Amanda Scott (3 page)

She looked at him but she could read nothing in his expression that suggested disapproval. Nonetheless, she was moved to say apologetically, “It was not well done of me, I suppose, but Sophie has driven me wild with all her complaints about the expense. One moment she talks about candles at seven shillings the dozen, and the next she is insisting that there must be ten linkboys hired whether the guests stay on after dark or not—just on the chance that they will—or it will not look right. And how they can call it a wedding breakfast and serve six varieties of ices from Gunter’s, I cannot tell you, but Sophie insisted that it was the thing to do and Orson, for all his nipfarthing notions, never tells her she mustn’t do what she has set her heart upon doing.”

“You called him Orson when you took leave of him,” said Chalford, “or I should not have realized you speak now of your brother. I’ve never heard him called anything but Alston.”

Adriana grinned. “He detests being called Orson. Miranda and I have been forced to call him only by his title ever since the day I shouted at him that he ought to have been eaten by a bear.” Chalford looked puzzled, so she explained, “We are all named after characters in Shakespeare’s plays. I am from
The Comedy of Errors,
which my friend Sarah says is appropriate, and Miranda is the admired heroine of
The Tempest,
of course, while Orson is from
Twelfth Night.”

“I do not recall a scene in the play where Orsino is eaten by bears, however,” Chalford said, amused.

“No, of course not, but years and years ago, I discovered on the shelf in our nursery an old child’s tale about a boy named Orson who was carried off by a bear and raised with her cubs. Because the character was actually called Orson, not Orsino in the Italian way, I said Mama must have got the name from the bear story, not the play. Then came the day when I said the mama bear ought to have eaten him, that I hoped one would someday. Miranda was scarcely more than a baby at the time, but she was like an echo, saying everything I said, and the two of us kept repeating that last refrain until he soundly boxed my ears and ordered us never again to call him anything but Alston. I have—in his presence, at any rate—obeyed him until today.”

“Your farewell was a declaration of independence?”

She glanced at him uncertainly. “In a way, I suppose it was. Have you any brothers or sisters, sir?”

“One of each,” he replied, “and I must confess to you that my sympathies lie entirely with Alston.”

“Were they there today? Although I know your parents to be deceased, I know little else about your family.”

“Barring a few cousins, none of my family was there,” he said quietly. “My brother, Ned, is married to a Scottish lady and lives thirty miles north of Edinburgh. I think he would have come, had Molly not been expecting at any moment to be confined. My sister, Lydia, is also married. She wrote that she would have come to London had it not seemed foolish to do so when she had only just got home to Sussex, not knowing before she left that I intended to commit matrimony. She trusts you will forgive her and looks forward to meeting you once we are settled at home.”

“If she lives in Sussex, perhaps we might visit her when we go to Brighton,” Adriana suggested.

“Perhaps, but since we will not go to Brighton before Lydia comes to Thunderhill, as she generally does each September with all her offspring, you will meet her first at home.”

“Not go to Brighton!” Adriana stared at him. “But of course we will go. Everyone is going to Brighton, if not for the races then certainly for the prince’s birthday celebration.”

“Not everyone, my dear, for I do not, and nor will you. Your duties at Thunderhill will keep you entirely too busy.”

A
DRIANA, HAVING SENSE ENOUGH
not to debate the matter at once, turned to look out the window, for experience had taught her that when a gentleman took a notion into his head that ran contrary to her own wishes, she was generally wiser to approach the matter obliquely, rather than to confront it straight on. To argue with either her father or her brother was useless, served only, in fact, to set them to bellowing at her, but since she was accustomed to getting her own way in the end, even against such stiff opposition as theirs, she did not despair. Having spent too many years buried at Wryde before Alston could be coaxed into sponsoring her come-out, she had no intention of simply giving up the parties and amusements she had grown to love. She would do her duty gracefully as mistress of Thunderhill Castle, but its master must learn to cater a little to her wishes, too.

The horses made little speed while wending their way out of Mayfair via Piccadilly, the Haymarket, and Whitehall, and even after the chaise crossed Westminster Bridge, there was still a great deal of traffic and four turnpikes to be negotiated before they turned onto the Maidstone Road. All the hustle and bustle was fascinating, however, so when Chalford announced quietly, as the chaise rattled across the Croydon Canal, that although they were but three and a half miles out of London, they were now in Kent, Adriana started a little at the sound of his voice.

As they had passed through the Newcross tollgate but moments before, the tollkeeper had tipped his hat to her and winked, and she had grinned at him. Remembering this incident, she turned to face her new husband warily, suddenly conscious of the way he filled the chaise, aware that for the first time in her life she was shut into a small space with a man, other than her brother or father, to whom she was answerable for her every action. Looking at him now, it seemed impossible that she could have ignored him for seconds, let alone for half an hour. But surely that much time had elapsed since she had turned away in order not to shout her displeasure at his calm rejection of a sojourn in Brighton.

Searching for a safe topic of conversation, she said, “I have not driven on this road before, sir, but I am given to understand that the Kent countryside is very beautiful.”

“We think so,” he said.

Reassured by his tone, she smiled. “‘We’ being the men of Kent, I daresay. I doubt you are a Kentish man.”

He regarded her with a touch of sleepy amusement in his dark-gray eyes. “Do you actually know the difference between men of Kent and Kentish men, Adriana?”

She bit her lower lip, gazing at him from beneath her thick, sable lashes, then answered carefully, “I believe it is merely a question of which side of the River Medway one claims as home. Men from the east are men and those from the west are Kentish.”

He chuckled. “And maids from the east are maids, while those from the west are Kentish. Do you know the reason?”

She shook her head, confessing, “I was not even certain I had the sides of the river correctly.”

“The most generally accepted tale is that when William, Duke of Normandy, was marching on Dover after his victory at Hastings, some men came to welcome him, and in consequence, obtained from him a confirmation of certain ancient privileges. They called themselves ‘invicti,’ the unconquered, and they became known as the men of Kent. The others, who opposed the Conqueror, were pushed west of the Medway and came to be known as Kentish men.”

Her eyes twinkled. “’Tis not nearly so old a tradition as I had thought, then. Only from those upstart Normans. I must tell you that Barrington roots are buried deep in the days of the Angles and Saxons, or so my father frequently boasts.”

Chalford nodded. “Then you will prefer the legend that when Britain was divided into kingdoms, about the year 450, King Vortigern of Kent called upon the Saxon leaders Hengist and Horsa to help him in his fight against the Picts and the Scots, which they did, but in the process a lot of Saxons who accompanied them remained in the area. Many of the Britons didn’t like the Saxons and retreated west, beyond the Medway, calling themselves Kentish men. Those remaining became known as men of Kent. Since Thunderhill is not so old as that, I prefer the first tale.”

“Goodness,” exclaimed Adriana, “do you mean to say that Thunderhill dates from the days of the Conqueror? I hope there are carpets, and glass in the windows.”

He smiled. “You will be comfortable, I believe, although part of the castle does indeed date from the eleventh century, when the Conqueror conferred the earldom of Côte de Tonnere on my ancestor, the Norman knight Simon de Tonnere. Simon was expected to help defend the south coast, of course, for the chalk spur on which the castle stands overlooks the Channel at a point where, in time of war, one must always anticipate possible attack from France. After Earl Simon built his castle, he and his descendants lived there uninterrupted for four hundred years.”

Chalford’s attention was diverted just then, and he said, “Look to your right. We are passing through Eltham, and those are the ruins of an old palace belonging to Henry the Seventh. The great hall’s magnificently carved roof is in a particularly fine state of preservation even now.”

Adriana eyed him with suspicion. “See here, Chalford, I hope you aren’t thinking of dragging me about to look at old ruins. We shall never reach Maidstone before dark if you do.”

“Perhaps another day,” he said. “I’ve no wish to stop before Foot’s Cray. I’ve arranged for changes at every stage, but even so it will take the best part of four hours to reach Maidstone even if we don’t dally along the way.”

“I heard that the Prince of Wales once drove all the way from London to Brighton in under four hours,” she said demurely.

“His highness actually took ten hours to accomplish a journey from Carlton House to Brighton and back again. That was in ’84,” he told her, “and he rode; he didn’t drive. Three years later his record was broken by a certain Mr. Webster, who traveled from Westminster Bridge to Brighton on one of his own phaeton horses in three hours and twenty minutes. No one knows the fate of either horse, but if they survived, you may take my word for it that they must have suffered lasting injury. As I’ve no wish to kill any of my horses, we will travel more sedately.”

She sighed, wondering if Chalford realized she had been baiting him. He wasn’t looking at her now, so she couldn’t see his eyes, but his voice was even and calm, as indeed it always was. At other times when she had made some quip or other, she thought she had seen a gleam of warm amusement in his eyes, but now she could tell nothing about his mood. She would, she decided, have to learn more about him before she would know the best way to go about convincing him that he would enjoy a visit to Brighton. Turning in her seat, she said, “What happened in the fifteenth century?”

He looked puzzled for a moment, then his brow cleared and he said, “You mean with the de Tonneres?” When she nodded, he smiled. “The line died. One of the daughters married into the Blackburn family, who anglicized the castle’s name. We have held it ever since, with the brief exception of a time when Cromwell’s forces took over. That Blackburn very sensibly left the country, returning only when Charles the Second restored the family’s ranks and properties. It was necessary for the family to restore a good part of the castle as well, since the Parliamentary forces did not behave as one generally hopes one’s guests will behave.”

Adriana nodded understandingly. “The Duke of Norfolk is one of Papa’s friends,” she said, “and he has said much the same thing about Arundel Castle. Only no one did anything to repair Arundel until he began to work on it twenty years ago. The Fitzalan-Howards simply lived elsewhere in the meantime.”

“I know Norfolk,” Chalford said amiably. “He sponsored me when I took my seat in the House. But his example aside, we Blackburns live at home. And home is Thunderhill.”

With an effort Adriana refrained from grinding her teeth. The conversation was not encouraging, and belatedly she remembered how little her friends in London had known about the marquess. Clearly he had not, in the past at least, spent much time there, a state of affairs that ought now to change.

“When did you take your seat, sir? I do not recall seeing you in London for the Season before.”

“I took my seat when I came of age, just as might be expected,” he said, adding with a rueful smile, “I am not very politically or socially inclined, so I fear I have not been assiduous in performing my duties in Parliament. Indeed, until last month, I do not believe I had set foot in the place these past eight years. But it has been very strongly suggested for some time now that I look about me for a wife.” He smiled tenderly at her. “Since the Season in London is the most sensible time to look, I accepted an invitation from one of my many aunts, bowed to the pressure exerted by two others, and agreed with my sister when she insisted that this year was as good as another. I didn’t realize, however, how easy a task it would prove to be.” He took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I am glad I listened to all my advisers.”

Blushing, she smiled back at him, for once incapable of a flirtatious response. His hand felt warm, and its warmth spread to her body, radiating through her in a pleasant but most unsettling manner. She was grateful when they drew into the yard of the Ship Inn in Foot’s Cray and she could withdraw her hand from his. The change was accomplished with speed, and he did not suggest refreshment, so they were away again within ten minutes. Still conscious of that odd radiance within and feeling at a loss for words, Adriana turned her attention rather firmly to the road, and Chalford made no effort to reclaim it. Instead, with a self-deprecating grimace, he leaned back to doze in his corner.

The scenery was splendid. The chaise passed fields of waving flax and wildflowers spreading like Persian carpets to the right and left of the road. It rolled through deep, shady woods, where oak, beech, hornbeam, and elm trees towered above them, making tunnels, then out again into the bright sunlight. As they approached the North Downs, hazel coppices, colonies of flowering dogwood, and sprawling banks of honeysuckle dotted the grassy, rolling hillsides. Though Adriana enjoyed it all, she found herself glancing with increasing regularity at her companion, at first to reassure herself that he still dozed, but as time passed, with growing exasperation at being ignored.