‘It is a very untidy room.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘But then, my lord never came in here…’ She stopped, as if aware she was in danger of saying too much, revealing too much about herself.
Rather hastily she went on, ‘But the reason I wished to speak to you alone is the question of the servants. Mrs Whiting has told me that she and her husband are finding this big house too much for them now. They would like to come with me to the Dower House, but we are all conscious that you must have reliable people in place. Perhaps you will be bringing staff from Jamaica?’
‘I have my own butler, Edward Jackson: I could not leave him behind if I tried. If the Whitings wish to go with you, then they do so with my blessing. Is there a reliable couple you could recommend to take their place here temporarily? It will, after all, be very quiet for at least a year while I am away and you are in mourning.’
‘The butler at Grosvenor Square, Matthews, is a good man and Whiting considers him ready for greater responsibility. Besides, I imagine you will close the London house while you are away. However, he is unmarried, so you will need to engage a housekeeper. Mind you,’ Marissa added thoughtfully, ‘Mrs Wood, our cook here, is quite capable of managing the housekeeping while there is no one in residence. And with the Whitings close at hand, if she and Matthews have any difficulties they will have ready advice.’
Clearly satisfied with such a neat solution, Marissa sat back against the cushions with a sudden happy smile which illuminated her face and made her look absurdly young.
Gyp started out of his doze, as though the foot he was resting against had moved, and Marcus said abruptly, ‘An admirable solution. Shall we visit the Dower House after luncheon?’
Marissa asked Mrs Whiting to accompany them on their expedition to the Dower House. It was. of course, entirely proper to take a chaperone but that aside, Marissa recognised in herself a growing susceptibility to Marcus’s charm that made her wary of spending too much time alone with him. It would never do to become accustomed to his company, she chided herself.
The housekeeper was delighted at the opportunity to survey her future domain. ‘The Dower House was the home of Miss Anne Southwood for many years, my lord,’ she explained as the carriage made its cautious way along the frozen drive. The coachman was concerned about the horses’ legs on the iron-hard ground and the slow progress made the three occupants of the carriage glad of the foot-warmers and thick fur rugs they were wrapped up in.
‘She died just before you came here, my lady, i
f you recall. But the house has been well looked after, so we should not find much to concern us.’ She chatted on comfortably about how she had instructed the elderly married couple who had stayed on after their mistress had died to light fires and to clean and air all the rooms. ‘For once you let damp in, with us so close to the sea, my lord, you never get rid of it.’
‘It seems strange that we are so near to the sea yet cannot see it,’ Marcus remarked. ‘I can smell it when the wind is onshore, but I can neither hear nor see it, and I am used to doing both at home in Jamaica.’
‘Yes, the land rises so gently to the house, and there is over a mile of saltings and marsh before the beach, so that you must ride almost to the dunes before you see it,’ Marissa explained. ‘If it were not so cold I would suggest going down there, but the wind will cut like a knife beyond the protection of the trees.’
‘I find it hard to believe it could be possible to be any colder,’ Marcus said with a grimace as the avenue of holm oaks widened out to reveal the neat little Queen Anne Dower House. Marissa always thought it sat like a doll’s house in its hollow, surrounded by walled gardens.
The Bishops, the elderly caretakers, were watching out for them and hurried the chilly party into a snug hall with a fire burning in the grate and cheerful brocade hangings shutting out the draughts.
Mrs Bishop soon took Mrs Whiting off to discuss the vexed question of the kitchen range and its persistently smoking chimney, leaving her husband to conduct Marissa and the Earl around the house.
‘I had forgotten how charming this house is,’ Marissa exclaimed in delight as they entered the drawing room. She walked across to look out of long windows which opened onto what would be a flourishing rose garden in the summer. ‘How nicely you and Mrs Bishop have kept everything.’
Bishop, clearly much flattered by the attention, proudly conducted them round every one of the three reception rooms, the little library and the six bedrooms.
‘This will suit me very well,’ Marissa declared as they climbed the back stairs to check that the servants’ accommodation was in good order.
‘I agree it is a charming house and very home-like and comfortable,’ Marcus agreed. ‘But, Lady Longminster, do you not feel it is perhaps a little old-fashioned, especially in contrast to the Hall? Shall I order a complete redecoration and refurnishing to be set in train? I have to confess I find it delightful and don’t find the worn fabrics or faded paint objectionable. It is welcoming, a house that has been home to happy people. But you are used Southwood Hall, in all its Palladian magnificence. It is showpiece and it will take me a while to feel at home in it, I fear.’
‘Oh no, leave this as it is, please.’ Marissa spoke vehemently, and then saw the quickly suppressed look of surprise on Marcus’s face at her warmth. ‘I mean I would prefer to live here a while and get to know the house before I decide on any changes.’
Marcus was still regarding her quizzically so Marissa fell back upon a tactic she had always fund mollified Charles. She dropped her eyes and murmured, ‘I will be guided by you, my lord, but at the moment I feel too shaken to make any decisions.’
There was a pregnant pause. Marissa kept her eyes down, sensing that this man was not convinced by a show of feminine weakness from a woman who had only hours before been most decided in her plans to leave the Hall, engage a companion and arrange her own domestic staff. However, he merely said, ‘It will be as you wish, Lady Longminster. You have only to command the steward when you have decided what you want to do.’
Mrs Bishop bustled in, bobbed a curtsey and turned briskly to her husband. ‘Now then, Bishop. What are you about, keeping my lady and his lordship up here in these attics? Come you down, ma’am. I’ve laid tea out in the little parlour.’ She led the way, chattering as she negotiated the winding stairs, and pushed open the baize door into the main house. ‘Not that the little parlour is the right room for afternoon tea, I knows that, but it is the cosiest on a day like today, there’s no denying that…’
As the door closed behind her Marcus laughed. ‘Does that woman ever stop talking?’
‘Probably not, but Mrs Whiting knows how to manage her. Tea, my lord?’
‘Thank you.’ He leaned across to take it, his fingertips just brushing hers on the rim of the saucer. ‘I thought we had agreed that you would call me Marcus when we are alone.’
Marissa met his gaze across the tea table. ‘And I thought I had consented to call you Cousin.’ She really could not afford to be sent into a fluster every time she found herself in his company. It was the informal manners of the West Indies, of course; that was why he seemed so warm, why his conversation felt so intimate. But underneath it all he was a man, and they all had the same expectations, the same demands. On the surface Marcus Southwood simply had a different style.
They fell silent, sipping tea in the comfort of the parlour and gradually Marissa relaxed, apparently letting her mind fall to wool-gathering. Marcus could not tell what she was thinking, but he thought he had never seen her look so… so… He groped for the word in his mind… So real. When he’d first seen her she had seemed another marble statue in the gallery, or one of the portraits come to life. Everything about her had been constrained and stiff. Now, in this cosy little parlour, he felt he was with a flesh and blood woman.
The fire had brought a glow to her cheeks, her shoulders were no longer set as she leaned back against the faded chintz and one tendril of hair had worked loose and hung behind her left ear.
‘Will you not be lonely?’ he asked suddenly.