The Penniless Bride

by Nicola Cornick

  He shook her again, a bit harder. Jemima shrank back, squashed into a corner of the sofa, trying to avoid his angry bloodshot eyes and the spittle that had started to fly, as it always did when he became enraged.

  ‘Father, please! If you could give me a little time—’

  Alfred Jewell made a sound like an outraged bull.

  ‘Time! How much time does a girl need?’

  Turning, he swung out one arm and knocked Jemima’s books off the small side table on to the floor. They fell with a clatter on to the polished wood. He picked them up and tossed them one by one into the fire, where they flared briefly, the paper charring, the printed word fading to ash.

  ‘Take that for your book-learning and your lady’s airs and graces! Too good for us now, aren’t you, my girl! Well, I don’t give a fig for your fancy education.’

  Jemima took a deep breath and forced herself to stay calm. Her precious copy of Castle Rackrent was disappearing up the chimney, but at least she had left Frederick and Caroline upstairs in her bedroom. She felt the tears prick her eyes. How foolish to have provoked her father thus, but her refusal had been instinctive, borne of fear and a desperate feeling that she would die a slow death in Jim’s father’s house, deprived of all the things that she had come to hold dear…

  Her mother’s twitterings had increased in speed and reached a higher pitch as she twisted her hands together in an agony of misery.

  ‘Jemima, dear, young Jim is such a good boy and so gentle and kind! You could not ask for a better husband. You will have a lovely home close by, and children of your own, and when Jack marries Mattie we shall all be one happy family—’

  ‘Ingrate!’ Alfred Jewell bellowed, making his wife and his daughter jump. ‘Useless little bitch!’

  Jemima drew in a sharp breath. When she had been a child such language and worse had been the cant on the streets and it had neither shocked nor disturbed her because she had grown up hearing it. Now, after years of education and refinement, she could feel herself go hot with surprise—and disgust. It was part familiar and part revolting. She tried to keep her feelings out of her face but it was too late. Her expression changed and Alfred Jewell, watching her, narrowed his hot black gaze in anger.

  ‘Oh, so my language offends your dainty ears, does it, miss? Time to cut Miss High and Mighty down to size!’

  The first blow caught Jemima’s ear and set her head buzzing. She raised one of the fat cushions to protect herself, and the vision of herself as a small child flashed through her head. She had been small then, dodging the blows, running rings around her father’s legs. Not so now. Now it was Mrs Jewell who was hanging on her husband’s arm and trying to pull him back, and stuttering the words that must surely only fan the flames: ‘Alfie, stop. You cannot hit Jemima. She’s a lady now. You wanted her to be a lady!’

  ‘Aye, and see what’s become of her,’ her father growled. ‘Too much reading! Too much thinking!’

  The hysterical laughter bubbled up in Jemima’s throat even as the second blow slapped her hard across the cheek and knocked her backwards, her head connecting sharply with the arm of the sofa. A dull pain burst inside her skull. Dimly she could see her mother sent flying across the room to crash into the fire irons with a whimper. There was a commotion in the corridor outside. Jack’s voice was raised in anger; his fists were pounding at the door. Jemima felt a rush of relief followed by a plunging despair. The door was locked and now her father was coming for her.

  Mrs Jewell stayed where she had fallen, her grey hair tumbling about her face, her eyes tired and defeated. Jemima tried to struggle to her feet the better to defend herself, but she became entangled in her skirts and lost her balance. She felt her father’s belt snake about her shoulders, felt the vicious, remembered pain of the buckle bruising her collarbone, and grabbed the end of it, wrenching it from her father’s hands. The impetus swung her backwards so that her head bounced sickeningly against the floor. She saw her father’s face as he loomed over her, then there was a crash as the door splintered open and Jemima closed her eyes in relief and lay still.

  It had not occurred to Rob that gaining an audience with Miss Jewell might be in any way difficult. He had found the house in Great Portland Street without a problem, for there was a golden pole and a sweep’s brush marking the door. It was only when he was standing on the doorstep that he realised that the entire family might well be at home and that explaining himself to them all, before he had had time to speak to Miss Jewell alone, might prove somewhat awkward. He was hesitating on the doorstep, his hand raised to knock, when he noticed that the front door was ajar. A second later there was a crash from inside and the sound of voices raised in altercation. This time Rob did not hesitate. He pushed open the door and walked in.

  The scene in the hallway was confusing. A little maid was standing with her apron over her head, wailing loudly, whilst a man Rob recognised as Jack Jewell was setting his broad shoulder to one of the doors, cursing when the heavy wood did not budge. He turned when he heard Rob’s footsteps behind him and there was such violence in his eyes that Rob felt himself stiffen instinctively, all his training coming to the fore and overriding all other considerations. Then there was a crash from inside the room, the sound china breaking and a female scream that cut off abruptly. Jack Jewell said:

  ‘Help me. She’s in there.’

  And Rob understood without the need for further words, and set his shoulder to the door beside Jack so that the lock burst on the first attempt and they both fell into the room to face the horror within.

  She was lying on the sofa with her head on a cushion. Someone was holding one of her hands very gently and she could feel the cool dampness of a cloth against her face. Jemima’s mind was supplying disjointed bits of information one at a time. She could hear a voice, very calm but with the unmistakable ring of authority. She opened her eyes.

  Rob Selborne was sitting beside her on the sofa and it was he who had applied the cool water to her temples, for the cloth was still in his hand. As Jemima’s eyes focussed on his face she saw him smile at her with astonishing tenderness and it made her blink in shock. His hand was warm on hers and he smelled familiar. The scent of him tugged at her senses, confusing her. She felt weak and suddenly close to tears. One slipped from beneath her lashes before she could help herself and she closed her eyes again, despising her weakness.

  ‘Lie still.’ Rob spoke softly. ‘You are quite safe. Your brother has taken your mother upstairs and I believe—’ Jemima heard his voice harden ‘—that he is helping your father to come to his senses under the pump in the yard.’

  A faint splashing of water from outside confirmed his words. Jemima tried to sit up. ‘I must go to my mother—’

  ‘Presently. The maid is with her. But you—are you hurt?’

  Jemima moved a little. And winced. She saw the grim line of Rob’s jaw tighten a notch and realised with a sudden pang of the heart just how much self-control he was exercising. There was concentrated fury in his eyes, held on the tightest rein. She knew without him saying a word that he wanted to go outside and hit Alfred Jewell across the yard and that his respect for her was the only thing preventing him from doing so. She felt profoundly shaken by the knowledge. She also felt ashamed that he knew so much about her family—things that she did not want anyone to know.

  ‘I am sorry—’ she started to say, but Rob interrupted her.

  ‘You have nothing to be sorry for.’ His voice was still hard. ‘Are you injured at all or can you move?’

  Jemima succeeded in sitting up. She put a hand to her forehead. ‘My head aches a little but that is all. I shall be better directly.’

  ‘You have a bruise coming up on your collarbone.’ Rob’s tone was dispassionate. Jemima blushed and flicked her dress back into place to conceal the mark.

  ‘The buckle of the strap just caught me. It is nothing.’

  They looked at one another for a long moment.

  ‘You cannot stay here,’ Rob said
. ‘I need to know that you will be all right—’

  ‘She’ll be fine. I’ll look after her.’

  Jemima jumped as Jack strode back into the room. Suddenly the air crackled with renewed tension. There was a belligerent jut to Jack’s jaw and he looked Rob Selborne over with the cold assessment of a prizefighter. Rob looked amused and slightly disdainful and did not back away.

  Jemima put out a hand. A further demonstration of male aggression was the last thing that she needed. Whatever solidarity had drawn Rob and Jack into temporary alliance, it was over now. And she was the reason why.

  ‘I think,’ she said clearly, ‘that we should thank Lord Selborne for his intervention, Jack.’

  Both men looked at her. Neither moved. Then Rob sighed, and held his hand out.

  ‘I am reassured to think that your sister will be safe under your protection, Jewell.’

  Jack stared at Rob’s face, then at his outstretched hand. Jemima glared at him. Jack sighed and shook Rob’s hand grudgingly.

  ‘Thank you for your help, Selborne.’

  Both of them looked as though they were having teeth pulled. The sight made Jemima want to laugh. She felt a tiny bit more cheerful.

  Rob turned to her. ‘Good night, Miss Jewell. I shall call tomorrow to see how you are.’ He bowed and went out, passing Jack in the doorway without a second glance.

  ‘What the hell did he want?’ Jack asked, as the front door closed.

  Jemima frowned. Her head felt fuzzy and there was an ache behind her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to go to bed and sleep forever.

  ‘I do not know,’ she said, in surprise. ‘I did not even think to ask him why he was here.’

  Jack looked at her. ‘I don’t suppose it was to arrange for his chimney to be swept,’ he said, at length.

  Jemima looked away. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose it was.’

  Later, when the maid had brought a cold compress for her head and some salve for her bruises, Jemima lay on her back on the bed and stared out of the window at the tumble of roofs and the stars above them. Jack had gone out again—back to the flash house—to get well and truly drunk. It happened every time he quarrelled with their father. It was the only way he knew to deal with the situation. Jack had not mentioned Rob Selborne’s visit again and nor, surprisingly, had their father when he had staggered in from the yard, dripping and swearing quietly. Jemima assumed that he was the only one who had thought that Rob had been there to arrange for his chimneys to be cleaned. No one spoke about what had happened. It was as though the whole previous hour was to be wiped from their minds, as though it had never happened.

  Except that Rob Selborne had said that he would be back. And Jemima believed him.

  She knew why he had come. He was going to ask her to become his mistress. And for the very first time in her life, she was tempted. For a second she thought of Rob; of his kiss and his touch and the look in his eyes. He was an honourable man and there was something so seductive about that strength and integrity when you lived in a world that lacked it. But it would be madness to give in to Rob, for what would happen when it ended? The only examples of love that she had ever seen had all ended in unhappiness. That was no way to gain security or the independence she craved. Nevertheless…

  Jemima stared hard at the patch of sky above her window. It was inky black, the stars hard and bright. The bruises on her shoulders were aching now and the cuts where the strap had broken the skin were sore. Jemima was used to physical pain. As a child she had climbed chimneys until her feet were rough and raw, and had worked from before dawn until after dark, when she had fallen asleep almost where she stood. What was more painful was the emotional ache, the feeling that she had got lost somewhere along the way. Too much thinking…Her father had been quite right. Elizabeth Montagu had taught her to question, to think for herself, and now she could not stop.

  She thought about running away and taking a post as a governess or schoolteacher. It was one way in which young ladies could support themselves, and it was not as though she was a delicate flower unused to fending for herself. The difficulty was that society was against her. She had testimonials from Mrs Montagu and Miss Hannah More, but the type of families that were looking for a governess would not wish to employ a chimney sweep’s daughter in the role. She could always ask her former school for a job, of course, and she was sure that the headmistress, Mrs Gilbert, would be only too happy agree, but then it would be all too easy for her father to trace her and force her to go back with him. Jemima winced as her bruises chafed her. Independence of mind was one thing. Achieving freedom was quite another.

  A shooting star flashed across the small, black square of sky, a golden flash so quick Jemima thought she had imagined it. She stared out into the dark.

  ‘I shall call tomorrow to see how you are.’

  She knew that he would come. And she would have to decide what her answer was going to be.

  Chapter Four

  Rob gave his card to the little maidservant and asked if Mistress Jewell was at home. Despite the fact that she had seen him the previous night, the girl stared at him like an owl. It was clear that she could not read the card either. She repeated as if by rote that the Master and young master Jack were out on business and that if he wanted to speak to them he should call later. Rob explained again that it was Mistress Jewell whom he wished to see. The maid stared at him with her mouth open, then offered the information that the mistress was out marketing. It took another five minutes to explain to her that it was Miss not Mrs Jewell that he wanted, and even then the maidservant looked dubious. She left him in the sitting room and disappeared, leaving Rob with the conviction that he might never see her again.

  He was fascinated by the contents of the room in which he had been left. He had never been inside a wealthy merchant house before last night and then he had had no time to notice anything. Now he looked about him with curiosity. It was a very modern house, with expensive furniture in a rather bland design. A long case clock ticked sonorously by the window. There was a hotchpotch of ornaments filling every available space. A dozen china ladies danced across the mantelpiece, entangling themselves in the branches of several candlesticks. There were at least seven squishy cushions on the sofa and three filling each chair. The tables were laden with various trinkets: empty glass scent bottles, tiny pottery houses, gnomes and fairies. There was what looked like a bead-embroidered wedding veil lying over the back of one chair. There were no books, except for in the fire grate, where he could see the charred remains of what looked like several pages of print. He knelt down on the hearthrug for a closer look.

  ‘Lord Selborne?’

  Rob stood up so quickly that he almost bumped his head on the wooden mantelshelf. Miss Jewell was standing just inside the door, dressed in bright jonquil muslin. Her black hair was tied up with matching yellow ribbons. She looked just like a débutante, fresh, young and very pretty. She was holding his card in her hand. He noticed a small ink stain on her fingers, and wondered suddenly if she had been working. Her voice, smooth and well spoken as a lady of quality, was calm this morning. All her defences were back in place, as though the events of the previous night had never occurred. Yet when he looked closely he saw the telltale beat of a pulse in her throat that suggested she was not quite as unruffled as her outward demeanour suggested.

  ‘It is kind of you to call,’ she continued. ‘It gives me the opportunity to thank you formally for your help last night.’

  Rob smiled slightly. There was a frosty reserve in her manner and he could tell that she was not going to invite him to sit down and was certainly not going to offer him any refreshment. It might be because she was embarrassed about the situation in which he had found her the previous night and had no wish to discuss it further with him. Or it might be that she had had time to wonder why he had sought her out—and had come to the obvious conclusion. Whatever the case, he could not give her the chance to dictate their interview. He had to breach those def
ences, and quickly.

  He bowed and took her hand in his. ‘Good morning, Miss Jewell. I hope that I find you recovered this morning?’

  Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers and she tried to withdraw her hand from his. The pink colour came into her cheeks and Rob felt a rush of masculine pleasure that she was not indifferent to him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, evading his gaze. ‘I am very well.’

  There was a pause. ‘When I called last night, I was hoping to speak with you,’ Rob said.

  That brought her gaze up to his. She raised her brows, a faintly cynical expression in her eyes. ‘Were you indeed, Lord Selborne? I cannot imagine what you have to discuss with me.’

  Rob gestured to the chairs. ‘May we sit down and talk about it?’

  She gave the question full consideration rather than treating it as a formality. After a moment she nodded, and took the chair on which the wedding veil rested. She folded it quickly, neatly, and placed it to one side. A sudden thought occurred to Rob.

  ‘Yours?’ he asked, nodding to the veil.

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was flat and lifeless suddenly and so was the expression in her violet eyes. ‘I am to be married in three weeks.’

  Rob felt a sharp disappointment. ‘That rather makes my proposition redundant.’

  Her gaze was fixed on him. ‘What proposition is that, my lord?’

  Rob shrugged a little awkwardly. He was hardly going to importune her to marry him when she was already betrothed and on the point of marrying another.

  ‘It does not matter. There was something I wanted to ask you, but it is not appropriate.’

  ‘You may ask me all the same.’

  Rob looked at her. Her voice was quite expressionless but there was something in her eyes now, a glimmer of flame. There was also a certain weary knowledge. He could see that she knew all about propositions from gentlemen. He wondered how many she had received. And how many she had accepted…