Page 52 of Weave me a Rope
Before autumn ended,the young married couple managed to travel to an estate in Lancashire, to Rosewood Towers in Cumberland, and to another estate in Peebleshire in Scotland. After that, they headed back across the border to the North Riding of Yorkshire, to a small estate in Durham, and to Cottlesworth Lodge in Leicestershire, where they intended to spend Christmas.
Cordelia was delighted that their long journey was nearly over. Her rapidly expanding waistline had made long periods in the carriage more and more uncomfortable. Their route had taken them farther away from Spen’s father and Lord Yarverton, whose principal estates were in the south and who would probably spend autumn and winter, as they usually did, at those estates or at house parties in the home counties. They seldom traveled out of easy reach of the House of Lords and the Court.
According to Uncle Josh’s reports, the two peers continued their usual activities, whatever that meant. Uncle Josh was not forthcoming about his own progress towards checkmating the two men.
So far, no one had questioned Cordelia’s identity. In truth, they had made little effort to maintain the deception that she was Lady Daphne. Cordelia’s maid had managed to purchase a white-blonde wig in Liverpool for Cordelia to wear whileher bleached hair grew. Spen always addressed her as “Lady Spenhurst”, or “my lady”, or “my love”, when in company.
But Cordelia did not continue using Lady Daphne’s mannerisms, nor did she act as if her understanding was limited. After all, one day she would be the marchioness in charge of all these estates. The people who served in the Deerhaven houses would be under her direction. The welfare of the wives and families of the tenants who worked the land on the estates would be hers to cherish.
It was unlikely, they agreed, that the stewards would describe Lady Spenhurst in their reports to the marquess. “I get the impression his lordship does not read his stewards’ reports, in any case,” Spen said. The stewards were all touchingly delighted to have the heir taking an interest in their work. Spen had worked his usual magic with the coachman and grooms assigned to their carriage, charming them and then promising them continued employment.
The gentry they met were likewise not a danger to them. Neither Spen’s father nor his supposed father-in-law would be in correspondence with mere gentlefolk. The few members of titled families they came across were more of a risk. Spen did not know who might be an intimate of the marquess. Or of the earl, for that matter.
The closer they came to the home counties, the greater the possibility of some chance introduction blowing their masquerade out of the water. Go south they would, though. Cordelia was due to give birth in mid-April, and she wanted her Aunt Eliza to be with her at the time. As far as Deerhaven was concerned, it didn’t matter. Aylesbury Court, the estate in Herefordshire, had been transferred and the allowance established.
The Earl of Yarverton had been dragging his feet on the decision about trustees, and refused to transfer the ownershippapers for Lady Daphne’s estate until that was done. However, he and Spen had finally come up with a list of three names they both agreed on, and two of them had already consented.
Once the third had been settled, they would make their marriage known to the Duchess of Haverford, Lady Corven, and a few of the other great ladies of society, and the subterfuge would be over.
They wanted to announce the news themselves, rather than have it leak out before they had done so. The servants, and particularly the neighbors of the Herefordshire estate, might well pass information to the marquess.
Even a letter of congratulation on his new grandchild would be enough to send the man storming up from London. After all, Spen had not been housed with Lady Daphne until September, and the wedding had been in October.
In Leicestershire, on their way to Cottlesworth Lodge, they had an encounter with a particularly nasty group of Society gentlemen. They had been strolling in an inn garden, while their horses were changed, holding a laughing conversation about baby names.
“No,” Cordelia was saying over her shoulder as they stepped through the archway that led from the garden to the stable yard. “Rumpelstiltskin Wolfsbane Forsythe does not have a ring to it.”
“You are right,” Spen responded, mournfully. “The little mite should have at least four baptismal names. What about…” He stopped, looking over her head, his eyes widening and cooling even as all humor drained from his features. “Don’t look around,” he whispered. “Quick. Back into the garden.”
It was too late. The voice spoke from right behind her. “Spenhurst, itisyou! And your lovely bride, I assume. The Earl of Yarverton’s daughter, isn’t it? We were all surprised, because we thought the little Milton bitch had her hooks into you.” Theman burst out laughing as if the observation was hilariously funny.
Cordelia ducked her head, hoping the obnoxious oaf would not look directly at her. Spen put a protective arm around her shoulders. “We are nearly at the end of a long trip, Stocke, and my wife is tired. So, if you will please step aside, we shall be on our way.”
From under her bonnet brim, Cordelia saw several sets of boots. Of course, the rest of them would be there, too. Viscount Stocke, heir to the Earl of Selby, was seldom seen without his equally unpleasant friends. Entitled arrogant do-nothings with wandering hands, low minds, and a contempt for those who lacked their aristocratic bloodlines.
In her Season, Cordelia had quickly learned to stay away from them. They had tormented her anyway, calling her names and mocking her plebian origins, her connection with trade, her looks, and anything else that came into their fertile and nasty imaginations.
Spen shepherded her past them, using his free arm to move Stocke and then one of the others out of his way. All might have been well if the horrid men had not been in the mood to poke some more, demanding an invitation to Cottlesworth, and continuing to make rude remarks about poor Lady Daphne.
Spen must have sensed that Cordelia was about to burst with rage, for he asked Marsh to see her to the carriage, and the rest of the encounter happened out of her sight but within her hearing. Marsh’s verdict had been, “The lad has bottom, my lady. And he’s turning out to be none too bad in a fight.”
Spen was bruised, his clothing scuffed and torn, but he glowed with satisfaction. Men were peculiar.
Cordelia was concerned that Viscount Stocke had recognized her, since she had looked back when the fight began. However, no gossip had leaked out, so her pretense of being Lady Daphnemust have fooled the men. The next encounter, later that day, was even more worrying.
When they arrived at Colchester Grange, it was very clear the marquess was already in residence. The main rooms of the house glowed with light as they pulled up to the house, and a crested carriage was being wheeled into the carriage house.
Chapter Twenty-Three
December 1802
“The marquess ishere,” Spen told Cordelia.
She lifted tired eyes to him. “What should we do?” She never complained, but Spen could tell she found travel uncomfortable, and if they left here, they would have to travel at least to the next inn, which they would more than likely find full of people they knew from London.
“We will have to brazen it out,” Spen decided. “We both need to rest. Besides, if we left now, he would suspect something and might come after us. Or send someone after us, more likely.”
“I daresay the servants have told him we are expected,” Cordelia commented.
