Ginevra looked forward to her seventeenth birthday eagerly, for Tom and his family were to visit, and at last the engagement was to be formally announced. She could even face the prospect of meeting the marquess again without dismay. Her anger had begun to abate even before the beautifully engraved volume of Blake’s Songs of Innocence arrived from London by special courier, but it had been some time before she could remember the naive little girl she had been with a sort of wistful indulgence. Now she hoped to impress her future father-in-law with her new maturity, but mostly she wanted to see Tom again. She had an engagement present for him, a miniature of herself painted on ivory, looking poised and quite grown-up in the low-cut peach-colored gown she would wear to her party.
But Lord Chadwick arrived at Bryant House without Tom, accompanied only by a slender, gangling youth whom Ginevra identified with difficulty as young Bysshe, now taller than she was. Tom, the marquess said, was at Queenshaven, convalescing with a broken leg he had received trying to ride his father’s stallion, something he had been strictly forbidden to do. Ginevra noticed Bysshe snort derisively, and she knew without asking that the younger boy must have ridden the horse successfully himself. When everyone insisted that Ginevra’s first adult party should go on as scheduled, it was the marquess himself who placed the Chadwick betrothal ring on her finger. Ginevra could not help shivering at the hot light, quickly veiled, that flashed in his blue eyes as he studied her in her pink gown and murmured, “My son will be a fortunate man someday...”
When Ginevra’s birthday passed and the guests went away, she settled back into the life she had always known, suppressing the frustration she felt that she and her future husband had once again failed to meet. It wasn’t important, she supposed, that she and Tom were now virtual, strangers. After all, they were going to have a whole life together.
Then on a blustery night in March of 1816, three months before the long-awaited wedding, Tom and several underclassmen sneaked out of their quarters at Oxford and proceeded to a nearby gin shop, determined to get as drunk as possible before the proctors caught up with them. Urged on by his cronies, Tom stole the innkeeper’s cart horse and tried to make it jump a five-bar gate. The horse sensibly refused the jump, and Tom was thrown and broke his neck.
Ginevra shivered, pulled back into the present by the freshening May breeze that cut through her thin dress. Lost in poignant memories, she had whiled away most of the afternoon, and now she had duties to perform. She must inform Cook that there would be one extra for dinner, and despite her aversion to Lord Chadwick, she would have to see that the best guestroom was prepared for him, since she presumed he would stay the night. It was unthinkable that he should journey all the way from Queenshaven and not lodge with them. Most likely his servant was still somewhere down the road with the luggage. Ginevra’s lips twitched. She could not envision Lord Chadwick dawdling impatiently alongside a lumbering carriage when instead he might be galloping Giaour, his magnificent roan stallion, across the countryside. He was a man who raced through life—and always alone.
Ginevra rose from her seat under the beech tree, a slim, graceful figure dressed simply in soft grey. Her high-waisted muslin dress with long tight sleeves and a high neck was unadorned except for a simple ruffle of black lace at the collar and wrists. Although she grieved for Tom, she did not assume formal mourning when she learned of his death—after all, they had not seen each other for six years—but the somber clothes she did wear reflected the dark bewilderment of her mind: for as long as she could remember, her life had been ordered, predestined—and suddenly, without warning, all the plans came to naught. What was she going to do now?
Ginevra picked her way across the garden, skirting the daffodils dying back under the budding rose trees, and slipped through the gate that led around to the kitchen door of Bryant House. She was not ready to face Lord Chadwick just yet. She did not know what she could say to him to ease the loss of his son and heir. When her distraught father showed her the terse note the marquess sent—a few bleak lines inscribed in a hand as black and bold as the man himself—numb with shock, Ginevra had murmured conventionally, “At least he still has Bysshe to comfort him.” But even while she uttered them she knew the words were meaningless. Tom had been the favorite, the beloved son—insofar as the marquess was capable of loving anyone. Little Bysshe, so unlike his father in looks, never lacked any material need, but he held no place in the man’s heart.
As Ginevra passed into the kitchen, the soothing scents of the garden flowers were overwhelmed by the fragrant tang of fresh herbs wafting from the lamb sizzling on a spit before the large open fire. When the scullery maid tugged on the heavy chain that turned the wheel on one end of the spit, Ginevra heard a reluctant creak. She made a mental note to have one of the men oil the mechanism. Cook, a buxom grey-haired woman who had been ruler of the kitchen since before Ginevra’s birth, was taking a colander down from one of the rows of shining utensils that hung on the walls of the spacious kitchen, but she set it aside and bustled over to the girl when she saw her. She smiled at her young mistress with the intimacy of lifelong acquaintance and said cheerfully, “Well, Miss Ginnie, and what can I be doing for you?”
Ginevra grinned and came straight to the point. “A disaster only you can prevent, I fear. As you know, Lord Chadwick has just arrived unexpectedly to see my father. What can we feed him?”
Cook rubbed her round cheek thoughtfully, leaving a smear of flour under a bright blue eye. “Poor man’ll be hungry after his journey,” she muttered, musing aloud, “what with losing his boy and all...” Ginevra’s mouth quirked. To Cook food was the balm for all pains. The older woman pursed her lips and nodded sagely. “Don’t you be worrying none, Miss Ginnie. My Ben caught some trout this morning, and there be chicken and lamb and fine, fresh strawberries. We’ll fix his lordship as good a meal as he could get in London any day.”
Ginevra patted the woman’s plump arm. “Oh, Cook,” she said with relief, “I can always depend on you. You prepare whatever you think best, and I’ll go down to the cellar later to choose the wine.” With a grateful smile she turned and went through the door that led to the main hallway. Wistfully Cook watched her go. Miss Ginnie was as kind and capable a mistress as one could wish, for all that she was still but a girl. It was tragic how her great marriage had come to nothing. Pray God that someday soon some fine gentleman would offer for her and she could at last know some of the happiness that had been lacking so far in her short life.
The hallway seemed chilly after the warm, redolent atmosphere of the kitchen, and Ginevra paused at the foot of the stairs, shivering. Should she make herself known to her father at once, or ought she first to go up and change her dress before she greeted their visitor? By lingering so long in the garden she was already remiss in her duties, she acknowledged ruefully, and no childish qualms could really excuse her discourtesy to the marquess. But on her skirt was a definite streak of damp, clinging earth, and she could not compound her ill manners by appearing before Lord Chadwick grubby as an urchin.
As Ginevra loitered in the hallway, toying with her dress, she heard angry voices coming from her father’s study. She glanced up in surprise. She could not recollect the last time she had heard her father’s voice raised. Since his wife’s death Sir Charles had grown quieter, increasingly taciturn, until sometimes days went by without him uttering a dozen words to his daughter. Ginevra listened curiously. The two voices were distinct but muffled by the closed door, so that she could not make out the words.
She heard her father’s voice, high and querulous, the intonations of a man growing old before his time. Lord Chadwick’s tones were much deeper, and she could not hear so much as feel them, like the distant rumble of thunder. Suddenly the marquess’s voice rang out, piercing the closed door so that every word was clear: “No, Bryant, the boy is still too young.”
Then Ginevra heard her father sputter, “But dammit, Chadwick, I cannot wait!”
Ginevra’s heart faltered with
sudden foreboding. Dear God, what was going on? What were the men plotting in the study—and for whom? Who was the boy who was too young—too young for what? She gathered her skirts in her hands and fled up the stairs to her bedroom.
Her chamber door opened just as she reached it, and Emma Jarvis, her maid and dearest companion, rushed out, looking harried. Emma was a tall, well-built woman twelve years Ginevra’s senior, who had served the girl since she herself was little more than a girl. Her dark brown hair and pensive green eyes had captured the hearts of several of the men on the estate, but Emma ignored them all. Cook once hinted to Ginevra that Emma had had a sweetheart who fell to the press gangs and died at Trafalgar, and since then she dared care for no man.
Emma cried, “Oh, Miss Ginevra, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Your father wants you in the study.”
“Yes, I know,” Ginevra sighed. “But first I must change my dress. I look like a mudlark. Find me something, will you? The brown bombazine, I think.”
Emma made a face. “Not that awful thing, you know the color doesn’t suit you at all. Why don’t you wear the white muslin with yellow ribbons that you made for your trou—” She stopped abruptly.
Ginevra shook her head. “No, Emma, the evening is turning too cool for a light dress. Besides, it would be disrespectful to our guest to appear too gay when Tom died but two months ago. Now, help me into the bombazine and then we’ll see if we can do anything with my hair.”
A quarter of an hour later Ginevra tapped lightly on the door to the now-quiet study. At her father’s command she entered. She kept her eyes trained on her father, but she was instantly and acutely aware of the man who stood tall and imperious before the fireplace, where a few embers warmed the dim, book-lined room. He was, as always, impeccably attired in riding breeches and gleaming boots, topped by a frilled silk shirt and an elegantly tailored coat of superfine, all of deepest black. Ginevra gritted her teeth. She ought to be wearing mourning, if not out of sorrow for Tom, then as a courtesy to his father. Fortunately, the marquess did not seem to notice.
She sketched a quick curtsy to her father and inquired, “You sent for me?”
Sir Charles grumbled irritably, “Yes, and you took your time coming!”
“Forgive me. I was out in the garden.”
Her father shrugged. “No matter, you’re here now. Do you remember Lord Chadwick?”
“Of course,” Ginevra murmured as she turned and curtsied, lifting her eyes no higher than the tops of his boots. “How good to see you again, my lord.”
From the slight movement of his legs Ginevra knew the marquess bowed in return. His deep voice was dry. “Miss Bryant. I spotted you when I arrived, but I hardly dared believe it was you, you are so grown up. You make me uncomfortably aware of the passing years. Tell me, do you still have a penchant for Sunday-school tracts?”
Ginevra’s glance flew upward in astonishment to meet his. He never changed, she observed, flushing deeply. His eyes were that same unnerving, penetrating blue that always disconcerted her, and now they were alive with malicious amusement. With considerable effort Ginevra regained her composure enough to answer seriously, “I regret, my lord, that nowadays my domestic duties leave me little time for church.”
“What a pity,” Chadwick drawled. “In London a show of religion has become quite the thing among the ton. Many a man makes a point of staggering home from his club in time to lead the household in morning prayers.”
Ginevra stared at him. She muttered under her breath, “Not you, I’ll wager.”
Chadwick heard her. His eyes sparked. “No, Miss Bryant, not I. I think you correctly analyzed my feelings in that regard the very first time we met.”
Sir Charles followed this exchange with some confusion. “Daughter,” he asked sternly, “are you being disrespectful to our guest?”
Before Ginevra could answer, Lord Chadwick interposed smoothly, “Of course she isn’t being disrespectful, Bryant. She and I are merely recalling a conversation we enjoyed years ago.”
Ginevra’s father settled back against his desk, clearly bewildered. Chadwick continued to survey the girl with an air of cool calculation that made her increasingly uneasy. His glance lingered on her honey-gold hair, tied back with a brown ribbon into a thick knot almost too heavy for her slender neck. He dismissed her unattractive dress with a faint disdainful snort. Ginevra’s first impulse was to conceal herself from those azure eyes raking her slight body, but instead she straightened her thin shoulders and forced herself to face him, meeting his insolent gaze with an air of self-possessed dignity she was far from feeling. She murmured, “I am sorry I was not here when you first arrived, my lord. Is there any way I may serve you?”
One black eyebrow arched quizzically, and Ginevra knew that Lord Chadwick was rigorously repressing whatever comment had first occurred to him. He reached into a pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a small leather pouch, which he emptied into his palm. “I think it best if we come straight to the purpose of my call,” he said. “I believe, Miss Bryant, that you are familiar with this. I should like to return it to you.”
Ginevra stared at the heavy jewel-encrusted ring glittering in the man’s large hand. Her delicate finger still bore marks on the place where the ring had resided for the past year, but she had never expected to see it again. She choked, “But ... but I sent that back to you with the letter I wrote when ... when Tom...”
“Yes,” the marquess dismissed irritably, “your action was most commendable and circumspect, but now I’m returning the ring to you. I want you to keep it.”
Ginevra retreated from his proffering hand. “But I can’t keep it!” she cried, and she wondered why her father did not intervene. “It would be wrong! That’s the Chadwick betrothal ring, to be worn only by the marchioness or the intended of the heir. You can’t just give it to me.”
Lord Chadwick made an impatient gesture, and the gems flashed in the firelight. “Obviously you don’t understand,” he said coldly. “It is in the guise of the Chadwick betrothal ring that I wish you to wear this.” Ginevra stared at him, her golden eyes troubled. He continued implacably, “Miss Bryant, I am sure that you are old enough to realize that the alliance between you and my son was arranged primarily so that Dowerwood might eventually be annexed to my estate at Queenshaven, something I have long desired. I still do desire it.”
Ginevra bit her lip, thinking hard. “Then ... then are you saying, my lord, that now although Tom is dead, you still want Dowerwood, and therefore you ... you wish me to marry your other son, Bysshe?”
The marquess scowled. “No, Miss Bryant. In truth I did suggest such a match to your father, but only if he would agree to delay until Bysshe is eighteen. The boy is not yet sixteen, younger than you and far too immature to assume the responsibilities of wedded life. I want him to finish his schooling first, perhaps see some of the world. After all, I can attest personally to the folly of an extremely youthful marriage ... However, your father does not agree with me.”
Ginevra looked at Sir Charles. She felt a rising sense of irritation that the two men could so plot her life without consulting her. It was not as if she were still a child of twelve! Curiously she asked, “Why wouldn’t you want me to marry Bysshe, Papa?”
He cleared his throat with difficulty. “Tr-try to understand,” he stammered nervously. “I ... I’m sure young Bysshe is a fine boy. But I cannot in good conscience consent to such a delay in the nuptials. If anything should happen to him before you are wed—pray God it does not!—you would be past twenty, still unmarried, and quite on the shelf. No, child, I would be remiss in my duty if I did not make your future secure now.”
Ginevra stared at her father. Something was wrong. This sudden concern for her future rang false. Oftimes in the past she had wondered if her father even cared what became of her. He seemed only half-aware of her existence.
She turned to Lord Chadwick again, who was watching her narrowly. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Papa
. My lord. Since the two of you seem to have reached an impasse, I think perhaps it is time that I decided what steps are necessary to make my future secure.”
The marquess nodded his head deeply in an insolent bow. “A most laudable aim, Miss Bryant, except that you are mistaken about its necessity. We have not yet reached an impasse. There is a solution, albeit a drastic one. I still want Dowerwood, and consequently I must take the sole alternative left me.” He paused, and Ginevra stared up at him, her heart creeping into her throat as she tried to deny the notion forming in her mind. Even before Chadwick spoke again, Ginevra was slowly shaking her head, her amber eyes wide with horror. She took a step backward, half-turning as if to flee from him. The marquess smiled grimly. “Yes, Miss Bryant,” he drawled, his deep voice heavy with irony, “I see you understand at last. I am asking you to do me the great honor and joy of consenting to become my wife.”
2
Ginevra stared at Lord Chadwick. Her eyes were riveted to his long, narrow face, a sardonic mask carved from old oak, the lines radiating from his aquiline nose and thin lips deep and uncompromising. She had known him all her life but she had never really looked at him before. When she and Tom were children she had thought casually that her playmate favored his father, but now as she studied the marquess’s features, the harsh planes of olive skin stretched tight over strong, high cheekbones and a stronger jaw, she searched in vain for some elusive resemblance to her lost friend. The boy’s blue eyes had “been gentle, but on his father those same eyes, set deep under straight black brows, shuttered by heavy lids, were piercing, hypnotic. Even their raven hair, at first glance so similar, showed the contrast between parent and child: Tom’s ruffled curls had been as soft and innocent as the fur on a newborn lamb. Lord Chadwick’s hair gave him the pagan look of a Roman idol before whom that lamb might be sacrificed.
The Chadwick Ring Page 2
