The Harem Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  Jason, Penny noted with some satisfaction, seemed singularly indifferent to the absence of Daphne Coleraine. While she burned with questions about the lady’s failure to appear, the earl circulated during the interval, carrying Penny with him by virtue of keeping a hand tightly clamped around her arm. Together, they smiled themselves silly, positively oozing marital congeniality, until the countess thought she might be quite nauseous. Jason was overdoing it, she knew he was. Possibly because he, too, was relieved at his mistress’s absence.

  Or did he know all about it? Had he strangled her then? Buried her body in the Fenwick Manor gardens? Dropped her down a well?

  The idea was so absurd Penny had to choke back a near hysterical giggle.

  The second half of the program featured Helen Seagrave with her harp, and a virtuoso performance it was. Even Penny forgot her anxieties in the nimble grace and power of Helen’s skill. It was almost a misfortune Miss Seagrave had been born a gentlewoman, Penny realized, for her talent would earn her far more money upon the stage than she would ever earn as a sometime teacher in the Shropshire village of Cranmere.

  A glance at Lord Brawley and Mr. Dinsmore gave Penny a shock. Gant Deveny, the London beau with the untouchable heart, seemed locked in wonder, his gaze so fixed on Helen that Penny’s friend might have been the most dazzling diamond of the London Season. Would wonders never cease?

  Basking in glowing thoughts of matchmaking, Penny was unprepared for the other shoe to drop. For the sudden solution to Mrs. Coleraine’s absence, taking Penny’s burgeoning, yet vulnerable, hopes with it.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Twenty-one

  After gracefully accepting the long and genuinely enthusiastic applause that erupted after her final rippling chord, Miss Seagrave removed herself to the pianoforte where she sat on the tapestry-covered tabouret, bowed her head, folded her hands, and retreated into her more usual role as nameless, faceless accompanist.

  Eulalia Houghton bustled forward, her gown and turban of purple taffeta doing little for either her hearty coloring or her sturdy figure. Beaming, she announced, “We have a splendid surprise this evening. The newest addition to our society, Mrs. Daphne Coleraine, has kindly agreed to render a few selections. After her performance, I know you will wish to greet her at the supper that is laid out in the Red Salon.” With a gesture worthy of Mrs. Siddons in her prime, the squire’s wife swung a plump arm toward the side door through which each performer had entered. “Mrs. Coleraine!” she boomed.

  Penny heard, quite distinctly, Jason’s breath whistle between his teeth. She most sincerely hoped he was as surprised as she. If not . . .

  No, that was a thought she did not wish to have.

  She sat perfectly still, hoping her face was as bland as her mind was in turmoil. She had known the blasted woman was to be here. She should not have allowed herself to hope . . .

  There was, of course, one good thing to come from this, Penny realized. One look, and she no longer felt the slightest sympathy for Daphne Coleraine. One look, and, as she had feared, the Countess of Rocksley was reduced to the sixteen-year-old Penny Blayne. Young, naive, and utterly unable to compete with the siren before her. For Mrs. Coleraine was garbed in black spider gauze opening over an undergown of silver, the gauze caught up in scallops, each fastened with a silver rose, sparkling with brilliants. Twisted into the lady’s mahogany hair was a scarf of the spider gauze, also sparkling with brilliants. And her face—oh, dear God, Penny groaned—the brief view she had had of Mrs. Coleraine in Hyde Park had not revealed the whole.

  The elegant widow—not more than a year or two older than herself—was a strikingly beautiful woman, well able to provide Jason with an heir and several spares. A woman who was, Penny speculated, endowed at birth with more sophistication and ability to entice than the younger Countess of Rocksley would ever know. And the spectacular diamonds around her neck, around her arm, and in her ears—the heavy parure that would have overwhelmed Penny’s delicate English beauty—looked perfectly splendid on Daphne Coleraine’s more voluptuous stature. Were they a gift from Jason? A parting gift? Goodness knows the tart had earned them, the Penny thought rather nastily.

  If she had been up to continuing that thought, Penny might have expected Mrs. Coleraine to break into the Queen of the Night’s aria from The Magic Flute, for the role of villainess suited her well. But the miserable female suddenly transformed herself into the coquettish Zerlina, launching, in a sultry and altogether too fine mezzo-soprano, into “Batti, batti, o bel Masetto.”

  Seething, Penny sat, cursing Mozart for writing the blasted piece, while Daphne Coleraine directed every last note of this tempting siren song at the modern-day Jason sitting at his wife’s side. Never had Penny, who truly loved music, been so happy to have a song come to an end. After the applause had faded, Mrs. Coleraine, looking very smug, launched into an Italian song. “Vittoria, mio core!” she sang, this time directing her attention to Penny, as well as to the earl.

  Victorious, my heart. A challenge, an out-and-out challenge. The witch! But worse was to come. After bowing, and flashing her fine white teeth at every male in the room (or so Penny would have sworn), Mrs. Coleraine announced that she would need help for her next song. Surely there was a gentleman willing to join her . . . perhaps Lord Rocksley, who had performed this particular piece with her so many times before . . .

  To give Jason credit, Penny thought, he had stiffened into a block of ice the moment Daphne Coleraine had swept onto the stage, and even now he did not move. It was almost as if he had not heard Mrs. Coleraine’s oh-so-charming plea. Penny moved her lips to his ear. “You will have to do it, you know,” she hissed. “There will be too much talk if you refuse.”

  And a very great deal if he did not. But no time to think of that now, as the earl added a surprisingly rich baritone to a rendition of an old English patter song. As the song progressed, Penny took due note of her husband’s transformation from stiff-necked nobleman to outrageous flirt, grinning, teasing, leering, and sending the audience into whoops. The Countess of Rocksley smiled. And smiled, while a full ten years of hurt swelled in her heart, swelled so far it shattered, the myriad pieces blown away on the storm winds of her soul.

  Yet, somehow, the earl and his countess survived the evening, as the Jason and Penelope of Greek legend had survived their own peculiar trials. Penny even managed to be gracious, if cool, during her inevitable introduction to Mrs. Coleraine. Although how to greet one’s husband’s mistress had not been included in Aunt Cass’s training, she thought she managed it rather well.

  With five squeezed into the carriage on the way home, there was no opportunity for the earl to say what was foremost in his mind. No opportunity to assure his wife he had indeed made a formal, final break with Daphne Coleraine. Was not that spectacular parure evidence enough as his lavish parting gift? Surely Penny must have realized . . . No, it was quite possible she did not. Yet it was she who had urged him to sing with Daphne, was it not? And had she not smiled quite brilliantly during the applause that greeted their duet?

  Jason peered at his wife in the dim light of the carriage lantern. She was responding lightly to his mama and to Brawley and Dinsmore as they made polite conversation about the performers and the Houghton’s lavish hospitality. And yet . . . he was nearly certain she was furious . . . or hurt. Could she not see that he, like all the other performers, had been required to play the game? To act a part—to smile and flirt and appear to be enjoying himself? It was not as if he wanted to stand up before every last family of importance in the neighborhood and sing a duet with his mistress?

  Ex-mistress.

  He would have to speak to Penny, of course. Explain that he truly had not enjoyed himself. Yes, that was it. As soon as he had her alone, he would make her understand . . .

  But shortly after their return to Rockbourne Crest, Noreen O’Donnell delivered a message to Kirby, the earl’s valet. Her ladyship was not feeling well. She trusted the earl would understand his lad
y’s desire to be alone.

  What choice did a gentleman have? Though Jason burned to speak to his wife, he was not prepared to break down the door. Perhaps Penny was right. A night to cool their heads might benefit them both. Or . . . possibly there was nothing more to the message than the arrival of her monthly, and he was making a mountain out of molehill. But, surely, no matter the circumstances, she would wish to speak to him tonight. Should he not go to her anyway?

  And thus play the sultan, giving her no choice?

  With a sigh that was close to a groan, the Earl of Rocksley climbed into his bed, where, after a quarter hour of rationalizing and justifying his behavior, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  But on the morrow he did not find his wife at breakfast. Nor in the morning room conferring with Mrs. Wilton. Her ladyship was not feeling well, Hutton told him, and had asked not to be disturbed. Nobly, Jason refrained from tapping on his wife’s door, although he engaged in a sharp colloquy with the butler about whether or not the doctor should be called. Hutton swore quite solemnly that Mrs. Wilton had assured him, going by the word of the O’Donnell herself, that no doctor was needed. His mama, though looking more grave than was customary, counseled him to patience. So it was tea time before the earl, now thoroughly frustrated as well as concerned for his wife’s health, tapped on her door, urgently requesting entry.

  Silence.

  “Penny? O’Donnell?” Jason turned the handle and stepped inside.

  The room was empty. Nothing but a folded parchment perched on the mantel to greet him. He did not need to open it to know what had happened. His entire household had conspired to dupe him. Every last one of the traitorous devils. Even his mama.

  He supposed he deserved it. If only he had not been such a gentleman last night . . . If only he had barged in and handled the situation . . .

  What was that ancient expression about fools rush in where angels fear to tread? Yes, honesty forced him to admit he might have made things worse . . . though what was worse than a runaway wife he could not, at the moment, imagine. He picked up the letter and broke the seal.

  My dearest Jason. Yes, I may address you so in this darkness of the night and in the certainty of knowing I will be gone when you read this. I have, you see, decided I must be the one to cut the Gordian knot we have made of our marriage, for it has become plain that renewing our vows was not enough to make us one. I assure you I am not making a dramatic run to the ends of the earth where you can never find me. I am merely going into isolation so I may think about our marriage, and you may have time to do the same.

  I confess, here and now, that I have loved you almost from the very moment of our first meeting at Lord Elgin’s embassy. But I know now my emotions were childish. I fantasized a great love, as young girls are wont to do. I endowed you with every virtue, every heroic quality of legend. I even fancied you loved me as I loved you. Perhaps I may be excused a bit since my situation was so dire, and a hero so greatly needed.

  Even after your disinterest became apparent, I clung to my convictions of our mutual love,. (You were, I told myself, merely waiting to express your love until I was older.) And even after disillusionment set in, I never stopped loving you. I recognized that I—a soiled dove, if you will—was quite inadequate to attract your love, yet I could not cease to love you.

  And then when you finally said you wanted me . . . I thought being truly married to you, being mother of your children would be enough. I had already proved I had courage. Therefore, I knew I could manage.

  But I have made a sad discovery. I am a jealous, selfish female. I want all of you. I will not share. I demand your love, complete and unreserved.

  And, Jason, do not, I pray, leap into your carriage and follow me because of pride, because I am an absconding wife—your property to do with as you will. I beg of you, take time to think about what I have said. If you can find it in your heart to offer me love, you will discover word of me at O’Shea’s, a pub in the village of Dingle, where Noreen was born. If, at the end of six months, I have not heard from you, I will consider our marriage at an end. You may petition Parliament for a divorce and live the life you were destined to have before you met Penny Blayne and the White Rose, Gulbeyaz.

  Your loving wife, Penny

  The Earl of Rocksley sat down hard on a blue brocade chaise near the fireplace before reading his wife’s letter a second time. He was conscious of immense relief that Penny had left word where to find her. And abject horror that his young man’s single-minded rejection of encumbrances, combined with his own puerile fantasies of Gulbeyaz, had somehow kept him from seeing the wonder of the woman right under his nose.

  Ireland. The thrice-damned west coast of Ireland!

  Hell and damnation, the poets had it right. Not even a belated and abject realization of love could keep him from thinking that women could be a great deal of trouble.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Dingle Peninsula, Ireland

  The bare-footed girl on the beach at the edge of Dingle Bay quite shamelessly clutched the folds of her brown fustian skirt, raising the hemline so high it barely covered her shapely knees. Not that she was so lost to all propriety that she failed to examine the deserted shoreline with care before indulging in such extreme behavior. With something close to a chortle, Penny waded into the blue-gray water lapping at the fringe of the pale yellow sand. She gasped, and stepped swiftly back from a foaming white cap as water that must have come straight from Iceland nipped her toes.

  Once again standing on the warm sand, Penny gazed thoughtfully toward the west—past the town of Dingle, its sheltered harbor—filled with colorful fishing boats—and on down Dingle Bay, past Great Blasket Island, to the open Atlantic, where there was simply nothing between the western Irish coast and the Americas. Nothing at all. Perhaps there lay her destiny. It was not an unknown, for she and Aunt Cass had spent nearly two years in the former colonies and in the Upper and Lower Canadas. She could easily afford to emigrate—Jason had seen to that.

  A stubborn line formed about her mouth; her chin firmed, and her eyes sparked. Such a generous, thoughtful husband. Too little, too late. And once again a laggard. Seven weeks! He needed seven weeks to think about their marriage! Of course, the journey itself was arduous, as Penny very well knew. Boats could not put out to sea in stormy weather, and the overland trip from Waterford to Tralee had been as rough and difficult a journey as she had ever undertaken.

  Therefore . . . he was not coming. She should admit as much by now.

  I’m a survivor, Penny told herself. I will live through this, as I have through all else. If Jason does not come, I shall emigrate, become part of the brave new world. Is that not where the most courageous of the ruined or destitute pin their hopes? Boston, Atlanta, perhaps New Orleans. Or would she be truly daring, making the dangerous journey around Cape Horn to join that exotic settlement, San Francisco? Why not? If she did not care for the burgeoning civilization on the east coast . . . if it were too much like what she had left behind, she would take ship for California. What was one more voyage to a girl who had seen Bombay and Constantinople?

  Penny eyed the foaming water as if it were another enemy to be conquered. Once again raising her skirts, she plunged in, defying the waves as they splashed up, dampening her gown all the way to her waist. Defying the bone-chilling cold. Defying the icy heaviness of her heart. Defying her urge to run away, as she had so many times before. To take the first ship headed for the Americas, put Jason behind her, and be done with all this anguish.

  But seven weeks was not the six months she had so rashly promised. And she would, of course, be true to her word. But that meant a winter in Dingle, and if she had thought Pemberton Priory or Rockbourne Crest isolated, it was only because she had never encountered anything so out of the way as the Dingle Peninsula. Lady Rocksley sighed and retreated from the Atlantic, which was icy even in August. She could not begin to imagine how it would be January. She shivered, even thi
nking on it.

  As Penny drove her gig back toward the village of Dingle, she breathed deeply of the clean Irish air, so deeply tinged with salt and seaweed mingled with the earthy odors of damp greenery and barnyard animals. It was a beautiful place, the Dingle Peninsula, with its central mountains rising so precipitously from the narrow strip of land around its edges that Penny had once declared to Noreen that the sheep, in order to graze upon the hillsides, must have legs shorter on one side than the other. And the neatly hedged fields seemed even smaller, rockier, and more intricately tangled into mazes than those of England.

  Surprisingly, the people were kind, if still a bit doubtful about the Englishwoman who had come among them. But if Noreen O’Donnell—on whom the Blessed Mother must look with favor if she had guided the colleen home again—vouched for her lady, then the foreigner would be welcome. Or so Noreen had repeated to Penny, even as she was taken with an odd bit of blushing and stammering as she admitted overhearing this sentiment at O’Shea’s Pub. Which was another reason Penny knew she must fulfill her promise of six months in Ireland, for Noreen O’Donnell had acquired an admirer, the publican Michael O’Shea himself, and Penny would not think of dragging her companion away from what might be her sole opportunity for a life of her own.

  Penny pulled up in front of O’Shea’s, tied her horse to the hitching post, and went inside to collect her long-time companion. O’Shea’s Pub was a long, low, white-washed building, heavily thatched. Inside, its great stone fireplace, blackened by a century or more of roaring fires, filled nearly all of one wall of the low-ceilinged room, and a cluster of men stood at the bar, while their wives had their heads together, gossiping, in a cozy snug fitted into a narrow space next to fireplace. Noreen, not surprisingly, was behind the bar, helping Michael O’Shea, who, Penny suspected, had been dazzling the ladies with his dark good looks for twenty years or more. Yet she had to admit he appeared to be caught at last.