Engaged to the Earl

by Lisa Berne

  “Very well, Mummie,” said Rupert, and turned around and left the room.

  Oh dear, how awkward. Gwendolyn glanced at Julian, who seemed unperturbed, however, and then of course she had to look more closely at his waistcoat, which was made of cream-colored linen embroidered in horizontal stripes of plum thread. Was it less loud? Would the Countess ask him to go change it? Surely not—

  “Julian dear,” said the Countess, “do go see that Rupert selects a more genteel waistcoat.”

  “Of course,” answered the Earl, rising at once, and with a little smile at Gwendolyn he also turned and left the room.

  There was a silence. The Countess smiled benignly at her. A clock ticked from somewhere in the room. Outside, in the street, a dog barked. Oh dear, oh dear, thought Gwendolyn. Say something. But not about waistcoats. She cleared her throat. “I understand, ma’am, that you were taken ill not long before your journey here to London. I do hope it was nothing serious.”

  “How kind of you to ask, my dear child! Female troubles, I’m sorry to say. I’ve never been quite right after Julian was born. Really, it was Amelia’s birth which started it all—a breech birth, you know, most uncomfortable. The doctors quite feared for my life.”

  “How—how dreadful, ma’am.” Amelia, Gwendolyn remembered, was the fourth child, after Agnes, Martha, and Sarah. Then there was Mariah, Fanny, Georgiana, and Mary (as if, with the arrival of the eighth girl, ingenuity in naming her had been exhausted).

  “Yes, it was rather harrowing,” said the Countess, with a kind of proud relish in her voice. “Blood everywhere, quite a lot of screaming, and an entire set of bed linens ruined. Afterwards I was told to refrain from having any more children, but of course I had to have more. I knew my duty! We had only girls. Besides, my dear late husband Edmond was a man of great appetite, you see, so thankfully it all worked out very well, because by and by we were blessed with Julian. And then Rupert. It wasn’t long after Rupert was born that poor dear Edmond died in a hunting accident, else we might have had more children.”

  “Would you—would you have wanted more, ma’am?”

  “Why, of course! Anything could have happened to Julian, or Rupert, and then where would we be? Point non plus! The Westenbury line stretches back unbroken to the arrival of the Conqueror, and I certainly wasn’t going to be the first Countess to fail in my maternal obligations! Dear Edmond always said I was the most determined woman he had ever met. So, as you can imagine, I watched over Julian and Rupert most carefully. They were the first children to be inoculated in Gloucestershire. Poor little boys! How they did cry.”

  Gwendolyn wanted to ask if her daughters were inoculated too, but then she saw that the Countess was looking her up and down, as one might eye a horse whose paces were a little off.

  “You have four brothers, my dear child, is that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “All healthy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The Countess nodded. “That’s reassuring, to be sure. You are a trifle thin, my dear, and your hips—well—they’re a bit narrow, aren’t they? Is your mother of the same build?”

  In her mind’s eye Gwendolyn saw herself telling Christopher about this rather odd conversation, envisioning the gleam of laughter in his eyes, and bit her lip to repress a giggle. As she did so, the butler came into the drawing-room, heralding the arrival of the tea tray, and Gwendolyn was so happy to have a diversion that she could have hugged him, the footmen that followed behind, and the tea tray.

  “Those macaroons look marvelous,” she said to the Countess. “And the tarts as well. I’m famished, really—it feels like years since nuncheon. And those cakes, how delightful. I’m very fond of cakes, especially if they’ve got icing on them, and . . .” She rambled on in this vein for what really did feel like years, wondering if it were possible to bore oneself to death with one’s own speech, but would have kept on till the bitter end to avoid further discussion of hips, childbirth, and the late Earl’s appetites.

  “Oh, tea’s here already?” It was Rupert, reentering the room in a sober waistcoat in shades of beige and gray. “Excellent.”

  The Earl followed behind, and Gwendolyn saw at once that he had changed his waistcoat, too. Its colors were equally drab—brown and ecru.

  “We were just talking about your sisters,” Gwendolyn said, making her voice bright, as they sat on the sofa set at a perpendicular angle to the Countess’s chair. She turned again to the Countess. “Julian’s written to them, ma’am—I would so like for them to come here, so that we can get to know each other.”

  The Countess’s blue eyes opened wide. “Come here? Oh no, my dear, they’re needed at home.”

  “But surely—”

  “Macaroons!” Rupert said. “My favorite.”

  “They’re terribly busy getting ready to oversee the refurbishment of the Dower House, which has been empty for decades,” said the Countess. “You and Julian will naturally occupy the State Bedchamber, which I shared with my dear Edmond for so many happy, happy years. And I will retreat, as is only proper, to a mother-in-law’s domain. It’s nearly a quarter-mile from the main house, but I shan’t mind that at all. Although in spring, when it gets muddy, that will present a problem. I wonder if I can manage to stagger along in pattens? A trifle dangerous, at my age, but what a small price to pay for doing what is right. And in winter I shall snuggle up all alone, as cozy as any dormouse, patiently sleeping the long gray months away.”

  Gwendolyn, through a supreme act of will, tamped down any images of the State Bedchamber and what may or may not have transpired within it. If she never set foot in there, it would be fine with her. “Please don’t give up your bedroom on our behalf, ma’am. I’m sure Julian and I can find very comfortable accommodations elsewhere in the house. Isn’t that right, Julian?”

  He nodded. “Yes indeed.”

  “Of course you’ll have the State Bedchamber,” the Countess said. “It’s a Westenbury tradition.”

  “It really doesn’t matter to me,” said the Earl. “Whatever is best for everyone.”

  “I shouldn’t dream of supplanting you, ma’am,” said Gwendolyn. “All that fuss and bother. I’m sure you’ll be happiest where you’ve been for all these years. Don’t you agree, Julian?”

  “I do know what you mean about avoiding unnecessary fuss, my love. Still, if she really doesn’t mind,” said the Earl, “the Dower House will be very nice once it’s refurbished. Or—” He turned to his mother, as though he’d just been struck by a particularly clever idea. “Or perhaps the Blue Suite would suit you very well indeed. It’s very spacious, and you’d have a wonderful view of the knot garden. You wouldn’t have to leave the main house.”

  “The Blue Suite is one of my favorites, Julian dear, but you must realize that it’s too far from the stairs, and dreadfully inconvenient for the servants.”

  “Oh, do you think so? Well, what about the Rose Rooms?”

  “Yes, they’re certainly pretty, but I’ve quite made up my mind about the Dower House.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a change of rooms,” said Rupert. “I’ll just take Julian’s, shall I, after he and Miss Penhallow move into the State Bedchamber.”

  “No, dear, you’re to stay where you are,” said his mother. “More tea, Gwendolyn, my dear child? Do have another cake.”

  “Well,” said the Earl cheerfully, “it does seem that all roads lead to the State Bedchamber. You’ll love it, my dear Gwendolyn.”

  “But Julian,” Gwendolyn began, and then the Countess said, smiling:

  “Don’t be silly, Julian darling. There aren’t any roads inside the house. Only hallways, of course. Now, if you two dear children are going to keep on insisting that I remain in the State Bedchamber, then it would be positively mulish of me to relinquish it. I have many faults, I daresay, but mulishness isn’t one of them.” She reached over to pat Gwendolyn’s hand, and brightly went on: “I’m delighted that it’s all settled. I don’t care in the le
ast for disagreements and quarreling. They quite take the zest out of life. Do let’s talk about the wedding. I’ve been simply wild with excitement to put our heads together and firm up the plans. I’ve had the rector of St. George’s over, and he’s given me a list of several possible dates.”

  Gwendolyn looked at the Earl. He, in turn, shifted in his seat and then looked at his mother. “As to that, we’re thinking of having the wedding in Whitehaven.”

  He might as well have announced the site of their wedding as being the moon. So high did the Countess’s eyebrows go up, they briefly disappeared underneath the bit of golden fringe displayed beneath her white satin turban.

  “Whitehaven? Oh no, my dears, that would never do. The rector told me that yours is already being described as the wedding of the year, and how he’s been putting off several important couples until you’ve decided on the date you like the best. And Étienne de Montmorency mentioned that the Prince Regent is eager to attend—you certainly wouldn’t wish to incur dear Prinny’s displeasure by having the wedding elsewhere.”

  “Gwendolyn would like to have her grandfather perform the ceremony,” said the Earl, “at his church in Whitehaven.”

  “Prinny ain’t going to Whitehaven, wherever that is,” put in Rupert, and took another macaroon.

  The Countess smiled warmly at Gwendolyn. “It’s a lovely idea, my dear child, and very commendable in you. Family loyalty is everything! But I’m afraid it’s just not practicable, and I know you wouldn’t want to deprive Julian of the chance to have the Prince Regent attend, as well as all his many, many friends who are here for the Season. Would the very end of June suit you both? It doesn’t give us a great deal of time, but if we all work very hard, I’m sure we can pull it off. Oh, what fun this is! I’ve always longed to plan a wedding. My own dear mother, God rest her soul, wouldn’t permit me to lift a finger to help with my wedding, so here at last is my opportunity to be of service. I’ll do everything in my power to make this not just the wedding of the year, my dear ones, but the wedding of the century.” She beamed at her listeners, her face aglow with pleasure and anticipation.

  “Am I to be married too, Mummie?” asked Rupert.

  “Of course you will, dear, once Julian is. What do you think of Lady Helen? Her lineage isn’t fully what I would like—Lady Almira having been married previously to a commoner—but her grandfather is a duke, after all, and I understand the dowry is substantial.”

  Rupert grimaced. “She’s fat.”

  “Nonsense. A little high in the flesh, perhaps, but she looks to be an excellent breeder.”

  “Too many freckles. Reminds me of a speckled toad.”

  “My dear Rupert, we can’t all have the ideal complexion. Like Gwendolyn’s, for example. Or mine, perhaps, when I was younger. Lady Helen can always try Gowland’s Lotion, you know.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” said Rupert.

  Gwendolyn sat very still in her chair. She did want to ask the Countess why, with eight daughters well into adulthood, none of them were married, and also, if the Countess wasn’t going to be taking possession of the Dower House after all, why couldn’t at least some of those daughters come to London, and, incidentally, she didn’t like in the least how they were talking about Helen (who was a very attractive young lady, no matter what the Westenbury might think and say). There was too much coming at her, and she was struggling to process it. The eight daughters. Why did Rupert have to wait for Julian to get married first? And speaking of which—the wedding. Here in London. Not in Whitehaven. Was she being stubborn and selfish? Mulish? Only thinking about what she wanted? She didn’t know. She hoped not. But she didn’t know. All she did know was that she felt like a whirligig, spinning in a dangerously high wind. She looked over at Julian again. He gave her a little smile, a slight shrug of the shoulders.

  She had no idea what he was hoping to convey.

  The clock chimed and the Countess jumped. “Only look at the time! I’ve been so engrossed in our delightful conversation that I didn’t realize how late it’s become.” She rose to her feet, adding, “Come along, Rupert.”

  Rupert stood up and the Earl, standing also, said:

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m off to see Lady Hertford, and Rupert is to escort me. You’re to join us after you’ve taken Gwendolyn home. Do excuse my mad dash, my dear child—I look forward to seeing you again very soon.”

  Gwendolyn got up and kissed the soft white cheek presented to her. The Countess bustled away, calling for her pelisse and gloves, and Rupert followed close behind. When they were gone the Earl said:

  “If you’re quite finished with your tea, my love, would you care for a quick tour of the townhouse? It will be your home soon—one of them, I mean.”

  Did she want a tour? Did she want more tea? Was she glad or sorry the Countess was going to keep the State Bedchamber? Did she really even like cakes, with or without icing? She wasn’t sure about anything anymore. Rather numbly Gwendolyn replied, “If you like, Julian.”

  He showed her the other drawing-rooms, various saloons, the library, an enormous ballroom, the equally vast dining-room, then they went up a flight of stairs to the next level where the bedchambers were. They glanced into a few of them, but when they came to a room at the end of the hallway, the Earl pushed open the door and drew her inside.

  “This is mine. Soon to be ours, my darling.”

  It was a very large, handsomely furnished bedchamber, with a massive four-poster bed, two fireplaces, three or four sofas, a similar number of chairs, and quite a few paintings. Gwendolyn caught a glimpse of several life-sized portraits in ornate old-fashioned frames, including one of a man whom Julian and Rupert greatly resembled, and took a step to look at it more closely, but paused when Julian said:

  “Wait, please.”

  She did, and watched as he shut the door and locked it. Surely not very proper behavior? Or was this different from being reluctant to slip away from their engagement party? Was it like being in the Richmond maze? It took all of Gwendolyn’s self-control to not clutch at her own head, to try and slow down the confusion whirling about inside her brain. “What is it, Julian?” she asked, hearing in her voice a new kind of coolness.

  He came to her and took her hand. “About the wedding. I am sorry. I’ll talk to her again.”

  “Did you write to your sisters, by the way? About coming to London?”

  He paused, and Gwendolyn had her answer. “I suppose,” she said, “it wouldn’t have mattered if you did.”

  “My dear love, they wouldn’t have come. Please don’t take it personally.”

  Was that what she was doing? Or was it about Julian saying he would do something and not doing it? Why did she care so much? It was only a letter. A small, tiny, insignificant little letter, that wouldn’t have changed anything anyway. Wasn’t she foolishly making a mountain out of a molehill? All at once Gwendolyn remembered Lady Almira saying, that afternoon at Richmond: Mazes do make me nervous. They’re rather like a bad dream, aren’t they? You know, a nightmare where you’re trapped, and you don’t know where you are, and can’t find your way free?

  “Never mind,” she said, and pulled her hand away.

  Julian stood for a long moment looking down at her. “Are you upset with me?”

  Yes—no—maybe. Gwendolyn shrugged.

  “Please don’t be angry,” he said.

  Still she said nothing.

  A silence descended between them, heavy, all-encompassing, like a blanket made out of lead. It would take superhuman effort to even open one’s mouth, Gwendolyn thought, let alone have the strength to form words.

  And then Julian sank to his knees.

  How gracefully he did it—how very like a hero in a romantic story. He hadn’t gotten onto one knee proposing to her, as first he’d gone to see Hugo, and then Hugo had come to talk with her privately, and then the Earl had come into the room with Hugo still there, and that was when he had given her the ancient Westenbury rin
g. She looked from Julian’s tawny head to her left hand, to the ring; the little perfect rubies around the beautiful pearl seemed to wink and shimmer at her. She remembered, suddenly, Diana once saying dreamily about the butcher’s boy, I do wish he would go down on his knee and pledge his troth, whatever that is. Wouldn’t that be the most romantic thing in all the world? I vow I’d die on the spot, wouldn’t you?

  Julian slid his hands around her legs, embracing her tightly. “I love you,” he said. “I love you so much. Please don’t be angry with me—please don’t withdraw. You’re my whole world, don’t you know that? I live for you—for our love—for our lives together. You’re my everything.”

  In his deep voice was nothing but humble sincerity.

  And fear.

  And pain.

  Gwendolyn didn’t know what to say. Was she some kind of horrible beast, to hurt him so badly?

  That lead blanket pressed down upon her, inexorable, irresistible; and silently, giving way to it like a drowning person going under, she sank down onto her knees as well. Julian brought her to him and began to kiss her, murmuring feverishly, “I love you, I love you,” and then he was pulling off her bonnet and tugging her hair free from its pins. “Glorious,” he breathed, “so glorious,” and took great handfuls of it in his fingers, as would a man clutch precious jewels, and then, the next thing she knew, they were lying together on the gleaming wood floor, and Julian had moved so that one of his legs, very solid and heavy, straddled one of hers, and one of his hands was tugging up the hem of her skirts. My goodness, here on the floor, Gwendolyn thought, and with a bed right over there. Not ideal, really: it was hurting the back of her head. She was looking up at the ceiling, but by craning her neck a little, she could see some of the portraits again, though, of course, upside down. How very odd people looked when seen from this perspective—