The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(14)
She turned slowly on her heels to survey the chamber, her heart thudding in her chest as the feeling crept over her that he was still there. She could sense the sharp tang of his cologne. Every item on the bedside table was perfectly aligned. Nothing had been removed or changed since his death, all was as he would have demanded it should be.
She turned and there, on the side table, were his gloves, his riding crop, his hat, just as though he had walked in and put them down a moment before.
‘My lord?’ she whispered, but there was no answer in the high-ceilinged chamber. Was he really dead? Dr Robertson had prevented her from seeing the body and she realised now he had feared she might miscarry if she was with child. And no lady ever attended the actual interment.
Marissa fled, heart thumping, something tight in her throat. She was halfway along the corridor to the main stairs before she got herself under control. Of course he is dead. And the dead did not walk, she told herself. Ghost stories are for children. By the time she reached the breakfast room she had outwardly regained her composure, but inwardly her fantasies battled with her common sense.
Like an automaton Marissa passed bread and butter, made conversation with the elderly relatives who were taking their departure that morning. By the end of the meal she had decided that she would walk down to the chapel and visit the family vault. Of course he was dead, she knew that, but perhaps if she saw the tomb with her own eyes she could lay this spectre to rest.
The dining room door opened and Marcus came in He had clearly been out already, there was colour in his cheeks from the raw cold and his hair curled damply from the fog. He took a cup of coffee from Whiting and wrapped his fingers round the porcelain as though to warm them.
He smiled at the guests who were finishing their breakfast. ‘I hope, gentlemen, that this fog will not impede your journeys. Will you not stay a few more days until the weather clears?’
‘It will be better once we are away from the coast,’ Sir Thomas Cribb, a distant cousin, said. ‘The sea fret lies heavy here, always does. Too damp, this spot and I’ve always said so,’ he added, half under his breath.
‘Should I not ring for your valet, Cousin? This cold fog seeps through damp to one’s very bones.’ And, Marissa reflected, was enough to produce pneumonia in someone used to tropical climes. Not that the Earl was looking unwell; far from it. Used to her husband’s pale skin and immaculate hair, Marcus’s tan and unruly crop seemed vibrantly alive and healthy. But try as she might, she could not become used to the physical similarity between the two men which underlay these differences.
‘Thank you, no. I intend going down to see the Home Farm once our guests have departed, if we cannot persuade them to stay. I must confess I had not appreciated the scale of the estate here. There is a great deal to put in hand before I leave.’
Wrapped in a thick wool cloak with hood and muff, Marissa waved goodbye to the last of the guests from the front steps of the Hall and waited while Marcus mounted and cantered off in their wake towards the Home Farm.
Whiting was hovering, waiting for her to re-enter the house. ‘Thank you, Whiting. I shall take a turn round the pleasure grounds for some air.’
As the front door closed she walked briskly down the gravel path that wound into the shrubbery. The evergreens dripped with fog moisture and the snow lay in depressingly grubby patches against their trunks. She increased her pace and emerged onto the open greensward in front of the little stone family chapel.
As she laid one black-gloved hand on the latch of the gate the cold struck through the fine kid and she lifted her hand away, stopping in the act of opening the gate. What am I thinking? Why was she suddenly prey to this ridiculous compulsion? Of course Charles was dead, his neck broken in his fall.
And it was her fault. Once again she had disappointed him, once again he had ridden out in cold fury at her failure as a wife. Why had he ridden over the Common when only the other day she had heard the gamekeeper remarking on the extent of the rabbit holes and the damage they were causing? It could only have been because he was distracted by yet another disappointment, yet again there was no sign of an heir to displace the estranged cousins in Jamaica.
Marissa turned to leave, then hesitated. If she went in now, saw the vault, it would make an ending to her life at the Hall. She could start again, afresh.
The door creaked open on reluctant hinges and cold, damp air rolled out to meet her. Shuddering, Marissa huddled deeper into her cloak and stepped inside. The chill pressed up through the soles of her sturdy shoes as she walked slowly towards the entrance to the vault, the bronze doors hung with wreaths of laurel.
The family always worshipped in the parish church which lay on the boundary of the estate, the chapel was used only for family interments. All around were the slabs and monuments denoting the resting places of many generations of Southwoods, back to Sir Ralph, lying in his armour, his dog at his feet.
Her lord’s grandfather had constructed this new vault with its great metal-bound door that seemed designed to keep the dead in, rather than the living world out. Stop it. The space for a new plaque was empty, awaiting the carved tribute to her lord, but a hatchment with his coat of arms hung above, and a painted board stated simply: Charles Wyston Henry Southwood, Third Earl of Longminster. 1770-1815.
How well the marble mausoleum suited him in its cold, classical perfection. Yes. He is dead. For the first time Marissa truly believed it. She was free of him. A tiny glow of warmth burned inside her as she tried the word under her breath. ‘Free.’