by Fiona Hill
“She’ll change her mind,” Claude muttered now. “I give her until next week. By the time the holidays have passed, she’ll be furious with herself, and only hoping I’ll ask again.”
“Pretty certain of yourself, for a man turned down three times,” his father observed, amused. In his heart (such as it was) he shared his son’s opinion, however, and could not understand what made the chit so obstinate. Not that he particularly favoured the match—it was far from brilliant—but Claude had not asked his opinion, anyway, and it was acceptable.
“Why should I be uncertain?” the son demanded. “She will have nothing else to think of in this rural wasteland; she is as safe here from other suitors as if she dwelt on the moon. And another Christmas spent in the poverty of her aunts’ home is hardly likely to make her more sanguine about her prospects. Are you familiar with that household, sir? It is shabby beyond belief.”
“I’ve seen it,” the baronet returned gruffly, with a sharp intonation that almost surprised his son. “In fact, Prudence Deverell came a-begging favours of me not a month ago—something about a hospital of some sort, for animals or some such nonsense.”
“Yes, they are both quite mad about their pets.”
“Seemed so. Hospital … humph! Wanted me to found it, or get funds from the city coffers—some rubbish. Offered to call it the Proctor Kemp Animal Shelter, in my honour. I can tell you, I wasn’t persuaded!”
“No, of course not, sir,” Claude agreed. “Interesting, though … wonder if Miss Newcombe shares her guardians’ aspirations.”
The old man snorted. “The day a Kemp has to bribe a lady to marry him—” he started, and stopped ominously.
“Yes, exactly, sir.” Claude Kemp shook his father’s hand briefly and bowed. “Until next time,” he said formally. “Enjoy your Christmas, sir.”
“Hah!” exploded Sir Proctor. He said “Hah!” to himself several times even after Claude had gone, largely because he had no intention of enjoying his Christmas, and well Claude knew it. Lady Elizabeth Kemp had died on Christmas Eve, twenty-seven years before; since then the squire had passed every Christmas season mourning her, in strict, irascible solitude. Claude was more prudent than heartless in making a habit of deserting his father at this time of year. Sir Proctor said “Hah!” once more for good measure, and settled back uneasily in his chair. After a moment he rang for a servant; one appeared immediately. “Stir up these coals, damn it, can’t you?” he flung at the unfortunate footman, indicating the hearth where only one log blazed. “Damned fools,” he muttered angrily, while the footman stooped to his labour. “I’m surrounded by a lot of damned fools! Hah!”
Chapter III
Miss Honoria Newcombe and Mr. Alexander Blackwood were joined in the most holy bonds of matrimony on the third of January, in the Year of Our Lord 1817, after due posting of the banns, by the Reverend Mr. Thomas Lester. The wedding party was small, consisting only of the happy couple and their immediate family; the bride wore blue and white. No honeymoon was planned by the new Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood, nor had they a home of their own in which to start their life together. They would reside temporarily with the parents of the bridegroom at Sweet’s Folly, and to that residence they went directly following the ceremony. There a number of guests arrived, to celebrate the happy occasion with feasting and dancing, and to felicitate the newlyweds on this most solemn and joyful event in their young lives.
It was all extremely embarrassing for Honor, who felt that everyone must know this was a marriage of convenience, and little more. Alexander was affable, but distracted as always: the rector had been obliged to ask him twice to repeat the vows. Her aunts had insisted on bringing several of Honoria’s favourite cats into the little church where the ceremony took place, and one of them had escaped and run up to the altar at just the wrong moment. Her aunts had been disappointingly serene when presented, several weeks before, with the news that Honor had agreed to become Mrs. Blackwood.
“Will you indeed, dear?” Aunt Prudence had said mildly. “Then you mean to disappoint Mr. Kemp, after all?”
“She refused him repeatedly,” Mercy reminded her sister gently. “Don’t you recall? Three or four times, I believe, was the number.”
“Yes, of course she did,” Prudence returned, smiling.
“And it did not signify to us one way or the other, do you remember?” Mercy pursued. “We had no opinion of it, I am certain.”
“Quite so.” She turned to Honor again. “Well then! Alexander Blackwood. I’m sure he’ll make quite an adequate husband for you, if a husband is what you want.”
“But—” Honor began, her brow wrinkling a little, and stopped. She had been about to ask whether her aunts were not happy to know she would cease to be a burden to them, but realized suddenly that of course they would make no sign of it if they were; she was not supposed even to know of their pecuniary difficulties. “Yes,” she amended quickly, “I am sure Alexander will be a very pleasant husband.”
“I like him,” Mercy confided suddenly. “I always have liked him better than Claude. That Claude has such broad terrible shoulders; broad shoulders are a certain indication of a flawed character. Alexander is so much more narrow; I like him for it very much.”
“Are broad shoulders really so significant?” Honoria asked wonderingly.
“O yes, my dear! Don’t you recall the width of Mr. Morley’s shoulders? Mr. Morley, the butcher, I mean.”
“Indeed, I do,” said her niece; “but I have always considered Mr. Morley to be quite a kind man. He does give us rather a lot of scraps, does he not?”
Aunt Mercy sighed and shook her head, smiling tenderly. “Poor Honoria,” she said. “Prue, I think she is even more innocent than I! Certainly Mr. Morley gives us scraps, but he does not do so out of kindness, Honoria! He does so from guilt—to atone for being such a thoroughly nasty man to begin with. How could a butcher be a kind man, Honoria? Where have your wits gone begging? Of course, he is a terrible man, a cruel and bloodthirsty man, there was never a doubt of that in my mind.”
“He is excessively polite to me,” the girl said timidly.
“Of course, naturally! To keep from being brutal, don’t you see? Not that he can help it, you know; it is a character flaw, as I say. His nature is to be coarse and unkind. That is the nature of all men. They can’t help it, can they, Prue?”
“No, they cannot. Men are beasts.”
The ticking of the clock was all that was heard in the parlour for a few moments. Then Aunt Prudence resumed, saying, “So Alexander Blackwood is to be your husband. How very agreeable that will be for you!”
It had been a disappointing reception of her sacrifice, to say the least. And Honoria had become terrified the night before the wedding. She had looked about the little bed-chamber, which had been hers since she could recall, and the most doleful thoughts had come into her mind. This was the last night she would ever sleep there, the last night she would be Miss Newcombe, the very very last night. These reflections induced her to cry at first, which was not too awful, but quite soon her regret had turned somehow into fear, and that had been wretched! She had almost wanted to run away, and had grown quite hysterical in a very short time. Only the most diligent efforts to govern her feelings saved her from utter panic, but she had at last fallen asleep, consoling herself with the thought that at least she would have a pianoforte always near: her aunts did not own one, and hitherto she had always walked over to Sweet’s Folly when she wished to play. There would be no more “walking over to Sweet’s Folly” now. Now she would live there herself, with Dr. and Mrs. Blackwood, and Emily, and—and her husband. She slept that night, but not well, and the rings under her eyes were quite noticeable the next day, even through her wedding veil.
Dr. Blackwood would have liked a large wedding, to show that his son was a gentleman of consequence, but there had been no time for that. However, he had contrived to invite most of the neighbourhood to Sweet’s Folly afterwards, and a late supper was arranged
for the most select of the guests. After even these had gone, the Blackwood family kissed the bride and groom once more and disappeared discreetly. For the first time since he had come to Bench Street to offer for her, Alexander and Honor were left alone together. They sat in the drawing-room, where the family portraits hung; a small suite of rooms on the second story had been prepared for them, and Honor was tired, but she did not know how or whether to excuse herself now from her husband. It was all so awkward, so abominably awkward! Alexander said nothing, though he yawned (imperfectly concealing the fact) several times.
“It was a pleasant ceremony,” Honor observed at last.
“Yes, very pleasant,” he agreed.
“And the evening was agreeable, too. Your father has been very generous.”
“O, quite generous,” Alex replied. “He is quite generous, I think.”
Honor felt almost ready to cry, so exhausted and lost did she feel. “A most liberal gentleman,” she repeated at last.
“Most liberal,” he echoed.
“Alexander—”
He turned to look at her, having previously been absorbed in examining the geometric design in the Turkey carpet that lay on the drawing-room floor. He was slight, of course-almost frail, in fact, for he took very little exercise—but if one did not regard his legs (they were hopelessly spindly) he was quite an attractive young man. In repose, his features strongly suggested his sister’s, a circumstance that comforted his new wife somewhat. When he smiled, which was rarely, his countenance became almost charming: his smile was crooked, ingenuous really, and very appealing. Emily Blackwood had not been graced with this particular smile; it was Alex’s own. His fair curls had been dressed with a good deal more care than usual for the wedding, and as his green eyes gazed now at his wife, she felt with surprise that he was actually quite a bit more handsome than she had supposed. Unfortunately, that did nothing to alleviate the awkwardness of the moment, and though Alexander turned his attention towards her, he said nothing.
“It has been a long day,” she stated, rather lamely.
“Has it? But it is midwinter,” he objected mildly. “Surely it must have been a short day, don’t you think?”
“I meant—”
“O, I know what you meant!” he interrupted suddenly. His crooked grin broke out. “You meant it had seemed like a long day, that the day had been so full of different things, it had appeared to go on a long time. You were speaking metaphorically, were you not? How foolish of me!” Alexander was no simpleton, but he really had not understood at first what she meant. Such absurd difficulties in communicating were typical of him: he simply had not had much practise in conversation. “I am awfully sorry,” he said now. “You are quite correct, of course. It has been a long day.”
“And I am tired, Alexander,” she dared at last to say.
“So am I, indeed.” He paused. “O, but then you must go to sleep, Miss Newcombe. Shall I have Jepston show you to your room?”
“Alexander, I am not Miss Newcombe any longer,” she pointed out. “I am Mrs. Blackwood. And I know the way to my chamber, thank you.”
“Do you? But of course you do. We discussed it all last week, at dinner. Your chamber is to be next to mine—my new one, that is. I—” he broke off suddenly. “O dear! Did I call you Miss Newcombe?” he cried, truly shocked. “What a cake I make of myself! Mrs. Blackwood, naturally. Can you ever forgive me?”
He looked so dismayed and vexed with himself that Honoria forgot to be hurt. “Please, Alexander. Let us agree on some few things,” she said patiently. “I shall call you Alex, or Alexander; and you may call me Honor, or Honoria. It is usual between husband and wife, and that is what we are now, though I know it surprises us both.”
“It is rather a jolt, is it not?”
“Yes, it is.” Realizing that she must make all the decisions between them, for a while at least, she continued, “I should like to go up to bed now, Alex.”
“I pray you will not let me keep you!” he replied sincerely. “I myself must go to my study for an hour or two; we have been so busy today, I have had no chance even to glance at my work yet. Or, should you like me to escort you up the stairs first? It is late; perhaps you are frightened.”
She was tempted for a moment to accept his aid, but soon saw the uselessness of it. “No, thank you very much. I shall do by myself very well.” She stood, and went towards the door.
Alexander rose too, looking distracted again.
“Good night,” Honor said quietly, turning towards him.
“Mrs. Blackwood—Honor,” he said suddenly, in a tight, curious voice. “Honor—”
He went towards her, until he stood only a pace away. He seemed very tall to her at that moment, and his features drew together as if in intense concentration. With an abrupt, agile motion that startled both of them, he bent to her and kissed her full on the mouth. It was the first time he had done so. “Good night,” he said, in the same curious voice, standing straight again. As he appeared to have no more to say, there was nothing for Honor to do but murmur good night once more and proceed up to bed alone. Hours later, as she sat in the great, canopied bed, nursing the end of a candle, she heard her husband enter his room and quietly shut the door.
In the little house in Bench Street, Honoria’s absence was felt that evening and duly noted, but conversation turned only briefly upon it. “It was a pretty wedding,” Mercy remarked.
“As weddings go,” said Prudence, with a sceptical sniff.
“Do you recall Patience’s wedding?” continued Mercy, referring to the third Deverell sister, who had been Honoria’s mother.
“Patience? O yes! Though I never did understand why she married that Newcombe. She was perfectly welcome to stop on with us, I am sure. I always said no good would come of it, and I was absolutely correct, of course.”
“I should say you were!” Mercy agreed, nodding energetically. “Why, it was the death of her!”
“Yes, and no wonder.”
“Though, indeed, we should never have had Honoria, if it hadn’t been for Newcombe.”
“We haven’t got Honor now,” Prudence observed.
“No, in fact we haven’t!” said her sister, much struck. She stopped for a moment to disentangle Calico from a ball of yam she was knitting into a shawl. “That is not a toy for you,” she said, almost severely; “it is a toy for me.”
“Calico is fretful because her baby has been taken from her,” said Prudence. Amber, the kitten to whom she referred, had been given to Honoria as a wedding gift.
“Still, I am glad we gave him to her,” Mercy replied. “Patience would have wanted it that way.”
“You are right,” Prudence said, though Patience could not possibly have wanted any such thing, since she had never been acquainted with either Calico or her offspring.
“Marriage is a very sad affair, after all,” Mercy sighed.
Prudence sniffed again, to signify agreement.
“However, we must not allow it to weigh on our spirits,” she said briskly, after several minutes had ticked past. “We have a mission to accomplish, dear—or had you forgot?”
“The animal hospital? I should hope not! I have been thinking of it every day for weeks, and every night, too. Unfortunately,” she added, “I have not thought of anything helpful.”
“Never mind, dear; I have.”
“Have you indeed, Prue? I made sure you would! The very thing—how clever you are. What is it?”
“Well … you may find this just the least bit unsettling at first, but bear in mind this is a terribly important mission, and the most desperate actions may be called for.”
“I am prepared,” her sister returned solemnly. A little thrill rushed down her spine at the hint of impending heroics.
“We are agreed, I think, that without Squire Kemp’s assistance, our aim may never be accomplished. Is that not so?”
“Precisely so.”
“Further, we know that Kemp is presently of no mind to h
elp us. We know that because I asked him, and he said so.”
“Yes, yes, go on!” To Mercy, her sister’s remarks seemed the exciting fruits of the most rigorous logic.
“Therefore, we must find a way to change his feelings towards us.”
“Prudence!” the other breathed admiringly.
“Now, how are we to do that?” her elder sister enquired rhetorically.
“O dear, Prue, is that all you’ve been able to think of?” Mercy almost wailed. “I am sure I don’t know!”
“Wait, wait a moment,” Prudence interrupted, holding up a frail hand. “I do have a scheme, but you must be willing to make some-some sacrifices.”
“Anything at all, my dear.”
“Good, then. In order to change Kemp’s feelings, we must appeal to him on the most fundamental and primitive level. Mr. Kemp is not a subtle man. We know he is impervious to the demands of justice. We must go deeper than that,” Prue repeated, drawing a deep breath, “and that is why you must make him fall in love with you.”
“Make him—!”
“I cautioned you this was a bold scheme, Mercy.”
“Yes, but—how should I—? Dare I? Dare I, Prue?”
“For Tiger, and Muffin, and Fido, and Lady, and all their heirs, assigns, et cetera? I should think you will dare, Mercy! I should think you shall!”
Mercy was still quite aghast. “It does not sound proper at all, Prudence. You know you have always had no idea of propriety, dearest, no idea at all. I’m afraid this—well, this fairly smacks of scandal, Prudence love. I really do not think—” She shook her head disapprovingly.
“Mercy, we agreed on desperate measures. Now, I tell you, I have thought about it thoroughly, and there is nothing else for it. What is your honour or dignity, compared to the welfare of our small friends?” Small friends was the term they always used to refer to their pets.
