The Disdainful Marquis

by Edith Layton

  “Catherine,” he called to her, when he had his voice back in control, “Catherine, come here.”

  She turned and, seeing him, rose and came running to the bars.

  “Oh no, Sinjun, you must not stay here,” she cried out wildly, “for that is M. Beaumont’s plan, to delay you till it is too late. You must go,” she said frantically, her tearstained face striking him to the heart.

  He grasped her hand through the bars and tried to think of a way to calm her, for time was short.

  “Hush, Catherine,” he said sternly. “Quiet. I must speak and you must listen. Listen carefully. Calm yourself, for, as you say, I do not have much time and you must pay attention.”

  She fell silent at the cold imperativeness of his voice and listened, her eyes wide and unblinking.

  Sinjun ran a hand through his hair and thought rapidly. He saw that her spirit was held only by his voice and that fear and shock had driven all else from her mind. So he spoke rapidly, forcefully, and clearly, knowing that her jailer could not understand the language.

  “I have been very busy, Catherine. I have not forgotten you.

  “Indeed, no one has forgotten you. Rose could not speak in your defense, for if she had, Beaumont would have accused her of theft as well. She and James wanted to stay to help you, but I persuaded them they could do no more. They had already made sure that the duchess signed nothing, so that nothing she said would be held against you by anyone but Beaumont. The duchess bore you no ill will, Catherine; she was only a frightened old woman. They sailed on the late tide. Violet elected to stay on in Paris with a gentleman of her choice. But none of them deliberately wished to harm you.”

  When he saw tears start at his words, he quickly went on, knowing now that he could not speak of emotions, or recall emotions to her mind, or she would crumble.

  “But there is a way to get you safe from here. There is a way to take you with us. But you must agree and agree at once.”

  She nodded, clutching his hand tightly.

  “You must marry me,” he said.

  He saw her disbelief and lowered his voice and said firmly, “Beaumont cannot keep you here if you are a peeress of the realm. He cannot keep you if you are a marchioness and we are not at war. Marry me, Catherine, and we can leave at first light and go home, home to England again.”

  Her eyes searched his face, and he kept his countenance impassive with difficulty as he looked back at her. Now, here in this filthy jail, was no place for him to spout on about love, desire, and future happiness. He doubted that she would believe him, and feared that, even if she did, she would refuse him. For as she did not love him, her sense of what was honorable might override her instinct for preservation. So he said nothing of love and continued, “I have Jenkins here. And a minister. Yes, an accredited representative of the Church of England, trying to make his way back home with his charges. He was traveling with schoolboys when the news of Napoleon’s return came to his ears.”

  The jailer looked up at the one word he recognized and shifted uneasily. M. Beaumont had said the woman might have visitors and converse with them, but had warned of terrible repercussions if any escape attempt was made. Although the sound of his onetime hero’s name had jolted him, he soon relaxed, remembering how many soldiers were above stairs.

  “An attaché from the consulate in Paris is here as well, Catherine, though not with me, for his face is recognized by Beaumont’s men. He has gotten me the special papers. We can be wed here and now. And then you will be allowed to go free. Say yes, Catherine, for your own sake.”

  But she only stood dazedly staring at him.

  Sinjun wondered now if any of his words had reached her, so he went ahead in a low despairing voice, “Catherine, you cannot stay. And I cannot live with myself if I let you stay. So say yes. If you marry me it will be for the best, and,” he said suddenly, trying a new tack to bring some sort of comprehension to her eyes, “if it does not suit you to be my wife, we can procure a divorce when we are back home. I promise you that. I will not keep you tied to me forever if you do not wish it. But for now, you have only to sign a paper and repeat some words and you are free.”

  At last he saw some new emotion coming into her white face and he pressed on, “For me, Catherine. So that all my work will not be in vain. For I promise you if you do not agree, I will stay here until I hit upon a plan. But by then it might be too late for both of us. I cannot live with myself as a man if I abandon you here.”

  He had to strain to hear her whispered reply:

  “Yes, Sinjun.” Then: “I will if you wish it.”

  Dizzy with relief, he motioned to the men behind him.

  “Here, Jenkins, you just stand so that you can hear Mr. Whittaker. And Mr. Whittaker, you cannot take out your little book; you must recite by heart. Can you do that? For though the jailer looks like a fool, the book will alert him to something to be suspicious of.”

  The tall, thin, balding man smiled and said briefly, “If I cannot recite it by heart after twenty-five years in the Church, Your Lordship, I am more of a fool than the jailer.”

  “And,” Sinjun said clearly, taking Catherine’s two hands in his tightly, “you must alter the pattern of words. For the cadence of the ceremony might strike a note in our watchdog’s mind.”

  “Let us see,” the minister mused. “How about this, then?” And, clearing his throat, he looked at Catherine and said in a friendly conversational tone, “Dearly beloved we. Are gathered. Together here in the sight…”

  Catherine gripped Sinjun’s hand and thought only that she must do this so that he would not be caught. Tears gathered in her eyes when she thought of the sacrifice he was making. What if she were the sort of female to hold him to the marriage once they returned, making him regret his act of gallantry for the rest of his life, tied to a woman he did not want?

  Sinjun carefully listened to the weird rhythm of the words so that he would know when to reply, and kept smiling and nodding as if Mr. Whittaker were only chatting and trying to reassure Catherine.

  “Live?” asked Mr. Whittaker pleasantly.

  Sinjun increased the pressure on Catherine’s hands and looked toward the minister.

  After a confused moment she said, in a thin voice, “Yes, I will.”

  Sinjun closed his eyes in relief and hoped only that she would never regret this moment. For although he had forced her to marry him, he vowed he would do all in his power to make her content with her state, to persuade her to one day accept him as husband, even if she could not love him.

  And so in a basement in Le Havre, St. John Basil St. Charles, Marquis of Bessacarr, was wed to Catherine Emily Robins in a ceremony signally blessed with complete misunderstanding on the part of the bride, the groom, and the witnesses. As Sinjun guided her hand to sign the paper Mr. Whittaker handed her, and Jenkins assured the guard that it was just for the transfer of some of her property now that she was remaining in France, the ceremony was completed.

  Jenkins and Mr. Whittaker left to congratulate each other royally at a tavern near the docks before continuing on the marquis’ errands. The groom stayed the night on a bench outside the cell as he told the guard he could not bring himself to leave his chere amie. The guard was content—his master had told him it would suit him well if the English gentleman did not leave his prisoner. And the bride sat and watched the sleeping face of her new husband through the night.

  M. Beaumont’s face was wreathed in smiles when he descended the steps to Catherine’s cell in the morning. So it was true, then: The marquis had stayed the night and missed one voyage out to be with the girl. With luck, he thought, he could be maneuvered into staying another. And another, it if was necessary, till the news he waited for came through.

  “Good morning,” he said happily, eyeing the weary girl as the marquis rose from his seat.

  “Good morning,” the marquis said briskly. “It lacks half past the hour of ten, Beaumont. You must have slept soundly. And now, if you please, release yo
ur prisoner.”

  M. Beaumont laughed.

  “Ah, if it were only that easy to forget crime,” he sighed happily.

  “I’m afraid it must be,” Sinjun smiled, “for you have no authority to arrest my wife, the Marchioness of Bessacarr. If you have any doubts upon that head, I beg you to look at these papers. There are our marriage lines. And there is a very official note from our ambassador requesting that you immediately release my wife from your custody. And the mayor of this city, as you can see from this other document, requests you comply. You would not want to disrupt amicable Anglo-French relations, would you, Beaumont?”

  *

  Sinjun smiled as he lay back against the tarpaulin upon the deck of the fishing vessel. He smiled just remembering the look upon Beaumont’s face as he took the papers from his hands and read them.

  Jenkins looked over from the rail where he had been watching the coastline of France begin to recede in the morning mists.

  “Recalling past triumphs, lad?” he asked.

  “And present ones,” Sinjun agreed, looking down at Catherine as she slept, her head against his shoulder.

  “There might be rough seas ahead,” Jenkins mused.

  “At least we are at last asail,” Sinjun replied.

  The ship glided smoothly home, and the two men did not break their contented, separate silence till they heard the far-off sound of cannon fire and the distant, almost toylike sound of the tumultuous ringing of many church bells coming from the direction they had so recently left.

  “You left it close, lad,” Jenkins whistled. “At least, you can never forget your wedding day. It was the day the news of the emperor’s return finally reached Le Havre.”

  “I shall never forget my wedding day,” Sinjun agreed, gathering his sleeping bride closer.

  Chapter XVII

  Catherine trailed aimlessly through the fragrant garden. The spring sun shone so warmly upon her shoulders that she had taken off her hat and held it by its strings as she wandered. She paused by the ornamental pond and watched the small golden fish glint in the sun-drenched water. There was no doubt that Fairleigh was a lovely place. It was well appointed and very commodious. It had delightful gardens filled with unexpected pleasures at every turn. Any path could take one to a statue or a waterfall or a bench overlooking a delightful view such as this one. Fairleigh also had a well-run genial staff of servants and comfortable well-furnished rooms. In fact, it had everything one could wish for in a home, Catherine sighed, except a heart. For its master was away. And Catherine did not know if he would ever return.

  A month ago when she had first come here, straight from the dock where their fishing vessel had deposited them, she had been too exhausted to appreciate Fairleigh. Sinjun had traveled on to London to deliver his lists and his news of the emperor’s return and future plans. He had sent Catherine straight on to his country seat. She had arrived by night, after a long and weary journey by carriage. But then sleep and ease and the security that emanated from the house had helped to mend her spirit. The knowledge that she was home and safe aided her. But Sinjun’s prompt return to her side and having him near her every day had done the most to restore her.

  Those first weeks she and Sinjun had roamed the grounds. He had shown her all the secret places of his youth; they had laughed and played together as though they were back in his childhood. He saw to it that the servants acknowledged her as mistress and she was easy in her mind at all times. He was such a clever, attentive companion that he almost succeeded in making her forget that this was but a temporary time for her and that she must soon move on again. He had treated her as a well-loved sister.

  She did not know precisely when the change had begun. Before she had even been aware of it, it had arrived. One day he had been her eager friend and the next it seemed his air of polite and icy indifference was upon him again.

  It was as if the one night they had dined by candlelight as usual, and there had not been enough hours in the evening to tell each other all they wished, and the next night he had sat listening to her with sedate half-interest until her voice had dried in her throat and conversation ebbed away. He was not cold to her, nor ever rude, but she could feel the distance grow between them. Instead of reassuring him that she was prepared now to be on her way, perversely, cowardice stilled her tongue and instead she attempted to draw his interest back. And the more she tried, the more precisely polite he had become.

  But then, only a week past, she had, in a burst of misery-induced bravery, stopped him as he finished his dinner and began to bid her good night before retiring to his room. As no servants were in the room, she spoke swiftly, before any could return to complete the clearing of the table.

  “Sinjun,” she asked, “is it that you want me to begin the divorce proceedings now? But you will have to assist me, for I do not know how to go about it.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” he asked, sitting back to watch her closely.

  “It was only that you have seemed less than pleased with my presence of late. I have tarried here but perhaps for too long. You said our marriage was to free me from M. Beaumont. And so it has. But you also said that you would free me from it when we were home. And so we are. I haven’t made a move to go as yet, I know, but that is only because I do not know how to go about the thing. If you wish, we can start it in motion.”

  His eyes became shuttered during her speech and he sat quietly for a moment and then replied in a colorless voice, “Catherine, lay your mind to rest about that. You may stay on as my wife as long as you wish—till death do us part, for that matter. I only offered divorce if our relationship became unbearable to you. Has it?”

  “Oh no,” she had answered quickly. “But it is you that I am thinking of. I do not want to constrict you in any way. It would be the devil of a coil,” she laughed artificially, “as Jenkins would say, if you wished to be rid of me and I just stayed on.”

  “You are pleased with our relationship then?” he persisted.

  “Of course,” she said, “except for the fact that you have been so distant of late.”

  His shoulders seemed to droop, and then he at last rose and gave her a thin smile.

  “It is only some trifling estate matters that have occupied my mind. Well then, my dear, since this form of marriage is acceptable to you, we’ll go on just as we are. By the way,” he asked, “have you yet written to your sister to inform her of your sudden nuptials?”

  She faltered. For she had not as yet. Since her marriage had begun with the promise of divorce, she did not know how long she would be a wife. It seemed impossible to explain all to Jane in a mere letter. And almost impossible to tell Jane the tidings of a wedding, then follow it with an announcement of a bill of divorcement. Yet of all the things she had been able to speak freely of with Sinjun, the precise nature of their marriage was the one thing they both, by some unspoken agreement, never discussed.

  “I see,” Sinjun nodded as she tried and failed to explain. “Well then, my dear, I bid you a good night. Oh, by the by,” he had added, as though he were discussing a change in the weather, “those estate matters I spoke of. I am off to London tomorrow. There is business to attend to. Do you care to accompany me?”

  The lackluster offer he made warned her off and she answered in a low voice that she would if he wished it.

  “It makes no matter,” he said coldly, “but I wondered if you were interested in consulting a lawyer while you were there?”

  “Do you wish it, Sinjun?” she asked.

  “I have already told you,” he answered almost angrily, “that is not my desire.”

  And then he was gone. Jenkins had gone with him and Catherine had spent the week cudgeling her brain for an answer to her problem. She was the Marchioness of Bessacarr now, but she was yet a maid. Sinjun had never so much as held her hand since their return. She had asked if he wanted a divorce and he had denied it. Still, he made no effort to make her his wife. She no longer knew what it was he wanted or w
hat she wanted. For all her brave thoughts back in Le Havre, she did not wish to leave him. Distant though he was, he was still Sinjun and she could not accept the thought of being apart from him. But neither could she bear the thought of being an encumbrance to him.

  And there was also the fact that she knew divorce to be an expensive, complicated affair and one that would put her beyond the pale forever. It was one thing for Sinjun to have laughed at her fears for her reputation when they returned to England. For it was one thing for the duchess’s infamous companion to return to quiet obscurity in Kendall, quite another for her to be wed to no less than the Marquis of Bessacarr. But he had laughed her fears away. He had told her that as his wife she would be above reproach. And that few people who mattered to her would have traveled in the duchess’s set anyway. And, that having been rescued from the duchess, she would in fact, be a sort of heroine. But being his divorced wife, she knew, could not be easily laughed away.

  She watched the sunlight play upon the water and wished she had more understanding and experience. The worst part of her situation was the loss of Sinjun’s attention. She wondered again what she had done to turn his friendship.

  His room was connected to hers, but she had never entered it. And so she could not have heard the angry conversation the morning of his departure for London.

  “Have done, Jenkins,” Sinjun had snarled in a voice she would not have recognized. “I am to London and there’s an end to it.”

  “And your wife?” Jenkins asked, lounging against the door.

  “Better with me gone,” Sinjun said, “for I cannot go through with this masquerade. I am not the man I thought that I was. I cannot be with her every moment, laugh with her, condole with her, and yet be a plaster saint. You cannot creep into the master’s bedroom at Fairleigh, Jenkins, as you did in France, and stop the master from forcing his attentions on his legal wife. It’s just not done, old fellow,” he said with a trace of his old humor.

  “And you think she would call for help?” Jenkins asked again.