Marriage of Inconvenience

by Cheryl Bolen

“Very good, my lord.”

  “Next to each other,” Aynsley added, “and don’t forget to mention we’ll need a hot meal.”

  Once the coachman returned after procuring the rooms, Aynsley stepped down from the carriage, then offered Rebecca a hand. As she stood beside him he swept his greatcoat around her and pulled her close as they sloshed through the muddy inn yard toward the buttery glow of a lantern beside the timbered door of the Cock and Crown.

  They were shown to the cozy parlor, where a welcoming fire was blazing in the hearth. They warmed themselves in front of the fire until a serving woman brought them a pot of hot tea, then they sat across from each other at the trestle table, which was lit by a candle.

  He watched his bride as she clasped her hands around the cup’s warmth, the candlelight bathing her face in its golden glow. She looked much younger than her eight and twenty years, and despite the brilliance that resided within her, she elicited a protectiveness in him. It was akin to that elicited by his children—yet altogether different.

  It occurred to him that he would be spending the rest of his life with this woman. The prospect was almost overwhelming. What if he had acted too rashly? What did he really know about this woman? The memories of Dorothy’s perfidy clouded this moment. Would Rebecca be capable of such duplicity?

  “Have you any regrets, Rebecca?”

  “Over what, my lord?”

  It pleased him that she’d forgotten and addressed him as she had before she’d confessed to her ridiculous abhorrence of titles. “Over this speedy marriage of ours. What could have prompted you to...to honor me with your proposal when a considerable period of time had elapsed since we had last seen each other?”

  “I will be honest with you, then. Please don’t be offended.”

  She was going to admit her P. Corpus persona! “I assure you I won’t.”

  “For some time I’d been thinking of how much more freedom is given to a married woman. I was beastly tired of never being permitted to go where I wanted without approval from my sister, who would then demand that a maid—or some type of chaperone—accompany me. I had decided that being my own mistress had vast appeal.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Hear me out. There’s more. I was also having a great deal of difficulty living in Lord Warwick’s house. I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that he and I disagree on almost everything. Our disagreements were becoming more heated, and I felt I was tearing apart my sister’s happy home.” She paused to offer him a smile. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I selected you.”

  Their eyes met, and he nodded.

  “I’m not going to say I had been attracted to you because that would be a lie. It was just that as I started enumerating eligible men, I instantly discarded every unmarried man I knew. Except you. I cannot tell you why. I think it was the children. I knew you had needed a woman to serve as mother to your children, and the more I thought on it, the more I wished to undertake such a charge. I felt as if the Lord were guiding me to you. To you and your children.”

  Thankfully, the serving woman entered the chamber, saving him from having to reply. He would not have known what to say, he was so stunned. He hadn’t thought of God in a long while, but now he did. He, too, could feel God’s hand in this marriage. Why else would a sensible, pragmatic man like himself have agreed to so speedy a marriage with a woman with whom he had scarcely ever communicated?

  After they ate, Aynsley turned to his wife, one brow hiked and a grin pinching his cheek. “A most peculiar wedding night this is.”

  “Thank you for being so understanding.”

  He lifted her hand to brush the back of it with a sterile kiss. “Don’t give the matter another thought. Earning your trust is all I ask. For the present,” he added wickedly.

  A parlor maid carrying a candle led them up a flight of dark, narrow wooden stairs to their chambers. “These rooms at the top of the stairs are fer yer lordship and ladyship,” she said. “They should be nice and toasty now. Yer servants have already laid yer own linens on the beds.” She curtsied and took her leave.

  His gaze flicked to his bride, who stood in her doorway. “Tomorrow will be another long day. I shall ask to be awakened at dawn. We’ll dress and eat, then hopefully push off by seven.” My, but you’re pretty. And uncommonly intelligent.

  “A very good plan.”

  * * *

  The first night of their journey Rebecca had been too exhilarated to sleep. For that is how she felt now. After eight-and-twenty years of utter loneliness and a melancholy acceptance that she was different, she had at last found someone who thought like she did. She even began to believe that with Lord Aynsley she could salvage a semblance of a normal life.

  Throughout the long night she had recollected every word of every one of their conversations and mentally added new topics to discuss with her husband the following day.

  On the second night of the journey, her body cried out with fatigue, but she could not sleep then, either. But this time for entirely different reasons.

  Now she found herself wondering about Lord Aynsley the man. Had he loved his first wife terribly? Had theirs been an affectionate marriage? The very thought of him with someone else ignited a strange sensation. Good heavens! Was it jealousy?

  She also thought about his confession that he had shut God out of his life. Please, Lord, help me help him find You again.

  She felt completely at ease with her husband and was coming to know him as she had never known any man. She had learned of his fondness for plum pudding, his disdain for men who could not hold their liquor, and she had come to relish the ready grin she seemed so capable of eliciting from him.

  He was coming to know her well, too. The last day of their journey he sat across from her in the carriage, a concerned look on his face. “You did not sleep well,” he said.

  His words jarred her from reverie. “How did you know?”

  That rakish grin on his face, he studied her. “I’m coming to know your face rather well.”

  The interior of the coach at once seemed a most intimate place. She felt as if all that mattered in the world was enclosed within that cubicle, that nothing else existed. This was uncomfortable territory for her. Equally as disconcerting was the way he continued to watch her so intently.

  Did he stare at her because he found her wanting? If he’d been able to determine she had not slept, the evidence of her sleeplessness must show in her face. “I must look wretched,” she finally said. What was happening to her? Rebecca never gave consideration to her appearance.

  “Not at all. You’re lovely.”

  Men never said she was lovely. “You, sir, will put me to the blush.” She could now add blushing to her areas of expertise.

  “I’m sorry you’ve been unable to sleep,” he murmured. “I expect the mattress is not what you’re used to.”

  “I’ll be fine once we get to Dunton. When will we arrive there?”

  “Before dark.”

  Her thoughts flitted to her new home, and she realized she would take the chambers occupied by the former Lady Aynsley. “Will I be given...your wife’s rooms?”

  “You are my wife, Rebecca.”

  It suddenly seemed very hot within the carriage. Intimate. Did the intimacy account for her sudden urge to pry? She vowed to be less personal, but her resolve dissipated before five minutes had passed. “What was her name?” Rebecca asked.

  “Your predecessor?”

  He had cleverly chosen not to call the former Lady Aynsley his wife. “Yes.”

  “Dorothy.”

  “Do you miss her dreadfully?”

  “It’s been a long time. I can’t even remember what her voice sounded like.”

  How neatly he had avoided answering her question. “Were you utterly heartbroken when she died?” What’s wrong with me? Rebecca never dwelled on personal matters. She’d always concerned herself with ideas, not people.

  “She’s dead, Rebecca. You’re my wife now, and w
e’ll make a new life. It’s very important to me that you’re happy.”

  It didn’t seem that her happiness had ever mattered to anyone else before. Maggie, of course, loved her, but had never understood her. In that instant, in that cozy carriage, Rebecca came to believe that she did matter to this man who had honored her with his name. “I’ve never been happier,” she whispered.

  “I wonder if you’ll feel that way a year from now.” His voice softened. “I sincerely hope so.”

  * * *

  That afternoon they passed through Birmingham. Aynsley had always found the city’s jungle of bulging, belching, blackening factories oppressive. Now, he wished to gauge Rebecca’s reaction. She seemed unable to remove her face from the glass as their carriage jostled over the filthy streets, and it was not until the city’s unhealthy haze was behind them that she spoke. She turned from the window to face him, an incredibly solemn look on her face. “My heart bleeds for those people.”

  A morose nod was his only response.

  After several minutes had passed, she asked, “Have you ever been inside one of those factories, seen the workers toiling?”

  Until the day he died he would never forget his horror of watching a young man with body black from head to toe and upper arms as rounded and firm as cannonballs stoking one of those monstrous fires. The floor he stood on was so hot that Aynsley had been unable to stay in the sweltering chamber for more than a few seconds. He swallowed. “Once.”

  “Did you not feel excessively guilty?” she asked.

  Her question stunned him. How could she understand him so perfectly? Guilt was exactly what he had felt that day. Guilt that he could walk away and live in luxury in an oak tree–laden parkland. Guilt that he was at liberty to do whatever he pleased whenever he pleased. Guilt that he consumed the products manufactured at those huge iron monsters.

  But he did not wish to own his guilt—or any of his emotions—to this woman. It was not in his nature to discuss his feelings with anyone. He had certainly never done so with Dorothy, who found such talk—and her husband—exceedingly boring. He never allowed any of his friends to glimpse into the idealist side of him. Yet in a very short time he had grown close to this woman. “The visitation was not all negative. A positive came from it.”

  “Your commitment to reform?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder how many children are employed at those factories?”

  “Quite a few.”

  “I do hope you’ll work to outlaw such a practice.”

  He stiffened. “I will own, my dear, that I feel beastly sorry for the poor mites, but it’s far better to be drawing a wage than to be begging in the streets.”

  She glared at him. “Do you mean you favor the employment of children?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do! I employ several lads at the mines I own, and they are handsomely compensated. Most of them are in fatherless homes where theirs is the only income with which to feed their families.”

  “I can think of no worse place for a young boy to work than in a mine. Have you no conscience?”

  “I most certainly do! That is why I pay the lads the same as I pay their adult counterparts.”

  “Their daily wage is not what I was referring to! You should be ashamed to admit you expose mere children to such hardships.”

  His body went rigid and his mouth folded into a grim line. “Let us speak of the topic no more. It appears we shall never agree.”

  “Then I am very sorry.”

  Those were the same words she had uttered when he told her he had turned his back on God.

  And both times her words made him feel small.

  Chapter Six

  Not far from the Birmingham environs the sky returned to blue, and a verdure landscape replaced the proliferation of sooty row houses. “We’ll be at Dunton in a few minutes,” he told her.

  She pressed her face to the glass again. “I don’t see any houses yet, only...” She stiffened. “Acres and acres of rich farmland. Don’t tell me you own all this land.”

  “Then I won’t.”

  She whipped back to face him. “Do tell me. Is all this yours?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s ours.”

  “Oh, my goodness, you must be very rich.”

  He smiled. “We’re very rich.” He gazed from the window and saw Dunton’s gray stone walls and turreted roof silhouetted against the waning sunlight. The grand old pile still had the power to fill him with pride.

  “That’s it?” She pointed toward the home where he and his father before him had been born.

  “It is.”

  “Oh, but my goodness, it’s magnificent!”

  “I know I risk your censure for my pride, but I cannot deny I’m very proud of Dunton Hall.”

  “Now I understand,” she said, her voice quiet, almost reverent. “I feel terribly proud that it’s going to be my home.”

  Her words buoyed him. “If you will peer from the glass on the other side of the carriage, you can glimpse your wedding present.”

  “My wedding present?”

  He nodded. “A small farm that I was able to purchase very cheaply recently. I thought you might enjoy a little piece of land to call your own.” He hoped, too, that one day she would pass it to her child, a child born of this marriage.

  She nearly flew across the seat and gaped. “The land between the hedgerows?”

  “That’s it, my lady.”

  This once, she did not upbraid him for addressing her in such a manner.

  “Oh, John, it’s beautiful! It’s the most wondrous present I’ve ever received.” As the coach turned, she met his gaze. “Thank you.”

  A moment later the carriage halted in front of Dunton, and the footman rushed to lower the step and assist them in disembarking.

  As the newlyweds stood on the gravel drive, he smiled down at her. “Your new home, Lady Aynsley.”

  She bristled. “Just because I said I was proud to call Dunton home does not mean I shall be proud to be known as Lady Aynsley!”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Of course, I know it cannot be easy for you to change something that’s been second nature to you for three and forty years.” She gazed up at Dunton’s solid walls. “It’s so...big.”

  His hand went to her waist. “Which should in no way discourage an efficient woman like you. You did, after all, single-handedly catalog the whole of Lord Agar’s library. I expect you’ll have this place running as smoothly as a man-of-war in a matter of weeks.”

  She gave a decided tilt to her chin. “Indeed I sh—”

  The door burst open and Chuckie came flying to him. “Papa! Papa’s here! Will you give me a piggyback ride?”

  “Not just now.” Though Aynsley was inordinately happy to see the little fellow—who loved piggyback rides above almost everything—he wished his youngest son could have dressed in a more...acceptable manner. He scooped the lad into his arms. “My goodness but you’ve grown! You’re quite the big boy since last I saw you.” Then he turned to Rebecca, whose eyes twinkled with merriment.

  “This must be Chuckie,” she said.

  Chuckie gave her a most perplexing look and would not speak.

  “Say hello to your new mama,” Aynsley said.

  The lad shook his head. “I don’t want her.”

  “Charles Allen Compton, that is a terrible thing to say to this lady who has been longing to meet her little boy.”

  “I’m not Charles Allen Compton. My name’s James Hock.”

  “Not this again,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Her smile not faltering, Rebecca stepped closer.

  Chuckie buried his face into his father’s chest. “I don’t wike her eyes.”

  “Oh, the poor little lamb,” she crooned. “I expect he’s never seen someone wear spectacles before.” She took them off. “Look at me now, Chuckie. My eyes are perfectly normal.”

  His head shifted a fraction of an inch. When he saw she no longer wore the
glasses, he turned to face her, his gaze riveted to the spectacles dangling from her hands.

  “Don’t my eyes look normal now, pet?” she asked.

  He would not answer.

  “While I admit on the outside my eyes look normal, on the inside, they are most deficient. If a penny were lying at our feet I would not be able to see it—unless I was wearing these silly-looking things.” She handed him the glasses. “Here, look through them.”

  Chuckie perked up and reached for the spectacles, wasting no time in holding them up to his eyes. “I can’t see good.”

  “That’s because you already have good eyes,” she said.

  Even though the spectacles were much too large for his small face, in a matter of seconds he had fastened them to his ears and squirmed from his father’s arms to rush into the house.

  “Tell your brothers,” Aynsley called after him, “they have permission to take leave of lessons with Mr.

  Witherstrum to come meet their new mother.”

  The door slammed in their faces.

  “Pray, my lord,” she said, “why does your son wear a bucket on his head?”

  “He thinks he’s in the Horse Guards.”

  “I see. The bucket is his helmet.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So that also explains why he’s got a pair of white stockings crossing his chest.”

  Aynsley frowned. “He does not perceive that anyone could doubt him a soldier in his majesty’s army.”

  Rebecca’s interaction with his youngest child could not have pleased him more. She obviously possessed an inherent understanding of children.

  A pity Emily was no longer a child.

  He drew a deep breath as he and his wife climbed the steps and entered Dunton Hall. He dreaded facing his daughter. The very day before his wedding he had received a letter from Emily that only thinly veiled her displeasure over his marriage. Understandably, it would be difficult for her to see another woman supplant her mother, difficult to relinquish the reins of running the hall.

  No sooner had a footman closed the door behind them than he glimpsed his lovely daughter slowly descending the broad staircase hugging one of the walls of the hall’s great entry corridor. Her snail’s pace was a complete departure from the way she normally flew into his arms after he’d been away.