Page 5 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Itwas a relief to emerge once more into the open, crossing a bridge before the track rose again.
Lisette jumped awake as they pitched through a series of particularly large potholes.
“Sommes-nous bientôt arrivées, Comtesse?”Lisette smothered her yawn, asking if their destination were far off.
“Nous arriverons bientôt,” Geneviève replied, hoping it might be true that they would soon arrive.
At last, they slowed to pass through tall, iron gates, leading to a long avenue of yew trees silhouetted beneath a sky turned threatening. The wind had risen, sending clouds across the moon.
Wulverton Hall brooded beneath a veil of ivy. There were four turrets in all, forbidding towers looming upward. Light spilt out across the gravel from the narrow windows on either side of the grand entrance. A coat of arms had long ago been engraved into the archway, though the stone was too weathered for Geneviève to discern its emblem. A lion’s head? No, a wolf, of course, Wulverton Hall being the seat of the Devonshire de Wolfes.
What shall we discover inside? Not love, for what good is that? A man of position and wealth? Now, that I can find use for. A husband so besotted that he’ll bend to my every whim? Even better.
The coachman deposited their baggage and, stamping her feet against the cold,Geneviève waited for the door to open.
The butler,who introduced himself as Withers, was tall and thin and stooped, and as sombre in appearance as the house itself. The family had evidently retired, leaving the aged retainer to wait up for her arrival.
Good, thought Geneviève, for she felt wrinkled and rumpled from travelling.
He closed the door with a doom-filled thud, turning the great key in the lock. All was silent, save for the creaking tick of a grandfather clock and the butler’s labored wheeze.
“This way, Madam.” The frail light of his lamp flickered upon the walls of the cavernous hall, from which long-dead de Wolfes looked down, dim and disapproving. However magnificent the plaster ceilings had once been, the damp had gotten to them. Wulverton Hall’s glory was peeling at the edges and flaking onto the carpets—an impression only consolidated as Geneviève followed the butler’s shuffle up the stairs and along the upper passage, paneled in dark oak beneath time-blackened rafters.
A dusty tapestry, its threads coming loose along the lower edge, hung the length of the corridor—a maritime scene, as far as Geneviève could tell, though it was hard to say, reliant upon the limited illumination of Withers’ lamp. A strange choice, since they were far from the sea here, on the high plateau of this remote moor.
There were definitely ships, majestic in full sail, and each bearing a name: Uriel, Raphael, Ramiel… Most of the embroidered lettering was too faded for her to read properly, but those were names of angels, weren’t they?
At the top, there was more wording, sewn in silver thread and green: de Winter, St. Hèver, de Russe, du Bois. Further names stretched on. Names ofla noblesse. The Marquis de Winter’s son had won ten thousand Francs from Maxim at the card table one night. And Geneviève had seen pictures of the Duchesse St. Hèver in the pages ofLa Nouvelle Mode. Her hats, so elegantly styled, were beyond compare.
What strangeness! For wasn’t this the residence of an English family? To have some ancient connection in French lineage was common enough, but it seemed bizarre to display the names of other dynasties in one’s home.
There would be some story, she supposed, and she would be obliged to listen, then to exclaim on how marvellous it was that the de Wolfe family was so well connected. Marguerite, Maxim’s sister, would make the most of it. Perhaps it had been she who’d found this tattered piece of cloth and placed it along the wall.
As they reached the end of the passage, Withers stopped to turn the handle of a door. “Your room, Madam.”
Fortunately, her sleeping chamber was far more charming. The curtains at each corner of the bed matched those at the window and the upholstery on the little sofa by the hearth—ivory patterned with pink roses. She was relieved to see kindling had been set, with logs beside.
Geneviève gave him her sweetest smile and a guinea from her purse. Decrepit he might be, but keeping on his good side was sure to prove useful. A comfortablestay relied upon the favor of such servants; the alternative was lukewarm water for washing and an age to wait if she ordered tea.
Withers waited beyond the door some moments, until Lisette had helped her mistress out of her travelling clothes. The maid was obviously relieved to be dismissed promptly and led away to her own quarters.
The coachman had dragged their trunks as far as the entry hall, but Withers was clearly unable to manage them alone.
Geneviève was too tired to care about eating, or about sleeping in her undershift. Her valise held the essentials of her toilette, and she’d be in no rush to rise come morning.
Drawing back the embroidered coverlet, she climbed the steps to enter her bed. It complained noisily and sagged toward the middle, but she’d slept in worse, and someone had warmed the sheets, at least.
At the convent of Santa Clotilde Magdalena, Geneviève’s bed had been a simple, slatted affair and her mattress stuffed with horsehair.
How far she’d come!
And how far she intended still to rise.
She would surely entice Maxim’s heir to propose marriage before the Twelfth Night of the festive season. Charming men had never presented her with difficulty. She doubted this one would be any different.
With that thought, she lay her head upon her pillow and indulged the fantasy which had grown stronger with each passing day.
With Hugo, the newComte Rosseline at her side, those who had shunned her would surely change their tune.
