They reached Upper-Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble that afternoon. The sun cast a glow on the slow-moving River Trumble as they moved over the Trumble Pass. The River Trumble was a small tributary of River Wear, and Upper Cheltendon a small town with no notable roads and only the old Roman road to the northeast to connect to the Great North Road. A market town was hard by, providing Cheltendon its primary connection with the outside world.
After the glittering metropolis of London, the bustle of Lowesbrough, and the luxury of the hunting boxes in Yorkshire, Tempest was almost ashamed as they drew closer to her home. Cheltendon had coal-mining on small scale, and glass-making and weaving; these were the primary sources of trade in the area, but the lack of good roads decreased the production of anything to a very small scale.
The Makepeace family managed to get by on Mr. Makepeace's inheritance, and her father luckily also had the patronage of Bishop Durham, a very generous patron of education and architecture. Nevertheless, it was a rural area, and Tempest wondered what this sophisticated group would find to do when night fell.
They alit from the carriage one at a time in front of the small manor house. The door cracked open.
"Mary," Tempest greeted the housemaid with delight. "I've come home."
Mary looked at her expressionlessly. "And no' married, I'll reckon. Aye and the missus won't be pleased to hear it."
Without a word, Mary went back into the house, leaving Tempest and her guests standing on the front steps.
Tempest flushed. "Our butler Giles has very bad rheumatism of the knees," she lied. "Mary usually stands in for him when we don't expect guests."
"This is the smallest house I've ever seen," observed Saintignon bluntly. "Can you really call yourself the gentry?"
Lord Marchmont cleared his throat. "We'll make our way to Auckland Castle. I knew the Bishop before he was Visitor at Oxford. I heard his wife passed away recently. We should go and pay our respects," said Lord Marchmont before he and Lord Nigel tactfully retreated.
Tempest opened the door to the house herself. "Mother! Papa? I've come home!"
Thuds echoed through the house. Floorboards creaked. "Tempie? Is that you?" shouted her mother's familiar voice before she appeared through a doorway. Mother and daughter flushed with embarrassment.
"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Makepeace, rounded cheeks turning bright red under the liberal coating of dust. She wore an old and torn cap on top of messy hair, and a dirty apron tied over her oldest gown. "We've been doing some spring cleaning, you see," she said, running a hasty glance over her visitors, the elderly but fashionable Mrs. Belham, the prim Mathilda Stearns, and the tall, saturnine features of the ever elegant Dominic Saintignon.
"Tempest, dearest, take your guests into the front parlor. NO! Wait! Er...take them through to the garden, it's so pleasant this time of the year. I'll be back very shortly! The bell pulls have rotted through, so I must get the servants myself!" Her voice faded as she rushed off through the house.
Staring after her mother, Tempest said evenly, "Please, let's do as she says and let us have afternoon tea in the garden. The garden is my mother's pride and joy," she lied, leading the way to the back, hoping, as it had been her mother's suggestion, that it at least would not disgrace them.
Her hope was proven wrong as the garden, usually sparse but somewhat pleasant looked as though it had been ravaged. A nearby tree had been felled and lay across the bare garden, its rotting corpse an eyesore.
Tempest indicated her guests to the lawn chairs set out behind the house, glad that Mathilda Stearns was being her usual reticent self and that Miss Belham was vague as always, although their silence was oppressive on her nerves.
Then, "This is horrendous," Saintignon said, indicating the settee beside him. "Do you mean for me to sit in this half rotted cushion? My clothes shall be dirtied beyond repair!"
Tempest turned bright red. "Sit down!" she ordered, wondering what the other two women would do if she were to suddenly strike him in their midst.
He perched in a gingerly fashion before giving a great start. "Good God! What on earth has happened to your garden? Not that it would have been of any account before, but why has that unsightly tree trunk not been removed? It's as though your garden is haunted! Your gardener should be strung up and flogged for such extreme dereliction of duty!"
Tempest forbore this, as they had no gardener, and turned her profile to him, saying, "Have you been in the area before, Miss Stearns?"
"No, but of course I have always wanted to see Hadrian's Wall, and this place is only a short distance away."
"That measly wall," scorned Saintignon, before Mrs. Makepeace trilled behind them.
"My dears! I do apologize for the ghastly wait. Please do join me in the parlor. I've had the maids put together a splendid tea for us there," said a freshly adorned Mrs. Makepeace. Her hair had been hastily tied up with three or four ribbons of different colors, and she was now wearing the most expensive-and fussy-dress in her wardrobe, a dress made up in chartreuse velvet and trimmed with sateen ribbons. Tempest wanted to sink into the ground.
"Your dear father is away with the Bishop Durham. The dear man cannot do without Mr. Makepeace," she informed their guests. "Why, the dear Bishop has been known to send for Mr. Makepeace daily, just to converse and listen to his witticisms!"
Tempest wished they had all left with Lord Marchmont and Lord Nigel. It was only a matter of time before Saintignon opened his mouth to insult her mother, her father, and their entire house.
But, "I cannot wait to meet him," Saintignon said, raising Mrs. Makepeace hand up and bowing very correctly over it.
Mrs. Makepeace tittered. "Dear, dear. Wherever is that man Giles? Oh, I say, we don't have anyone to make the introductions."
Since Giles was their family's familiar pretext for callers, Tempest was well aware that the man would never show.
"Allow me," Saintignon said with a charming smile. "Allow me to present my cousin, Miss Arabella Belham of the Suffolk Belhams. Miss Matilda Stearns of, I believe, Northbridge. And yours truly, Dominic Saintignon, Marquis Talleyrand, Viscount d'Chamborne, Baron de Vere, etc., etc. Exceedingly honored to finally make your acquaintance."
"My!" was all Mrs. Makepeace was capable of saying. "Marquis Talleyrand, Viscount d'Chamborne, Baron de Vere, did you say?"
"You have an incredible memory, ma'am," Saintignon said with a small bow of his head. "It took me the better part of my life to remember all that and several others."
"Several others!" Mrs. Makepeace repeated, a hand shaking with delight held up to her beribboned bosom.
"Tea!" said Tempest loudly. "In the parlor, I believe you said?"
"And you are...unmarried?" Mrs. Makepeace went on, half-heartedly waving them ahead of her.
Teeth set, Tempest led Mrs. Belham and Miss Stearns to the parlor, the irritating conversation between her undulating mother and the stranger that was the charming Saintignon unfolding behind her.
Tea turned out to be a better spread than she could have envisioned. How her mother managed to turn out such a selection with no notice was beyond her. Miss Belham, as usual, deaf to the company and seemingly placid in the wake of these strange events, ate crumpets at a furious pace. Miss Stearns also appeared to enjoy the light streaming in through the bay windows.
"Unmarried, yes," responded Saintignon. "But, alas, not for long. And so I hoped to speak with Mr. Makepeace in private…?"
"Oh, my!" exclaimed Mrs. Makepeace shakily. "Your father, Tempest, your father! Where is that dratted man?"
"Mother, may I speak to you about Giles please?" Tempest broke in. "This is a matter best discussed in the hall. I apologize to our guests in advance," she said, and hauled her mother out of the room after her.
"Oh, Tempest," her mother breathed. "This is beyond my wildest dreams. This is beyond my imagination. You have done so brilliantly! I cannot imagine. Oh, my dear girl, oh, how beautifully you have laid out our-ahem, your-future ahead of us. Saintignon...that is, oh my goodness. The Talleyrand Saintignons? But there is only the one Saintignon, of course. Where is my Debrett's?"
"Mother, please listen to me. I know you have not had time to receive my letter. Please pay attention! All is not as it seems!"
"How can it not be? The man has escorted you home with his relative, a very respectable matron, and that other Friday-faced woman. All is as respectable as anything! And he has asked to speak to your father!"
"Mother!" Tempest cut in, grabbing her mother by the shoulders and giving her a hard shake. "We were caught in a compromising situation. Do you understand? I was very nearly ruined. He has...offered to pretend to be engaged to me. It is only for show. A temporary show."
"I...see. A compromising situation," Mrs. Makepeace repeated, and then smiled widely at Tempest. "Oh, you naughty girl! You have done very well indeed. He is well and truly caught now!"
"We will call it off after an appropriate time has passed," Tempest said, pressing a finger to her aching forehead.
"Of course you won't, my dear. And if he calls it off, why, we shall sue for breach of promise!" breathed Mrs. Makepeace gleefully.
"Where's Papa?" asked Tempest wearily.
"He has gone to market town," Mrs. Makepeace said. "But he shall be back this even, and so had he better be! A chance of a lifetime, and he is not whistling it down the wind for all of us! A Saintignon, why, that is richer than the Golden Ball! Oh, Tempest, we shall live richly to the end of our days!"