by M C Beaton
The thing that puzzled Fanny was that they did not see the Deveneys. Messages were sent back and forth between the two families, but the Deveneys did not visit the Pages and the Pages did not call on the Deveneys—and Fanny was not to know that neither family wanted to go to any further expense in keeping up appearances of being rich.
Knowing how gossip traveled easily in country districts, Mrs. Page had paid the cook, Mrs. Friendly, and had told her of the mythical legacy from Aunt Isobel but had sworn her to secrecy, knowing Mrs. Friendly to be a chatterbox. Mrs. Friendly had told her son—she was unusual in an age when servants were not supposed to marry, but had been taken on by the Pages, who could not afford to be over nice in such matters—and her son had got drunk down at the Dog and Duck and had confided in his best friend, Gully Simpson, who was walking out with the vicar’s scullery maid, and so the news went the rounds and joined up with the gossip from the Deveney camp about Sir Charles returning from the wars, loaded down with prize money and loot—so loaded down that it was taking a separate ship to bring his wealth home.
And in the middle of all this gossip and speculation moved the small figure of Fanny Page, lost in dreams of that handsome, harsh man on his white charger.
There was one man whom Lord Gilbert Bohun loathed with every fiber of his being, and that man was Sir Charles Deveney. Lord Gilbert smoldered beside the fire in the officers’ mess at Bristol and covertly studied his “enemy.” Sir Charles Deveney was slight and fair. He had fine gray eyes in a clever, sensitive face and looked almost too delicate to be an officer. But he had been knighted for bravery, and what was more, was adored by every man in the regiment, who jumped to attention every time they saw him, whereas Lord Bohun was regarded with dislike. The fact that he was cruel, that he led his regiment from behind whenever possible, did not cross Lord Bohun’s mind. His jealousy of Sir Charles festered and burned. To add to Lord Bohun’s bad humor, a letter had been waiting for him from his factor to say that the portrait of his lordship on a white charger with drawn sword, commissioned at great expense by his lordship from a Spanish artist and shipped home, had failed to arrive, the coach that was carrying it from Bristol to Lord Bohun’s home in Gloucestershire having been held up by footpads.
He noticed that Sir Charles was staring at a letter as if he could not believe his eyes and sourly hoped it was bad news.
Sir Charles read the letter from his father for the second time. Squire Deveney had written that a marriage had been arranged for Charles with Miss Fanny Page, aged seventeen. The family fortunes were at low ebb. In fact, the squire wrote touchingly, if Charles did not go through with this wedding, then the Deveneys would end their days in a debtors’ prison.
Sir Charles had been looking forward to a well-deserved leave. He longed to relax at home, get in a bit of shooting, a bit of fishing, but thoughts of the fair sex had not entered his mind. Unlike most of his fellow officers, he had learned to manage on his army pay, which he augmented cleverly from time to time with wins at the card table, having learned that if you stuck to water when all about you were getting drunk, chances were of winning hands down every time.
He sensed a lightening of the atmosphere in the room and realized Lord Bohun had left. The man’s dislike of him was a constant irritation to Sir Charles.
He picked up a small package that had also been waiting for his arrival and tore off the wrapping. It was a miniature with a covering letter from his future father-in-law. “You probably do not remember our Fanny,” Mr. Page had written, “but she has grown to extreme beauty.” The rest of the letter contained fulsome compliments and best wishes for “the happy couple.”
Sir Charles opened up the leather case containing the miniature. The beauty of the face looking up at him made him catch his breath. So stunning was that beauty that he did not notice the rather scarred edges of the miniature, where the gems had been gouged out.
The door opened and his fellow officer, Capt. Tommy Hawkes, walked in. “Morning, Major,” he said, sinking into an armchair opposite. “News from home?”
“Very startling news,” said Sir Charles. “My impoverished parents have decided to recoup the family losses by marrying me off.”
“To whom?”
“To a neighbor’s daughter, Miss Fanny Page, only seventeen years old, but evidently very rich.”
“No harm in that,” said Tommy. “Marry this heiress, enjoy your leave, kiss her good-bye, and return to the wars.”
“How would you feel about kissing this good-bye?” Sir Charles passed him the miniature.
Tommy let out a soundless whistle. “You’ve landed on your feet, Major. A face to die for.”
Sir Charles took the miniature back from him. “Yes,” he said slowly. “But why should parents of a rich heiress want her to marry me? They’ve only to take a dazzler like that to London and she could have the pick of the bunch.”
“Don’t question fortune,” said Tommy. “I’d like to see you with more of the readies. Can’t stand the way Bohun sneers at you the whole time and flaunts his wealth in front of you.”
“We won’t have to suffer Bohun any longer. He’s sold out. I won’t be plagued with him again.”
“But are you really going to marry this girl, just like that? It’s up to you. Your parents can’t force you. Remember, those miniatures can be misleading. Do you remember Carter of the Forty-fifth? Got a miniature of a dazzler, fell in love, rushed back home on his first leave, and found she had teeth like a rabbit and a squint.”
“Well, we’ll see. Time I settled down. Never thought I would have the money to do it. You know, I am well aware that it’s the fashion, but there’s something about getting wed to a female for her money that sticks in my craw. But my parents appear to be heading for the debtors’ prison this time and that does not surprise me in the least. They make me feel like a hundred years old, they are so heedless and feckless. Money runs through their fingers like water. Will you be my best man?”
Tommy looked gratified. “I would be honored. When do we leave?”
Sir Charles studied the letter again. “This is ridiculous! They have arranged the wedding for next Monday! We’ll need to travel hard to get there in time. What are they thinking of? I hope this is not some heiress who has become pregnant by the stable boy and needs a husband.”
“You can always say no,” Tommy pointed out.
“With the limited time I have to get there, it looks as if I will only see this female at the altar and in front of the vicar.”
“So, you tip me the wink and when they get to the part about anyone having just cause to stop the marriage, I’ll cry out that you’re already wed to a señorita in Spain,” said Tommy.
Sir Charles grinned. “That should do the trick. Pity I don’t look like the awful Bohun. There isn’t much about me for a lady to dream about.”
Tommy studied the clever, sensitive face, the large gray eyes, the firm mouth and chin, and the slender athlete’s body opposite him. “You’ll do,” he said gruffly. “The men would follow you to hell and back, and they wouldn’t do that for Bohun.”
Sir Charles sighed. “But would the ladies even follow me across the street? Never mind. Let us get packed.”
Chapter Two
ON THE EVENING of her wedding day, Fanny slipped down to the kitchen to have a quiet talk with Mrs. Friendly. Everything was ready, everything prepared. Her wedding gown stood like a mute white ghost on a stand in the corner of her room.
There had been no opportunity for walks, for sensible thought, or for talks in the kitchen because of pinnings and fittings and alterations.
Mrs. Friendly was seated at the scrubbed wooden table, her cap askew, purple bruises of fatigue under her eyes. “Don’t reckon as when I’ve baked so much this age, Miss Fanny,” she said wearily. “But you’ll have a wedding breakfast a queen would be proud of.”
Fanny sat down opposite the cook. “I am a trifle frightened,” she said candidly. “I know the appearance of my intended but not
his disposition. He could be a brute.”
“Not Charles Deveney,” said the cook, “though I haven’t seen him this age. I remember him as a lad. Gentle soul. Very quiet.”
“The army … the wars … must change people.”
“Don’t know that it does, Miss Fanny. Fact is, it’s just another hunting field for the likes of them. You’ll be getting a house of your own. You’ll like that. And children will come along. There’s a lot to be said for being married—and nothing at all for being a spinster … not unless you’re a very rich spinster.”
“What I find most peculiar,” said Fanny, resting her chin on her hands, “is that Baxter, the Deveneys’ odd man, was in the village this afternoon. He bowed and wished me well and said it was good to have Sir Charles home again. He arrived this morning. Now would you not think he would wish to ride over and see me?”
Mrs. Friendly, who knew of Sir Charles’s arrival, had indeed thought just that, but kindness made her say, “It’s by way of being an arranged marriage, and all the better for that. Love don’t last.”
“But—but I have been dreaming about him. Seeing his face everywhere.” Fanny looked across at the shining row of copper pans as if seeing reflections of Sir Charles. “It would be quite dreadful if he loved me and I did not love him.”
“Hush now. Everything will be well. You’d best get off to bed and get a good night’s sleep.”
“But I do not think I can sleep. There are the intimacies of marriage I wish to learn about.”
“You should ask your mama.”
“Ma just turns a funny color and says ladies don’t ask such questions.”
“Wouldn’t worry about it,” said Mrs. Friendly, deciding it was better for Fanny not to know what awaited her. “Just a lot of kissing and cuddling.”
“Heavens! Is that all? And that’s how ladies have babies?”
“Sure as sure.”
“Well, when I walked into the kitchen last week— you did not see me—but you were being hugged and kissed by the blacksmith. Mrs. Friendly, does that mean …?”
“All right for me,” said Mrs. Friendly defensively. “My poor Jim’s been in his grave this age.” “But are you going to have another child?” “Gracious, no!” “But you said …”
“I’m too old. Only happens to young girls.”
“Oh. I think I can cope with kissing and cuddling. It might be quite pleasant.”
“Very pleasant, miss. And nothing for you to worry your head about.”
Somewhat comforted, Fanny retired upstairs to her bedchamber. But that night she dreamed of the Sir Charles in the picture. His face was dark with spite and rage and he was advancing on her with his fists clenched. She awoke with a scream. She lay awake for a few moments. In the light of the rushlight by her bed, she could dimly make out the white glimmering shape of her wedding gown. What if she took one look at Sir Charles and loathed him? She could run from the church. But where to? She had no money. When she had been at the seminary with the other, richer girls, the talk had all been of first Seasons, and killing glances, and flirtations, and she had joined in, thinking somehow that she, too, was destined for a London Season. It had been a cold awakening to find there was no prospect of a Season, no balls and parties to look forward to. Perhaps Sir Charles would take her to balls and parties. After all, things were not so bad. She was going to London at last—and surely Sir Charles would take her to some of the entertainments. That vicious face faded from her mind, replaced by a tender and admiring one, and she fell into a dreamless sleep.
Sir Charles, in morning dress—there had been no time or money to order a suit of wedding clothes—waited nervously at the altar in the church of St. Edmund’s for his bride.
Beside him stood Tommy Hawkes, a thin bean pole of a man with large feet. Tommy thought it was all very jolly and unpretentious. The church was bedecked with evergreens, just like Christmas, and filled with country people. He was surprised there were no gentry, only the Deveneys and Mrs. Page with their servants. The vicar, the Reverend Percival Thwyte-Simpson, looked just like a vicar should look with his venerable snowy locks and rosy cheeks.
The village band up in the gallery was playing a jaunty selection of hymns in double-quick time. Outside, pale spring sunlight was flooding the countryside and striking down through the old stained glass of the windows and on the silent marble tombs of braver Pages and more honorable Deveneys. The church, however, was very cold. Tommy could feel his first British chilblain beginning to itch and the tip of his long nose turning red.
Sir Charles stood very still and erect, as if on the parade ground. He was wishing his bride would hurry up. The whole thing seemed unreal.
Odd things had happened the night before. The Deveneys’ elderly footman had welcomed him home and had said, “Blessings on your return, Sir Charles. There must be carriages and carriages due to arrive with all the spoils of victory.” Sir Charles had laughed happily, thinking the old man was making a joke, and deciding later he had been serious. But everyone expected soldiers to come home dripping with the spoils of war. And why had he not been allowed to see his bride? He could not even get a description of her from his parents. What if she were a fright? Or worse, a shrew?
And then there was a rustling behind him and the band settled down to play a measured march.
Fanny looked down the church. A slight, fair man was standing where a tall, dark one should have been. Her step faltered. “That is not Sir Charles,” she murmured to her father.
“Wedding nerves,” he said, patting her arm. “It’s Sir Charles all right.”
Numb with cold and nerves, Fanny went to stand beside him.
Sir Charles looked at her, at the glossy black curls under the coronet of pearls, and the wide eyes and elfin face. Veils were unfashionable that year, so he was able to see her clearly. Not the face of the miniature, but dainty and appealing. He let out a little sigh of relief. It could have been much worse.
The opening speech of the wedding ceremony slid in and out Fanny’s worried brain. Why was this man so very different from the portrait?
The voice of the vicar interrupted her thoughts. “ ‘… and therefore it is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding …
Goodness, thought Fanny, I never really heard the words before. Carnal lusts, indeed!
The vicar read on. “ ‘It was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled …’ ”
Nothing like the Book of Common Prayer for calling a spade a spade, thought Sir Charles.
He sensed Fanny’s worry and distress. How awful, he thought, that such a young girl should be seeing the man she is to spend the rest of her life with for the first time. It’s like being sold into slavery!
And then the vicar’s voice pierced his worried thoughts again.
“ ‘I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know of any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.’ ”
Tommy nudged him. Sir Charles glanced down at the endearing face beside him and remained silent. Fanny half opened her mouth. She wanted to cry out that she had been tricked, that this was not the man she had promised she would marry, but fear kept her silent and the ceremony went on … and on. She promised to love and obey, she heard exortations reminding her that she was the “ ‘weaker vessel’ ” and must be “ ‘faithful and obedient to her husband; and in all quietness, sobriety and peace, be a follower of holy and godly matrons.’ ”
And then it was over. She was Lady Charles Deveney. She smiled blindly to right and left as she walked down the aisle on the arm of her husband. Lucy Partington, a faded spinster of the parish enjoying this day of glory bedecked in white
muslin, held up her train. Fanny had wanted one of her friends from the seminary to be invited but had been told that Lucy would be deeply disappointed, which had surprised her, for she had been sure that in the past her parents had refused to have anything to do with the Partingtons, damning them as genteel poor—as if their own straitened circumstances were of a higher order.
She sat in the open wedding carriage next to her husband for the short drive to Delfton Hall. She wanted to say something, even if it was only, How do you do? Or, Hasn’t the weather turned cold? But the words seemed to be frozen inside her and Sir Charles was looking worried and abstracted.
He said his first words directly to her as they entered the hall and he saw trunk after trunk piled up. “What a trousseau! Is that all yours?”
“N-no,” said Fanny. “I have two trunks of clothes and two bandboxes. There they are over there. How odd! My mother and father must be going somewhere, but they said nothing of it to me.”
“No gold plates,” remarked Mrs. Deveney at the wedding breakfast.
“Low people here,” said the squire. “Probably didn’t want it stolen. We’ll be all right. We’ll stay away for a year. By that time the heir will surely be on the way and we’ll be able to claim we lost our fortune in the intervening time. They should have their own grand establishment by then. We’ll move in on ‘em and live like kings for the rest of our lives.”
