The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne

by Jayne Fresina

  James said nothing. Lady Ophelia watched him with a smug, victorious expression on her face. The second heavy silence was interrupted only by the slow ripping of worsted as his grandmother’s pug succeeded in tearing off a strip of Miss Bicknell’s gown.

  He could not think why he was ever entertained by women like Ophelia. James supposed he’d imagined he ought to enjoy her company. But it was never fulfilling and had left him with a sense of emptiness and frustration. He eyed the fondant delicacies carefully arranged on his grandmother’s china cake stand and realized that Ophelia was very much like one of those confections. All decoration and no substance. Once he bit into it, he knew it would taste no more appealing than a mouthful of dry sawdust. The only treat he had a taste for now was Miss Ellie Vyne, and it was becoming more and more evident by the moment that waiting several hours without another nibble was quite out of the question.

  ***

  After lunch, Ellie went with her aunt and Lady Mercy to find some last-minute Christmas gifts at the one shop in Sydney Dovedale—Hodson’s—an emporium of delights that no one could ever simply pass by. As a child, Ellie spent hours there, perusing the many shelves and glass-fronted cupboards, her pocket money growing sweaty in her hand. The bow window looked onto the main thoroughfare of the village, and Mr. Hodson himself made certain no one walked by without exchanging a few words with him. He could be found at any time, sweeping his front step and polishing the brass doorknocker, looking over his shoulder at the first sound of a prospective customer approaching.

  Today when he saw the three women advancing in his direction, he almost fell over his broom in haste to shepherd them inside. He had, Ellie learned, some experience of Lady Mercy and her spending habits already since her visit there the day before. While Lady Mercy kept Hodson busy unraveling all his ribbons for her consideration, Ellie and her aunt wandered farther into the shop. Here were a few other customers, but since Ellie had not taken a great deal of notice—her attention caught by a particularly splendid pair of very costly kidskin gloves—the sudden arrival of Jane Osborne at her shoulder was somewhat jolting.

  “Miss Vyne, fancy seeing you here at this time of year,” the young woman exclaimed through her ponderous bucked teeth.

  “Miss Osborne,” she replied, still admiring the gloves. “You were not at the Kanes’ party last night.”

  “Good gracious, no! I don’t consort with the likes of them.”

  “Oh?”

  “I told my papa he should not go either. But he is never mindful of our status in society.”

  “The Kanes are very good people.”

  “But not our sort of people.”

  “What can you mean by that?”

  “Come, Miss Vyne. Lazarus Kane is a common man with no pedigree. Sophia Valentine fell considerably in the world when she married him.” Jane lowered her voice, but only slightly. “I daresay she often regrets it now, since it cut her off forever from all good society, but she has only herself to blame.”

  Ellie knew that Jane Osborne once wanted Sophie’s husband for herself. Jealousy was a terrible emotion and could make any woman into an ass. She, of all people, ought to know. “The Kanes seem very happy,” she replied, her voice curt.

  Since Miss Osborne had no interest in the happiness of anyone but herself, she quickly steered the subject in another direction. “I recently returned from Bath, did you know?”

  “My aunt mentioned something about it.”

  “I plan to go back in the spring. The entertainments are superior there, of course, and the fashions far beyond anything here. People say Bath is no longer the attraction it once was, but I quite disagree. I suppose you go often to Bath, Miss Vyne.”

  “Not often.”

  “I was just talking to the count about Bath. You do know the count de Bonneville, Miss Vyne? You and he have some passing acquaintance, he informs me.”

  She almost dropped the gloves she was examining.

  A man approached, gestured forward by Jane Osborne, who chatted excitedly about having met him while she was in Bath and then almost tripping over him in Morecroft yesterday. Ellie stared, and the man stared back with a pair of cunning dark eyes. He bowed stiffly from the waist. “Mademoiselle Vyne.”

  She couldn’t think of a solitary word to say. The count de Bonneville—a character she knew to be pure invention—was standing before her in an old-fashioned white wig and a set of clothes that, despite his proud posture, had an unmistakable air of “better days” about them. There was a thread hanging loose on his coat, where a button must have come off. Jane Osborne, never a very observant person, appeared not to notice the missing button. The woman was clearly in awe of her new aristocratic friend and eager to show him off, like a trophy won at the county fair for the best homemade jam.

  “The count dines with Papa and me this evening. Perhaps you will join us, Miss Vyne?”

  “Sorry…no. I dine in Morecroft with the Hartleys.”

  “A great shame,” the “count” intoned gravely in a thick French accent. “I shall ’ope to see you again while I am in the country, Mademoiselle Vyne.”

  Her gaze drifted downward, to where Jane Osborne slid her hand through the man’s arm. “Yes,” Ellie murmured awkwardly. “I’m sure we shall meet again.”

  He smirked. “I doubt it not.”

  Fear gripped her heart and then shook her pulse until it started again. Whoever this man was, it could only be trouble. His eyes had not once blinked as they roved over her face. He seemed amused by her frozen state—almost to relish it.

  She clawed for that infamous courage of hers, wrenching it back inside her skin, patching the tears rendered in her gumption by the sudden shock of coming face-to-face with a make-believe creation. A man who could expose her past exploits and ruin any chance she might have of putting it all behind her.

  The odd couple soon left the shop, and her aunt whispered, “He must be old enough to be her father.”

  “How long has she known that man?”

  “Since she was in Bath, it seems. Although, from all her papa tells me, it seems the fellow never maintained the connection. I suppose she met him again quite by accident in Morecroft, and then he could not escape further acquaintance.” Aunt Lizzie sighed, shaking her head. “For a count, he has some very dirty footwear.”

  “I fear he is not the man he pretends to be.”

  “You know the count?”

  Ellie watched through the bow window as they crossed the lane. “I know a count de Bonneville, but that is not the same person with whom I am well acquainted.”

  “Are you certain? My goodness. I hope he does not lead poor Jane along for some devious motive.”

  “I would advise Farmer Osborne to be wary of that gentleman, Aunt Lizzie.” It was worrisome to hear that the imposter dined with the Osbornes that evening. Even if he had, as her aunt suggested, attempted to escape any further entanglement with Jane after meeting her in Bath, he was clearly ready to ingratiate himself now. Farmer Osborne lived very comfortably, Jane was his only child, and the generous fellow had not thought it necessary to entail his property for the good of any distant male relative. It was common knowledge that he spoiled Jane. The chance that this might make her a target for fortune hunters had always appeared minimal in light of her unpleasant, cross disposition that could turn the most brazen gallant to a block of ice, but also because of her own sense of superiority.

  Now she had found someone who put up with her, and a man she deemed worthy. An unlikely combination to be sure.

  “Oh dear! She is a very stubborn girl,” said Aunt Lizzie. “Her father struggles so. I fear she will pay no heed to warnings.”

  Heavy footsteps creaked across the wooden boards of the shop, and Mrs. Flick’s less-than-dulcet tones rang out loudly. “I thought the Osborne girl had found herself one of those Male Peculiars. But apparently he’s a French count. I always knew her father was desperate to get rid of her, but a Frenchman of all things! And he has very coarse manners
. Did not even hold the door for me. I could have sworn I smelled brandy on his breath. I am told he is acquainted with you, young lady.” She gave Ellie a scathing, up-and-down assessment, “Sydney Dovedale will go to rack and ruin before the year is out. Folk coming here and spreading their strange ideas. Bringing their uncouth, foreign friends and Male Peculiars.”

  Naturally it was all Ellie’s fault; her presence there stirred up trouble for that quiet village.

  “I think you’ll find, dear Mrs. Flick, that there were a great many strange things going on behind the curtains of Sydney Dovedale long before I came back.”

  The woman sniffed, and her starched shoulders crackled. “And behind curtains is where they should be kept. Not running up the lane for all to see.”

  She watched Mrs. Flick stride away down the shop. Perhaps that old curmudgeon was right—perhaps it was better to keep some things hidden and pretend they didn’t exist. Exposing this “count” as an imposter risked exposing herself also. But doing nothing at all left Jane Osborne to the “count’s” motives—which could not be good or amiable—and possibly cause great trouble to Farmer Osborne, thereby to Ellie’s beloved aunt.

  Mr. Hodson’s sharp voice broke into her thoughts. “Do you mean to purchase the gloves, Miss Vyne?”

  She hastily handed the beautiful gloves back, and he put them out of her reach in a glass cabinet where her unworthy hands could not fondle them with yearning any longer.

  Chapter 20

  Upon their return to the cottage, two messages awaited. The first was for Lady Mercy, whose brother, the Earl of Everscham, had arrived in Morecroft, none too happy at being ripped away from his pleasures elsewhere. According to the note, he expected his sister at Hartley House that evening. He waited there for her. It was, of course, beneath him, to visit a small cottage in Sydney Dovedale and fetch his little sister. He preferred the grander environs of Hartley House.

  Ellie had decided already that she didn’t like Lady Mercy’s brother very much. The rest of the village was of the same opinion, especially since Lady Mercy told everyone at the party last night that her elder brother spanked her with his shoe at every opportunity. This was not quite in order with what the young lady had said about her brother previously, but Ellie was now in the mood to imagine all men to blame for something. She refused to consider what had got her into this querulous, shifting temper. As usual, she turned her anger in all directions, seeking a culprit other than herself.

  The second note was a message for her.

  “What is it?” Lady Mercy wanted to know, bouncing on her toes, trying to read the single line scribbled on the paper.

  Ellie hastily tucked it away in her pocket.

  “But, Ellie, you cannot go out again,” her aunt exclaimed, seeing her drop her packages and head for the door, still in her bonnet and coat. “It has just begun to snow.”

  “I won’t be long, Aunt Lizzie. There is just one more thing I forgot.”

  She hurried across the common, dodging the swans and geese. Speckles of snow filled the air. Like goose feathers from a pillow fight, they took a long time to fall and were too light yet to make much of a layer on the ground. As she passed through the church lychgate, a robin flew out from above her head, startling her. She was too jumpy. This would not do. No point facing this man, whoever he was, with fear upon her face. He was clearly up to no good, and she must take care in her approach, show no weakness.

  Her fingers were icy cold. She’d left her gloves behind again, having removed them before she opened the notes. She walked faster, rounded the corner of the church, and saw him there, leaning on a headstone. The imposter.

  “Ah, good. You came, m’dear. I feared you might ignore my note.” No sign of a French accent now, but a cockney one, tainted with something else. A voice uniquely shadowed, capable of many identities. “I had the tavern keeper write it for me. Charged me a penny, bleedin’ tight-purse.”

  “What do you want with me, sir?”

  His lips cracked apart in a broad grin. “I tried to catch you alone now for some time, but always someone gets in the way.”

  Ellie blew out a quick breath, the frigid air cloudy around her mouth. “Again, sir—who are you, and what do you want from me?”

  His tongue rasped over dry lips. “My name is Josiah Jankyn, my dear. And I rather thought it was time we became acquainted.”

  She couldn’t breathe, as if her corset was suddenly too tight. Her head felt light, dizzy.

  His words slipped out calmly, as if oblivious to the turmoil they caused. Or, at least, not caring.

  “I’m your pa.”

  ***

  James had left Morecroft before the snow began, and since his mind was on other matters, he gave no thought to the winter weather but drove his grandmother’s curricle along the lane as if it was a summer’s day. Only when he passed a few farmer’s carts and saw the drivers looking at him oddly, did he realize how unwise it was to choose an open vehicle for a jaunt along country lanes in December. By the time he reached Sydney Dovedale, his face was frozen, his feet and fingertips likewise.

  Then the snow began to fall. The bare branches filled with pristine white, and a stillness settled over the countryside. The rhythmic clip of the horses’ hooves became as soothing as a lullaby. In the distance, soft puffs of gray smoke billowed from cottage chimneys, and there was the church spire, snow clinging to the clock face. Almost there and in anticipation of seeing Ellie Vyne, he felt warmer already.

  ***

  Her first emotion was disbelief, naturally. “My father is dead, sir. He died before I was born.”

  “’Fraid not, m’dear. Here I am. As you see with your own two eyes. In the flesh. Still ’live and kickin’.”

  Fingers clasped tight in a vain effort to warm them, she stared at the man before her. He was in his fifties, tall, rugged, weathered by life. There were signs of a once-handsome face, but worn now and sagging about the mouth. His eyes were very dark, and his gaze probed deeply. Snow gathered on his wig until he took it off and shook it. His hair underneath was brown, lightly peppered with gray.

  “It was you,” she stammered. “You’ve been following me for months.” A ghost. Surely that was what he was. An apparition.

  “Oh yes.” He sucked on his teeth, drawing out the “s” in a long hiss. “The minute I saw you, o’ course, I recognized you were my Jenny’s girl. Almost the very image of her you are. And then I saw you wearing those pearls she stole from me.”

  Snowflakes clung to the edge of her bonnet and the lavender ribbons under her chin. “I don’t understand. Who is Jenny?”

  He stepped closer over the whitened grass. “Jenny was my wife. My partner in crime. My pretty little pigeon.” Then the smile snapped off his face. “Until she ran off and left me. Decided she could do better. Took off with a box full of jewelry, got on a boat, and got herself shipwrecked.” He paused, and when she said nothing, he added, “She was your mother, m’dear.”

  “My…my mother? But her name was Catherine. She was a widow—”

  “Yes, I heard that fairy story. Poor widow woman, rescued from a storm at sea by Admiral Vyne, married and settled down like a proper lady. Has a few babies. Lives a life of lies, while her real husband thinks she’s drowned.” He snapped his thick, callused fingers inches from her face. “Gone. The ungrateful hussy. For years I thought she was dead.” He turned and strolled around the gravestone, his hands behind his back. “Then, one day, there I am, in Jamaica, sitting in a tavern down by the docks, rifling my way through a few untended pockets, running a few cons to pass the time until my boat sails, and what do I see on the wall, right above all the bottles of rum covering a hole in the plaster?” He looked at her again over his snow-laden shoulder. “Guess, Mariella my girl. What did I see?”

  She couldn’t think. Her hands were numb with cold, and her mind rapidly followed suit.

  “My Jenny. In a portrait. Large as life. Couldn’t forget those eyes of hers, could I? And you’ve got them
too, m’dear.”

  Ellie closed those eyes now to protect them from his pointing, accusatory finger. “So I ask the proprietor of the place—an exiled Englishman—and he tells me the tale of the lovely widow called Catherine. Rescued at sea and now his sister-in-law. Married to Admiral Vyne, no less, and kicking up her heels in the English countryside like the fine lady she ain’t.”

  So he talked of the portrait her aunt gave Uncle Grae when he left England in disgrace.

  “Then I knew she’d tricked me, didn’t I? Decided to come and get the wench back, but when I got here, she was dead. Again.” He gave a hollow laugh. “I went to see the grave this time to make certain.”

  She reopened her eyes and looked at him. Now she knew he was flesh and blood, not a ghost at all. The father she’d thought dead all these years was here before her.

  Josiah stood straight, rough hands clasped around his coat lapels. “The parson’s wife showed me the gravestone. ‘What does it say then?’ I asked her, and she told me.” He raised his voice to a new pitch, high and haughty. “‘Here lies Catherine Vanderlilly Vyne, devoted wife and mother.’ Catherine, indeed. Nah! Jenny Jankyn lies here. Deceiving whore. That’s what that stone should’ve said.”

  “Don’t you say that about my mother!”

  “It’s what she was, m’dear. You may as well face the truth.”

  But whatever she was once, her mother had clearly tried to change her life, not only for herself but for the child she knew she carried. When she was shipwrecked, she must have seen the opportunity to reinvent herself and seized her chance for redemption. Ellie knew all about the desire for peace.

  Her gaze tracked to the right and caught Mrs. Flick passing along on the other side of the churchyard wall. The old busybody couldn’t hear their conversation, but she stared quite openly, probably taking note of every detail. Josiah Jankyn waved a greeting, and Mrs. Flick walked on in haste.