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“He says the party is in my honour. It would be very rude for us - at least me - not to attend.”
“The man is an encroaching mushroom with a title barely three generations old. Received it just because his ancestor acted as a procurer for the King, no doubt. We will not lower ourselves to attend.”
“Especially not since the dispute over Faraway Farm,” murmured Mr. Broadbank.
“Thinks because he’s rich he can take whatever he likes. Faraway Farm has belonged to the Wentworths since the Domesday Book. They shouldn’t have been allowed to claim it just because of some late taxes... We would have paid them eventually!”
“We do not mix with the Gershams,” Aunt Lucinda murmured, a hint of regret in her voice. “Thankfully, their seat is in Devon, so they are not here very often.”
“That demmed brother-in-law of his is here, though, swanning around like he owns the county.” Mountjoy sounded bitter.
“Perhaps,” said Basil ruminatively, a sly smile touching his unattractively bulbous lips, “we should attend. What better place to announce our forthcoming marriage?” He reached out and took my hand; he would have brought it to his lips had I not snatched it back as if it were in a fire.
“I have not accepted you,” I replied haughtily. His expression and tone might have been lover-like, but his eyes were hard.
“You will, my dear, you will, so why not now? Especially,” he said to Sir Mordecai in a different voice, “since Stanhope was in the stables this morning, trying to cosy up with our dear Clarissa.”
Once again Sir Mordecai turned a glowing dark red.
“Come with me,” he snapped and rose from the table, pausing only to tell Aunt Lucinda, “Write an acceptance.”
I rose and followed him into the library, almost shaking with a combination of anger and apprehension. One thought, though, warmed me. When I had seen Stanhope, he had obviously already fulfilled his mission to deliver a missive for Sir Mordecai, which meant it had been in the house for a while. Freeman, however, had waited until we were all at breakfast before delivering it. He knew that had I not been there probably I would never have heard of the invitation. An act for me, or against Sir Mordecai? It made no difference, for I felt I had an ally in the butler.
“Well, miss, what have you to say for yourself? You were gone when I went to your room this morning, and I could find no sign of the letters.”
“You searched my room?” I asked, aghast but, knowing that there was no chance of an apology, continued. “There are no letters because I did not write them. Such missives deserve careful wording.”
“Clarkson said there was a light in your room until very early this morning. What were you doing if not writing the letters?”
He had set his valet to spy on me? I shook with rage.
“You are insufferable, sir. What I was doing is my own business.”
“Until you write those letters as I instructed everything you do is my business. You are now forbidden to go to the stable, or even out of the house unless I approve. You will obey me, Clarissa.”
Forbidden the stable? Forbidden even to walk in the gardens?
“I own I am surprised you do not chain me in the dungeon,” I replied as calmly as I could.
“Do not force me to,” he replied as he walked out, pausing in the doorway only long enough to say, “I will be obeyed. Write those letters! This must be settled before you marry Basil.”
Chapter Six
I had never thought overmuch about the life of a prisoner, yet now I was living it. No, I was not chained to the dungeon wall, but I might as well have been. Some would say that I lived a good life in my incarceration - a lovely if somewhat shabby house, gardens to walk in if I were accompanied, the unending company of my relatives. It was horrible.
If I stayed in my room, the woman hired from the village was always there doing something; if I ordered her out, she would sit outside my door until Aunt Lucinda or Great Aunt Zipporah sent for me. When called to one of their sides, their chosen candidate for my hand would always be with them and the hours would be spent with their extolling their virtues and why they would be a better choice for me to wed than Basil. Then the other would request my presence and we would go through the whole tiresome scenario again. Sir Mordecai was not immune to this kind of intimidation, though a great deal less subtle. He and Basil would demand my attendance in the library and go through endless convoluted plans about what would be done after we were married - not if, but when. He never mentioned the letters or any sort of financial restraint on Basil, I noticed, although when we were alone, he became more and more insistent.
Thank Heaven the Duke’s party was on the day after tomorrow; I would have gone mad had such familial suffocation gone on any longer, though I knew that the dinner would be only a small respite. It was patently obvious that I would have to handle this situation with Sir Mordecai and Basil myself. I simply had no idea of how to do it. Illogically I found myself wishing I could talk to Stanhope. Of everyone I had met on this trip, he seemed the most accessible and the most honest... someone to whom I could appeal. I would value his advice.
One of the few things which delighted my heart was the discovery of a pianoforte in a completely empty upstairs room. Old, slightly out of tune and with several keys which did not work, it was still a pianoforte. After the debacle of breakfast and the forbidding of my visiting the stables, I had been trying to avoid Basil - no small task, as he seemed determined to stay by my side - it made no sense that I should sit down and play, but I could not help it. I had not played since leaving Charleston.
“What is this!” Roaring like a bull, Sir Mordecai burst into the room, Basil at his heel like a faithful dog. “I gave orders...”
I stopped playing and turned to look at him. “Not to me, sir.” Defiantly I began to play again, the Andante from Beethoven’s piano sonata number 25.
In defiance of all propriety Basil sat on the bench beside me. It was a very small bench, which put his body into unpleasantly intimate contact with mine.
“But the music is so sad, my dear? Why do you not play something more pleasant? A love song, perhaps?”
