The Bittersweet Bride

by Vanessa Riley

  The earl nodded. “Well, she’s seen you enough these three months in London. If you stay, perhaps she will abandon her parties and return to Grandbole, too.”

  Being a pawn between his parents was an old game. One he’d hoped they’d stopped playing when he’d gone to war. Ewan shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. He’d let the earl fight that battle. Ewan would focus on his Circe and the package of smelly lavender that needed to be delivered.

  Chapter Three

  The Return of an Impassioned Ghost

  Once Theodosia waved good-bye to her planning committee, she walked back to the parlor. Of all the rooms in Tradenwood, this one she liked the best. From the doorway, she scanned the gold-papered walls crowned with dented white trim. It felt regal and clean and held the largest fireplace she’d ever seen. Still better was the access to the private patio, a cobblestone wonder rimmed with flowerpots and overlooking a multitiered garden below. Majestic—it was the best place on earth. There, Mathew Cecil had made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

  In this very room, he had offered her a name and his protection. The lowest moment of her life had become her best. Tonight, when everyone was in bed, she’d go out onto the cobblestones, smell the clematis they’d planted together, and listen to the night. Her lovely memories of a life with Mathew would stop her from fretting over her present troubles…and Ewan.

  For a moment, she closed her eyes and clutched the heavy door. The bittersweet memories she’d tried to forget returned. Ewan’s voice teasing her, as she had cried upon his shoulder after being cheated out of a guinea. How they’d snuck behind the coaching house and had danced in the rain. Even now she could the feel the strength of his arms as he’d twirled her till she’d lost her breath.

  Theodosia tensed. She shook as if it were yesterday when she’d found out that the love of her young heart had died. The news had been tossed to her like trash. She’d fallen to her knees behind that coaching house sobbing until she’d become breathless, mourning his loss—Ewan had died in some foreign land. She never thought she’d see his face again, or bump into him at the Burlington Arcade.

  His return could be a problem Oh, who am I kidding? His return was a problem. Could she pretend he was still dead and go through with her plans? She touched the letters in her reticule. There must be one decent offer from her newspaper advertisement, one that would keep her heart and Philip safe.

  Pickens and a few grooms passed her as they returned the desk she used for business. In another moment, they exited the room with the excess chairs from her meeting. The butler bowed as she stepped into the parlor. He started closing the door then paused. “Will you need anything else for the evening, ma’am?”

  “Nothing more tonight.”

  “Then good evening, Mrs. Cecil.”

  As if her surname was a magical elixir, a mixture of relief and wonder flooded her middle. Mathew would be proud of her planning. The meeting had gone well. The Flora Festival was one step closer to being perfect—with chimney sweeps and bell ringing, like when he’d lived. “Thank you, Pickens.”

  Once the door shut, she offered a smile, a small one for her two dearest friends. “So glad this dinner is over. Thank you for staying.”

  “Like w-we’d leave before hearing the news of your trip into town.” Frederica Burghley popped another chocolatey bonbon in her mouth. It made her perfect pronunciation sound stuttered. “Did you get another answer to the advertisement?”

  Theodosia patted her reticule, made her way across the room, and sank into an emerald chair by the fireplace. “Yes, but let me enjoy this moment. The last tradesman’s wife has boarded her carriage.” The faithful and the curious had had their fill of her hearty and expensive rabbit stew, a sixpence and a farthing a bowl. Then they’d eaten the best rainbow-colored jellies that could be had in all of England. “They had a good meal and surely enjoyed dessert. A shilling each.”

  With her short brown nose pressed in a book, Ester Croome put her feet up on the chaise. Her silky pale blue slippers peeked from beneath the creamy hem of her gown, like pollen stamens within a lily. The points of the Vandyke lace edging the pleats of her bodice matched the slim bonnet she used to cover her hair. Like a mobcap, she wore one all the time, each one more intricate and delicate than the next. “Theodosia, I see you counting with your fingers.”

  “You know I like knowing costs.” Lord knows, life and death had taught her this. “But I think we did well. I saw many of the merchants’ wives smiling with approval.”

  Ester, lovely, relaxed, always sketching—the brainiest of them all—turned another page in her book. “So how much did you spend on people hoping you’ll fail?”

  A little over one and sixpence a plate, but that wasn’t her friend’s true question. Theodosia sighed. “It’s for Cecil’s festival. I must honor him. His widow has to do this. I will not have anyone saying this wasn’t done well or she didn’t do it well.”

  Frederica wiped her mouth of crumbs, then smoothed her blush pink bodice. “Of course you must, but let’s end the torture, Theodosia. Did my plan of a newspaper advertisement catch you a husband at the Burlington Arcade?”

  Typical of her friend to get right to the point and take credit for things they’d all had a hand in, but Frederica meant no harm. Her heart was too big for that.

  “I caught something.” Theodosia unhooked her reticule from her wrist. The pouch sank to her lap. She didn’t quite know how to explain about the ghost from her past. She couldn’t even stop from chewing her bottom lip with all the uncertainty this day had brought. “The letters are in here, but I can’t look. Not another surprise.”

  “Another? What is that supposed to mean?” Frederica sprang up from her chair. The blush-colored tail of her gown, layered with lace appliqués that looked like new growth leaves in spring, rustled as she paced back and forth in front of the oversized bookcase. “Did you get an offer or not, Theodosia?”

  With a hand on her hip, Frederica stopped. Her perfectly coiffed sandy-brown curly hair bounced and fluttered as her large hazel eyes lifted. “It’s not good for one woman to tease another. That’s a man’s job.”

  Despite everything—a ghost, a guttersnipe, a gaggle of guests—Theodosia laughed. “Frederica, the flirt. You’re always good for a giggle. And I need humor today. We have letters, but the danger to Philip grows daily. I could lose my boy.”

  “No. We won’t let that happen.” Frederica crossed to her and held her palm out. “This plan will work, and end your suffering and ours, too. You look so drained. Let me read the letters.”

  Five years of friendship had surely taught Frederica to wait for Theodosia to bend. And she would for these women. No one knew her better, but none knew of Theo the Flower Seller, the waif who’d made horrible choices, doing things she’d sworn she’d never do, becoming what she’d sworn she’d never be. Only a ghost, whom she hoped to never see again, knew Theo. With his family up the hill, it would only be a matter of time before she saw Ewan again.

  She pushed the letters into Frederica’s hand. “Take them. If they are bad, burn them like weeds. My cup is full.”

  “Don’t. Do nothing of the kind, Frederica,” Ester piped up, though she hadn’t put down her charcoal. “We are stronger than weeds or words on paper. We will give a proper response, fitting a respectable widow. Agreed, Mrs. Cecil?”

  The magic of the name worked again, stirring up the dormant hope Mathew’s kindness had planted and watered over the years. It couldn’t be gone. The strength he’d given her had to live beyond the grave. Theodosia lifted her head. “Yes. A proper response.”

  Frederica nodded and waved the letters. She sorted them, flipping from one to the other. “Two responses. The squire sent one, and we have a new one. We’ll start with the squire.” She tore into the man’s fancy gray paper, then mouthed a few words.

  Seconds ticked by. The grandfather clock moaned from the corner. Anticipation built in Theodosia’s chest, giving a little lift to her defla
ted lungs. With Lester’s threats growing worse, the boring squire might be the answer, if he wanted to marry. Their meeting two weeks ago had not gone terribly. He’d sat very quietly through much of the coffeehouse visit and had not looked her in her eye. Had he been shy? Or had he been uncomfortable with her race?

  “It’s a yes. The squire wants to marry you.” Frederica’s voice didn’t sound happy. In fact, it held shrill notes. “That’s good, I suppose.”

  With wide eyes, Theodosia popped up and stared over Frederica’s shoulder. “This is the answer. My boy can be protected by the squire. But you don’t like him.” She took a step back, lowering her desperate sounding voice. “What is it? What is wrong?”

  Her friend started to pace again, this time with a hand to her hip. She frowned something awful and looked as if she’d toss the letter into the hearth. “He wants you to pay for the license. Does he have to be so cheap about it? This is not the man for you.”

  What else could a desperate Blackamoor expect? At least, he hadn’t cursed at her or not sent a response after their meeting. Theodosia rubbed at her brow, but squared her shoulders. “I’m not perfect. None of these men are. Only my Mr. Cecil was. He was so generous. One of a kind.”

  Her flirty friend wrinkled her nose. “One of an old kind. Very old. Shouldn’t a second marriage right that scale? Or are you afraid of young and virile?”

  “Now you sound like that toad, Lester. He’s almost forcing himself on me, even as he threatens to take my son.”

  “Well.” Ester’s voice rose, though, again, she didn’t raise her pretty olive-colored face. Her gaze remained buried in her drawing. “Some men bluster because they fear rejection.”

  Theodosia moved to the patio door. She parted the curtains to allow the moonlight inside. She didn’t need someone fearful. Her old love, Ewan, the one she thought had died, had feared his father more than he’d feared parting from her. No. No. She despised anyone who wasn’t brave, even herself. “We’ve planned this Holland visit for Lester. It will give me enough time for banns to be read. Before he returns, I’ll be a properly married woman with a husband who can advocate for Philip.”

  “So an old and cheap husband is fine for you?” Frederica’s laugh grew louder. “Not for me.”

  Focusing on the patio, Theodosia let her eyes soak in the darkness dancing beneath the reflections of stars. Her arbor, holding the wonderfully growing clematis, let patches of moonlight onto the stone floor. This planting was Mathew’s last great indulgence, so expensive to tend, yet so lovely. A cheap second husband couldn’t be the answer. How would things fair when Philip’s doctoring bills increased?

  Despairing, she turned back to her friends. “If I had a choice, I’d choose another man, but only a man can fight for me at the Court of Chancery. A man will keep Lester from using his guardianship to take my son. Lester wants to control the Cecil money. By controlling me, he controls the fortune.”

  Frederica rubbed her palm along the back of the floral chaise, making the nap of the fabric darken. “It’s such a lovely fortune.” She chuckled again. “Very lovely.”

  Frederica was not shy about her want of riches. Though she’d been provided an extravagant allowance by her wealthy father, the Duke of Simone, the woman seemed to be on a quest to gain more. Her relationship with the duke was as well as one could expect between a father and his acknowledged bastard. Perhaps this need for coins was a way to attain her own security. Theodosia stepped close and put a hand on her shoulder. “I want honest and brave.”

  “Yes, but money is important. It gives us a say in this world, even if it’s only a peep. You know it’s a requirement for your next husband.”

  Theodosia picked up the poker and stabbed the logs in the snowy hearth, before leaning back against the heavy marble mantel and facing her friends. “I have enough. Cecil made sure of that.”

  With a clap of her hands, Ester lifted her face from her sketch. “This is so grand. We’ve been at this business for three months and we have our first offer.”

  She’d been selectively listening as usual, but she was right. At least Theodosia had an offer. “The squire is in his late forties and seemed honest. I need someone beyond reproach to protect my son. Philip Cecil had a good man who loved him. Is it too much to ask for another one?”

  Nothing but silence and smiles of pity greeted her request. Maybe it was. Theodosia shook herself. Woolgathering was not to be had now, not with another letter to open. “Maybe the other letter will be better. There might be time for a new prospect, if we can get him up to scratch before the festival. The banns could be read, everything in place, before Lester figures out what I’ve done.”

  Frederica wiggled her small fingers under the wax seal of the second letter. When it broke open, she dipped her head and again her full lips moved. This time she put the letter on the table. “I don’t know what to make of this.”

  Unprepared for another note filled with false praise, a request for funds, or addressing the wrong advertisement, Theodosia dropped onto the chaise and locked arms with Ester. “I need you to read it. I can’t.”

  Ester put her feet on the floor. “What’s going on Frederica? What is it?”

  “It’s a riddle of sorts from a man of good character, or so he states,” said Frederica. “But he’s a peer—a baron, I’d guess.”

  Ester slipped from Theodosia and pounced on the letter. Her brow creased more deeply. Surely, this was not a good match. Her friend waved the paper. “It’s a riddle. This baron is either too clever or it’s a test to figure out your character. We must be very careful in our response.”

  Stopping from biting her lip, Theodosia took the letter and became confused by what seemed like a poem. She laid it back down. “So we should take this seriously?”

  Frederica shrugged her shoulders. “Why didn’t he ask for a first meeting, Theodosia?” she asked. “I’m never afraid of first meetings.”

  Ester’s forehead crinkled with more lines. With hands lifted, as if putting Frederica into her sights, she said, “I wouldn’t be either, if my father was a peer, and my complexion was light like yours, Frederica.”

  Being caught between worlds was a sore spot for Frederica, not light enough for some, not dark enough for others. Lips in a full pout, the flirt sashayed over and scooped up the letter again. “Let me see if I can figure out what the brain cannot.”

  “Ladies, please. No fighting. I’ve had a horrid day.”

  Ester mumbled something that sounded like Sorry, Frederica. Her smirk-laced smile had turned to a frown. “What happened? You weren’t at a safe store? The Burlington Arcade is very public.”

  The rise in Ester’s voice would be followed by a scold of going without Phipps or another male servant. Theodosia didn’t want to depend on someone else fighting for her. Like today, she’d been careful to pick shops that hated skin color less than they loved money. It was Ewan who had ruined things, but she couldn’t say that. “No. Nothing untoward happened. I was able to shop, but I lost my expensive soap. It would have made for a nice bath, but nothing will wash this day away.”

  Frederica fanned herself with the stationery. “Oh, Theodosia. That’s terrible. If you purchased them from the Burlington Arcade, I know it cost you.”

  Smile restored, Ester crossed her fingers. “Maybe we can discern what this new man is looking for in an answer. That is, if it’s not a joke.”

  “A farce, like in the theater. That is what this sounds like.” Frederica nodded then traced her pinky over the paper. “A baron? Could be a courtesy title. Hmm. That means he’ll inherit something when his father dies. If he’s looking for a wealthy bride, he could be either mouse poor or in a family given to scandal. That might not be good.”

  A title sounded nice, but how much worse could things get with family scandals? She’d had enough of those. Scandals caused families to split. The arguments she’d witnessed between Ewan and his father had been horrible—terrible like thunder. The day the earl had caught her and Ewan
in the carriage loft, his anger had flashed. His words had killed her, and he’d made Ewan leave her. She blinked and closed off that stupid part of her heart, the part that remembered that fleeting summer love. “Is it worth the risk to think that this poet wants a marriage and not just games? I could spend my time getting used to the squire.”

  “I’m a hopeful cynic.” Frederica waved her hand as if music played. “A baron could be a more impressive advocate to the courts. With my shock of his approach gone, I think he is a poetic, romantic man. He put effort into this. Listen. ‘Some say their love of children is unending, but how can that be proven to be permanent, unbending? What say you?’ How very sweet.”

  Ester leaped up on her short legs, her gown swishing as she went to stand next to tall Frederica. “I get it now. He does not want to meet yet. He wants you to respond about children. Why is that important? Maybe your advertisement sounded too good to be true. What did we put again?”

  Theodosia started to reply, but movement on the patio caught her gaze. Something sparkled in the evening light. A misplaced teaspoon or fork from her dinner guests?

  It had been a long day of seeing undesirable things. She didn’t need to look for more. She rubbed her eyes. “We said, ‘Respectable young widow of means looking for honorable family man of good character for matrimony.’”

  The grimace on Frederica’s supple features was comical. Her nose wriggled as if she smelled dead fish. “Oh. I forgot we went the mind-numbing route. We should write back with more color. Something clever.”

  Trying not to turn back to the patio, Theodosia crossed her arms. “What should I have said? Blackamoor beauty with babe and loads of baubles, needs beau?”

  Ester smiled wide, like Philip’s governess did when he did something right during his lessons. Over the years, Ester’s tutelage and Mathew’s guidance had taken a barely literate street seller and taught her to sound as if she’d been brought up under the love and care of genteel parents, not a poor urchin with no last name. “Maybe this poet baron will have a wonderful last name. I hate giving up the surname Cecil. I’ve grown so accustomed to it. And maybe this flamboyant man won’t mind the company I keep. The squire or baron must allow my friends to visit.”