Not a muscle moved on that lined, austere face, but to Frances’ sensitive eye, there did seem to be a slight spasm of distaste about the man’s thin lips. An English butler, she thought, the most terrifying of God’s creatures.
“Hello, Otis,” she said in a clear voice.
“My lady,” Otis said, bowing from the waist. “Welcome to Desborough Hall.”
“And this, Frances, is Mrs. Jerkins, a gem of a housekeeper. She and I are growing into dotage together.”
Mrs. Jerkins, looking stolid and terribly efficient in an array of black bombazine, proffered Frances a curtsy. She looked to be a long way from the state of dotage, as did Frances’ exuberant father-in-law for that matter. “My lady,” she said in her low, somewhat hoarse voice.
“A pleasure, Mrs. Jerkins.” Goodness, Frances thought, her courage dropping to her toes, the housekeeper should be on Wellington’s staff. She looked formidable, her will iron.
“I will introduce you to the staff tomorrow, my lady,” said Mrs. Jerkins, and clapped her hands. Like magic, the long line of women faded away. Otis, taking his cue from the marquess’ nod, dismissed the men.
“Don’t know why we use the ‘Mrs.,’ ” the marquess whispered in Frances’ ear. “Never been m
arried. I suppose she added it for dignity’s sake. Must have been decades ago.”
Hawk suddenly cleared his throat. He was furious, so furious he wanted to spit. And here his damned father was introducing Frances to his servants, as if Desborough Hall belonged to him!
“Otis,” he said in an overly loud voice, “have another footman assist Ralph with the luggage.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Otis, and snapped his fingers.
“He,” Frances said, looking briefly over at her husband, “did not tell me that Desborough Hall was a stud. It is also a racing stable, isn’t it, sir?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the marquess. “At least it was until Nevil died. Hawk, more’s the pity, has no interest in it. It’s falling to bits now. Well, my dear, what do you think of your new home? The old Hall—called the Grange—was gutted back under Queen Anne. The present Hall dates from about 1715, not old at all, built by a fellow called Sir John Vanbrugh. All that classical nonsense, you’ll see. Palladian, I believe it’s called. Don’t have the foggiest idea what that means, though.”
“Palladian,” said Hawk in a ferociously calm voice, “refers to the classical Rome style of Palladio.”
The marquess shrugged good-naturedly. “Nonsense,” he said, winking at Frances.
“Who was Palladio?” Frances asked.
“An Italian architect,” said Hawk curtly.
“Sixteenth-century,” Grunyon said as he trudged by them with a heavy valise.
I don’t believe this is happening, Frances thought, so confused that she wanted to yell. She felt as though she were sitting on a very narrow fence and a battle was raging on either side of her.
“Fellow should be forgotten,” said the marquess. “He stuck his spoon in the wall long enough ago. Come along, Frances, I’ll show you a bit of Desborough Hall, then you must rest.” He sent a rueful glance toward his glowering son. “I imagine that your journey here from Loch Lomond was a bit ... hurried.”
“At the very least,” said Hawk. “Going, staying, and coming back.”
“The name Desborough Hall harks back to Queen Anne’s time again,” the marquess said, ignoring his son. “Charlotte Desborough was a great heiress. She brought this magnificent house with her as a dowry.”
I didn’t even bring a sou, Frances thought, staring up at the huge two-story rectangular edifice.
“It always belongs to the eldest son. The second-generation son started the stud and racing stables. The Desborough stud has been revered and quite famous for many years, not to mention the famous race horses produced here. I’ll never forget Fortune, a great stallion who swept all other horses off the tracks. Yes, it was back in 1785, as I recall. Nothing to match him at Newmarket. Not to compare to the famous Eclipse, of course, but no racer compared to him! Fortune was bred off a thoroughbred dam and a Barb sire. Strong as the devil, he was.”
Frances was certain now that she heard Hawk grinding his teeth again.
She was led into the grand entrance hall, actually an elaborate drawing room, its ceiling the full height of the mansion, with a fireplace and balconies guarded by wrought-iron gratings. White columns soared everywhere. She followed the marquess into the Western Corridor, through the Smoking Room, and finally into the West Drawing Room. There were George Stubbs paintings of horses on many of the walls. She was aware of elegant furnishings, of so many white walls that it was nearly blinding. “Look closely at the pilasters,” the marquess said, and Frances, thankful that he was pointing to something, realized that it meant the innumerable sculptured columns. “And of course the arcadings are famous, you know.” Arches, Frances thought, pure-and-simple arches. Cornices, she knew, grateful that she knew something, comprised all the ornamental moldings at the tops of the walls. For someone who said “nonsense” about Palladian, the marquess certainly seemed to know his architecture.
Frances murmured again and again, her voice becoming more dazed by the moment, “So elegant, my lord. So very exquisite. So very ... ah, nice.”
She was most aware of her husband’s furious silence.
The marquess came to a sudden halt. “Frances, my dear, you are ready to rest now, are you not?” At her silent nod, he continued, “I have asked Mrs. Jerkins to assign a maid to you.” He pulled on a bellcord, and very quickly a young woman appeared, fresh-faced, shyly smiling. She gave Frances deep curtsy. “My name’s Agnes, my lady,” she said.