Page 43 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #1)

It was she who spoke. ‘Sir John tells me you have been admirably frank, Lord Stainton. We honour you for that. For myself, I believe my daughter has developed a tendresse for you, and it would go against a mother’s natural feelings to deny her the chance of happiness.

You will remain here, and I will send her to you. ’

Only the last sentence, issued with a general’s expectation of being obeyed, rang true to Giles. Oh, God, what have I got myself into? he thought. And how in God’s name did one propose in these circumstances? I need your money, and your mother wants you to be a countess. Will you marry me?

Perhaps, he thought, with equal hope and despair, she would reject him.

Kitty and Nina had been feeling languid after the excitements of the weekend.

They had no engagements until the evening, and had been yawning over the periodicals in the small sitting-room reserved for them.

Unusually for them, they had hardly spoken.

For once, Nina could not do her job: though she saw Kitty was not in spirits, she was too preoccupied with her own troubles to encourage or comfort her.

Both girls rose automatically as Lady Bayfield came in. ‘We have a visitor,’ she said. Nina wondered a little over the expression on Lady Bayfield’s face, and realised with surprise that it was meant to be a smile. ‘The Earl of Stainton is here and wishes to speak to you.’

For an instant, Nina’s heart jumped so hard it actually hurt her. Her hands went to her chest. But Lady Bayfield was looking at Kitty – indeed, she hardly seemed to know Nina was there.

Kitty had turned so pale, Nina thought she might fall, and instinctively stepped closer.

‘He wishes to marry you,’ Lady Bayfield said briskly. ‘Sir John and I have given our consent. He came to us first, just as he ought, and now he wishes to propose to you in person. Stand up properly. What have you been doing? Straighten your skirt. And pinch your cheeks – you are too pale.’

‘What must I do?’ Kitty asked falteringly.

‘You will listen to what he has to say,’ Lady Bayfield said impatiently.

‘And then you will accept his offer. You may thank him if you wish, but there is no need to be too grateful – your fortune is an uncommonly large one. You will be married in your first Season, Catherine, and Sir John and I are very pleased. You will be Lady Stainton. Your son will be an earl. Come, now,’ she concluded, ‘and I will take you to him. Don’t stand there like a ninny!

’ she added impatiently, to her frozen stepdaughter. ‘It won’t do to keep him waiting.’

‘Can Nina come too?’ Kitty whispered through dry lips.

Lady Bayfield cast a first glance in Nina’s direction, in which there seemed to be contempt and triumph mingled. ‘Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous!’ She doesn’t need you any more , the look said to Nina, and good riddance! ‘Come, Catherine – at once!’

And Kitty, bred to obedience, followed her stepmother out.

The scene: Sir John Bayfield’s study. Kitty, shoved in like a reluctant dog into a rat pit, smelt dusty books, tobacco, her father’s bay rum. She heard the door close behind her, and saw a man’s dark shadow against the sunlight from the window.

It took Giles a moment to realise she could not see him where he was standing, and he moved away to the bookshelves opposite the master’s desk. Kitty’s head followed him round, but she stood where she had stopped as though further movement were impossible.

‘Miss Bayfield,’ he said. She was staring at him with wide eyes, like a victim.

Had Miss Sanderton been mistaken? Were her parents bullying her into this?

Sympathy was as unwelcome as it was novel.

He had so hated the whole business of finding a wealthy bride that he had never thought of the females on Aunt Caroline’s list as people, just objects.

And Richard, the authority on women, had represented them as rapacious hunters bent single-mindedly on catching a mate.

But what if Richard was wrong, if the whole of society was wrong?

What if women were no different from men?

His few weeks of friendship with Nina Sanderton made it easier to believe that.

They had talked together – at least, until the end – like two equal people.

But had that just been her? Or would any woman be the same?

He must not think of Nina any more.

He began again: ‘Miss Bayfield, your parents seem to believe that you are willing to – to receive my addresses. I assure you that I have no wish to press you into anything you don’t like.

If they are wrong, you have only to say the word and this interview will end at once.

’ Still she stared. He said, ‘Do you want me to go away?’

She licked her lips. ‘No,’ she said. He raised an uncertain eyebrow. ‘I – I am – I wish you to go on,’ she managed.

Well, then, he thought. How to proceed? He supposed, from the little fiction he had read, that it was traditional to talk of love.

I have never believed in ‘love’, and even now when I suspect it may exist, I don’t love you.

That was the truth and it wouldn’t do. And in any case, he thought, examining her expression, even if he lied and said he loved her, he did not suppose that she could believe it.

He had never given her reason to suppose it.

So why did she want to marry him? Because , said some inner voice, she has to marry someone, so it might as well be you.

But why me? Because she likes you . Miss Sanderton told you so .

Yes, he saw now why she looked like a victim, and felt a vast pity. She had to marry someone. Why Miss Sanderton did not look so he could not at present consider. His task lay before him, and he had to tackle it. Truthfully, but tactfully.

‘Miss Bayfield, I am here to ask you to marry me. Though my resources are constrained at the moment, I believe they will improve. I have the wherewithal to make you comfortable, and I hope I can make you happy. I promise at least that I will do everything in my power to see that you are. Whatever you want, if it is within my gift, you shall have. Will you do me the great honour of accepting my hand in marriage?’

Large tears filled the wide blue eyes that gazed up at him, but he had just enough wit to realise they were not tears of grief. A tremulous smile was trying its best to occupy her lips. He smiled in return, and urged her gently, ‘I believe it is traditional for you to answer.’

The smile had won. ‘Yes, please,’ she said.

He felt relief, and something like sadness.

Something more was needed, he realised, for the ceremony to be complete.

He stepped closer, took both her hands, and stooped to kiss her softly, briefly on the lips.

He had to stoop further than he had the night before …

Horrified with himself, he banned the memory from his mind. He must never think of that again.

‘Shall we tell your parents?’ he said, and she nodded.

He would not have thought it possible to look both ecstatic and troubled at the same time, but apparently it was.

He retained one of her hands as he led her towards the door.

It lay passively in his, unlike another hand he had recently held, which he would not think about, but which had seemed to connect him with the vital force of life.

Richard was aware that his grandmother did not leave her bedroom until eleven o’clock, or twelve if she had been out late the night before.

He was not an early riser himself, but on Monday, trusting that Grandmère had not been carousing on Sunday evening, he presented himself on the stroke of eleven, shaved as smooth as a pebble, dressed with meticulous neatness, and bearing a bunch of iris, which she loved.

All his care merely convinced her, when he was shown into her presence, that he was up to something.

She sat at the small table in her sitting-room, dipping squares of toast into her delicate gold and white Limoges cup of linden tea, and eyed him narrowly.

‘I suspect I am about to be asked for something.’

He gave her a wounded look. ‘Can’t a fellow bring his favourite grandparent flowers?’

‘I am your only grandparent,’ she said.

‘But you see I thought about it carefully. I didn’t bring you roses.’

‘I give you credit for that. Roses must only come from lovers. Simone, put them in a vase.’ But she held on to them for a moment, and ran a finger over their taut curves.

‘God’s flowers,’ she remarked, with soft pleasure.

‘Three, and three, and three. The flower that bears the Trinity always in its heart. Also Mary’s flower – the sword-lily of Our Lady of Sorrows.

All beauty wears sorrow on its other face. ’

Richard nodded intelligently, feeling that his recent exposure to church had given him more sensitivity on the subject of religion.

He wondered if he should tell her about his visit to St George’s, then thought it would just remind her of how rarely he went.

He’d been given credit for the iris – he shouldn’t push his luck.

‘You are up early,’ she said, as she relinquished the flowers to her maid. ‘Or have you not yet been to bed?’

‘ Au contraire ,’ he said. ‘I have had a Saturday and Sunday of unparalleled virtue. Giles was invited for a Saturday-to-Monday at Dene Park—’

‘Ah, yes, the Wroughtons,’ Grandmère said. ‘ Not people of the greatest refinement. Respectable, but dull.’

‘Don’t you find all English aristocracy respectable but dull?’ he suggested.

‘And some not even respectable. But they are better, at all events, than the French aristocracy, who can do nothing but complain about their lost treasures. No-one – remember this, petit – no-one enjoys self-pity. Not other people’s, at all events.

One’s own is a different matter, bien entendu . That is always most agreeable.’

‘You are especially mordant this morning, Grandmère.’