Wager for a Wife

by Karen Tuft

  “Stop!” a voice shrieked. “Stop, stop!”

  Louisa turned at the sound, as did everyone else. Mary was running toward them, her hair loose from its mobcap, apron flying, arms waving frantically. She was out of breath by the time she reached them.

  “Where are you going?” she cried, panting. “You can’t go! You’re Mrs. Will, and you’re going to have babies! He told me!”

  Oh, Mary.

  Louisa glanced at her parents. Mama’s eyes were wide with shock, and Papa’s expression would surely shatter glass, considering he was already in a foul disposition. Mary’s innocent words had apparently put him over the edge.

  Louisa went to the poor girl and put her arm around Mary’s shoulder.

  “Have you been compromised?” her father asked in a quiet, menacing tone.

  “Certainly not!” That was all she needed—for her father to think he must now force William to marry her. It was utterly absurd and so farcical under the circumstances that Louisa felt the urge to laugh hysterically.

  Mary started wringing her hands and shaking her head. “You can’t go. You can’t go,” she muttered over and over. “Will said everything was going to be better. Lady Farleigh is gone, and you’re Lady Farleigh. There will be babies. And the bad one’s never coming back. Will said so. He said so.”

  Louisa didn’t know what to say to comfort her. She kept her arm around Mary and simply let her speak. You will feel better now that you’ve shared this, Louisa. You are a verbal creature. Words are your friends, as they are not mine. Be at peace.

  Oh, William.

  Mrs. Brill hurried over, followed by Mrs. Holly and Grimshaw. Out of the corner of Louisa’s eye, she could see Matthew and Samuel coming around the corner of the house toward them too.

  “I’m so sorry, milady,” Mrs. Brill said, taking a sobbing Mary by the hand. “Come on, now, luv. It’ll be all right. You’ll see. We’re all in a bit of a state, your lordship, your ladyship, and my poor lamb here meant no harm. Come on, Mary, luv.”

  “You can’t go,” Mary said again, turning pleading eyes on Louisa. Mrs. Brill looked like she didn’t know what to do.

  Louisa hugged Mary close as she dashed tears from her own eyes with her gloved hand. “I have to go,” Louisa choked out in a whisper. “He changed his mind, you see.” Louisa broke free and quickly climbed into the carriage. She could bear no more.

  Tibbetts got into the carriage and sat silently next to her. Mama and Papa followed. Papa gave a rap on the ceiling, letting the coachman know it was time to leave.

  Louisa looked out the window—she couldn’t help herself—and saw the people of Farleigh Manor standing there in the front courtyard: Mrs. Holly, Mrs. Brill, and Mary, Grimshaw, and Matthew. Samuel stood to the side, his arms crossed over his chest.

  William wasn’t with them, not that Louisa had expected him to be. He had said all he had to say at the oak tree.

  There was no reason for an additional farewell.

  * * *

  The sun was low on the horizon and cast the sky in shades of rose and gold when William began his trek back to the house, picnic basket in tow. A mere glance at the house told him Louisa was gone, as though Farleigh Manor itself was grieving her absence and William could sense it somehow.

  He trudged inside, left the basket in the kitchen, and went directly to his study. First order of business was to write Richard Heslop and inform him that there was to be no marriage. After that, he would speak to Matthew. The two of them needed to determine where their best efforts would generate the most yield and income from the estate. But he was not ready to see Matthew yet; he wasn’t in a mood to speak to anybody.

  What was he to say to them that would explain this mess? They knew nothing of the original wager or the vowel. They were probably going about their evening tasks right now, wondering what had happened to make Louisa leave so abruptly. Or maybe she’d told them about the vowel before she’d left, and they were appalled by how low William had sunk.

  He pulled out a sheet of paper and dipped his quill into the inkwell. “Mr. Heslop,” he wrote. “I am not sure if I came to my senses or lost them, but I have torn up the vowel affecting Lady Louisa Hargreaves. Any suggestions you can offer dealing with the estate’s debt would be greatly appreciated. Yours, William Barlow, Junior, Viscount Farleigh.”

  He folded it, sealed it, and set it aside. It was dark outside now. Good. It suited his mood perfectly.

  He would speak to Matthew tomorrow.

  He went to his room, ignoring the worried looks of Grimshaw and Mrs. Holly and the others.

  * * *

  On Sunday, braced on both sides by her parents and brothers, Louisa walked into St. George’s Church, praying that all her years of training as a nobleman’s daughter would not abandon her while she did so.

  They proceeded up the aisle to their usual pew, and Louisa sat looking straight ahead, trying desperately not to think about the final banns that were to have been read today. But the very fact that she was trying not to think about them meant that that was all she could think about.

  There was a part of her that wanted to look about the chapel for William, wondering if he would be here just to see if she would not object to the reading of the final banns. But it was fanciful thinking on her part. Papa had already spoken to the rector.

  There would be no final banns read today.

  She hardly heard a word spoken during the services, except for a few murmurs that arose in the congregation when the time for the banns came and went. She supposed it didn’t help that the rector paused ever so briefly, shooting a glance at her and Papa as if waiting to be corrected, before continuing on.

  Eventually, none too soon for Louisa, the service concluded. “Nearly done now, little sister,” Alex whispered in her ear as they arose. “Only the escape, and then you are through the worst of it.”

  She nodded, acknowledging his words of encouragement.

  But the escape proved a difficult one. They had barely stepped out of the pew into the aisle when Lady Putnam pushed through the crowd. “I believe I shall see that the carriage is ready,” Louisa heard Papa whisper to Mama just as Lady Putnam reached them. Papa had little tolerance for the lady and her gossipy ways.

  “Lady Ashworth, Lady Louisa, a fine day, is it not?” Lady Putnam said in greeting. “And here are your handsome sons as well.”

  Alex and Anthony both nodded to her and then quickly excused themselves, leaving Louisa and Mama to face Lady Putnam alone. Louisa should be put out at them for abandoning her, but it was Lady Putnam, after all, so she couldn’t help but sympathize with their innate need to flee for survival’s sake.

  “Ah, well, there they go,” Lady Putnam said, watching with an upraised eyebrow. “Young gentlemen are always in such a rush these days, it seems. And speaking of young gentlemen . . .” She waited, and the expectant pause that followed grated on Louisa till she thought she might scream, which would be the worst thing she could possibly do in a chapel.

  “You are absolutely correct,” Mama said. “It seems I can hardly keep track of what Halford and Anthony are doing these days. It does my heart good to see that they still make time to join their family at church services, would you not agree?”

  Lady Putnam’s face dropped when it became apparent to her that Mama was not going to talk about William. “Yes, very admirable, I must say. Just as well that my Harriet was unable to attend today since your sons had to leave so quickly. She awoke with a bit of a sore throat, and I encouraged her to remain home and rest.”

  “Excellent advice,” Mama replied. “I hope she returns to full health soon.”

  “Thank you. Ah, there is Charlotte with her papa. Well, a happy Sabbath to you all. Best of wishes, Lady Louisa, and your betrothed, of course.” She nodded politely, but her knowing smile meant she knew something was amiss.

  “That’s enough for today,” Mama said. “Even without being told anything, you can bet Lady Putnam will spread the word that the final ba
nns weren’t read today—she will most likely share her opinion as fact that the betrothal has ended.”

  “She won’t be wrong, Mama.” Louisa winced inwardly at Mama’s use of the word bet, for it reminded her of William. “The betrothal has ended.”

  “Ahem,” a male voice said behind them.

  She and Mama both turned at once to see who’d tried to get their attention, but Louisa had already guessed. Because with Louisa’s run of misfortune lately, who else would it be?

  “Lord Kerridge, what a surprise,” Mama said, her face a bit paler than it had been moments ago.

  “You are looking well, Lady Ashworth.” He turned to Louisa. “Lady Louisa, always a pleasure to see you.”

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  “May I escort the two of you to your carriage? I noticed that you seem to be without any of your gentlemen at the moment.”

  Was he referring to Papa, Alex, and Anthony? Or was he dropping a none-too-subtle hint that he, too, had noticed that the final banns had not been read?

  “That’s very kind of you, Lord Kerridge,” Mama said. “Isn’t it, Louisa?”

  “Yes,” Louisa replied. “Thank you.”

  He winged out an arm for each of them, and Louisa dutifully slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, as she had done on other occasions. So she was utterly caught off guard when something—not a voice, exactly but something—within her heart and mind whispered, “This feels wrong.”

  She pulled her hand away.

  “Is everything all right?” Lord Kerridge asked her, a concerned look on his face.

  She was being foolish. She had simply become more accustomed to William in the past few weeks, that was all, so being with Lord Kerridge felt less familiar now. His offer of marriage still stood. She should be appreciating his thoughtfulness—and she did. “Yes,” she said simply. She placed her hand back in the crook of his elbow.

  They greeted a few acquaintances on the way out of the church and then complimented the rector on his sermon, eventually joining Papa at the carriage, Alex and Anthony having already left in their own conveyances.

  “Thank you, Lord Kerridge, for seeing to the needs of my womenfolk,” Papa said.

  “It was an honor and a pleasure, I assure you,” Lord Kerridge said. “Please allow me to assist you into the carriage, Lady Louisa.”

  He held out his hand to her, and she took it. “Dear Louisa,” he murmured as she prepared to enter the carriage. “Allow me to offer my condolences at what appears to be the dissolution of your betrothal.”

  She paused and turned her head slightly toward him, waiting to hear what he would say next, hoping he would leave it at that. She was not ready to discuss William, especially not with Lord Kerridge.

  “You have not given me an answer to my question yet,” he continued. “Nor will I push you for an answer. But I would like to call on you this week, if I may.”

  “I think it is too soon,” Louisa said.

  “Nonsense,” he replied. “The sooner your life resumes as it was, the sooner Society will forget this little contretemps ever occurred.” He smiled reassuringly. “We shall see that your reputation is fully restored and his is utterly returned to the gutter, where it belongs. You can count on it. Good day, Lady Louisa.”

  He kissed her gloved hand and assisted her into the carriage, bowed to her parents, and left.

  “Well, I daresay it was quite gallant of Lord Kerridge to escort us to your father, considering what we’ve put him through,” Mama said when they were finally on their way back home.

  Mama didn’t know that Lord Kerridge had been the one to inform Alex of Jane Purnell’s existence and to imply the woman was William’s mistress.

  “Indeed,” Louisa replied. She herself thought Lord Kerridge’s motives had been anything but gallant, that they had been utterly self-serving. The little contretemps, he had called her experience with William. And she was alarmed at his assurance to her that he intended to destroy William’s reputation.

  “I got the impression that he’d like to pick up where the two of you left off,” Papa said. “How would you feel, Louisa, if that were the case?”

  “I don’t know, Papa. He mentioned that he would like to call on me later in the week.” The last thing she wanted to do right now was talk about Lord Kerridge. She couldn’t even remember if she’d told her parents that he had offered marriage to her a second time—her mind was a jumble at the moment. It was better not to mention it, then, just in case.

  She was choosing not to mention something. She wondered how William would react to knowing that. Perhaps in the past few weeks she’d learned to choose her words more carefully. By the same token, she hoped William had learned to trust enough to share his words more openly. It would be nice to think that something of value had come from all this.

  “We shall wait, then,” Mama said. “This is only your first Season, and there is nothing to say that you must marry immediately, regardless of the circumstances of the past month. In the meantime, what do you say you and I sit down together this afternoon and go through the invitations we’ve received? I’m sure we’ll find two or three that will be diverting.” She patted Louisa’s hand reassuringly.

  “Your friends will be glad to see you again, and soon your beaux will be lining up to dance with you, and flowers will be arriving in vast numbers at the house again, and all will be as it was before,” Papa said.

  “I couldn’t agree more, Ashworth. There. It’s settled, then.” Mama smiled at Louisa and nodded.

  Louisa turned her face to stare out the window.

  * * *

  “It’s been nigh on a week since that lady o’ yers up ’n left,” Samuel said when William went to the stable to saddle a horse.

  William had made it very clear that, firstly, he was to blame for Louisa’s departure, and secondly, it was not up for discussion. He was fairly sure everyone would concede the first part, but he was absolutely confident he and Louisa had been on everyone’s minds and tongues since she’d left Farleigh Manor—and him.

  “What is your point?” William said while he hoisted the saddle into place on the back of his horse.

  “I’ll do that,” Samuel said, nudging William aside. “Me point is, yer lordship, that we all know ye love the girl, but ye’ve done nary a thing to bring ’er back.” He cinched the saddle and handed the reins to William.

  “That is correct, Samuel,” William said, boosting himself up into the saddle. “I released her from the betrothal, and that is an end to it.”

  Samuel spat. “Hogwash,” he said. “I saw the way ye looked at ’er, and I’m not sich a fool that I couldn’t see t’were the same way she looked at ye, boy.”

  William’s heart thudded in his throat. “You’re mistaken, my friend, although I confess that I wish you were not. I took her from another man, another betrothal.” He waited to see how Samuel would react to that admission, but the man gave away nothing.

  It was utterly annoying.

  What a frustration William must have been to Louisa, asking everything of her, barely willing to give an inch himself. Even his best attempts had been withering failures.

  “Do you understand?” William exclaimed. “I held a vowel, which made her and her family beholden to me. She agreed to the marriage out of honor, and honor alone.” He was a bit surprised at his honesty with Samuel, feeling shameful at his confession but a bit lighter too. “In the end, I couldn’t do that to her. I tore up the vowel. There. That is the truth of it.” He nudged his horse, but Samuel blocked him. “Move out of the way,” William said.

  Samuel grabbed the horse’s bridle, his face like granite. “Not until ye’ve heard me out.” He pointed his finger at William. “I’ve known ye since ye were but a babe in arms. I know better’n anyone what ye’ve gone through all these years; I saved yer hide plenty o’ times, so I should know. Ye were the boy I never had, though I be puttin’ meself too high and mighty to be sayin’ so.

  “Even so, it’s
with the love of a father that I tell ye this: ye been dealt a bad hand all yer life, one ye never deserved. Ye’ve earned a bit of happiness after all that. Go to the girl. Look at her face. Ye’ll see what I’m sayin’.”

  “If what you say is true,” William replied, “that is all the more reason why I cannot go to her. I have nothing to offer her. Nothing, Samuel. She was betrothed to the heir to a dukedom. If we were in London, we would have read the announcement of their betrothal in the papers already. I cannot take that away from her again and offer her poverty and debt in its place. Now, let me go.”

  Samuel let go of the bridle. “Ye’re makin’ a mistake, son. I think ye’re afraid, afraid of really lovin’ someone an’ lettin’ ’em in here.” He thumped on his chest. “’Tis past time for ye to love someone who isn’t dead or a servant o’ Farleigh Manor. Ye have plenty to offer the girl, for there’s nothin’ of more value she could have than yerself, Will Barlow. Deep down, the girl knows it too. An’ if ye don’t believe I’m tellin’ ye true, ye can ask anyone else here, an’ they’ll tell ye. Now, off wi’ ye.” He slapped the rump of William’s horse, sending them on their way. “Go.”

  William was more than happy to comply; he urged his horse to a gallop and let the wind blow hard in his face. How dare Samuel talk to him that way! He knew nothing of the situation with Louisa.

  He eventually reached the home farm. It was past time William arrived; Matthew was already there and hard at work. An afternoon of heavy labor would do William a world of good. William had two good hands and a strong back, and if he was going to make Farleigh Manor survive, it meant giving his all.

  It would be hard penance, good for the soul—and it would keep him from his thoughts of Louisa and Samuel’s haunting words.