Chapter Five
‘…And in here is the Print Room,’ Mrs Fitch intoned solemnly as she led Florence into a wood-panelled room filled with mahogany cabinets. ‘The former marquess was a great collector of engravings and paintings, particularly scenes of nature. He had a profound interest in the sublime.’
‘How interesting.’ Florence took a step forward and immediately bumped her hip against the corner of a table. ‘Ouch. It’s very dark.’
‘Deliberately so, to prevent sun damage.’ The housekeeper drew back some heavy damask curtains and lifted the blind a couple of inches, admitting the faintest influx of light.
‘As you can see, the walls are also pasted with prints. The former marquess himself painted the borders to resemble picture frames. He was an extremely talented artist.’
Florence peered closer at the wall. Mrs Fitch was right, the brushwork was exquisite. The marquess had even gone to the effort of painting tiny picture hooks and chains. From a distance, the illusion would be very convincing. Only it was still so gloomy, the effect was somewhat wasted.
‘Now, if you’d care to look in here, my lady…
’ The housekeeper slid open one of the cabinet drawers and pulled out an album.
‘These Alpine scenes were His Lordship’s favourites.
He was a great traveller in his youth and purchased them while on his Grand Tour.
He told me once that he felt a great affinity for mountains. ’
‘Mmm.’ Florence smiled politely, inwardly bracing herself for the ten-minute lecture she knew was coming.
Mrs Fitch had knocked on her bedroom door that morning just as she’d been finishing her breakfast, introducing herself as the housekeeper and offering a tour of the house, ‘as per the marquess’s instructions’.
He might as well have sent a note saying that he didn’t want to do it himself, Florence had thought, though in all honesty she’d been relieved.
It had been two days since their midnight conversation, two days of enforced bed rest, fuming, and no progress at all with her memory.
The fog in her mind was just as impenetrable as ever, no matter how hard she tried to push her way through.
She simply couldn’t believe she was married to such a cold-hearted, close-minded, implacable man!
Obviously, she’d only gone through with the wedding because she’d had no other choice.
After being compromised, refusing him would have made her a social pariah, bringing shame on her entire family, so how dared he accuse her of being a fortune hunter!
Admittedly, the circumstantial evidence seemed to be against her, but there had to be some other, logical explanation.
All she had to do was figure out what it was and then…
well, then hopefully she could find a way out of this marriage.
He might have given up on finding one, but she certainly hadn’t.
In the meantime, she didn’t want to see him again for at least another day…
a week…a month! In fact, why not make it a full year?
But she had still wanted a tour of the house, which was why she’d set her cup of hot chocolate aside and clambered straight out of bed and into a dressing gown when Mrs Fitch had arrived.
With her leg muscles almost recovered and her nose feeling significantly less blocked than before, she’d felt positively energised.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t reckoned on the housekeeper’s enthusiasm for her subject.
Mrs Fitch seemed determined to talk her through the entire history of each room, including when it was last decorated, which family members had favoured it, and the reason why the furniture was arranged ‘just so’, as well as anecdotes about specific objects, of which there were many.
Florence had never seen so many porcelain birds in her life.
It was like walking through a giant aviary.
Still, the tour might have been interesting, if only the housekeeper’s monologic delivery hadn’t made her company as cold as any of the marble statues they’d passed in the sculpture gallery.
That had been Florence’s least favourite room so far, reminding her of a cave her father had once taken her and her brothers to visit, a small opening in some rocks that had led down into a vast underground cavern filled with dripping water and strange-looking stalagmites and stalactites.
Being there had given her an eerie sensation she hadn’t felt again until today.
In both cases, she hadn’t been able to escape quickly enough.
But Mrs Fitch was still speaking…
‘This entire drawer is filled with pictures of the Matterhorn, the former marquess’s favourite mountain. And if we look in this drawer…’
‘Is the current marquess a collector as well?’ she interrupted, trying to distract the housekeeper before she could open yet another album.
There was a short pause, followed by a sniff.
‘Not at the moment, but I’m certain he’ll come to appreciate this room eventually.
In the meantime, I shall maintain it, in accordance with his father’s wishes.
The former marquess left a list of extremely detailed, but kindly meant instructions regarding the management of both the house and estate. ’
‘Instructions?’ Florence wrinkled her brow, struck by the word. ‘Surely you mean suggestions?’
‘No, I do not.’ The housekeeper bristled.
‘His Lordship’s father was in charge of the estate for fifty years.
He knew exactly how it ought to be run. His letter was addressed to his son, of course, but there were sections pertaining to both myself and Mr Sewell, the steward.
We each received copies.’ Another sniff.
‘Mine is one of my most prized possessions.’
‘Oh.’ Florence pressed her lips together.
It was only natural that the former marquess should have wanted to guide his son, she supposed, but the thought of him continuing to manage the estate from beyond the grave struck her as somewhat morbid.
She had a sudden vision of a ghost floating around the hallways, issuing ‘instructions’…
She blinked, pushing the image away. ‘It just sounds a little restrictive. I mean, surely times change?’
‘Times may. Rainton Court does not.’
‘But shouldn’t the new marquess manage the estate as he sees fit?’
Mrs Fitch drew herself up to her full height.
‘The new marquess is aware that he has a great man to live up to. He keeps the letter on his desk for that reason. He would not, I am certain, wish to damage his father’s legacy by making any unnecessary changes.
Fortunately, however, despite one regrettable setback, for which he was blameless…
’ here she paused significantly ‘…I’m pleased to say that he’s doing an admirable job of following in his father’s footsteps. ’
‘If you say so.’ Florence gritted her teeth.
She was half tempted to keep on arguing, to say that, given the chance, maybe her husband might surpass his father, but she had a feeling there was no point.
Besides, why should she stand up for him?
Especially when she was obviously the ‘regrettable setback’ being referred to.
‘Now, if you could direct your attention to this cabinet, my lady,’ Mrs Fitch went on. ‘It dates from the sixteenth century and was made in the Netherlands by Jozef van Stappen, a master craftsman from the Gelderland region. Note the brass handles…’
‘Would you care to sit down, my lady?’ a voice murmured.
Florence smiled over her shoulder, feeling a powerful urge to hug the speaker.
Nurse McKay had insisted on joining the tour, a gesture that had irritated her at first, but now seemed like one of supreme self-sacrifice.
It felt reassuring to have an ally beside her, somebody who not only had her well-being at heart, but, more importantly, was offering a route of escape.
‘Actually, I think I might need a rest.’ She interrupted the housekeeper. ‘Perhaps we could have some tea?’
‘Of course, my lady.’ Mrs Fitch inclined her head.
‘And then perhaps you could tell me all about the household?’
‘The household?’ For the first time, a flicker of some emotion passed over the housekeeper’s face, a look almost akin to panic.
‘Yes, so I can learn how to manage it myself.’ She forced a smile.
Unappealing as the prospect of another lecture might be, this was one she needed to hear.
If her husband wasn’t prepared to consider either a divorce or an annulment then it was important for her to learn her new responsibilities, at least until she could find some way to change his mind.
‘Forgive me, my lady, but as we discussed before your accident, my understanding is that I have been entrusted to run the household.’ The housekeeper’s tone was anything but apologetic. ‘His Lordship certainly hasn’t informed me otherwise.’
Florence sucked in a breath, her hands curling into fists at the insult.
Because of course her husband didn’t want her running his household.
He probably thought her incapable of managing anything so grand.
She wasn’t the woman he’d wanted to marry.
She wasn’t even the type of woman he’d wanted to marry.
His frigid manner the other night had made that abundantly clear.
She was, or had been, a companion, little more than a servant to a man like him, and he already had a housekeeper, making her redundant.
A shiver rippled over her skin, as if a cold hand had just pushed its way into her chest and wrapped around her heart.
Because if he didn’t want her to manage the household, what did he expect her to do instead?
Even if she hoped that her time as marchioness was temporary, she still needed some kind of role or she’d end up like one of the marble statues in the gallery, voiceless and frozen, with no purpose but to simply exist!