The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(10)
Eventually the housekeeper cleared her throat and ventured, ‘I know Whiting was going to raise this with his lordship, but as we’re talking about it, my lady… He and I feel we’re getting on in years. This house is a big responsibility, and his lordship’s bound to want to bring his own people in. Would you like it if Whiting and I were to come with you to the Dower House?’
It was the perfect solution. ‘Oh, yes, that would be ideal.’ Then doubt crept in. ‘But you have a position here. This is one of the great houses of East Anglia – surely you would not want to descend to looking after a mere manor house?’
‘I’d like nothing better,’ said Mrs Whiting. ‘And my poor old joints aren’t what they used to be.’
‘Then I will be delighted if you will come with me.’ Marissa hugged the housekeeper, hiding her face as she added, ‘I will speak to his lordship about it.’
Chapter Four
The sooner I speak to the Earl about leaving, the better, Marissa thought as she walked back to the small parlour that did duty as a morning room. As she opened the door Gyp, her Cavalier King Charles spaniel, jumped down from the window seat with a sharp bark and danced around her feet, plumed tail waving. Marissa scooped up the little dog, rubbed her fingers through his silky hair and laughed as he tried to lick her face.
‘There’s a good boy. Has James taken you for your morning walk? We will have a run after luncheon, I promise. Now, sit down while I look at the accounts.’
Gyp, recognising that he was not going to be taken out just yet, settled down in front of the fire with a sigh and promptly fell asleep. Marissa sat at her little French bureau in the bay of the window and opened her account book. But she made no attempt to total the columns of figures, or to puzzle out why the cost of wax candles had become so high.
As she had thought, she could see clearly across the frosty courtyard into the estate office window. If she kept an eye on it, she would be able to intercept the Earl when he left and speak to him before luncheon. After all, she reasoned, biting the end of her pen, she could hardly speak about the Whitings moving to the Dower House in the presence of the butler himself. And one or two of the relatives who had come for the reading of the will had decided, in view of the inclement weather, to wait a few days for the harsh frost to thaw, so they too would be at the table.
She shifted uncomfortably on the padded seat. She felt guilty about her bitter words to Marcus – Cousin Marcus – in the corridor. This was no way to deal with the man who was now master of Southwood and, apart from her father, now her closest male relative, if only by marriage. He would be returning to London and then to Jamaica within a matter of weeks. By the time they met again that awkward encounter in the Long Gallery would be long forgotten. Must be forgotten.
Cousin Marcus appeared to be pacing the small office. She could see him passing and repassing the window, occasionally gesticulating with both hands to drive home a point. It appeared to be a perfectly amicable conversation because, when she caught a glimpse of Poole, the steward was nodding in agreement.
At eleven o’clock a footman crossed the courtyard, balancing a tray with some caution. The cobbles were rimed with frost in the shadows which still lay around the edges of the courtyard and Marissa suppressed a smile at the sight of the man mincing along in his leather-soled buckled shoes, while struggling to keep level the load of two tankards and a platter of bread and cheese.
The arrival of the food did not appear to halt the discussion and Marcus continued to pace, despite the tankard in his hand. It was almost an hour later before the door swung open. With a clap on the steward’s shoulder Marcus strode off leaving Poole looking somewhat dazed in the doorway.
There was no doubt that Mr Poole was finding that the fourth Earl was a very different proposition from his predecessor. Charles had made his expectations crystal-clear and had then interfered only on the rare occasions when they had not been met.
Marissa dropped her pen and whisked out of the door, running downstairs to waylay Marcus before he reached the Hall. ‘My lord! Could you spare me a few moments?’
‘Of course, Cousin.’ He turned to follow her up the stairs.
‘I realise it is unusual to receive you in my parlour,’ Marissa began as she pushed open the door to her sanctum, ‘But I have a particular reason for wishing to speak to you alone.’
At the sight of the answering glint in his eyes she sat down hastily by the fire and gathered Gyp onto her lap. The spaniel curled a lip at the intruder but Marcus, sinking into the chair opposite, snapped his fingers and the little dog jumped down and trotted over to sniff at his feet. After a moment he curled up again, his chin comfortably on one of Marcus’s boots and went back to sleep.
‘Gyp!’ Marissa was indignant at her pet’s perfidy. Gyp disliked men generally, although he tolerated the footmen who took him for walks, and he had particularly hated the late Earl.
‘I do not know why you should object,’ Marcus observed mildly. ‘He is much more of a handicap to my improper behaviour lying on my feet than he ever was in your arms.’
Marissa could feel a blush heating her cheeks. And I must stop thinking about him by his first name. ‘I think we should forget that incident, Cousin; put it behind us and pretend it never happened.’
‘Feel free to pretend what you like,’ he returned ambiguously.