by Diane Gaston
Finally her brother spoke. ‘Shall we drop this topic of conversation?’
Lady Tinmore turned to Amelie’s mother. ‘These potatoes are delicious. They are cooked with rosemary, are they not? You have such a fine cook.’
Amelie’s mother was not so ready to pretend those words had not been spoken. She answered in a tight voice, ‘Thank you.’
Amelie stared at Edmund, who had returned to his food. He glanced up and caught her looking at him but cast his gaze back to his plate.
Amelie’s father quickly signalled for the final course, the dessert. At least dessert gave them all more food to discuss. Tinmore surveyed the room and then again confined his conversation to her father, as if secure that everyone else was conversing properly. Her father’s response to Tinmore, though, had turned more dutiful than cordial.
* * *
When dessert was finished, Tinmore tapped his knife against his wine glass. The crystal rang like a bell. Everyone glanced at him in surprise.
What now? Amelie thought.
Tinmore raised his voice. ‘Before the ladies retire to the drawing room, we should discuss the wedding that has been foisted upon us.’
‘No!’ Edmund spoke slowly and emphatically. ‘We will not discuss the wedding.’
Tinmore was undaunted. ‘We must discuss how to limit the inevitable scandal. I want none of this shabby affair to reflect negatively on my wife.’
Lady Tinmore blanched. ‘My lord!’
Amelie cleared her throat and made her voice strong. ‘You have no right to call it a shabby affair!’
‘Yes,’ her father added in a milder, more tentative tone. ‘We have the matter in hand. No need to discuss it.’
Tinmore leaned back. ‘Well, as long as you give me your assurance that my wife’s name will be kept out of the gossip...’
How could anyone assure him of what other people might do?
He nodded officiously. ‘The ladies may retire, then.’
The others exchanged glances. Tinmore was a guest, not the host or hostess of this party. Amelie and the others looked to her father. All except Edmund.
Her father nodded.
The ladies rose to leave the room. As they were walking out the door, Amelie turned to see Edmund stand, as well.
‘I must take my leave,’ he said.
‘You will do nothing of the sort!’ Tinmore said.
Edmund glanced towards Amelie’s father. ‘I will call upon you tomorrow, sir, if that is agreeable.’
Her father nodded.
The dining room was across the hall from the drawing room, but the other ladies, who’d heard Edmund, hung about in the hall. Amelie stood just outside the dining room door.
Edmund walked out, one of the footmen behind him. The footman closed the dining-room door and waited to attend him.
Edmund spoke to him. ‘Would you bring my hat and gloves, please?’
The footman bowed and went to do his bidding.
Lady Tinmore came up to Edmund. ‘Why are you being so difficult?’
‘Me, difficult? Your husband was insulting, rude and meddling, and I was not inclined to stand for it.’ Edmund responded. ‘Tinmore is nothing to me. I paid back his money. He has no say in what I do.’
What money? Amelie wondered.
He turned to her mother. ‘I would like a few moments alone with Amelie, ma’am.’
Her mother nodded.
‘We can go to the library,’ Amelie said, her heart beating faster. She would be alone with him.
It was behind the drawing room and still had a lamp burning and a fire lit.
Edmund remained near the doorway. ‘I should not remain very long.’
Amelie stood near him, near enough to inhale his scent, which had now become familiar to her. ‘You wished to speak with me?’ What she wanted to say was that he was magnificent! That she was so very grateful to him for defending her mother. That she was proud to be marrying such a man.
But she said none of that.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. ‘I’ve been remiss. You should have a gift. A betrothal gift. Forgive me for not thinking of it sooner.’
He handed her the box. She opened it and found a gold ring with a lovely sapphire surrounded by tiny pearls. Her hand shook. ‘It is lovely, Edmund.’
He took the ring from the box and put it on her finger. ‘Good. It fits. I was assured by the jeweller that it could be made the proper size if it did not.’
She lifted her eyes to his. ‘Thank you.’
His gaze softened. ‘I should leave. I will call upon your father tomorrow.’
‘My father?’ It seemed he’d been avoiding her father all week. Of course, she could not blame him. Her father was being impossibly churlish.
‘Your father has a right to speak about the wedding with me.’ His voice turned hard. ‘Tinmore does not.’
Now. Now she could tell him how thrilled she’d been by his defiance of that detestable man.
‘I will walk out with you,’ she said instead.
When they reached the hall, the footman gave Edmund his things. Edmund turned to Amelie and took her hand. ‘Goodnight,’ he said, squeezing her fingers.
Before she could think of how to say goodbye to him, he’d walked out the door.
* * *
Edmund hurried away from Grosvenor Street and the unpleasantness he’d just endured. Curse Tinmore. And curse his father for losing his fortune and leaving his sisters in such a desperate condition. Lorene was correct. Edmund could not have helped them, not when he was still in the army, but now he could. He was determined to make his fortune by any means offered him.
Except he never, ever considered that he’d make his fortune by marrying a wealthy viscount’s daughter.
He did not want Lord Northdon’s money. He’d stand on his own. It was all he’d ever wanted. To make his way in the world, no matter his disreputable birth. He thought he’d achieve his fortune in Brussels or some other part of the world, but he could manage it in London.
He made his way to Covent Garden, a place he felt more at home than Mayfair. He found his way to Rose Street and walked in to the Coopers Arms tavern.
The Coopers Arms was dark, crowded and noisy, filled with workmen, clerks, soldiers in uniform and the occasional gentleman. Plenty of brightly dressed women adorned the place, no doubt women of the town hoping to lure a man above the stairs. The clinking of glass, the smell of hops and gin and sweat enveloped him as he made his way through the room, looking for a table where he could drink in private.
‘Summerfield!’ A red-coated officer called his name.
Edmund looked closer. ‘Upton?’ Upton had served with him at Waterloo. In fact, it had been Upton who’d told him Tess had been in Brussels.
‘Come! Sit with me!’ Upton was at a small table alone.
Edmund joined him. ‘What the devil are you doing in London? Is not the regiment still in Paris?’
Upton signalled the tavern maid to come to the table. ‘They are. I had to come home.’
The maid approached. Upton lifted his tankard. ‘More ale.’ He turned to Edmund. ‘You?’
‘Ale,’ he told the woman.
Upton continued. ‘M’father died.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Edmund said.
Upton sounded as if he’d had plenty of ale already. ‘M’brother is such a loose screw, m’mother wants me to stay. Must sell out. Do not want to.’ He peered at Edmund. ‘Where is your uniform?’
‘I sold out.’ Edmund said. ‘Without the war, the army offers no opportunities.’
‘You sold out?’
‘I did.’
‘I’ll be damned.’ Upton waved a finger, which finally pointed to Edmund’s
leg. ‘How’s the injury?’
‘Healed.’
‘Good.’ Upton drained his tankard.
Edmund had been drinking with Upton and others that last night in Brussels. Perhaps he’d consumed too much ale that night. What if he hadn’t...?
The maid brought the ale, and Edmund drank thirstily. It tasted better than the wine at Lord Northdon’s dinner.
Upton raised his tankard. ‘Here’s to the 28th!’
Edmund tapped his tankard against Upton’s. ‘To the 28th.’
‘What’ll you do now?’ Upton asked. ‘Now that our days of glory are at an end?’
Edmund leaned closer to his friend. ‘I’m going to be married.’
‘Married?’ Upton’s voice rose. ‘Noooo. Not you. What of all that talk about seeking your fortune?’
Edmund stared into his drink. ‘I’ll still find my fortune.’
‘I thought you would stay in the army or go to India or something,’ Upton said.
Edmund shrugged and took another sip.
‘Who are you marrying, then?’ Upton asked.
There was no reason not to say. ‘Miss Glenville, Lord Northdon’s daughter.’
‘Northdon?’ Upton’s brow creased in thought. ‘Oh, I know Northdon. Married to the Jacobin commoner.’
It was an unkind way to refer to Lady Northdon.
‘Met his son in Brussels.’ Upton’s eyes widened, as though something had struck his mind. ‘Hey. Your sister is married to him. Told you about her. Where she was.’ He poured a great deal of the contents of his tankard into his mouth, then gaped at Edmund. ‘Do not say you are marrying that beauty! That golden-haired angel?’
‘Miss Glenville. Yes.’ He did not know what else to say about her.
‘I’ll be damned. That beauty?’ Upton shook his head. ‘I’ll wager she has money, too. Big dowry. How the devil did you manage that?’
Yes, he should be thought lucky. Beauty and wealth were to be desired in a wife, were they not? But what about Amelie?
He certainly was nothing a woman desired in a husband.
* * *
The next morning, before calling upon Lord Northdon, the man Edmund hired to travel to his home parish found him at his hotel.
The man handed him a packet. ‘Here it is.’
Edmund was stunned. ‘You’ve only had two days.’
‘I was lucky with the mail coaches,’ the man said.
Lucky? He must have spent most of the two days in coaches.
He pointed to the packet. ‘It is all there, the vicar said. He also sent his best wishes.’
The vicar at Yardney had always been kind to him. In a pitying manner.
Edmund lifted his hand. ‘Wait a moment.’ He went into the bedchamber and came out with an extra guinea. He placed it in the man’s palm. ‘You did well. I am grateful.’
The man grinned. ‘Thank you, sir. If you ever need another service—’
‘I will seek you out,’ Edmund said. ‘And I will recommend you.’
After the man left, Edmund brought the packet directly to Doctors’ Commons and the office of the Archbishop. He handed it to the clerk, who pursed his lips as he unsealed it.
‘That is the information you require, is it not?’ Edmund demanded.
The man lifted his chin so that he looked at Edmund through spectacles worn low on his nose. ‘It appears to be so.’
‘The Archbishop is here today, is he not?’
‘He is,’ the clerk admitted.
Edmund folded his arms across his chest. ‘Then I will wait here until you hand me the special licence.’
* * *
Not an hour went by before the clerk placed the required document in Edmund’s hands.
Edmund walked from the Archbishop’s office to Grosvenor Street to call upon Amelie’s father. He was escorted to the library, where Lord Northdon and his son appeared to be waiting for him with their typical expressions of displeasure.
‘Good morning.’ Edmund bowed.
He’d be polite even if they would not.
Lord Northdon nodded to him. ‘First let me tell you that I found Lord Tinmore’s manners most offensive last evening.’
That might have been the most civil statement Amelie’s father had ever spoken to him.
He went on. ‘Had I known he would act in such a reprehensible way, I would not have agreed to the dinner.’
‘Had I known Tinmore had engineered the encounter, I would have declined your invitation,’ Edmund said. ‘Even at the risk of offending you, sir.’
Glenville spoke up. ‘I have no fondness for the man.’
‘Yes, he is most unpleasant,’ Lord Northdon agreed. ‘But I must work with him in Lords, so I must watch my tongue.’
‘I have no such restraints.’ Edmund paused a moment before continuing. ‘But be clear about this. Tinmore is no relation of mine. He is married to my sister, but that does not make him my relation.’ Edmund would change that if he could. ‘Tinmore has no part—no say—in my marriage to Amelie or in anything I do.’
He thought Glenville gave him an approving look. It was fleeting, however.
‘That is another thing.’ Lord Northdon went on without any apparent acknowledgement of Edmund’s words. ‘Why is the special licence taking so long? I think we might all agree that the sooner you marry the better.’ Northdon glanced away. ‘Not that I wish for this marriage. Tinmore suggested we send Amelie away for a year and foster the child out to someone, but she would not hear of it.’
Tinmore thought he could decide what was to be done with the baby? That was the outside of enough.
Edmund glared at Lord Northdon. ‘The baby is mine and will have my name.’
‘Well, that is what Amelie wishes, so it must be.’ Lord Northdon sighed.
‘It is for the best that Amelie and Edmund marry, Papa,’ Glenville said. ‘You know that.’
Support from Amelie’s brother?
‘Enough discussion.’ Edmund pulled the paper from his pocket. ‘I have the licence. The wedding can take place today, if a clergyman can be found to perform it.’
‘We know someone who might officiate.’ Glenville looked relieved. ‘The clergyman who married Tess and me.’
Edmund nodded. ‘I want the wedding to be as Amelie wishes.’
‘It will be,’ Glenville said. ‘I will make certain you are informed of all the details.’
‘There should be nothing required of you except to show up,’ Northdon said, his tone dismissive.
‘What of the marriage-settlement papers, sir?’ Edmund asked.
Northdon’s face turned red with anger. ‘Yes. I comprehend you would be very interested in the marriage settlement.’
‘I am,’ Edmund said, trying not to display his own anger. ‘I want them drawn up so Amelie retains control of her dowry, not I.’
Northdon’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘What?’
‘I can support Amelie and our child,’ Edmund said. ‘I know what people will say of my marrying her, but I want you to know I am not marrying her for her money. I want Amelie to know that, as well.’
‘I do not believe you,’ Northdon said.
‘Have the papers drawn up the way I wish, and I will sign them.’
There was nothing more to say. Edmund turned and strode from the room.
Chapter Nine
Two days later, Amelie woke feeling sicker than ever. She thought the morning sickness was easing, but it seemed to have returned threefold. And on her wedding day, as well. At least beginning her day by vomiting saved her from any fanciful illusions. She was marrying for one reason only. She was pregnant and there was no other choice.
Amelie had once had romantic dreams of a wedding day. Not grand roma
ntic dreams. She’d never expected anything more than the small family wedding Marc and Tess had, but she’d dreamed about the beauty of the words spoken in the ceremony. She’d dreamed about happiness, her family’s happiness about her marriage, the happiness she would feel in her heart and see in the eyes of her groom.
Instead, her family acted as if this were her funeral, and she could not even keep toast and tea in her stomach.
What would she see in Edmund’s eyes? She feared that would be the worst of all.
Sally was little help in the preparations. Amelie worried about her, but Sally evaded her concern.
Nancy, Tess’s former maid, now dressmaker, came to help with the gown and Amelie’s hair.
‘I am so sorry we could not complete the gown we planned,’ Nancy said.
‘It does not matter,’ Amelie said.
This dress was one Nancy altered from a very plain pale blue silk Amelie had in her wardrobe. Nancy had quickly embellished the gown with an overdress of white net and with white lace at the sleeves and the hem.
‘I am pleased with this dress,’ Amelie told her.
At least the dress was light as air, making it easy for her to move. This day also saw a return of her fatigue. Moving was an effort, when all her body wished to do was sleep.
There was a knock on the door and Tess entered. ‘How are you faring?’
Tess tried to be cheerful, but her eyes looked strained. Tess blamed herself for Amelie’s situation, because Tess had introduced her brother to her. Amelie could not convince Tess that the real blame was solely Amelie’s.
She could not convince anyone of that. Except herself.
‘We are doing splendidly,’ Nancy answered in seeming good cheer, although how she could miss the morose mood in the house was beyond Amelie.
A moment later, Amelie’s mother walked in. ‘All is in order downstairs,’ she reported, although Amelie had not given those preparations a thought.
‘Is my brother here yet?’ Tess asked worriedly.
‘Not yet.’ Her mother pressed her lips together.
Amelie stared down at her sapphire ring. The blue gem caught sunlight from the window and glowed with blue light.
Edmund would come, she knew. Edmund was honourable that way.
