The Wedding

by Edith Layton

  “Ah, well, just a thought, because neither can I, try as I might,” Jerome muttered.

  “My poor Dulcie,” her father jested, “to be wed to a nobleman and still to be penniless.”

  “And still to be free, Papa,” she reminded him. “Don’t forget that.”

  Jerome smiled in such an oily way that she hoped her father saw it. She almost wished she really had married the hapless viscount, impoverished or not, for even though she was getting her father back, she still felt very much alone.

  *

  Crispin relished his last nights in his town house almost as much as he had his first ones. Taking up residence in the house was the first thing he’d done to establish his independence when he was a young man, down from university, a decade past, a lifetime since. He had prowled the rooms, surveying his realm, wrapped in his silken nightrobes, as full of himself as any Eastern potentate. He hadn’t seen the amused look his father had worn, only his friends’ envious ones.

  The house, although small, was in a good section of town. Its size would keep it from fetching a lavish sum on the market, but it would be a bargain for the moneylenders because he had defaulted on the mortgage. Its furnishings weren’t rich, but when he had bought them, just out of the university, he had thought them elegant. Now they were little better than interesting firewood. They’d be worth more, of course, he’d been assured, if they were sold at auction from the residence itself, with the owner in the background to embarrass the buyers come to see how far down his fortunes had brought him. He decided to sell them anonymously. His humiliation was too dear a price, and anyway, he thought with bitter humor, it wouldn’t bring him that much extra.

  It had taken three days to assess the worth of it all. All but the items in the attics. That was taking a whole night for he knew that once he’d tallied the worth of every last box and trunk he’d have no more excuses to stay and would have to be off and about his new life, with not enough left of his old one to keep in a trunk. He could now carry his whole life, his whole worth, in his pockets.

  Nothing, he thought with bitter humor, as he sorted through the last trunk, nothing but books and letters, sketches and prints, certificates of merit for literature and mathematics, little gilt medals for endurance at sports. Souvenirs and geegaws, oddments signifying triumphs and efforts—the flotsam and jetsam of a fellow’s life, irreplaceable and as personal as his own thumbprint. And none of it worth a penny to anyone else.

  He had neither parent nor sibling, neither wife nor lover, who cared for the trunkloads of history he’d unearthed. Lord, he thought, wiping his hands together to make sticky strings of the old spiderwebs that clung to them, how vain he’d been to save such stuff. How much he was learning, he thought, as he took up the lamp and made his way back down the long stairs again. It seemed that vanity was just another privilege of wealth, for while the vanity of kings and pharaohs was priceless, the vanity of a man who had lost his fortune was simply foolishness.

  There was no longer any possibility of staying on. He had nothing left and would have to take to the sea, as his fortune had done, and hope for a better fate. There were lands overseas where a man might start with nothing—lands where men went because they had nothing but their own two hands. Men like him. He’d traded there when he had money. Now he would trade his own strong back for money. He’d go, no matter how much he dreaded it—and he did dread it—but, he thought, weary beyond mere headache and pain, he’d be leaving so much behind, even though he owned so little.

  For all his sorrow, Crispin slept very well that night. There was nothing he could do to help himself now. It was done.

  *

  “Come in, Mr. Phipps,” Crispin said, nodding to the man who stood in the doorway to his dining room. “Have some ale or some beefsteak…no? Kippers, then? Jellies? Pudding? Toast or scones? The condemned man eats a hearty breakfast, you see. I thought my fortune could extend to one last feast. And my staff has one last day to show me how much they’ll be missed. Come, join me. Don’t fret. All is in hand. I’ve done all you said. Look at the table. There’s more than breakfast laid out here. Here are the keys. Here, the papers. Inventories, permissions, and bills of sale, readied and waiting for your approval. I can’t think of anything else.”

  He frowned. The good Mr. Phipps, solicitor and conscientious counselor, was shifting from foot to foot, looking most peculiar. His somber face was very red, and his usually immaculate wig was all pushed to one side, as though the wind or mischievous fingers had gotten into it.

  “What is it now?” Crispin said wearily, putting down his fork, feeling the food in his throat turn to cold ash. “A debt I’d forgotten? Is every cent to go, then? It doesn’t seem possible. What have I overlooked? A rightful pension or a ridiculous claim? I tell you I believe I’ve covered it all. All my creditors are known to you. Out with it, sir!”

  “Your ships,” Mr. Phipps croaked in a high unnatural voice.

  “My ships are in Neptune’s comforting arms, I know,” Crispin said, turning back to his plate.

  Mr. Phipps sputtered.

  Crispin looked up again. “What? Not so? Don’t tell me they were taken by pirates, have attacked England, and now the world is at war with me? That seems to be the only indignity I’ve not suffered, so why not?”

  “No, no,” Mr. Phipps squeaked, and his face grew redder, something very like a mad titter escaping from his prim mouth before he managed to squeal, “They’ve come in, my lord! Your ships have come in!”

  “My ships,” Crispin said, his face grown white, “have come in?”

  Mr. Phipps nodded until his wig slipped over his streaming eyes. “With everything on board. All safe! All is well! All is returned! They were damaged in the storm but they finally limped into harbor. They waited out the weather and made repairs from each other’s stores. Then they sailed back together, under assumed flags, because they feared piracy. But they’re back, my lord!” Mr. Phipps shouted. “They’re back!”

  Crispin stared at him for a long silent moment. Mr. Phipps kept bobbing his head up and down, smiling joyously.

  Crispin nodded, and then looked at a little silver teapot that sat, still steaming, next to his cup. He raised it and carefully poured some tea onto the back of his hand. He yelped.

  “So it really is true!” Crispin said in astonishment, dabbing at his hand. “I am awake, after all.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Put it here,” Crispin told the men pausing in the hallway with his new settee balanced between them.

  They placed it under the bow window in the sitting room. He came close and studied it while they held their ragged breath. The mahogany wood glowed, the pale pink embroidery on its fabric was the innocent color of unborn pearls. Little saffron-colored flowers bloomed everywhere on it, while tiny Chinese men, all worked in silver thread, bowed over them. It was in perfect condition, and perfectly useless to him. But it wasn’t there to be sat on. It was there for him to be congratulated upon.

  He couldn’t remember ever being happier. It was like being warm after being frozen. It was like breathing freely after a bad cold. It was like eating after being hungry. Everything was new again, every commonplace occurrence became an event, every common privilege was an honor. He was rich again—richer than before, and with every prospect of getting richer still.

  He and the three ships’ captains had celebrated first. He’d run to them on the docks as if they were his long lost lovers returned. In a sense they were. He’d embraced them and then rewarded them and their crewmen. Then they’d gone off to a quayside inn to settle in for some more serious celebrating. Even Captain Yates, newly wed and frantically eager to return to his home in Rye and to his wife’s arms, was willing to tarry, to raise a few dozen toasts to celebrate the success of the enterprise. And to tell and retell all the stories of bravery, cleverness, and endurance that had snatched the three ships back from the sea.

  Captain Yates left after a day or two—Crispin would never be sure exactly which
day it was. All he knew was that when the party ended, a week had vanished somewhere in a joyous mix of rum and song and story and some very exhilarating dancing. The tavern wenches had tired easily; otherwise, he would never have known what a remarkable dancer old Captain Froud was—although having a partner with such a long beard had been disconcerting at first. When the party was at last over and the last surviving tar had been swept up from the tavern floor, he hadn’t even minded the headache that had come with the first sober dawn. It was extraordinary how gold could cure a headache—and whatever else ailed a man.

  Now he was buying things.

  “I say!” his friend Wrede said after being let into Crispin’s parlor.

  “I should hope so,” Crispin commented as he watched his friend stare at the room in astonishment.

  New gold silks, fresh from ships’ lockers, were stretched taut on the walls, enveloping the two men in the reflected glow of their rich color. Rich satin draperies at the windows were drawn back to let the sunlight, fractured by new Brussels lace curtains, shine down on thick Persian carpets of peach and gold.

  He’d bought elegant new furniture, too—oak from the Caucasus, teak and mahogany from India, sandalwood from the East, even some good stout English oak; forests across the world had contributed to his new tables, bookcases, and chairs. There were antique statues, porcelain figurines, and vases of fresh flowers on every tabletop. The newly acquired paintings on the walls were bright enough to insist on being seen as well, although they were certainly old enough to know better.

  “I take this to mean,” his visitor said, after he’d surveyed the entire room, “that you won’t be needing my invitations to dinner anymore.”

  “I’ll always need your invitations, Wrede,” Crispin said, “but no, not the way I needed them last month. Then I was hungry. You knew it. You asked me to dinner so many times that I began to think you couldn’t look at an oyster or a roast without thinking of me.”

  “But you only accepted a few times,” Drummond Haye, earl of Wrede, said gently.

  “A few dozen,” Crispin corrected him.

  “But not very often lately.”

  “Offended, are you?” Crispin asked with amusement, eyeing his tall, lanky, long-jawed friend. Crispin had known Wrede since their school days. The earl never showed any emotion unless it was forcibly wrested from him, but Crispin had never known any man to have more humanity and compassion.

  “Offended? Possibly,” the earl said, “at the thought that one’s friend only wished to share his”—he waved a languid hand at the room—“munificence with him.”

  “Well, I couldn’t share my poverty, you know.” Crispin laughed.

  “No, I don’t know,” the earl said. “Actually, I thought sharing was the nature of the thing when one lost one’s fortune and one’s friend offered to help. But what do I know?” he asked, his voice becoming bored.

  “I couldn’t let you go on helping me forever,” Crispin said seriously.

  “Why not?” the earl asked, equally serious.

  There was a moment of silence before Crispin laughed again. “You know?” he said, “I can’t think of a reason why not now. Because now that I have everything again, it seems foolish, even ridiculous, to have starved when my best friend offered to share his dinner with me. But then? Oh, then it made perfect sense. I never wanted to hurt your feelings so much as I was desperate to spare my own.”

  “You’re excused, though it’s nonsense,” the earl replied with a shrug. Then, suddenly grave, he added, “But next time you lose everything you own, remember that you don’t need friends to share this sort of excess. Anyone will do for that. Friends expect to be needed, you know.”

  “I’ll remember,” Crispin said, “but what’s this ‘next time’? I had to invest everything this time; otherwise, the profit wouldn’t have made any difference. Next time, if there is a next time, even if I lose, I won’t lose all. I’ll never risk everything again. Especially since it wasn’t only my money.”

  “It was a pittance, and hard enough getting you to accept that,” the earl muttered.

  Crispin shook his head. “It wasn’t and you know it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I’ve got a bank check here for you, Wrede. Every cent is paid back. That’s why I asked you here today.”

  “Really? How disappointing. Thank you, I’ll take it, and be off before I disturb you further,” the earl said haughtily.

  “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  “Do I?”

  “Well, you should; you’ve known me long enough. Look, Wrede, I’m sorry,” Crispin said, because his friend did look very affronted and had begun to put on his gloves again. “I just never knew how to take charity as gracefully as you gave it.”

  “I know,” the earl said comfortably. “I just enjoyed watching some of that conceit disappearing.”

  “Conceit?” Crispin asked in surprise.

  “Oh. Then not permitting me to sit down until I admired all this blinding gilt is the latest fashion?”

  “Was I that bad?” Crispin laughed. “I suppose so. Good God, Wrede, I don’t know why you stay friends with me.”

  “Well,” the languid earl sighed, “you see, it isn’t at all the fashion for noblemen to actually keep jesters anymore… ”

  “Wait! Would my friend care for some sherry? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  “Your friend would dearly love to sit down and drink in peace—that is,” Wrede said, “if there is a place to sit amid all this opulence.”

  “If your lordship would please to place yourself in this chair,” Crispin said, laughing as he hauled out a chair, “we will drink in peace.”

  *

  “And so,” the earl said, sitting back before the fire after dinner was done, “all is restored. What are you going to do now—or rather, first?”

  “What won’t I do?” Crispin had discarded his coat and waistcoat and stood in his shirtsleeves before the fire. “Ride in my carriage, go to the theater—all of it without wondering if I shall end up sweeping the streets free of dung for the lords and ladies. Did you know that a man can’t just pick up a broom and go to it?” he asked suddenly. “No, there’s no such thing as free enterprise in the streets of London. Each man has his own corner and, I suppose, his own allotment of horse dung to sweep for the day. I know this because I nearly had my head removed the one time I tried to work another man’s patch…oh, all right, I’ll stop. You’re puffing up like a bladder in outrage. But I did have to do some odd things in order to survive. Some I don’t even want to discuss.”

  Crispin stared into the fire. “The work didn’t kill me, though. It taught me a valuable lesson about survival. I hated being poor, but I didn’t mind the work involved in getting rich—only the time it would take. I reckoned it would only take me ninety years to put everything back to normal. God bless those captains. The only pity is that I’ll probably forget it all and take my pleasure for granted again someday. Someday soon, from the look of things,” he added with a little smile.

  “I see. You’re busily buying furniture, carpets, and wallpaper. Whatever happened to wine, women, and song?”

  “I’ve been drinking enough to float my ships home these past few days. I don’t want such a memorable time in my life to become a blur. And I never understood why song was included. You can sing all you want without paying, and if you’re good enough, someone will pay you. I wasn’t good enough, unfortunately,” he added with a smile, because he couldn’t seem to stop smiling these days. “As for women…there were one or two at that tavern, I think…unless Captain Froud was even more talented than I thought. Anyway the day I have to buy a woman is the day I’ll give them up. No. I’ll stick to furniture and wallpaper, thank you, and leave the wine, women, and song to poorer men. Oh, God, Wrede—it’s so good to be back!”

  “What joy. You must feel like our late King Charles, returned from exile in triumph.”

  “Exactly like old Charles. All has been restored—except fo
r a fine pair of horses. I bought back the dogs and most of the horses, but taking that pair from young Andrew Moffit would have killed him.” He paused and then said seriously, “Nothing will ever be exactly the way I left it.”

  “Ah,” Wrede said softly, “yes, I know. I noted we did not drink to the health of the lovely Charlotte. So it’s to be old Prendergast for her, after all. I would have thought that with your fortune restored…”

  “You thought right,” Crispin said. He braced his hands on the mantel and hung his head between his arms so that his friend could not see his expression. “I mean to have her still,” Crispin said softly. When his friend didn’t answer, he chuckled. “Very quiet is our sanguine earl, isn’t he? Why should you be surprised? I loved Charlotte.”

  “And you said she loved you,” Wrede mused. “Odd, then, how quickly your engagement was terminated. It seemed to sink from sight even as your ships did.”

  “But she chose me before that, when she had richer men to choose from, didn’t she? So she left me when my money did. I never expected otherwise. God, man, can you see Charlotte darning hose and plucking chickens?” Crispin eyed his friend.

  “I would hate to see anyone darning hose and plucking chickens,” the earl commented, “and there might have been richer men, but few of them were as young, eligible, and handsome as you. Don’t protest, Crispin. Humility is not one of your strong points. But gossip has it that Charlotte will wed Prendergast now. And he’s twenty-five years her senior, with a parcel of unlovely kiddies left over from his first wife, to boot.”

  “Exactly,” Crispin said bleakly, all humor gone from his voice. He spoke carefully, the spacing of his words allowing them many meanings. “She chose him because she felt he would want less of her than I would. She thought she’d be able to earn her freedom faster—and earn her chance for a relationship with me faster too.”

  Wrede gave a long, low, tuneless whistle and then said guardedly, “But now you have your fortune. And so the shoe is on the other foot. If marriage is a thing one enters with an eye to earning one’s freedom… Is that what you want, Crispin?”