new that because of her youth she would need to select her senior servants carefully. Even with a respectable companion like Miss Venables she needed the dignity of experienced and mature upper servants.
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.
‘Er… Yes, well, what I wanted to speak to you about was the Dower House.’
‘I wanted to discuss that too. Poole tells me it is in good condition and well furnished, if not in the latest style. That will be rectified, but of course you must stay here for as long as you wish. I will be gone for many months, perhaps a year, in Jamaica, and when my sister and I return there will still be no need to drive you from your home. You have only to say which suite of apartments you wish to retain and they are yours.’
‘No.’ The word burst from her before she could contain it, and he looked at her in surprise. ‘I mean, no, thank you, Cousin Marcus. The Dower House will do me very well, and I intend to move there as soon as my companion, Miss Venables, arrives from Cumbria and the funeral party disperses.’
Marcus steepled his fingers and regarded her gravely over the top of them. ‘I do beg your pardon, Cousin. I should have realised that this house must hold unbearably painful memories for you now.’
Marissa dropped her gaze to her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. ‘Indeed, yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I will be glad to be gone from it.’ After a moment she rallied slightly and added, ‘But of course I will regard it as my duty to oversee the housekeeping here in your absence.’
Marcus noted her use of the word duty, yet again. She was young to be so serious about that. He could imagine her over the coming year, clad in her unrelieved mourning black, forcing herself day after day to revisit Southwood Hall in pursuit of her duty.
‘This is a charming room,’ he remarked, in an attempt to ease the tension. The colours were soft: rose-pinks, delphinium-blue, touches of coral. There was an Aubusson rug on the polished boards, the furniture was in the country style and the upholstery bore the marks of Gyp’s scrabbling claws. It was warm, cosy, slightly untidy, with books overflowing the table, the dog’s drinking bowl in the hearth, a sewing basket with the lid askew and skeins of thread spilling out.