Chapter 7
MARIANNE
The wedding breakfast passed in a rapid fashion—or at least that was how it felt to Marianne.
It was held in one of the grand rooms on the first floor.
She had not had a chance to see the entire estate yet, nor had she met the staff.
Usually, there would be a row of servants awaiting her arrival so they might meet their new Countess.
Because of the wedding breakfast, and because of the unusual way they had become engaged and married, however, that had not happened yet.
She was grateful for it. She hated such a parade, and though she had not discussed it with Lucien beforehand, she was relieved to be spared it.
Once the wedding breakfast, which to her delight had featured all of her favorite foods—no doubt thanks to Aunt Eugenia’s assistance—had ended, her aunt and sisters departed along with all the other guests.
She accompanied them to the carriage, and after kissing Aunt Eugenia twice on the cheeks and helping her into the carriage, she turned to her sisters.
Evelyn took her right hand, Charlotte her left.
Charlotte, in particular, looked uneasy.
“I pray you did not make a mistake, my dear sister.”
“Will you stop it? She is wed now,” Evelyn tried.
“She may be married, but that does not mean anything—not when it comes to her stubbornness. Lucien is a capital fellow. You ought to consider giving him a chance.”
“But I do not want to give him a chance. Moreover, he does not want me to. We have an agreement. I am no more a wife now than I was before the wedding. I am no longer a mother, and I never will be. Soon our time together will come to an end, and I shall do what I have always wished. I shall be free.” They spoke quietly so her aunt would not hear.
The last thing she needed right now was for her aunt to try and give her a lecture on the virtues of marriage and how scandalous it would be if she left her husband—even if it was prearranged.
“He has been through a great deal,” Charlotte said. “I was not there for it, but I have heard from Rhys that he has endured much pain.”
“Because his wife died, yes,” Marianne said—although the truth was, she knew very little about the fate of the previous Countess of Wexford.
“Yes, because of that,” Charlotte said. “I do not wish him to be hurt again—by you.”
“I shall not hurt him. It is not my intention. I intend to barely even see him unless we must. And he will do the same. You will be well, Charlotte. Not all of us must have a dashing husband and a grand house and a happy marriage.”
“And yet it looks as though you have two of these things,” Evelyn suggested, nodding her chin toward the ground behind them.
Marianne swallowed. “I do, yes. For now. Now I shall have to return to the house. Since we are not going anywhere for our honeymoon and would rather have a honeymoon at home, I shall see the two of you on Sunday. We will attend church and then tea, as we always do.”
Her sisters embraced her, although Charlotte’s embrace was a little lackluster.
Then she watched them board the carriage and drive away.
As she walked back to the house, the last of their guests’ carriages pulled away, and Marianne returned to the house that was now her own.
It felt so very strange to be entering this house as its mistress.
Did all new wives feel this way? Or only the ones who had come by their grand new houses through arrangements that were less than proper?
As she stepped inside, she heard giggling coming from the parlor to her right. She turned and paused. It sounded again—and a man’s voice came: “You will meet her in a moment. She is seeing her sisters and aunt off.”
He was talking to his son. And now it was time to meet the little boy.
She had not thought much about this child, who was, for all intents and purposes, her stepchild now.
But now that she was about to meet him, a strange feeling spread across her stomach.
It was not quite dread—no, nor was it anticipation—it lay somewhere in between.
Still in her wedding gown, she walked to the door and saw Lucien bent over as a little boy lay on a rug, his arms and legs in the air, kicking exuberantly as Lucien tickled his stomach.
A stern-looking governess stood nearby, her lips curled up into a smile.
“What did I say?”
“Be polite,” the boy said in a sweet voice that made Marianne smile as well.
“That is right.”
“My lord,” the governess said, having spotted Marianne as she stood in the doorway. Lucien turned and saw her and instantly lifted the boy to his feet. “There she is now. This is Lady Marianne. She has come to live with us, as I told you.”
The little boy had fair blond hair and blue eyes, which did not resemble Lucien’s darker features. He had to take after his mother. He wore a pair of powder-blue breeches, a white shirt, and a cardigan on top. And the moment he saw her, he ran to her.
“Lady Marianne, are you to be my mama?”
Instantly, she felt the blood drain from her face. She was not going to be anybody’s mama. Who had told this boy this? She looked up at Lucien and saw that he, too, looked rather pale as he hastened toward them.
“I do not think that—that is a title...”
She could not finish the sentence. A title she was entitled to? A title she wanted? Fortunately, she did not have to complete the sentence because Lucien appeared beside her.
“Henry, we talked about this. Marianne is my friend. She lives with us.”
“But Mrs. Greaves said—”
Mrs. Greaves, she thought. That was the housekeeper, was it not? Who gave that lady the right to speak about such personal matters?
Henry did not seem bothered in the least.
“Do you like frogs?” he asked her earnestly. “I tried to catch one so we could put it in your chamber so you would have a pet when you arrived, but I could not catch it. If you like frogs, perhaps you can help me catch one. You can pick your own.”
She paused. “Frogs are...” She could not tell him that they were slimy and made her shudder. She did not want to hurt his feelings—possibly for the second time.
“I enjoy watching frogs at the lake.”
“We have ever so many frogs,” the boy informed her. “They leap from the big leaves, one to the next, like this.” He turned, squatted, holding his arms out so they were at an angle. Then he leapt once, twice, three times until Lucien picked him up and settled him on his hip.
“That was a grand demonstration of a leaping frog. But I think we should let Lady Marianne decide for herself if she wishes to have a pet. I shall let it be known that I would not enjoy a frog as a pet any more than I enjoyed having the squirrel as a pet that you attempted to procure for me last week,” he said.
Henry looked at her. “Papa did not want the squirrel. I had thought that he would very much like it. I thought so because Papa said the squirrel was such a fantastic spec…spiciment.”
“Specimen,” Lucien said, enunciating the word. Then he looked at Marianne. “We have a great many squirrels here. They live in the garden. The two of us like to feed them together. They are all named after British royalty—Henry’s decision.”
“I see,” she said. This was becoming too much.
Lucien was acting as though she ought to know this boy.
It was not that she intended to ignore him—it was just that she did not know how to talk to children.
That seemed to come easily to Lucien; he engaged the boy in simple conversation.
But she did not know what to say to him, how to entertain him.
Squirrels and frogs? It was not at all what she had in mind.
“I am rather fatigued,” she said. “Would you mind if I retired to my chambers?”
“Of course not,” Lucien said, evidently unbothered. “Mrs. Greaves can take you. She is back from the church already.” He rang the bell—or rather, he had his son yank on the thick rope that hung by the front door.
A footman entered, and Lucien requested the housekeeper’s presence.
They stood for a few moments as a small quarrel broke out between Henry and Lucien, with the boy insisting on ringing the bell again and Lucien giving him a lecture on not overusing the bell because it would eventually confuse the servants.
Then the housekeeper appeared. Marianne recognized her at once.
She had been at the church, sitting in the second or third row.
She wore a lavender-colored gown and a smart bonnet that fit her ensemble.
She had assumed she was an aunt of some sort—but now it turned out she was the housekeeper. How irregular.
“Mrs. Greaves, this is the new Countess of Wexford.” The woman curtsied deeply in a way that made Marianne realize at once that she was well accustomed to the protocol in a house such as this, although that protocol did not usually include attending church and sitting in one of the front rows.
“It is such a pleasure to have you here, Lady Wexford. I assure you, you will fit in wonderfully. And our Henry is a darling,” she said, ruffling the boy’s blond hair.
“I am sure he is,” she said, looking at the little boy who was now occupied by a hangnail on his index finger.
“Lady Wexford is tired, Mrs. Greaves. Would you show her to her chambers?”
“Of course,” the older woman said, and motioned towards the grand staircase.
Without saying a further word, Marianne followed her.
They walked to the second-floor landing, and Mrs. Greaves waved her hand around.
“Down the hall is a grand library, an upstairs drawing room, and a room we call the sewing room because Lord Wexford’s mother used to use it primarily for needlework.
There are guest chambers at the end of the hall. Your chamber will be upstairs.”
She followed the woman up, taking in her surroundings. Huge paintings hung on the walls, most of them depicting hunting scenes. Between the second and third floors, three large tapestries hung, depicting a scene of three Greek gods gathered around a water well.
Upstairs, they made their way down a long hall lined with a red velvet carpet.
“You have been assigned Her Ladyship’s old chambers. But do not fret—they have been thoroughly cleaned, everything dusted, fresh linens, and some new furnishings as well. His lordship wanted to ensure that his wife was very comfortable.”
“Thank you,” she said as the housekeeper opened one of the doors and then deftly stepped aside.
The chamber was enormous. It was perhaps the size of three of the rooms at her father’s old home and two rooms at her aunt’s current home.
A bed that looked so large she felt she might get lost in it stood to the right-hand side, with four thick bedposts carved with an intricate pattern.
The curtains had been drawn back and tied, and the canopy above was blue with a depiction of stars matching the bed curtains tied to the bedposts.
Along one wall stretched a long sideboard with a looking glass—obscenely large. Two armchairs were at the end of the room, along with a fireplace that seemed so far away from her bed she feared that it would not even warm the room properly.
Several doors were dotted around the room, and she wondered where they led. A dressing room, no doubt—but the others?
“Would you like a bath?” Mrs. Greaves asked. “Your room has a bathing chamber. There is a tub installed already, and one of these fancy new showers. I have never used it—devil’s contraption that it is—but his lordship wanted one for you in case you were accustomed to it.”
“Oh no,” she said. “I prefer a bath. The nuns would do headstands against the wall before they allowed a shower.” Mrs. Greaves chuckled at this.
“Yes, that is right. His lordship said that you were in a convent for a time. How refreshing. I know a little about life in a convent. Not from personal experience, but—” She paused, snapping her lips shut.
“I hear you are bringing your own lady’s maid? ”
“I am,” Marianne said, brightening at once. “My friend Juliet. She is coming from the convent in two days’ time. She has never been a lady’s maid before. But I have never been a countess, either.”
Mrs. Greaves frowned. “She has no experience?”
“No, but I shall not need much. On my first two days at the convent, she helped me find my footing. She helped me dress and showed me how to braid a simple plait. She shall do well here. It is not as though I will need much assistance.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Greaves said. Then she clasped her hands together in a way that made Marianne start slightly.
“Well, we will set her to rights. Do not fret. Now I shall leave you. Ring the bell if you need anything. I will tend to your needs myself until your friend arrives and is ready to take over.”
She nodded, and then the woman stepped out.
Marianne remained behind, looking out of the window at the great parkland below.
It was a beautiful estate—it truly was. Lucien was kind, and his son appeared well-mannered.
And yet she could not fight the feeling that this was all wrong.
Perhaps Charlotte had been right. Lucien certainly acted as though he assumed she would take an interest in his son; otherwise, why tell her all about the frogs and the squirrels?
What if Charlotte was right? What if he truly expected far more from her than she was willing to give?
How foolish she had been—had she been tricked?
She pursed her lips together and then sat down on the bed, which sank from her weight.
She wondered if all of this had been the worst mistake she had ever made in her life.