by Mira Stables
Grandpapa, too, seemed almost a stranger. He had chosen to dignify the occasion by arraying himself in knee breeches, silk stockings and richly laced brocade coat, announcing that he knew just as well as the next one what the real swells wore. What was food enough for the queen’s court would be just the thing for his grand-daughter’s wedding. The costume did nothing to enhance a stocky figure with a tendency to corpulence. But even more startling than his attire was his unexpected display of softer feelings.
Fleur knew that just at present she stood high in his good graces on account of what he took to be her obedience to his wishes. But when he clumsily produced a box which held a very fine pearl necklet and proceeded to fasten the pretty gaud about her throat, fumbling with the catch and patting her cheek with a grunted, “You’re a good little puss after all,” she was taken quite by surprise. When he further added, “And don’t fear he’ll not do right by you, for it’s me that holds the purse strings and I’ll see to it that my fine gentleman treats you just as he ought. A position of first consequence in the county is what you’ll have. Presented at court, too, I shouldn’t wonder,” she found this hint of compunction surprisingly touching.
Mr Pennington hesitated momentarily. Women were kittle cattle; especially young ’uns. Still, the girl had no mother to tell her what was expected of her in return for these promised splendours. “And see you do your duty,” he warned bluntly. “An heir for Blayden is what they’ll be wanting. And it’s what I want, too. So no prudish shrinkings from your lawful wedded spouse. Obedience and submission are a wife’s first duties.”
Maidenly shrinkings had been far from Fleur’s mind, but at this harsh grasp on the diaphanous fabric of her dreams she did indeed shrink, colour staining her pale cheeks as she whispered meekly, “Yes, Grandpapa.”
He rubbed his hands together in satisfaction at the prospect in contemplation. “My great grandson, Lord Blayden,” he said, half to himself. And then, more briskly, “Well, maybe I’ll not be above ground to see the day, but that’s what he’ll be. My blood in his veins. And my brains in his noddle I do hope and trust, so’s he’ll make a better job of being a lordship than your new papa-in-law has done. Bringing an abbey to a grange in his own lifetime and all on the fall of a card or the dice! Young Robert’ll have more sense in his cockloft — for you’ll name him for me, of course.”
Further confidences on the subject of that paragon who should some day be the eleventh Baron Blayden were prevented by the footman’s announcement that the carriage was waiting to take them to church.
It is not, in the general way, the grandfather of the bride who dominates the scene at a wedding, but this wedding marked the achievement of the ambition that had driven Robert Pennington for more than half a lifetime. Frustrated in his plans for his only son, that ambition had been held in check for fifteen years. Released now, reborn in the light of the marriage that he had achieved for Alexander’s daughter, it soared to new heights. Who was to say that his great-grandson would be content with a mere barony? The lad might take a fancy to being an earl or a marquis, and with Pennington acumen to plot his course and Pennington gold behind him, who was to say that something of the sort might not be contrived? It was the manifest duty of the present Robert Pennington, the founder of the family fortunes, the architect of its greatness, to see to it that his descendant should have ample resources to draw upon.
His rubicund countenance wreathed, for once, in smiles, his brain busily weaving its plans for the future, he bustled about among his guests with energetic goodwill, happily unaware of the amusement that he was causing. Lord Blayden was not a popular figure. His cold reserve, the infrequency and brevity of his visits to Blayden, and his known indifference to the welfare of a young daughter who was held in affection by many of those present, had not served to endear him to his neighbours. There were covert smiles and shaking shoulders as Mr Pennington approached him with cheerful bonhomie, slapped him heartily on the back, dug a plebian elbow into his aristocratic ribs and assured him jovially that, between them, they had done a good day’s work and now it was up to the young couple to show what they could do.
Marcus saw his wife blush vividly at her grandfather’s crudity and marked with approval that she neither drooped a shamed head nor even put up a hand to shield her face from observation. Instead she held herself erect and still for a moment, as though testing her self control, and then turned to speak quietly to the Vicar’s wife who chanced to be standing beside her.
For his own part he was growing heartily bored with the festivities and wished them safely over. Country functions always tended to drag on endlessly, especially at this season of the year when people who had not met since snow and thaw had made the roads impassable were eager to catch up on news of families and friends. Their interest in the bridal pair temporarily satisfied, they were settling down contentedly to discussion of their own affairs. It would be another hour, he judged, before he and Fleur could reasonably break up the party. A pity that they were only going to Blayden. If he had decided to take his wife to France for the honeymoon — a notion that he had toyed with briefly and then rejected — they could have pleaded the necessities of travel as an excuse for early departure. But though the Bourbon was comfortably established on his throne and the man who had subjugated most of Europe was now exercising a restricted dominion over the tiny island of Elba, France was still suffering from the ravages of war. It would take years to restore the countryside to the lush beauty of his childhood memory. Too many lads who should have been tilling the soil had been called to the colours. The Emperor’s armies had good cause for pride in their achievements but they had drained their country’s life blood to exhaustion point. The France of today was no place for a honeymoon.
Nor was Marcus himself in honeymoon mood. His bride was a nice child. He was growing quite attached to her. Their marriage would develop into an amicable arrangement where each of them would contentedly go their separate ways. If, thanks to her grandfather’s wealth, Blayden should be preserved to him, he would expect her to give him an heir to the property, but he would ask no more of her than that. Meanwhile he guessed she would be grateful for respite. He had no intention of claiming his marital rights though this could scarcely be accounted as forbearance since he had no particular desire to do so. Let the child grow up. Then they would see.
It was already dusk when they set out for Blayden, and since the four of them travelled together in Lord Blayden’s coach there was no opportunity for conversation of an intimate nature between husband and wife. Fleur had very little notion as to the pattern of her future life. She knew that they were to spend several weeks at Blayden, but after that it was not clear whether they would spend most of their time in London or at the Cobham manor. Marcus had once said that his London lodging was very small — a mere bachelor pied-à-terre — and quite unsuited for a married pair, so presumably they would have to hire or buy a larger house. At the moment she was not looking so far ahead.
Dinner was a silent meal. His Lordship kept Town hours, even at Blayden, but though it was past seven o’clock before they sat down to table, no one was hungry. Either the lavish assortment of epicurean delicacies that had been spread before them at the wedding breakfast had dulled their appetites, or the gloomy chill of the vast dining-room at Blayden was sufficient to damp the spirits of so small a party. Deborah had excused herself and retired early to her own apartments, pleading fatigue after the day’s excitement. Lord Blayden scarcely spoke except to enquire Fleur’s preference between the several dishes that were set before him. Marcus did his best to maintain an easy flow of small talk. Conversation with various of the wedding guests had assured him that the roads to the north were reasonably clear. Would Fleur enjoy an expedition to Carlisle? The Cathedral and the Castle were considered very fine if she cared for antiquities, and there were some good shops. They had married in such haste that there had been no time to choose a wedding gift for her. They could look about them for some suitable tok
en. Unless, of course, she preferred to wait until they went to London, where there would be a much wider choice. Fleur, who desired neither entertainment nor gifts, but only to be left alone with her husband and held close in the safe shelter of his arms, feigned polite enthusiasm and said all that was proper in a primly correct little voice.
Mention of the Metropolis, however, evoked some response from Lord Blayden, who emerged from his abstraction to announce that he would be leaving for Town next day, and that as he proposed to set out betimes in order to make the most of the hours of daylight, he would bid them farewell now. Since, moreover, he had several estate matters to put in hand before his departure, they must forgive him if he now withdrew to the estate office where his steward was already awaiting him. No doubt, he added, a faintly bored curl to his thin lips, they would contrive to amuse themselves very well without his society.
His son’s adieux were curt since he was hard put to it to swallow his anger at his father’s cavalier treatment of his new daughter-in-law. He could only hope that the unpleasant implication in the final remark had passed over her innocent head. Had he felt any desire for an immediate consummation of his marriage, that remark would have killed it. It was worse than Mr Pennington’s sly jests, since they stemmed from ignorance and were, at least, dictated by good will.
“My father is not much addicted to the wine cup,” he apologised brusquely, anger still riding him. “Very rarely does he linger over it unless we are entertaining guests of a different way of thinking. And since I do not care to drink alone, will you permit me to escort you to the drawing-room?”
The next two hours seemed endless, though he exerted himself to the utmost to entertain her, telling her the histories of the many strange objects accumulated by his ancestors over the years and now relegated to decorative purposes, inviting her to try out the tones of the harpsichord — an invitation promptly and shudderingly declined — and at last, in desperation, suggesting that they play cards. The atmosphere improved a little when he began teaching her to play picquet. The need to concentrate on the fall of the cards and on the assessment of her chances proved a better distraction than mere conversation. By the time that the tea tray was brought in he could congratulate himself on a certain degree of success. She was talking more naturally, even smiling occasionally, and once, when she defeated him handsomely by retaining an unexpected guard to the spade king, she actually chuckled. Had he been thinking only of the game he would have said that, having inherited a good deal of her grandfather’s shrewdness, she would some day make a very fair player.
But these signs of relaxation vanished with the arrival of the tea tray. She poured out for him competently enough, but she fell silent again. He could only suppose her to be terrified of the initiation into the mysteries of the marriage bed that she must suppose to be imminent. It was a deuced awkward business but somehow he must set her fears at rest.
He put his cup back on the tray. “You must be very tired, my dear,” he said gently. “May I suggest that you retire as soon as you have drunk your tea? Betty will see that you have all you need — which reminds me that we must see about finding a suitable maid for you.” His voice deepened a little. “You need not fear that your rest will be disturbed. I know that I am still all but a stranger. The demands of our families have brought us together in marriage but I claim no rights as your husband. Let us learn to know each other, become friends — as I think we have already begun to do. For the present that is sufficient.”
He stooped and kissed her hand, then, after a brief hesitation, her cheek, and left her to the tea tray and her lonely grandeur.
When Betty had disrobed her and seen that the bed was well warmed and the windows fast shut against any breath of treacherous night air, the new Mrs Blayden cried herself to sleep.
Chapter Six
BUT she was very tired. Sleep came quickly, and youth and good health set a brighter aspect on the morning. Sunshine, brilliant if fickle, beckoned to an inspection of her new home and the knowledge that her intimidating father-in-law was, by this time, well on his way to London, made the prospect an inviting one. And finally, if her husband was not in love with her, he was at least kind and considerate. Fleur was young and romantic, but there was a very practical side to her nature, deriving as much from her French blood as from the mercantile strain. Her husband had left her lonely but inviolate. Better so than that he should have possessed her in careless lust just because she was his chattel. Perhaps, after all, his way was best. They were bound together indissolubly. There was time enough for love to grow, so that their eventual mating might be as blissful as her dreams.
And indeed, as the days passed, it seemed as though events were moving gently but steadily towards this desirable outcome. Gradually the awkwardness born of unfamiliarity and tension began to diminish. There was so much to see and to do that the hours passed all too swiftly. That projected expedition to Carlisle never materialised. On the brink of departure Lord Blayden had casually informed his son that he might give orders for the redecoration and refurbishing of the apartments in the west wing that would, in future, be set aside for the occupation of the young couple whenever they chose to visit Blayden, so even when the unseasonably mild weather gave way to the gales and squally rainstorms of March, there was still ample food for discussion during the long hours spent beside the library fire or strolling about the big shabby rooms that were to be transformed. Since Deborah, whose health appeared to have benefited considerably from her father’s departure, spent much of her time in their company there was no sense of constraint to inhibit the comfortable companionship that strengthened with every shared plan and pleasure. Only when they bade each other goodnight and Fleur accepted the grave kiss upon her cheek which had become the accepted formula of parting did she sometimes wonder wistfully how long it would be before her husband crossed the impalpable barrier that kept them apart.
In fact, neither of them realised how much closer they had drawn to each other; how well propinquity had done its subtle work. In the easy association granted by Deborah’s continual presence, the rigidly correct mould into which Fleur had been schooled rapidly disintegrated. Within a week she was saying exactly what came into her head. And what came into her head, though usually sensible, was frequently impudent and occasionally quite shocking to the tradition-bound Blaydens. She thought the housekeeping arrangements at Blayden antiquated beyond belief and had no hesitation in saying so. Who, par exemple — the conversation generally dropped into French when she was most moved, and ended with apologies to Deborah, who was less fluent than her brother — invented the archaic rule that none of the maids must be seen in the reception rooms after eight o’clock in the morning? The result was simply that the work was scamped by chilled sleepy girls who had been roused at five and would have worked all the better for another hour in their beds. The library and the breakfast-room, yes. That was reasonable. But the other rooms were never used before noon, so — why? And her fascinated audience listened and were compelled to assent, though since it was not for them to order the domestic arrangements of Lord Blayden’s household there was nothing that they could do about it.
Somewhere among these impulsive outbursts, the story of the regular practising at the barre emerged. Why not? One should not be ashamed of one’s blood and breeding. One was, after all, what one was.
The confidence was given first in an idle moment to Deborah, who listened absorbedly to the exposition of an art that must for ever be closed to her.
“Though I could play for you,” she suggested tentatively. “I am thought to have a reasonable aptitude for music. Perhaps, now,” she added, innocent of any hurtful intent, “Papa will be able to buy me one of the new pianofortes that I have wanted for so long.”
The upshot of this conversation was made visible some days later when Deborah invited her new sister to come and look at the old nursery suite adjacent to her own apartments. For in the day nursery, previously swept bare of all but the old brass
fireguard, a very dilapidated rocking horse and a low, comfortable nursing chair, was now installed a new, shiny pianoforte, while a barre ran the length of one wall.
Fleur gasped and exclaimed and hugged Deborah excitedly, all the time protesting that she should not have done it.
“But I didn’t,” said Deborah, surprised. “How could I? It was Marc who managed it all — and so quickly, too. He said it was a queer sort of a marriage gift, but if that was what you wanted you should have it.”
Marcus, when he arrived to inspect the result of his providing, went a little further than this. Since Deborah was present it was safe to tease his wife a little, an impulse which he found assailing him with growing frequency. He surveyed the new set-up with solemnity, insisted that Deb should try the tone of the new instrument and then said seriously, “It’s all very well. I can see that we have made ample provision for our daughters. A whole corps de ballet may use that barre. But what of our sons? One broken-down charger! Touched in the wind, too, if I mistake not.” He made a careful inspection of the rocking horse, still fiery-eyed and scarlet of nostril but sadly deficient as to mane and tail, and turned to Fleur with an air of deep reproach. “You will have to do better than this, my love,” he chided her. And then took pity on her crimson confusion and enquired sensibly whether the barre was at the right height, the floor surface suitable, in fact, did she like his gift?
Between thankfulness that he had stopped teasing and delight in his thought for her she forgot to be shy and ran to fling her arms about him and, for the first time, voluntarily kissed his cheek. “It’s quite the nicest thing you could have given me,” she assured him warmly. “You were a darling to think of it. Two darlings,” she added conscientiously, for there could be no doubting that the impetus came from Deb.
