by Cheryl Holt
“Yes.”
“How about you, Mr. Stanton.”
“Yes, I’m ready.” Kit was so unenthused he might have been a marble statue.
The rancor between them was blatant and excruciating, but the vicar forced a smile and opened his prayer book. He made a few compulsory remarks, but she didn’t listen. Then he posed one of the stupidest questions contained in the vows.
“Who gives this woman in holy matrimony?”
Her father replied with, “Her aunt and I do.”
“Not my aunt,” Priscilla scoffed. She glanced over her shoulder and flashed an antagonistic glower at Gertrude. “Just my father is giving me away.”
The vicar glared at her, at Kit, at her father. Ultimately, he said, “Miss Bolton, what’s wrong? You’re very angry, and it’s clear you’re not eager to proceed. Why is that? Have you been coerced into this union?”
It was dangerous to lie in a church. It would be courting bad luck. She’d always assumed she would wed a Wakefield-Stanton brother so she hadn’t been bullied into the engagement to Kit. She was simply livid over having her big day spoiled. She should have been the center of attention, but Kit and her father had ruined everything.
“I haven’t been coerced,” she mumbled.
“Are you sure? You don’t look very happy.”
“I’m happy,” she spat, but she might have been crunching on broken glass.
“How about you, Mr. Stanton?” the vicar asked Kit. “Are you content to continue?”
“Yes. Get on with it, would you?”
The vicar stared at Priscilla a final time. “You can’t be compelled against your will, Miss Bolton. Not by your father. Not by your aunt. Not by your fiancé. I’ll stop if you wish it.”
Her father turned to her. “Priscilla, you’re being a nuisance. Behave yourself. I swear—from how you’re acting—it has me wondering whether you’re mature enough to be a wife. It’s also causing the vicar to think you don’t want to marry Kit which has always been your path.”
“I know.”
“Shall we call it off? Would you like that?”
Her father frowned at her in a way he rarely did, as if she was a brat and a great disappointment. Again, she tried to envision the carriage ride to London, then the next few months after the marriage had fallen apart and she was blamed for wrecking it.
“I just expected a fancy ceremony at the cathedral in town,” she murmured.
“I realize that,” her father said, “but it’s not happening. So what’s it to be? Will we finish this or will we go home? I’m weary of your constant fussing.”
She couldn’t believe he’d voiced the stern scolding. Usually, he deemed her to be precocious and amusing. Or if he found her to be difficult, he ignored her until he was in a better mood.
She peered up at the vicar. “Let’s finish it. I apologize for any delay.”
“It’s quite all right.”
He gazed at her for an eternity, offering her a last chance, but she didn’t take it. Very soon, she’d be a bride, and wasn’t that every girl’s dream? Who cared how it came about? It was about to transpire.
The vicar began reading the text of the ceremony, and she struggled to focus, but the words were meaningless to her. There was so much folderol about obeying her husband, but she behaved precisely as she pleased, and no silly vow could change that fact.
Behind them, the chapel doors slammed open. It was a blustery day, and a gust of cold wind blew in that was strong enough to ripple her hair and skirt. She wanted to peek over her shoulder, to admonish whoever had interrupted, but she didn’t. Kit was staring straight ahead so she mimicked him. If he could force himself through it, she certainly could.
The vicar asked another of those inane questions that should have been yanked out centuries earlier. “If there is any person present who feels these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”
They all froze, waiting for the obligatory moment to pass before he could continue on when, suddenly, a man piped up.
“I’m protesting the match.”
There was a shocked inhalation of breath by the entire group. The vicar glared down the aisle, and the rest of them turned to see who had butted in.
Priscilla turned too, and she had absolutely no idea who he could be. He was about Kit’s age of thirty, tall and broad-shouldered, dark-haired and muscularly fit. Most surprising, he had a large pistol dangling from a holster on his hip.
“You object?” The vicar nearly guffawed. “This is highly irregular, sir.”
“I’m aware that it is.”
“Who are you?”
“Alexander Wallace.”
Her father snapped, “Keep going, Vicar, would you? I don’t have the patience for this sort of nonsense.”
“When there’s been an objection,” the vicar pointed out, “I have to address it.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” her father grumbled.
“Father!” Priscilla complained. “He can’t be in here! Make him leave!” She glanced up at Kit. “Do you know him?”
Kit was scowling and completely confused. “Yes, I know him.”
“What does he want?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Kit replied.
The vicar held up his hand to quell the commotion. He spoke down the aisle to Mr. Wallace. “Sir, what is the basis of your opposition?”
“He’s not free to wed Miss Bolton.”
“Why is that?”
Mr. Wallace studied them and shrugged. “He has to marry someone else.”
“What are you talking about?” her father seethed.
“Considering where we’re currently located,” Mr. Wallace casually said, “I understand this will be a bit awkward, but Mr. Stanton is about to be a father.”
There were shrieks and exclamations. Priscilla, herself, was so disoriented she couldn’t think of a single retort. Kit had to wed someone else? Kit was about to be a father?
“You scurrilous cur,” her father fumed at Mr. Wallace. “How dare you besmirch my son-in-law’s good name.”
Mr. Wallace scoffed. “Trust me, his name’s not that good. Not in my home anyway, and I don’t intend to have a bastard born into my family. Not when the scoundrel is in a position to rectify the situation. It’s a touchy subject with me.” He gestured to the door. “Come on, Kit, let’s go.”
Kit looked pole-axed, as if he’d been pummeled with a club, but he didn’t move. So Gertrude stepped forward and asked, “Who is having a baby?”
“My sister-in-law, Catherine. Lady Catherine Henley? You would have been acquainted with her as Catherine Barrington.”
“Oh, no,” her father and Gertrude mumbled in unison.
On hearing the dreaded announcement, Kit was yanked out of his stupor. “Catherine is increasing?”
“Yes,” Mr. Wallace answered, “so you can’t marry Miss Bolton. You’re marrying Catherine—if I have to hog-tie you and drag you to the altar.”
It took a moment for Priscilla to realize what had been revealed. She screeched with fury. “Catherine Barrington? My companion? She is ruined by my fiancé? She’s having a baby? What? What?”
All eyes whipped to Kit, but he didn’t appear ashamed or disgraced. He simply said, “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“You seduced Miss Barrington?” Priscilla demanded.
He ignored her to converse with Mr. Wallace. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yes, I’m very sure.”
Gertrude sank into the nearest pew while Priscilla’s father was so silent his lips might have been glued together.
The vicar closed his prayer book with a flourish. “We’ll take a break and…ah…finish this some other time. Perhaps when sentiments have cooled?”
It was up to Priscilla to rescue the event from catastrophe. “Deny it, Kit!”
“I can’t, Priscilla.”
“You have to!�
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“I can’t.”
Getting no help from her fiancé, she whirled to her father. “Father, make Mr. Wallace depart! Make him shut up and go away!”
“I don’t believe I can, Priscilla,” her father said.
Priscilla waved at Mr. Wallace. “You are not wanted here, sir. You have interrupted my wedding and caused me an enormous amount of distress. Now go away!”
He didn’t heed her, but glared at Kit. “What have you to say for yourself, Kit?”
“I’m sorry,” Kit repeated.
Mr. Wallace snorted with disgust. “Well, Kit, it’s nice for you to be sorry and all, but it doesn’t fix the problem that’s arisen back at my home.”
To her stunned surprise, Mr. Wallace pulled his pistol from its holster and aimed it directly at Kit. He marched toward them until he was a few feet away.
“Mr. Wallace!’ the vicar scolded. “This is a house of worship. There’s no place for violence.”
“I’m not a religious man, Vicar,” Mr. Wallace responded. “It doesn’t matter to me if I shed a bit of blood.”
At the blasphemy, everyone gasped, and the vicar huffed, “I’ve never been confronted by such scandalous talk.”
“It’s Mr. Stanton’s choice how this will end,” Mr. Wallace insisted. “Are you coming with me, Kit? Or shall I shoot you where you stand?”
Kit sighed. “I’ll come, but I don’t know what good it will do. She’ll never forgive me.”
“We’ll see about that,” Mr. Wallace said like a threat.
Kit started out, and they were frozen with astonishment. It was the wildest conclusion to a wedding any of them had ever witnessed. People would gossip about it for years. Priscilla’s reputation would be dragged through the mud.
“Kit!” she shouted, stamping her foot. “You can’t leave! I forbid it!”
But Mr. Wallace replied. “I’m renowned for my bad temper, Miss Bolton. He’ll leave with me or I’ll kill him. Right here. Right now.”
Kit glanced back, but at her father. Not at her. “I apologize, Mr. Bolton. I’ve made every awful decision.”
“It certainly appears you have,” her father agreed. “If you trot off with him, you’re making the biggest one of all.”
“I don’t think so,” Kit said.
“You’ll be poor forever,” her father warned.
“I’ve always been poor. It’s a state with which I’m extremely familiar.”
“You’ll cause an irreparable rift between us.”
Kit’s scathing regard shifted to Priscilla, then to her father. “I regret to admit that I won’t mind.”
Then he kept on without a word of farewell to her—as if Priscilla was a bag of garbage he could toss away. In seconds, he’d vanished out the door, the armed brigand, Mr. Wallace, strutting behind him.
She bellowed with outrage, demanding someone intervene, that someone stop them, that someone force Kit to behave as he was supposed to behave. He’d seduced Miss Barrington? He’d gotten her with child? And it had happened right under her nose! Oh, the shame! Oh, the humiliation!
She scowled at her aunt, then her father, and from their resigned expressions they must both have been aware of the liaison.
“Did you know about this?” she asked Gertrude.
“We can discuss it later.”
“Discuss it now.”
“I’d rather not.”
Was Kit the reason Miss Barrington had been fired? Gertrude had claimed Miss Barrington stole Priscilla’s rings, and Priscilla hadn’t questioned the story. Why hadn’t she?
How could they have hidden the mortifying truth from her? How could they have ignored Kit’s betrayal? How could they push her to wed him anyway? Didn’t they love her? Didn’t they care about her?
She continued to shout, to issue orders, but gradually the guests began to tiptoe out, no doubt eager to spread rumors about her disgrace. Eventually, even the vicar, her father, and Gertrude left.
She was alone at the altar, by herself in the empty church, her commands echoing off the ceiling. But for once, there was no one to hear her complaints.
* * * *
Catherine was strolling down the lane toward Wallace Downs. She’d gone into the village, mostly as an excuse to get out of the house.
She had to figure out what to do. A female in her condition had few options. She could shackle herself to the cad who’d ruined her which wasn’t about to occur. Or she could find a hapless man and trick him into marriage so he’d assume the baby was his own, but she’d never be that duplicitous. Or she could buy a cheap wedding band, then move to a part of the country where no one knew her and pretend to be a widow, but she didn’t have the money for such an expense.
The thing she didn’t want was to tarry at Wallace Downs where kind, generous Alex would have to tolerate the indignity of his wife’s sister birthing a bastard in one of his bedrooms.
Abigail had confessed Catherine’s situation to him, and he’d been so supportive. He’d told her she could stay with them forever and raise the child at the estate, and he’d throttle anyone who had a derogatory opinion about it.
She was certain he’d been sincere, but she hated to inflict herself on him. It was degrading to have brought such a predicament to his doorstep, and she wished she could sprout wings and fly off into the sky.
Behind her, a carriage was approaching, and she scooted over to the side of the road to let it pass. As it rolled by, she glanced up, curious as to who was in it. For an instant, it seemed as if it was Libby Markham, but she couldn’t imagine why Libby would be flitting around rural England.
But just as she’d convinced herself it couldn’t possibly be Libby, the vehicle stopped, and Libby leaned out the window.
“Catherine?” she called. “Is that you?”
No, you’ve mistaken me for someone else. She nearly ran in the opposite direction, but Libby was already climbing out.
“Catherine,” she said, “I’m so glad I found you. I didn’t think it would be this easy.”
“Hello, Libby,” Catherine quietly replied. “Why are you in the neighborhood?”
“I was looking for you.”
Libby’s explanation made no sense. The last occasion Catherine had spoken to her, she’d been on her way to an unwed mother’s home, she and Catherine having been seduced by the same cad. At the time, Catherine hadn’t discovered she was increasing too, and she furiously wondered if Mr. Stanton realized how quickly his family was growing.
She couldn’t bear to chat with Libby and had no idea why the wretched girl would have sought her out. Their prior meeting had been the most painful of Catherine’s life, and it took an incredible amount of gall for Libby to have searched for her.
What was her purpose? Would she rub salt in Catherine’s wounds? Would she share a few amorous anecdotes about Mr. Stanton? Catherine wouldn’t engage in any conversation where he was the topic.
A man climbed out after Libby, and Catherine was astounded to observe Mr. Turner who worked for Mr. Bolton.
“You know Mr. Turner, don’t you?” Libby asked.
“Yes. Hello, Mr. Turner.”
“Hello, Miss Barrington. Actually, Mr. Bolton informed us that it’s not Barrington, that it’s Henley.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Catherine said.
“It’s lovely to see you again.”
He was a cordial, polite fellow, and Catherine had no quarrel with him. She couldn’t deduce why he’d be with Libby Markham though. It could never be beneficial, and he couldn’t be aware of the trouble she might cause him.
“Mr. Turner and I are married,” Libby stunned her by declaring.
Catherine blanched. “My goodness! I wasn’t expecting that news.”
“It was rather sudden,” Mr. Turner said, and he smiled and glanced adoringly at Libby.
“We eloped,” Libby added.
“To Scotland?”
“Yes.” Libby laugh
ed in her flippant manner. “It was all very scandalous.”
“It definitely sounds like it,” Catherine agreed.
“Could I talk to you for a minute? In private?”
There could be no more horrid suggestion, but Catherine was too courteous to decline. “Well, I suppose, but only for a minute.”
Libby took her arm—as if they were old friends—and they sauntered off. She called over her shoulder to Mr. Turner, “Wait there. I’ll be back soon.”
“I wouldn’t dream of going off without you,” he responded.
She and Libby continued on until they were far enough away that her husband and the driver couldn’t overhear, then she halted and pulled Catherine around to face her. Catherine braced, as if for an assault. As she’d learned the hard way with Libby, any hideous event was likely.
“Bentley—Mr. Turner—and I are moving to America,” Libby said.
“To America! You’re full of surprises.”
“Mr. Bolton is expanding his business to Massachusetts, and he needed a trustworthy man to manage it. Bentley volunteered for the job.”
“Will you stay forever? Or is it only until the company is thriving?”
“I’m pretty sure we’ll stay there. Currently, we don’t have any plans to return to England.”
Catherine couldn’t guess why Libby would feel compelled to notify her, and she forced herself to say, “I’m happy for you. Will that be all?”
“No.” Libby studied her. “You hate me, don’t you?”
“I don’t hate you. We’re not friends, but I don’t hate you.”
“Yes, you do.” Libby inhaled a deep breath and let it out. “Listen, I have to admit something to you. Something bad.”
“I assumed as much. Please spit it out. This entire encounter is distressing for me, and I’d like to end it as quickly as possible.”
“That last day in London—” Libby started.
But Catherine cut her off. “I don’t want to discuss it.”
“I figured you wouldn’t, but I couldn’t leave on our journey without speaking to you in person about this. I’ve been fretting so much.”
“What is it? Just tell me.”
“I never had a dalliance with Kit Stanton.”
Catherine assessed Libby, wondering what was true and what wasn’t. Most of all, why would Libby imagine Catherine would yearn to be apprised.
