Marriage of Inconvenience

by Cheryl Bolen

  God sent.

  For she knew the Lord had called her to this family. Now why would He not remove all the impediments to a happy family?

  * * *

  These evenings after the children were tucked into their beds were coming to be his favorite part of the day. Not that he did not enjoy being with his children. He derived a great amount of pleasure from each of them, but he also enjoyed these evenings sitting before the fire in his library when it was just him and his wife.

  She could discuss politics more intelligently than any man he knew. And they did so for hours on end without ever running out of things to say. Rebecca’s contributions to the speech he was drafting to deliver to Lords were immeasurable.

  This night he was working silently at his desk, Rebecca seated on a sofa near the fire while catching up on her newspaper reading.

  “This says Mr. Wilburforce will introduce a measure in Commons which will limit child laborers. I certainly hope you will support his efforts in Lords.”

  He impatiently tossed aside his speech. “I most certainly will not! We’ve had this conversation before, Rebecca.” He felt like he was reprimanding one of his boys. “While I do pity these children, you must understand many of them are orphans. If they weren’t employed, they’d go hungry on the streets.”

  “It’s a wretched society we live in that allows children to go hungry on the streets.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me. I have the utmost empathy for orphans. In fact, I’ve established and maintain a rather large orphanage in the Capital, but it’s merely a drop in the bucket. There are thousands of these wretches. My pockets are only so deep.”

  “Everyone, not just rich men like you, should do their part to take care of the poor orphans.”

  “That’s a wonderful sentiment, but that’s all it is—sentiment.”

  Her eyes narrow, her lips compressed, she glared at him a moment before she deigned to address him. “I cannot believe I am married to a man who will oppose the honorable Mr. Wilburforce.”

  “I never said I was going to mount an opposition to the man—I just cannot support him. I have always supported his antislavery measures, but you must own, that hardly affects the English pocketbook.”

  “How can you be so progressive in all other matters and so pigheaded about child labor?”

  “You know very well I’m a pragmatist. Idealists never live to see their ideas fulfilled.”

  With a great, dramatic flair, his sulking wife took up her newspaper again and began to read it while attempting to ignore him. Except for the frequent huffs. And the crinkling of pages as she turned them much more noisily than she had before.

  If she could act like that, so could he! He returned to writing his speech.

  Perhaps fifteen minutes passed before she finally spoke. “I should like to see the working lads.”

  “What working lads?”

  “The ones you employ in your mines.”

  “My dear woman, my mines are located in Wales.”

  She shrugged. “Shropshire’s near Wales.”

  “My mine is more than six hours away.”

  Her “oh” sounded like it came from a young child.

  They both went back to their singular pursuits. Which bothered him. He did not like any kind of friction between them. He liked it much better when their minds and thoughts meshed like those couples who had been married for decades.

  Another half hour passed before he had to put a stop to this ridiculous bickering between them. Not that he was going to give in to her foolish demand. “Pray, my dear wife, could I interest you in a game of chess?”

  She flung down her newspaper. “Indeed you could! I adore chess.”

  He moved to the sofa where she sat and proceeded to set up the chess pieces on the tea table in front of them.

  “I propose,” she said, her eyes flashing, “that we make a wager.”

  He raised a single brow.

  “If I win, you will agree to support Mr. Wilburforce.”

  A sudden fury bolted through him. No woman had ever dared to tell him what to do or how to vote! One whack of his hand flattened all the chess pieces. Mumbling under his breath, he leaped to his feet. “I’ve had enough of your foolishness, madam.”

  Then he stormed from the room.

  He dared not look at her face as he strode angrily across the chamber and slammed the door behind him. It would have been too painful to see a wounded look on her face. He was disgusted with himself for his angry outburst, for offending the poor woman whose concern had been not for herself but for unfortunate orphans.

  Nevertheless, she’d made him angry with her meddling ways. Dorothy’s meddling ways had once nearly destroyed his political career. He had vowed to never again go down that road. It had taken him years to repair the damage done by Dorothy’s lies.

  Even though it was a cool evening, he left the house and walked the grounds of the place he loved best—Dunton Hall, where he’d been born, where each of his children had drawn their first breath. This was where he had learned to ride and to read, and it was on this land that he would one day be buried—though Rebecca would not like for him to be thinking of that! The very thought brought a smile to his lips.

  His strides long and swift, he did not even think of how bitterly cold it was or of the brisk winds that stirred up whistling noises in the surrounding trees. His thoughts were too melancholy. Perhaps this marriage had not been such a good idea. He’d never been happy with his first wife. What made him think he could find happiness with a second?

  He had felt such a deep connection to Rebecca. He had hoped to awaken the passions he knew resided within her. He’d been foolish enough to believe she would also feel the connection, but she obviously did not.

  Had she, she would have revealed to him her authorship.

  Why was it his lot in life to be saddled with women who were intrinsically dishonest? He had thought Rebecca would be different. He had hoped theirs was to be a true partnership.

  But she didn’t even trust him enough to admit her alter ego. That had been eating at him like acid on rock, slowly yet decisive.

  The farther he walked away from the main house, the guiltier he felt for his rash behavior to Rebecca. He supposed he’d already been on edge before she’d even come into the library that night. Because he’d brought Rebecca into his home, he was losing his cherished daughter. He’d always enjoyed an excessively close relationship with Emily, but the morning they had ridden, even though Rebecca was not with them, his wife sliced a rift between them that he feared would never be repaired. Emily had been solemn and distant, not the laughing, playful girl she had always been.

  He’d made the mistake of bringing up Emily’s presentation in London, and she’d launched into an angry attack at him—and Rebecca. “She wants to be rid of me, no doubt!” Emily had said.

  “You do your stepmother a great disservice. She wants only what will make you happy, as do I,” he’d told her.

  “Then I beg you don’t make me go to London.”

  His lips in a grim line, he’d told her he would give consideration to her feelings.

  He loved Peter, really he did, but he loved Emily too much to wish her married to a wastrel.

  The house was so far away now he could no longer see its lit windows. He had best turn back. The cold air stinging his cheeks, he continued to think about Rebecca. Before her, his life had been less conflicted. Utterly lonely, but peaceful nevertheless. Through her, he had glimpsed a sliver of potential happiness, and had rushed toward it like a blind old fool. And what had he gotten for his imprudent act? A deep chasm with his beloved daughter and a wife who thought to boss him as if he were a misguided child. A dishonest wife, at that!

  He tried to tell himself this marriage was not bad. Rebecca did have a way with lads, and he truly believed she cared deeply for Chuckie and Alex. Against his will, he pictured her in the coach that morning after church, holding his youngest son on her lap. No one could h
ave seen her and not believed she was Chuckie’s natural mother. He could have wept with joy.

  And now he could weep for altogether different reasons, reasons he himself could not fully comprehend.

  As he came closer to the house, he wondered if he should ask Rebecca’s forgiveness for his rude conduct. But with a certainty born of resolve, he vowed he would not. Though he knew his actions unpardonable, he felt even more strongly her meddling ways could not be tolerated. Early in this marriage, he must show her he was not some simpleton to be led around by a domineering wife.

  It was still hard to credit that he’d married Rebecca. What had possessed him?

  Long after he entered the house, long after he climbed the stairs, and long after he lay in his bed unable to sleep, he asked himself the same question. Why had he married the bossy Miss Peabody?

  * * *

  Rebecca, too, lay in her bed hour after hour pondering this marriage. When Aynsley had so angrily left her in the library, she’d been stunned. More than that, she’d been hurt and humiliated. Though she was irritated over his stubborn support of child labor, she had not been angry with him. She would never have mentioned the silly wager had she known he would have so violent a reaction to it. She’d meant it only as a jest.

  The anger she had elicited from him could only have arisen if there were other, underlying impediments to them enjoying a smooth marriage. Her husband must already be regretting that they’d wed. But why now? There was, of course, Emily’s disapproval. Had she said something to her father the morning they had ridden? Had he come to believe their marriage had been a mistake? Spencer, also, seemed to resent her. Twice now he’d snapped that she wasn’t his mother. Though she must own, the rest of the time he’d been a perfect angel, the dear boy.

  Did Aynsley regret the bedroom arrangements? Did he think her an unfeeling prude of a woman who could never love a man?

  He obviously thought her a manipulator, and she could understand that a certain type of man would be resentful of such a woman.

  But did he not know she was willing to make compromises? She wanted most keenly for this marriage to be a true partnership.

  A deep melancholy had seeped into every pore of her body and robbed her of the ability to sleep. Since she had stood before the fire with Aynsley that night in Warwick’s library, she had felt the Lord guiding her to this man and his children.

  Had she been mistaken?

  No, surely not! She recalled the words she said to her bridegroom before the priest on their wedding day. I take John to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.

  She had felt God’s presence in the church that day. Her vow was not only to John but to God. Had both of them forsaken her now? She began to weep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Aynsley was not in the morning room when Rebecca went down for breakfast. She had hoped to see him, to offer an apology. She could not remember a time when she had been more upset, and knowing that she was the source of their conflict increased her suffering tenfold. Why could she not hold her tongue? Why did she have to be possessed of such strong opinions? She was sure Aynsley must be wishing he’d married a meek, compliant woman. Certainly, he must be wishing he’d never married her.

  She went to the cherrywood sideboard and poured herself a cup of tea. She eyed the toast and jams, but she had no appetite. In her state of agitation, she doubted she could keep anything in her stomach.

  As was the family custom, the fast was broken each morning at a table that was only slightly larger than a game table and was situated against tall windows that afforded a view of the lake. Perhaps looking out over the rolling, peaceful landscape of Dunton would soothe her after her miserable, sleepless night.

  Far in the distance toward the apple orchard she could glimpse her husband riding with another man, a man she assumed to be his steward.

  “Have you seen Peter?”

  Rebecca spun around to face her stepdaughter, smiling. “No, I haven’t.”

  Emily did not return the smile. “I can’t find him anywhere. One of the footmen said he left early this morning. Surely he’s returned.”

  Rebecca shrugged, though she had a very good idea where Peter could be found. She was not at liberty to reveal that information to the lovely blonde. “I’ve just come down. Have you eaten?”

  “Not actually. I’d thought to join Peter.” Her glance skipped to the rack of toast.

  “Why don’t you join me? I cannot think of a lovelier place to eat breakfast.” Rebecca’s glance swept over her stepdaughter. “How pretty you look today.”

  Emily wore a simple muslin gown sprigged with tiny blue flowers and tied under the bodice with a pale blue satin sash. Rebecca thought she looked like an angel.

  Still, no smile was forthcoming from Emily. “But you’re not eating!”

  Rebecca sighed. “I have a digestive complaint this morning, but the tea’s still nice and hot—and most welcome.” It helped to clear her groggy head.

  Emily helped herself to a piece of toast and patted marmalade on it before she came to sit across the table from Rebecca.

  “I’m so happy to see you this morning,” Rebecca began, “because I shall beg that you do me the most tremendous service.”

  The girl’s fine golden brows arched. “Pray, what could I do for you?”

  “I should like the lads—as well as you and Peter and possibly even Uncle Ethelbert—to stage a performance in the nursery.”

  “What kind of performance?”

  “That’s the rub, you see. I thought perhaps you could write a short play especially for the family.”

  “I cannot write a play!”

  “I believe you can. Your father says you’re a terribly clever writer. I will presume to suggest a topic, but bear in mind, it’s only a suggestion.” If only she’d been as diplomatic on the previous night.

  Those fair brows of Emily’s lowered. “What?” She did not appear to be in the least agreeable.

  “I had hoped you could take one of Jesus’s parables and possibly even give it a modern-day treatment.”

  The girl gave no reaction for several seconds. Rebecca feared she may have angered Emily with her presumptiveness.

  “You know,” Emily finally said, her eyes glittering like the sapphires they so strongly resembled, “I do believe I could do that! We could do the prodigal son. I would love for Uncle Ethelbert to be the father, but I daresay the poor man would not be able to remember his lines.”

  She was likely right. “I have every confidence you’ll figure out something.”

  Emily’s lips pursed with contemplation. “Perhaps I will. It will be such great fun for the boys. I believe I’ll go start in the library. Is Papa there?”

  “No, he’s riding.”

  “Oh, that’s right. It’s Monday. He always rides with Mr. Stanley on Mondays.” Rebecca remembered now that Stanley was the steward’s name.

  When Emily swept from the room, she almost collided with a footman who was bringing Rebecca the morning post.

  Nothing could have been calculated that could get Rebecca out of her funk as easily as a letter from Maggie. Well, there most certainly was one thing, but a proud earl like Aynsley was unlikely to ever come apologizing to her. Her delighted gaze fell on the Lady Warwick seal, and she hurriedly tore open the first letter she had received from Maggie since she’d left London.

  My Dearest Becky,

  I’m not going to be selfish and fill these pages elaborating on my own misery over your absence, nor will I go into long, heartbreaking descriptions about how thoroughly your nephews miss you. I am, however, writing with glorious news! I have located for you a wonderfully capable housekeeper by the name of Mrs. Cotton. She’s run Lord and Lady Bermondsey’s London home for the past five years, but after visiting her sister
in the country recently and learning that her asthma complaints completely disappeared upon leaving London’s sooty skies, she is quite determined to take a position in the country. I took the liberty of engaging her on the spot. Lady Bermondsey, I must tell you, is prostrate. Unless I receive a negative response from you immediately, I will put her on a post chaise for Birmingham tomorrow. Aynsley could send his carriage to pick her up on Tuesday, the 16th.

  Well, my dearest love, I’ve got to get this letter off by the next post—which is just outside our door.

  M

  It was, indeed, glorious news. And the sixteenth was the following day! By Wednesday, they would have a capable housekeeper in place. She so hoped Aynsley would be proud of her. Not that she’d done anything more than beg Maggie to assist.

  Now, if only she could engage a governess. Surely then she would have accomplished something that would make her husband proud. She perused the rest of the mail and was delighted to find a letter from her old friend Verity, now Lady Agar.

  How gratifying it was that both Maggie and Verity had been thinking of her during her short absence from London. She broke the Lady Agar seal and unfolded the letter. Like Maggie’s, this one was brief.

  My Dear Lady Aynsley,

  I have every reason to hope this letter brings you welcome news for it’s my pleasure to tell you I believe I’ve found just the person to serve as governess to your stepsons. Allow me to tell you a bit about her. You will remember my brother Will and his bride, Lady Sophia. Well, Lady Sophia’s old governess has just finished up with the last of the Devere children (you recall Lady Sophia was a Devere before she married), and being just in her middle forties, the governess is too young to retire. As it happens, she has been looking for a post.

  Lady Sophia is uncommonly attached to her. Of course, Lady Sophia is such a dear she treats that maid of hers as if she were family. I thought it quite interesting that her maid, who is well into her forties, has just married my brother’s longtime valet, who’s of a similar age. Is that not romantic?