The Youngest Dowager Read online

  ‘As you know,' Mr Hope began gravely, ‘we are gathered here to hear the testamentary dispositions of the late Charles Wystan Henry Southwood, third Earl of Longminster, newly deceased.’ His clerk emerged from the shadows, produced an impressive document tied up in red tape from the box, broke the seal, handed it to his principal and effaced himself again.

  ‘I shall begin with the bequests to the staff.’ There followed several pages of gifts, small pensions and life interests in estate cottages. Marcus reflected that his cousin had made very correct, if not generous, provision for his faithful servants, but wondered at the total absence of any personal mentions or expressions of gratitude.

  He glanced across at the widow and saw she was sitting with perfect poise, her gaze fixed on the carved over-mantel of the fireplace. She looked composed, almost frozen, but as he watched he became aware that the jet drop earrings were trembling against her white neck. He wondered if she were normally so poised or whether her deep grief had frozen her heart.

  He did some rapid mental calculations. As far as he could recall his cousin had been forty-five years old. This woman could scarcely be more than twenty.

  He realised that Mr Hope had droned his way through the minor bequests and the servants had filed out of the room, leaving only the immediate relatives and two men he had been introduced to – Doctor Robertson and the family chaplain, the Reverend Mr Field.

  After another four more pages of interminable legal phrases Mr Hope regarded his numbed audience over the top of the vellum and announced, ‘In essence the position is straightforward. The title and the estate, both entailed and unentailed, with the exception of that in the Countess’s marriage portion and the lifetime occupation of the Dower House, descends to the male heir of the late Earl.’

  Chapter Two

  Marissa had been struggling to stay focused on the legal jargon, but this shook her into speech. ‘But my husband has no son.’

  Mr Hope swept on, a touch of colour in his sallow cheeks. ‘The matter is delicate, but none the less it is my duty to tell you that under these circumstances it is normal, and prudent, to wait a certain number of months before the succession can be, as it were, clarified.’

  It suddenly dawned on Marissa that Mr Hope, that dry lawyer, meant that they all had to wait to see if she was pregnant.

  Without thinking, she blurted out, ‘But there is no need to wait.’

  Aunt Augusta muttered, ‘Hush, my dear. Not in front of the gentlemen.’

  ‘No.’ The thought of the whole household watching, waiting, week after week, studying her looks, her health, her mood, for signs she was with child, was insupportable. Better to get it over with now. ‘I can assure you, Mr Hope, that there is no vestige of doubt that my lord is without a direct heir.’

  Mr Hope snatched off his eyeglasses in agitation and looked wildly at the doctor and Lady Augusta. They stared blankly back at him until he said, ‘Dr Robertson, Lady Augusta, perhaps if I may prevail upon you to retire to another place with the Countess and discuss this matter further?’

  Scarlet to her ear-tips, Marissa swept out of the room towards her bedchamber, followed by Aunt Augusta and the doctor. Her head high, she dared not look at anyone else, but she was acutely aware of Marcus Southwood as he rose when she passed him.

  Then all thoughts of anyone else left her as she sat in her room, whispering answers to Dr Robertson’s tactful questions. But her mind was only partly with him. It was in this very chamber only a week ago she had had to tell her lord that once again she had failed in her duty and that she was not carrying his heir.

  He had never used words to reproach her, but his disappointment had sent him out to ride furiously across the frozen parkland where small drifts of snow still lingered. It was one of those which had concealed the rabbit hole that had tripped his horse, pitching the Earl head-first onto the iron-hard ground to break his neck in an instant.

  Marissa knew it was her failure as a wife, her lack of duty to her lord, that had killed him. Her eyes filled with tears at the thought and Aunt Augusta held up her hand to stop the flow of questions from the doctor. ‘Enough. Surely you are satisfied with what the Countess has told you?’

  ‘Indeed, I am.’ The doctor leaned across and patted her clasped hands in an avuncular fashion. ‘You have been very brave and very frank, my dear lady, and in doing so have been a great help to those administering the late Earl’s estate. But it is a melancholy thought that the direct line must cease.’ He broke off abruptly and Marissa thought she saw Aunt Augusta gave him a sharp kick on the ankle.

  Dry-eyed, with her head held high, Marissa resumed her seat in the library and the gentlemen went back to their positions. The doctor had a rapid, whispered conversation with the lawyer who nodded and took up his papers once more.

  ‘I am in a position to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that the title, honours and estates of the third Earl of Longminster pass immediately to his heir, the fourth Earl, Marcus St Laurence Southwood of Jamaica, who by great good fortune is with us today. My lord.’ He stood up and bowed to the blond stranger, who acknowledged the salute with equal gravity.

  She had failed in her duty and the title and all that went with it was passing to the son of a man estranged from the family. She should be mortified. But Marissa was conscious of nothing more than a vast sense of relief. Now she could relinquish this great house, this mausoleum which so chilled her soul and deadened her spirits, and move to the Dower House. It would be someone else’s responsibility to manage the impeccable running of the Palladian splendour which her husband had created. She wondered how swiftly such a move could be effected. Soon, please, make it soon.

  Marcus watched the brief play of emotions over the pale face, unable to interpret the Countess’s expression. Surely it had not been relief? No. it must have simply been thankfulness that this ordeal of the will-reading was finally at an end. He was acutely aware that his own presence, his very appearance, must be a painful reminder to her of her loss. But he was trapped here now. He could not leave, return to the West Indies, not yet. Now he was responsible for this huge estate and all its people, including her.

  It hit him then, what this meant. An hour ago he had been plain Mr Southwood, master of his own business, in control of a life he had created and loved. He had come here out of a sense of duty, an awareness that it was wrong to allow old disputes to poison family relationships from one generation to another. And now his life would be utterly changed.

  Whiting announced luncheon. Marcus held back to allow the Countess and her supporters to precede him to the dining room where the great table was laid out with the funeral meats, but she turned and waited for him.

  ‘Mr... My lord...’

  He realised she was expecting him to take her arm and lead her in. Once again he marvelled at the strength of will and composure in one so young. Her hand, resting on his sleeve, was taut with tension; he felt she was like a violin string, stretched almost to the point of breaking.

  The place at the head of the table was laid, but the chair was draped in black and Marcus led Marissa to the foot of the long board, taking the seat to her right.

  The chaplain said grace and the party settled with a collective sigh. Gradually the volume of conversation rose as everyone relaxed and tongues were loosed by fine wine.

  What the devil does one talk about under these circumstances? Marcus helped the widow to roast beef. Back home in Jamaica even a funeral meal was more relaxed, more informal and emotional. There was something about the heat and the sunshine, the vibrancy of colour, the closeness of nature – a dangerous nature – that would make this sort of rigid formality impossible.

  And what a brutal way to treat a grieving young woman, to expect her to maintain a rigid composure surrounded by this sombre flock of dark-coated old men. He shivered slightly and instantly she was all attention, the perfect hostess.

  ‘My lord, you are cold. Whiting, more logs on the fire. This country must seem very chill after th
e heat of the West Indies.’

  ‘Indeed, yes, ma’am. My sister declares she will never feel warm again, but now I have been back in England for almost a week I find I am becoming accustomed.’

  She cut a minuscule portion of beef and raised it to her lips. Was she actually eating at all? After a moment she said, ‘You have a sister, my lord? I am afraid I know nothing of your family. Are there others still in Jamaica?’

  ‘No, ma’am, only Nicole and myself. I intended bringing her to London next year to do the Season, when she is seventeen, but she plagued me to bring her on this trip so she could see the sights and buy some London fashions. I could not resist her, I’m afraid.’

  He knew he was smiling indulgently and saw her own lips curve slightly in response. ‘How wonderful to have a loving brother like that,’ she said. ‘You are very fond of your sister, my lord, I can tell.’

  Marcus, surprised by the longing in her tone, glanced at her quickly, but the smile, if he had not imagined it, had gone. ‘She is the bane of my existence,’ he said lightly. ‘I have spoilt her to death and now I must pay the price. When you meet my sister you will be in no doubt that we had a French mother.’

  ‘I hope to meet her very soon. You will be sending to London for her?’

  ‘I must think what to do. All this has come as a great shock to me and I am entirely unprepared. I visit London every few years on business, and that was my purpose on this occasion.

  ‘Now I will have to return to Jamaica to place my affairs there fully in the hands of my agent. I will have to meet with your – ’ he caught himself, ‘ – the estate manager here, and with Mr Hope, so that I can be confident that all will be well in my absence.’

  There was a long pause. The new Earl twisted the wine glass between long brown fingers. Marissa found she could not take her eyes off his hand, nor forget the warmth of his touch through the silk of her gown. What would it be like to be held in his arms again? She caught her errant thoughts with an inward gasp of shame. How could she entertain such longings? It was wrong. And in any case it was a delusion that comfort lay in the arms of a man.

  ‘Lady Longminster, when you feel able, I must speak with you about your wishes. Needless to say I would not want you to feel you must make any change in your arrangements. This is your home and you must stay in it as long as you desire.’

  Marissa looked him straight in the eye and said with utter conviction, ‘My lord, I have lived here for only two years. It is the Southwood family seat but it has never been my home. My cousin Miss Venables will be joining me soon from Cumbria. When she arrives I will move to the Dower House.’

  She realised she must have startled him with her frankness, but he merely nodded. ‘It shall be as you wish, naturally. You must instruct the estate manager to move whatever you want from the Hall into the Dower House, and to have whatever resources you need for your comfort there.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. Would you wish me to continue to oversee the housekeeper in your absence?’

  ‘That would be most kind, if it would not be an imposition. We will speak of this tomorrow and, of course, you must decide which servants you wish to take with you.’

  Marissa thanked him, and turned to her other neighbour. Throughout the rest of the meal they spoke of nothing but inconsequential matters and, with her mind relieved of the need to guard her every word, she found her attention straying to the man at her side.

  His manners were correct and impeccable, as befitted a gentleman, but there was a foreignness too. Perhaps it was the slight French accent on certain words, the lilt that came into his voice when he spoke about the West Indies. He was a handsome man – all the Southwoods were, to judge by their portraits – but this man had a dangerous, vital energy that radiated even in this sombre company.

  Marissa stole a sideways glance under the pretext of dabbing her lips with her napkin. The new Earl’s hair, shot through with the warmth of the tropical sun, curled over-long on his collar. His face was lean and tanned and there were white lines at the corners of his deep blue eyes, as though he often screwed them up against the sun-dazzle on the Caribbean sea. His nose was straight, his mouth was as firm as her husband’s had been. But Marcus Southwood’s lips looked as though they more readily curved into a smile than tightened in displeasure.

  He was attractive, dangerously so. But he was also a man, and that meant that whatever face he showed in company there was another, darker side to his character, as there was with all men. Marissa reminded herself that was something she should never lose sight of.

  As the clocks stuck two Marissa gave up on the unequal struggle to sleep and threw back the heavy silk coverlet, wincing as her feet touched the polished boards by the bed. She padded across to the banked glow of the fire and held out her hands in an attempt to draw its warmth into her restless body.

  In time she supposed the numbness would pass, but for the moment she was gripped by a strange sense of unreality. Only the routines and duties of the chatelaine of a great house made everyday existence possible and she had never been so grateful for the sense of duty which had been inculcated in her from childhood.

  But in her chief duty she had failed, and failed repeatedly. Marissa gazed into the flickering red depths of the fire and remembered again her lord’s cold disappointment that she had once again failed to conceive the heir to Southwood. Not that he had lost his temper of course. The Earl had never allowed himself to show his emotions, least of all to his wife. And he had expected the same restraint from her.

  At least that discipline had enabled her to bear the embarrassing ordeal of the doctor’s questioning yesterday, the knowing eyes of the men in the library as the will was read. Her cheeks burned hot and Marissa turned from the fire to cool them. As she did so her gaze fell on the door which led, via a suite of dressing rooms, to the Master Bedchamber. On an impulse she went into her dressing room and opened the connecting door. It was unlocked but the key, as always, was on his side. With a swift twist of her wrist Marissa pulled it out, closed the door and secured it from her side.

  It was a foolish, pointless gesture to bar the way into those empty rooms beyond with their black-draped bed and mirrors veiled in mourning for the dead Earl. But it was her room now, hers at least until the man who occupied the Red Bed chamber, the best guest room, decided to take control of his inheritance. And by then she would have long gone to the Dower House.

  The view from her windows showed an expanse of parkland glittering with frost under a chill moon. The windows were already rimed on the outside, by morning the frost fingers would have crept up the panes inside too. Was the new Earl able to sleep in the big bedchamber, his warm Caribbean blood cooled by this unseasonable spring? Doubtless he would have been snugger in the Longminster Arms at the park gates, where he had originally left his valise. But it was unthinkable that the fourth Earl should not sleep in the house of his ancestors.

  A familiar restlessness filled her. Marissa felt the urge to run, to feel the blood sing in her veins, her heart beat wildly in her chest, to let go of all the rigid formality which had kept her confined these past few days. She slipped her long white silk peignoir on over her nightgown, pushed her feet into kid slippers and opened the door onto the corridor.

  All was silent, then the sound of the hall clock striking one reverberated through the corridors. The night watchman would have done his rounds of the house by now, checking for open windows and guttering candles, and would be dozing quietly in the hooded porter’s chair by the front door. Occasional lanterns illuminated the galleries and the moonlight flooded in through the long windows.

  The patterned marble floor stretched enticingly long and clear before her. Marissa picked up her skirts and ran, ran as she had so often done in the freedom of the night. Her feet made only a slight pattering on the hard floor as she flew, hair loose, skirts billowing. She took the newel at the top of the stairs in both hands as she passed and swung round it, a bubble of laughter beginning at the back of her th
roat at the exhilaration, with the freedom of the movement.

  She paused, panting slightly, between the doors of the Library and Long Gallery, trying to decide which way to go. She could dance in the Gallery under the disapproving eyes of the marble goddesses. But then she remembered the equally disapproving eyes of the ranked Southwood ancestors and her enthusiasm waned, leaving her feeling guilty that she should be behaving like this in a house of mourning. She was alive, vital, while they were all consigned to dust.

  Marissa turned to retrace her steps in a more decorous manner. She never knew what stopped her: perhaps some sound, or the mysterious sense of another presence close to her. There was someone in the Gallery.

  Tiptoeing in, she paused in the doorway. In the strong moonlight the figure by the south window was plain to see. He had his back to her, but there was no mistaking that burnished head, the width of the shoulders, the height of the man emphasised by the sweep of his heavy brocade dressing gown.

  Marcus Southwood was standing braced with his hands on the mullions on either side of the long window. His head was bowed, as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Marissa had an impulse to run to him and throw her arms around his waist, to tell him that, whatever it was, she would make it all right. She took half a step, then checked herself. What was she thinking of? She did not know him, but she did know that one thing you never dared do was to show you had seen a sign of weakness in a man. She had only made that mistake once.

  Chapter Three

  The stone mullions were chilling his hands to the bone, but Marcus scarcely noticed the additional discomfort. It was damnably cold and besides, he sensed that Southwood Hall would chill him even in the height of summer.

  His life had been turned upside down in a matter of hours. His rambling home by the warm blue sea, his estates, the fleet of ships, his friends, the relaxed, unconventional society of Jamaica – all those were lost to him. He was responsible now for this great estate and all its people. He was the keystone that an entire economy rested on.