The Forgotten Marriage

by Ellen Fitzgerald

  “No, I am leaving for Dover as soon as I have settled the bill,” Timothy replied.

  “I will do that,” Lucian said curtly.

  “No,” Timothy responded. “We do not expect that. We are not your pensioners, sir, but we are your in-laws.” Evidently not trusting himself to say more, he moved to his sister and embraced her. “I will be below to see you off, my dear.”

  “As you choose, my love.” She moved quickly into the inner room and, to her relief, found Effie awake and ready.

  The girl had a concerned look for her. “Oh, milady, ’e do sound ever so angry an’ so different.”

  “No matter, Effie,” Alicia responded in a low voice. “I am sure you understand.”

  “I do, milady.” She still appeared concerned. “I ’ope—”

  “We must hurry, Effie,” Alicia said.

  The abigail looked as if she had much more she would have liked to say, but she nodded and, picking up the bandboxes, followed Alicia out of the room.

  As Effie bobbed a curtsy at Lucian, Alicia was struck anew by the strangeness of his disorder. Once he had laughed and teased Effie; now he regarded her indifferently and nodded her out of the room. He offered his arm to Alicia, who, after a second’s hesitation, took it, feeling, as she did, his inadvertent tensing.

  Though the sun was still only a band of red across the eastern horizon, London was already awake. The street in front of the hotel was filled with drays. There were also post-chaises carrying weary merrymakers home from an evening on the town. There were a few drunken fops on the pavement and there were responsible citizens hurrying to various offices. Waiting at the curb was a large coach drawn by eight horses. It was painted a dark green and on the paneling was a coat of arms that she knew well, since it was duplicated on her ring. Inadvertently, she removed her hand from Lucian’s arm to touch the ring and in the next moment was whirled into her brother’s warm embrace.

  “Godspeed, Licia,” he said with a catch to his voice. “I wish—”

  “For my happiness, of course, Timothy,” she said in a half-whisper.

  “Of course, my dearest.”

  “And you must tell Papa very little of what has happened.

  You promised, remember?”

  “I do remember,” he assured her. “And I shall abide by my promise.”

  The brother and sister broke apart, and seeing that Lucian stood beside the door of the coach, waiting for her, Alicia produced a fleeting smile for Timothy and joined her husband. He indicated the three steps that would bring her inside and silently proffered his arm. She grasped it briefly as she negotiated the steps and a moment later she settled down on a comfortably padded seat inside. Effie was there waiting for her; beside her was Jacob, Lucian’s valet, who had not been with him in Brussels and consequently stared at her with a quotient of his master’s disapproval. She greeted him coolly and looked beyond him to the windows.

  A footman slammed the door and in another few minutes they were under way, with Lucian, glimpsed fleetingly as he rode swiftly past the window, his expression moody and his posture stiff. Her heart was pounding in her throat, and though Alicia tried to close her mind against the memory, she seemed to hear Lucian, her Lucian, saying, “I would have you remember, my love, that I am known to possess a charmed life, and when this is over, I will come back to you.” He had been right and wrong, she thought unhappily— but while there was life, there was hope.

  As the milestones multiplied and the sun, passing its zenith, began to descend, the small hope with which Alicia had begun her journey flicked like the tiny spark in a candle end. Beyond the dust kicked up by his horse’s hooves, beyond a flash of the dark brown coat and the buckskin breeches Lucian had donned for the journey, she saw very little of the man she had once so joyfully accepted as her husband. Though she could blame this on his infirmity and on the dark insinuations of his fiancйe, it did not make her situation any the easier.

  She quite dreaded their arrival at the next posting inn where, rather than another silent meal in the common room, they must be prepared to spend the night. She flushed, again not wanting to think of the brief nights of their marriage and of his ardent but gentle lovemaking, which had brought a whole new dimension of feeling to the inexperienced young woman she had been. And now he seemed reluctant to so much as touch her hand. A quavering sigh escaped her and her determination wavered. If she were ever to call him husband in the true sense of the word, she would have to overcome mammoth obstacles.

  Barbara, of course, was the greatest of these, but almost as great was his sense of having betrayed the woman he loved by contracting this marriage to a stranger. At present, he must be undergoing a deep crisis of conscience. Her heart went out to him—how he must be suffering as he attempted to lift the veil of darkness that had obscured two years of his life. Had she done the right thing in insisting he honor his vows? Yes, because, in a sense, she was saving him from a folly he must once have regretted deeply. She could not believe he had entertained any lingering passion for Barbara Barrington when he approached her. His mein had not been that of a brooding and disappointed lover; he had been charming, gay and lighthearted. By then, Barbara must have been discarded, or perhaps she had done the discarding.

  Alicia would have given much for a half-hour alone with the prideful Duke of Pryde, who seemed to have done his share of discarding. An image of Barbara’s beautiful proud face arose in her mind. She must have been badly shaken by her experience with the duke and then, fortuitously, Lucian had been invalided home.

  Alicia gazed out the window at the countryside. She saw a small boy leading a herd of cows home from the pasture. It was a peaceful scene. They had passed many peaceful scenes, or so they appeared on the surface. Who knew what went on in the minds of those who stood and watched the coach with its footmen, its postboys and coachman, its eight horses and its outriders, with another coach behind? It was possible that many people envied the occupants their progress in a well- sprung vehicle that might have cost more than they spent in an entire lifetime.

  Alicia sighed and, shifting her gaze, met Effie’s commiserating glance and the valet’s cold stare of silent disapproval, one he had worn for several hours. Undoubtedly he had been a party to his master’s late agonies and believed her an adventuress. That was certainly a strain mantle for her to don! She wished . . . But wishes were futile unless she were a character in a fairy tale! And again she remembered the one wish that had been granted, the one forlorn hope fulfilled. She must keep that in mind and through actions, not words, show Lucian that he had not been trapped into this marriage he had tried so hard to escape.

  6

  “Red sky at mornin’, sailor’s warnin’,” Effie said, glancing out of the window in their bedchamber at the inn.

  Alicia, fully dressed save for her hair, which Effie was just about to pin up, cast a weary glance at the vivid sky. The red glow was already fading and dark-gray clouds were rolling in.

  “ ’Twas all that was needed,” she remarked, and saw Effie nod. She never had to explain her thoughts to the abigail, and as she often had during the past three days, she felt a rush of gratitude for the lucky chance that had brought Effie to her while they still lived in England all those years ago.

  Effie had been the daughter of a housekeeper who had caught a quinsy and died. At that same time, Alicia’s former abigail, who had also served her late mother, had been on point of retiring. She had found little Effie, aged ten, already deft with her needle and particularly clever about fixing hair. She had given her further instructions in the care of her young mistress, and for the last nine years Effie had been a friend to Alicia and often her confidante. She did not say much, but what she did say was always pithy and to the point. In the last month, her sympathy and understanding had proved greatly comforting.

  “Per’aps, ’twon’t be so bad,” the girl said. But as if to

  contradict her words, a low rumble was heard overhead. Effie rolled her eyes and added, “ ’Acco
rdin’ to ’is ’Ighness” —her nickname for Lucian’s superior valet—“we ain’t too far from the abbey.”

  Alicia said, “I should think we are no more than a half-day’s journey, but it might take longer if it rains.” She did not quite manage to conceal the strain of anxiety in her tone.

  “It might that.” Effie spoke apologetically as if, indeed, she were holding herself accountable for the pending uproar in the heavens. But Alicia guessed that she was only wishing she had not mentioned the possibility of a delay. She knew that the girl was as distressed as herself at Lucian’s continuing refusal to address Alicia—except at such times as it was absolutely necessary. Generally, he was totally silent at mealtimes. On the past three mornings, she had had her breakfast served in her room, but that left dinner and supper to be consumed in a silence broken only by his brief directions, generally addressed to the servants. And would he always be so silent? Alicia stifled a sigh and said to Effie, “Have you finished your tea, then?”

  “Oh, yes, milady.” She cast a glance at Alicia. “I’ll do up your ’air, then.”

  “Yes, for we must soon be on our way, and let us hope that all sailors remain in the sunshine.”

  “Eh?” Effie looked blank and then she giggled. “Oh, yes, milady, let’s ’ope so.”

  Some two hours later, after more rumbling, accompanied by alternate brightening and darkening of the sky and eventually by jagged flashes of lightning, the storm broke with pelting rain to the accompaniment of high-screaming winds that must certainly have caused the sailors to batten down the hatches and furl the sails. The rain descended in sheets, the horses neighed, the coachman shouted, the outriders and the footmen also yelled, and Lucian stubbornly remained on horseback.

  Leaning out the window, Alicia stared after him. He had urged his horse to a gallop and he was far ahead of the coach. She could see only his cloak, which usually flew out behind him but which now drooped in sodden folds about his shoulders. She longed to call out to him, but she doubted her voice could be heard above the clamor of the storm and the clatter of the coach wheels. And if he did hear her, it would have made no difference. He had refused to heed her one timid suggestion that he rest his leg from time to time and ride inside.

  He had said accusingly, “Barbara would be able to tell you that I have always preferred to ride outside.” That reply, she knew, carried a twofold message: he was bemoaning his lost love and, at the same time, he was suggesting that she ought to have known his preference and would have known them had she been a real wife.

  At this moment he would never have believed that there had been no occasion for coach travel in Brussels, or if there had been, the Lucian she had known would have wanted to spend as much time as possible with the girl he had professed to love more than life itself.

  “Milady,” Effie said worriedly, “you’ll be gettin’ wet stickin’ your ’ead out like that.”

  “I wish Lucian would ride inside.” Alicia frowned. “It cannot be good for him—out there in all that rain.”

  “The master don’t like to ride inside,” Jacob spoke almost as pointedly as Lucian himself.

  “The more fool ’e,” Effie snapped, and then added nervously, “beggin’ yer pardon, milady.”

  Alicia, who had continued to stare into the stormy distances, cried out. Lucian’s horse had suddenly shied, tossing his master from his back.

  “Wot’s appened?” Effie demanded.

  “Lucian has been thrown . . . Oh, dear, we must stop the coach,” Alicia cried.

  “Wot?” The valet leaned toward her. “ ’Is ’e ’urt, can you see?”

  She continued to stare out the window and at first she saw nothing, but in another second Lucian came into view. He was brushing mud off his face and garments. The horse, she noted, was nowhere to be seen. In that same moment, there were shouts ahead and the coach came to a sudden jolting stop some little distance beyond the place where the mishap had occurred.

  The valet thrust open the door and jumped out with Alicia, immediately behind him, following him as he and two of the footmen ran back through the driving rain, only to be met by Lucian. He was limping and his clothes were muddied, but to Alicia’s relief, he did not seem much the worse for his accident. He was immediately surrounded by the three men, all talking at once.

  “No, no,” his voice rose above their concerned queries, “I was not hurt and ...” He paused, evidently seeing Alicia for the first time. He stared at her in surprise. “Why are you out of the coach?” he demanded.

  “I saw you fall. I hope you did not hurt your leg,” she said concernedly.

  “No,” he responded coolly. “I have had worse falls, I assure you. The ground has been much softened by the rain.”

  “And your leg?” she pursued.

  “ ’Tis nothing,” he answered curtly, and stepping forward, he thrust her toward the edge of the road. As she regarded him in hurt surprise, she heard the sound of hooves and, glancing in that direction, saw the other coach dashing toward them. Two of its outriders immediately dismounted and hurried over to Lucian while the vehicle itself pulled to a stop farther down the road.

  A few moments after the outriders, the butler and a footman had assured themselves that their master was unhurt.

  Alicia, moving toward him, said, “You are very wet. Had you better not send the other servants ahead to open the house and set fires in some of the rooms?”

  He stared at her a second before replying and then said in a

  rather self-conscious tone of voice, “I expect you are right. That would be the thing to do.”

  She wondered why the other coach had not gone before them all the way, and judging from his manner, that it had not was possibly deliberate on his part or . . . Barbara Barrington suddenly walked through her head and out. However, now was not the time to dwell on such suspicions. She said, “I think that you must ride inside, Lucian.”

  “Oh, milord, surely you must,” Jacob urged.

  “I expect I had better,” he said reluctantly. “My horse . . . ’tis gone.” Moving forward, he suddenly stumbled.

  Alicia sprang to his side. “You must lean on me,” she said quickly. “You did hurt your leg, after all.”

  “ ’Tis nothing,” he said insistently.

  She glared at him. "Oh, I beg you’ll not be so stubborn! Do not be forever dwelling on how much you resent me but rather think what you are doing to your poor innocent limb, which has no quarrel with anyone.”

  The valet let out a sound that much resembled laughter, but he said soberly enough, “ ’Er Ladyship be right, my Lord. Pray lean on me.”

  “I expect I had better,” Lucian allowed reluctantly. He took his valet’s arm, and turning to Alicia, he added, “You’d best hurry to the coach; you’ll catch your death standing here in all this rain.”

  “I am coming,” she said.

  Some forty minutes later, they were on their way again, and in that period the storm had spent its strength. By the time they had covered another league, the descending sun was in view again and the sky so clear that it was hard to imagine the lightning and the thunder.

  Lucian, sitting near the window, was very quiet. Effie, now beside Jacob on the facing seat, darted shy glances at him from time to time, but only Jacob, who had insisted on his master placing his leg on his lap, occasionally broke the silence by asking if he were in pain, receiving only a shake of the head. Alicia guessed that had she not been present, he might have said more. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he had promised Barbara that he would speak to her as little as possible, and he certainly had fulfilled that particular pledge throughout the journey. Would he be equally taciturn when they arrived?

  Hard upon that thought, Lucian startled her by saying, “We ought to be nearing the abbey very soon.”

  “I am glad of that,” she said softly. “You must divest yourself of those wet garments.”

  “I beg you’ll not trouble your head about me,” he said coldly. “As I think I have men
tioned more than once, I am used to campaigning, and not all our marches have taken place in clement weather.”

  “I am sure they have not, but you’ve not been on duty of late and the body can adjust itself to comfort as well as to hardships.”

  “No doubt, but I am very strong . . . Still, be that as it may, I do not think I have told you much about the abbey, or have I?” There was a touch of uncertainty in his tone.

  She guessed that he was referring to his infirmity. “No, you have not. You told me only that you came from Yorkshire.”

  “But I did not discuss the abbey?”

  “No.”

  “That seems strange,” he said accusingly. “ ’Tis my home.”

  “You spoke mainly of your house in London.” She stifled a sigh, remembering the other Lucian’s oft-repeated remarks about introducing her to his friends and taking her to Carlton House, where the Regent would fall in love with her. “I will need to hang a sign upon you, my own, saying that you belong to me exclusively,” he had teased. Alicia winced and banished that memory to the place where she stored the words and images that had an unfortunate habit of reappearing in her dreams.

  “Well,” he continued, “ ’tis time I did tell you a little about the place.”

  “Time and past,” she agreed calmly.

  “It’s known to be haunted.”

  “Haunted!” Alicia echoed. “You’ll never tell me that!”

  “H-haunted?” Effie breathed.