AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The dining room door opened and Marcus came in He had clearly been out already, there was colour in his cheeks from the raw cold and his hair curled damply from the fog. He took a cup of coffee from Whiting and wrapped his fingers round the porcelain as though to warm them.
He smiled at the guests who were finishing their breakfast. ‘I hope, gentlemen, that this fog will not impede your journeys. Will you not stay a few more days until the weather clears?’
‘It will be better once we are away from the coast,’ Sir Thomas Cribb, a distant cousin, said. ‘The sea fret lies heavy here, always does. Too damp, this spot and I’ve always said so,’ he added, half under his breath.
‘Should I not ring for your valet, Cousin? This cold fog seeps through damp to one’s very bones.’ And, Marissa reflected, was enough to produce pneumonia in someone used to tropical climes. Not that the Earl was looking unwell; far from it. Used to her husband’s pale skin and immaculate hair, Marcus’s tan and unruly crop seemed vibrantly alive and healthy. But try as she might, she could not become used to the physical similarity between the two men which underlay these differences.
‘Thank you, no. I intend going down to see the Home Farm once our guests have departed, if we cannot persuade them to stay. I must confess I had not appreciated the scale of the estate here. There is a great deal to put in hand before I leave.’
Wrapped in a thick wool cloak with hood and muff, Marissa waved goodbye to the last of the guests from the front steps of the Hall and waited while Marcus mounted and cantered off in their wake towards the Home Farm.
Whiting was hovering, waiting for her to re-enter the house. ‘Thank you, Whiting. I shall take a turn round the pleasure grounds for some air.’
As the front door closed she walked briskly down the gravel path that wound into the shrubbery. The evergreens dripped with fog moisture and the snow lay in depressingly grubby patches against their trunks. She increased her pace and emerged onto the open greensward in front of the little stone family chapel.
As she laid one black-gloved hand on the latch of the gate the cold struck through the fine kid and she lifted her hand away, stopping in the act of opening the gate. What am I thinking? Why was she suddenly prey to this ridiculous compulsion? Of course Charles was dead, his neck broken in his fall.
And it was her fault. Once again she had disappointed him, once again he had ridden out in cold fury at her failure as a wife. Why had he ridden over the Common when only the other day she had heard the gamekeeper remarking on the extent of the rabbit holes and the damage they were causing? It could only have been because he was distracted by yet another disappointment, yet again there was no sign of an heir to displace the estranged cousins in Jamaica.
Marissa turned to leave, then hesitated. If she went in now, saw the vault, it would make an ending to her life at the Hall. She could start again, afresh.
The door creaked open on reluctant hinges and cold, damp air rolled out to meet her. Shuddering, Marissa huddled deeper into her cloak and stepped inside. The chill pressed up through the soles of her sturdy shoes as she walked slowly towards the entrance to the vault, the bronze doors hung with wreaths of laurel.
The family always worshipped in the parish church which lay on the boundary of the estate, the chapel was used only for family interments. All around were the slabs and monuments denoting the resting places of many generations of Southwoods, back to Sir Ralph, lying in his armour, his dog at his feet.
Her lord’s grandfather had constructed this new vault with its great metal-bound door that seemed designed to keep the dead in, rather than the living world out. Stop it. The space for a new plaque was empty, awaiting the carved tribute to her lord, but a hatchment with his coat of arms hung above, and a painted board stated simply: Charles Wyston Henry Southwood, Third Earl of Longminster. 1770- 1815.
How well the marble mausoleum suited him in its cold, classical perfection. Yes. He is dead. For the first time Marissa truly believed it. She was free of him. A tiny glow of warmth burned inside her as she tried the word under her breath. ‘Free.’
For two years she had longed for freedom, longed to wake up and find, not that he was dead – never that – but that he had gone, vanished from her life by some miracle. For two years he had dominated her by his will, controlled her every act, wrung out every drop of spontaneity and warmth from her, given her only wealth and status, demanded only perfection – and an heir.
She had married him determined to be a loving and dutiful wife, but she had found that only duty was expected of her. And, however hard she’d tried. she had never been able to please his exacting standards, by day or by night.
The vault seemed to be full of his personality as Marissa stood there, relief and a dreadful guilt that she should feel like this flooding through her. Then there was a step behind her and the door, which she had left ajar, swung open with a thud.
Marissa whirled round, and for one hideous moment believed she saw him standing in the doorway. ‘My lord!’
Then she saw it was Marcus, his breath curl
ing warm on the cold air.
Marcus saw Marissa drew in one difficult breath and then burst into tears. After a horrified moment he strode across and gathered her in his arms, holding her tight while she sobbed, cursing himself under his breath. He had done it again, scared the poor woman by coming on her unawares, reminding her at the worst possible moment of what she had lost.
He had seen the chapel door standing ajar as he rode back from the Home Farm and had come to secure it. He should have realised it might be Marissa, visiting her husband’s grave to mourn in peace. He had broken in on her grief and by doing so had broken her composure and the control that had been helping her to cope with her loss.
Trying to explain and apologise would only make things worse. Gently Marcus urged her towards the door and out into the open, where the sun was at last penetrating the fog in fitful rays. He closed the door firmly behind them and found a handkerchief.
She spoke, her voice muffled against his greatcoat. ‘He has really gone, has he not? He will not be coming back?’
It stuck him as an odd choice of words, but then, there was no accounting for the mental turmoil of loss. He patted Marissa lightly on the back until the sobs subsided and she took his handkerchief with a watery smile.
He offered her his arm. ‘Come, Cousin. Shall we walk back slowly past the lake? The sun is finally beginning to warm that east-facing bank.’ And it would give her time to regain her composure before facing the servants.
They walked on in silence, Marissa’s hand tucked warmly into the crook of his arm, his horse ambling behind them. The fog was curling up off the surface of the lake like smoke, and the fringing reeds stood brittle and dead in the still water. Flocks of duck were dotted across the lake and rose in panic at the sight of them.
Marissa blew her nose and he could almost feel her struggling to find a suitable topic of conversation. She must feel awkward, weeping in front of him, but having a sister had made him adept at soothing tears.
A pheasant suddenly flew out of the tussocks around the lake with a strident alarm call and across the meadow the plaintive bleat of sheep carried clearly on the still air.
