Marriage Alliance: A charming Regency Romance

by Mira Stables

  Betty, eagerly protesting her entire indifference to such minor matters as personal comfort, was silenced, not unkindly. “Very well, then. Pack what we shall need for a stay of several weeks. My plainest gowns. I am going to visit my mama, who lives very quietly. Now I must go up to Miss Deborah. No. Wait. Tompson will need money for the tickets.”

  From the locked drawer of her bureau she took the bundle of letters. Though she had had little cause for spending since she came to Blayden, there were not many coins left in her purse. Swiftly she extracted the fifty-pound bill and handed it to Betty. At that moment she would have turned highwayman without hesitation if by so doing she could put herself in the way of getting news of Marcus.

  Now for the more difficult task of explaining the situation to Deborah without alarming her too much about her brother’s safety.

  Deborah protested and pleaded and even wept a little, but was firmly if gently overborne by this newly determined Fleur. Mr Willets was gravely concerned. So young a child to embark on so long a journey with no better protection than the country-bred Betty. Yet he admitted that she had real cause for anxiety and sympathised with her desire for action. He would have offered his own escort save that Mrs Willets’s delicate situation made it impossible for him to leave her at this present. What troubled him most was that Fleur had received no reply to the letter that he knew she had sent to her mother. If he could have been assured that she would receive welcome and shelter from Madame de Trèvy — this was Maman’s new name — he could have let her go with an easier mind. As matters stood, he felt there was no telling what might have become of that lady. The family might have removed to humbler lodgings — might even have returned to France. There were also grimmer possibilities. He did not mention these to a girl who already had a sufficient burden of anxiety, but contented himself with furnishing her with the direction of a respectable hotel where she could be perfectly comfortable and asking if she had ample funds to cover the expenses of the journey.

  Fleur told him about the fifty-pound bill. He agreed without a blink that she might quite properly take this money for her own use. But when she explained that, upon reaching London, she intended to sell her pearls in order to replace it, he was quite horrified.

  “Indeed, Miss Fleur, you must do no such thing,” he insisted. “You would be bound to be cheated. Even a reputable jeweller would offer you less than half their value. He would tell you that pearls were no longer fashionable or some such thing and reckon it no more than fair business dealing. No, no. The sensible thing to do is to deposit the pearls with me. I will advance you the sum that Mr Pennington paid for them, which I can easily discover from his papers. And when this awkward business is happily cleared up, as I am sure I hope it soon may be, your husband may buy them back for you.”

  He beamed at her, delighted to have found a way out of the difficulty, and Fleur thanked him gratefully. He then added that, as it would be scarcely prudent for her to carry so large a sum of money on her person while she was exposed to all the mischances of travel, he would give her a letter of credit entitling her to draw upon his partner, Mr Sickling of Leadenhall Street, for such sums as she required. She thanked him once more for his kindness, begged him to carry her affectionate good wishes to Mrs Willets, and bade him farewell, saying that she had a great deal to do before tomorrow’s early start.

  Sipping Lord Blayden’s malaga appreciatively, Mr Willets presently permitted his mouth to relax into a prim little smile of satisfaction at his own simple cunning. Bless the child! She had never even suspected that the fifty-pound bill had been of his providing. Since her grandfather had remembered him with surprising generosity, he could well afford it. He had even toyed with the idea of making it a hundred, but had come to the regretful conclusion that no one who had known the late Mr Pennington would ever believe that he had casually overlooked a sum of that magnitude! He felt that he was now in the happy position of being able to ensure that the provisions of her grandfather’s will did not bear too harshly on his young client.

  His smile faded. There could be no denying that, as an executor, he had failed in his duty of carrying out the testator’s intentions. Nor could he comfort himself with a pious hope that, wherever he was, the testator might by now have changed his mind. That seemed to him highly unlikely. But the estate was not a penny the worse for his dealings, and as for the rest —! He drained his glass, jammed his hat on his head at a positively pugnacious angle, and marched out to his waiting carriage — despite thinning hair and rotund habit, a very perfect gentle knight.

  Chapter Ten

  UNDER other circumstances Fleur would have enjoyed her unexpected journey to London, being young enough to discount cramped and stuffy quarters, hurriedly snatched meals and lack of sleep in return for all the incidental excitements of travel. As it was she paid little heed to the passing scene. The guard, who had accepted the two passengers into his care with genial interest, was sadly disappointed. To be sure, the young lady looked good for a handsome tip and the abigail was just the sort of comely wench that he enjoyed passing the time of day with, but his professional pride was mortified by repeated enquiries as to the day’s mileage and the disappointed air with which his replies were received. He told the young lady rather huffily that eight miles an hour was a very good speed on these roads. And hadn’t he his time bill to keep and no use at all in running ahead of it? Did she want them all overturned in the ditch? In winter, now, she might have had cause for complaint, what with mud and icy roads. He would have talked himself back into good humour, recounting some of the awful experiences that she would scarcely believe, but she had already turned away, her shoulders drooping disconsolately.

  Fortunately, a few friendly words with Mistress Betty the next time that they stopped for a change of horses restored the situation. The news that her mistress was hastening to London to seek word of a husband missing since the great battle immediately enlisted the guard’s sympathies, especially when the girl confided that the pair had been married but a few months. After that he quite surpassed himself in his efforts to secure their comfort, and when at last they reached Town he did not let them out of his sight until he had seen them safely into a hackney carriage driven by a respectable cove that he could vouch for. The tip was all that he had hoped — Fleur had not yet grown accustomed to her new poverty — but the gratitude on the two faces meant more. He cleared his throat, which felt unaccountable dry, and stepped into the inn to drain a pint of porter to the young lady’s happy reunion with her husband.

  Fleur’s courage failed her a little when they reached Town. She had meant to go straight to Hans Town. But it was late and the streets were so crowded and noisy and even her vitality was exhausted by the rigours of travel. She was thankful enough to go to the hotel of Mr Willets’s choosing and have Betty tuck her up in a comfortable bed once more. But a good night’s sleep did much to restore her and she was up betimes next day.

  With the whole day before her, she decided to call first at her husband’s lodging in the Albany. She was a little doubtful of the propriety of this course, but surely a wife might call at her husband’s apartments, especially if she was attended by her maid. But the call brought only disappointment. On learning the identity of this very early visitor, Dearden, Mr Blayden’s man, promptly put all the resources of the establishment at her disposal, but he could add nothing to her knowledge of his master’s movements. So far as he knew, Mr Blayden was not yet returned from Belgium. “Though it may be as he’s stopped off at Dakers, ma’am,” he added, in a kindly attempt at comfort. “He spends a deal of his time there and comes and goes pretty freely between the two.”

  Fleur sensed that the man himself was a little anxious over the absence of news and liked him the better for it, even though it did nothing to relieve her own fears. She arranged to call again next day and promised to furnish Dearden with her direction as soon as she was fixed in Town, declined an offer of refreshment, glanced about her curiously at this shabbily co
mfortable masculine stronghold, and returned to the waiting hackney.

  Driving back to the hotel she planned her next move. She decided against taking Betty with her on her visit to Hans Town. There could be no reason why a young married lady should not go alone to visit her mother. And if, as seemed probable, Maman was living in humble circumstances, she might not wish to have her poverty exposed to the inquisitive eyes of a stranger. So Betty was left to finish the unpacking and to press the creases from dresses rumpled by travel, with a promise that she should go out to see the sights later.

  Anxiety for Marcus was temporarily forgotten as Fleur set out for Hans Town. For the moment she was wholly absorbed in the prospect of seeing Maman again. Her patient Jehu had nodded comprehendingly when she gave him the address. “I knows it right enough, Mum,” he said comfortably. “It’s Chelsea way. Runs off Sloane Street, up by Hans Place.”

  The names meant nothing to Fleur save that she gathered from the man’s manner that the district was perfectly respectable. She looked about her with interest and thought how strange it would be if she should chance to see Maman strolling along the flag walk. But there were few pedestrians about. Fleur, who was already finding London’s July heat quite excessive, decided that they must all be enjoying the cool freshness of the neat little gardens that looked so gay and so well tended.

  Insensibly her spirits began to rise. At times she had pictured Maman as living in the direst poverty in some dreadful back slum. But this was a charming place. When at last the carriage stopped she jumped out eagerly, desiring her driver to wait for a few minutes until she had ascertained that Madame de Tray still lived here. Breathless with excitement, she pulled the bell. She could hear its hollow jangling away at the back of the house, but there was no response to its summons. She rang again, and stepped back a pace, studying the general appearance of the little house. At close quarters it was definitely shabby, clean and neat but sadly in need of a coat of paint, while the curtains, close drawn against the sunlight, were well darned and very faded. Somewhere in the house a baby cried. She raised her hand to try the bell just once more, and as she did so heard halting footsteps within the house. Then the door was flung open and an indignant voice said, “Can you not wait a little moment? I tell you I cannot —”

  The voice stopped on an indrawn breath. Fleur, completely taken aback, stared blankly at a slenderly-built middle-aged gentleman who was clutching a baby rather awkwardly in one arm while he held the door open with his other hand, and who looked just as surprised at seeing Fleur as she was at seeing him. Rather absurdly, she had never pictured anyone other than Maman answering her ring, while the gentleman had obviously been expecting a different caller.

  He was the first to recover. “A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,” he said contritely, sketching a comical little bow over the top of the baby’s head. “I was expecting the nurse. You wish to see Madame de Trèvy, is it not?”

  As thankfulness at his words brought a smile to the anxious young face, his glance sharpened. He clapped a hand to his head, much to the discomposure of the infant, exclaiming, “Crétin! Imbécile! Mai c’est la petite Fleur, n’est ce pas?” And then, recollecting himself, “You are my stepdaughter, Fleur Pennington, are you not? No other could so resemble my Martine! You say in your letter that you will visit us soon. And there is not even the time to answer it, with Martine brought to bed so suddenly. And this —” proudly he held out the infant — “is your new little brother. Monsieur Raoul Henri de Trèvy, entirely at your service.”

  Between the surprise at his news and the rapidity with which he was pouring it out, Fleur was beginning to feel quite dazed. Before she could speak he was off again, miscalling himself for keeping her standing on the doorstep when she must be longing to see her Maman, and begging her to enter with an empressement that would have beseemed an emperor in the forecourt of his palace. She managed to break in upon this hospitable flow for long enough to request him to dismiss the waiting carriage, whereupon he thrust the baby into her arms and went off to bestow a quite unnecessary douceur upon the driver who had already been well paid. Little wonder that the family was in financial straits if her step-papa was always so open-handed. She snuggled the baby’s downy head under her chin, a warm amused affection for its father already springing to life within her.

  The next hour was one of those halcyon periods that come so rarely once childhood is left behind. In the happiness of Maman’s rapturous welcome the other anxieties that pressed upon her daughter receded still further into the background. It was only after an hour spent in a breathless and impassioned exchange of news, in which no one item was completely detailed before the next had thrust it aside, that Fleur, suddenly aware of Maman’s pallor and exhaustion, called a halt.

  It had already emerged that Maman had been very ill after the birth of the baby a month ago, an illness which she shrugged off laughingly as the penalty of advancing years. She looked very frail now that the flush of excitement had faded, and the reason, thought Fleur shrewdly, was more likely lack of proper nourishment. Yet she was obviously blissfully happy. Her husband openly adored her, and the arrival of the little son, so unexpected after seven years of marriage, had set the crown on their happiness. Nothing, now, would do for them but that Fleur should remove from her hotel and come to them at once. It was a pity that there was no room for the maid, but there were only the two spare bedchambers and Grandpère had one of them. If Fleur really could not dispense with the girl’s services then perhaps one of the neighbours might be persuaded to accommodate her, but otherwise she should be sent back to High Barrows.

  “Blayden,” corrected Fleur unthinkingly. Maman looked surprised, M. de Trèvy amused and interested.

  “What are you doing with one of the maids from Blayden?” asked Maman curiously. “Never tell me that starched up icicle lent you one to play duenna out of sheer neighbourliness!” Maman’s metaphors, if sadly mixed, were undoubtedly descriptive.

  Why had she ever imagined that it would be easier to tell Maman about her marriage when they met, rather than to write about it? It was by far more difficult. They were both looking at her, surprise and curiosity writ plain on their faces.

  “Because Blayden is my home,” she said baldly, and stretched out her left hand, peeling off her glove for their inspection of her wedding ring. “I was married to Marcus Blayden in February.”

  To say that this blunt announcement produced dismay and confusion is an understatement. Maman went, if possible, paler than ever. “Married? To a Blayden?” she whispered in shocked tones. “No! And no and no. Sold, we shall say. And if you are married, where then is your husband?”

  M. de Trèvy, less emotional but more damning, exclaimed, “Married to that one! That man-of-the-town! That acknowledged rake!”

  It was Maman’s question that Fleur, bewildered and distressed by this hostile reception of her news, answered. “I do not know where he is. He went to Belgium. He was in Fleurus. Perhaps he is wounded — killed.” Her voice broke on a choked sob.

  “Or perhaps he is enjoying the embraces of the ravishing mistress that he keeps so secretly hidden away in his Kentish manor,” muttered M. de Trèvy in a savage undervoice, forgetting, in the stress of the moment, that his newly acquired daughter was perfectly familiar with the tongue which he had come to regard as a private language between his wife and himself. The pitiful pain in the great grey eyes was his punishment. The girl looked stricken.

  “No!” she whispered.

  He tried to make amends. “I should not have said it, child. A rumour, no more. I was wrong to repeat it. Foolish, too. For I dare swear that the gentleman who has won the privilege of taking you to wife has long forgotten any clandestine attachments that he might have formed in less happy days.”

  But he had not taken her to wife. And that was one secret that she would not tell them. Not even Maman. She said with dignity, “My husband was very kind to me. Naturally, I am concerned about his well-being.”

  Hu
sband and wife exchanged glances. So she did not love the man to whom she had been given in marriage, kind or not. This was mere loyalty. M. de Trèvy said that no doubt she would soon hear comfortable news of her husband. Meanwhile, where else should she stay but with her own family — a family now so complete — parents, son and daughter. And since, at this juncture, the son of the family demanded attention in no uncertain voice, the matter was considered settled.

  Chapter Eleven

  LIVING with Maman, a Maman who grew a little stronger day by day, was just as delightful as Fleur had imagined it. The little house was full of happiness and laughter. Now that his daughter, as he insisted upon calling her, was able to take charge of the household, M. de Trèvy resumed his professional duties. Fleur discovered that he was employed as visiting master for music and Italian at a school for young ladies in Hans Place, though he also had a number of private pupils. Since it was now holiday time, only one or two parlour boarders whose parents resided abroad made any claim on his services as an instructor, but he also gave a good deal of help with accounts and other matters connected with organisation.

  “I work there for some time when first I come to England,” he explained to Fleur. The proprietor of the establishment, a M. de St Quentin, himself a refugee from the revolution, had never failed to welcome fellow exiles to his table. Paul de Trèvy had been introduced by friends. An amicable relationship had grown up between the two men, and M. de St Quentin, finding that de Trèvy was reliable and well accustomed to work, had eventually offered him employment. “I was thankful enough to take anything,” he said reminiscently, and fell silent a while.