by M. C. Beaton
Fanny drew a deep breath and her eyes sparkled. “A splendid-looking man!” exclaimed Mrs. Page. “Do you not think so, Fanny?”
And Fanny clasped her hands and murmured an ecstatic, “Yes.”
Supper was a great success. Fanny was not expected to say much and so was free to dream more dreams. But to her surprise, as soon as supper was over, Mrs. Page smiled on her indulgently and said, “It has been a tiring day for you, Fanny. Why do you not retire?”
Too well schooled by that excellent Bath seminary to do anything so vulgar as to argue with her parents in public, Fanny curtsied and withdrew. She had no lady’s maid and so she put herself to bed, dreaming all the while of the handsome and dashing Sir Charles.
The Deveneys and Pages had retired back to the drawing room. They settled themselves comfortably and then looked at one another in an amiable, almost telepathic silence, broken finally by the squire, who rubbed his hands together with a dry sound like sandpaper and said, “Fine gal, your Fanny. A treasure.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Page.
“Glad to see you in such comfortable circumstances,” pursued the squire.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Page, with affected languor. “Such a windfall when Aunt Isobel died and left me her fortune.”
“I think you know what is in our minds.” The squire hitched his chair forward.
“Ah!” Mrs. Page looked arch. “I do believe you wish our Fanny for your Charles.”
“Demme, the lady’s a genius.” Mrs. Deveney nodded vigorously and set the diamonds on her head shimmering and sparkling.
“When does Sir Charles return?” asked Mr. Page. He was normally a jolly, plump man, but for this special occasion his rotund form had been lashed into an Apollo corset, and, as he had eaten too much at dinner, felt he might burst at any moment.
“In a month’s time. Good lad. Anxious to settle down,” said the squire.
“And Fanny will, of course, be guided by us,” said Mrs. Page.
They all beamed at one another.
“As to the question of the marriage settlements,” said the squire, and the Pages perceptibly stiffened, wondering how on earth they were going to raise the wind for Fanny’s dowry. “Call me an old romantic,” said the squire, sighing and putting his hand on his heart, “but I’m set on a love match and I don’t want these young things to have their lives clouded by financial arrangements, not until after the wedding, that is.”
Had it not been for Mrs. Deveney’s splendid diamonds, the Pages might have become suspicious, but as it was, neither of them could take their eyes off those sparkling gems for long.
“Our feelings entirely,” said Mr. Page. His brain seemed to him to be working at a great rate. They could rent the house and leave for the Continent immediately after the wedding—and stay away until the Deveneys got used to the fact that there was no money forthcoming.
“In that case,” he said, “when do you plan to hold the wedding?”
“On the day after Charles returns,” said the squire.
For the first time, Mrs. Page experienced a qualm of conscience. “But—but Fanny should at least have an opportunity to become acquainted with him first.”
“No need for that. Young people. Well suited. Charles will do as he’s told.”
Mr. and Mrs. Page argued a little for the sake of form, but terror of letting the prize slip through their fingers finally made them agree to everything. The squire said that their respective lawyers would get together a week after the wedding. Champagne was produced. The squire privately thought it was the oddest champagne he had ever tasted, which was perhaps the case, the “champagne” being apple juice laced with soda water.
They fell to discussing arrangements. The couple would be married in the local church by the vicar. The Pages asked about a honeymoon, neither of them wanting to be around when their daughter and her new husband found they had rented Delfton Hall and disappeared.
“I’ll fix that,” said the squire. “Have you ever met my wife’s unmarried sister, Miss Martha Grimes?”
“Didn’t even know you had a sister-in-law,” commented Mr. Page.
“She’s got a house in the best part of town. We’ll send ‘em there for a few weeks. I’ll write and tell her they’re coming.” The squire put the knowledge that his sister-in-law had called him a loose screw and had told him never to cross her threshold again to the back of his mind.
It was four in the morning before the Deveneys took their leave—unaware that the gold plate and the butler had departed to their rightful home at midnight. The Pages had few remaining servants, the cook, Mrs. Friendly, acting as housekeeper as well. She stayed on because her son had been allowed the use of the kitchen garden, the produce of which she sold to the neighboring houses.
In their carriage on the road home, Squire Deveney said to his wife, “Better get those sparklers back to the jeweler in the morning. They did their bit.”
“Did you see how they gazed at my diamonds?” crowed his wife.
“Not your diamonds. Only on loan,” the squire reminded her.
“Don’t be so depressing,” snapped his wife. “We’ve done well for Charles. That gold plate was worth a king’s ransom. We’ll rent the house and clear off right after the wedding. But where?”
“Beat Tommy Wellan at cards before we left London,” said the squire, rubbing his hands. “Said I’d wave the money if he let us use that hunting box of his in Yorkshire. ‘Course, all I was thinking of at the time was escaping the duns.”
Mrs. Deveney nodded toward the rewrapped portrait on the opposite carriage seat. “Be a bit of a shock to the girl when she realizes Charles don’t look like that at all. Who is it?”
“How should I know? Some felon was trying to sell it down Barminster way in the Dog and Duck. He thought he saw the constable, so I got it for a song, he was so anxious to be rid of it. We’ll make sure she don’t see Charles until they’re both at the altar.”
“But the wedding rehearsal …?”
“Don’t need one. I’ll get the vicar to guide them through the responses.”
His wife patted his hand. “You think of everything.”
“There’s one thing that nags me,” said Mr. Page as he placed a red Kilmarnock nightcap on his head and climbed into the high four-poster beside his wife. “Why did they agree so readily to meeting our lawyers after the marriage? I mean, if they’re that rich, they could do better for their son.”
“It’s our one chance of a good marriage for Fanny,” said his wife practically. “If you have doubts, just think of those Deveney diamonds! Not to mention Charles’s prize money. No, my dear, we are very lucky.”
Fanny was alarmed, not delighted, to learn that she was to marry Sir Charles without any opportunity of seeing much of him before the wedding, the Pages not knowing the Deveneys’ plan of keeping their son away from Fanny until the very day of the wedding.
But romance and imagination warred with common sense, and romance and imagination won. Now, from that portrait, she knew what he looked like. She had someone to dream about. Sir Charles in her dreams made such marvelous, such dizzying speeches of undying love that Fanny hardly lived one moment in reality as she was fitted for a trousseau, largely consisting of her mother’s made-over gowns. Fanny herself was an expert needlewoman and studied the fashion magazines, so she altered a great number of the already altered gowns to a more fashionable line.
She did, however, voice the idea that it was a pity there was no miniature of her to send to her betrothed, whereupon her mother gave a merry laugh and called her a forgetful puss, saying that a miniature of her had been taken the year before by a very competent artist. Fanny pointed out she had never sat for her portrait, but Mrs. Page had an answer ready. The artist had been brilliant but eccentric and had been placed next to the drawing room, where he had covertly studied her in order to do the miniature.
Which all made Mrs. Page throughly pleased that she had succumbed to temptation in London and had stole
n a little miniature of the reigning belle, Miss Woodward, while she and her husband were guests at a party at the Woodwards’ home. She had not taken it because she was fascinated with the features of the beauty but because the little frame had been encrusted with gems. The gems had been prized out, so that the sale from them would furnish the Pages with funds to escape abroad after the wedding, and the miniature packaged and sent to the barracks in Bristol to await Sir Charles’s return. Miss Woodward was divinely fair, with large blue eyes, and did not look at all like Fanny, but as Mrs. Page said to her husband, “All’s fair in love and war. Get him to the altar. That’s all that matters.”
The thing that puzzled Fanny was that they did not see the Deveneys. Messages were sent back and forth between the two families, but the Deveneys did not visit the Pages and the Pages did not call on the Deveneys—and Fanny was not to know that neither family wanted to go to any further expense in keeping up appearances of being rich.
Knowing how gossip traveled easily in country districts, Mrs. Page had paid the cook, Mrs. Friendly, and had told her of the mythical legacy from Aunt Isobel but had sworn her to secrecy, knowing Mrs. Friendly to be a chatterbox. Mrs. Friendly had told her son—she was unusual in an age when servants were not supposed to marry, but had been taken on by the Pages, who could not afford to be over nice in such matters—and her son had got drunk down at the Dog and Duck and had confided in his best friend, Gully Simpson, who was walking out with the vicar’s scullery maid, and so the news went the rounds and joined up with the gossip from the Deveney camp about Sir Charles returning from the wars, loaded down with prize money and loot—so loaded down that it was taking a separate ship to bring his wealth home.
And in the middle of all this gossip and speculation moved the small figure of Fanny Page, lost in dreams of that handsome, harsh man on his white charger.
There was one man whom Lord Gilbert Bohun loathed with every fiber of his being, and that man was Sir Charles Deveney. Lord Gilbert smoldered beside the fire in the officers’ mess at Bristol and covertly studied his “enemy.” Sir Charles Deveney was slight and fair. He had fine gray eyes in a clever, sensitive face and looked almost too delicate to be an officer. But he had been knighted for bravery, and what was more, was adored by every man in the regiment, who jumped to attention every time they saw him, whereas Lord Bohun was regarded with dislike. The fact that he was cruel, that he led his regiment from behind whenever possible, did not cross Lord Bohun’s mind. His jealousy of Sir Charles festered and burned. To add to Lord Bohun’s bad humor, a letter had been waiting for him from his factor to say that the portrait of his lordship on a white charger with drawn sword, commissioned at great expense by his lordship from a Spanish artist and shipped home, had failed to arrive, the coach that was carrying it from Bristol to Lord Bohun’s home in Gloucestershire having been held up by footpads.
He noticed that Sir Charles was staring at a letter as if he could not believe his eyes and sourly hoped it was bad news.
Sir Charles read the letter from his father for the second time. Squire Deveney had written that a marriage had been arranged for Charles with Miss Fanny Page, aged seventeen. The family fortunes were at low ebb. In fact, the squire wrote touchingly, if Charles did not go through with this wedding, then the Deveneys would end their days in a debtors’ prison.
Sir Charles had been looking forward to a well-deserved leave. He longed to relax at home, get in a bit of shooting, a bit of fishing, but thoughts of the fair sex had not entered his mind. Unlike most of his fellow officers, he had learned to manage on his army pay, which he augmented cleverly from time to time with wins at the card table, having learned that if you stuck to water when all about you were getting drunk, chances were of winning hands down every time.
He sensed a lightening of the atmosphere in the room and realized Lord Bohun had left. The man’s dislike of him was a constant irritation to Sir Charles.
He picked up a small package that had also been waiting for his arrival and tore off the wrapping. It was a miniature with a covering letter from his future father-in-law. “You probably do not remember our Fanny,” Mr. Page had written, “but she has grown to extreme beauty.” The rest of the letter contained fulsome compliments and best wishes for “the happy couple.”
Sir Charles opened up the leather case containing the miniature. The beauty of the face looking up at him made him catch his breath. So stunning was that beauty that he did not notice the rather scarred edges of the miniature, where the gems had been gouged out.
The door opened and his fellow officer, Capt. Tommy Hawkes, walked in. “Morning, Major,” he said, sinking into an armchair opposite. “News from home?”
“Very startling news,” said Sir Charles. “My impoverished parents have decided to recoup the family losses by marrying me off.”
“To whom?”
“To a neighbor’s daughter, Miss Fanny Page, only seventeen years old, but evidently very rich.”
“No harm in that,” said Tommy. “Marry this heiress, enjoy your leave, kiss her good-bye, and return to the wars.”
“How would you feel about kissing this good-bye?” Sir Charles passed him the miniature.
Tommy let out a soundless whistle. “You’ve landed on your feet, Major. A face to die for.”
Sir Charles took the miniature back from him. “Yes,” he said slowly. “But why should parents of a rich heiress want her to marry me? They’ve only to take a dazzler like that to London and she could have the pick of the bunch.”
“Don’t question fortune,” said Tommy. “I’d like to see you with more of the readies. Can’t stand the way Bohun sneers at you the whole time and flaunts his wealth in front of you.”
“We won’t have to suffer Bohun any longer. He’s sold out. I won’t be plagued with him again.”
“But are you really going to marry this girl, just like that? It’s up to you. Your parents can’t force you. Remember, those miniatures can be misleading. Do you remember Carter of the Forty-fifth? Got a miniature of a dazzler, fell in love, rushed back home on his first leave, and found she had teeth like a rabbit and a squint.”
“Well, we’ll see. Time I settled down. Never thought I would have the money to do it. You know, I am well aware that it’s the fashion, but there’s something about getting wed to a female for her money that sticks in my craw. But my parents appear to be heading for the debtors’ prison this time and that does not surprise me in the least. They make me feel like a hundred years old, they are so heedless and feckless. Money runs through their fingers like water. Will you be my best man?”
Tommy looked gratified. “I would be honored. When do we leave?”
Sir Charles studied the letter again. “This is ridiculous! They have arranged the wedding for next Monday! We’ll need to travel hard to get there in time. What are they thinking of? I hope this is not some heiress who has become pregnant by the stable boy and needs a husband.”
“You can always say no,” Tommy pointed out.
“With the limited time I have to get there, it looks as if I will only see this female at the altar and in front of the vicar.”
“So, you tip me the wink and when they get to the part about anyone having just cause to stop the marriage, I’ll cry out that you’re already wed to a señorita in Spain,” said Tommy.
Sir Charles grinned. “That should do the trick. Pity I don’t look like the awful Bohun. There isn’t much about me for a lady to dream about.”
Tommy studied the clever, sensitive face, the large gray eyes, the firm mouth and chin, and the slender athlete’s body opposite him. “You’ll do,” he said gruffly. “The men would follow you to hell and back, and they wouldn’t do that for Bohun.”
Sir Charles sighed. “But would the ladies even follow me across the street? Never mind. Let us get packed.”
Chapter 2
ON THE EVENING of her wedding day, Fanny slipped down to the kitchen to have a quiet talk with Mrs. Friendly. Everything was ready, ev
erything prepared. Her wedding gown stood like a mute white ghost on a stand in the corner of her room.
There had been no opportunity for walks, for sensible thought, or for talks in the kitchen because of pinnings and fittings and alterations.
Mrs. Friendly was seated at the scrubbed wooden table, her cap askew, purple bruises of fatigue under her eyes. “Don’t reckon as when I’ve baked so much this age, Miss Fanny,” she said wearily. “But you’ll have a wedding breakfast a queen would be proud of.”
Fanny sat down opposite the cook. “I am a trifle frightened,” she said candidly. “I know the appearance of my intended but not his disposition. He could be a brute.”
“Not Charles Deveney,” said the cook, “though I haven’t seen him this age. I remember him as a lad. Gentle soul. Very quiet.”
“The army … the wars … must change people.”
“Don’t know that it does, Miss Fanny. Fact is, it’s just another hunting field for the likes of them. You’ll be getting a house of your own. You’ll like that. And children will come along. There’s a lot to be said for being married—and nothing at all for being a spinster … not unless you’re a very rich spinster.”
“What I find most peculiar,” said Fanny, resting her chin on her hands, “is that Baxter, the Deveneys’ odd man, was in the village this afternoon. He bowed and wished me well and said it was good to have Sir Charles home again. He arrived this morning. Now would you not think he would wish to ride over and see me?”
Mrs. Friendly, who knew of Sir Charles’s arrival, had indeed thought just that, but kindness made her say, “It’s by way of being an arranged marriage, and all the better for that. Love don’t last.”
