The Penniless Bride

by Nicola Cornick

  Rob put the paper down, the smile still lingering about his lips. ‘The devil! I cannot believe it. Is it legal, Churchward?’

  The lawyer shifted in his chair. ‘I believe so, my lord. The Dowager Countess was in sound mind when she made the will and it is witnessed and signed entirely properly. You could contest it, of course, but I would not advise it. You would have to go through the courts and it would cause much speculation.’

  ‘I would be a laughing-stock,’ Rob said. His gaze flicked over the rest of the will. ‘I see that my cousin Ferdie inherits from my grandmother as well if I fail to fulfil the conditions. That seems a little harsh. Ferdie would not be able to be celibate for ten days, never mind one hundred.’ The amusement lit Rob’s eyes. ‘How is the requirement to be enforced, Churchward? Surely I am not to report to you every day?’

  This time the lawyer did blush. ‘Please, my lord, do not jest on this matter! I am sure that Lady Selborne never intended anything so indelicate. I do believe that the matter is left to your conscience.’

  Rob stood up. ‘I apologise for offending your sensibilities, Churchward.’ There was still a twinkle deep in his eyes. ‘There does not seem a great deal more to say, does there? In order to inherit sufficient fortune to restore Delaval I must conform to the requirements of both wills. A hasty marriage followed by one hundred days of abstinence.’ He held out a hand. ‘Thank you, Churchward. You have been most helpful, as ever. I apologise if my response to the stipulations of my relatives’ wills has been less than courteous…’

  Mr Churchward shook his hand vigorously. ‘Not at all, my lord. I understand your feelings. I assure you that I did advise both my clients to abandon the eccentric terms of their wills, but both were adamant.’

  Rob grinned and his face lightened again from the rather grave look that it held in repose. ‘Thank you, Churchward, but you had no need to tell me that. I am aware of the difficulty of your position and I appreciate your support.’ He raised a hand in farewell. ‘I will contact you again when I have met the conditions of the wills—or when I have not.’

  He went out and Churchward heard his confident tread on the boards outside, his voice bidding the clerks a pleasant good day. The lawyer sat down heavily in his chair. His hand strayed towards the bottom drawer of his desk where he had a secret bottle of sherry hidden away for emergencies. The meeting with the Earl of Selborne surely fell under that description. He had never experienced the like of it and it was only Robert Selborne’s equable nature that had made it tolerable.

  He poured out a small measure of sherry and sipped it gratefully. He dearly hoped that Robert Selborne could find himself a bride at his cousin’s wedding. He was fond of that young man and wished him well of his marriage. Such a match made hastily and under duress ran the risk of starting badly. Or of ending that way. Mr Churchward shook his head sadly. It would take an exceptional woman to bear with the Earl of Selborne whilst he sorted out the competing demands of his relatives’ wills.

  Mr Churchward drained his glass and pushed the Selborne papers back into their drawer. Then he poured himself a second measure of sherry. He felt that he had earned it.

  Miss Jemima Jewell bent down and pulled out the Armada chest that was pushed into a corner of her bedroom. When she opened the lid the faint smell of lavender floated up and tickled her nose. At the bottom, under the pile of crisp sheets, pillowcases and other items set aside for her trousseau, was what she termed her wedding outfit. She took it out and held it up to the light.

  ‘Here it is. It needs a press but it will do…’

  Her brother Jack was lounging against the foot of the bed. He put his head on one side critically.

  ‘You haven’t grown again, have you, Jem?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Jemima flashed him a glance. ‘I am one-and-twenty years old, Jack, not a schoolgirl.’

  Her brother grinned. ‘Nevertheless, it’s short. It will show your ankles.’

  Jemima sighed. She detested her wedding outfit. It was the chimney sweep’s Sunday best outfit, trotted out for weddings and special occasions. It had a stiff black cambric skirt, slightly flared, a white chemise and a tight black jacket with glossy buttons like pieces of coal. There were black silk stockings and shiny black boots in the cupboard. And for her hair, a beaded net embroidered with jet.

  Jemima’s parents had dressed her up to earn money for as long as she could remember. Even as babies she and Jack had been paraded at weddings, where the ladies had cooed over their good looks and kissed them for luck. A chimney sweep at a wedding was supposed to bring good fortune and they had always been popular. These days the ladies still loved Jack, who at three and twenty had black curls and wicked dark eyes that made them quiver with excitement. Jemima dryly thought that there was nothing so appealing to a lady of quality as a bit of dalliance with a man from the wrong side of town.

  As for the gentlemen, there were plenty of occasions on which she had been obliged to turn away their propositions with a smile and soft word when what she really wanted to do was kick them where it hurt. Hard. The assumption that a tradesman’s daughter was fair game for a so-called gentleman was so commonplace that it barely surprised her any more.

  ‘Is Father taking the cat with him?’ She asked. Along with his children, Alfred Jewell always arrived at weddings with his black cat, Sooty, perched on his shoulder.

  ‘Of course,’ Jack said, grinning.

  Jemima pulled a face. ‘It is all so false, Jack. I loathe the pretence! Sweeps’ children dressed up in their Sunday best like a sideshow for the nobility!’

  ‘It is lucrative,’ Jack said drily. ‘Papa may have made his fortune these days but he will still not turn down the offer of good money.’ He sat down on the top of the Armada chest. ‘You will be attending your own wedding soon, I suppose, Jem,’ he added, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. ‘Father is talking about having the banns called.’

  Jemima shrugged, refusing to meet his gaze. She tried to appear cool but her heart skipped a beat and the fear rose in her throat. She had been betrothed for two years and had almost started to imagine that the wedding would never happen. Her fiancé, Jim Veale, was the son of another High Master of the Sweeps’ Guild, who, with Alfred Jewell, held the lion’s share of the chimney-sweeping business in the fashionable West End of London. Their client list read like Burke’s Peerage. Marrying into the Veale family was a good dynastic match for the Jewells, particularly as Jack was also betrothed to the Veales’ daughter Mattie. There was only one difficulty. Jemima did not wish to marry. Not Jim Veale. Not anybody.

  ‘It will never happen.’ Her voice sounded calm, disinterested.

  ‘Yes it will, Jem. Best accept it.’

  Jemima turned to see pity in Jack’s eyes. She dropped the black skirt and the white blouse abruptly on to the bed and went over to the window, looking out over the jumble of rooftops. The moon was half-full with a scatter of ragged cloud scudding across in front of it. The smoke from a thousand London chimneys hung like a haze above the roofs. A single star winked, then disappeared. Jemima stared at it and wished fiercely and silently for her world to change. She clenched her fists.

  ‘Will you be happy with Mattie Veale, Jack?’

  She could see Jack’s face reflected in the panes of the window. He was wearing his slightly simple expression, the one he always adopted when asked a question that was deep, or to do with his feelings. Once, years ago, Jack had been in love. But that had all ended miserably and now he did not even pretend to care for Mattie. Jemima knew that whatever he would have with her could only be a pale reflection of what had gone before.

  ‘Of course I will be happy,’ Jack said, after a moment. ‘Mattie’s a good girl. Just as Jim Veale is a good man, Jemima.’

  Jemima wrapped her arms about herself. ‘I know he’s a good man. That makes it worse somehow.’ She swung round sharply. ‘Jim is kindly and gentle and utterly dull. I shall feel stifled within a week…’

  ‘He’s a good man,�
� Jack repeated. ‘He will never beat you like Father beat us—’

  ‘Like he beat you,’ Jemima corrected, smiling a little. ‘I almost always escaped because you were in the way.’

  Jack shrugged uncomfortably. ‘My shoulders were broader than yours. I could take it.’

  They smiled at each other for a moment and then Jemima sighed. ‘All the same, I do not believe you can get in the way this time, Jack. And perhaps you do not want to? Perhaps you think I should take Jim and give over complaining?’

  Jack kicked moodily at a splinter of wood coming away from the polished floorboards.

  ‘I think they should never have sent you to that fancy school,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Because it has given me ideas above my station?’ Jemima asked.

  ‘Because it has made you unhappy,’ Jack said.

  Jemima sighed. Her brother was right. These days she felt as though she was a very square peg being forced into a very round hole.

  Matters had been so much simpler when they were small and their father had used them both to climb chimneys. Jemima had been a climbing girl until the age of eleven, but by then Alfred Jewell had started to make good money and he had employed an apprentice, and sent his daughter to the school established for the children of sweeps by Mrs Elizabeth Montagu, the noted bluestocking. Jack, who detested book learning, had always skipped off from lessons at the Sunday school and as a result could barely read or write. But Elizabeth Montagu had discovered in Jemima a quick intelligence and rare interest in learning, and had taken her under her wing. Jemima was sent away to study at another of Mrs Montagu’s foundations, an academy for young ladies in Strawberry Hill. As a result, she was a very accomplished young lady indeed, but not in the arts that would make her happy as the wife of a tradesman.

  Jack came across and gave her a hug. ‘Do not look so sad,’ he said roughly. ‘It won’t be so bad…’

  Jemima knew it would.

  ‘I have been educated beyond my place,’ she said, into his shoulder. ‘I did not fit into their world and now I do not fit into my own.’

  ‘I know.’ Jack loosened his grip a little. ‘But I still like you.’

  Jemima felt a tiny bit more cheerful. One of the things that she loved about her brother was that he was resolutely unimpressed by her book learning. Her father was full of bluster around her, as though he had created something that he did not understand. Her mother looked at her with a wonder that made Jemima feel very uncomfortable. Her old friends shunned her because they thought she had grown too grand. Only Jack was exactly the same to her as he had always been.

  ‘What would you do if you did not marry?’ Jack asked now, curious.

  Jemima smiled. She knew that they were speaking of dreams now rather than reality. ‘Oh, I would read, and go to lectures and exhibitions, and play music—’

  ‘And become bored.’ Jack’s black gaze was mocking. ‘You know you cannot bear not to be doing something.’

  Jemima paused, wrinkling up her face. It was true. She had always worked, first climbing chimneys, then at her books and now on the clerking side of her father’s business. At school, she had met many young ladies who did not understand the concept of working for a living and their naïveté had amused her. Not everyone had that choice.

  ‘Then I would become a musician, and sing in the theatre.’

  Jack sighed. ‘That is no respectable trade for a woman.’

  ‘Oh, and chimney sweeping is?’

  ‘No. You know what I mean. A woman’s only respectable recourse is to marry.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Jemima scowled at him. ‘A woman may become a teacher or a governess—’

  ‘You are the only person I ever heard of,’ Jack said, ‘who actually aspired to become a governess.’

  ‘It would suit my position in life,’ Jemima said. ‘Neither one thing nor the other. Betwixt and between. Not gentry nor servant…’

  ‘And instead you must marry Jim and become a stalwart tradesman’s wife.’ Jack moved restlessly across to the walnut bookcase and picked up some of Jemima’s novels, peering at the spines. ‘Old man Veale will have to build some bookshelves in his house. I hear he is mighty proud to be getting so talented a daughter-in-law.’

  Jemima grimaced. She was not vain and she did not like to be thought of as a trophy. She also knew how quickly that pleasure in her accomplishments could turn to bafflement. She had seen it happen with her own father. It was not that she thought herself too good for her family and friends, but somehow she could not fit in any more and they sensed it.

  Jack pulled a face too when he saw her expression. ‘Father is only trying to do his best for you, Jem, arranging such a match.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘And he’s doing the best for himself as well, I suppose. Marriage into the Veale family will be to everyone’s advantage.’

  Jemima nodded. ‘I know.’ She spoke briskly, without self-pity. ‘It is the way of the world. Even were I born with a silver spoon rather than a short-handled brush, I would still be married off for profit.’

  Jemima had learned that early on. She was cynical about marriage. Servant girl or Duchess, she observed that it made little difference. Marriage was business and love was irrelevance and that was the end of that.

  ‘You won’t refuse to marry Jim, will you?’ Jack said. He looked suddenly anxious. ‘You know how angry Father would be…’

  Jemima felt a pang of mingled fear and misery. Alfred Jewell had always prevailed with his fists. She turned back to the bed, picking up the black cambric skirt and shaking out the creases.

  ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I won’t refuse.’

  Chapter Two

  It had been a fine morning and Rob had taken his accustomed walk early on, strolling through Hyde Park whilst the rest of the world was barely astir. When he had been in the Peninsula it was the only time that he had had to himself, in the cool of the dawn, before the sun had risen and the day had heated like a furnace. He had taken to going out alone then, enjoying the fresh quiet of each day as he listened to the call of the birds, the hum of the insects waking and the muted sounds of human life stirring. His fellow officers had laughed and called him ‘Solitary Selborne’—until his early morning meanderings had helped him stumble across and foil a plot on the General’s life, after which they had shown him considerably more respect.

  This morning there were no such dramas to face, only his cousin’s wedding, which was beginning to take on the unattractive appearance of a cattle market. Which of his cousin Anne’s unfortunate friends or relatives was to be the recipient of his hasty proposal of marriage? Rob, who had never suffered from the failing of vanity, shuddered at the thought. Such calculated wooing was not his style.

  The previous afternoon, after his meeting with Churchward, Rob had called on his Aunt Selborne to acquaint her of the fact that he was returned from the wars and would be delighted to attend Anne’s nuptials the following day. His family had all fallen on him with cries of pleasure, especially Ferdie, who had always been a good friend to him. Rob had been less pleased to see Ferdie’s younger sister, Augusta, who had changed from a shrewish schoolroom miss into a fully fledged termagant in the time that Rob had been away. He reflected ruefully that were he obliged to marry Augusta his time on campaign would take on a whole new charm.

  It was that afternoon that Rob first received the hint that the wedding would not provide him with a great deal of choice in his hunt for a bride. It was to be a small affair. Mrs Selborne was not specific about just how small, and Rob did not wish to pry for fear of making her curious, but the situation did not seem promising.

  So it proved. Rob had seldom been to such a subdued wedding. It was clear that the late Earl of Selborne’s death had cast a pall over the whole proceedings, which seemed a little unfair to his cousin Anne. The pews were barely half full, the organ played extremely quietly and even the flowers looked disappointed.

  ‘Here’s the thing, old fellow,’ Ferdie said, sliding into the pew besid
e his cousin and lowering his voice to a hushed whisper. ‘With your father dying less than a year ago, Mama wanted to postpone the ceremony until next season.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You know what a stickler for propriety she is! Only Anne wouldn’t hear of a delay, so they compromised on a small wedding instead.’ Ferdie made a noise of disgust. ‘Pretty poor show, if you ask me.’

  Rob risked a quick glance around the half-empty church. A feeling of doom was starting to spread through him.

  ‘Just how small is small, Ferdie?’ he enquired.

  ‘In this case, tiny,’ Ferdie confirmed gloomily. ‘Immediate family only.’

  Rob swallowed hard. ‘Fifty guests?’

  Ferdie gave him a look. ‘More like forty. You know we only have a small family, Rob.’

  Rob did some quick mental arithmetic. Forty people, of whom half would be female…Except that the Selbornes almost always had sons, not daughters. His Aunt Clarissa Harley, for instance, had five sons…

  He glanced around again. By his estimation there was a grand total of fifteen female wedding guests present and most of them looked to be married already, or to be too young or too old.

  Augusta Selborne, the only adult bridesmaid, looked self-important in an orange organdie dress with too many embroidered roses on it. Lady Caroline Spencer, a distant family connection with a sullied reputation, sat across the aisle from him looking decadent in a plunging gown of blue silk. She winked at Rob, patting the seat beside her. Rob pretended to be afflicted by sudden short-sightedness. It seemed that Caro and Augusta were the only eligible women there. His doom moved a step closer.

  The organ music swelled slightly as the bride started her progress up the aisle and Rob looked straight ahead, determined that he was not going to spend the service ogling the congregation. There was plenty of time later for his worst fears to be confirmed.

  Afterwards the small but fashionable crowd thronged the steps outside. Rob paused and scanned the gathering for Ferdie, eventually locating him in the press about the bride and groom. Anne was receiving the traditional kiss for luck from the chimney sweep and was emerging pink and ruffled from a hearty embrace. Rob thought that her bridegroom looked distinctly put out, as well he might, for the sweep was a well set-up lad of about three and twenty, with twinkling black eyes and a wicked grin. He looked quite capable of eloping with the bride from under her new husband’s nose.