by Jayne Davis
“What do you want in a wife?” Fancott held up a hand before Will could speak. “A wife can be a friend as well as a lover, if you choose the right woman.”
“How can I, now that my father—?”
“It is possible for many women to be the right one, I suspect, but only if you go into the marriage determined to try to make it work. Have you never given the notion any thought?”
Will rubbed his face, then picked up his untouched ale from the table and took a draught. “I wish to marry someone who would be as good a mother as mine was. She loved all her children.” She hadn’t left them to nurses and nannies, inspecting them once a day as most high-born women did.
“A good mother, then. Biddable? Obedient?”
There were those lines beside his eyes again, and a twitch of the lips this time. Will put his glass of ale on the table, firmly enough to make the liquid splash. “I’m glad you find it amusing, sir.” He got to his feet. “I do not.”
“Sit down, Will, do.”
Reluctantly, he resumed his seat.
“Have you never met a woman you could imagine spending your life with?”
“No.” But even as Will spoke, an image of Lady Anne came into his head. He hadn’t loved her, but he would never have become bored with her.
Fancott was watching him, one brow raised.
“There was one,” Will admitted. “A widow. She was content to remain a widow.” In truth, he’d been too young for her, too unsophisticated, too ignorant. She had terminated their arrangement, not him—although she’d done it kindly. “She was a bit of a bluestocking.”
“Some intelligence in your wife would be acceptable, then?”
Will recalled Hetty’s vapid giggles. “A requirement, even, if I had the choice. But what’s the point of discussing…?” Will rubbed his face again. There was no point, really, but he had asked Fancott’s advice.
“Will, I cannot tell you what to do, but I can give you some things to think about.” Fancott paused, one eyebrow raised, until Will gave a nod.
“Firstly, I know… I know of Miss Charters, and I think you will deal well together.”
“How—?”
“No, I am not going to tell you more on that head. But do remember that you may not be the only one being coerced here. You need to talk to each other, and remember that sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”
His parents had not talked to each other, so that was probably good advice.
“Do you wish to meet her before the marriage? She attends church here.”
Did he? “To what end? It will change nothing.”
Fancott gazed at him, reproach in his eyes. “It might help the two of you to adjust to your new circumstances.”
The vicar had a point. “Very well,” Will said. “But not in public, I think.”
“I will see if she can be here tomorrow afternoon. I’ll send a note over if so. On a different subject, I had a letter from Sally a month or so ago.”
“She is well, I hope?”
“Yes. They now have six children, and Vane’s inn is thriving.”
“That’s good. Alex is doing well, too. I try to see him now and then when I’m in Devonshire. The Westbrooks were a good choice.”
Fancott smiled as he felt in his pocket and pulled out a watch. He flipped the case open, then shut it again with a snap. “I’m afraid I have a call to make.”
Will rose along with him, and they shook hands again. “Thank you for your advice, sir.”
Fancott did not release his hand straight away. “Will, you resent your father’s actions—with some justification—but do not take it out on your wife.”
That was fair.
“You probably have some notion of revenging yourself on your father.” Fancott waited for Will’s reluctant nod. “Do consider what Marcus Aurelius has to say on injury and revenge. You have read him, I assume?”
“Some time ago, I’m afraid.”
“‘The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury.’ Think on it, Will.”
“I will, thank you, sir.”
“I have confidence in you, Will. You can make a success of this marriage, as you can of your life once you decide what you wish to do with it.”
Will stared after Fancott as he strode away across the lawn. That had sounded remarkably like praise. It set a warm glow inside him, however unjustified it might be.
Chapter 9
Monday 23rd June
Connie checked her hair in the mirror, then put the comb and spare hair pins into her small trunk and closed the lid. She looked around the room one last time, making sure she hadn’t left any of her possessions behind, and fastened the straps.
Dolland knocked on the open door. “Mrs Hepple says there’s breakfast ready for you, miss.” He eyed the trunk. “You want me to take that down?”
“Please, Dolland. You can leave it outside the front door. The earl’s coach should be calling for us in half an hour.”
“Yes, miss.”
Connie stood in the doorway. Her room was small, with plain whitewashed walls, but it had been hers for all her life. It looked strangely unwelcoming now, with grubby squares on the walls marking the places where her mother’s watercolours had hung, the vase empty of flowers, and the bedside table without her books.
Those watercolours, an inlaid sewing box, and a trunk of outdated gowns were all she had left of her mother, besides memories. It was almost as if Mama had ceased to be a person when she married. All her possessions had belonged to her husband, and he’d sold most of them after she died.
She turned and marched down the stairs, her shoulders squared. It was a new beginning, with far more potential than a life as her father’s unpaid housekeeper. Martha hadn’t had time to say much yesterday—Connie’s father had only allowed her to linger behind for quarter of an hour after church, and had left Dolland to escort her home.
No-one was in the kitchen, but Mrs Hepple had set out a sweet roll and a cup of tea for her. Connie was grateful not to be faced with a plateful of food, but wasn’t sure she could manage anything at all with the nervous weight in her stomach.
A murmur of voices and a giggle warned Connie that she was about to have company, and she assumed a more cheerful expression. Mrs Hepple came in through the back door holding a small vial and a length of pink ribbon, followed by Fanny with a handful of roses.
“I’ve got a present for you,” Mrs Hepple said, handing Connie the vial.
Connie removed the stopper and sniffed cautiously. Rather than the sharp tang of hartshorn she’d been expecting, the liquid inside gave off the smell of roses—far stronger than the sweet scent from the real flowers that Fanny spread out across the table. In spite of her trepidation, she smiled. “You know Papa won’t have roses in the house.”
“Yes, but your mama loved them.” Mrs Hepple sat at the table and began to assemble the flowers into a posy, snapping off the thorns and tying the stems together with the ribbon. “I’ll give it to one of the footmen on the coach so Mr Charters don’t notice until it’s too late.”
The Earl of Marstone’s coach arrived promptly at ten o’clock. Her father walked down the path, dressed in his best embroidered coat and waistcoat, a scowl forming as he waited by the door of the coach for someone to open it for him. Finally one of the men loading her trunks came around and swung the door open.
“Sorry, sir, had to get the luggage loaded.” He folded down the step and stood back.
Charters snorted and heaved himself into the coach. “Well, come on, girl!”
Connie ignored him. Mr and Mrs Fancott were approaching over the field, and she went to greet them. Mr Fancott carried a small valise—heavy, from the way he held it. He gave it to the groom to be loaded. She caught sight of Fanny out of the corner of her eye, handing the posy of roses to the groom with a whispered word and a giggle.
“Be happy, my dear,” Martha said, giving her a quick hug.
“Constance!” Charters’ voice
called from the coach.
Connie ignored him, meeting Martha’s smile with one of her own. She was escaping from one unpleasant autocrat; she had to hope that her new husband was not too much like her father.
“Write to me, Connie. And remember what I said yesterday,” Martha added, before stepping back to allow the vicar space to shake Connie’s hand.
“It will be well, Connie,” he said. “May God go with you.”
Connie blinked back tears. These two, and Mrs Hepple standing by the front door of the house, were her friends. Mrs Hepple met her eyes, and mimed dabbing her neck. Connie recalled the vial of rose perfume in her pocket. She hurriedly applied a liberal amount to her wrists and below her ears, then took a deep breath before entering the coach.
“What kept you, girl? You’ll need to show more obedience than this to your husband.” Charters’ rant paused as the coach lurched into motion. “Do not disgrace me, girl, once you… What’s that smell? What have you…?”
His voice faded in Connie’s ears as she leaned out of the window to wave to the Fancotts and the small group of servants.
“Pay attention while I’m talking to you! His lordship will expect you to…”
Connie rested her head against the padded wall of the coach, closing her eyes while Charters’ voice rose in annoyance. She wondered if he realised that marrying her off would remove her from his power.
Will stood at the front of the church, not wanting to wait with the earl and his sisters in the family pew. He was clad in the same blue suit he’d worn to the duel, less than a week ago. It was quite fitting, in a way. He’d been prepared for his life to change that morning, from being alive to being dead, but he hadn’t expected to be going from bachelorhood to parson’s mousetrap within a week.
The crunch of hooves and wheels on gravel drifted in through the open door. Will turned to get his first look at the woman he was to marry, feeling more nervous than he had before the duel. There’d been no note from Fancott yesterday, and it was too late now to change his mind.
The light blazing through the south door dimmed for a moment before two figures came into view. One was a thin man wearing the kind of wig that had gone out of fashion years ago and a scowl as thunderous as any his father managed.
Miss Charters was tall, only half a head shorter than the man beside her, and clad in a plain green gown opening over a patterned underskirt. A cap beneath a flat bergère hat concealed her hair, only a few escaped tendrils of unpowdered dark brown escaping. Her bowed head and the rim of her hat hid most of her face, but what he could see seemed pretty enough, in spite of her set mouth. She might still be a harridan or a mouse, he reminded himself; nevertheless he felt a slight optimism growing.
That feeling vanished as she approached and an overpowering scent of roses filled his nostrils. He liked roses, as they reminded him of his mother’s love of her gardens. But the scent she wore was almost strong enough to make him gag.
He took a deep breath—through his mouth. There was no way out now.
The vicar cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God…”
Will let the words wash over him, glancing now and then at the bowed head beside him. He made his responses in the right places, his new wife made her own vows in a voice that was low but clear, and finally the heavy Marstone wedding ring was on her finger, the huge ruby glinting in the light.
They signed the register in the vestry, and he offered his arm to escort the new Lady Wingrave to the door, squinting as they emerged into the sunshine. A slight breeze helped to dissipate the smell of roses.
“The housekeeper has arranged a cold collation,” he said. “Then we are to set off for Devonshire.”
Her hand was light on his arm, but he felt a sudden movement as he spoke. She glanced up, and he caught a glimpse of wide brown eyes before she lowered her head again. She was surprised—had no-one told her where they would be living? Perhaps Fancott was right, and she was no more willing for this match than he had been.
The earl, sweating visibly under his powdered wig, hobbled past them towards the waiting open carriage. Charters followed, bowing towards Will but hardly glancing at his daughter.
“My lady,” Will said, leading her over to the carriage and handing her in, her hand clasping his firmly. He toyed with the idea of walking back to the park, but he couldn’t abandon his new wife to his father’s lecturing so soon.
Rather than sit facing his father’s complacent expression, he spent the short journey pointing out various features of the estate as the carriage passed along the boundary wall and through the gates. Lady Wingrave looked where he indicated but said nothing, merely nodding at intervals. She had a clear complexion, dark brows arching above her eyes. Her hands, clasped in her lap, were not the smooth, white hands of an idle lady, but showed a slight tan, as if she spent some time out of doors, and her nails were cut practically short.
In contrast to his daughter’s silence, Charters gushed about the elegant design and sweeping vistas. From the earl’s faint sneer, Charters’ obsequious prattle was doing him little good.
When the carriage drew up in front of the house, Will handed Lady Wingrave down. “If you will excuse me, my lady, I need to check the final travelling arrangements.”
She nodded, but still did not speak. The earl’s expression darkened, and Will felt a brief pang of remorse at leaving his wife in the company of the two older men. It would not be for long, he told himself.
In the stable yard, Archer was waiting with Mercury, and Will’s trunks had been loaded onto the roof of the second-best coach. Will had packed his own things the evening before, including his mother’s jewellery box—he didn’t want his father to sell off her remaining personal items in a fit of pique. He’d also told Ferris his services were no longer required. No doubt several people at Ashton Tracey would be reporting his doings to his father, but he might at least be able to find a valet who had some sense of discretion.
There didn’t seem to be much else on top of the coach.
“Archer, where is Lady Wingrave’s luggage?”
Archer jerked his head upwards. “Up there, my lord, there was only two small trunks and a valise.”
Only two trunks? Why hadn’t she brought all her things?
He put that minor puzzle from his mind, turning back to Archer and Mercury. Keeping up with the coach for three days, with horses changed at frequent intervals, would overwork the animal, so he’d arranged for the groom to take him at a slower pace. Although Will would prefer to ride Mercury himself, it would be too rude to his new bride, at least for today.
“Look after him, Archer,” Will said. “You know the way to The Crown at Marlow?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Will headed back to the house as Mercury clattered out of the stable yard. He’d say a quick farewell to his sisters before he set off. One unwanted marriage in the family was enough—preventing their father from forcing them to wed men they did not care for might be easier now he had a wife.
Chapter 10
Connie looked after Lord Wingrave as he walked away around the front of the building, feeling suddenly alone. She turned and gazed up at the pale stone, glaring bright in the sunshine. A wide flight of steps led up to the front door. Half columns picked out the front of the building; two rows of huge windows were topped by a stone balustrade.
She would be mistress of this one day? It did not seem real.
She twisted the large ring on her left hand. It was a loose fit, and she clenched her fingers, suddenly afraid of losing it. The ring felt like a symbol of possession, of a commercial contract, not something to mark the joining of two people for ‘the mutual society, help and comfort’ suggested by the marriage service.
Taking a deep breath, she followed her father and father-in-law up the two flights of steps and into the house. There would be plenty of time—too much—for such thoughts later.
“Excuse me, my lady.”
Connie to
ok a couple more steps across the black and white tiled entrance hall before she realised that she was the lady being addressed. The woman who had spoken wore a black dress and plain cap, the bunch of keys hanging from her waist proclaiming her the housekeeper.
“You will wish to refresh yourself before your journey, my lady,” the housekeeper said, with a small curtsey. “I can take you to a room where you may do so.”
She set off up the stairs without waiting for a response, and Connie followed. She did want to wash off the overpowering scent of roses, but irritation rose at the housekeeper’s assumption that she would automatically follow.
The stairs turned two corners before reaching a galleried landing. The housekeeper led the way along a corridor, and opened a door into a small bedroom. A pitcher of water and a bowl stood on a chest of drawers, together with some towels.
“Could you have some food packed for the journey, Mrs…?”
“Williamson, my lady. I will see that a basket is prepared for you. I will send a maid to assist you.”
“No, thank you, I do not require help. But send for me, please, when my… when Lord Wingrave is ready to depart.”
Mrs Williamson curtseyed and left, closing the door behind her.
A maid? She supposed that all ladies had a personal maid. Would her husband expect her to have brought one?
Shrugging, she rested the posy of roses on the chest and poured water into the bowl. Pulling off her fichu, she used a wet towel to wash her face and neck, the moisture refreshingly cool against her skin. It was going to be stuffy cooped up in a coach for several days.
With her new husband.
Although she was relieved not to be living in this huge house under the eye of the earl, Devonshire was also far from her only friends. What would Lord Wingrave be like as a husband?
