Abbeyford
Page 13
Grosmore had become a constant visitor to the Grange and, though at first Caroline had been most ungracious towards her suitor, during the past few weeks Lord Royston had noticed a marked change in her attitude. She received Grosmore more kindly and seemed animated in his company.
Only the previous day Grosmore had sought out the earl and, with great pomposity, had asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Royston had agreed at once, relieved that his strong-willed daughter would soon be safely married and out of danger from entering into any more such unsuitable liaisons. Royston shuddered and his thankfulness at the happy resolution to his worries made him say now, in a generous and expansive mood, “ No doubt Trent will organise entertainment for the villagers in his barn, but perhaps we should offer for them to hold the wedding reception and ball here—at the Grange. After all, Trent, and I believe Marchant too amongst trade circles, are both well thought of.”
“Why, Papa—that is an excellent idea.”
“And—er—would it not be an opportune moment to announce your own engagement to Lord Grosmore?”
Caroline hesitated and for a moment there was, deep in her green eyes, a flash of anger, of rebellion. Fear stabbed at Lord Royston. More sharply than he intended to speak to her, he said, “I trust you do intend to accept him?”
For a moment a bleak, desolate expression flickered across her face. Then quietly Caroline said, “It seems I have no choice.”
Inwardly Lord Royston sighed with relief. Outwardly he beamed once more upon his daughter. “Good, good. You shall have a new ball-gown. And I have a surprise in store for you, my dear, but that is to be my own special secret.”
Caroline seemed to be lost in her own thoughts and merely murmured some reply. Lord Royston patted her shoulder and smiled to himself.
No doubt it was quite usual for a young bride-to-be to be a little dreamy and distant, her thoughts already on the future life she would share with her wealthy, aristocratic husband.
It seemed the whole county attended Guy Trent’s wedding—though that was not strictly accurate. Because of the Earl of Royston’s involvement, the wedding was attended by many aristocratic people who would not normally have condescended to be present at the marriage of a squire’s son to the daughter of a man in trade—wealthy though he may be!
The small village church was overflowing with guests and the Reverend Langley was flustered with the honour, the importance, the responsibility!
Guy Trent stood facing the altar as his bride entered the church on her father’s arm. He neither turned to watch her walk towards him, nor even looked down to greet her as she stood uncertainly at his side.
It was the first of many heartaches Guy Trent was to inflict upon the young girl. Louisa Marchant had come to Abbeyford as a young and attractive bride, full of hope and shy affection for her handsome, virile husband.
But her illusions, her hopes, were to be swiftly shattered, for Guy would never, could never, love Louisa when that love belonged for ever to Sarah.
Why he had ever loved—and would continue to long for—the black-haired, vivacious village girl, instead of the cool, serene, well-bred beauty of his wife, neither Guy Trent nor anyone else could ever explain.
Guy would spend the rest of his life in the Manor only a mile or so away from Sarah in her peasant’s cottage and yet they were as lost to each other as if half the world separated them.
Louisa would shed many tears and, although Guy would do his duty as her husband and she would bear him a son, over the years her misery would grow into a cold bitterness.
But on this day of merry-making only Guy—and his Sarah alone in her labour giving birth to his son—could foresee what desolation the years ahead would hold.
The rest of the village caroused in the barn at the Manor, whilst their master’s entertainment at the Grange was a little more refined.
After a sumptuous banquet Lord Royston rose to make the usual speech of good wishes to the bride and bridegroom and then added, “And it is my happy duty to announce the engagement of my beloved daughter, Caroline, to Peter, Viscount Grosmore.”
There were cries of delight and surprise amongst the guests and Caroline found herself being gazed upon with fond eyes.
Only Lord Lynwood, seated beside his mother, turned ashen at Lord Royston’s words and kept his eyes averted. He could not bear to see Caroline’s unhappiness. Even though she had used and abused him, had destroyed his trust in her by her secret affair with Thomas Cole, which must now have been at an end, in spite of all that, Lynwood could not bear to think of her being obliged to marry a man she disliked, the odious, pompous, gross Grosmore!
When he did dare to look at her, Lynwood was surprised to see a faint smile upon her lips and calm acceptance in her eyes. He watched as Lord Grosmore, with a great fuss and flourish, placed the ring upon her finger—a huge ruby, far too large and gaudy for Caroline’s slim fingers.
Then Lord Royston gave his daughter a silver locket set with a ruby surrounded by smaller diamonds. As he fastened the delicate chain around her neck and stooped to kiss his daughter’s smooth brow, Caroline opened the locket and saw the two tiny miniature portraits of her dear mother and father. Lynwood saw her mouth quiver, her eyes fill with tears, saw her clasp her father’s hand and hold it against her cheek for an instant. But then she was in control of her emotions once more, graciously receiving the congratulations and good wishes of those present with a gentle smile upon her lips. But Lynwood wondered …
He only had a chance to speak to her briefly as they danced.
“Caroline—are you—happy?”
Her eyes were shining, her lips parted. “Oh yes, dear Francis—I am going to be so happy.”
As the dance ended she held both his hands in hers for a moment and looked up at him her green eyes beseeching him, “ Francis—you will always think well of me, won’t you? You will always— understand?”
Thinking she was in some way asking for his forgiveness for her past foolishness, he answered, “Of course, of course I will. Need you ask?”
She touched his cheek lightly with her fingertips. “Dear Francis—don’t ever forget me, will you?”
Then she was moving away from him across the crowded floor and slipping quietly behind a heavy brocade curtain and through a door.
Only Lynwood, whose eyes had followed her all evening whilst she had danced and curtsyed and smiled at her fiancé, saw her go. Perhaps she is fatigued, he thought, for even after Guy Trent and his bride had left the company the dancing had gone on and on and it was now well after midnight.
Tired himself of the noise, the music and laughter, Lynwood went out on to the terrace overlooking the rose-garden. It was a mild November night, the moon and stars amazingly bright in the dark sky. Lynwood leant against the balustrade in the shadows, listening to the muted strains of the music and thinking of Caroline.
He must have been there some time when a small sound disturbed his thoughts.
He shrank further into the shadows as he saw a figure hidden by a dark cloak and hood glide along the terrace towards him. As she neared the steps only a few feet away from him, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder. For a moment the hood of her cloak fell back from her face and Lynwood recognised her.
He almost cried her name aloud: “ Caroline!” but no sound came from his lips.
He saw her falter, saw her fingers touch the locket at her throat, saw her glance back towards the lighted windows where her father’s guests still danced away the night, where Lord Grosmore searched amongst the dancers for his fiancée.
In the bright moonlight, Lynwood fancied he saw a shudder pass through her slender frame, then she turned, and, pulling the hood over her face once more, ran lightly down the stone steps into the rose-garden. Silently she flitted like an ethereal shadow along the twisting paths until she came to the door in the wall at the end of the garden which led into the field beyond.
As she slipped through it, Lynwood moved from his hiding-p
lace and ran to the door. He reached it in time to see her running swiftly down the slope towards the footbridge.
From the shadow of the bushes beside the bridge, Lynwood could just discern the figure of a man emerge, saw him open his arms to her as she flew towards him and watched as she was enfolded into his loving embrace.
For a timeless moment the lovers clung together and then Thomas Cole lifted her on to one of the two horses tethered near the bushes.
As they rode away into the darkness, only Lynwood saw them go.
Copyright
First published in 1998 by Severn House
Originally published 1981 under the title Sarah
This edition published 2014 by Bello
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Copyright © Margaret Dickinson, 1981, 1998
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