blackburn was standing before the fireplace, hands tucked behind his back. He had his head tipped back and was inspecting a large portrait hanging above the mantelpiece.

“It’s a good likeness,” the physician said, not turning around.

Neil knew what the portrait was, without needing to look up. It was one of his mother and father in their youth, straight-backed and serious and genteel.

“It’s one of my favourites,” Neil admitted, chest constricting.

“I recall that dear Lady Tidemore wished to have all likenesses of the late marquess taken down, did she not? A common symptom of grief. At the beginning, one does not wish to be reminded of what one has lost.”

Neil bit his lip. A tray of tea had been set out on the table, and he headed towards it, pouring himself a cup. He could see that Mr. Blackburn had already done so.

“We all grieve differently, I think,” he said, hoping to change the subject. He had already had battles enough with his mother over the portrait. These days, she was more amenable to likenesses of her husband hanging around the house. The black veil had recently been removed from the official portrait of the late Marquess which hung in the Great Hall with his ancestors.

“Just so, just so,” Mr. Blackburn turned slowly from the portrait, as if struggling to tear his eyes from it. “Well, Lord Morendale, how are you this fine afternoon?”

Neil had always had the impression that Mr. Blackburn did not really like calling him Lord Morendale. After all, the physician had seen Neil grow up, watched him run around and misbehave, and then be punished accordingly. Perhaps in Mr. Blackburn’s eyes, only Neil’s father would ever be Lord Morendale.

It rather felt as though Neil were constantly trying to gain the man’s respect. Which was, of course, exhausting.

“As a matter of fact, I feel excellent,” Neil answered, taking a seat by the fire. “I have a confession to make.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Was that a hint of sarcasm in the physician’s voice? Neil frowned slightly and tried to ignore it.

“I have missed several doses of my medication, but the digestive issues we discussed earlier have gone altogether. Could the two things be connected?”

Mr. Blackburn pursed his lips. “To be sure, the medication I prescribed is a powerful one, and sickness is a common side effect. However, let us not lose sight of the reason it was prescribed. What of your fits?”

“That is my point. I haven’t had any,” Neil leaned forward, excited despite himself. “I know I shouldn’t have high expectations – Harry already scolded me for that – but isn’t there a chance I could recover?”

“We must rule nothing out. Of course, your recovery would be the ideal outcome. Am I to understand you wish to discontinue your medication? I would advise strongly against it.”

Neil flushed. The physician had a knack of making him feel like a child being scolded. It was not pleasant.

“I won’t do anything against your advice, of course, but… well, I can’t ignore the fact that this is the longest I have gone without a fit in quite a while.”

Mr. Blackburn stared down at him for a long moment, expression unreadable.

“You are right,” he said abruptly. “We must explore this possibility. Now, if we are to wean you off the drops, we shall go down to one dose a day. If you feel like you need more, you may take more.”

“I won’t,” Neil answered fervently. For the longest time, a kernel of hope coiled in his chest. Could he do it? Could he survive?

“But I must prescribe an additional medication,” Mr. Blackburn continued. “A herbal tea. It’s a much gentler remedy than the drops and will taste a good deal better. Here, I shall make you up a sample.”

He strode over to the bellpull, yanking hard. When a footman appeared in the doorway, Mr. Blackburn snapped at him, demanding hot water.

He took out a jar of mixed herbs and crushed leaves and flowers from his case, carefully spooning out a few doses into a teacup. A pungent, savoury scent filled the room, not unlike the smell from the drops.

“Allow the mixture to steep for no less than five minutes,” the doctor instructed, stirring and straining. “Here, drink. Add honey if you require more sweetness.”

Neil took a tentative sip and wrinkled his nose. “It is a little better than the drops,” he conceded.

“Three spoonfuls, three times a day, at least,” Mr. Blackburn said, dusting off his hands in a business-like manner. “I shall send over a man with a larger container of the stuff.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blackburn.”

“I must confess, I imagined you were about to tell me about another serious life choice,” the older man said, flashing a strained smile.

“Hm?”

The smile disappeared. “Your wife, Lord Morendale. I had no idea you intended to marry. I heard of it from dear Lady Thomasin Tidemore.”

Neil bit back a sigh. Thomasin. Of course.

“Well, it was a rather quiet affair. Not many people knew.”

Was Mr. Blackburn offended at not having received an invite? There hadn’t even been a wedding breakfast, nothing more than a ceremony conducted several hours’ carriage journey away. Yet it was clear by the pinched, disapproving expression on the man’s face that he was not pleased at something.

The physician closed his medical case with a snap .

“Excitement and chances of circumstance are not healthy for you, Lord Morendale. You know that. Marriage, while an admirable state, can upend a man’s life altogether. If you had asked my opinion, I would have advised strongly, very strongly against it.”

Neil shifted, beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. He was sure that Mr. Blackburn had never discussed such personal matters with his father and couldn’t quite understand why he would expect to discuss them with the current Lord Morendale.

“A man of my standing must marry,” he answered at last, seeing that some response was needed. “Forgive me, but I never thought to ask your advice. My mother and Harry both gave me their aid in this matter, and we have set up a rather decent match.”

“A decent match, you say? Hm, my sources must be incorrect. I had heard that it was one of the Marshville daughters , decent enough young ladies, but with distinctly lower prospects than a Marquess.”

Neil stiffened. Enough is enough.

“I have married Patrina Marshville, in point of fact, Mr. Blackburn. She seems to be a very agreeable young lady, and I am already very fond of her. She is, of course, the Marchioness of Morendale now, Lady Morendale, and I do hope that you will treat her with the respect her position accords.”

For a moment, there was dead silence in the room, broken only by the ticking of a clock in the corner.

“But of course, your lordship,” Mr. Blackburn said. For a moment, there was a definite edge in his voice, then his shoulders slumped. He shook his head, sighing. “Do forgive me. I am an old man, and I am speaking out of turn more and more often these days.”

Neil bit his lip, feeling a little guilty over his sharp tone.

“Think nothing of it. Lady Patrina is not exactly an heiress, but she is a fine young woman. Cynthia likes her very much, and so do I.”

“Well, I wish you all happiness,” the physician said, his brusque tone indicating that the visit was coming to an end. He paused, glancing down at the half-full cup of tea Neil held in his hand. “Drink up, your lordship.”