A Marriage of Attachment: a sequel to A Contrary Wind (Mansfield Trilogy Book 2)

“I think you do him an injustice there, my dear. I think, left to his own devices, Mr. Bertram would not have attempted half so much. Mary and her brother commissioned a great many improvements, she told me so herself.”
“That accords more with the character of Mr. Bertram as I knew him in London,” Lady Delingpole acknowledged. “And in the end, Mary did leave him to his own devices. He deserves better! But, I can never scold Mary as she deserves, not when I remember her dear mother.”
“I believe I see our host stepping out to greet us, Imogen. So, now that you see his house, are you content to stay here for the night, in preference to an inn? I think we shall be tolerably comfortable, though it is a bachelor establishment.”
“Yes, Miss Bertram is in town, so we shall have no hostess tonight. But I believe we may do very well.”
The carriage pulled up to the handsome front portico of the dwelling of the young clergyman, where every servant of his modest establishment was assembled.
Edmund swiftly glanced over his shoulder to see how his housekeeper, Mrs. Peckover, was bearing up. She had spent the last week in a quiet frenzy of preparation; the prospect of a visit from an Earl and his lady had alarmed her into near-insensibility. Thankfully, and unexpectedly, Baddeley had appeared that morning with a basket of apricot preserves and his usual imperturbable air. The old butler from Edmund’s boyhood home ‘had learned from Mrs. Grant, that exalted guests were expected at Thornton Lacey, and he ventured to presume he might be of some assistance.’
Mrs. Grant was not the only old friend to come to Edmund’s aid on this momentous occasion. His parishioners, viewing the noble visit as something that reflected upon the credit of the entire village, came forward with their contributions—one family sent a brace of hare, another a fine large trout, another some early wisps of salad from their greenhouse, all to uphold the proud name of Thornton Lacey and to burnish this new and illustrious chapter in the annals of the town.
However, were it not for Baddeley’s timely arrival, Edmund suspected Mrs. Peckover might now be lying prostrate in the pantry instead of waiting on the stairs, wearing a fresh apron and cap. He could see the details of the evening to come chasing themselves across her forehead, even as he greeted his guests.
“Lady Delingpole, Lord Delingpole, you do me great honour. I trust your journey was pleasant.”
Firstcourse-calves’headsoup-mashedturnips-dressedsalad-pottedhare-troutwithonionsauce —
“Not at all, Bertram. What cursed weather we are having for April, hey? Where is that charming sister of yours?”
“Julia is visiting our cousins in Bedford Square, sir. She will greatly regret not being here to welcome you both.”
“A great pity. Imogen, my dear, it seems Miss Julia will not be here to keep you company tonight. She is in London.”
Secondcourse-bakedcelerywithraisins-carrotswithhoney-roast beef with pepper sauce-creamed potato—
“Is she indeed? I had no idea. Mr. Bertram, thank you for inviting us to break our journey here. I never saw such a charming country parsonage—very elegant, indeed!”
Lastcourse-cheeseboard-applesinmadeira-apricottart-orangebrandy-ladyfingers.
“Well, therein lies a tale. My home is yours, Lady Delingpole. Baddeley and I will look after your husband and Mrs. Peckover will escort you to your room.”
“This way, oh, this way, your ladyfingers—oh no! Your ladyship!”
In due course, Baddeley took his station by the sideboard, and Edmund’s housekeeper and several other able women from the village, all at the highest pitch of excitement and anxiety, toiled in the kitchen.
Edmund escorted Lady Delingpole to her seat, and surveyed with some complacency the elegant table Baddeley had laid out for his guests. Even in the absence of a wife to direct the proceedings, he thought his household had done tolerably well, consistent with his desire to demonstrate his respect and affection for the noble couple, but without that ostentatious show which would betray an overly-servile disposition, a too-eager wish to please. This was why he had not brought his aunt from Mansfield to serve as his hostess. Aunt Norris had met the Delingpoles in London and it would not be impertinent to invite her, but she would have destroyed whatever of tranquillity his home offered in her zeal to demonstrate her deference and gratitude.
Instead, the host and his guests sat down together with every evidence of satisfaction, ease, and enjoyment. They were all of superior understanding and information. The youngest of them, Edmund Bertram, was in fact the most subdued in manner, and tended to formality in his address. He was tall, well-made and handsome, and in his dark blue eyes there gleamed a subtle, understated wit.
His Lordship, spare of frame and angular of feature, was clearly accustomed to having the full attention of his audience. His countenance was mobile and alert, and his address forceful and decided. Lady Delingpole’s quickness of speech and sometimes of temper tended to disguise her essentially kind-hearted nature. She was fashionably and richly attired; but anyone who made the mistake of thinking her a mere London fashion plate, was soon set to rights. She was shrewd, well-informed, and as deeply engaged in the public matters of the day as was her husband.
“You must be well pleased, your ladyship, to enjoy your husband’s company away from the unceasing demands of Parliament,” Edmund offered.
Lady Delingpole almost replied “evidently, you have not been married for very long, Mr. Bertram,” but just in time she recollected, and she only smiled and nodded.
“It is in fact politics which calls us to Northamptonshire. We make for Castle Ashby in the morning,” said her husband. “Do you know it, Bertram?”
“Not I, sir. My father attended there frequently when he was the member for Northampton. He often remarked on the elegant grounds.”
“I am looking for some little home-stall in this area myself, you know, since our family seat in Wales is so remote. I want some place