“But I do not understand precisely what you mean,” Bethia said.
“Well, I am sure that if you have any questions, Mrs. Drake can answer them as well as I can.” And with those words, Lady Clovyle fled the room without a backward glance.
There was a peculiar sound behind her, and Bethia turned to see that Mrs. Drake was no longer behaving like a properly trained servant.
She was, in fact, grinning from ear to ear, and despite her efforts to control her mirth, she was soon chuckling, and that in turn started Bethia laughing.
“Oh, dear, I should not carry on so,” Mrs. Drake said finally. “It is only that I can picture your aunt so clearly in bed—” Her smile faded, but her eyes still twinkled. “But I can see that you have no idea what Lady Clovyle was trying to explain.” She hesitated, as if debating within herself, then obviously making up her mind, said, “If you wish me to, I shall be happy to answer any questions you might have, and if you do not feel comfortable discussing such private matters with me, then I will keep my own counsel.”
Bethia said, “I am afraid my ignorance is so extensive that I do not even know what questions I should ask, but I would be most grateful if you would enlighten me as to what will be expected of me in the marital bed.”
After they settled themselves comfortably side-by-side on the window seat, Mrs. Drake explained simply but precisely how men differed from women, and exactly what happened when a man “slept” with a woman. She did not mince words, nor indulge in any roundaboutation, and the longer she talked, the more heated Bethia’s cheeks became.
“It is small wonder my aunt could not bring herself to explain any of this properly,” she said when Mrs. Drake was done talking, “and I must thank you for telling me everything, so that I will not be totally ignorant of my duties.”
“But I have not yet told you the most important thing. While there are some ladies, such as your aunt, who simply endure what they must to satisfy their husbands, there are many others who find lovemaking quite ... pleasurable. After the first time, of course.” From the blush now tinting Mrs. Drake’s cheeks a most becoming pink, it was not hard for Bethia to deduce which category of women her dresser belonged to.
Chapter Eleven
It would have been much easier to get through the ceremony if Mrs. Drake had not been so frank. Bethia’s mind was so filled with anxiety and anticipation of what was to come that she was able to keep from blushing only by staring at the Reverend Mr. Gorham’s Adam’s apple, which was remarkable both for its prominence and for its agility.
Unfortunately, the vicar spoke in a relentless monotone, which made it difficult for her to concentrate on what he was saying ... and for her to disregard the warmth of Digory’s hand holding hers.
Repeating the vows that would bind the two of them together for all eternity, Bethia was filled with such joy that she did not believe it possible to be any happier than she was at this moment.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the vicar said, closing his book.
Without releasing her hand, Digory gently raised her chin with his other hand and looked into her eyes. The moment seemed to stretch on forever, but then he bent his head and brushed his lips against hers.
From a great distance someone coughed, and there was the sound of shuffling feet. Then Digory lifted his head, and the spell was broken.
The guests began to congratulate her husband and offer her their best wishes for the future, but as far as Bethia was concerned, being married to Digory was everything she had dreamed about and more.
Digory would have given anything if this were in truth his wedding day—that is to say, if this marriage he had entered into was real and not a sham. Climbing into Lady Letitia’s town coach and taking the seat beside his wife, he was as close to losing control of himself as he had ever been.
Everything about her was enticing—every glance beckoned him, every touch tantalized. The memory of her lips, so soft and cool under his, made him want to show her how a man’s touch could ignite a woman’s passion.
She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he could smell the clean scent of her hair. He would have cursed the fate that had so thoroughly entangled them in this impossible situation, but he had learned at an early age the futility of wishing for what could never be.
“Before we go back to your house—”
“Our home,” she corrected him.
“—we must speak with your solicitor about the trust.”
She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting remembered pain and fear. “Do you know, at this moment I would rather be ten miles out to sea without a boat if it meant I never had to think about my villainous cousin again.” Her voice was quite fierce, and Digory bent his head and deposited a quick kiss on her mouth.
At least he intended it to be quick. Somehow it lasted all the way to the City, and by the time they stopped, Bethia was sitting on his lap.
Sticking to his resolution was going to be even more difficult than he had imagined.
“So, Miss Pepperell,” Mr. Kidby said after a clerk ushered them into his office, “you are contemplating marriage with Mr. Rendel here, and you wish to begin discussing the settlements.”
“You misunderstand; I am already Mrs. Rendel. My husband and I were married an hour ago.” Bethia held up her left hand and showed him the emerald ring on her finger.
“Indeed?” the solicitor said, adjusting his spectacles and staring first at the ring and then at Digory. “Well, in that case, you will want to take care of ending the trust your grandfather arranged.” Swiveling his chair around, he reached up and tugged on a cord. Somewhere in the outer office a bell jangled.
Bother the trust, Bethia thought, and curses on my cousins, one and all! Here she was, married at last, and forced to sit in a musty old office, discussing legal affairs with her grandfather’s solicitor.
She turned and looked into Digory’s eyes and saw a gleam of amusement, as if he knew precisely what she was thinking, and she could not hold back an answering smile.
It took a full hour before they were finally done—before the last document was signed and witnessed. With the ordeal at an end, Bethia was able to smile at Mr. Kidby. “You cannot begin to understand what a relief it is to know that my cousins will never be able to touch a penny of my grandfather’s estate.”
The solicitor frowned. “As much as it pains me to contradict you, I would be failing in my duty as your solicitor were I not to inform you that such is not the case.”
Surprised by his remark and dismayed by the thought of additional complications, Bethia said, “But I have met the only provision required by my grandfather’s will. I am married, and you saw that my aunt gave her written permission, so the marriage is valid.”
“But if you wish to disinherit your cousins, you must have a will of your own,” Mr. Kidby said.
“As things now stand,” Digory explained, “if you die first, then I will inherit everything you own and possess at the time of your death. On the other hand, if I were to die before you, then your legal heirs would be your closest relatives.”
If he were to die? All at once Bethia understood what he had not said. By marrying him, she had put him in danger—had made him a target for murder. Thoroughly aghast, she could only stare at her husband.
“But that is only if you die intestate,” Mr. Kidby said in his impartial lawyer’s voice. “By writing a will, you can devise your property to whomever you wish.”
Clenching her hands to stop them from trembling, Bethia said, “I wish to leave everything to my husband.” Taking a deep breath, she continued. “And if he should die before me”—she had to blink back her tears—“then I leave everything to my aunt, Lady Clovyle.”
As soon as she said the words, Bethia realized that such a provision would only endanger her aunt’s life.
Feeling as if she were trapped in a waking dream that was worse than her nightmares, Bethia tried desperately to think of a way to stop forever her cousins’ claims to her gr
andfather’s money.
Finally, she knew what had to be done. “I have changed my mind. I do not wish my aunt to be my heir. In the event that my husband predeceases me, then I wish my entire estate to be used to establish a home for foundlings in Cornwall.”
“You might wish to consider setting up a trust, the income from which would be more than adequate to support a foundling home,” Mr. Kidby said, “but that will take time, so for now, if you want to be sure that your cousins do not inherit anything, we can draw up a simple will that will be adequate for that purpose.”
A simple will, Bethia discovered, took only an hour and a half to write and proof and sign and witness.
“Before you go, I have one more suggestion,” Mr. Kidby said. “I shall, of course, notify your cousins that the trust has been dissolved, but if you wish, I can also tell them the terms of your will.”
Her grandfather had always considered Mr. Kidby a most astute man, and Bethia was inclined to think her grandfather had not erred in his judgment. “Yes,” she said, feeling more than a little sad. “Please inform my cousins exactly where my money will go if anything untoward happens to me or to my husband.”
When they finally arrived home, Bethia discovered that the normally well-run household was at sixes and sevens.
Not only was Aunt Euphemia supervising the packing of her own trunk, bandboxes, and portmanteaus, but she had also directed the servants to move Bethia’s belongings into the master suite, which consisted of two connecting bedrooms, each with its own sitting room and dressing room.
Maids were bustling back and forth along the corridor, their arms filled with dresses and scarves and shoes, and a valet named Youngblood was busily unpacking her husband’s clothes into what had once been her grandfather’s wardrobe.
Watching the confusion, Bethia decided it would definitely be a wedding day to remember. To preserve her sanity, she kept reminding herself that night would come in its proper time. Candles would be lit, and the doors securely locked. Aunt Euphemia would retire to her room, then the servants would remove themselves one by one to their own rooms.
Even allowing for unforeseen delays, by eleven o’clock she would surely be alone with her husband. And they would, after all, have the rest of their lives to be together.
“You look a most becoming bride,” Mrs. Drake said after she had assisted Bethia into a long-sleeved nightgown made of softest flannel and embroidered all over with pale yellow flowers.
“You needn’t brush my hair,” Bethia said. “I shall do it myself.”
“Just as you wish,” Mrs. Drake said, her manner once again that of a proper servant. Gathering up the clothes Bethia had worn that day, she left the room without a backward glance.
For a moment Bethia felt the urge to run after her, to tell her she was afraid—no, never afraid when it was Digory. She was just a bit nervous—she just needed a bit of reassurance that she would not displease him, that he would be happy with the marriage she had forced him into.
Picking up her brush, she began pulling it through her long hair, automatically counting the strokes. Before she reached forty, the connecting door opened, and her husband entered the room. '
She watched him in the mirror, expecting him to take the brush from her hands, but instead he stopped a few feet away. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, “I believe it is time for us to discuss the bet we made.”
“Bet?” she asked, turning to face him.
“The wager we made—that in less than a week I could persuade your aunt to give her permission for you to marry me.”
“Ah, that bet.” Bethia smiled up at him. “I admit you have won the wager fair and square. Ask anything of me that you wish, for I can deny you nothing.”
He did not return her smile, and she felt a frisson of fear. “I do not want to consummate this marriage.”
The brush dropped from her suddenly nerveless hand. “You cannot mean that,” she whispered. “You cannot ask that of me.”
“After your birthday, we shall have the marriage annulled,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
Her mind screamed denials, but all that came out was a breathless, “Please...”
He said nothing.
Standing up, she tried frantically to think of some way to persuade him not to do this—this terrible, awful, unbelievably cruel thing.
“That is two requests, and I need grant you only one,” she said, feeling some of her energy return. She would never agree—never! The wager was ridiculous, unimportant, immaterial. They were joined together in the eyes of God and according to the laws of men.
“I am asking only for an annulment,” he said, and she was close enough to see that the pain in his eyes matched her own. “But since we have taken such care to make the marriage valid, the only way we can legally dissolve it is if we do not consummate the marriage.”
“We did not shake on the wager,” she said, her entire body beginning to tremble.
“The wager is unimportant,” he replied. “I have decided that we will have the marriage annulled as soon as you are one-and-twenty, at which time you will be free to marry the man of your choosing.”
“And if I choose you?”
“I am not the proper husband for you.”
Great wracking sobs burst unannounced from her throat, and immediately Digory took her in his arms and pressed her head against his chest.
“I cannot endure another night alone—I cannot,” she heard herself begging. “Please, you must stay with me.”
“Of course I shall stay with you,” he replied, his voice once again warm and comforting. Then he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Laying her down, he tucked her in, then stood beside her looking helpless. “Don’t cry, please stop crying.”
Wordlessly, she held out her arms to him, and to her great relief, he hesitated only momentarily before climbing under the covers and taking her back into his arms.
Holding his sleeping wife, Digory reviewed the events of the last week and decided that he had done absolutely nothing right except to rescue Bethia from drowning.
Every action he had taken since that time, from allowing her to drink her fill of punch to agreeing to marry her, from neglecting to consider the possibility of a third man in Carwithian Cove to asking Lord Edington for help. Every decision, both major and minor, had been exactly wrong.
And now, the woman whose happiness he had wanted to ensure had cried herself to sleep in his arms.
He was at point non plus—damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.
If he continued to refuse to consummate the marriage, then that meant months of misery for both of them. Yet if he yielded to her entreaties, their happiness would last only until he was discovered to be a counterfeit gentleman, after which the rest of their lives would be filled with misery.
And the sins of his father would be carried on to the next generation.
He spent the night praying as he had never prayed before, not even when he had lost a rudder during a storm at sea and it had seemed as if his yacht would surely founder.
Yet even that moment had not been as dark as this night.
“The servants will know that this marriage has not been consummated,” Bethia said matter-of-factly. She was standing in front of the window, and the early morning light surrounded her with the aura of an angel. Turning her head, she gazed at him with eyes that had aged a dozen years in one night. “Do you imagine there will be no gossip?”
“No one will suspect,” Digory said, taking a hat pin from one of her bonnets and pricking his finger. Squeezing out a few drops of blood, he smeared the sheets where his wife-in-name-only had been lying.
She moved so softly he did not hear her approach, and only knew she was beside him when she spoke.
“Does it not bother you that we shall be living a lie? That we are deceiving our friends?”
Even knowing that in the long run the truth would be best, he found it hard to utter the brutally honest words
. “My whole life, starting from my conception, has been a matter of lies and deceit. As I have told you, I do not belong in your world, and you do not belong in mine.”
“I would give up everything—” she started to say, but he quickly laid his hand on her mouth.
He could not allow her to demean herself by begging, and yet he could not give her what she wanted. “When we made the wager, you also promised that you would not argue about it.”
The anger that flashed in her eyes was a vast improvement over the grief. “And what difference does it make what I promised? After all, you have just said you are quite accustomed to lying and deception.”
“But in all the years of my life, I have never gone back on my word,” Digory said.
Struggling to hold back tears, she said, “Some day you will suffer as I am suffering today, and then you will regret what you have done.”
“I am already suffering, and I am already sorry, but there is nothing you or I can do to change the world.”
“Now, then, be sure you do not live in your husband’s pocket, for that is not at all comme il faut,” Aunt Euphemia said. Her luggage and her maid were already loaded into her ancient traveling coach, but she herself kept remembering last minute instructions for Bethia. “And we do not want people to decide that marriage has made you fall into bourgeois habits.”
“No, indeed,” Bethia replied. “But perhaps it might be best if you did not delay any longer, else you will not reach Maidenhead before dusk.”
“No, indeed, that would not do,” her aunt replied, turning her cheek up for a kiss. “For no matter what people say, not even the turnpikes are really safe after dark.” She allowed one of her grooms to assist her up the steps into the coach, and the door was shut behind her.
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