A Marriage Made In Heaven Page 3

  “You were right, Dalton, quite right,” the Duke agreed. “And, as they made clear to me, I have no alternative but to take a wife and that is what I intend to do.”

  “I can only hope, Your Grace,” Mr. Dalton said slowly, “that a wife will make you happy.”

  “She will make me damned unhappy!” the Duke retorted. “Nobody knows that better than you! But I suppose, if there is to be a lamb to the slaughter, it has to be me! God, what a fate! And do not dare to give me your good wishes!”

  He did not wait for his comptroller’s reply, but walked out of the room, making a tremendous effort at self-control in not slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter 2

  Lady Samala Wynn rode into the stables, avoiding all the potholes in the cobbled yard dexterously, after long familiarity with them.

  She dismounted and led her horse into a stable, originally built to hold forty horses, but now containing only three.

  In the nearest stall the roof let in the rain, so she put Mercury into the next stall, which at least was still weatherproof.

  As she undid the girth and removed the saddle, an ancient groom came slowly down the passageway to say,

  “Did you ’ave a good ride, my Lady?”

  “Yes, thank you, Walters, but so much young grass is bad for Mercury. I think you had better give him a feed of oats this evening.”

  “T’ain’t possible, my Lady, sorry, my Lady.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Turner won’t supply us no more, ‘till us ’ave paid ’is bill.”

  Samala made an exclamation, but she did not protest, knowing that it was what she might have expected.

  “Well, give him plenty of hay,” she said, “but it’s not the same, as we both know.”

  “No, my Lady, but there’s nothin’ us can do about it.”

  “Nothing,” Samala agreed.

  She hung up the bridle inside the stall and carried the ancient side saddle outside to put it on a hook on the wall.

  The spring sunshine coming through the window where most of the panes of glass were broken turned her hair to gold, but her blue eyes were worried as she walked away from the stables, again picking her way carefully over the holes in the yard.

  As she walked, she was thinking how critical things were becoming and was wondering if there was anything left in the house to sell.

  She was well aware that she and her father must often go hungry, but she could not bear the horses to suffer and she wondered desperately, as she had done so often before, where they could find some money to meet their debts.

  Anybody looking at the outside of the Earl of Kenwyn’s beautiful Elizabethan house would find it hard to understand the battle that was being fought inside against poverty, privation and the damage that came from years of neglect. It was now so bad that at times Samala thought the whole house would crumble to the ground about their ears.

  And yet at the same time, because it meant so much to her father, she knew that she could not suggest the obvious solution that they should move into one of the smaller houses or even a cottage on the estate.

  He had said to her once and she had never forgotten it,

  “If I have to drown, I will go down with my ship with my colours flying! I will not surrender to anybody – God, man or these damned debts!”

  Samala knew it was his pride that made him speak like that. And she had inherited it and realised that she too would fight and go on fighting.

  Perhaps they would die of starvation and their bodies would be left unburied on the ancient wooden floors that had been laid down in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.

  Then, because she was young and the sun was shining, she told herself that life could not be as bad as all that and somehow they would survive, although she could not for the moment think how.

  She rounded the corner of the house and, as she did so, she saw in astonishment that outside the front door was a very impressive, luxurious-looking carriage drawn by four horses with a coachman and a footman on the box.

  Samala wondered who could be calling on her father and instantly hoped that it was not one of the neighbours in the County, asking him to undertake yet another duty that invariably cost money.

  As her father was so respected and everybody loved him, he was continually being approached to be the Chairman of this project or the Patron of another.

  While he hated not to take his rightful place in County affairs, he knew, as Samala did, that every such position meant that he must contribute either money if it was a charity or hospitality if it was a committee.

  Sometimes they could get away with a meeting, which involved providing the guests with no more than a glass of sherry, but even sherry cost money, and the cellar at Kenwyn Priory, which had once been famous, was now empty, except for some stone kegs and barrels that had stood there for centuries.

  As Samala reached the carriage, she looked quickly at the coat-of-arms on the panel, thinking that if it was familiar it would tell her to whom it belonged.

  But the design of a rampant griffon was unknown to her and she quickly mounted the steps, thinking that she must support her father and help him to refuse whatever was being suggested without revealing the true reason for it.

  Then, as she crossed the hall, she wondered if in her old threadbare habit she looked too untidy to greet visitors and was well aware that, if they were people of importance, they would think it strange that she was not wearing a riding hat.

  Because hers was very old and dilapidated, it was so much more comfortable to slip her long fair hair into a chignon and forget the conventions.

  Then she told herself with a smile that it was unlikely that anybody would take any notice of her appearance and she was quite certain that her father would want her with him.

  She opened the door of the study, which was the room they used, the drawing rooms being shut up and the library being too big and cold, except during the warmth of summer.

  Samala had made the study as comfortable as possible, bringing in the pieces of furniture which she and her father liked the best and the paintings which they loved and which, being entailed, could not be sold.

  As she entered the room, she expected to find a gentleman in one of the comfortable but shabby leather armchairs. Instead, to her astonishment, there was a lady and a very elegant and beautiful one at that.

  As she tried to prevent herself from looking too surprised, her father, who had his back to her, turned round and she knew that he was relieved to see her, but at the same time something was perturbing him.

  “I am sorry to be late, Papa,” she said, advancing towards the fireplace, “but it is such a lovely day and I only wish you had been riding with me.”

  “I wish I had,” the Earl replied a little heavily.

  As Samala reached his side, he looked at the lady sitting opposite him and said,

  “May I present my daughter, Samala? This, Samala, is the Marchioness of Hull. She has come here with a very strange proposition, but I want you to listen to it.”

  “Yes, of course, Papa,” Samala answered and, walking up to the Marchioness, she curtseyed and held out her hand.

  She thought that the older woman scrutinised her in a somewhat embarrassing fashion, but she was intent on noting the elegance of her fashionable, high-brimmed bonnet with its edging of lace and small ostrich feathers trimming it, which were blue to match the Marchioness’s silk gown.

  Then, to Samala’s astonishment, she said,

  “You are very lovely child, in fact, far more beautiful than I had dared to hope.”

  It seemed a strange thing to say and Samala looked at her questioningly, then at her father and because she knew him so well, she realised that he felt embarrassed.

  He rose from the chair in which he had been sitting to stand with his back to the empty fireplace.

  “The Marchioness, Samala,” he began and he appeared to be choosing his words with care, “has come here on behalf of her brother to ask if I will give
him your hand in marriage!”

  If her father had dropped a bomb at her feet, Samala could not have been more astonished.

  Then she thought it must be a joke, but there was no doubt that her father was being very serious and with an effort she managed to say,

  “This is a great – surprise, Papa!”

  “I knew you would think so,” the Earl agreed. “At the same time it is certainly a marriage such as I would wish for you and which is, in a way, a great honour.”

  “Have you met the gentleman in question?” Samala asked, knowing that what she really wanted to learn was whether she had met him herself.

  The Earl shook his head.

  “No, I don’t think we have ever met,” he said, “but I should appear very ignorant of the sporting world if I was not aware that His Grace’s horses have won all the Classic races.”

  “Of course,” the Marchioness said, “my brother is a great sportsman and an outstanding rider, which, as your daughter obviously loves riding, should be an interest they have in common?”

  She spoke eagerly, almost as if, Samala thought, she was trying to entice her and she continued,

  “In fact, it is only fair to say that my brother’s horses, not only those he races but those he rides, are superlative and I think, Lady Samala, you will find yourself entranced by them as I have always been.”

  Samala thought that this was a strange conversation and it was astonishing to talk so much about horses when she should be speaking about the man who wished to marry her.

  In a small voice that somehow seemed unlike her own she asked,

  “Surely there will be a chance for me to meet the gentleman who wishes to marry me? Then we can talk about the matters of mutual interest.”

  The Marchioness appeared to hesitate and the Earl said almost sharply,

  “Her Ladyship has been explaining to me, Samala, that it is imperative, although I cannot quite understand why, that your marriage should take place on the 2nd of June.”

  “But, Papa – that is less than three weeks away.”

  “Yes, I know,” the Earl said, “and it seems to me strange, very strange.”

  “I have already explained,” the Marchioness interposed, “that my brother wishes to be married before Royal Ascot. He has several horses running and hopes to win the Gold Cup this year.”

  “I should have thought,” the Earl said quietly, “that, on this occasion, His Grace’s marriage should take priority over everything else.”

  Samala looked from one to the other of them in bewilderment. Then the Marchioness, leaning forward in her chair, addressed her.

  “Please, dear,” she said, “or may I call you Samala? Try to understand that my brother is a somewhat unpredictable person, even though I love him and find him a very fascinating character. He has made up his mind that he wishes to be married on the 2nd of June, and I do beg you to agree to his proposition.”

  She must have thought that Samala’s expression was one of doubt, because she added,

  “Surely you can understand what this will mean to you? You will be the chatelaine of one of the finest houses in England, besides other houses that my brother owns, you will have clothes, gowns that will make you, I know, the belle of every ball you attend and jewels that are unsurpassed by any other collection in the whole country.”

  She paused, then, as if she could not help herself, she glanced round the room at the threadbare carpet, the faded curtains and the furniture that all needed re-covering.

  “Surely,” she said, “you must understand how much this will change your life, almost as if your Fairy Godmother had waved a magic wand or you had walked into a dream.”

  “I do understand what you are saying to me,” Samala replied, “but before I decide, I would like to meet – the man I am to – marry and be quite certain that I would make him – happy.”

  There was a little pause before the Marchioness answered,

  “That is what I have been explaining to your father. Unfortunately, my brother has had to go away and he will be returning only a day or so before the wedding.”

  Samala stared at her in astonishment.

  “Are you really suggesting, my Lady, that I should marry somebody I have never seen or spoken to? It is impossible!”

  As she spoke, she turned and went to stand by her father, slipping her arm through his as if she must hold onto him for security and protection.

  He put his hand over hers as if he understood what she was feeling.

  “I agree it is a very odd proposition indeed, Samala. Equally, as the Marchioness has said, as the Duchess of Buckhurst you will have a position which is without parallel.”

  As he spoke, Samala stiffened and looked up at him.

  “Did you say – the Duchess of – Buckhurst, Papa?”

  “I thought I had explained,” the Marchioness interrupted, “but perhaps it was before you arrived, that my brother is the Duke of Buckhurst.”

  “Are you sure?” Samala enquired.

  The Marchioness smiled.

  “Of course I am sure! If you have heard of him, which I am sure you have with your interest in horses, you will know I have not exaggerated his position in the sporting world, besides his influence as a friend of the King. In short he is one of the most important Dukes in Great Britain.”

  Samala was not listening.

  “The Duke of Buckhurst!” she said under her breath.

  Then she looked up at her father.

  “Although, Papa, as I have said it seems a very strange proposition, I am prepared, if he – wishes to marry me, to – accept the Duke.”

  Before the Earl could speak, the Marchioness gave a little cry of delight.

  “I am so glad you have said that! What a sensible child you are! I know how delighted my brother will be when I write and tell him that you have agreed.”

  As if he must assert himself, the Earl intervened,

  “My daughter must be married from here, of course, as it is our home.”

  The Marchioness drew in her breath.

  “I think, My Lord, that would be a mistake. You can understand that the tenants at Buckhurst Park will be very disappointed if they are not to be part of the festivities. My husband has already arranged for a huge marquee to be erected, where they will be entertained with barrels of beer and cider and so much to eat that it makes me feel quite ill to think of it!”

  She smiled before she went on,

  “Our other guests, of course, will be entertained in the ballroom with every possible delicacy. And a cake is being baked by our own chefs and it would break their hearts if it was cooked by anybody else.”

  Samala pressed her father’s arm and he knew she was thinking it would be with the greatest difficulty that they could provide even a plain sponge cake at the moment, let alone anything elaborate.

  It would be quite impossible for him to provide food and champagne such as the guests at the wedding of the Duke of Buckhurst would expect automatically.

  “Very well, I must concede your point,” the Earl said, “and fortunately we are not too far away from Buckhurst Park. In fact, I should think Samala and I could do the journey in about two-and-a-half hours.”

  The Marchioness laughed.

  “It depends, my Lord, very much on what horses you have! It took me only an hour-and-a-half to travel here today and I am sure that for the wedding my brother will send one of his famous teams and a carriage, which is so well sprung that you will feel you are riding on clouds rather than on a rough road.”

  She paused and then looking at Samala added,

  “There is of course one thing on which I will insist and that is that my wedding present to you, my dear, will be your trousseau. I am afraid some of the gowns will not be finished until after the wedding has taken place, but at least I promise you, you will have enough to start your honeymoon looking beautiful.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Samala knew as she spoke that her father was rigid, as if he fe
lt it was insulting to insinuate that he could not provide a trousseau for his own daughter.

  At the same time she was well aware that they had not the money to buy one gown, let alone a whole trousseau.

  “Now let’s be practical,” the Marchioness said. “If you will give me your measurements or better still an old gown that fits you, I will send it to London and arrange for Madame Bertin, who is by far the smartest dressmaker in Bond Street, to have half-a-dozen ready for you. Then she will come here for you to choose from the sketches and the patterns she will provide and also will bring what else you require.”

  “It is very kind of you, my Lady.”

  “I want to be kind, very kind to my new sister-in-law,” the Marchioness answered, “and I cannot tell you how happy I am that my brother will have such a beautiful and charming wife, who belongs to a family that I know is as proud of its antecedents as we are.”

  She rose to her feet as she spoke and held out her hand to the Earl.

  “Thank you, my Lord,” she said. “I know we shall see a lot of each other in the future and my husband, who says he has met you, will look forward to entertaining you at our house in London and we hope too that you will stay with us in the country.”

  “Thank you very much,” the Earl replied.

  The Marchioness turned to Samala.

  “Goodbye, my dear. I know you will never regret accepting my brother as a husband and do remember that all I want to do is to help you. My sister, Lady Bredon, will say the same thing. We love Buck and have prayed for his happiness, which I am sure you will somehow contrive to give him.”

  There was a strange note in her voice, Samala thought, almost as if she was hoping against hope that what she was saying would come true.

  Then she kissed her and, as she walked towards the door, her father hurried to open it for her.

  Samala did not accompany them across the hall to where the Marchioness’s carriage was waiting outside.

  Instead, she stood very still in the study her hands clasped together, her eyes looking ahead as if she was seeing not the paintings on the wall but something very different.