‘I don’t care to appear my best for Lord Warley.’ She felt sick with dread about what was to come. Not only the wedding, but also the wedding night.
At least she had the night in the studio with Benedict to remember. A memory to cherish for the rest of her life. It would have to sustain her through what was to come. She trembled at the thought.
‘Oh, dear. I must talk to you about your husband-to-be.’ The countess perched on the gilt chair by the dressing table. She wrung her lace handkerchief. ‘Where to begin.’
‘Mama...’
‘It’s hard for me to speak of such things.’ Her mother kept twisting the handkerchief. ‘But I must. My own dear mama came to me on my wedding morning and I was lucky enough to marry your papa, but your grandmama, well, she was not so fortunate. She married twice, the first time to a much older man and I feel I must tell you that—oh, dear!’
‘Grandmama was married twice?’ Cameo asked, amazed. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Yes, she married very young and not very happily, I’m afraid. It was not long after her portrait was painted, the one in the drawing room. She became a widow, you see. Then she married my papa—your grandpapa.’
‘Oh. But why are you telling me this now, Mama?’
‘You’re so similar to your grandmama, Cameo. I stood in the drawing room just now, looking at her portrait, and I had a strange feeling she wanted me to come to you... She wanted me to say...’
Cameo reached out and kissed her mama’s soft cheek. Suddenly she knew what her mother was trying to say, but there was no need. How she wished she could confide in her about Benedict, about her love for him and how she had no choice but to marry Robert. She had to marry a man she loathed to save the man she truly loved. But to explain it was impossible.
‘Don’t fret, Mama,’ she said gently. ‘You don’t have to speak of these matters. I shall be perfectly all right.’
Lady Buxton’s relief was palpable. She released a sigh and stood. ‘I’m sure you will come to love your husband, Cameo dear. I did.’
Cameo shuddered. It was impossible for her to grow to love Lord Warley. His name stuck in her throat. What lay before her was horrifying, even though she’d reassured her mother. All too easily, she pictured him standing at the altar of St Mary’s, licking his lips as she came down the aisle. And the wedding night to come—no, she refused think about it.
Benedict’s arms. The touch of his artist’s hands on her skin. The night of passion they’d shared. That was what she’d keep in her mind. She would never regret that night.
Her mouth dried. The way Benedict had momentarily pulled back, puzzled. He’d seemed to know it was her first time. Would Robert know it wasn’t? Would he be able to tell? The thought terrified her.
She forced her panic away and changed the subject. ‘You do look pretty, Mama.’
The countess gave a girlish smile as she tucked her handkerchief into her reticule and patted her hair. ‘Dear George said the same thing. He’s already at the church since he’s standing up for Lord Warley. I expect dear Maud is there, too.’ She frowned. ‘Now, where is your veil? It’s the one I wore when I married your father and your grandmama wore it before me.’
‘Maud will have it ready with the tiara, at the church.’
‘And where are your pearls?’
Cameo shook her head stubbornly. ‘No pearls, Mama.’
Lady Buxton appeared scandalised. ‘But you must!’
‘No.’ Cameo pointed to the velvet cushion on the dressing table where her black-and-white cameo stone usually lay. She hated it being gone. Tears threatened to brim in her eyes. ‘I can’t wear my cameo as it has been lost and I don’t wish to wear anything else.’
‘Your cameo? It wouldn’t be appropriate to wear such a simple necklace to your wedding, even if you had it.’
‘It belonged to Grandmama.’
Her mother’s face softened. ‘It did. But to wear no pearls, Cameo dear, it isn’t done. You must wear some of the other family jewels instead.’
Cameo set her chin. ‘No, I won’t. I’ll give up painting and I’ll marry Robert, and I’ll wear this ring.’ In spite of trying to find courage her voice shook as she held out the diamond ring on her finger. ‘That’s all.’
‘But...’
Cameo spanned her bare neck with her hands. Losing her necklace still seemed a terrible omen. ‘Please, Mama. This is the last time I’ll be Cameo, you see.’
Robert would not call her by that name.
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’ Her mother shook her head, bewildered. ‘And what will your papa think?’
‘He won’t even notice. Please, don’t say anything.’
‘Very well, then.’ Her mother gave a reluctant nod. ‘I won’t argue with you on your wedding day. Are you sure you don’t wish me to call for the maid?’
Cameo shook her head.
‘I’ll leave you to dress.’
The countess shut the bedroom door with a click. Cameo sighed. She loved her mama and it wasn’t her fault all this had happened. She was stunned by the story about her grandmother.
Crossing the room, she retrieved from the bottom of her wardrobe the half-finished copy of her grandmama’s portrait, the one she’d begun to paint before she went to Benedict’s studio. Briggs had returned it to her bedroom, saying nothing. The happy time when she had painted it, the old sheet spread beneath her in the drawing room, seemed long ago.
Her grandmother wore a white dress in the portrait, she realised, just as she did in the painting Benedict had done of her as The Gardener’s Daughter. She hadn’t made that connection before. There was such a resemblance between the paintings. For a moment she imagined them hanging side by side in the drawing room. She stared at her grandmother’s face, wishing she could speak. What advice would she give her, if she could?
Lingering, she went to the window and pulled wide the blue chintz curtains, staring out at the ash tree. It still hadn’t come into leaf; its grey branches were bare. She wouldn’t see its green leaves unfurl.
She sank on to the window seat. She’d slept badly the night before and for many nights before that. She wasn’t sure which caused her more anguish, the dreams of being happy in the studio with Benedict when she woke up crying because they weren’t real or the nightmares about Lord Warley that she suspected would become all too real, all too soon. Her mouth dried. They were terrifying, those nightmares. In one, she was imprisoned in a windowless room and he came in and—no, she must not think about it. How he would enjoy learning he tortured her in her sleep.
Feeling drained, she dragged herself over to the bed where her wedding dress lay spread out on the counterpane. Lightly she touched one of the sleeves. Made of ivory silk, with a fine lace décolletage and short train, it must be one of the loveliest dresses she’d ever seen. Next to it were white satin gloves and a beautiful cloak with a pearl clasp, a thick ivory satin on the outside, with a blue satin lining. Her slippers with a ribbon rosette and a tiny heel were satin, too, and her gloves were traced with delicate embroidery. Each of the garments was exquisite. She experienced no desire to put them on, but she forced herself to do so. Her limbs felt heavy as, one by one, she layered on petticoats made of silk and trimmed with Nottingham lace, each finer than the last. Finally, she lifted the wedding gown over her head, letting the folds of the skirt billow about her and fall to her feet.
With a weary sigh Cameo wrapped the white sash around her waist, moving in front of her dressing table to tie it. From a bottle of Parma-violet cologne she dabbed behind her ears and on her wrists. It used to be her favourite, but her sense of smell had lately evaporated. She lacked all pleasure in life.
In the glass she examined herself. Her coiffed hair, in a simple chignon with no side ringlets on either side of her cheeks, appeared dull. It no longer shone. In spi
te of her earlier efforts with witch hazel and rosewater, her normally pale skin appeared chalky, her eyes shadowed and dark, her mouth drawn. Was she the woman Benedict yearned to paint, body and soul? Would he even recognise her?
A fragment of the Tennyson poem he’d used for her portrait floated into her mind. She kept the leather-bound book from their family library tucked beneath her pillow now. Would he still think her hair like ash buds and her eyes like pansies? Would she still look like the gardener’s daughter to him? She’d never know. That Benedict, the Benedict who’d read the poem to her with such passion, had left her life for ever. Instead his furious voice resounded in her head.
Shadow portrait... I only knew one side of you, the shadow side... I never want to see your face again.
Cameo covered her face with her hands.
* * *
‘Ooh,’ said one of the younger housemaids, ‘you do look lovely.’
‘Thank you,’ Cameo whispered faintly. She tried to smile. Her mouth refused to form the curve.
In the wood-panelled hall at the bottom of the stairs, her parents and the servants stood waiting. Cameo descended the marble staircase, her embroidered gloves gliding over the smooth wooden balustrade, the lacy train of her wedding dress trailing after her. She swallowed her tears. ‘I won’t cry. I won’t be afraid,’ she instructed herself with a gulp.
‘We wish you happiness on this, your wedding day, Lady Catherine Mary,’ Briggs said, with a frown at the housemaid, who flushed for speaking out of turn.
The countess dabbed her handkerchief to her eyes as the earl, smartly dressed in his morning coat, kissed his daughter’s cheek. A flash of tenderness crossed Lord Buxton’s expression. ‘You’re a credit, Cameo.’
‘Thank you, Papa.’ Cameo sighed inwardly. She refused to blame him, any more than her mother, for what he forced her to do. She knew her father loved her. He truly thought marriage to Lord Warley the best thing for her after the near scandal.
‘I’m going to accompany your mama to St Mary’s in the first carriage,’ her father told her. ‘The other carriage is for you, my dear. You’ll follow behind.’
‘Yes, Papa,’ she replied obediently, as he took her mama on his arm and went out the front door, assisted by the butler and footmen.
One by one, the other servants trailed out of the hall. Cameo gave the housemaid one last smile.
‘Good luck, Lady Catherine Mary,’ she said, with a bob.
She’d need it. Cameo felt sick to her stomach. This should be the happiest day of her life, but the housemaid seemed more excited than she.
Briggs opened the door and she walked out into the square. She threw a last glance over her shoulder at the black-painted door with its glistening brass knobs and knocker, the iron-lace trim, the scrubbed marble steps. It was no longer her London home. In the future, her home would be Warley Park. She stumbled, missing her footing, and Bert, who had been standing beside the crested carriage ready to help her into it, rushed to assist. ‘Let me help you, Lady Catherine Mary.’
Smiling gratefully at him, she stepped up on the box into the carriage. She settled the rug over her smooth satin skirt and adjusted her cloak, surprised to be able to function, to smile, to move, to speak, when such agonising pain seared her heart. ‘Thank you, Bert.’
They set off, the horses going at an eager trot. Through the carriage window Cameo took one last glimpse at the house before they trotted out of the square.
Resting her head against the velvet-upholstered seat, she listened to the horses’ hooves, feeling the vibrations of the wheels of the carriage taking her closer and closer to the church, to marrying Lord Warley and to never seeing Benedict Cole again.
A horrifying sense of confinement overwhelmed her, similar to her nightmares. Once the wedding ceremony was completed she’d be her husband’s property for the rest of her life. That was the law. She’d be his prisoner, with no chance of escape.
Cameo struggled for air. The interior of the carriage seemed to press in on her, stifling her lungs.
A coffin.
She knew of people who had been buried alive. It was reported in the newspaper. There had been a case when a woman had awoken and tapped from inside a coffin just before her burial in the graveyard. George had read the macabre tale aloud at the breakfast table. It had sent their mother into hysterics and resulted in their father, irate, ordering George from the dining room.
Horror overcame her as if she, too, were on her way to being buried alive. Gnawing on her lip, she tried to draw deep breaths to still the flood of panic rising inside, but to no avail. Terror heated her skin as perspiration fell like dew down her spine.
Yet again her hands clutched at her bare neck. She choked. How she wished she still had her necklace, today of all days, especially now she knew more of her grandmama’s story. How she wished her grandmama were beside her now.
Exhaling, Cameo stared out of the carriage window to distract herself from her hot skin, from the nausea rising in her throat. She focused her attention on the people in the streets going about their business, passing in and out of the shops and houses. There was a housemaid beating a carpet, a child playing with a cup and ball, a flower seller shouting her wares, but it served as no distraction. Her terror refused to abate. It grew stronger.
Oh, Benedict, Benedict, she called to him silently inside her head. Please, help me. His name throbbed in her brain. He would never know what she was sacrificing for him. He would always despise her.
If only she could see him, one last time. Yes, one last time, to watch as he moved the brush across the canvas in those strong stokes. One last time to remember him, the way he glanced up and down as he painted, his mouth set in a firm line until he smiled; the smile that showed he was finally satisfied with what he’d achieved. But Benedict would refuse her entry to the studio.
Her hand flew to her throat.
Bert stopped the horses. Cameo opened the carriage door and leapt. Her white satin slippers hit the cobbles and she began to run.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘And if I said that Fancy, led by Love,
Would play with flying forms and images,
Yet this is also true...’
Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
Cameo dashed away from the carriage. A gust of wind caught her silk cloak and it fluttered from her shoulders, like wings. Aware of the startled looks she drew as she raced through the mass of people in the crowded streets, she didn’t dare glance to see if Bert came after her, or if he had driven on, not suspecting the bride had flown. She kept running, her breath coming faster and faster as she covered ground, dodging shoppers with packages, the hawkers on the street.
‘Where are you going so fast, my pretty?’ one of them called to her with a guffaw, as she sped by.
A few streets away she slowed and ducked inside the doorway of a grocer’s, out of sight, panting. She couldn’t stay hiding in the shop doorway. She lifted off her cloak and turned it inside out, so the telltale ivory silk was on the inside, the blue lining on the outside. It was still clearly fine, but the colour made it less obvious. She lifted her skirts and glanced at her slippers. They were scuffed, dirty with mud from her flight through the streets and barely fit for such an activity to start with.
Rapidly she scanned the street.
Across the street she spied a cab stand, where a couple of drivers were waiting for a fare. She sped over, barely missing being hit by a cart.
A driver with a wide, weather-beaten face lounged on his seat, his horse’s reins slack. ‘Can you help me?’
He gave a brief nod, his round black hat falling over his eyes.
‘I need to get to the Belleview Gallery, in Soho.’ Quickly she gave him the address. ‘Do you know where that is?’
‘I certainly do, m
iss,’ he said in a reproving tone. ‘I’ve taken the knowledge, haven’t I?’
‘The knowledge?’ The phrase was new to her.
‘That’s right, miss. All London cab drivers had to learn the streets of our fair city, after all the crowds what came to see the Royal Exhibition last year. Mayhem it was, with new lads thinking they can take passengers without knowing where to take ’em. So we all have to learn the knowledge now and pass the test.’ He added, boasting, ‘Passed with flying colours, meself. I know my way around London. Been a driving cabs for years.’
‘I need to get there urgently,’ Cameo explained. ‘I only need directions. I don’t have any money for a fare.’
The man’s eyes were shrewd as he pushed up his hat. ‘Matter of urgency, is it?’
So urgent was her need to see Benedict’s work, if not Benedict himself, it had sent her leaping from the crested carriage. ‘Yes.’
‘In trouble?’
She gave a startled nod in reply.
The driver’s look softened. ‘I’ve got a daughter about your age. I’d appreciate someone helping her if she needed it.’ He paused and twitched the horse’s reins. ‘Come along, miss, jump in. It isn’t far. Let’s get you to Soho.’
* * *
The cab driver tipped his hat as he drove away. ‘Good luck, miss!’
‘Goodbye and thank you,’ Cameo called. His unexpected kindness touched her, made her feel less alone in the city streets, which, although she’d spent every Season of her life in London, she realised now she barely knew, so sheltered had been her life in Mayfair. You’re spoilt, Cameo. She recalled Benedict’s enraged voice again and winced. He’d said so many hurtful things to her that terrible night, things which contained sharp painful jabs of truth.
She certainly hadn’t realised the Belleview Gallery existed, in this grubby street, not much more than a laneway. She turned to look at it, a scruffy establishment with peeling paint and a tattered red awning. It was more a warehouse than a gallery and most certainly lacked the prestige of the Royal Academy of Art. Another pang of guilt came over her at how she’d so adversely affected Benedict’s career.
Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 Page 56
