Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(64)
“Who was a Lamarr,” he reminded her. “And they are the appointed guardians of my daughter and my heir.”
Isabelle had looked somewhat disconcerted, perhaps at his tone and the fact that he was holding his quizzing glass only just below the level of his eye. She was not ready to concede defeat, however. “But they do not take precedence over Mama,” she said, “or over Irwin and me. Sometimes they behave as though they do.”
“I looked at the dower house this morning,” he said in an apparent non sequitur, though it became quickly clear that both ladies understood him perfectly well.
“It was built too close to the lake,” his aunt said. “It would be very bad for my rheumatics over there.”
“We have dear Margaret’s wedding to Sir Jonathan Billings in early December,” Isabelle said. “The house is going to be full of guests. You were not here to consult when we began planning, Marcel, but you could not possibly begrudge her a wedding befitting her rank and fortune.”
No, Marcel could not, though he did wonder why, if Ortt was in possession of a fortune, he was living off Marcel’s bounty at Redcliffe and not putting on a grand wedding for his daughter in his own home. Marcel would certainly broach both that subject and the removal to the dower house after Margaret’s wedding, but it did seem a bad time to do it now with the wedding plans well advanced. He could not help the niggling feeling, however, that if he were the man he thought he was, he would not have waited even one hour.
Jane and Charles Morrow’s children—his nephew and niece—were both grown-up. Oliver had been seven or eight when the twins were born, Ellen only a few years younger. Yet they were both permanently ensconced at Redcliffe. Marcel intended to have a word with them, or with the young man, anyway. Ellen was her mother’s concern, though it was hard to know why she was not already married. She was neither ravishingly pretty nor notably vivacious, but she was not an antidote either. Charles Morrow, though not poverty-stricken, was not a notably wealthy man. His son could surely not afford a life of permanent idleness—unless he continued living at Redcliffe, that was. That was out of the question. Marcel was going to be living here himself—with his wife.
Upon which topic his mind preferred not to dwell.
Oliver liked to trail about the estate with Marcel’s steward, giving unsolicited opinions and suggestions and advice, which on more than one occasion Charles had tried to convert into orders—which the steward resented, as was to be expected.
The matter ought to have been easy to resolve. Marcel ought to have backed his steward, counseled Charles not to interfere where he had no business interfering, and given his nephew his marching orders. However, nothing was easy these days. For the truth was that after some long talks with his steward and a bit of tramping about the farms, and after a close look at the books, all of which activities went severely against the grain, Marcel could not help coming to the conclusion that his nephew had a point. The steward was an elderly man, not doddering exactly, but certainly past his prime and set in his ways and unaware of the fact that his domain was no longer running as efficiently or even as sensibly as it ought.
What he really needed to do, Marcel realized, was sack the steward and hire a new one—and then give his nephew his marching orders. He would write to his man of business in London when he had a moment. He was half aware, of course, that he had any number of moments. Life in the country was not exactly characterized by its hectic schedules. He would do it after this infernal party, then. Meanwhile, he noticed that Bertrand was rather fond of his older male cousin and looked up to him with some admiration. And Charles, though more than a bit on the stuffy side, was a decent sort and doubtless meant well.
André had remained at Redcliffe despite the fact that there was nothing there to entertain a man of his tastes. Marcel had paid off all his debts and increased his allowance from the estate, but he had done nothing to force a permanent solution to the problem of his brother’s extravagance and gaming. As André had pointed out, it was a family failing, though Marcel had got his own habit under control, damn it. He had been given no choice. He had had two children to support long before he inherited his title and fortune. His income, though more than adequate, had not been limitless.
The housekeeper, closely backed by the cook, complained that too much was expected of them—by too many people. Lady Ortt’s wedding plans for her daughter were becoming more and more demanding even though she was not and never had been the mistress of the house. Mrs. Morrow consistently refused to hear of extra help being taken on, as those who worked there already never seemed very busy. And Mrs. Morrow demanded that they all attend morning prayers in the drawing room before breakfast every day. And now there was this party Lady Estelle was planning . . .
Their problems at least Marcel was able to solve. “There is only one person in this house with the authority to give orders,” he said, regarding them in some amazement, his eyebrows raised. “You are looking at him. If you need extra help in the house, Mrs. Crutchley, then you must get it. If you need any extra help in the kitchen, Mrs. Jones, then you will inform Mrs. Crutchley and she will provide it. And from this moment on attendance at morning prayers is to be voluntary.” He had voluntarily absented himself from the daily ordeal since his return. “I shall inform Mrs. Morrow. Will that be all?”
It seemed it was. Both women bobbed curtsies, thanked his lordship, and went on their way, looking vindicated.