The Reluctant Bride

by Meg Alexander

  She did not answer him.

  'You have given me no opportunity to explain the scene you saw tonight. You could not, of course. That might remove your objection to our union.'

  Again, she said nothing, and the silence between them lengthened.

  Then, abruptly, Isham turned away. 'Don't bother to lock your door. You will come to me of your own free will before I trouble you again.'

  The slam of the closing door sounded like a death-knell in her heart. What had she done? Isham's icy words had stung, not least because some of the accusations were true. Had she been unfair? She could not imagine a deed so vile that it would justify his utter condemnation of his brother, but she had not troubled to find out.

  And had she used her disapproval of his angry words to cheat him of his rights? Sunk in misery, she faced the truth; He had looked into her heart and found there what she dared not admit even to herself. Her courage had failed her at the last. She would have seized upon any excuse to avoid that ultimate coupling of man and wife. She felt ashamed of her behaviour, but it was much too late to remedy her folly. She was in truth a cheat.

  It was long before she sought her bed. The fire had burned to ashes when she slipped at last between the sheets. Then her fingers touched the little token beneath her pillow, and she began to sob as if her heart would break.

  When Nan roused her early the next day she felt that she hadn't slept at all, but she was given no time for reflection. His lordship, so she was informed, was anxious to make an early start.

  India dressed hurriedly, forcing down the cup of scalding chocolate on her tray.

  'My lady, you have eaten nothing!' Nan exclaimed. She had betrayed no surprise at finding India alone.

  The gentry had their own queer ways. Husband and wife had separate rooms, or so she had been told.

  'It is too early for me,' India murmured. 'I expect that we shall stop to bait the horses. I shall take something then.' She allowed the girl to throw the heavy cloak about her shoulders. Then she picked up her reticule and hurried down the stairs.

  Isham awaited her in the hall. She had been dreading meeting him, but his manner told her nothing. He greeted her with his usual courtesy and handed her into the coach.

  It was still dark when they left the Grange, and his face remained in shadow as they set off on the road to Derby. Her own comfort had been considered. A hot brick warmed her feet and a fur rug covered her knees.

  'You are warm enough?' Isham asked politely.

  'Yes, thank you.' There seemed little more to say, so she huddled against the cushions and pretended to be asleep.

  The sky lightened only slowly on that dark winter's morning but the weather was dry and clear and they made good time on the first stage of their journey.

  Isham was the first to break the silence. 'India, we can't go on like this. Let us at least attempt some semblance of civility, else our lives will be a torment.'

  She turned to him then and was surprised to see that the bitterness had vanished from his eyes, to be replaced by an expression which she could not understand. Had she not known better, she might have thought it was anguish.

  'I agree, my lord,' she said at once. 'I fear that I spoke to you in ill-judged haste. I should not have refused to listen to your explanations.'

  'It is no matter.'

  'That isn't true! It is of great importance. Will you not tell me now?'

  'To restore your faith in me? Was there ever any such? I think not, my dear. For once I lost my self-control. Now, it must appear, I must pay for it. You see, I had not thought to be betrayed by one so close to me...'

  India shivered. 'Please!' she begged. 'You shall not feel that I have betrayed you!'

  She had his full attention then. 'You? No, not you, my dear. I have been at fault in all our dealings.'

  India frowned at him. 'I cannot understand you.'

  'No? Then let me say that I have been a fool. I have rushed you into marriage when you had little or no regard for me, believing that I could win your love in my own way. Such idiocy! You may put it down to my own pride and arrogance.'

  India stared at him. 'I did not know that you hoped to win my love,' she faltered.

  'How could you? It would have taken a seer to penetrate the reasons for my actions.'

  'Oh!' India relapsed into silence. A little worm of doubt was stirring in her heart. Perhaps she had misjudged him. Even now, it seemed impossible, but could it be that Letty had been right? Did Isham truly love her? If so, she had flung his affection back into his face. It did not bear thinking of.

  'Why did you quarrel with Henry?' she asked.

  'I told you that I had been to London. I was summoned there by a request from the highest level. Whilst he was in India, Henry disgraced not only himself, but also his country. In return for gifts he promised favours which he was unable to grant and sank deeply into debt. I shall not distress you with the methods by which he proposed to clear those debts. He will be lucky not to be impeached.'

  India froze. 'Oh, how could he? But Anthony, you will help him, will you not?'

  Her husband sighed. 'I have left him a draft upon my bank, and I was able to use my influence to have the worst of the accusations dropped.'

  'I have misjudged you,' she said in a low voice. 'I am very sorry.' She was appalled, not only by Henry's behaviour, but also by her own. Why was she always so ready to believe the worst of this man who sat beside her? She did not dare to look at him.

  Isham leaned forward and rapped upon the roof of the coach, bringing it to a halt.

  'I'll take the reins for a while,' he said. 'Will you have Nan for company?'

  India shook her head. Nan was travelling in the second coach with Isham's valet and the luggage. Only yesterday she had teased her bridegroom about his proposal to travel in such state, only to be reminded that she would not find it entertaining to be stranded far from help on a winter's day if they should lose a wheel. Now that friendly banter was a thing of the past. It was clear that Isham had no desire to share the carriage with her.

  'As you wish!' he said shortly. He had not even accepted her apology, as she was quick to realise.

  The rest of the long journey was a nightmare. When they stopped for refreshment and to change the horses Isham was solicitous of India's comfort, treating her with grave courtesy. It was when they made an overnight stay at Derby that she began to understand how deeply he was wounded. Again she was left to spend the night alone.

  She could not fathom her own dismay. It should have been a relief to be spared his attentions, but it wasn't.

  They left Derby at first light on the following day, and again Isham took the reins for the long journey north. It was only when they were within a mile of their destination that he joined her in the carriage.

  India stole a glance at his face. He had had time to think, to accept her apology for her hasty judgement, and perhaps even to forgive her for her humiliating rejection of him on their wedding night. His calm expression told her nothing. Invariably polite and considerate of her comfort, he was unapproachable. A barrier lay between them, invisible as glass, but almost tangible.

  It wasn't from any wish to seek her company that he'd joined her. She understood the reason soon enough as they drove through a small village. A crowd assembled quickly, cheering and waving and running along beside the coach.

  'Do you know these people?' she asked in some surprise.

  'They are my tenants.'

  'Then we are on your land?' It was a relief to think that they were almost at their journey's end.

  'We have been travelling across it for the last hour or more. Acknowledge them, India. Some will have stood for hours, awaiting our arrival.'

  Obediently, she began to wave and started a fresh round of cheering. It continued in the next village and the next, until at last they turned in through a pair of ornate iron gates, set in a massive wall.

  The crowds surrounding the lodge gates were even thicker and the coach was forced
to a stop. In the midst of the shouting and the laughter India was surprised to see the horses being led away. As the carriage began to move again she realised that it was being drawn by a throng of brawny men.

  Isham gave her a faint smile. 'A traditional welcome for the new bride,' he said.

  It needed no words of his to make her feel ashamed. She had cheated her husband on their wedding night. Now she was cheating these good people. A new bride she might be, but she was not yet a wife. The villagers were celebrating the happiness of the newly married couple. How could they know that it was all a sham?

  She was roused from her feelings of self-reproach by her first sight of Hambledon. Set in the curve of sheltering hills, the house was enormous.

  'You did not tell me that you owned a palace,' she cried in wonder. 'Great heavens! How many rooms are there?'

  'Some hundreds, I believe,' he replied indifferently. 'Each generation has added to the place, hence the mixture of architectural styles. The original was an Elizabethan manor house. One wing was added in the time of the second Charles, and another at the start of the last century.'

  'Yet they blend together perfectly. What a sight it is. with the sun reflected in the windows! One might almost imagine the place to be afire!'

  Let us hope not, my dear, though it might succeed in shortening the speeches to which we are about to be subjected. You are not too tired to listen to them?'

  India shook her head. 'Not at all. It is kind of your people to wish us well.'

  He made no reply and handed her down from the coach in silence. After that India was lost in a sea of faces, returning warm handshakes, accepting bouquets which she realised had not been easy to assemble in mid-winter, and listening intently to halting words of welcome, made by those to whom speaking in public was clearly an ordeal.

  Isham rescued her at last, leading her indoors towards the warmth of a blazing fire crackling merrily on a vast hearth in the panelled hall.

  He gave her no time to wonder at the sheer size of the room. Instead he led her down the line of servants, greeting one and then another with a joke, a friendly smile, or an enquiry as to their family. India followed his lead, attempting to match his warmth. Would she ever learn to remember all the names, she wondered? It did not seem to matter. A kind word and a handshake brought an instant response.

  At last he raised a finger and summoned the housekeeper. 'Her ladyship would like to see her room,' he announced.

  'Of course, my lord. My lady, will you come this way?'

  India followed the woman through what seemed like miles of corridors. She was shown into a room which had none of the opulence which she had expected.

  India sighed with relief. This was a room designed for living. Ormolu and ornate trappings had been banished. Curtains and bed-hangings might even be a little faded, but the chairs were comfortable. There were cupboards and wardrobes in abundance, the huge bookcase was filled to capacity, and the little desk had been freshly stocked with writing-paper and pens. It seemed much less intimidating than the rest of the house, but on closer inspection she realised that the carpets were of the finest quality, as was the bedlinen. She began to study the pictures and realised that they must be worth a king's ransom. The furniture too must have been handed down over several generations. The original workmanship was very fine. Her gilded cage, she thought bitterly, would certainly live up to expectations.

  She allowed Nan to remove her cloak and bonnet. Then she sank into a chair beside the fire, bone-weary after the long journey and the exhausting, if well-meant, welcome from the villagers.

  'Shall you prefer to dine up here this evening?' Isham was standing in the doorway of the adjoining room.

  Tired though India was, she shook her head. She guessed that a celebratory meal had been prepared and she would not disappoint the kitchen staff.

  'Then shall we say in an hour or so? I'll wait for you downstairs...' He smiled his approval of her decision, but he did not enter her room again in the weeks they spent at Hambledon. That door stayed firmly closed, though she knew it was not locked.

  Life at the great house went on as it had always done, sustained by myriads of servants, and India found that she had little to do. Her mother had warned her that one of her daily duties would be to discuss menus with the chef. India smiled to herself. One meeting with that temperamental genius had convinced her that he would brook no interference, in spite of his Gallic charm.

  Clearly, he was in no need of advice from her. The food which graced their dining-table was such as she had never tasted in her life. Invariably it brought compliments from the guests who joined them daily.

  Christmas came and went, with the traditional feasting for the villagers, and each day Isham took her to the more outlying parts of the estate to visit the elderly and infirm.

  She wasn't surprised by his generosity to those in need. What did astonish her was his intimate knowledge of their circumstances, and the obvious affection with which his people greeted him.

  Had his manner towards her softened a little? His courtesy could not be faulted, but the barrier was still there. She sensed it and wondered why it should matter quite so much. Since their first meeting Isham had annoyed her, teased her and puzzled her. Now she was beginning to realise just how much she had welcomed the sight of his tall figure in her home, laughing, provoking and quick-witted. Sadly, that delightful gaiety had quite vanished.

  Then the weather changed, cold, dry conditions giving way to constant rain. India missed her daily drive through the rolling countryside, so unlike anything she had imagined in the north of England. Even in the depths of winter she could tell that this was rich farming land, fat and prosperous in spite of poor harvests elsewhere and the depressed state of agriculture. How she would love to see it in the spring and summer.

  Her hopes were dashed when Isham came to find her in the library. She had been leafing through the poems of Scott and Byron, unimpressed by the high-flown language. She laid them aside and picked up a book of earlier poetry. John Donne? She had not heard of him. She began to read and her breath caught in her throat. The raw sensuality of his words made her heart turn over in her breast. This was love poetry of the very highest order, and her own emotions brought her close to tears.

  What was the matter with her? The answer came as Isham walked towards her. She knew then that she loved him and the shock was tremendous. She rose and went to him, laying a hand upon his arm. It was a bitter blow when he removed it. That slight action was gentle enough, but it threw her into despair. It was clear that he no longer wanted her.

  India could not look at him. What had she done? They had not been married above three weeks and her future lay in ruins.

  A physical blow would have been easier to bear, but Isham did not seem to notice her dismay.

  'I am called to London,' he said quickly. 'India, I do not care to leave you here. The riots are spreading, and to date the military forces have been ineffective against these mobile bands which operate at night.'

  'Luddites, my lord?'

  'And others. They have been active in Derbyshire, which is not far from here, and also in Leicestershire. Lancashire is on our borders, and already some of our neighbours have had death threats.'

  'But Anthony, there are no factories here. I thought that the men were smashing the knitting-frames.'

  'Machinery in general is their target. Knitting, spinning, weaving...that would be bad enough. Now they are firing barns and hayricks. It won't be long before they march upon private houses.'

  'When do you wish to leave?' she asked.

  'Tomorrow...at first light. If you wish it we can go by way of Abbot's Quincey. You will be safe there at the Grange. Your uncle has mobilised a force of volunteers...'

  'Shall I not be just as safe with you in London? That is, if you have no objection?'

  He looked at her then, hope struggling with cynicism in his eyes. Then the impersonal manner returned.

  'I have no objection,' he said q
uietly.

  On the journey south he left the driving to his coachman, and India's spirits rose. Perhaps he was beginning to forgive her.

  Isham confined his conversation to remarks about the countryside through which they passed, his concerns for the estate and his assessment of the unrest in the counties.

  'Perhaps it will die down,' she murmured.

  'I hope so, India, otherwise it may lead to savage repression. The authorities have been badly frightened, and there is much talk of hangings and transportation.'

  'You don't agree with that?'

  'I don't, my dear. The stockingers, poor devils, were to blame for the fall in exports. That was due to Napoleon's blockade. Now half the population of Nottingham is on public relief. The price of bread is high and they cannot feed their families.'

  'Others must think as you do.'

  'They do. One of my allies will surprise you. Byron himself has spoken out with a plea for mercy.'

  'Great heavens! I thought him naught but a poseur.'

  'Another flawed judgement, India?' Isham regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. They drove her back into her shell.

  The reminder had distressed her more than he imagined, but India was determined that he should not see it. He should have no further cause for complaint against her. On that lengthy journey she mentioned neither her aching limbs nor the jolting she suffered on certain of the roads.

  Even so, it was a relief when they reached the fashionable heart of London and the coach drew up in Grosvenor Square.

  After the splendour of Hambledon, India was unsurprised to find that his lordship's town house was sited in the most desirable part of the capital. What did surprise her was the interior. She murmured with pleasure as he led her into the main salon. The simple elegance of colour scheme and furnishings was very much to her taste. His lordship had not bowed to the present craze for Orientalism. The furniture in his home was English, but it did not need the eye of an expert to be convinced that it was the work of a master craftsman.

  Everything was immaculate, but that was to be expected, considering the number of staff employed here. She had passed along the ranks, from the butler, housekeeper and chef, to footmen, maids and porter, down to the newest tweeny.