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The Fletcher family walked home in a daze of stunned silence. The Marchioness of Carrbridge! That she should take an interest in them was beyond anything great, and to invite them to… well, some sort of a gathering, of other provincial nobodies like themselves. But still, it was a start. It was very much a start.
6: Afternoon At Marford House
Marford House was everything that Will had expected the home of a marquess to be, that is to say, large and overpoweringly grandiose. They were led by a superior butler across a vast tiled hall, Rosie quaking, Angie hopping with excitement and Stepmother pretending not to be overawed. Will sympathised. He was pretending not to be overawed, too.
A pair of liveried footmen opened double doors to an apartment that seemed to stretch away in all directions. It was filled with furniture and objects in the Chinese style, with bamboo painted onto the silk covered walls and six great chandeliers suspended below a domed glass roof. Somewhere in the middle, looking somewhat lost in the vast scale of the apartment, sat a little cluster of women, with two or three rather forlorn young men.
“Mrs Harold Fletcher, Miss Fletcher, Miss Angela Fletcher, Mr William Fletcher,” said the butler in ringing tones as they stood transfixed by so much splendour.
A squeal emanated from the sofas where the guests were seated.“Rosie! Angie!There you are!”
“Emmy?” Angie said. “Oh, itisyou! Famous!”
Stepmother pursed her lips at the unwelcome sight of Emmy Malpas. Her father was mayor of Sagborough and a rug importer, her mother was a well-meaning woman who could never be considered gentry, and poor Emmy was everything that was unattractive in a young woman. She had a large frame with bulky hands, straight, sandy hair, a pasty complexion and prominent teeth. Like her mother, she was good-hearted, but despite a large dowry and the unceasing efforts of her parents, at six and twenty she remained unwed.
There was not an ounce of jealousy in her, however, so she greeted Rosie and Angie as bosom friends, and then Lady Carrbridge was there to usher them briskly into the centre of the room and find them seats. Over the next few minutes, four more groups arrived, and the room felt less echoingly empty.
When all had arrived, Lady Carrbridge asked each mother or chaperon to introduce herself and her charge, and to say a little about where they lived. Will watched with curiosity. Some groups were from London, but the others came from towns the length and breadth of England. He was rather proud of Stepmother’s calm manner, when it was her turn, and his breast filled with pride when she said, “We live at Chadwell Park in Hertfordshire.” They were the only family to lay claim to a country estate.
Rosie and Angie made their curtsies with aplomb, unlike some of the other girls. Will saw little beauty amongst them, and no pretensions to style. Some were fashionably attired, he could not deny, but none came close to Lady Carrbridge’s effortless elegance. Will was introduced, too, and made his bow with what he hoped was languid grace, as Monsieur Bouchard had taught him. He saw the mothers, and some of the daughters, too, eyeing him speculatively, especially after the mention of Chadwell. The other young men inched closer to him, no doubt feeling out of place amongst so many women.
There were several ladies of the marchioness’s family present. Lady Reginald and Lady Humphrey were married to brothers of the marquess. There were also two of Lady Carrbridge’s own sisters, Mrs Ambleside and Mrs Burford, pleasant women with no pretensions to their sister’s fashionable style. More provincial nobodies, Will thought, with an inward smile.
Then began a tour of the principal rooms of Marford House. After the Chinese Saloon had been explored, they moved on to the Gold Saloon, the music room and the library, where they encountered, no doubt by design, the marquess and several other gentlemen, who politely conversed for precisely five minutes before the marchioness moved everyone on. Passing through an ante-room, they found themselves in the orangery, where refreshments had been laid out on a long sideboard.
It was a dance, Will decided, cleverly arranged so the guests had impressive memories of the nobility at their most gracious and condescending, while also making new acquaintances amongst their own class. For that at least was obvious, that those invited were not seen as the equal of these people. There was no real conversation, merely a few token words before moving on. And now, instead of footmen serving the ladies as they sat, it was necessary to go to the sideboard to fetch one’s own food. But it was effective, for the guests found it easy to talk to each other as they moved about, and many cards were exchanged and promises of meetings made. Will was not excluded, for he exchanged cards with the other young men, and managed some discussion of horses, a subject dear to the heart of every right-thinking man.
He was not drawn to any of the invited young ladies. They were all too young or too dull or abominably badly dressed. He could admire no woman, be she ever so beautiful, who had no sense of colour and fashion and style. Only the marchioness herself met his exacting standards.
After a while, he realized there was another who was, if not extravagantly, at least elegantly dressed. He had not noticed her at first, for she was rather unobtrusive, slipping quietly from group to group, following behind the procession from room to room and now watchfully moving in when any mother or daughter seemed alone. She had been introduced in the Chinese Saloon, a cousin of Lady Carrbridge’s, he thought, but Will struggled to remember her name. Whitford… Whittleham… something of the sort. She was no beauty, being above average height and no longer a dewy young lady, but she had a splendidly statuesque figure and a complexion of creamy perfection. He caught her eye, but although she held his gaze for a few seconds, her eyes slid away from him without interest.
Will was not used to being ignored. He knew himself to be the most presentable of the male guests, although there was little enough competition there, and he could even stand comparison with the marquess and his brothers. They had the edge in patrician hauteur, perhaps, but in terms of dress and manners and manliness, Will was the equal of any of them. He was piqued to find himself so readily discounted.
Setting down his wine glass, he edged his way around the room until he was beside her.
“An interesting gathering, Miss Whittleham,” he said. “You are a friend of Lady Carrbridge?”
“Whittleton.”
“Oh. I beg your pardon, MissWhittleton.But youarea friend of Lady Carrbridge’s?”
“You will have to ask her whether she regards me as a friend or not.”
This was a stumper. Why would she not answer the question directly? She could only be employee, or friend, or relation, there were no other choices. She was not a servant, for her clothes were altogether too fine, yet it was clear that she was assisting the marchioness, in a way that none of the sisters or sisters-in-law were required to do. A companion, perhaps? Yet what need had a marchioness for a companion, when she had so many relations?
“You choose to be mysterious, madam,” he said, addressing the matter head on. “That leaves me to guess your precise rôle in the household. If indeed you have one. I suspect you are a duke’s daughter in disguise, hiding away from your evil papa who wishes to marry you to an even more evil suitor, who is only interested in your fortune. Am I close?”
“Not in the least, sir.” But for the first time, she turned her gaze fully on him.
“Hmm. Let me try again. You are the real Marchioness of Carrbridge, but you detest the attention your position attracts and so you have hired an actress to take your part for the season.”
“No.”
“Hmm. I must try harder. I have it! You are a ghost, and no one can see you but me.”
“You flatter yourself, sir,” she said, and without another word moved away to talk to a spotty youth in an over-tight coat and a neck cloth so highly starched it must surely interfere with his breathing.
Will was not accustomed to having his attentions spurned in so abrupt a way. Most women responded when he flirted with them, either with a becoming modesty signalled by blushes and a lowered head, or, if they were of a more robust constitution, sparring with him. To be openly rebuffed was beyond anything!
