The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet

by Mary Balogh

  Cora was dressed in spring green muslin and looked rather like an earth goddess, he thought. He was glad she had not dressed in white, as most brides did. White did not suit her. In her own way, he thought, taking her hand in his when the vicar instructed him to do so—in her own way, despite her bold features and heavy hair and overgenerous figure and unusual height, she was beautiful. Or perhaps it was because of those attributes. Cora Downes was very much her own person, in both appearance and behavior.

  Cora Downes. He repeated words after the vicar when instructed to do so, and she repeated words. He took the ring from Bridgwater and slid it onto her finger. And then strangely, mysteriously, irrevocably, she was no longer Cora Downes. She was Lady Francis Kneller.

  She was his wife.

  He remembered to smile at her.

  And so it was done. He was a married man. The register duly signed, he led her outside into the heat and the sunshine and paused on the church steps with her so that they could be greeted by their guests before driving away in his carriage. In the course of just a very few minutes, his life had been changed into a course that was so new and so unknown that he was bewildered by the prospect of proceeding with it at all.

  “Lord Francis,” she said, squeezing his arm. “You do look splendid. That is a lovely pale shade of green. It makes my dress seem almost garish.”

  She had saved him from meaningless panic by bringing him laughter instead. It had been his place to compliment her on her appearance and give her that little reassuring squeeze of the arm.

  “Cora,” he said, chuckling, “as usual, you render me speechless. But not garish, my dear. Glorious, vivid, like spring turning to summer. But then perhaps I mean the woman inside the dress more than just the dress itself.”

  She laughed merrily. “Oh,” she said, “you are so good with words. You make me feel almost beautiful.”

  They were the last private words they exchanged until they were alone together after the wedding breakfast, on their way to Sidley, his estate in Wiltshire.

  ALL DAY, SINCE the moment she woke up to find the Duchess of Bridgwater’s maid drawing back the curtains at her window, she had pretended to herself that this was the wedding day she had always dreamed of.

  It had not been so very difficult. As soon as the curtains were back, she had seen that yet again the sky was cloudless. And as soon as she had set foot inside her dressing room she had seen the wedding dress spread out there that she had insisted upon even though her grace and Jane had tried gently to persuade her to choose white, since white was what most brides were now wearing. But she loved her dress. To her, green was the perfect color for a bride, suggestive as it was of life and warmth and energy—and springtime.

  Then downstairs in the breakfast room and later back in her dressing room, her grace and Elizabeth and Jane had all been determinedly gay. Dressing for her wedding had been a communal exercise, involving the three of them and two maids—and involving too a great deal of chatter and laughter.

  And then Papa and Edgar had arrived—Edgar had insisted on coming too rather than proceeding to the church alone—to take her to her wedding and had aroused both excitement and nervousness in her—and even tears.

  Inside the church, while her papa had escorted her to the altar rail, she had noticed immediately the contrast between the sober colors worn by her male relatives—solid middle-class citizens all—and even of the other male guests, including the Duke of Bridgwater, who was the best man, and the light green worn by Lord Francis. And fixing her eyes on him as he stood waiting for her and watching her, she had felt again that rush of protectiveness for him. Let her hear or see just one suggestion of a sneer over him for the rest of this morning and she would make her feelings known and no mistake about it.

  He also had copious amounts of lace at his wrists and throat and his neckcloth was a work of art to surpass all others.

  And then there had been the wedding service itself. She had listened to every word, watched every gesture, felt every nuance of atmosphere. It had been her wedding—her wonderful wedding, her dream wedding—and she had been determined to commit every detail of it to memory. Including the paleness of her groom’s face and the nervousness in his voice and the slight trembling in his hand as he put her ring on her finger and the same slight tremble in his lips when he kissed her. And his smile afterward, telling her that he did not blame her for all this, that together they would make the best of it.

  In his own way, she had thought, he was very handsome, and she would take on anyone who dared to hint otherwise. Even Edgar. It would not be the first time she had gone at Edgar with her fists—she had always scorned to use her fingernails—and their battles had never been as uneven as they might have been because he never felt at liberty to come back at her with his fists. She would black both of his eyes if he ever so much as pursed his lips in criticism of Lord Francis.

  Her husband.

  Despite the close attention she had paid the wedding service, the realization had still jolted her with surprise.

  He was her husband. She was Lady Francis Kneller.

  And then, outside the church and at the Pulteney, she had been hugged and kissed to death—her uncle and her male cousins and even the female cousins’ husbands all seemed to be large men like Papa and Edgar. Even the Duke of Fairhurst had hugged her, and her new sisters-in-law had pecked her cheeks, though Cora suspected that none of them really liked her at all. The duchess of Bridgwater had been kind enough to shed tears over her and Jane might have crushed every bone in her body had she only been a little larger and a great deal stronger.

  Oh, yes, it had not been so very difficult to imagine that this was the wedding day of her dreams. In many ways it really had been wonderful. Lord Francis had kept her at his side at the Pulteney and had refused to allow either her family to pry her away from him or his family to do the like for him. He had behaved as if they were any normal bride and groom—unwilling to be parted for a moment. It had been easy to believe that it was so.

  But finally, after another round of hugs and kisses and handshakes and back slappings, they were in his carriage, alone this time—the Duke and Duchess of Bridgwater had ridden with them from the church to the Pulteney. They were on their way to Wiltshire, to Sidley, his home there. They would arrive before dark, he had assured her.

  They were alone together, and she had to admit to herself finally that this was no normal marriage after all. Was it?

  Her grace had had a talk with her last evening after ascertaining that her Aunt Downes from Canterbury had not already done so. She had tried her best to sound reassuring, though there really had been no need. Cora had already known or guessed most of what she had had to say, but the knowing had never frightened her, as it was perhaps supposed to do. It had only aroused her curiosity to experience it for herself. And a little more than curiosity. She had always wanted it and was unable to imagine how any woman could cringe from the very thought of it.

  But the trouble was that she was not going to have it with this marriage. Was she? She was really not at all sure, but she rather thought not. And she would prefer not to expect it rather than be disappointed over the coming days and weeks. But if she was not to experience it in her marriage, then she was never going to experience it at all. The thought saddened her immensely. Even apart from the loss of her half a dozen children, she was sad.

  But it was not his fault. She was never going to blame him.

  She turned to him. But he had turned to her at the same moment and was taking her hand and lacing his fingers with hers and smiling at her.

  “Well, Cora,” he said, “the deed is done and we have survived it. Do you think we can rub along together tolerably well?”

  “I think so,” she said. She squared her shoulders and found that her left shoulder was now touching his right one. Neither of them sprang away from the contact. “I daresay your home is large and splendid and has a whole army of servants, but you will find that I will not be at a loss
. I have managed Mobley Abbey for a few years and have been Papa’s hostess on a number of occasions. I will not shame you before your servants and neighbors, I can assure you. And I am quite prepared to take on my responsibilities on the estate and in the parish. I will do all that is expected of any wife. I will not shame you. And I—”

  He was laughing softly. What had she said wrong?

  “Cora,” he said, “you are not about to go into battle, dear. You need not look quite so determinedly belligerent. And what about me? Will your busy schedule allow you to grant me any of your time?”

  “When you wish it, of course,” she said. “But I shall not expect to live in your pocket, you may rest assured. I know that ladies are not expected to cling to their husbands. Even in my world that is so. Men think they have to spend their time about the important things in this world. They are quite misguided, of course. They look after only the mundane matters, like the making of money, while the women look after the really important things, like the well-being of people. But women have learned to pamper men and make them feel important even when they are not particularly so. I will not interfere with your life.”

  He was shaking with laughter now.

  “Cora,” he said, “you never fail me. What a delight you are. You have just dealt me the most excruciatingly cutting set-down of my life, and you do not even realize you have done so, do you?”

  The trouble was that she did not think of him as an ordinary man. But she had just implied that she would leave him alone to his useless, self-important life of business while she looked after the truly important things.

  She bit her lip and looked at him—and exploded into laughter. They leaned against each other’s shoulder and indulged their amusement far longer than was necessary.

  If she had said such a thing to Edgar—and she sometimes did, when goaded—she would have had a blistering argument on her hands. There would have been no glimmering of humor in the matter.

  “Will I have to plead for some of your time?” Lord Francis asked.

  “No,” she said, her laughter fading. “But what I meant to say is that you must not feel obliged to entertain me. I will soon learn to entertain myself. I am not a cowering, helpless person.”

  “Only when you are in the presence of princes and dukes,” he said.

  “That was unkind,” she told him. “You would too if you had never met any before in your life. But really you must feel no responsibility toward me. I know this marriage was not of your choosing. I know that left to yourself, you would not have chosen marriage at all. Well, if you had to marry, perhaps it is as well you married me. I will be quite happy to allow you to be free, you see. I will be quite happy to be free myself.”

  She felt more miserable saying so than she cared to admit to herself. Was that what she had undertaken by marrying Lord Francis? Was she going to lead a lonely life?

  He clasped her hand a little more tightly. There was no laughter in his face now, she saw when she glanced at him. “What are you saying, Cora?” he asked. “Are you saying that you married me because you saw the necessity of doing so, but that you would rather it be a marriage in name only? That perhaps it would even be better for us to live apart?”

  Oh, no, she would not rather it be any such thing. And live apart? She had not expected this. Oh, not quite this. They were going to live apart? Panic made the air in her nostrils feel icy.

  “If you wish it,” she said.

  “I do not wish it.” His words were curt. There was coldness, even anger, in his voice. “And I will tell you now, Cora, that if it is what you wish, if it is what you think to insist upon, then you may find yourself in for a shock. I may not be the husband of your choice and you may not be the wife of mine—I will pay you the respect of being honest with you, you see—but we are husband and wife. I intend that we remain so—for the rest of our lives. Fight me if you wish. I promise you it will be a fight you cannot and will not win.”

  She should be feeling outrage at this blatant evidence that even Lord Francis Kneller could play at being lord and master when he thought he was being challenged. She waited for the familiar fury against those males. But all she could feel was something quite unfamiliar. Not anger. Certainly not meekness or fear. Desire? If that was really what she was feeling, she had better squash it without further ado. She could not possibly feel desire for Lord Francis. It would be emotional suicide to feel any such thing.

  But what did he mean? What did he mean?

  “Capitulation, Cora?” he asked. “Without a shot fired? You disappoint me.” The anger—if that was what it had been—had gone from his voice. “Come, talk to me.”

  “I really did not want us to live apart,” she said. “That was not what I meant. I merely meant … Oh, it does not matter.”

  “I know what you meant,” he said. The familiar amusement was back. “You meant that you did not want me to feel the burden of having been forced into offering for you and marrying you. You were being noble, Cora. You were being gallant. You do like to turn our roles upside down and inside out, do you not, dear? I am supposed to be the noble one. I am supposed to be the one reassuring you. Instead of which I have been ripping up at you. I never rip up at people. You see what an effect you have on me?”

  She looked at him sideways. His eyes were smiling.

  “I suspect that after a week of marriage to you, I will not know whether I am on my head or my feet,” he said. “And I will predict now, Cora, that life with you is not going to be dull.”

  “I do hope not, Lord Francis,” she said. “I cannot abide a dull life.”

  “Cora,” he said, “since you live in terror of lordships, would it be wise to drop mine? Shall I be plain Francis?”

  “I am not terrified,” she said indignantly. “Merely—”

  “—terrified,” he said when she was unwise enough to pause to seek for the best word. “Call me Francis.”

  “Francis,” she said.

  They lapsed into silence. He wriggled a little lower on the seat and set one foot on the opposite seat. Before many minutes had passed, she knew that he was sleeping. He was breathing deeply and evenly. Her fingers were still laced firmly with his.

  What had he meant? The question turned itself over and over in her mind without bringing any answers along behind it. What had he meant when he said that they were husband and wife and would remain so for the rest of their lives?

  What had he meant?

  13

  HE STARED OUT INTO DARKNESS, THOUGH IN HER mind’s eye she could see the cobbled terrace below her window and the sharply sloping terraced bank of shrubs and flowers beyond it. At the foot of the slope there were formal gardens with grass, low box hedges, and gravel arranged into immaculately kept geometric shapes. There was a fountain at the center, with jets of water spouting from the mouth of a winged cherub.

  She had fallen in love with the park and the gardens even before noticing the house, neat and solid and classical in design. She was so very glad he did not intend that they live apart. Her heart had gone out to her new home from the start. Though he had told her he did not spend a great deal of time here. Perhaps she could change that now that she was with him to give him some companionship.

  Would they be able to rub along together tolerably well? he had asked her in the carriage. Oh, she really thought they might. After all the fuss of their arrival and her presentation to the staff, who had been lined up rather dauntingly in the hall, and after the housekeeper had shown her to her apartments and she had bathed and changed and had her hair dressed—after it all they had sat down together for dinner and then had gone together to the drawing room. They had not stopped talking except when the need to laugh had given them pause. They had laughed a great deal. She had told him some stories from her childhood and he had reciprocated with tales from his. They had both chosen amusing stories that they knew would tickle the other.

  He did like her, she thought, as she liked him. She liked him exceedingly well. She drew
her single braid over her shoulder and ran her fingers absently along it. He had been very kind to marry her. She was going to make sure that he never regretted doing so. He did not dislike her—else he would have jumped at the chance for near-freedom she had offered him in the carriage. Instead he had appeared quite offended.

  And would she ever regret it? She drew a slow breath and let it out just as slowly. She thought of all her dreams of marriage and of the men she had refused because none of them had fit the dream. She thought of what the Duchess of Bridgwater had told her yesterday, expecting that she was putting fear into Cora, assuring her that it was really not so fearsome after all, that once she grew accustomed to it she might even come to like it. Cora had always expected to like it—in her dream marriage. And she thought of today and the way she had deliberately tried to enjoy her wedding day. She had enjoyed it. Right up until the moment when Lord Francis—she must remember to drop the Lord—had escorted her upstairs and paused outside her dressing room to kiss her hand and open the door for her.

  She had felt lonely since then. There was no reason to feel lonely. Every night since her infancy she had gone to bed alone, and she had frequently stayed alone in strange houses. There was nothing different from usual about tonight. Except that it was her wedding night and it should—if this had been a normal marriage—have been gloriously different from any other that had gone before it.

  She wondered if companionship was going to be enough. Not that she had any choice in the matter now. The deed, as Francis had put it, was done.

  And then there was a tap on the door of her bedchamber and the door opened almost before she could spin about and long before she could think of calling to whoever it was to come in.

  It was Francis, looking very gorgeous indeed in a scarlet silk dressing gown.

  “Oh, Francis,” she said, smiling brightly, wondering why she sounded breathless, “did you want something?”