Love and the Marquis Page 9

  He did not wait for Jolie to answer, but went out of the morning room, slamming the door behind him.

  Imeldra was aware that he crossed the corridor into his study where doubtless he would find the cheque book in his desk.

  She heard the woman in the next room give a low unpleasant laugh as of somebody who had gained her objective, before she began to hum a popular French song.

  It was then Imeldra knew that she must think over what she had heard and consider what her next move should be before she let the Marquis realise that she had learnt his secret.

  She waited in the library until she heard him return and she thought his footsteps seemed slow as if he had suddenly aged.

  She heard him cross the room to the table by the window and say in a voice that was hard and cold,

  “I will give you ten thousand pounds and not a penny more.”

  “Fifteen!” she insisted.

  “Ten! As it is I am bleeding the estate of money that was destined for people who are in greater need than you.”

  “You can always sell one of your pictures,” Madame Jolie replied. “I have read about them even in the Paris newspapers.”

  “The pictures are entailed to the son that you have made sure I shall never have,” the Marquis retorted bitterly.

  She laughed.

  “Ooh, la la! There are plenty of women to amuse you and marriage is not always a bed of roses, as I myself have discovered.”

  “Ten thousand pounds will keep you comfortable for a long time.”

  “That depends, that very much depends,” Madame Jolie answered.

  Imeldra realised that she was taunting the Marquis again and, because she could bear no more, swiftly and silently she ran down the library to the door that led into the corridor.

  She opened it and then she was running, as if all the devils of Hell were pursuing her, up to the sanctuary of her bedroom in the East wing.

  Only when she had flung herself down onto the bed to think did she realise what she had overheard and the whole horror of it.

  For a moment it all seemed completely impossible and then, as the puzzle fell into place, she understood now all too clearly that the Marquis was not the Marquis.

  He had an elder brother, the son of a French singer, and it was André who should have inherited Marizon.

  For the moment she could hardly credit that the old Marquis, who had been the height of propriety, who had disapproved of her father and after her mother’s death had refused to have anything to do with him, could have a son who he did not acknowledge by a French singer.

  It meant, of course, that the present Marquis’s mother had not been legitimately married to his father if the woman was justified in claiming to be the legal wife of the old Marquis.

  It was so frightening to think of it that it took time for Imeldra to understand exactly what the whole story entailed.

  Then she could realise all too clearly why the Marquis had not only allowed himself to be blackmailed but had even agreed to Madame Jolie’s stipulation that he should not marry.

  It made her hold over him that more complet since if the Marquis did challenge her contention that she was his father’s legal wife, his case might be stronger if he had a family to support his claim to the title and the estates.

  At the same time even if the Marquis was confident of winning his case if Madame Jolie did bring her claim before the House of Lords, nevertheless Imeldra was sure that he would submit to any demands rather than let the reputation of his father and mother be pilloried as it would be by the ensuing publicity.

  Now at last she could understand why he was cynical and bitter and why he found little pleasure in the insecurity of his position.

  ‘Oh, darling – darling!’ her heart cried out to him. ‘I must help – you! I must – save you!’

  But how, she had no idea.

  A knock on the door made her start and she hastily rose from the bed she had thrown herself onto and walked to the window before she called out,

  “Come in.”

  It was Betsy.

  “There be a note for you, miss. It’s bin brought by a carriage that’s waitin’ by the side door.”

  “A carriage?” Imeldra exclaimed.

  She knew the only person who would send a message for her would be Mr. Dutton and she wondered what could have occurred unless in some way her grandmother had been told where she was.

  Then she was sure that it was impossible and quickly opened the note.

  It was written on Kingsclere writing paper and she read,

  “Dear Lady Imeldra,

  It is with deep regret that I have to inform you that your father has been involved in an accident in which he has been badly injured.

  He is being brought home today and I am sure you will wish to be here when he arrives.

  I have therefore sent the carriage for you and look forward to seeing you within an hour or so. That will be about the time that his Lordship will be here.

  I remain, my Lady,

  Your most respectful and humble servant,

  Richard Dutton.”

  With a strangled little cry Imeldra exclaimed,

  “Betsy! Quickly. Pack everything I possess. It does not matter how you do it, but I have to leave immediately!”

  As if Betsy realised by the frantic note in her voice how urgent it was, she fetched two other housemaids and her trunks were brought from a cupboard near her bedroom where they had been stowed.

  Almost before Imeldra could change into her travelling gown, all her clothes were in the trunks and the footmen were carrying them downstairs.

  She was in such a great hurry that it was only when she was about ready to leave that she remembered that William Gladwin should be told and also the Marquis.

  As she thought of the Marquis, her heart seemed to turn over in her breast, but she knew that, for the moment at any rate, he must take second place to the needs of her father.

  The footmen were carrying her trunks to the carriage, not down the Grand Staircase, but by one that would take them to the side entrance.

  “Listen, Betsy,” she said, “please go and tell my grandfather, Mr. Gladwin, as soon as I have left, that I have to go home because my father has had an accident. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, of course, my Lady.”

  Imeldra hesitated as to whether she should send a message to the Marquis.

  Then she thought that it would be a mistake. If he then questioned William Gladwin, he would tell him why she had gone and she doubted, if after what they had said to each other today, he would be surprised.

  “Thank you for looking after me so well,” she said to Betsy.

  She gave the girl a guinea, which made her eyes light up with excitement then, running to catch up with the footmen ahead of her, Imeldra hurried towards the secondary staircase.

  It was only as the carriage from Kingsclere drove down the drive and she looked back at Marizon that the tears came into her eyes.

  “Goodbye – my love,” she whispered to the Marquis.

  Even though she must leave, she was aware that however much her father needed her, she had left her heart behind at Marizon.

  Chapter Five

  All the way back to Kingsclere, Imeldra was willing the horses to hurry, feeling every time they slowed down for a bend in the road that she might be too late for her father.

  She could not imagine what kind of accident he had had or how it had happened, but the knowledge that he was injured made her afraid in a way that she had never been before.

  It was enough to lose him by his having to go off abroad, but if he died and she lost him altogether she would be utterly and completely alone.

  It was as if tragedy after tragedy was piling up on her, so that for the moment she could sort out none of her problems, feeling as if they crushed her into the ground and everything was dark.

  “Hurry! Hurry!” she wanted to call out to Baker, who was driving with his usual skill but taking no chance
s.

  It was always dangerous on the narrow twisting lanes where it would be impossible to pass a carriage or a cart coming in the opposite direction without great difficulty.

  Imeldra tried to puzzle out if that was what had happened to her father but, if as she had suspected, he was driving Lady Bullington to Dover to cross the English Channel, they would have been on the main highway and in that case would have been safer than she was.

  It was, however, impossible to imagine exactly what had occurred and she could only pray that her father was not as badly injured as Mr. Dutton had intimated in his letter.

  In any case whatever had happened to him, she knew that she must nurse him and that he would want her by his side.

  It was actually less than an hour before the horses turned in at the gates of Kingsclere but it seemed to Imeldra as if a hundred years had passed since she had read Mr. Dutton’s note.

  She tried to keep her mind entirely on her father, but it was almost as if the Marquis was beside her also needing her help.

  She wondered frantically how she could save him, but there was no answer to that.

  Kingsclere looked warm and familiar and it was a relief when the horses drew up outside the front door to see Mr. Dutton standing on the steps. She knew before he told her that her father had not yet arrived.

  “What has happened? Tell me about Papa,” she asked him insistently as she took Mr. Dutton’s hand in hers.

  “I’m so glad to see you, my Lady,” Mr. Dutton replied. “Come and sit down and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  Imeldra walked through the hall into the drawing room and she noticed that, when Mr. Dutton followed her, he left the door open so that he could listen for the sound of the carriage arriving that would bring her father home.

  Her face was very pale and her eyes anxious as she quizzed him,

  “How did you learn about Papa’s accident?”

  “One of the outriders who was accompanying him to Dover was sent here by the doctor who attended him after the accident.”

  “What happened?”

  “The outrider, Jason, whom you will remember, claimed it was in no way your father’s fault.”

  “That is what I had supposed,” Imeldra said beneath her breath.

  “He was driving fast with four horses but with his usual expertise,” Mr. Dutton went on. “He was on a narrow stretch of the highway when a stagecoach driven by a drunken driver, who the outrider understood later had had a bet with some of the passengers on the roof that he would reach Dover in record time, came out of a side turning.”

  Imeldra clasped her hands together.

  She knew that such accidents often happened because the passengers on the stagecoaches plied the drivers with drink and then incited them to try to break records.

  It invariably meant that the horses were whipped all the way to their destination, which was not only a cruel practice but excessively dangerous.

  “According to Jason,” Mr. Dutton continued, “his Lordship, by a superb piece of driving, saved his own horses from a head-on collision with the stagecoach, which drove straight into the phaeton, partially overturning it against some trees at the side of the road.”

  Imeldra gave a little gasp and Mr. Dutton lowered his voice as he said,

  “Your father was badly crushed and the lady with whom he was travelling was killed!”

  Imeldra put her hands up to her eyes and there was a silence before she asked in a voice that trembled,

  “But – Papa is still – alive?”

  “When Jason left him, he was in such pain,” Mr. Dutton said, “that the doctor gave him laudanum to render him unconscious. But before he did so, your father had given his orders.”

  “What were they?”

  “Jason was a little vague about the lady who was killed, but he told me he thought that his Lordship had given directions as to where her body was to be carried. Then he ordered the servants who were with him and who fortunately received only minor injuries to see that he was brought home.”

  “Who was with him besides Jason?” she asked.

  “Ben was the other outrider and there was a groom on the back of the phaeton, but Jason was not sure of his name.”

  Mr. Dutton paused before he added,

  “His Lordship’s valet, Danvers, was just behind in a travelling chariot that contained the luggage.”

  “I am glad that Danvers was with him,” Imeldra murmured.

  “So am I,” Mr. Dutton said, “Danvers is as good a nurse as any we are likely to obtain, and I am well aware, Lady Imeldra, that there are none available in this neighbourhood.”

  Imeldra knew that this was true.

  Nursing was confined to the very few nuns who, as Little Sisters of the Poor, did what they could in London and the big towns and there were no Nursing Convents as there were in France.

  Otherwise the only women available were the village midwives, who were usually hard gin drinkers and not the sort of creatures her mother would have allowed in the house.

  “I will nurse Papa,” she stipulated firmly, “and I know that Danvers and our own staff will help me.”

  “Of course they will,” Mr. Dutton replied. “That is exactly what I thought your Ladyship would wish.”

  At the same time there was a note in his voice that told Imeldra he was afraid that her father might be so severely injured that they would not be skilled enough to attend to him.

  “You have notified Dr. Emmerson?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Mr. Dutton replied. “He was unfortunately out on his rounds, but I am sure by this time the groom will have found him and he should be here at any moment.”

  Imeldra clasped her hands together.

  “Oh, Mr. Dutton, how could this – have happened to – Papa?”

  Mr. Dutton shook his head as if he had no words to reply with.

  Then it suddenly struck Imeldra that, despite the horrors of what had happened, at least her father would not now have to marry somebody he really had no wish to have as his wife.

  It was a poor consolation, but she felt that, provided he recovered and became his old self again, then perhaps this tragedy was a blessing in disguise.

  Even as she thought of it, a footman appeared at the drawing room door to say,

  “A carriage is comin’ down the drive, my Lady.”

  *

  Two hours later Imeldra had left her father’s bedroom to escort Dr. Emmerson down the staircase to the front door.

  “Now don’t worry, Lady Imeldra,” he said. “Your father, despite the fact that he is not a young man, is extraordinarily strong and his hard riding and the fact that he has in his own way taken care of his health makes everything far easier.”

  “You are – sure you can – save Papa’s leg?” Imeldra asked in a frightened voice.

  “I will do everything in my power to prevent it from being amputated,” Dr. Emmerson replied. “Sir George Lawson should be here tomorrow and he is not only an extremely skilled surgeon but also has a reputation for never using a knife unless it is absolutely necessary.”

  “I cannot – imagine Papa – crippled,” Imeldra said beneath her breath.

  The doctor looked at her and seeing the tears in her eyes said,

  “I have always been a very great admirer of your father and your mother was one of the loveliest ladies I have ever met, not only in her looks but in her character. I think, since you are a mixture of both of them, you will save your father.”

  The way he spoke made the tears in Imeldra’s eyes overflow and run down her cheeks.

  “I will try – you know I will – try,” she said in a broken little voice.

  “I have known you ever since you were a baby,” the doctor went on, “and I have never known you to lack courage, which is what you are going to need now.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder as he went on,

  “It is unnecessary for me to tell you that your father will not be an easy patient and it will need
a great deal of patience to cope with him. But I know you love him and that is more important than anything else.”

  He smiled at her and then went down the steps to where his old-fashioned gig drawn by one horse was waiting for him.

  Imeldra waved as he drove away whilst still wiping the tears from her cheeks.

  She was just about to go into the house again when she saw a pony cart coming down the drive and wondered who it could be.

  It was very obviously not a grand caller, who would have been driving in a carriage with a coachman and a footman on the box.

  But the caller, whoever it was, was alone in the pony cart and as Imeldra was curious she waited until it had crossed the bridge and was turning into the gravel sweep in front of the house.

  It was then she saw that the person driving a well-bred horse and elegant pony trap was a lady wearing an attractive bonnet edged with a veil that tied under her chin with pale mauve ribbons.

  She wondered who she could be and then thought quickly that she had no wish to talk to strangers and it would be best to retreat inside the house.

  It was, however, too late.

  The pony cart was drawn to a standstill and the lady, putting down the reins as the groom who had been holding the head of the doctor’s horse went to hers, waved to Imeldra.

  ‘Who can it be?’ she wondered.

  And then she gave a little exclamation.

  She realised that it was someone she had not seen for years, but Beryl Marsden had often come to the house when her mother was alive and had after her death done everything she could to comfort both her and her father before they went abroad.

  Now she ran down the steps to greet Lady Marsden as she climbed out of the pony cart.

  “Dearest Imeldra!” Lady Marsden exclaimed as she kissed her. “I heard the news of your father’s accident in the village and I came at once to see if there is anything I can do to help you.”

  “I suppose it could not be kept a secret,” Imeldra remarked with a stifled little laugh.

  “As you can imagine,” Lady Marsden replied, “the whole village and I expect everybody on the estate is talking of nothing else. I am so sorry, my dear.”