The House of Happiness Read online

“Then why did you allow Lady Walling to monopolise our charming host?”

  Eugenia sighed. “Why will you not accept that I do not wish to be courted by the Marquis, Mama? Why?”

  “How could any mother accept that her daughter is rash enough to throw away the chance of a lifetime?”

  “But Mama – I do not love the Marquis.”

  “That is of no consequence, my dear. Unless you love someone else.”

  Her mother’s expression was suddenly so searching that Eugenia’s hand flew in consternation to her breast, as if she feared the letter secreted there had somehow become visible.

  “Well?” demanded her mother.

  Eugenia had no wish to deceive her outright, but neither did she wish to expose herself and Gregor to disapproval.

  “How would I possibly know what love is, Mama?”

  Mrs. Dovedale seemed satisfied with this and Eugenia was able to make her escape.

  The supper party was pronounced a great success, but the Marquis seemed in no hurry to repeat it. Over the next few weeks he appeared increasingly preoccupied with business of his own, leaving his guests at Buckbury very much to their own devices. This in no way impaired their enjoyment of life in the great house.

  Even Great-Aunt Cloris began to succumb to the hundred and one luxuries that such a life afforded.

  As the days passed she began to praise the virtues of largesse and before long she was adding her voice to Mrs. Dovedale’s in urging Eugenia to be more responsive to the suit of the Marquis. The main strategy of the two older women was to remind her of how indebted she was to the Marquis.

  “Why, who do you think paid for the gown you wore on the night of Lady Bescombe’s ball?” Great-Aunt Cloris demanded one afternoon. “The ball you did not, after all, attend,” she added.

  Eugenia blinked fearfully. “Why – you did, Great-Aunt Cloris!”

  “I most certainly did not!”

  Eugenia turned quickly to Mrs. Dovedale. “Mama?”

  Her mother shook her head. “It was not me, either, dear. I did sell my jewellery in Hatton Garden, but when you were so adamant that you would never forgive me for such an act, I knew I had to get it all back. So I – wrote to the Marquis for help.”

  “You wrote to the Marquis?” repeated Eugenia faintly.

  “Yes, dear. He redeemed the jewellery for me and then insisted on paying for the gowns.”

  Eugenia remembered the incident at Craven Hill when she had witnessed the Marquis handing her mother a package in the hallway.

  Everything – Madame Lefain, the fans, the gloves, the material – everything had been thanks to the intervention of the Marquis!

  The revelation made Eugenia miserable. She felt the tentacles of wealth and privilege closing around her.

  It was Great-Aunt Cloris who now kept her mother company. Mrs. Dovedale had so far recovered as to be able to get about with a stick and on fine days she and her aunt would sit chatting on the terrace. Eugenia was certain they used these occasions to continue to plot an alliance between herself and the Marquis.

  For want of a confidante, Eugenia found herself drawn more and more into the company of Bridget. She knew she was permitting an uncommon degree of intimacy between herself and the maid, but considered this was the price she must pay in order to find any opportunity whatsoever to talk about Gregor.

  Bridget continued to puzzle Eugenia. She still seemed sometimes almost driven to stoke Eugenia’s interest in Gregor. At other times she would turn sullen and refuse to discuss him at all.

  “What could you want with that mad Russian, miss?” she would say. “The Marquis is the catch.”

  Eugenia would clutch her head in her hands. “Bridget, please! You are sounding just like my mother and my great-aunt.”

  Bridget, scowling, picked at her cuff. “Well, maybe they’re right. I wouldn’t mind being Mistress of a big place like this.”

  On these occasions, Eugenia felt that the letter tucked in her bodice was an emblem of the only friend she had in the world. It seemed to throb against her bosom, reminding her of the existence of romantic passion as opposed to calculating common sense.

  Though Eugenia cherished the letter from Gregor, she did not dare reply to it. The painter had declared his affections but not his intentions. It was all too incumbent upon Eugenia, as a young unmarried girl, to simply hope and wait for his next move.

  No sign had come from Gregor, however, when the next twist in Eugenia’s fortunes took place.

  Great-Aunt Cloris, after a dish of mussels at lunch, began to feel somewhat queasy and this put her into a bad humour.

  “This is what comes of grand living,” she grumbled. “It destroys your innards.”

  “You did consume an unusually large amount,” Mrs. Dovedale ventured timidly.

  “That is my point!” snapped Great-Aunt Cloris. “Excess is positively encouraged here. I am going to have to go home or I shall surely expire. Oh, I feel quite ill. Bridget, help me from my chair. I must go to my room and lie down.”

  At about four o’clock, the Marquis appeared to enquire after the health of Great-Aunt Cloris. He had been informed by his butler that the old lady had been taken ill.

  Mrs. Dovedale was tremulous in her delight at the Marquis’s unexpected visit.

  “Oh, oh, how kind of you to ask. She is resting and I am sure will be better by nightfall. You must stay and take some tea with us. You have become quite a stranger, you know.”

  The Marquis declined. “I understand that Mrs. Dewitt is considering going home,” he commented.

  Mrs. Dovedale became suddenly flustered. She took the Marquis’s remark as a tacit indication that it was time all his guests considered going home.

  “I am sure she did not mean it. She is very happy here. I am very happy here. Indeed – indeed – “

  Here Mrs. Dovedale took out a large handkerchief and held it to her eyes. “Indeed, I will never in my life be so content as I am at Buckbury. The thought of returning to that cold house in Craven Hill fills me with horror – yes, horror.”

  “Mama, please do not talk so,” Eugenia urged in a low voice.

  “I must give vent to my emotions,” wailed Mrs. Dovedale. “How is it that fortune is so regularly my foe?”

  The Marquis regarded her gravely.

  “Believe me, Mrs. Dovedale,” he said, “fortune might turn out to be less of a foe than you imagine. Now, please excuse me for such a brief visit. I must attend to other matters.”

  The first part of the Marquis’s words were so cryptic that, as the door closed behind him, Mrs. Dovedale and Eugenia were left quite bewildered.

  The following morning, as Eugenia took breakfast in her room, a command came from the Marquis. She was to join him for a ride at ten o’clock.

  She resented the peremptory tone of the command. At the same time, she was intrigued, for it was a tone the Marquis had never used with her before. However she felt, it would undoubtedly contravene good manners to refuse.

  So at ten o’clock she presented herself to the Marquis. Two horses were brought to the front of the Abbey. A footman helped her mount and then they were off.

  The Marquis seemed grimly bent on making progress rather than simply taking a ride. He led the way down the two miles of gardens towards the river and the woods.

  As he guided his horse towards the wooden bridge, Eugenia suddenly felt her heart skip a beat. Surely he was not going to make her revisit the ruins of ‘Paragon’? What cruel trick was this?

  “M-my lord,” she called but her words were tossed to the air like seedlings, so strong was the breeze.

  Deep in the woods, however, the breeze lost its force. Only the treetops swayed and pitched. Down below all was quiet.

  “My Lord, I should like to turn back,” she pleaded but the Marquis forged on.

  At last the trees ended. The Marquis halted and, behind him, Eugenia.

  What she saw before her made her gasp. In one instant she understood all.

  Th
ere stood ‘Paragon’ but it was no longer a ruin. The thatch was mended, the walls rebuilt. Glass gleamed in the window embrasures, the shutters and front door were painted a cornflower blue. The cottage had been reborn and it was surely all down to the hand of the Marquis.

  Overcome with conflicting emotions, Eugenia burst into tears.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Marquis did not dismount. He made no move at all to console Eugenia but waited in respectful silence for her sobs to cease.

  All around the clearing, treetops rustled and swayed. A deer started out from the undergrowth, then froze – with eyes as black as mere water, it stood for a moment staring at the two riders before bolting fearfully back into the woods.

  Still Eugenia wept. Added to the shock of seeing ‘Paragon’ restored to its former modest glory was a sense of deep foreboding. The future was being spun so cunningly about her that she could barely parry its threads.

  The Marquis’s horse shifted, stepped a few paces back before lowering its head to crop at the grass. The Marquis let the reins trail.

  “It seems the restoration of ‘Paragon’ does not please Miss Dovedale,” he asserted quietly.

  Eugenia pressed the back of her hands to her wet cheeks.

  “Pardon me, my Lord. It – it does please me. Only I – ”

  She could not continue. The Marquis regarded her quizically.

  “Only I cannot help but ask myself why?” she finished.

  The Marquis hesitated before his reply. “I had hoped that was a question you would not ask, Miss Dovedale. I – rather fear the effect of my answer upon your present sensibilities.”

  “Then by all means, let the subject alone,” said Eugenia quickly. She did indeed fear an answer that might amount to a declaration of intent with regard to herself.

  Then, realising that her response had been somewhat churlish, she stumbled on. “I would like to think that you perhaps undertook the task as a – as a tribute to my father.”

  The Marquis pondered this. “If it pleases you, Miss Dovedale, you may indeed consider it as a kind of tribute,” he said at last.

  “It does please me,” Eugenia replied simply.

  The Marquis nodded gravely, then made a gesture in the direction of the cottage garden. “Now – I wonder if you have noticed the creature grazing by the fence?”

  Eugenia turned her head and gave a cry.

  “Can it be – is that my pony – Bud?”

  “Somewhat stiff of gait, but, yes, it is he.”

  Eugenia could not believe her eyes. “B-but how did you find him?”

  “It was not difficult. When your mother left, she offered him to my housekeeper’s nephew. So Bud remained near the estate.”

  Eugenia slipped from the saddle and ran across to the old pony. She could not be sure that after all this time he would recognise her, but when she threw her arms about his neck, he nuzzled her cheek with great affection. Delighted as she was to see her old friend, part of her was uncomfortably aware that his appearance at least could not be explained away as a tribute to her late father.

  “I suppose – I suppose my cat is lost?” Eugenia asked without turning her head.

  “Alas, yes,” came the reply. “He became a famous mouser and died fat and wealthy.”

  Through what remained of her tears and despite her general misgivings, Eugenia could not help but smile. Encouraged at last, the Marquis invited her to inspect the interior of the cottage.

  Giving Bud one last pat, Eugenia followed the Marquis through the front door.

  The interior too had been restored. Ceilings and walls were painted ivory, floor boards polished so that they gleamed like honeycomb. Not only that, the rooms were all agreeably furnished.

  In the drawing room, curtains hung at the window and a fire was laid in the grate.

  “Why, it is ready for occupancy,” marvelled Eugenia, her eyes darting into every corner.

  “Indeed it is,” said the Marquis.

  “You have found tenants?” There was a tremor in Eugenia’s voice as she asked this question, for now that ‘Paragon’ looked every inch the home she remembered, she was not sure she relished the idea of strangers living there.

  “Yes, I have prospective tenants in mind, if they will accept it,” said the Marquis mysteriously.

  “If?” Eugenia looked surprised. “Why, who might they be, that they should for one moment consider not accepting it? It must be the prettiest cottage on the estate!”

  The Marquis regarded her musingly. “I have earmarked the cottage for a mother and daughter whom I know. The mother I am sure will be happy to live here. It is the daughter whose enthusiasm I doubt.”

  Eugenia gazed at him wonderingly for a moment before she understood.

  “You – you mean myself?” she breathed. “And my mother?”

  “I do indeed,” replied the Marquis.

  “But – but we could never afford the rent, my Lord. We live with Great-Aunt Cloris and – help her in the house in return for our lodgings.”

  “Rent!” frowned the Marquis. “I am not seeking rent. The cottage is yours and your mother’s, Miss Dovedale. I had once intended to pass the freehold over to your father. Now I am passing it over to you. The reason for my most recent visit to London was to sign over the freehold. This – is now yours.”

  With that, the Marquis held out his hand, to reveal in his palm a small yellow key.

  Eugenia took the key from him as if it was a gold bar. She held it in trembling fingers, looking from the Marquis to the room around her and back.

  “Mine?” she repeated. ‘Paragon’ is mine?”

  “Yours,” said the Marquis firmly. “And you may move in this very afternoon, if you so wish.”

  Eugenia felt giddy at the prospect opening before her. In one fell swoop, to be rendered Mistress of her own home and, by the same token, freed of the obligation to return to Great-Aunt Cloris in London.

  Eager to pass on the good news to her mother, Eugenia locked the door of the cottage with the key the Marquis had given her. He went to untie their horses, but Eugenia had other ideas.

  “I shall ride Bud home,” she declared.

  “Let me saddle him up for you,” offered the Marquis, intending to use the saddle of the horse that had brought Eugenia to the cottage.

  “No, no, I shall ride bareback,” she cried gaily. “I always did as a child.”

  Before the Marquis could reply, Eugenia had grasped Bud’s mane and swung herself up on to his white back.

  Eugenia broke into an excited gallop for the last half mile of the return, leaving an amused Marquis in her wake.

  She burst in upon her mother and Great-Aunt Cloris with such rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes that they were both convinced the Marquis had proposed.

  “It is good news, then, Eugenia?” squealed Mrs. Dovedale, hands clasped to her cheeks.

  “Yes, Mama!” Eugenia hugged herself with delight. “You will never, never guess what it is.”

  “I think I might,” simpered Mrs. Dovedale. “You are to be – Mistress of Buckbury?”

  For an instant only, Eugenia’s face clouded. Why must her mother keep harping on the same subject?

  “No,” she replied shortly. “But I am to be Mistress of ‘Paragon.’

  Mrs. Dovedale and Great-Aunt Cloris looked at each other in astonishment.

  ‘Paragon?’ they repeated.

  “Yes.” Eugenia regarded them triumphantly. “The Marquis has had it restored. It looks just as it used to when we lived there, Mama. The Marquis has signed the freehold over to me. Look. Here is the key.”

  Hands still to her cheeks, Mrs. Dovedale stared at the key lying in her daughter’s palm. The Marquis may not have proposed as expected, but this little yellow key represented a tangible new hope. It was obvious that the Marquis wished to keep Eugenia near him.

  Great-Aunt Cloris was not so pleased by this latest turn of events.

  “The Marquis might have had the good grace to consult me,”
she grumbled. “Have I not devoted a good deal of time and money to your upkeep these past few years? And to have the mainstay of my advancing years whisked from under my nose!”

  Eugenia ran to her great-aunt and dropped to her knees before her. “Great-Aunt Cloris, you know you are welcome to live with us at ‘Paragon’ if you so choose.”

  “So you have decided to live there?” Great-Aunt Cloris regarded her niece narrowly. “You will not return to London at all?”

  Eugenia rocked back on her heels and stared at the floor. “I – think I might return – for a while,” she said faintly. “I mean, I will have to – collect some of my belongings.”

  Her great-aunt had touched on one particular aspect of her good fortune that troubled Eugenia.

  Secluded at ‘Paragon’, how was she ever going to meet Gregor again?

  Mrs. Dovedale misread the frown on her daughter’s brow.

  “Eugenia, dear, there is really no reason for you to travel to London if you do not wish,” she said soothingly. “I can accompany Aunt Cloris home. I can pack your things and bring them back with me. I am sure the Marquis will take you under his wing while I am away.”

  “Thank you, Mama, but I would not dream of it,” she said firmly. “I will return to London myself to collect my own possessions.”

  Great-Aunt Cloris was brooding. “You two have obviously not considered the full implication of this – new life. You may well own the roof over your head, but how will you pay for its maintenance? How will you pay the butcher and the baker and the candlestick maker?”

  “Oh, Aunt Cloris,” murmured Mrs. Dovedale dreamily. “Don’t you think the Marquis must have plans for my daughter and myself beyond the bestowing of ‘Paragon’?

  “You had better hope so,” sniffed Great-Aunt Cloris.

  This question of how Eugenia and her mother were going to survive without an income at ‘Paragon’ was solved the very next day, when the Marquis informed Mrs. Dovedale that he had settled a yearly sum of two hundred and fifty pounds on her in memory of her late husband and his dear friend, Mr. Dovedale.

  Mrs. Dovedale brought the news to Eugenia, where she sat writing a list of all she needed from London for her new life at ‘Paragon’.