Then Desborough Hall came into view.
France’s jaw dropped as the carriage wended its way down the long tree-lined drive. It was a stud! She saw the huge stables, their red slate roofs gleaming in the late-morning sun.
Not only a stud, she thought, but racing stables as well. There were huge paddocks, enclosed with white fences, for exercising and training. For the first time since she’d left home, Frances felt a spurt of excitement. She’d heard that northern England was renowned for its studs and racing stables, but hadn’t thought to ask if Desborough Hall was amongst them. Why the devil hadn’t her precious husband mentioned it to her? Well, she decided, craning her neck to see the Hall, if she had to be dumped somewhere, this was the place to be dumped.
9
There is a wicked inclination in most people to suppose an old man decayed in his intellects.
—SAMUEL JOHNSON
“Father! What are you doing here? You’re ill ... you’re supposed to be ...”
Hawk broke off in speechless confusion.
The marquess beamed down at his disconcerted, gape-mouthed son from the steps of the Hall.
“Glad you’re home, my boy,” he said, and bounded down the deeply indented marble steps to the drive. He clapped Hawk on the shoulder.
Hawk managed to grit out, “You’re the picture of health. You’re positively blooming.”
“You sound disappointed, son.” A thick white eyebrow soared upward. “Did you expect me to have cocked up my toes? No, couldn’t do that. Too much to be done, you know.”
“Of course I’m not disappointed! I’m happy, I’m ecstatic and astonished.”
“That’s a relief, Hawk. Now, where’s your bride?”
Grunyon was letting down the carriage steps. Frances emerged, to see an older version of her husband striding toward her. No, she quickly amended, not all that exact a copy—his nose was a veritable beak. He was the one who deserved the name Hawk. His hair was white and very thick, just as, she imagined, her husband’s would be in the years to come, and his very sharp, piercing eyes were just a shade or two darker than his son’s. He was built on more slender lines, not big-boned and massive like Hawk.
“It’s Frances, isn’t it?” said the marquess, stepping forward to hug her close.
“Yes, my lord, I am Frances Kilbracken.”
“Nay, lass,” said the marquess, in a broad Scottish brogue, his eyes twinkling down at her, “you’re the Countess of Rothermere, Frances Hawksbury. I trust you left your father—that rascal!—quite up to snuff?”
“Father is up to it, sir, as well as takes it,” Frances said. How did he know who she was? What the devil was going on here? Her husband had told her his father was gravely ill. Just an hour before, when they’d stopped for a few minutes, he’d informed her again, his voice low and worried, that they would leave at first light on the morrow to travel to Chandos Chase.
“I don’t understand, sir,” she said.
“I do,” said Hawk, his voice grim. “Oh, indeed I’m beginning to understand quite well.”
Frances’ eyes swung to her husband. He sounded utterly furious. He sounded almost ... betrayed. If a man could be said to gnash his teeth, Hawk was doing it.
The marquess ignored his son, and wrapped his arm about Frances’ shoulders, giving her another affectionate hug. “All the staff is waiting to meet you, my dear. Come along. You too, Hawk. I hope the staff hasn’t forgotten who you are! Here only three times in the past year, isn’t that all? Grunyon, don’t strain your back! Here is Ralph to assist you with the luggage!”
Indeed, Frances saw with a sinking heart, there were at least twenty servants lined up in front of the great double doors of Desborough Hall, the women on one side, the men on the other. She saw vaguely the Hawksbury crest above the door and remembered the motto: With a strong hand. And her snide remark about a strong fist. Whose fist here was the strongest? she wondered, darting a glance from her husband to her father-in-law.
How does he know which daughter I am? she wondered yet again, her feet dragging as the marquess walked beside her toward the array of well-dressed servants. English servants. They would hate her, despise her.
She looked hideous, she well knew it. But the marquess didn’t seem to have noticed. If he had noticed, it hadn’t fazed him in the least. Her hand went up to pull off the spectacles.
“My damned servants are garbed better than you,” she heard Hawk say in an angry undertone. “God, I don’t believe this!”
She left her spectacles firmly balanced on her nose, and thrust her chin upward.
What didn’t he believe? Why wasn’t he delighted that his father wasn’t dying? Why was he acting like such a boorish lout?
The marquess said jovially, “This devout personage, my dear, is Otis, the butler of Desborough Hall. Otis, this is your new mistress, Lady Frances.”