She had regarded him solemnly with her serious hazel eyes, appeared to take a deep breath and then said, ‘I would be happy to accept, my lord, but with one condition. I would like to wait until October to be married and I would prefer to keep the matter private between us until then.’
The explanation for this seemed more than reasonable to a bridegroom who was not exactly desperate to get to the altar: she was assisting her sister with her own wedding preparations and then she had promised to visit her elderly grandmother in Somerset and then, of course, there was her trousseau to assemble. Her father had pulled a long face when informed of her wishes but, to Theo surprise, he had not pressed her, nor insisted when she said that she did not want the betrothal bruited abroad yet. He had just seemed relieved to have her future settled.
‘There is such a fuss when a betrothal is announced,’ Lady Penelope had murmured. ‘And I do not want attention taken away from
dear Carola. She has not made such a good match,’ she added demurely.
Theo could only agree and accept what the lady wanted.
So he had gone out and thrown himself into his birthday celebrations with the result that he now felt queasy from both drink and looming matrimony. Almost six months before it happens, he comforted himself. And his betrothed did not appear to expect him to dance attendance on her. Probably she was welcoming the last months of freedom as much as he was.
‘I need a holiday from London, Pitkin.’
The valet, sidling in with a pile of neck cloths, blinked and placed them precisely in the centre of the dresser. His glossy dark brown curls, surely the envy of every female who saw him, caught the sun from the window and Theo shut his eyes with a wince. ‘There is the invitation to Lord Manners’ Norfolk home, my lord. But that is not for – ’
Theo consulted his returning memory. ‘A week. But Perry won’t mind if I go down a few days early. Excellent idea, Pitkin. Well done.’ Perhaps some positive encouragement would help the valet’s nerves.
‘But, my lord. It is not – ’
‘Stop fussing, man. When I’m dressed, pack for a month. Usual country gear, mostly sporting, but I expect there’ll be some local social life, and I’m not sure how long I’ll stay – What?’
‘But, my lord, you will be early.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Theo drained his cup and poured another. Humanity was beginning to return. ‘A few days. I have just said, Perry won’t mind.’
‘But – ’
‘Pitkin, if you do not stop if-ing and but-ing and get on with fetching my shaving water then I may well have to consider whether you are suited to be my valet.’ And be damned to what Flynn will say.
‘My lord – ’
‘You are an excellent valet, Pitkin, but I will not be dithered at, is that understood? Do not mention being early again. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, my lord. I am sorry, my lord.’
Theo made a Forget it gesture with one hand and got out of bed. The floor and ceiling remained in their correct alignment with each other: the day was improving.
4 May 1813. Mannerton Grange, the coast of Norfolk
‘Of course you can stay, Miss Laura. With Lord Manners away who’d think of looking for you here?’ Mrs Bishop flipped a sheet of pastry over her rolling pin and draped it across the empty pie dish in front of her. ‘Shocking, I call it. Shouldn’t be allowed.’ She banged the pin down on the table. Flour flew up and three eggs rolled towards the edge. ‘And don’t you worry about the rest of the staff, neither. They all know you of old, and how things are. They’ll keep their mouths shut.’
Laura caught the eggs and sat cradling them in her hands. When she had been a child and visiting her aunt and uncle, the kitchen at Mannerton had been a favourite place. Then the widowed Lady Manners had died and Peregrine Wilshire, the very youthful Baron Manners, had been packed off to live with his maternal grandparents. Eighteen months ago her parents had drowned on the long sea voyage back from India and she had come to live permanently at Swinburn Manor with her guardian, Sir Walter Swinburn, her aunt and their two unmarried sons. By then Perry was home again.
She would visit whenever she could find an excuse to come westwards along the coast but six months ago the visits had been forbidden. It was unsuitable for Laura to visit her friend Perry, it was deemed. She should not be running about the countryside unchaperoned at her age. At first she had accepted the criticism and had tried to be a conformable young lady in readiness for a London Season delayed by mourning, but it had not been long before she had realised what lay behind that prohibition.
‘I am not marrying my cousin Charles,’ she said flatly now. ‘They seem to think that discouraging me from meeting any unmarried men and putting off my come-out would make me accept him without argument. I can only assume they do not know me at all.’
From the scullery Rosie, the undersized maid of all work, made a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh and carried on scouring pans.
‘I always wondered why they didn’t want you visiting here. Did they think you’d go and fall for Master Perry, then? But he’s a good match.’
Laura shrugged. ‘It didn’t matter who it was. I have a lot of money, they want it and they’ve got control of it until I am twenty four or marry with my uncle’s consent.’
‘Give us those eggs, ducky.’ Cook put the pastry case in the oven and began to whisk up a savoury sauce. ‘That Charles is a strange lad, not quite twelve eggs to the dozen, if you ask me. But that brother of his… Expensive young man, Master Giles, by all accounts.’
‘Indeed he is – yet somehow Uncle Walter keeps finding the money to pay off his debts time and again. And I can guess where it is coming from,’ Laura said grimly. ‘He can’t get away with it forever, so they need to push me into marrying Charles as soon as possible and certainly before my birthday when I get control of my inheritance.’
‘Huh. I don’t hold with wilful girls, but neither do I hold with shutting them up until they marry foolish young men with less wit than chin.’ Mrs Bishop pounded peppercorns in a mortar with considerable emphasis. ‘And threatening you with bread and water! Medieval, I call it.’