Lord Montague

by Mary Kingswood

  “Then I need not intervene?” Carrbridge said. “Perhaps it is a project best suited to ladies?”

  “If I may suggest, my lord,” Merton said, “there is one favour that only you may dispense. Lady Harriet plans to accommodate these women at Westbury House, which is hers for her lifetime but thereafter reverts to the estate. It would be an act of great charity to make the house over entirely to Lady Harriet, without conditions.”

  “An excellent idea,” Hortensia said. “That would give Miss Kelly and her women far greater security than they have at present.”

  “Then let it be so,” Carrbridge said. “I told Monty how it would be. Merton always knows what is best to be done.”

  ~~~~~

  The following morning a large quantity of mail was delivered to the house.

  “Letters are getting through at last after all this bad weather,” Robinia said in satisfaction, sifting through a great pile of them. “Oh, Melissa, there is one for you.”

  “For me? How? Who knows I am here? It is not Monty’s hand, that much I can see. Oh… it is from a Mr Haddington.”

  “The cloth merchant in Sagborough?”

  “He offers me three free lengths of any fabrics I choose, as a wedding gift. Should I accept, do you think?”

  “Why, certainly! I go to Gorton’s as a rule, but Haddington’s is highly thought of. Lady Forth goes there, after all. Let us go today! I have not been anywhere for an age, and I shall call on Lady Forth while you choose your wedding fabrics, and I can also return all those books to the circulating library, so that you may have new ones to read. What an excellent scheme!”

  Melissa thought so too, and the weather agreed, for the sun shone on them as the carriage rattled down the drive of Great Mellingham. The road was bad all the way to Sagborough, but they arrived without mishap and Robinia left Melissa and her maid at Haddington’s warehouse. It was not a prepossessing building, looking no different from a thousand other warehouses up and down the country, but the number of carriages waiting outside was reassuring, and within they found a warm and inviting emporium. Bales of calico and velvet and silk and muslin and bombazine were stacked to the ceiling, the walls were lined with drawers no doubt filled with kid gloves and buttons and ribbons, while glass-fronted cases displayed a dazzling array of fans, snuff boxes, bandeaux, combs and other trinkets.

  There were seats near the door, and here Melissa and Margaret waited until an elderly woman bustled over to attend to them. Melissa showed the letter.

  “Oh, Lady Montague Marford — oh, how honoured! How gratifying! If your ladyship would be so obliging as to wait just one moment, I shall fetch Mr Haddington at once.”

  Melissa watched her thread her way through the pillars of cloth towards a dapper little man in a rather splendid embroidered coat, so dazzlingly beautiful that she rather regretted that such styles were no longer fashionable. Mr Haddington wore his hair lightly powdered, and little frills of lace at his throat and wrists in the old style, which made him look like a quaintly old-fashioned uncle. When informed of her arrival, he immediately left the two ladies he had been attending to, and rushed to Melissa’s side.

  “So… hmm… condescending of your ladyship,” he said with such a low bow that it was a wonder he did not fall over. “Pray allow me to… hmm… show you everything of interest amongst our newest stock, and perhaps… hmm… there will be something to entice your ladyship’s discerning eye. Now here are the very latest…hmm… silks, just arrived from London last month. Is not this… hmm… very fine work? And here…”

  Melissa passed a very pleasant half hour walking about with Mr Haddington, examining this or that material. Seeing the prices attached to each bale, she was astonished at his generosity in giving away three lengths, until she remembered that he hoped to secure her custom for many years to come, and perhaps also hoped that she would spend more today in gloves and silk stockings that his gift would cost. She had made her choice at an early stage, but there was something so agreeable in such deference after years of being treated with neglect, that she was not minded to hurry the experience.

  Eventually, when they seemed to have exhausted every possibility, Mr Haddington said, “And now, if your ladyship would like to see the most special items, which I keep in the rear store room?”

  Even more choices! Melissa could not resist, so she and Margaret followed Mr Haddington through the warehouse to a door hidden behind a curtain. Beyond was a smaller room, furnished in much the same way, but colder, there being no fire. Melissa shivered a little, but listened willingly enough as Mr Haddington began his descriptions of the figured silks and muslins so fine they were almost transparent.

  “These are what the grandest London ladies wear,” he whispered.

  “They are too delicate, I fear,” she said. “I should be afraid to put a needle to them.”

  “I can recommend one or two excellent seamstresses, if your ladyship—”

  “That is enough,” came a male voice that Melissa recognised, a voice that sent her innards roiling with terror.

  “No!” she whispered.

  But it was true. From behind a stack of bales appeared Lord Bentley, and behind him Cornelius Brockenhurst.

  “No, no, no! Go away, go away! What are you doing here?”

  “Collecting my property,” Lord Bentley said with a sneer. “Did you think you could just walk away from your obligations, Melissa?”

  “My lord?” Mr Haddington said, in puzzled tones. “I do not understand. You assured me her ladyship would be delighted with your little scheme. An amusing way to tender your wedding gift, you told me.”

  “And you being such a trusting fool believed it,” Lord Bentley said. “Rope, Neil.”

  “No, please!” whimpered Mr Haddington.

  “Wait a minute,” Melissa said. “You cannot do this. I am leaving here this moment.”

  “Men!” said Lord Bentley, and at once four more faces materialised, all large, muscular types, with the bent noses and scars that betokened a life spent not running away from confrontation. What could two women and a rather delicate middle-aged man do against so many? And if Melissa had had any thought of running away, Cornelius settled the matter by producing a pair of very business-like pistols with a wide grin.

  “If you all do exactly as you are told and behave yourselves,” he drawled, “then no one dies today.”

  Melissa went cold, but all thought of resistance fled. Whatever they wanted, they were not planning to hurt anyone, it seemed, so she could only go along with it for now, and hope for the best.

  Mr Haddington and Margaret were bound and gagged and tied to chairs in no time, and with a wave of one pistol, Cornelius directed Melissa towards the door at the back of the room. She threw one glance at Margaret, whose eyes were huge with terror above the gag, then turned and walked, head high, to meet her fate.

  20: The White Hart Inn

  There was a carriage waiting outside in the yard, but Melissa was surrounded and the men bundled her into it with no opportunity to look about her for help. Lord Bentley, Cornelius and one of the bruisers got in beside her, the steps were drawn up, the door slammed and within moments they were moving. The blinds were drawn up, but there was enough light to see the triumphant sneers on their faces.

  “Where are you taking me?” she said coldly.

  “You will see,” said Lord Bentley.

  “What do you hope to achieve by abducting me in this foolish manner? You were lucky that I responded to that letter from Mr Haddington.”

  “You walked into the trap very readily, it is true, but we could have found another way just as easily. Once we discovered your whereabouts, it was not difficult. As to the purpose, we shall achieve what we set out to do three months ago, which is to marry you to Pontefract, and be done with you.”

  “If you wish to be rid of me, I wonder you put yourselves to so much trouble, since I was already gone from Bentley Hall.” She could feel tears prickling, but she was determined not to
give way to them. Lifting her chin, she said, “Anyway, I cannot marry Mr Pontefract, since I am already married.”

  All three men laughed, and that chilled her more than anything else.

  Lord Bentley leaned forward until his nose practically touched hers. “Just because you stand before the parson and put a notice in the paper don’t make you married, my dear. You need my permission for that, or had you forgotten?”

  Melissa had no answer to that. She sat in the darkened carriage as it rumbled slowly over cobbles and jolted into deep ruts, with no idea where she was being taken or how she could possibly escape her captors or Mr Pontefract. Nor was there any hope of rescue. Robinia would soon discover what had happened, and Margaret and Mr Haddington would be released from their captivity, and then Monty would hear— Monty! Her heart quailed. How could he possibly find one insignificant travelling carriage amongst the thousands on the roads? She was alone, and no one, not even Monty, could help her now. She would never see her darling Monty again. Closing her eyes, she could not prevent the tears from falling.

  ~~~~~

  There was no knowing how long they had been travelling, but eventually they came to cobbles again, and all the odd noises and scents of the town. The carriage slowed, turned, stopped. Running feet and voices. Doors slammed in the distance. Melissa could smell something meaty — a stew or soup, perhaps, and beneath it a hint of rotten vegetables and the stronger odour of the stables.

  After a while, someone rapped on the carriage door.

  “Remember that there are two pistols pointing at your back, and Cornelius is an excellent shot,” Lord Bentley murmured.

  Melissa wondered whether perhaps it might be better to be dead than to be married to Mr Pontefract, but then she reminded herself sternly that so long as she were alive there was a possibility of escape, and finding her way back to Monty, so when she stepped down from the carriage, she made no attempt to run or shout for help.

  She was surprised to find herself in the yard of a bustling coaching inn. The White Hart, according to the sign over the door. Several private carriages were drawn up in the large yard, and the London to York mail coach was about to depart in a great confusion of bags and passengers and boxes and ostlers running hither and thither. But she was quickly surrounded and hustled into the inn, up some narrow stairs and into a private parlour.

  Two men were already there, Mr Pontefract and a man who, by his attire, was a clergyman. Her heart sank. So they were determined to do this at once. But she was still optimistic, for she could not be forced to marry against her will. Or so she told herself, but looking at the implacable faces of Lord Bentley and his brother, who had followed her into the room, she began to wonder.

  “You may begin,” Lord Bentley said to the clergyman.

  Immediately he opened his prayer book and began to recite. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together—”

  “You may skip the preamble. Get to the point.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Melissa. “Do get to the part about impediments, so that I may explain all the ways in which this marriage is unlawful.”

  “It is lawful,” Lord Bentley snarled. “Look!” He drew papers from a pocket. “Special licence. My consent to the marriage. We have a clergyman. The proper fees have been paid.”

  “But I do not consent,” Melissa said.

  “Irrelevant. Continue, parson, and get to the point.”

  The parson licked his lips, and spoke in a rapid stream of words. “Norman Henry, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the—”

  “Oh, this is ridiculous,” Melissa said.

  “—holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  “I will,” said Mr Pontefract, leering at Melissa. Dear God, that leer had given her so many nightmares, and now here it was again, in the flesh.

  “Melissa, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance—”

  “Certainly not,” Melissa said.

  “—in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

  “No, I will not! I will not!”

  “She will,” Lord Bentley said.

  “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

  “I do, and for God’s sake get on with it, man.”

  “This is madness! I—”

  “Repeat after me. ‘I, Norman—”

  “She is never going to say all those words. Just get to the point.”

  “You cannot do this! I am already—”

  In a great rattle of words, the parson said, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. I pronounce that they be man and wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  “Amen,” said all the men, loudly.

  “Right, Pontefract,” Lord Bentley said. “We have done our part, now it is up to you. Let us get her upstairs.”

  “With the greatest of pleasure.” And the leer assumed even greater proportions.

  Melissa screamed. It seemed, at that point, the only recourse still open to her. Surely there was one person in the inn who would not ignore a lady screaming for help? But it appeared there was not, for she was rushed out of the parlour, half carried and half dragged, still screaming until someone jammed a hand over her mouth, up two more flights of stairs and almost thrown into a bedchamber, so that she landed on her hands and knees. Mr Pontefract entered the room just behind her, and the door was slammed shut. There came the ominous sound of a key turning in the lock. Outside the room, male voices, laughter, then receding footsteps.

  She scrambled to her feet. A quick look around the room suggested no possibility of help. The furnishings consisted of a bed, a chair, a wash stand and some pegs on the wall. The narrow window was uncompromisingly barred. But there was a fireplace, and a set of fire irons, and a quick grab put her in possession of the poker.

  Mr Pontefract was struggling for breath after the rush up the stairs, wheezing slightly as he mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

  “No need… for that…” he muttered, collapsing abruptly to sit on the edge of the bed, his corpulent weight causing a great creaking and shifting beneath him. “Good God, but I could do with a brandy.”

  “This is an outrage,” Melissa said. “You do realise that this so-called marriage is entirely illegal, I suppose?”

  “Not what… Bentley says,” he wheezed. “All… perfectly… above board.”

  “It is not!” she cried. “I do not agree to any of this, and besides, I am already married.”

  “Not valid,” he said. “Bentley said so.” He got up and banged on the door. “Brandy! Bring me some brandy, dammit!” Then he returned to the bed, sitting down again with a heavy sigh. “Hardly matters. Married to me now. Just have to con… consume… do the business. All right and tight, once that is done.”

  It occurred to Melissa that Mr Pontefract’s grasp of the law was tenuous at best. Her own was not exactly robust, but this was not a time to display the least hesitation. “You are wrong, sir. My marriage to Lord Montague Marford is perfectly legal, and even if it were not, that shambles of a marriage downstairs would not convince a single judge in the country. Both parties must be willing, and I am not, and never have been.”

  “No matter,” he said. “We were betrothed, which is legally binding, so we were as good as married anyway. So Bentley says. Now we are properly so, and I just have to… to… consume the marriage.”

  A knock on the door announced the arrival of the brandy. Mr Pontefract rose, scrabbled in a waistcoat pocket and produced the key. Unlocking the door, he took possession of a tray with a bottle and two glasses, then slammed the door shut and locked it a
gain. The key was returned to its pocket. This small occurrence lifted Melissa’s spirits immeasurably. At least the key was inside the room! There were possibilities in that, if only she could retrieve it.

  Mr Pontefract poured himself a large measure of brandy, downed it in one gulp, and poured another. Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he arranged himself on the bed with his legs stretched out in front of him, and the brandy bottle conveniently to hand on the chair nearby.

  With another of his stomach-curdling leers, he said, “Protest all you like, my dear, but you may as well accept the inevitable. I like a girl with a bit of spirit, myself, so feel free to put up a fight. It makes the eventual surrender all the sweeter.”

  Melissa kept hold of the poker, wondering whether it would even be possible to take a sufficiently decisive swing at her supposed husband, or whether, despite his bulk, he might be agile and strong enough to overpower her. But before she turned to violence, she still had some arrows of logic in her quiver.

  “You are very sure of yourself, sir. But suppose you are wrong. Suppose this farce of a marriage is, as I have suggested to you, invalid. If you violate me, you commit a very serious crime.”

  “Not if I genuinely believe that you are my lawfully wedded wife,” he said smugly.

  “If you are my husband, then you may do as you please,” she said softly. “And if you are not, then you may be hanged for what you propose to do.”

  The brandy glass paused on its way to his lips. Then he laughed, drank his brandy and set down his glass. Resting his hands on his ample stomach, he said, “Certainly I am your husband.”

  “You are very sure of yourself,” she said. “I should not be so confident, in your place.”

  “Bentley said—”

  “Lord Bentley will not be hanged for this night’s work. You are the one whose life is at stake if he has misjudged the case. Have you talked to a lawyer? I should want to take legal advice, myself.”

  And now at last she saw the doubt in his eyes. He swallowed the last drops of brandy in the glass and refilled it. “Hanged?”

  “Hanged. That is the penalty for violating a woman, Mr Pontefract.” She spoke with the utmost conviction, although she had no more idea than he did of the law. “If we were married… but we are not, since I did not consent. You heard me, did you not? When the parson asked if I were willing, I said I was not. My intent was very clear. No one could mistake it. And so… no marriage. Violation. Hanging.”