The Marriage Wager

by Ashford, Jane

  Emma tried very hard to look blank, but he still managed to read the truth in her face.

  “Blast him!” growled Colin. “Why can’t he be content with his ridiculous clothes and making a cake of himself at the tables. I shall—”

  “Tables?” repeated Emma.

  Colin looked at her.

  She sat up straighter and clenched her fists. “Is he still playing deep?”

  “Oh yes. He has no sense in that area either.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just did,” he snapped, wishing young Robin Bellingham to perdition.

  “Thank you,” she replied bitterly. “I suppose you never would have if we had not begun this… discussion.”

  “I’m not his nursemaid.”

  “No, you made it very clear from the day we were married that you would not help him. And we have established, of course, that we do not act together in any matter. I shall have to do what I can alone.”

  “Emma,” said Colin. How had they gotten to this point? he wondered. He couldn’t quite remember.

  “I’ll speak to him,” declared Emma grimly. “I know about these things. I know where gaming can lead. He must listen to me.”

  “It’s your father who should be spoken to,” replied Colin involuntarily. “If he didn’t push so hard…” He stopped.

  Memories of growing up in her father’s household flooded Emma. He had always expected perfection from his children, and no doubt her own behavior had made it even more difficult for Robin. She looked into the embers, glowing red in the fireplace. “I don’t want to talk to Father,” she admitted quietly.

  “Well, don’t then,” said Colin. “Young men grow out of this extravagant behavior, you know. You are making too much of it.”

  Emma stared at him. A vision of Edward rose in her mind—ravaged by his passion for gaming. Colin did not understand. She felt the gulf that had suddenly yawned between them widen even further. “Don’t be concerned,” she said coolly, rising from her place on the sofa. “I shall not try to make this any of your affair.”

  “Well, it isn’t,” he muttered. He felt as if he were angry with the whole world. Emma was being utterly unreasonable, he thought.

  “I know,” she said. “Good night, my lord.”

  When she was gone, Colin refilled his brandy glass and brooded savagely over the fire. Emma was being unfair, he thought. She did not listen. And she had a damned biting tongue. He knew he’d acted like an idiot that evening at the club. He needed no one to tell him so, or to make sarcastic remarks about brawling. Didn’t he wince inwardly every time he thought of it? Didn’t he have to endure the jokes of acquaintances with pretended good humor? And wasn’t he only too aware that his uncharacteristic behavior had made squelching the scandal much more difficult? Had she needed to twit him with that?

  Defiantly, Colin filled his glass again and took a good swallow. She might give him more credit, he thought. She might have some notion of how devilishly embarrassing it was to make a fool of oneself in public. But all she cared about was her damned brother. And was he worth it? No! He was a young idiot who didn’t have the sense to keep a story like that to himself, or to leave the gaming tables in good time, or to choose a decent waistcoat. Scowling at the embers of the fire, Colin resisted the urge to smash his glass on the brick hearth. One thing was certain; he wasn’t going to be saddled with trying to reform Robin Bellingham. A short stint in debtors’ prison would be positively good for the young fool, he thought savagely.

  Nine

  The next morning, before she had time to think too much about it, Emma summoned Ferik and set out to walk a short distance through the London streets to one that was hauntingly familiar to her. When they reached the neighborhood, she paused at the corner and looked down it. There were the ample redbrick houses trimmed in gray stone, the whole street the product of one admired architect. There were the worn cobblestones and the neat pavements punctuated by posts where horses could be tied. There were the scrubbed doorsteps, carefully maintained by dozens of housemaids. There were even, unbelievably, the roses in the window box at number sixteen, old Mrs. Grainger’s house. It was astonishingly unchanged.

  “Is this where we are going, mistress?” inquired Ferik.

  She nodded, momentarily unable to speak.

  “Who lives here?” he wanted to know.

  “I used to.” It came out in a whisper.

  Ferik bent toward her. “I didn’t hear, mistress.”

  Emma took a breath and stood straighter, recovering herself. “This is where I lived when I was a child, Ferik. The home of my family.”

  “Ah.” The giant looked around with great interest. “A pleasant place,” he concluded.

  “Yes.” Emma began to move again, walking down the right side of the street toward number eleven.

  “We are going to see your father, mistress?”

  She nodded again.

  “Ah. That is good.” He strode along behind her looking pleased.

  “You approve, Ferik?” asked Emma, slightly amused.

  “It is proper to give respect to one’s elders. You have not visited your father since we returned to England.”

  “We did not part on good terms when I left it,” she said dryly.

  “But now you will make amends,” suggested Ferik.

  “Amends? He is the one to do that.”

  As they approached the front door of the Bellingham house, Ferik shook his head slowly. “No, mistress, it is the child who must submit. It is wrong to humiliate the old.”

  Emma started to argue with him, then thought better of it. “You know nothing about it,” she muttered, and indicated that he should knock on the door.

  It was opened by another familiar figure. “Hello, Wiggins,” she said.

  “Miss Emma!” The old butler looked overjoyed. “How good to see you again. We had all heard… I mean, may I offer you felicitations on behalf of all of the staff?”

  “Thank you.” Emma felt guilty under his benevolent gaze. Perhaps she ought to have visited before now. “I’ll come down to the kitchen before I go,” she said. “Is my father in?”

  “Yes, miss. In his study.”

  Emma stepped inside. Wiggins seemed to notice Ferik for the first time. He started visibly.

  “This is my servant Ferik,” Emma told him reassuringly.

  Wiggins gazed upward in amazement. “Is it, miss?” he said feebly.

  Ferik bowed very low. “I offer my respect to the household of my mistress’s father,” he rumbled.

  “Er.” Wiggins gazed at Ferik, who remained bent at the waist, then goggled at Emma.

  “Just accept,” she whispered.

  “Er. Yes. Thanks,” said Wiggins. Ferik straightened, smiling broadly.

  “Wait for me here,” Emma told him.

  “Yes, mistress.” The large man slid down to sit on the hall floor, resting his back against the paneled wall.

  “Miss Emma!” protested the old butler.

  “He’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” Leaving them to work it out between themselves, Emma hurried off toward the back of the house.

  At the door of the study, she hesitated. To be called to this room had meant a scolding when she was a child. She and Robin were not allowed inside it unaccompanied, and their father had always retreated here when he was out of sorts. It took a bit of courage to raise her hand and knock.

  “Yes,” said a gruff voice within.

  Swallowing, Emma opened the door.

  Her father was sitting in an armchair next to the hearth. Light streamed into the window behind him, falling on the pages of a book he held. His mane of white hair was a shining nimbus under this illumination, and his craggy face was in shadow. “What is it?” he demanded, looking up. Surprise replaced irritation at once, and he grasped his cane to stru
ggle to his feet. “Emma, my dear, how splendid to see you.”

  “Please, don’t get up.” She walked across the room to stand before him.

  “What a fine surprise,” he added, sinking back into the chair. “Sit down, sit down. You’re looking very well.”

  “Thank you.” She took the chair on the other side of the fireplace.

  “Nothing wrong, is there?” he asked sharply. “No problem with St. Mawr?”

  “No, Father.”

  “Ah. Good, good. Just wondered, you know. You haven’t come round here since…” He left this thought hanging and turned to pull vigorously on the bell rope. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “I don’t… A cup of tea.”

  The door of the room opened. “Bess, Miss Emma’s here,” he said. “Bring us some tea.”

  “Yes, sir.” The maid dropped a small curtsy. “Good to see you again, Miss Emma.”

  “Thank you, Bess.”

  While they waited, Emma kept the conversation on general matters, but when the tea had been brought and poured and they were alone again, she said, “Actually, I came to speak to you about Robin.”

  Bellingham’s smile faded. “What’s he done now?” he demanded.

  “He hasn’t done anything. Or, what I mean is…” She braced herself. “I’m worried about his gambling,” she said.

  “Damn the boy,” exploded her father. “Is he still at it? I’ve told him and told him. I’ve threatened to stop his allowance altogether. But he will not listen.” The older man pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “I’ll have his hide.”

  Emma couldn’t suppress a quaver of apprehension. How often he had railed at her when she was young. “Please,” she said.

  “What?”

  “This does no good.”

  He glowered at her. “You have some suggestion, I suppose? Wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I thought we might consult together. I’m afraid, Father. I know so well what can happen to a man addicted to gaming.”

  He grunted.

  “I couldn’t bear to see Robin ruined like…”

  “Like that blackguard Edward Tarrant,” he finished.

  She nodded.

  “I told you from the very beginning that he was a worthless fortune hunter.”

  “Yes. You did.”

  “But oh, no, you knew better. Found out I was right, eh?”

  “Yes, Father,” replied Emma tonelessly.

  “And now you come around to tell me how to raise my son, do you?”

  “No! That is not what I meant. I only want to—”

  “That’s rich. It is indeed. If I’m hard on the boy, it’s all due to you, you know.”

  “Me?” Emma stared at him.

  “I wasn’t going to have him running wild, ruining his life the way you did. I’ve kept a tight rein on the boy. And what if I did?” His scowl was belligerent.

  “I know I made things difficult,” began Emma.

  “Difficult! There’s a word. You have no idea what it was like.”

  “I don’t suppose I do,” she admitted.

  Her father glowered at her from under his bushy white brows. “I was beside myself when you ran off. I’d tried to be a good parent after your mother died, you know. Did the best I could, which wasn’t much, perhaps. And then you threw over all your chances and eloped with that…” He clenched his teeth. “Well, I vowed that nothing like that would happen again.”

  For the first time, Emma felt remorse about her treatment of her father. There had been no room in her mind for other points of view when she was seventeen, she thought. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said.

  He stared at her, his mouth working as if he was chewing over some tough bit of meat. “Never said that to me before,” he pointed out.

  “I know.”

  “Humph.” George Bellingham cleared his throat, then swallowed.

  “Do you think Robin could be rebelling against your ‘tight rein’?” Emma ventured after a pause.

  Bellingham blinked, then frowned. “Gambling just because I forbade him to do so?” he replied. He shook his head. “No, that’s ridiculous. Robin is an intelligent lad.”

  “Of course,” Emma agreed. “But like most young men, he is not averse to kicking up his heels a bit.”

  “He’s no mincing dandy, despite those ridiculous clothes he wears,” growled Bellingham.

  “No, indeed. I imagine he even enjoys flouting authority now and then. Rather like riding a horse everyone says is untamable.”

  Bellingham looked at her from under his bushy white eyebrows.

  “Or holding a curricle race on the busiest street in Bath?”

  The older man cocked his head.

  Emma gazed blandly back at him, willing herself to be unintimidated by his glare.

  Finally, Bellingham chuckled. “Told you too many of those stories when you were a little lass, didn’t I?”

  “I remember them all,” said Emma, venturing a smile.

  “My father tore a broad strip out of me for that race,” he added. “Called me six kinds of fool and threatened to restrict me to the country until I turned thirty.”

  Emma preserved a prudent silence.

  Bellingham sighed again. “When he came down from school, I forbade Robin to play anything, even silver loo. Perhaps I did push him too hard.”

  Emma simply listened.

  “He’s a spirited boy, as I was myself.”

  She nodded.

  “Gaming is not in our blood,” he insisted.

  “I hate it,” she assured him.

  Bellingham brooded for several moments. “I suppose you have some suggestion?” He sounded both hopeful and resentful.

  “I wondered… what if you stopped mentioning the subject of gambling to Robin?” she offered. “Give him nothing to fight against.”

  “And when he comes to me with his debts?” demanded Bellingham. But before Emma could answer, he frowned, and said, “Not that he has for a long while. I don’t know how he’s been managing, because he always loses more than he wins. Boy’s a damned poor player.”

  “You could tell him that it’s none of your affair, that he is a man now and you trust him to manage his income.”

  “But he can’t,” exclaimed her father.

  “Perhaps not. You may have to come to his rescue again. But who knows what he may do, given the opportunity and no criticism?”

  “Humph,” was the only reply. There was an intent look in the old man’s eyes, however, and Emma decided that she had best be satisfied with that. Pushing him would accomplish nothing. “You must decide what is best,” she concluded. “But if there is anything I can do, you must tell me at once.”

  “You could keep him occupied,” said her father immediately. “Boy wants to be a pink of the ton. He’s only too happy to attend any sort of fashionable squeeze. Keeps him from the tables, too.”

  “I can do that,” she agreed eagerly. She was suddenly struck by a thought. “In fact, I think I can do even better.” It was brilliant, Emma thought. The perfect thing.

  ***

  Emma and Colin had a long-standing engagement to attend a play that evening with his mother. As she put the last touches on her elegant ensemble, Emma vowed that she would give Colin exactly what he’d asked for in his marriage bargain. She would show him that she was even better than he at keeping to the terms of their partnership. She would be pleasant, but distant; completely agreeable, but superficial; and all in all, the epitome of a suitable nobleman’s wife. Taking a final look at her superbly cut gown of ruby velvet and the cascading curls of her pale hair, she gave a nod and went downstairs to join her husband.

  The dazzling smile she gave him in the lower hall made Colin look first relieved, then slightly puzzled. If he had expect
ed some recurrence of their earlier quarrel, Emma thought superciliously, he would find he didn’t know her as well as he imagined. Holding her head high, her expression and stance a masterful mixture of grace and hauteur, she moved through the door Clinton was holding open for them and allowed the footman to hand her into the carriage.

  When Colin joined her, she was carefully settling her skirt so that the velvet would not be crushed. The footman secured the coach door and swung up behind as the horses started off. The vehicle swayed a bit on its springs, and Emma took hold of the strap so that she could remain sitting quite upright.

  “Emma,” began Colin.

  “Have you heard anything about this play?” she asked brightly. “Your mother didn’t seem to know the plot, or the actors, or anything else.”

  “I believe it started last night. That is the extent of my information.”

  “Ah. An adventure, then,” she replied.

  “An adventure,” echoed Colin, gazing at her.

  “It is much more interesting to go to an unknown play, don’t you think?” Emma was gazing out at the passing street scene as she spoke. “It may be a failure, of course. There is that risk. But if it is good, one has the gratification of discovery.”

  “Gratification?” he repeated, as if the word was alien to him.

  “I have always loved the theater,” she went on. “And I have been privileged to attend performances all over the Continent, and even once in Constantinople. Do you know that there they—”

  “What the deuce? Is this… mindless chatter some sort of—”

  “Mindless?” Emma struggled to keep her voice even and cordial. “I do beg your pardon, my lord. Have I been boring you? You should have mentioned it earlier.”

  “Is this about last night? Because I wanted to—”

  “Last night?” she interrupted, as if she were trying to recall what he could be referring to. “Oh, here we are. Isn’t it fortunate we live within such a convenient distance from the theaters?”

  “Emma!”

  But the footman was already opening the carriage door and letting down the steps. Colin’s mother and Sir Oswald Staunton, an older man who had been a friend of his father, were waiting for them on the steps of the building. And the group proceeded immediately to the box the older woman had taken for the evening. The time before the curtain rose was taken up with settling in their chairs and commonplace civilities. There was no opportunity for private talk.