the Third Earl, and then for Master John and his wife—the present Dowager Countess—until I took over. She worked here for over forty years. I was born in this house, and so was my Agnes. This is our home too. We could never leave it, no matter how bad—That is to say we have a fondness for the place, and for the family, and they have always been good to us. Although, now—’ She frowned. ‘But that is of no matter. Now, would you like some warm water for washing?’
Marianne had listened to this rambling speech in some astonishment. Only loyalty to the Earl’s family, Mrs Cullen seemed to suggest, had prevented them from leaving. So why would they think of leaving in the first place? Were they not being paid? Were they badly treated? They certainly seemed to be burdened with overwork.
Mrs Cullen was waiting for her response. ‘Oh, thank you! But I know you are busy preparing dinner. If you will show me where to go, I shall fetch a jug of water myself.’
‘Indeed, you will not!’ Mrs Cullen looked shocked. ‘A gently bred lady such as yourself, fetching and carrying like a scullery maid? No, Aggie will bring it to you directly, for I shall replace her in the kitchen.’
She bustled off, leaving Marianne with much to think about. She was beginning to understand why she had been given this position. Without a character reference she could not afford to be over-particular. And with a high turnover of staff—including, it seemed, governesses—Lady Kingswood could not be over-particular either. Which meant that they were all tied together—herself, the ladies, the staff. And the new Earl Kingswood.
Marianne ventured downstairs again with some trepidation. Aggie had informed her, when she had brought the water, that dinner would be served in twenty minutes, so Marianne had had a hasty wash, brushed as much dust as she could from her gown, then gone in search of the dining room.
The house was a similar size to her own home, though the layout was different, but she had tried two or three wrong doors before she’d eventually found the correct room. No one was there, but the table was laid for dinner.
In her head she was counting the number of servants they had at home. Seven—and that was just the indoor servants. In contrast Ledbury House, which was probably larger, was surviving on two—hence the dilapidation.
A small fire was burning in the dining room grate, and Marianne crossed to the fireplace to warm her hands. After the cold ride in the carriage she had not as yet warmed up.
Behind her, the door opened and closed, sending smoke from the fire billowing into her face and causing her to cough helplessly.
‘Oh, Miss Bolton—that is the draught! We do not stray too close to the fire unless we know that no one will open the door.’
It was Cecily.
‘The smoke comes into the room and can make you cough if you are too close.’
‘Miss Bolton will soon learn our ways, Cecily.’ Lady Kingswood had followed her daughter into the room. ‘Now, do tidy your hair, child. It is becoming unpinned.’
Obediently, Cecily raised her hands to her hair, which was, in fact, loosening a little at the back.
‘Can I help?’ Marianne, having recovered from her coughing fit, stepped towards her. ‘It is this pin which has become loose—there, now I have fixed it!’
‘Thank you, Miss Bolton,’ said Lady Cecily.
Her mother had already turned away, and now seated herself at the foot of the table. Marianne waited to see which side Lady Cecily would sit, then moved towards the other. That left one place setting—the head of the table where, presumably, Lord Kingswood was expected to sit. Lady Kingswood, noting it, pressed her lips together.
The door opened again, behind Marianne, and she realised from the other ladies’ sudden stiffening that it must be Lord Kingswood. He seemed to pause, then walked silently to his place at the head of the table.
‘Good evening, Fanny, Cecily, Miss Bolton.’
He looked every inch the gentleman, Marianne had to concede. He wore the knee breeches, snowy white shirt and superfine jacket that were currently de rigueur for evening wear. His cravat was tied in a complicated knot and he was fiddling absently with a beautiful pocket watch.
The fashionable clothing showed off his fine, muscular figure to advantage, and Marianne could not help again contrasting his appearance with that of Henry and his friends—some of whom were thin as a lath and others, like Henry, who were inclined to carry extra weight. Lord Kingswood somehow filled his clothes. Their clothing was similar, but there the resemblance ended.
‘Good evening,’ she murmured politely, reminding herself that appearance meant nothing. Lord Kingswood, though a few years older than Henry, was clearly part of the London set. Perhaps he even knew her brother! A wave of fear washed over her at the thought.
Cecily also replied to him, but Lady Kingswood merely inclined her head. Mrs Cullen and Agnes then appeared, with a selection of dishes, and the tension in the air dissipated a little as they all helped themselves to various delicacies.
Feeling she must say something, Marianne managed to engage Lady Cecily in a conversation about foods that she liked and disliked, and as the meal went on she felt Cecily warming to her a little.
The food was delicious—Mrs Cullen was clearly an expert cook. Marianne thanked heaven for small mercies. The house was cold, and rundown, and its occupants were at each other’s throats, but at least there was decent food.
Strange that she had taken her life so much for granted. Until a few days ago she had never had cause to question where her next meal was coming from. Although she had not actually run out of money, she had worried about doing so during the past few days. Now she appreciated the food before her as she never had before. She savoured every bite and was grateful.
‘This is delicious,’ she said aloud. ‘I must compliment Mrs Cullen on the meal.’
‘I agree.’ Lord Kingswood had unexpectedly decided to join in the conversation. ‘I admit I had assumed that with everything else in this house going to rack and ruin the food would be appalling. I admit to being pleasantly surprised.’
Lady Kingswood threw him an angry look. ‘How dare you insult my home?’
‘I was complimenting your cook.’ He eyed her evenly.
Marianne felt the tension rise. Oh, dear! It was all going to start again.
‘Rack and ruin, you said.’ She glared at him.
‘True. I have not been in Ledbury House for many years, and I am saddened to see how run-down it has become.’ His tone was unapologetic.
Oh, why did I compliment the cooking? Marianne thought.
‘Yes, you have not been here for fourteen years. And I wish you had not come now.’
Lady Kingswood’s voice quivered, and she had stopped eating. Cecily was looking anxiously from her mother to Lord Kingswood and back again.
Do something! Marianne was thinking to herself.
‘I have often thought,’ she said, her tone deliberately relaxed, ‘that pretty, comfortable houses remain beautiful through the ages, no matter the ups and downs of the families living within them.’
Is that enough?
Lady Kingswood looked at her. ‘This is a pretty house, isn’t it?’
‘Very pretty.’
Her hostess reached for a dish and spooned some potatoes and leeks onto her plate. At the other end of the table the Earl was glowering, and he seemed to be getting ready to say something. Something unhelpful, Marianne was sure.
She