The Harem Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  Noreen paused, her hand on the first buckle of her mistress’s trunk. “I don’t believe I’ve ever told you,” she said slowly, “but your Aunt Pemberton contrived to be in Constantinople when Lord Lyndon was there. It was all they could talk of below stairs in the weeks before we left for Greece. She was writing letters to all her cronies, she was, asking what fine young gentlemen were making the Grand Tour. Chose Lyndon for you, she did. And was overjoyed when he had to marry you.”

  “Then why—”

  “’Tis as we’ve said before, m’lady. Miss Pemberton thought Lyndon had violated you—though what would have been so bad about taking your virginity, I’m sure I never saw. You were married, and sixteen is not a child, no matter how your aunt thought on the matter.”

  “So when she discovered Jason was positively heroic in his defense of my virtue . . .” Penny’s voice trailed into a drawn-out sigh. “I cannot think about that time without my spirit curling into a knot of anguish. I was a child, Noreen. And acted most foolishly.”

  “And now,” Noreen declared briskly, “you are both ten years older, yet discovering neither of you is ten years wiser. This journey to London is merely the beginning, the entry to the path that will heal the breach. If you tread lightly, my girl, and remember that fine gentlemen expect to give orders and have others jump to their tune. Even wives.”

  “Merciful heavens, Noreen, are you saying we should not have come?”

  The Irish maid considered. “Ah, no, my lady. With you in Shropshire and his lordship in London, there was no path to peace at all, now was there? I’m just saying you might tread careful around the thought of freedom, for it’s not a word goes hand in hand with marriage.”

  By this time Penny’s chin had sunk into her hands, her joie de vivre vanished as if it had never been.

  “Ah, Miss—my lady! I’d no call to damp your spirits. I’m that sorry, truly I am.”

  “No, you are quite right, Noreen. Although I shall always treasure these few days of freedom, I cannot imagine living this way forever. I am here to bring an end to my brief freedom and to my husband’s, which has gone on far too long. I am here to bedazzle him so well that he will willingly accept the concept of two people, long separated, becoming one. And overlook my rather shocking transgressions,” Penny added softly

  In a sudden change of mood, Lady Rocksley flashed her maid a brilliant smile. “Leave the unpacking, Noreen. Go down straightway and inquire the names of the finest modistes and milliners on Bond Street. Tomorrow, we start our campaign. And may it not take as long as it has for Wellington to triumph over the French!”

  The Widow Galworthy, with the aid of well-placed golden guineas and Noreen O’Donnell, who combined the arrogant command of the most superior butler with the organizational skills of a duke’s housekeeper, was granted after-hours appointments at the best establishments on Bond Street. Long accustomed to serving a noble clientele who paid their bills in a manner that ranged from snail-pace to never, the Widow Galworthy’s advances upon her bills produced gleeful smiles on the faces of tradesmen hovering behind the fine storefront facades of Mayfair.

  The midnight oil burned, and generous vails went to the many assistants who also worked late, for, as Mrs. Galworthy informed those who labored on her behalf, she had traveled the world and well knew the value of good service. Though it’s true the various shopkeepers, including the vastly superior modiste, Madame Madelaine (of Chelsea), who garbed some of the finest ladies of the ton, and thought the Widow Galworthy an odd duck indeed, they were scrupulous in their attendance upon her. For they were all agreed that, no matter how strange her ways, the Widow Galworthy was a lady of the first stare. Knew her way around the world, she did. Yet never failed to thank those who gave her service, not even the lowliest maid who brought her tea. Yes, a right fine lady was Mrs. Galworthy. And if some of those coins were paid out for privacy, then they were glad enough to give it. Lady knew what she wanted, she did. And who were they to say her nay?

  Yet the mystery deepened, along with the head-to-toe finery now piled into two new trunks in the widow’s suite of rooms. Who was the heavily veiled lady garbed all in black? Where had she come from? And why must her obvious intention of putting off her mourning be a mystery? Other widows did not require such secrecy when going back into colors.

  Miss Wiley, the milliner, not only boasted of selling an astonishing number of bonnets to the widow, but declared every one of them in the height of good taste, as well as fashion. No vulgar poppies or surfeit of feathers for the Widow Galworthy. A lady she was, through and through. The merchants shook their heads. In the end—though some did not wish to think it of so fine and generous a lady as Mrs. Galworthy—it was decided she was either on the catch for a titled gentleman or was setting herself up as queen of the muslin company. There was something about her, was there not? A certain gleam in the eye as she appraised herself in the glass. A determined set to her chin. A look of . . . calculation—yes, that was the word. The Widow Galworthy had plans.

  But the buzz in the backrooms of Bond Street was as soft as it was avid, for coins jingled in the pockets of those who served the veiled widow, and proffered bills were promptly paid. Everyone smiled and bowed and put the Widow Galworthy’s orders before all others. Walking dresses, carriage dresses, afternoon gowns, ballgowns, riding habits, spencers, pelisses, shawls, bonnets, gloves, half-boots, and slippers of every matching color.

  And lingerie. The so-called Mrs. Edmund Galworthy’s sky blue eyes shone with delight when she examined the pile of chemises, petticoats, and, most particularly, the nightwear Noreen had laid out for her inspection before the delicate garments were packed away. The finest muslins and linens, all embroidered to perfection and trimmed with inserts or hems of lace, some almost as transparent as the shalwar and tunic she had once worn before her husband in the Topkapi Palace.

  Penny’s soft smile faded. The Countess of Rocksley, in her guise as the Widow Galworthy, had had time for serious thought while she accumulated a wardrobe fit for a princess. I rather thought she was enchanting. Jason’s brief comment haunted her night and day. And had he found Penny Blayne attractive as well? She had seen it that first night at Lord Elgin’s party. So, surely, if she tried very hard to remember what young Penny was like . . . her wit, her charm, her enthusiasm for life.

  If she dressed even more magnificently than the sixteen-year-old Penny . . .

  If she could convince herself that the lessons learned in the seraglio were not a horror to be buried forever in the depths of her memory . . .

  Yet the new clothes were nothing more than a symbol, she knew that. They were a reminder, a crutch, if you will. They could do little for a woman who did not believe herself beautiful, within as well as without.

  That evening, as Penny was undressing for bed, she waved Noreen away, turning to study herself in the room’s full-length mirror, as she had once surveyed her dull self in Shropshire. She proffered a tentative smile to the woman who stared back, flickeringly illuminated by candles on each side of the mirror. This was not the lifeless, defeated woman she had seen in the cheval glass at Rockbourne Crest. This woman’s skin and hair glowed with health; the depths of her blue eyes reflected hope. Though she was clad only in the simplest of her new white chemises, this evening’s reflection was remarkably lovely. Indeed, she bore no resemblance to the poor sad creature who had stumbled, ice-coated, into Jason Lisbourne’s entrance hall on a nasty night near the end of February. The girl in the glass was . . . beautiful. After trying so hard to hide it all these years, Penny found it difficult to admit, but even at the advanced age of five and twenty she was strikingly attractive.

  Would Jason find her enchanting? Or was an English rose no substitute for Gulbeyaz, the kohl-eyed, scented White Rose of the seraglio?

  The Countess of Rocksley reaffixed her smile. The girl in the glass smiled back. Softly, secretively. Hopefully. Oh, yes, surely he must.

  On the following morning, the staff of the Ashley Ar
ms stared in awe as a fine lady, dressed in the dernier cri of fashion, swept down the front staircase. If it had not been for the stalwart Irish maid following close on her heels, none of them could have guessed the lady’s identity. Over her carriage dress of azure blue she wore a cloak of textured wool, deep teal in color and trimmed in sable. Her high-poke bonnet, which matched her gown, was lined in finely pleated white silk and decorated with a single understated white silk rose, shining against the rich blue of the bonnet’s brim. Behold, the reborn Penelope Lisbourne—on her way to dazzle her lord and master, the Earl of Rocksley.

  The hotel manager was so astonished at the transformation—at the hotel’s dark chrysalis burst open to reveal a brilliant beauty—that he failed to reprimand his staff, who drifted along behind what had once been the Widow Galworthy and heard, quite distinctly, her order to have all her baggage sent to Rocksley House on Cavendish Square. They then trailed her to the front of the hotel and watched with avid interest as the lady and her maid climb into a hackney. Afterwards, all agreed the women had ordered the jarvey to take them to Rocksley House as well.

  Speculation was rampant. Had the Ashley Arms been hosting the notorious Lady Rocksley? Or did that rakehell Rocksley have yet another string to his bow? In the end, the manager was forced to line up his entire staff and remind them, forcefully, that discretion was the prime rule of hotel management. Whoever the Widow Galworthy was, or had been, was none of their business. This tale was not to be repeated.

  With many sighs and disgruntled groans, the staff of the Ashley Arms returned to work. But in their memories the lady’s transformation would glow for years to come.

  “M’lord, m’lord.” Kirby, Lord Rocksley’s valet hovered over his lordship, who was clinging to sleep as if he were indeed the Rock his close friends dared call him. “M’lord,” Kirby hissed a bit louder, “Lady Rocksley has arrived. Stackpole has shown her into the drawing room. M’lord!” Kirby came close to losing his customary suavity. “M’lord, you must wake up, truly you must.”

  “Wha-at?” Jason peered at his pesky valet from under half-opened lids.

  “Lady Rocksley, m’lord. Here. Now.”

  “The devil you say,” Jason muttered. “Come up from Bath, has she?” He started to sit up, groaned, and fell back on his pillow, one arm over his eyes. “I suppose she’s heard the rumors, though what mama is doing here at this hour I cannot imagine.”

  “Perhaps she spent the night with one of her friends here in town, m’lord,” Kirby suggested, as unaware as the earl that the butler, in his surprise, had failed to indicate their visitor was the younger Lady Rocksley. “If you will allow me to prop up these pillows a bit, m’lord, I believe we can have you sitting sufficiently upright to swallow my restorative. As always, you will soon feel much more the thing, ready to greet Lady Rocksley in no time at all.”

  But it was nearly forty-five minutes before the Earl of Rocksley was presentable enough to be seen by his mama, Eulalia Lisbourne, the Dowager Countess of Rocksley. And even then his lordship trod the stairs quite gingerly, unsure if his vision was perfectly sound. Nor was his mind sharp enough to deal with what would undoubtedly be questions far more penetrating than he could wish. Damn and blast! He was truly fond of his mama, but he wished most fervently she had stayed in Bath.

  “Lord Rocksley, my lady,” declared Stackpole, the butler, in stentorian tones, as a footman hastened to throw open the door to the drawing room.

  Jason affixed what he hoped was a welcoming smile to facial muscles that were so stiff they positively creaked. “Mama!” he cried. “To what do we owe the pleasure of—” His voice broke off. He gaped at the vision of loveliness rising to greet him. “Oh, my God,” he moaned.

  Penelope? Was this gorgeous creature his Penelope? His drab, disillusioned, all-too-snappish wife miraculously metamorphosed into the stunning beauty once seen in sixteen-year-old Penelope Blayne?

  Gulbayez. The White Rose.

  His wife.

  But, unfortunately, a muddled head combined with the shock kept the earl’s admiration bottled up inside. Jason stalked across the room, for all the world as if he had not been struck dumb by his first glimpse of his wife’s transformation. “Are you mad?” he roared. “The town is rife with rumors. To show your face here now is to be torn limb from limb. Tell your coachman he may turn around and return to Rockbourne Crest this moment!”

  Penny had set out from the Ashley Arms suffused with confidence, determination, eagerness, even optimism, but during each of the forty-five minutes she had waited in the earl’s drawing room, these emotions had eroded until, as her husband strode through the door, only a faint and wavering hope was left. Now, even that was gone. Shocked beyond tears, she could only stare at him. Never, in her worst nightmare, had she dreamed he would cast but one quick glance over her transformed self and instantly send her back to Shropshire.

  “Perhaps you would care to hear the latest rumor?” Jason snapped, without so much as asking his wife to be seated. “It seems I have married a half-French trollop—undoubtedly someone has heard a garbled version of the tale of Aimée de Rivery. This half-French, half-Turkish harem girl was cast off by the sultan for having a roving eye and was foisted on the young Viscount Lyndon when, to hear the tabbies, he was scarce out of leading strings. A shocking misalliance his family succeeded in concealing for many years until the scheming creature arrived on his doorstep demanding all the rights due a noblewoman in England.”

  Penny, whose stomach now felt as queasy as the earl’s, took a step back and sat down abruptly on a sofa upholstered in cinnamon brocade.

  “The bastards!” declared Noreen O’Donnell roundly. “Begging your pardon, my lord.” The countess’s long-time companion slapped her hand over her mouth and kept it there.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Stackpole,” Lord Rocksley called, “bring tea and brandy at once.” Then, becoming aware how thoroughly he had once again mishandled the situation with his wife, Jason sat down beside her and spent a few thoughtful moments staring at the white rose on the bonnet that completely obscured her face.

  “Penelope . . . Penny,” he said at last, “you are looking very fine. Wherever did you find such elegant garments in Shropshire?”

  His wife did not turn her head, but she did deign to answer him. “I have been in London more than two weeks, my lord, acquiring a fine new set of clothes. I—I had wished to surprise you.” She paused, still with her face turned from him. “It would seem that I did,” she added softly.

  “You have been in London and did not tell me,” Jason returned ominously. “And where did you stay, may I ask?”

  “At the Ashley Arms, a most respectable place, I assure you. I registered as the Widow Galworthy and wore a black veil at all times. No one saw me. Until this morning, that is.” Penny, recalling that everyone in the lobby and on the street outside had heard her order the jarvey to take her to Rocksley House in Cavendish Square, tightened the clasp of her hands in her lap until her grip was painful. That was all the explanation the Earl of Rocksley was entitled to hear. She would not chronicle her hopes and dreams, nor lay bare her puny efforts to impress him. All her efforts . . . and she had failed. Once again.

  The earl opened his mouth for a scold, then snapped it closed. Good God, however had he developed a reputation as a rake, a ladies’ man of no little skill, when he could not manage aught but a hostile relationship with his wife?

  Stackpole delivered a tray with a silver tea service, placing it on a table directly in front of the countess. As a footman followed with a tray holding a decanter of brandy and sparkling glasses, the earl said to his butler, “I presume Lady Rocksley’s rooms are being prepared, Stackpole?”

  “Yes, my lord, the maids have been hard at work ever since her ladyship’s arrival.” The butler glanced at Noreen O’Donnell. “And if my lady’s maid will come with me, a dray has arrived with a number of trunks. There is a good deal of unpacking to be done.”
/>   “Leave the trunks as they are,” countermanded the earl.

  Stackpole, the footman, and Noreen O’Donnell all stared. The Countess of Rocksley’s bonnet came to attention. A small gasp escaped from beneath it.

  During the previous colloquy, Penny, who was quite familiar with having her finely laid plans overset, had begun to recover from what was merely one more shock among many. “You cannot still insist on my returning to Shropshire, my lord. It is perfectly obvious only my presence at your side can put an end to the gossip.”

  With a sharp wave of his hand, the earl sent everyone scampering from the room, leaving him alone with his countess. Still glowering, he snapped, “If you think for one moment I would allow you to be ripped to shreds by those tabbies or leered at by their husbands—”

  “As bad as that?” Penny asked, turning at last to look directly at him.

  “Take that foolish bonnet off,” the earl ordered, a trifle irrelevantly. “Let me have a look at you. A nice touch, the white rose,” he added more softly.

  Ah, yes! he thought as his wife removed her bonnet. Here was the woman he had secretly hoped would exit the post chaise that winter night in Shropshire. What, he wondered, had inspired this transformation . . . could it possibly have been himself? “Penelope . . .,” he began and then, most unfortunately, thought better of displaying his sudden surge of youthful eagerness.

  “Penelope,” he said in a tone amended to a calm reasonableness he was far from feeling, “I know you have lived in isolation for far too long, and you are most certainly entitled to spend the Season in town, but I must tell you this is not the year to do so. By next year this nasty on dit instigated by Yardley—you recall young Yardley, the idiot, do you not?—will be old news. My close friends are already helping to combat the rumors, and I see now I shall have to enlist the aid of my mother. She is a formidable dowager, I assure you. By next year we will have come about, and you and I shall do the Season in style. I promise you, Penelope, truly we will.”