Page 11 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess (Marriage Mart Scandals #3)

“I can’t think why you’d want to meet Mr. Blackburn. He’s a dreadful old bore,” Cynthia said unkindly, leading the way along a high-ceilinged, cavernous hallway. “He doesn’t like women very much. He thinks we’re silly, scatterbrained creatures. Although of course in my case he’s right.”

Patrina chuckled despite herself. “I think you are too hard on yourself, Cynthia. I did want to meet him, though. Shouldn’t I take an interest in my husband’s health?”

“Goodness, you were only married yesterday!”

“Well, no time like the present, is there?”

Cynthia twisted around to look at Patrina, smiling quizzically.

“Well, my dear, you are very serious. Mr. Blackburn will come again, I can assure you. But for now, I want to give you a tour of the house! What do you think of the place so far, by the way?”

“I like it,” Patrina responded, honestly enough. “It’s much larger than what I’m used to. And you have so many servants! How do you keep track of them all?”

Cynthia shrugged. “Oh, we don’t. That wasn’t all of them out on the terrace, you know.”

“What?”

“There were numerous scullery maids and gardeners and such still residing within the house. Not all of them emerge.”

“Good heavens. How am I to remember all their names?”

Cynthia took a sharp left, leading the way through a narrow corridor between two sour-faced portraits. It was the sort of quiet, half-hidden little passageway that could have easily been made secret, a tapestry hung across it.

“Try your best,” Cynthia advised, shooting a smile over her shoulder. “The important names to remember are Smith and Mrs. Black. Besides, I’ll help you. And I bet Mama will, too. She’s been running this house for years and years, of course.”

I’m sure she’d love to help, Patrina thought despondently. No doubt Lady Emma’s help would involve either barking orders or subtle sabotage. Wonderful.

I’m balanced on a knife edge here, with no idea who my friends might be, but with a very clear idea of who my enemies are. I can’t even count of Cynthia – asking her to choose between me and her mother would be beyond cruel. Besides, I might not like which decision she makes.

“The music room is just up here,” Cynthia added. “I think you’re going to love it.”

Abruptly, the passageway opened up into a large, round room, well-lit with natural light from wide windows. There were a few bookshelves, but what really caught one’s attention was a huge pianoforte, standing on a round platform in the centre of the room. Patrina sucked in a breath, eyes widening.

There were stacks of sheet music everywhere, piled up on the pianoforte, on the piano stool, on the window seat, even on the floor by the shelves. A dusty harp stood in the corner; a seat set beside it. There were more instruments, other unusual objects, and many more items that Patrina could scarcely spare the time to look at.

“Goodness,” she gasped. “It’s… it is beautiful.”

Cynthia beamed. “This was always my room. Mama’s not musical, but I am. But I must hear you play. Will you?”

Patrina rounded the platform, taking in the impressive pianoforte. She stepped hesitantly up, and trailed her fingers across the keys, careful not to press down and make any sound.

It was a much finer instrument than she was used to, that much was clear. Patrina’s fingers itched to try the harp in the corner, to try out the acoustics of the room. She seated herself at the pianoforte, fingertips resting on the smooth, cool ivory of the keys.

“I should love to,” she breathed. “What should I play?”

***

Lucy staggered along the corridor, cursing quietly to herself. She had Patrina’s linens piled up in her arms and had already made the wrong turn in this huge, wretched house at least twice.

Really, she ought to take the servants’ corridors, which usually offered quick, private shortcuts which would let her pop out in exactly the hallway she needed. However, the servants’ corridors were, like in all grand houses, absolute chaos. They were a rat’s nest, a maze, sprawling and confusing, criss-crossing each other at the strangest angles. Once she knew them by heart, of course, it would be different. Until then, she would have to keep taking shortcuts through the upper parts of the house. She might well be in trouble if she were caught here. Lady Tidemore, the Marquess’ mother, seemed like a real stickler for rules.

Rounding a corner, her mind set on getting Patrina’s room ready, Lucy simply was not looking where she was going.

Perhaps inevitably, she crashed straight into something. No, some one.

They both tumbled to the ground, the linens landing on top of Lucy. She gave a yelp, struggling to get upright.

“I’m sorry, sir, I never meant…” she began, gabbling an apology. Getting dismissed on her very first day would be disastrous indeed.

“No need to apologise, Lucy, it’s me!” came a familiar, laughing voice, and the tension drained from her body at once.

It was Harry Westbrook, of course, his red hair dishevelled and his twinkling eyes laughing. She let out a sigh of relief.

“I am sorry, though,” she said, wincing. The linens were all in a crumple. “I keep getting lost, and I was rushing.”

“I shouldn’t worry about it,” Harry answered, picking up a piece of cloth and folding it. “You will soon become acquainted with the house. Are you settling in well? Have you a room of your own?”

“Yes, I do. This seems like a very pleasant place, I must say.”

Between the two of them, they rescued the linens, folding them back into a neat little pile.

“I daresay you are quite occupied with the task of ensuring that the new Lady Morendale is comfortably established.” Harry remarked, shooting a quick little glance up through his eyelashes. Lucy reddened, for reasons she did not quite understand.

“I am busy, but it’s a real pleasure to work for Miss P – her ladyship , I should say. What about you? Are you not able to rest from your journey?”

“I’m afraid not,” Harry sighed. “Neil and I must meet with a few of the tenant farmers to discuss an issue with the crops. I’m on my way to fetch him now.”

They both reached for the final piece of cloth at the same time. Lucy’s fingers brushed his, and shivers of awareness ran up her arm. Harry whisked his hand away at once, like he’d been burned, and there was an awkward moment or two of silence.

Lucy cleared her throat, and then the moment was gone.

“I should probably…” she began, at the same moment that Harry said, “Well, if there’s nothing you need help with…”

They got to their feet, smiling sheepishly at each other.

“I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, Miss Pearson,” Harry said, bowing, as if she were a real lady!

Lucy flushed with pleasure and made a wobbly little curtsey. “I am counting on it, Mr. Westbrook.”

They awkwardly shuffled around each other, Harry striding off in one direction and Lucy in another. She twisted to look back at him once and found that he was also looking at her.

***

“A sort of blight, I think,” Harry answered, in response to Neil’s question.

Neil winced. Crop blights and diseases were always a serious matter. “Anything to worry about?”

“No, it seems to have receded. We rooted out the diseased crop, of course, and there was no spread of infection. We’re being careful, of course, and keeping an eye on this season’s crops, just in case, but I believe the danger is over. Still, as I’m sure you can imagine, the tenant farmers are extremely nervous. I took the liberty of inviting some independent farmers to this meeting too, Neil. I hope you don’t mind. They just want a little reassurance, that’s all.”

Neil drew in a shaky breath. He would have preferred not to address a dozen or so people on the matter of crop blights on his first day home. The day after his wedding, no less. Some would consider this his first day of marriage. Still, crop blights were serious, and it was important to show the tenants that they were his priority, and the independent farmers that they were all in it together.

He was tired, more tired than he realized. The herbal tea which Mr. Blackburn had prescribed had tasted better than the drops, but the taste lingered in his mouth even so. He itched to take some drops, just in case , but sternly told himself no .

You’re meant to be weaning yourself off them, not indulging in more. You hate the things. Do you really think they’ll give you confidence now?

Harry led the way into a small conference room, packed to the brim with men and a few women, all murmuring between themselves, all anxious and pale. They all glanced up as Neil and Harry entered, and there were a few relieved smiles.

“Ladies, gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Neil said, flashing a quick smile around. “Mr. Westbrook has just briefed me on the situation. I understand that the vast majority of our crops have been saved?”

There was a murmur of assent.

“Good, I am glad. I hear that your diligent efforts and prompt wit have proven most fortuitous, have they not?”

There were more smiles at that, and Neil began to relax. People were on edge, of course, but Harry was right. All they needed was a little reassurance, and… he paused, blinking.

Darkness nibbled at the edges of his vision. Just like that, panic flared up in Neil’s chest, and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. There were no spare seats around the table, and he was forced to grip the edges of the table to steady himself. Across the sea of faces, he saw Harry’s expression contract with worry.

“We must think now of the future,” Neil heard himself say, but his voice sounded hollow, almost as if he were hearing it from a distance. “I have some plans which may provide us with some security if this blight reappears. I… they…” he swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. The room was spinning, but he still noticed the way some of the farmers exchanged glances. If only he could sit down!

Harry began to elbow his way through the crowd towards him. Neil bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper and forced himself to continue speaking.

“We shall look at the way we… we rotate the crops,” he slurred, and knew without a doubt that he was swaying now, like a drunken man. “Isolation fail-safe procedures must be… I… Harry, I feel sick.”

Harry was at his side at once, his hands firm on Neil’s elbow.

“Move aside, please! Give him some air. For Heaven’s sake, give him some air!”

Neil was vaguely aware of Harry’s voice ringing in his ear. He kept his eyes shut until the fresh, cool air hit him in the face, signalling that they were outside. He wasn’t entirely sure how he had remained upon his feet, besides Harry supporting him.

He sat down with a thump, somewhat surprised to find a bench at his back. Flinching, Neil opened his eyes.

Harry crouched down in front of him, face pinched with worry. Behind him, the farmers peered out of the doorway, their faces pressed to the windows on either side of the door.

“Neil?” he murmured. “Neil, say something.”

“I am quite all right, Harry.”

Harry snorted. “You are not.”

“I had a fit.”

“Indeed. A small one. You never properly lost consciousness; I believe. How do you feel? As weak as usual?”

“Not quite as bad,” Neil swallowed, glancing over at the farmers. “Reassurance, eh?”

Harry looked away. “I had better go back in there and talk to them.”

“I know, I know. I will just…” Neil trailed off, not sure if he could walk back to the house himself.

Harry snapped his fingers, attracting the attention of a couple of labourers loitering nearby.

“Wait here with the Marquess, until he’s feeling strong enough to walk back to the house,” Harry instructed. “Then walk with him. See him safe into the house, won’t you? If he seems ill or acts strangely, come and fetch me, do you understand?”

The men eyed each other uneasily but nodded obediently. Harry glanced back at his cousin.

“You don’t mind, do you? It’s just… well, it’s just that this meeting is an important one.”

Neil squeezed his eyes closed, the humiliation washing over him. “I am aware. And I’m sorry.”

Harry laid a hand on his shoulder. “You have nothing to be sorry for. None of this is your fault, Neil.”

And then he was gone, hurrying back inside the meeting room. The door closed behind him, and Neil was left to wallow his own self-pity.

I can’t believe I thought I was getting better.

***

The exhaustion was so intense that Neil could barely put one foot in front of the other. Usually, after a fit, Harry would always see him safely home, ideally to a comfortable couch or even into bed, but the farmers had to be soothed and reassured, and that had to take priority.

What a fool I was, Neil thought dully. Thinking that I was getting better.

As he moved past the little corridor that led up into the music room, strains of pianoforte music drifted out. Neil stopped, frowning. It didn’t sound like Cynthia’s playing. Cynthia was good at music, but whoever was playing now had talent in abundance.

Almost without knowing what he was doing, he slipped along the passageway until he came to the door at the end, half-open.

He saw Patrina at once. She had her back to him, bent over the pianoforte, playing a song he’d never heard of before. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the door frame, and let the music wash over him.

He could almost forget everything.

Abruptly, the music stopped, jerking Neil out of his reverie.

“What do you think?” Patrina said, and for one heart-stopping moment he thought that she was talking to him. But then Cynthia replied, and he felt almost foolish. He couldn’t exactly hear what his sister said, only that it sounded complimentary.

Patrina chuckled self-consciously. “Thank you. It’s one of my own compositions, actually. How about this one?”

For a moment, Neil imagined himself walking confidently into the room. He imagined Cynthia smiling at him in welcome, and Patrina twisting around to flash him a wry grin. He imagined standing behind her, one hand resting carelessly on her shoulder, watching her deft fingers fly across the keys.

He imagined not living in fear of humiliation and weakness, of collapsing to the ground at a moment’s notice.

You’re a fool, Neil.

He turned and tiptoed away down the passage.