Page 2 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess (Marriage Mart Scandals #3)

Marshville Manor, The Quiet Hour After Luncheon

Patrina’s fingers hovered over the pianoforte keys. One might have assumed that her parents, arguing in the next room, would have heard the music desist, but apparently not. At times like this, they departed into their own worlds.

Really, she had no time to waste. She ought to be practising, and committing the piece to memory, before time ran out altogether. The composition—a light, fashionable air that every salon desired to grace their drawing rooms for a season or two before it became tiresome—was on loan to her for but two more days. Afterward, it was to be returned to Miss Butterfield, who would then pass it on to her married sister, and thence to another, and another. Should she wish to borrow it again, she would be obliged to await its turn in the queue of those eager to possess it.

Music sheets were, after all, expensive. Not everybody had the luxury of a proper music room, and therefore did not have space to store piles of music sheets, even if they could afford them. Patrina did not have the money or the leisure to spend too much time in learning it. The quicker she committed it to memory, the better. There were plenty of Society ladies in the same predicament.

Besides, it always looked more impressive if a lady could recollect an entire song, rather than hunching over her music sheets at somebody else’s pianoforte.

In the next room, Lady Marshville’s famously shrill voice pitched a little higher.

“What exactly do you mean, George, when you say that we cannot pay the butcher? What are we meant to eat? Grass?”

It was not usual for the family to hear their father’s voice raised in anger, but Patrina heard it then.

“I mean what I say. The bill has been allowed to climb and climb, and now we do not have money to cover it. The butcher, who has already displayed an excessive degree of forbearance toward us, shall not be trifled with by a partial settlement of the account. He demands the entirety of his due in one sum, and I must confess I cannot fault him for this.”

“Oh, George, how could you have let this happen? What are we to do? This is your fault!”

“And what is it that you wish me to do? You spent a small fortune on the girls’ dresses, which we cannot afford to pay, and now I am forced to dismiss more members of our household.”

“You must be jesting, surely. Do you expect me and the girls to slave in the kitchen, perhaps? Oh, how amusing that would be. Lady Marshville and her three daughters, sweating over a vat of soup.”

“Pray cease, Mary; I implore you to desist.”

There was a tiredness in her father’s voice now, powerful enough to make Patrina’s heart ache. She imagined him slumped down in a chair, exhausted and miserable. She knew that they were lucky to have parents who cared so intensely about each other. Most couples in Society tolerated each other at best and loathed each other at worst. For all the airy ideas and novel plots about marrying for love, it seemed that people only ever married for two reasons – money, and power.

“Of course I had to buy the girls new dresses,” Lady Marshville snapped, an edge of defensiveness in her voice. “It is only Agnes’ second season, and Gillian’s come-out is this year. All of the girls have to marry, we both know that. If they do not marry, they will not have a life. And if only one marries, she will have the burden of caring for her sisters when you are gone, so we need to get all of them married. It is essential, and you know this. Where has the money gone, George? Answer me, George!”

There was a long period of silence. Holding her breath, Patrina strained to listen, heart hammering in her chest.

She could imagine her mother, tired out by her own anger and panic, sinking onto a sofa. Her father, anger all gone, would hurry over to her, concerned.

Patrina did not hear anything more, beyond muted whispers and the murmur of voices through the wall. She let her hands slip away from the pianoforte. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if she never finished memorizing that piece. Either way, she had half of it in her head already.

Rising to her feet, Patrina crossed the room, pausing before the door which led into her parents’ private parlour.

Perhaps I should leave them alone.

However, Patrina had never been known for making tactful decisions, and did not intend to begin now. She knocked firmly and waited.

“Come in, Patrina,” came George’s tired voice.

She eased open the door and peered inside. As expected, Mary and George sat together on the sofa, hands entwined.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked.

Her father smiled wryly. “Because Agnes lives in her own world, and Gillian is entirely too wrapped up in gowns and parties to think about eavesdropping.”

Patrina flushed. “I wasn’t eavesdropping . You were both just very loud.”

“Mm-hm. Come in, my dear, sit down. I suppose you deserve to hear this, too.”

A tremor of apprehension began to stir in Patrina's abdomen. She made her way to an armchair opposite – hopelessly threadbare, it had needed unholstering for several years now – and sat, folding her arms in her lap.

She remembered enough of her finishing school lessons to know that ladies were meant to sit and move in certain ways. Frankly, the lessons had been wasted, and she had only cared about the music lessons.

Perhaps if we hadn’t wasted all that money on my finishing school, the wallpaper wouldn’t be peeling from the walls with no money left to fix it, she thought. Or perhaps if I’d listened harder, I might have snagged a duke or something in my first Season, instead of spending three years hurtling towards spinsterhood.

Perchance, perchance. No sense in looking back, was there? Patrina drew in a breath and glanced between her parents.

“Tell me the worst,” she said at last. “I’m not a fool. I know that our financial situation is more dire than you two have let on. I imagine there’s no dowry at all left for us girls.”

Mary and George exchanged a long look.

“It’s rather worse than that, I’m afraid,” George managed at last. “I find myself rather deeply in debt to gentlemen who are most eager for restitution. I imprudently concealed this matter from your mother, who proceeded to acquire various items on installment—things such as gowns, slippers, jewels, and the like. Exquisite items that are not easily returned. This was all intended for Gillian and Agnes, as well as for you, my dear.”

Patrina did not miss the fact that she was an afterthought. It stung, of course, but then, this was her third unsuccessful Season. The simple fact was that they were now relying on Agnes and Gillian to make good matches.

She reflected on her two sisters, turning them over in her mind. Their family was not a remarkably handsome one. She herself was often considered the prettiest of the family at the moment, being the oldest, tallest, and fairest. Her hair was golden, and curled naturally, and she did think it was very pretty. Her eyes were a pale blue, unremarkable, and her collection of features were well enough on their own, but not enough to make her a Beauty.

Agnes was plainer, with a vivacity of mind that would make her a fine choice for any sensible gentleman in Society.

Or so Patrina thought. The gentlemen did not agree, and nor did Society. Agnes’ awkward attempt to catch Lord Something-or-Other had run aground during her first Season, and now she had her eye on the lord’s rather humbler cousin.

Gillian was shaping up to be pretty enough, with a spirit that might attract or repel the right man, depending on pure luck and who she was competing against.

Plainly put, the three of them had never much stood out in Society, where flocks of shimmering, perfect ladies crowded together and fluttered, showing off their wares at the Marriage Mart. Homely looks might be ignored over a great fortune, or being part of an ancient and highly respected family, but Patrina and her sisters were nothing remarkable in that area, either.

She was beginning to worry about their futures. Judging by the looks on her parents’ faces, they had been worrying for a great deal longer.

“Things are getting bad,” George said at last, voice quiet. “I would rather you did not tell your sisters. They’re young – Gillian is barely eight and ten – and they do not deserve to worry about this sort of thing.”

Patrina nodded slowly, bowing her head. Her mouth had gone dry. She imagined bailiffs shouldering past the front door, hefty-faced men with notebooks to make lists of everything valuable they had, carrying it away over their shoulders. She had passed by public auctions before, where some poor, ruined fool was having all of their things sold off to pay their debts. The house itself would be sold last, naturally. If the individual was fortunate, they might secure a satchel or two containing items deemed either too trifling to dispose of or possessions they were permitted to retain. They would depart with a sense of mortification, embarking upon a fresh chapter of their existence.

The unlucky ones went to debtor’s prison, until they could pay off their debt. And, of course, while locked up in prison, nobody could work hard enough to pay off a penny. Once a person entered the debtor’s prison, barring some miracle or sudden inheritance, they remained inside.

Papa would be imprisoned, Patrina thought, an edge of hysteria creeping into her mind. Mama and the girls and I would be left to make our way as best we could. And, of course, we would not.

She thought briefly about their household, the faithful old servants who’d stuck with them through thick and thin. The servants who were owed wages by the family, no doubt. Wages that the family could no longer afford to pay, no more than they could afford to pay anything they’d bought on installment.

She swallowed hard, guilt edging up underneath her new lace-trimmed bodice. It was probably too late to return the thing, as it had already been adjusted.

“What are we going to do?” Patrina heard herself say, her voice remarkably steady considering the circumstances. “Are we ruined?”

George paused, glancing at his wife. “I would have answered yes , undoubtedly, only an hour ago. And then a very strange letter arrived.”

He withdrew a crumpled letter from his sleeve, as if by magic. Mary tensed, drawing her hand away.

“Well?” Patrina asked, leaning forward. “Who is the letter from?”

Her father drew in a breath. “It’s from the Marquess of Morendale.”

Patrina flinched back at that. “You mean the Mad Marquess?”

George grimaced. “Who says he’s a madman? The man hasn’t been out at all this year, not in London. I haven’t seen him.”

Mary snorted. “Anyone who believes the man is not mad is a fool, George. Everybody knows for certain that his father died an insane, and these sicknesses often pass through a family. It is naive to ignore the gossip. I hate to say it, but the gossip makes sense.”

Patrina got to her feet, pacing up and down. “Well, yes, but the rumours are flying about the city even so. You must have heard them. Everybody knows his father was mad as anything before he died, so it must run in the family. Miss Butterfield said, just the other day…”

“I am not interested in gossip,” George said sharply. “No matter how much sense it appears to make. Do you want to know what the letter says, or not?”

“I want to know why the Marquess has written to us,” Patrina responded. “He doesn’t know us. We’ve never been introduced. I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen him.”

“Well, the handwriting looks like a woman’s, so I would guess that perhaps his mother – the Dowager Marchioness, you know – might have written it for him. Or his sister, perhaps.”

“I’m surprised that such a wealthy man can’t afford an assistant,” Patrina said tartly.

“It hardly matters. He signed the letter at the bottom. There, that is his crest. Take it, read it.”

Patrina reluctantly took the letter. It was good paper, creamy and thick, covered with looping, sloping handwriting that did look like a woman’s. She saw an unfamiliar seal, dug deep into red wax, which had clearly once sealed the letter shut.

It was most unexpectedly succinct missive. Not crossed nor densely penned, either. Such brevity seemed unnecessary, and one could not doubt that a gentleman of the Marquess of Morendale's stature would possess no need to be frugal with his stationery. He could easily procure as many sheets as his heart desired. Indeed, it was likely that he would not even consider inscribing upon the verso of his correspondence.

My Dear Lord and Lady Marshville, the letter said, I hope this finds you in good health. I write to request a meeting with yourselves and your daughters at your earliest convenience. The location and time of our meeting can be discussed later.

I understand that this is rather unorthodox, but I believe you and I have matters of great importance to discuss regarding the future of our families. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that it is a matter of mutual benefit . I offer no more details until a meeting can be arranged.

I await your response with the greatest eagerness. I must warn you that a prompt reply is expected, or else I shall take my offer elsewhere.

She read the short letter several times, waiting for some hidden meaning to reveal itself.

It did not.

“I don’t understand,” she said at last, blinking down at the letter. “What does he mean? Or what does his mother mean, if she is the one who wrote it?”

“He specifically says he wishes to meet with your mother and I and our daughters ,” George said, tapping the letter and lifting his eyebrows significantly. “What new marquess is not preoccupied with the matter of marriage and heirs? I imagine his lordship is looking for a wife.”

“And why can’t he just pick some pretty, rich little debutante from Society?” Patrina responded. “Gentlemen don’t look for wives in this manner.”

“You said it yourself. The gossip mongers have him as a madman. A man of his standing ought to have been married already, especially since the estate is entailed and he has no brothers. He must be getting desperate. Besides, any lady of any worth would not look twice at him.”

Patrina flinched back, swallowing hard. She stared at her father, waiting for him to realize what he had said.

He must be getting desperate. Any lady of any worth would not look twice at him.

That is why he has asked to meet us, was the implication. Because the Marshville girls were not worthy of much else.

“I am not happy about this,” Mary announced. Her lips were pressed tight together, her back ramrod straight. She was starting to look tired, and Patrina wondered uneasily if her mother had used up her meagre stores of strength on all of this. It was clear that she had already known about the letter, and equally clear that she did not approve.

“If he truly is mad, I won’t let any of my daughters near him,” Mary continued. “Besides, George, you are placing the cart before the horse. We have no inkling of what this gentleman desires.”

“No, we do not,” George admitted, leaning back in his seat. “And, Patrina, let me be clear about this. I will not compel you or your sisters to meet this man. The idea of forcing my daughters into a marriage is truly repulsive to me. Not that you girls would permit yourself to be in that situation at all, to be frank. But a man like this, with his wealth and power… well, he could turn our lives around like that.”

George snapped his fingers, making Patrina jump. Silence fell over the parlour after that.

“Can… Can I decide later?” Patrina asked at last, her voice a little shaky. Mary looked relieved, and George’s face fell.

“Of course,” he said, forcing a smile. “But decide by morning, my dear. I intend to send off a reply by breakfast.”

He’s already written the reply in his head, Patrina thought dully. He’s already decided what he is going to do. And he hopes that my sisters and I will fall into line. After all, what else can we do? No other miracle is going to come along and save us. This is it for us.

“Of course, Papa,” she said aloud.

***

“It could be nothing, couldn’t it?” Patrina said, meeting her maid’s eyes through the mirror.

It was dark outside, half of the household asleep already. Rain battered at the windowpane, and only the light of a single candle lit Patrina’s bedroom. There was of course no fire in the grate – firewood was expensive – and her toes were starting to go numb.

Lucy frowned, squinting in the poor light, trying to wind Patrina’s untidy hair into a long, thick braid for sleep.

“I think that there’s only one way to find out,” she said aloud. “It’s not as if he’s going to pressure you into accepting.”

“I don’t know,” Patrina muttered. “There are some shocking stories about his father. The man went quite, quite mad before he died, they say. He would often bellow and convulse, frothing at the mouth, and would dash down the corridors nearly in a state of undress.

Apparently, he even accused his own family of being against him. Can you imagine that?”

Lucy pursed her lips. “Well, I don’t know. These rich, old families are always a bit odd, I think. But anyway, his lordship and her ladyship would never allow you girls to come to harm. You said yourself that your father promised you wouldn’t be forced into anything, and I’m sure you won’t. If you don’t like him, that’s that. There. Your hair’s done.”

Patrina sighed, leaning back in her seat. Lucy Pearson had come to work for the Marshville family – before they began heading towards ruin, of course – as a gawky fourteen-year-old. Patrina couldn’t even remember how they had become friends, only that they had , and she had begged her mother to let Lucy be her companion, and later her lady’s maid.

Lucy was short, inclined towards stockiness, with nut-brown hair and large, keen hazel eyes. She had a pretty round face and was sharp enough to see through any nonsense. She alone had gotten Patrina through the humiliation of that latest, hellish Season.

“I suppose I’ll have to agree to meeting him,” Patrina remarked, tilting her head this way and that in front of the mirror. “If only out of curiosity. After all, nobody else will come to save us. Things are bad, you know.”

Lucy said nothing, but didn’t look surprised. Patrina supposed that the servants knew just as keenly how bad things had become, just as her parents did. They probably knew more than Patrina and her sisters. She imagined, briefly, what it must be like in the kitchen, day after day, stretching out meagre rations. Not having enough money to buy proper meat, serving cheap fish and boiled vegetables instead. Baking bread when the flour basket was depleting at a worrying rate. Going to the grocer’s and the butcher’s when you did not know how much further the credit would stretch.

Although not with the butcher. Not anymore, not until their bill was settled. Which would never be.

Patrina bit her lip, eyeing her reflection a little more closely. None of this would have happened if I’d just caught a duke in my first Season.

“Lucy, don’t you think I look almost pretty in this light?”

Lucy stopped in the middle of folding something, and came to stand behind her mistress, hands on her hips.

“ Almost pretty?” she repeated, tartly. “I can no longer endure your disparagement of yourself, milady. You are a paragon of beauty, though I daresay looks are of little import when one truly considers the matter. You possess such kindness, thoughtfulness, intelligence, and a delightful spirit that makes your company so enjoyable. Just because those insufferable gentlemen of Society label you a bluestocking and suggest you lack the willowy delicacy they so admire does not make their words any more valid.”

Patrina bit her lip, looking away. “I don’t care what they say about me, Lucy. But I can’t bear how they talk about Agnes. And Gillian, too, once she comes out. You know how she says whatever she thinks. And I know fine well that they only talk so cruelly about us because we are poor. It isn’t fair .”

“No, it’s not,” Lucy conceded. “But the truth is that you find yourself in straitened circumstances. You cannot conjure wealth from naught.”

“I can’t, that’s true. I’d have to marry it,” Patrina sighed heavily, leaning back again. “It seems only yesterday that I was an optimistic girl, dreaming of a love-match. I did so want to meet my Prince and find myself utterly beguiled. It’s foolish, isn’t it?”

Lucy gave her a level look. “I don’t think that wanting to fall in love is foolish.”

“It is, though. For women like me, it is. If I were sensible, I’d have married Mr. Bowles in my first Season.”

Lucy wrinkled her nose. “That old, bald man?”

“Yes, him. I couldn’t stand him, but he did have a good deal of money.”

“You’d have caused quite the scandal within a year and been the talk of the town for it.”

Patrina pursed her lips, considering. “No, I don’t think so. I believe I could have navigated the situation with grace, if I were careful. And after a while I would make a most intriguing widow, I fancy.”

“Forget about being an intriguing widow; you’ll be a chilled young lady if you don’t stop wandering about in your nightdress. Get into bed, milady. Do be sensible.”

Patrina smiled wryly, obeying. She and Lucy had been friends for long enough to speak in this way to each other. Frankly, Patrina liked it – it was good to feel that one’s maid would speak honestly and fairly about important matters.

“Thank you, Lucy.”

The maid fluttered around the room, tidying up and plumping cushions, while Patrina lay back, pulling her blankets up to her chin, and waited for the bed to warm up.

I’ll have to meet him, she thought at last. But what does he want with us? Perhaps after all this flutter and worry, it’s got nothing to do with marriage at all.