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‘Lonely? Living here?’ Marissa seemed taken aback. ‘Why, no more than usual.’ Her lashes fluttered down, hiding the wide hazel eyes. ‘I mean, I will have Miss Venables, and Mrs Whiting, of course. And Lady Augusta will visit, even though we are in mourning.’
‘No, I mean – Forgive me, but do you not have any friends of your own age?’
‘No, Cousin,’ she said simply. ‘I came straight from my father’s house in Hampshire. I met my lord at the start of my first Season, so I had no opportunity to make close friends amongst the others making their come-out. And my lord, being older than myself, had his own circle of friends, which of course became mine.’
Marcus cursed himself for his tactlessness. The conversation had brought a tautness to her face and the old wariness back to her eyes. Her devotion to her late husband was unquestionable, and he was a fool to keep reminding her of a pain so newly inflicted.
To cover the awkward moment he said bluntly, ‘Would you advise me, Cousin? I have an idea in my mind concerning my sister Nicole which I would like to explore with you. She is very young – only sixteen – and she found the sea voyage exhausting. Despite being used to inshore boats all her life, she was sick from the moment we reached deep ocean and I know she dreads the return journey.’ He leaned over to put his cup down. ‘Now I have to tell her that we must return almost at once, that she must say goodbye to her home and friends and face yet another long ocean journey.’
‘Oh, poor thing.’ Marissa said, with ready sympathy. ‘What an awful prospect for her – and for you to see her suffer so.’ It was obvious to Marcus that Marissa’s idea of his sufferings – those of a caring and sensitive brother – were far removed from the reality of living with a wilful and tempestuous girl. Nicci had been allowed to run wild and so far had never been asked to face anything unpleasant in her life. There would be endless rows, sulks and tears from the moment he broke the news until they arrived back in London, perhaps a year hence.
‘I want – I would like – to leave her here in your care and not to expose her to the rigours of both the journey and the pain of parting from her home again.’ He leaned back in the chair and watched Marissa’s face, gauging her reaction. ‘I know it is asking a lot to take on the care of a young, high-spirited girl under any circumstances, let alone these.’
He watched the calm, thoughtful face before him and realised with a start that Marissa could only be a few years older than Nicci and had ma
rried scarcely older than his sister was now. Had she always had this grave air of reflection, of inner constraint? Had she ever been a headstrong young girl and, if so, what had it taken to effect the change in her?
‘But of course she must come here to me,’ Marissa exclaimed. ‘I could not bear the thought of her having such an experience. Whatever happens she will plunged into an unknown world, having to learn the rules and expectations of a new way of life, cut off from everything that was familiar. Better by far that she does not have to experience two more long voyages first. Poor little thing. She must be so homesick, and missing you. With whom is she staying?’
‘A West India merchant by the name of Montfort and his wife. I usually stay with them on my visits to London and fortunately they have several children, including a girl of Nicci’s age.’
‘It must be a comfort to you to know she is in the care of friends. Mrs Montfort will be helping her to buy her mourning, I expect.’
Marcus reflected ruefully that if Mrs Montfort was succeeding in getting Nicci to concentrate on anything as dull as buying mourning, let alone wearing it and behaving in a manner befitting her new station in life as sister of an earl, then he would eat his hat.
‘I cannot tell you what a comfort it will be to have her living quietly in the country. I only hope it is not an imposition on you in your present state of mourning.’
‘Oh, no, it will be a pleasure to have her here. It will be a pleasant novelty too, to have someone to look after. And sixteen is such a vulnerable age for a young girl.’
Chapter Five
Marissa woke the next morning with an unfamiliar feeling of pleasurable anticipation. Not only would Jane Venables be arriving soon, and they would be able to make the move to the Dower House, but planning for Nicole Southwood’s stay was a delightful prospect. It would be like having a little sister.
Gyp snored at the end of the bed. He had always been banished to her little parlour at night but, now there was no one to object, he was becoming a familiar shadow at her heels wherever she went in the house.
Mary was already pulling back the drapes to reveal a foggy morning. ‘It’s set in a thaw overnight, my lady. Much warmer, but there’s this danged fog and the mud is something dreadful.’
‘Language, Mary,’ Marissa reproved half-heartedly. ‘You will never make a London lady’s maid saying words like danged.’
‘Yes, my lady. Sorry, my lady. Here’s your chocolate, ma’am. Mrs Whiting asked me to say, ma’am, that she would like a word this morning about what you wish done with his late lordship’s suite.’
‘Yes, please tell Mrs Whiting I will speak with her after breakfast.’
Half an hour later, fully dressed, Marissa hesitated on the threshold and glanced back at her dressing room door. If she were to discuss her lord’s chambers she had better take a look around them now. She could not face walking into that suite for the first time since his death with anyone else there.
Her hand shook slightly as she turned the key and opened the door into the formal sitting room which lay between the two dressing rooms. It was a characterless space, used by neither husband nor wife. She hurried through it without a glance. It held no memories, no threat to her equanimity.
His dressing room was immaculately tidy, just as his valet had left it. The door into the bedchamber beyond stood ajar, opening into the darkness of the shrouded room. Before she could change her mind Marissa strode across and wrenched back the heavy curtains from the windows. Foggy light poured across the floor behind her.
She turned slowly on her heels to survey the chamber, her heart thudding in her chest as the feeling crept over her that he was still there. She could sense the sharp tang of his cologne. Every item on the bedside table was perfectly aligned. Nothing had been removed or changed since his death, all was as he would have demanded it should be.
She turned and there, on the side table, were his gloves, his riding crop, his hat, just as though he had walked in and put them down a moment before.
‘My lord?’ she whispered, but there was no answer in the high-ceilinged chamber. Was he really dead? Dr Robertson had prevented her from seeing the body and she realised now he had feared she might miscarry if she was with child. And no lady ever attended the actual interment.
Marissa fled, heart thumping, something tight in her throat. She was halfway along the corridor to the main stairs before she got herself under control. Of course he is dead. And the dead did not walk, she told herself. Ghost stories are for children. By the time she reached the breakfast room she had outwardly regained her composure, but inwardly her fantasies battled with her common sense.
Like an automaton Marissa passed bread and butter, made conversation with the elderly relatives who were taking their departure that morning. By the end of the meal she had decided that she would walk down to the chapel and visit the family vault. Of course he was dead, she knew that, but perhaps if she saw the tomb with her own eyes she could lay this spectre to rest.
