The Forgotten Marriage

by Ellen Fitzgerald

  “She looks so innocent,” he mused.

  “To your eyes, perhaps, my dearest. It takes another woman to tell the difference between the real and the assumed. That she does seem innocent to you makes her all the more dangerous. If she insists upon your honoring this bond she secured through God knows what means, I beg you will be on your guard.”

  He took a turn around the room, his limp more in evidence than it had been in the last weeks. “Can you imagine that I will not?” he burst out. “Can you imagine that I will not be thinking of you and missing you every hour of every day, every minute, indeed! Yet, Barbara, perhaps she will relent. I will certainly make it worth her while. Oh, God, how came I to this coil?”

  “My love, I cannot bear to see you suffer,” Barbara moaned. “But again I assert that it cannot have been your doing. That woman and possibly her brother, more than possibly.” Her eyes flashed and she smote her hands together. “Of course it was her brother. He might have caught you with her—”

  “Barbara,”—Lucian moved to her and seized her hands—“I could not have been with her, being in love with you!”

  “Perhaps she came to your room, trapped you, and he, waiting outside the door, found you together. This, of course, is mere supposition. I have no proof. Unless you were to regain your memory, we have no way of telling how she managed to inveigle you into marriage.”

  He pushed his hands against his forehead. “No, we have no way. It all remains a blank. It would be more comfortable to believe I was trapped.”

  “What other explanation could there be?” she asked reasonably. “Unless, of course, you were in love with her.”

  “No!” He threw his arms around Barbara and held her against him. “I could not have been, never!”

  She remained in the circle of his arms for a moment and then gently but firmly extricated herself. “My love, we must not allow ourselves this luxury. You are not free.”

  “True,” he groaned. “I offer you my apologies.”

  Barbara sighed. “And I accept them and wish . . . But there is no use in wishing. If this creature does not relent, Lucian, promise that you will take her to the abbey.”

  “You have my word on it, my angel,” he cried. “Once she has made her stand, I will make mine or, rather, ours.

  And then we will leave for the abbey as soon as possible. I will not even make arrangements to have it opened.”

  “Ah.” Barbara smiled. “That is good. She will see it shuttered, empty, and cold—but you, my love, ought not to be exposed to that dreadful chill.”

  “There are parts that can be warmed quickly. I beg you’ll not concern yourself about me, Barbara.” A grim look darkened his eyes. “ ’Tis the least I can do, and I assure you she will not be happy in this situation. Indeed, she will feel most uncomfortable.”

  “Ah,” Barbara said, “I could hope for no more.”

  “You should have been able to hope for so much more, my love, and I as well,” he said sadly.

  “If you follow my advice, that hope must soon be realized. Oh, Lucian.” Barbara managed a tiny sob. “I know ’tis wrong, since you are not free, but I want you to hold me close now. It might be the last time.”

  He enfolded her in his arms again. “I promise you, Barbara”—he stared into her eyes—“indeed I swear to you that there will be many, many more times, a lifetime, in fact.” He kissed her.

  The hour had struck, and Alicia, her brother, Lord Barrington, Barbara, and Lucian were assembled in the library at Barrington House. Having nothing else to wear, Alicia was still in her black garments. These, she reasoned dolefully, were suited to the occasion, for on looking at Lucian’s face as he entered and meeting his stony eyes, she had been struck by the notion that, after all, the man she had called husband was dead. Indeed, for a brief moment she had actually entertained the idea of consenting to the annulment. Then she happened to look in Barbara’s direction and caught a gleam of triumph in her eyes. It occurred to her that Barbara’s early-morning visits had not ceased with herself. Undoubtedly, she had gone to Lucian as well, and who knows what poison she had poured into ears that were, alas, only too receptive?

  Certainly Lucian’s attitude was changed from the previous night. Then he had been miserable and confused. Now he was actively antagonistic. More coals had been heaped on that particular fire, certainly, and she did not doubt that it was Barbara’s hand that held the scuttle. Consequently, she braced herself and kept her eyes on Lord Barrington’s face.

  His demeanor was calm, and when he began to speak, his words matched it. “Well, now, last night we were all shocked and confounded by the revelation that Lucian had contracted a marriage while in Brussels. Upon due reflection, however, I, for one, am exceptionally glad that this intelligence was given us before rather than after the event of my niece’s marriage.

  “I wish, however, that more light could be shed on the circumstances that led to the contracting of a marriage while Lucian was still betrothed to my niece.” His cold glance shifted to Alicia’s face, and she, meeting his eyes, read condemnation in them. She took and momentarily held a deep breath, the while she clamped her teeth together lest she tell him that she did not believe that Lucian had still been betrothed to Barbara at that time. Such an argument was futile in the circumstances. Lucian, with his clouded understanding, could not have refuted the supposition and, she realized with an actual pain in her heart, would not have wanted to refute it. Clearly he was in Barbara’s comer—kept there by guilt and, she had no doubt, by Barbara’s lies. The big guns in this engagement were all on Barbara’s side and she had only the ring and her marriage lines to bolster her position.

  “I wish so, too, sir,” Lucian spoke. “No light, however, has pierced the darkness here.” He touched his head.

  “Such memories cannot be forced.” Lord Barrington’s eyes were on Alicia again. “I have made inquiries of my physicians and it is very possible that Lucian will remain in this condition for the rest of his life. Perhaps you are not aware of that. Lady Morley.”

  “I am aware of it, my Lord,” she said steadily.

  “I am glad to hear it. You seem a sensible young woman and I am sure that you will not want to remain in a situation that can hardly be to your best interests. Since I have no way of knowing why Lucian contracted this unfortunate marriage—” Alicia raised her hand. “At the time, my Lord, I can assure you that he did not believe it unfortunate.”

  “Liar!” Barbara flashed.

  “My dear,” Lord Barrington said quellingly, “let us have no more outbursts akin to those of last night. They serve only as interruptions and it is to everyone’s interest that this matter be brought to a close." He turned to Lucian. “You, my boy, wish, I think, to dissolve this alliance. Is that not so?” Lucian, his eyes on Barbara, nodded. “Yes, if Miss—Lady Morley will agree to it. I have spoken to my man of business and am prepared to offer a settlement that, I hope, will be satisfactory.” He stared at Alicia. “I am offering ten thousand pounds.”

  “Lucian!” Barbara exclaimed with a gasp.

  Out of the comer of her eye, Alicia saw Timothy frown. She put her hand on his arm and, meeting his eyes, gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. To Lucian, she said, “That is a great deal of money, sir.”

  “A very great deal, indeed. A fortune,” Lord Barrington said in a shaken voice. “Are you sure, my boy, that—” Lucian’s eyes were fixed on Barbara’s face. “I am quite sure,” he said steadily, turning toward Lord Barrington then.

  “Well, Lady Morley”—Lord Barrington was still out of contenance—“will you accept this most munificent offer? If so, we can bring this matter to a conclusion now.”

  Alicia said softly, “I do not accept it, my Lord.”

  Lord Barrington’s eyes opened wide. His face paled. “You do not?” He glared at her. “Am I—I mean, I hope I am mistaken in assuming that you are demanding more?”

  She rose to her feet. “I am asking considerably more. Lord Barrington. In t
he name of the rings I have on my finger and the lines inscribed in the registry of the Church of St. Stephen in Brussels and in the name of the words that Mr. de Jong pronounced on the morning of June eleventh, I demand that my husband remain with me.”

  “Harpy!” Barbara actually leapt from her seat and lunged at Alicia. She was immediately confronted by an angry Timothy.

  “I charge you, stay back,” he rasped.

  “Barbara”—Lucian, also rising, took her arm and escorted her back to her chair—“I beg you’ll stay here.” He confronted Alicia, adding heavily, “Does it mean nothing to you that I cannot love or—or even like or respect you?”

  “You’d not speak to my sister in such a way were you in your right mind,” Timothy growled.

  “I beg to differ with that,” Barbara cried.

  Alicia spoke only to Lucian. “If you were cognizant of the events attendant upon our marriage, Lucian, you would understand my position. I can only say that I live in the hope of your memory returning.”

  “You have picked yourself a hard row to hoe, young woman,” Lord Barrington said sharply. “His physicians are in accord in telling me that there is very little chance of that.”

  “Yet, such things have been known to occur,” Alicia replied. “And I will be faithful to the vows I made my husband. I can only tell you that if he should awaken from this stupor, as it were, he would not thank me for refuting them—especially for money.”

  “On the contrary,” Lucian cried, “I would go down on my knees to you.”

  Alicia’s mouth trembled, but she said steadily enough, “I beg to differ with you, Lucian.” Her eyes rested briefly on Barbara’s flushed face. “I think you will live to thank me for a most happy release.”

  Barbara gasped and Lord Barrington glared at Alicia. “I will not say what I think of your manner. Lady Morley.”

  “That is just as well, my Lord, for it would avail you nothing,” Alicia responded.

  “She is without shame,” Barbara accused.

  “True,” Lucian agreed. He was very pale. Facing Alicia, he said, “I find your attitude insufferable, but since I did wed you, I must, it seems, abide by that bond. Consequently, I suggest, my dear wife, that you ready yourself for a long journey.”

  “A journey?” Timothy moved to Alicia’s side. “What would you be meaning by that, sir?”

  “He means,” Barbara said coldly, “that she will not be able to queen it over society here in town, Mr. Delacre. He means—”

  “Barbara,” Lucian interrupted. “I think, my dear, that I must furnish the explanation. I mean, sir, that your sister and I will be leaving for Yorkshire on the morrow. We will travel to Morley Abbey, which is our family estate. It is not far from Richmond and we will remain there for the rest of the winter ”

  “Yorkshire in the winter,” Timothy exclaimed. “No, I will not have it!”

  “I fear, sir, that you have nothing to say about where I choose to live with my . . . wife,” Lucian reminded him coldly. “The house, I might add, has not been open in quite some time and I feel I owe it to my tenants to put in an appearance there. I wish my . . . wife to accompany me, unless, of course, she chooses to change her mind regarding my offer.”

  Alicia said, “I will abide by your original offer, Lucian.”

  His eyes gleamed. “You mean you will take the money?”

  “I mean that I will be your wife. I will love, honor, and obey you till death do us part. And I will be ready at such time as you wish me to be.”

  “We will be leaving at five in the morning, then,” he said icily. “I advise you to take some warm clothing with you. The weather there is uncertain at this time of year.”

  “I thank you for your advice. I will see what I may purchase before the shops close,” she returned equably. She looked up at her brother. “With that in mind, Timothy, I think we had best bid Lord Barrington, Miss Barrington, and my husband a good afternoon.”

  The clock chimed four, and Alicia looked down compassionately at Effie, who had been ready betimes but who had dropped off to sleep again, her head on a leather bandbox. In a low voice, she said to her brother, who had just appeared at the door to her bedroom, “Let us go into the salon. There’s no sense rousing her until he arrives.”

  “Very well,” Timothy also spoke in a hushed tone. He moved back and was followed by his sister, who shut the door behind her quietly. “I wish,” he began, and staring at her determined countenance, he shrugged and said no more.

  “What do you wish?”

  “I am sure you know without my telling you, since we’ve talked of nothing else.

  “We have argued, you mean,” she emphasized. “And no, my dear, the scant sleep that I have had has not minded me to change my plans.”

  He frowned. “I cannot help but think that you are stepping into folly. Yorkshire in the winter is very cold, and you will be doubly cold. He is not the man you married and might never have been.”

  She said firmly, “I could not have been so mistaken in Lucian.”

  “It happened too quickly—your marriage.” His frown deepened. “I told you that at the time, if you will only remember.”

  “And reminded me of it not four hours since, as if I needed to be reminded. Timothy,” —Alicia gazed at him earnestly—“you know what he was like in Brussels. Do you see much of the man we knew?”

  “No. He has changed, but he seems most attached to that young woman. I hate to point this out—”

  “You have also pointed that out before,” she interrupted. “And I tell you, my dear, that were I his mother rather than his wife, I would not want to see him joined in matrimony to Miss Barrington. She breathes insincerity. Undoubtedly, Lucian sees none of this and I am sure that he was once very much in love with her—or thought himself to be. No, I will allow that he was, but I am certain that the Lucian who married me was not displaying any of the symptoms of a past disappointment. Cast your mind back, Timothy. Sure you must agree with me.”

  “I suppose that I do,” he said reluctantly. “But that Lucian has been, in effect, blotted out of existence. And as you have been told, you have no guarantee that he will ever return, and in these circumstances, I say again, Licia, that I hate to see you deliberately bring more misery down upon your head. You have suffered too much already.”

  “I suffered because I thought he was dead. I could not bear that, but”—she gave him a long resolute look—” all else I can bear. I feel in my bones that the man I love will come back to me, and I am willing to wait.”

  She received a dour look. “And I feel in mine—”

  “Hush, do not say it.” She put her little hand over his mouth.

  He caught her hand and held it warmly. “Licia, I beg you will promise me that if you are ever in trouble, you will send for me.”

  “If I am, of course, I shall, but I do not think I will need to,” she assured him with more confidence than she actually felt. Close upon her statement, she was startled by the chiming of the clock as it struck the three-quarter hour. Inadvertently, she glanced at it and instead saw her face in the mirror. She sighed, wishing she had not. It was always a shock to find her pale visage staring back at her. Grief had wrought heavily upon her and she knew that a good part of Barbara’s insistence on her duplicity was based on her diminished beauty. She did not expect that a hectic journey to the north would improve her appearance. Happiness might help but, for the nonce, she could not expect that either. She swallowed a groan. She had never been vain, but she had become used to being thought beautiful and she mourned the loss of the brightness and color that might have helped to assure Lucian that he had not been trapped into their marriage. A wave of unhappiness washed over her, and mixed with it was fear. Had she been too stubborn in clinging to Lucian despite his rejection of her? And would the Lucian she had known so briefly ever emerge again? If he did not, her life would be miserable indeed and, she thought dolefully, she would get more than a taste of that when he arrived.

  �
�You could change your mind even now, Licia,” Timothy said with the perspicacity he had shown on so many occasions.

  She turned to him and then stiffened at a knock on the door. Glancing at the clock again, she saw that its little gold hands, indicated a minute before the hour. Timothy opened the door, and as Lucian, cloaked and booted, strode in, the clock chimed five.

  His gaze fell somewhere between the brother and sister. “Good morning,” he said curtly. Without waiting for a response, he continued, “The coach is below. ’Tis well- sprung and you will have plenty of room. Your abigail may ride with you and my man Jacob will also accompany you. I myself will be on horseback. My housekeeper, butler, and a few other servants will be traveling behind us in another coach.”

  “Should you be on horseback all the way?” Alicia asked worriedly. “Your leg—”

  He cut her off sharply, “I beg you will not concern yourself over that. As I am sure you must be aware, I am a soldier. I have been in many campaigns where I have sustained even greater injuries. My leg is nearly healed. But we waste time talking. Are you packed?”

  “I am, Lucian,” she said. “I will awaken Effie.”

  “Awaken her?” he repeated with a frown. “She is yet abed?”

  “On the contrary. She is ready and has been ready for the last hour, but fell asleep waiting,” Alicia said crisply. “We are both ready and eager to be on our way.”

  She received a hard look. “Very well, I shall be in the hall.” Lucian’s chill glance fell on Timothy, who regarded him with equal coldness. “You, sir, are remaining here, I trust?”