“I’m sorry.”
Silence hung between them. Sir Charles asked tersely, “Ginevra, have I been a good father?”
“I have always thought so, Papa.”
“Do you believe I would deliberately plot your unhappiness?”
“No, Papa.” She studied her fingers entwined demurely in her lap.
Suddenly Sir Charles banged his fist on the desk. The inkwell bounced. “Then, confound it, girl,” he cried, “why are you defying me now?”
Ginevra’s wan face colored. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, leaning forward to add with a flash of spirit, “but I do not wish to marry Lord Chadwick.” She subsided into the chair again and gazed at her father.
Sir Charles regarded her wearily. He had been under a great deal of strain lately, and it made him uneasy to watch the chit so quiet and solemn, peeking up through her lashes like a wounded fawn. Dammit all, he was not some kind of felon! He had gone to considerable difficulty, risking a humiliating rebuff, to arrange an excellent, even a brilliant match for her, one that far exceeded the usual expectations of the daughter of an unremarkable country baronet. And now, instead of showing him the proper gratitude, Ginevra stared at him with those eyes like sovereigns and waited for him to justify his actions. He had always been too soft with her, that was it. Distraught over his wife’s untimely death, he had tried to console himself with the diversions readily available in London to any man with a little money, and he ignored the girl who reminded him so painfully of his lost love. He had allowed her too much freedom, let her read unsuitable books. The possible consequences of his neglect seemed unimportant when her future was already settled with young Tom Glover, but now his laxity as a parent was returning to plague him. The girl had to marry well—and quickly!—and she calmly declared that she did not want to. God! What would he do if she remained mulish, if her recalcitrant behavior offended Lord Chadwick? Dowerwood or no, the Bryants still stood to gain far more from any union than did the marquess’s family ... Sir Charles stiffened with determination. He was going to post the banns and be done with it Ginevra would marry Chadwick even if he, her father, was reduced to ranting like a hack actor playing old Capulet in a Drury Lane production: “Fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next, to go to church, or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.”
He essayed a different tactic. “My child,” he intoned, “the world is not an easy place for a lone woman, and if anything should happen to me, you would be quite alone. You have no brother or uncle to care for you, and indeed, upon my death my title and Bryant House will pass away from our family to a distant cousin I have never met, whose generosity toward you might be questionable. Dowerwood is not part of the entail, but even if I gave it to you, you are not equipped to manage it. Consequently, it is my most pressing duty as your father to arrange a good marriage for you, so that you will always be safe, under the loving protection and guidance of a husband.”
Ginevra mumbled, “Yes, I know that.” And it’s not fair, she added silently.
“Then surely you realize that a match with Chadwick would be advantageous far beyond my wildest aspirations for you.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “Why, think, child, you would even outrank your old Papa.”
Ginevra shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“What!” Sir Charles exploded. “Not care about being a marchioness? In God’s name, why not? You ought to be on your knees with prayers of gratitude! You were eager enough to unite with the Glovers before.”
“It was different before,” Ginevra cried, wounded by his callousness. “I was going to marry Tom.”
Her father stared at her, shaking his head in exasperation. “Oh, Ginevra,” he clucked, “don’t tell me you fancied you had a tendre for the lad? How could you? You hadn’t seen him in six years. He probably changed beyond all recognition.”
Ginevra pleaded helplessly, “But he was my friend, Papa. Surely that wouldn’t have changed.” She toyed with the stiff fabric of her skirt, fast becoming very wrinkled under her nervous fingers. She was distressed by the justice of her father’s words. All the doubts she had felt in the past returned to haunt her. Of course her fiancé would have changed. She had known an amiable boy of twelve, but the Tom Glover who died while on a drunken spree was eighteen, older than his own father had been when he was born, and perhaps already as much a rake and libertine as the older man ever was ... Something died inside Ginevra. The union with Tom would have been as loveless as most such arrangements were. Despite her puerile protestations of lifelong friendship, she would have been marrying a stranger.
When Ginevra looked up, her father could see the resignation in her tawny eyes. She had taken his words to heart at last. Oddly, her capitulation gave him some relief, but no joy: there was little pleasure in crushing dreams. He felt a pang at the weariness evident in her voice when she said humbly, “Forgive me for being so obstinate, Papa. You are right, of course, marriage with any of the Chadwick family would be a great honor. I am indeed fortunate that his lordship is agreeable.” She hesitated, perking up slightly. “But... but couldn’t you relent and let me marry Bysshe Glover instead? He’s the heir now, as lofty a match as Tom was. I know he is still at Harrow, but he is not so much younger than I that our marriage would be impossible, especially if we wait. In three years I’ll only be twenty-one, not truly a hopeless spinster as you seem to fear. Perhaps Bysshe and I could even spend some time together beforehand, to get to know each other. It would mean so much to—”
Sir Charles interrupted flatly, “No, Ginevra. You must marry Lord Chadwick himself, and as soon as possible. If you don’t...” His voice died away; and he colored with embarrassment.
Ginevra observed her father curiously. He looked unwell, she thought; almost old. Something was troubling him gravely. She repeated, “If I don’t, what?”
Sir Charles wanted to bluster indignantly that the girl had no right to question him—but he did not. With a twinge of guilt he acknowledged to himself that his own bungling had placed her in a damned awkward position. She would marry Lord Chadwick, he would see to that The man was rich, titled, extremely eligible, a prize catch. And yet ... and yet, only in the dark recesses of his soul dared Sir Charles admit that the marquess was not the sort of man he truly wanted to wed his daughter. Ginevra was a sweet and loving child, and for all his grace of manner, Chadwick displayed a cynicism, a deeply ingrained bitterness, that augured ill for anyone who cared for him.
Ginevra asked again, “Papa, what will happen if I don’t marry Lord Chadwick?”
Her father rasped, “I will lose everything.” Ginevra stared at him, incredulous. He amplified, “I am in debt, child. The credit sharks are after me.”
Ginevra frowned thoughtfully, full of remorse. This possibility had never occurred to her. “Oh, Papa, I’m sorry, I should have realized! But the harvests have been so plentiful that I never dreamed ... These must be difficult days for you, with all your responsibilities. I know from reading the Gazette that since the end of the war corn prices have plummeted. Why, they say already that many small farmers have been forced to—”
Assailed with compunction at her unwarranted sympathy, Sir Charles said sharply, “My money worries have nothing to do with economics, Ginevra, and I wish to point out that it ill becomes a young woman to pretend knowledge of so unfeminine a subject.” He rubbed his temples, vainly attempting to stave off the headache settling behind his eyes. How could he explain to her the pressures that had driven him to London, there to fall victim to the wiles of ivory-turners and the meretricious delights of the muslin company? He had tried frantically to soothe the anguish caused by the loss of his wife, and he succeeded only in hurting the child she had left in his care.
As penance he now confessed bluntly, “Ginevra, for years I have borrowed money on the strength of your upcoming marriage to Tom Glover, putting off the creditors with assurances that someday my daughter would be a rich woman. Time has run out. They will not wait even a few months longer, much less two or
three years until young Bysshe is old enough to marry. If you do not wed as scheduled, I shall undoubtedly go to the Fleet Prison, and you and those who serve us will be evicted from our property. The Bryant name will be disgraced, and we shall probably starve like the other poor homeless wretches wandering the countryside these days.”
Ginevra shuddered. She was conscious of the element of bathos in her father’s plea, for she knew that she and he, well-educated and of gentle birth, would manage some way, no matter what happened—she could always become a governess!—but if there was a genuine danger of losing the estate to the moneylenders, what would become of the tenants, the servants who had devoted their entire lives to the comfort of the Bryant family? How would they survive? Now that the war was over, the country was in a depression. Farmworkers who only four years before had barely subsisted on twelve shillings a week now tried to live on less than ten. Thousands were unemployed.
She gazed at the flickering fire in the hearth as she asked quietly, “Are you saying then that everything will be well if I marry Lord Chadwick?”
Sir Charles nodded. “The Glovers have always been as proud as Lucifer. Family is all-important to them. The man would never let his wife’s kin come to grief.”
Ginevra sighed, still not looking at her father. She wondered if she would ever be able to look at him again. But despite his betrayal, she knew where her duty lay. “Then I really have no choice, do I?”
Lord Chadwick was lounging negligently on the settee, leafing through a small volume, when Ginevra returned alone to the drawing room. For a moment she stood in the doorway, watching the way the candlelight played on his dark curls. Her husband ... She shivered. He glanced up, and with one fluid, unbroken movement he uncrossed his long legs and stood erect, waiting until she perched nervously on the opposite end of the sofa before he sat down again. When Ginevra remained mute, he passed the book to her and noted in his deep voice, “Your maid brought this in while you were closeted with your father. I can see he is still lax about your reading material, or does he really believe that A Vindication of the Rights of Woman is suitable for a girl of your tender years?”
Ginevra bridled at his superior tone. “As I told you once, I read whatever I like, and I like Mary Wollstonecraft. She was a great woman.”
“A notorious one, you mean,” he drawled. “She was the mother of two bastards, and now her daughters seem bent on emulating her. Their affairs with Byron and Shelley have become so flagrant that they have shocked even the ton, no mean accomplishment. The whole ménage is expected to flee for the Continent momentarily.”
Ginevra’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the slim book, blushing at his mockery. She stammered, “I ... I am not certain that ... that what you say detracts from the sense of her words. I have learned much from her.”
“Indeed? You mean you wish to learn a trade, venture out into the world and compete with men without allowance for your feminine frailty? What occupation would you pursue, Ginevra? Something physical, a stonecutter, perhaps, or do you think you would prefer—”
“Stop it!” Ginevra cried, tears springing into her eyes at his sarcasm. “You have no right—”
“I have every right,” he said implacably, “and I think perhaps that after we are married I shall have to monitor your reading habits.” He saw the sudden stricken look in her wet eyes. “For we are going to be married, aren’t we?”
“Yes, my lord,” she choked, looking away.
He caught her chin between his fingertips and turned her face back toward his. Her small jaw trembled in his hand, and her golden lashes vibrated against her cheeks. Chadwick’s stern expression softened slightly. “Is the idea so very appalling, little Ginnie?”
She gnawed at her lip. “It will take some getting used to, my lord.”
His fingers dropped away from her face, and he caught her left hand. “Then here,” he said roughly, “perhaps this will help accustom you to your fate.” As he shoved the heavy betrothal ring over her knuckle to the place where it had rested for more than a year, he rasped, “Don’t ever try to take off the ring again, Ginevra. It signifies that you are mine, and what I have, I keep.”
Ginevra outstretched her fingers to stare at the gems flashing coldly in the firelight. The ornate gold hoop, a Chadwick heirloom for over a century, was a posy ring whose stones—lapiz lazuli, opal, verd antique, emerald, malachite—spelled out the simple but poignant plea: Love Me. The band and its message seemed to weigh down Ginevra’s slender hand. She thought: In all the time I wore it for Tom, it never felt the way it does now, like a shackle...
She was not aware that she had spoken aloud until Chadwick exclaimed irritably, “Ginevra, this so-called shackle that you despise is one that a considerable number of women have sought from me.”
Ginevra glared at him. “I’m sure they have,” she snapped, her spirit reviving, “and I’ll wager that by rights you owed it to most of them, too!”
When she realized what she had said, her cheeks reddened furiously, and she bowed her head, waiting for him to retaliate. But once again the marquess surprised her. Instead of striking back for her rash words, he studied her flushed face and asked seriously, “Tell me, child, do you resent the life I’ve led?”
Slowly she shook her head. “No, my lord. I ... I take many things amiss, but not that. Your past life is nothing to me.”
“How very tolerant of you,” he drawled. He took her hand in his and began to toy with the ring, tracing the carving with his fingernail, as he asked. “Ginevra, will you explain to me, please, what it is exactly that troubles you about our marriage? Do you object to me personally? If so, I think that, given time, I could change your opinion of me.” His voice became somber. “Or is it because I am Tom’s father? True, that cannot be altered, but my poor boy is gone now and will not be hurt by anything we might do.” He smiled again and kissed her fingertips one by one. The touch of his lips startled her, shooting hot tremors along her arm. When he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss into her palm, she gasped.
He was teasing her, charming her, and when he repeated his question, she wrinkled her pale brow and answered reluctantly, lest she spoil their momentary rapport. She said thoughtfully, “I think what disturbs me most about our marriage is the way I have been used in this arrangement, as ... as security for a bad debt. I know I am not the first girl to ransom her family’s good name in this manner, yet I feel demeaned by it.”
Chadwick shook his head. “No, Ginevra,” he said urgently, “you must not think that way. You are not responsible for your father’s malfeasance. I assure you that I regard you with the utmost respect.”
Ginevra studied the marquess’s face. He was a very handsome man, she conceded with a sigh, and when he was in this unfamiliar, almost tender mood, he seemed younger and well-nigh irresistible. No wonder the London ladies doted on him.
She ventured, “My lord, may I ask a question of you?”
“Of course, Ginevra. Anything.”
“I was wondering...” She hesitated before proceeding awkwardly, “We both know why I have accepted your proposal, but ... but why did you extend it in the first place? This I do not understand at all. You have admitted that you could have your pick of any woman you want, so why marry me? I do not believe that Dowerwood is so important to you. You are a wealthy man, and the prospect of acquiring one small property, no matter how lovely, can hardly be enough to sway you. Therefore, what do you gain by marrying me?”
Chadwick stared at Ginevra, and a shuttered look fell over him. The merry, teasing light died out of his blue eyes, leaving them dark and impenetrable, and he dropped her hand. Ginevra sensed his withdrawal, and she shrank back, hurt and bewildered by his abrupt change of mood. Ridicule dripped from Chadwick’s voice as he ran his eyes insolently over her slight figure and jeered in an undertone, “What shall I get? Are you so utterly innocent that you don’t know? I find that hard to believe.” He watched the color drain from her face, and he mocked, “Of course you
know, Ginevra, you’ve known all along. I’ll get you. Don’t you think that will be enough?”
3
Ginevra huddled in the window seat, saying good-bye to her home. She was clad only in her chemise and white silk stockings, but the half-open draperies shielded her from prying eyes as she gazed down at the garden glowing in the sparkling morning light. Through the open window she could smell the rich, heady scent of musk roses wafting upward on the warm June breeze. She sighed wistfully. She had always loved the way her bedroom overlooked the garden. In high summer the chamber was redolent with the essence of the flowers, and she used to lie awake in the perfumed darkness, weaving her girlish fantasies of adventure and love everlasting ... Now she had spent her last night in this room, it was hers no longer. The wardrobe was empty, its door ajar, and the dressing table looked strangely alien wiped bare of the girlish bric-a-brac she had collected over the years: a seashell from Bournemouth; a desiccated camellia tied with white ribbon, relic from the wedding of the vicar’s daughter... Her possessions had been carefully packed into chests and bandboxes and even now were waiting downstairs in the boxroom, to be loaded after the ceremony onto the baggage coach Lord Chadwick sent. All that remained of Ginevra’s in the room where she had spent most of her life were her daffodil-colored going-away outfit spread on the bed—and the wedding gown itself.
The Chadwick Ring Page 4
