The Waters of Love

CHAPTER ONE - 1898-1

CHAPTER ONE

-

1898It was a high fence but the horse took it easily, landing lightly on the other side and causing the rider to break into a smile.

“Well done, old fellow,” he said, patting the animal’s great neck.

Man and horse were pleasant to behold, both handsome, both in the prime of their youth and vigour.

Francis, Marquis of Wimborton, took a ride every morning at this time, enjoying the beauties of his vast estate, which was considerable, as it was one of the largest in Berkshire. He owned farms, houses for rent and even a village.

From here the view was glorious, a vista of trees and lawns with the glint of water in the distance. Far off he could see cottages, their thatched roofs looking cosy and welcoming.

But in his heart he knew that the cheerful appearance was a sham. His estate was in a state of decay because the rents he received were not enough to keep it in good condition. The thatched roofs that looked so fine at a distance were mostly in need of repair.

His own house too required a good deal of work, but he was too much in debt even to think about it.

Suddenly the brightness of the morning seemed to have darkened. His exhilarated mood of a moment earlier vanished and he began to canter home.

At twenty-eight, good-looking, charming and titled, Francis, Marquis of Wimborton, seemed blessed with life’s bounties.

But his existence had become an unremitting fight to raise enough money to keep his estate in good order and he was losing the battle.

Having come into his inheritance when he was only eighteen, he had found it extremely difficult to run and somehow his obligations always outran his income.

Every day it seemed to him he was inundated by requests from people on his estate to help restore their houses, their farms or their stables.

Because he had no wish to admit he was a failure, he had somehow to find the money, even if it was only a little of what they asked of him.

But it simply put him deeper in debt and that debt was growing like a cloud, spoiling the horizon.

He left his horse in the stables and entered the house to be met by his butler with the words,

“Mr. Johnson’s here to see you, my Lord.”

The Marquis was silent for a moment before he said,

“Show him into the smoking room and tell him I will be with him in a few minutes.”

“Very good, my Lord.”

When the butler had departed, the Marquis groaned to himself. He guessed why his accountant had come to see him and it certainly would not be good news.

Mr. Johnson was a middle-aged man who had looked after him ever since he inherited the estate.

He was waiting for him as he entered the smoking room.

“Good morning, Johnson,” the Marquis greeted him. “I was not expecting you and I hope this surprise visit is not going to be a gloomy one.”

He held out his hand as he spoke and Mr. Johnson shook it before he replied.

“I am afraid, as usual, my Lord, I do not bring good news.”

“I thought that was too much to ask of you,” the Marquis answered with a smile.

He sat down hard in the chair he always occupied. The accountant, whose office was in London and who had therefore made a special journey, sat down opposite him and regarded the Marquis with sympathy.

He had come so young to his responsibilities and Mr. Johnson had thought he would have preferred to stay in London.

Or perhaps he should be abroad enjoying himself with pretty and attractive women, rather than being alone in this huge house and having little to amuse him except the horses and the estate.

To his surprise, however, the Marquis had taken possession of his inheritance when his father died unexpectedly, as if it was not only his duty but a pleasure.

The Marquis smiled at the man opposite. It was not his fault that he had a tale of woe to tell.

With a sigh, Mr. Johnson began to talk. And it was, indeed, a depressing story of mounting debts, inadequate rents, and of problems growing worse every day.

After an hour the Marquis sighed,

“I cannot believe that things are really as bad as this.”

“I am afraid they are, my Lord, and I can assure you that I would not have come down from London to upset you unless it was urgent to do something.”

“That’s all very well,” said the Marquis. “I agree with you there is a great deal to be done, especially now that the repairs to this house are three times more than I expected.”

“And not only to this house, my Lord. There are at least six houses on the estate which need urgent work, otherwise the tenants may begin to withhold their rent.”

The Marquis rose to his feet and walked to the window.

“Why has all this happened so suddenly, Johnson?”

“It’s hardly sudden, my Lord. The seeds were planted a long time ago. Your father was told what was required but he, unfortunately, did as little as possible and matters have just grown worse.”

“What the devil can I do?” demanded the Marquis.

“I don’t want to seem intrusive, my Lord, but have you ever thought, with your title and your position, you might marry an heiress?”

“Marriage!” exclaimed the Marquis.” I’ve never thought of it chiefly I suppose because I have never fallen in love.”

There was silence for a moment and then the accountant said as if talking to himself,

“It seems odd, when you have so many advantages and so many ladies have – shall we say? – expressed an interest, that you have not found even one to suit you.”

The Marquis did not reply, but merely smiled as he stood at the window, looking out blindly at the fountain playing in the sunlight.

His success in Society had always been assured. His title had brought him an invitation to every important ball.

Even without the title he would have been in demand, as he was a true Wimborton, last of a race of tall, broad- shouldered men with handsome looks and dark red hair.

He had inherited these attributes and also a mysterious ‘presence’, an air of pride in his ancestry and in himself. His appearance in a room was the signal for heads to turn, especially female heads.

Even women who knew nothing of his title could not help smiling at the sight of him, while knowledgeable dowagers hurried to introduce him to the debutantes.

He was not conceited, but he had come to take it for granted that he would be welcome anywhere in London Society.

But somehow, although he had danced with the prettiest girls of the year and been invited a dozen times by their parents to luncheon or dinner parties, he had never met a girl with whom he had wanted to spend the rest of his life.

He had in fact found the actresses most amusing who his men friends introduced him to. And, of course, they made him realise how pleasant love-making could be when a brilliant actress melted into his arms and agreed to anything he desired.

But he knew that this was only a passing amusement, which he shared with his friends. After the moment had passed, it was easy to forget until it occurred again.

Standing at the window now he remembered these affairs, so enjoyable at the time, but fleeting pleasure soon forgotten.

Marriage, on the other hand, was something serious, which would last for a lifetime.

At last he sighed and turned back to Mr. Johnson.

“You will think me unreasonable no doubt, but the thought of marrying for money disgusts me.”

“I am very, very sorry, my Lord,” he replied. “But it is my duty to tell you the position frankly and at the moment it is extremely bad.”

There was silence and then the Marquis said ironically,

“I suppose you have even chosen the woman.”

The accountant smiled.

“Indeed I have, my Lord.”

“Tell me the worst.”

“Miss Lexia Drayton.”

The Marquis stared, as Mr. Johnson clearly expected this name to mean something, but he could swear that he had never heard it before.

“I beg your pardon?” he said blankly.

“She and her father moved into Highcliffe Hall last month.”

Highcliffe was a large, well-appointed house on the estate and which was in better repair than anywhere else on his property and the Marquis had kept it that way to be sure of securing a tenant who could afford to pay a high rent.

The previous tenant had always paid willingly, delighted with the property, but his wife had died and he had gone to live with his married daughter in Scotland.

It had been a matter of urgency to find a new tenant, but Mr. Johnson had handled it and the Marquis had not yet met Mr. Drayton.

“You were in London when they moved in,” Mr. Johnson told him. “I am told that Mr. Drayton is enormously rich, in fact, a millionaire three or four times over.”

The Marquis stared at him again.

“On my land? A millionaire?” he exclaimed.

“I understand he has been in America and only arrived in England a month or so ago. He owns a large house in the most fashionable part of London, but wanted a country property.

“Is he English?” enquired the Marquis.

“Yes, he is English,” replied Mr. Johnson, “but he went to America and made a fortune there, so much so that he could afford to buy a house in Park Lane and is also purchasing horses at Tattersall’s, which he intends to hunt and to race. I understand that Mr. Drayton has only one child – a very attractive daughter, who will inherit his huge fortune.”

After a long silence the Marquis muttered,

“So this, you think, is the solution to my problem.”

“Why not, my Lord? If he is as rich as everyone says and has only this one child, it seems to me it is a gift from the Gods.”

The Marquis laughed.

“Are you really serious? The daughter of a millionaire must have her pick of men.”

“I believe she had her pick of them in America, but her father wants an Englishman for her, preferably one with a title.”

“I see,” smiled the Marquis wryly.

“My Lord, this is no time to be splitting hairs. She has what you need, and you have what her father wants. May I suggest that your Lordship calls on Mr. Drayton as soon as possible, otherwise there are many others who will go knocking at her door. If she cannot win a Marquis she may well settle for something less.”

After a pause the Marquis threw back his head laughing,

“I don’t believing this is happening! I just don’t believe you are standing there having this conversation with me. Are you really saying that a millionaire has chosen to rent one of my houses simply so that his daughter can meet me? It’s incredible.”

“Of course it is, but it’s good thinking and I am quite certain that Mr. Drayton has a sharp brain. He wouldn’t be a millionaire otherwise.”

“But to go to such lengths – ”

“It does sound like a play or a novel,” admitted Mr. Johnson, “but I was told on good authority that Mr. Drayton has made many enquiries about who was whom.”

“It’s too fantastic for words, but I do want to meet this millionaire. I might persuade him to somehow help me without having to take over his daughter, as though she was a bag of sugar. What did you say his name was?”

“Drayton! Garry Drayton.”

The Marquis laughed again.

“The truth is, old friend, you are writing a book and you’ve made all of this up. Admit it.”

“If only I could say that was true, but it is not,” responded Mr. Johnson. “But I suppose this might be Chapter One, in which you are the hero, wondering how you can pay your debts and then the perfect opportunity presents itself!”

“I suppose you are relying on Mr. Drayton to pay what would seem a fantastic rent for Highcliffe Hall.”

The accountant nodded.

“Your Lordship has never received so much for it before and we’ll never get so much from any other tenant if Mr. Drayton leaves, as he undoubtedly will if you refuse to see him.”

“All right,” agreed the Marquis. “You win! I will have a look at this girl, but I assure you of one thing, I have no intention of marrying any woman for her money or for any reason, except for love.”