by M C Beaton
“You sat on him,” pointed out his wife.
“I mean,” shouted Jennie, “that I am not going to marry this Marquis. I am not!”
Lord Charles picked up his magazine.
“If you do not promise me that you will immediately cancel these absurd marriage plans, I… I shall kill myself,” shouted Jennie.
“I have a very, very special bone for you, my love,” murmured Lady Priscilla, patting Caesar’s shaggy head.
Jennie threw up her hands in despair. “I shall hold my breath!” she yelled as a last resort.
There was a short silence while Jennie held her breath and Lady Priscilla murmured sweet nothings to the dog and Lord Charles read his magazine.
Suddenly Lord Charles put down his Sporting Magazine and looked across at his granddaughter, who was slowly turning purple.
“You know,” he said in a kindly voice. “I ain’t paid you much attention, Jennie. But you’re a fine looking girl. Like to see a girl with a bit of color in her cheeks.”
“Ooooh!” said Miss Jennie Bemyss, letting out her breath in a hiss of rage. “You do not care what becomes of me.”
“I care,” said a light voice from the doorway.
“Guy!” cried Jennie, throwing herself into his arms and gazing up at his tanned, handsome face. “I am so glad to see you. I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Oh Guy they are going to marry me off to some Marquis!”
“Easy now,” said Mr. Guy Chalmers, gently taking Jennie’s clutching hands from his lapels. “Come and walk with me in the garden and tell me all about it.”
“Good evening, sir,” he said to Lord Charles. “I’m just going for a walk in the garden with Jennie.”
“Oh, it’s you, is it,” said his lordship, ungraciously, and then his ears almost seemed to prick up as Guy rustled a paper in his pocket.
“I say,” said Lord Charles, with rare enthusiasm, “you haven’t, have you?”
“Yes, I have,” grinned Guy, drawing a paper twist of chocolate drops from his pocket. He gave them to Lord Charles, who immediately began to munch happily, and then Guy tucked Jennie’s hand in his arm and led her out to the garden.
Jennie had begun to sob quietly so he put an arm around her shoulders and walked her a little way from the house, waiting until she should recover enough to tell him her news.
The evening was very still. The dark layers of the cedars stood out against a pale primrose sky and the reed-choked waters of the once ornamental lake reflected a pale crescent of moon.
“Now, what is it?” asked Guy, “or are you going to cry all night? You look like a little rabbit when you cry, all pink nose and red eyes.”
That had at least the effect of drying Jennie’s tears and she proceeded to pour out the story of her betrothal into Guy’s astonished ears.
When she had finished, he whistled silently. “The Marquis of Charrington,” he said. “You could have done a lot worse, Jennie. He’s as rich as Golden Ball and no end of a dandy.”
“You-you t-told me that all d-dandies were effete,” said Jennie, beginning to sob again.
“Yes, yes, forget that,” said Guy impatiently. “But only think of the clothes and the jewels you’ll have, Jennie. And you’ll be in London and be able to see me an awful lot.”
“But I thought… I mean… but I want to marry you!” she blurted out.
“It wouldn’t answer,” said Guy, smiling down at her and giving her a reassuring hug. “My pockets are to let. Besides, I’m your first cousin. But, think of the freedom you’ll have as a married woman.”
Jennie only gave a pathetic little sob.
“Listen,” urged Guy in rallying tones. “You can have me as your first flirt and we’ll cut a dash. Smartest couple in town.”
A note of real fear crept into her voice as she whispered, “But how will I be able to face living with a man I do not know? What of the intimate side of marriage?”
“That’s easy,” laughed Guy. “Chemmy Charrington—Chemmy’s his nickname—has the reputation of being the sleepiest and most amiable man about town. Cares for nothing but his clothes. He probably don’t want this marriage any more than you do. So you tell him it’s a marriage of convenience and that you won’t interfere with his pursuits. He’ll agree to it, I’m sure.”
“Oh, do you think so, Guy?” breathed Jennie with relief. “What does he look like?”
“He’s quite old,” said Guy. “About thirty-five. A great quiz of a fellow. All tricked out in foppish finery. He can’t care much for the ladies or he’d have been married a long time ago instead of keeping to this odd betrothal. Now do you feel better?”
“Oh, yes. Oh, Guy, I do love you so,” said Jennie, gazing worshipfully up into his face.
“Silly puss,” he said in a teasing voice. He drew her into his arms and kissed her.
Guy had often kissed Jennie before but this time it was different. Her emotions overset by the shock of her betrothal, Jennie kissed Guy back with all the passion of a young woman.
When he finally drew away, he looked down at her in surprise. “Why little Jennie, how you’ve grown!” he said in a husky voice.
Then with a smile, he took her hand and began to lead her back to the house.
“All will be well,” he told Jennie, “fashionable marriages have great advantages.”
He gave a great cackle of laughter and stopped and looked down at her. “Believe me, my darling, there will be nothing like it!”
Chapter Two
Chemmy, fourth Marquis of Charrington, descended cautiously from his high perch phaeton, and stood looking thoughtfully at the ivy-covered front of Runbury Manor.
“Bad drains, John,” he said to his groom. “Or perhaps they do not have any.”
“Don’t think so, my lord,” grinned his groom with the easy familiarity of an old servant. “Folks say Lord Charles won’t spend a penny on repairs so it stands to reason he won’t have done much about the plumbing.”
The Marquis took out a scented lace handkerchief and held it to his nose. “Perhaps there is no one at home,” he said hopefully. “Our arrival does not seem to be expected. Ring the bell, John.”
“Ain’t got one,” said the groom, banging on the knocker.
The door was cautiously opened to reveal one of the oldest footmen the Marquis had ever seen. He was stooped and wrinkled and dressed in the livery he must have worn as a young man.
Chemmy presented his card which the footman stared at for what seemed a very long time.
“This way, my lord,” he finally said.
He led the way across a large, bare, dark hall, flung open the double doors and ushered Chemmy into the Blue Saloon.
It was, thought the Marquis, rather like entering Madame Tussaud’s waxworks museum. Lord Charles and Lady Priscilla sat side by side on hard upright chairs facing the doors. Like their footman, their clothes seemed to date from the late eighteenth century. Lord Charles wore a brocade coat, a full-bottomed wig and knee breeches. His lady was attired in a faded gold sac dress with long filmy threads drifting from it and on her head she wore a high, powdered wig, reminiscent of Madame Pompadour.
A very pretty young girl sat a little way from them on another hard chair. She at least was dressed in the current mode, wearing a sprigged muslin dress tied under her bosom with long pink ribbons. There was a tapestry frame in front of her and she sat very still, staring at the Marquis with her needle poised. A young man dressed in the Corinthian fashion stood rigidly at attention beside the fireplace.
The only comfortable chairs in the room were occupied by several somnolent dogs.
Four pairs of eyes stared fixedly at the Marquis.
The Marquis of Charrington was a very tall, powerfully built man and despite his great height he moved with easy, rather languid grace. He was dressed in correct formal attire, blue swallowtail coat with large steel buttons, worn open to reveal an embroidered cambric shirt, rose-colored waistcoat and intricate cravat. His legs were encased in skin-tight biscu
it pantaloons and his hessian boots shone in the dusty sunlight permeating through the dingy windows. He carried his cane and curly brimmed beaver in one hand and a scented lace handkerchief in the other. His face was handsome but without much animation, his vivid blue eyes betraying only an expression of sleepy amiability. He had a high-bridged autocratic nose and his thick fair hair was cut in a fashionable Brutus crop.
“May I sit down?” he asked in a light, pleasant drawl. His blue eyes under their heavy lids surveyed the sleeping dogs. He crossed to the most comfortable chair, which was occupied by Caesar, and looked down.
“Get down, boy,” he said to the dog in a pleasant voice which carried no hint of command. To the amazement of the watchers, Caesar immediately awoke, slid down from the chair and lay down on the rug.
The Marquis looked thoughtfully at the chair, he flicked the seat of it with his handkerchief, and then sat down. He lazily snapped his fingers to the waiting footman, handed him the soiled piece of lace and cambric and then looked thoughtfully at his future bride, who was staring at him open-mouthed. A strong smell of unwashed dogs and bad drainage assailed the Marquis’ nostrils and, in front of Jennie’s scornful eyes, he took out a small silver vinaigrette and held it to his nose.
“Fop!” said Jennie in a low voice to Guy. The amiable blue eyes looking in her direction suddenly seemed to narrow a fraction and, for one moment, Jennie was sure that he had heard her. But the next minute, he was looking just as sleepy and amiable as ever and she put it down to a trick of the light.
“Well,” said Lord Charles in a jovial voice, “well, well, well, well, well.” Everyone waited anxiously for him to go on but his lordship had fallen silent.
“Since no one is going to present me, I may as well present myself,” said Jennie impatiently. “I, my lord, am Miss Bemyss.”
“Charmed,” murmured the Marquis, giving her a bow from his chair.
“This is my cousin, Mr. Chalmers… oh, I am doing things the wrong way around,” exclaimed Jennie in pretty confusion. “I should have introduced my grandparents first… Lord and Lady Bemyss.”
This time the Marquis rose to his feet, made Lady Priscilla a magnificent leg, and then sat down again.
A heavy silence fell upon the room, broken only by the whispering and ticking of the clocks.
Lord Charles cleared his throat noisily. “Hah!” he said. “Yes. Well.”
Everyone looked helplessly at one another.
A diversion was created by the ancient footman who staggered forward bearing a small table laden with decanters, saffron cakes and Shrewsbury cakes.
Lady Priscilla appeared to come out of some very pleasant dream. The Marquis had bitten into a Shrewsbury cake and was staring at the remains of it in mild astonishment. “Is anything wrong?” she asked anxiously.
“No, indeed, ma’am,” drawled Chemmy politely, letting the remains of the cake fall on the floor where it was eagerly gobbled up by Caesar, who was promptly sick.
Jennie took a cake from the plate offered to her by the footman and anxiously bit into it. It tasted as bitter as acid.
“Grandmama!” she choked. “What on earth is in this Shrewsbury cake?”
“Oh, dear,” replied Lady Priscilla. “I was afraid it might not answer. Cook told me we had no caraway seeds left and I found some pretty seeds lying in the garden and I thought they would do just as well.”
“Do not worry about it,” said the Marquis. “The madeira is excellent.”
“It is?” cried Lady Priscilla, with such surprise that the Marquis sniffed warily at his glass and wondered if she could possibly have made it herself.
Another long silence fell, this time broken by Guy. “It’s deuced stuffy in here,” he said. “I shall just take Jennie for a breath of air in the garden.”
“No, you won’t,” barked Lord Charles, breaking into articulate speech for the first time. “The young couple want to be alone to get acquainted.” He got stiffly to his feet and held out his arm to his wife. Jennie nervously watched her grandparents leave the room.
Guy grinned down at her. “Best be off, Jennie.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Don’t forget…”
Jennie watched him go with her heart in her eyes. Then she reluctantly turned her attention to her betrothed.
“Do you wish this marriage?” asked the Marquis, in a pleasant, uninterested sort of voice.
Jennie looked at the large dandy with amused contempt. He was idly playing with his vinaigrette. She noticed that his cambric shirt was so fine it was nearly transparent and was embroidered with small bunches of forget-me-nots.
Take away his tailor, she thought in disgust, and there would be nothing left but a great oaf.
Summoning up her courage, she got to her feet and walked to stand in front of the Marquis. He politely rose from his chair and Jennie found to her dismay that she had to crane her neck to look up at him.
“My lord,” she began, “I am sure you do not want this marriage any more than I do. It would be more dignified to cease this charade.”
“Oh, no,” remarked the Marquis with great good humor, “I don’t consider it a charade at all. I wish to be married.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” remarked Jennie crossly, her temper rising. “You can’t want to marry me. You don’t even know me.”
“That can be remedied.”
“You can’t force me to marry you,” said Jennie, tears of anger beginning to sparkle in her large hazel eyes.
“No?” he said. “I can, in a way. We were legally betrothed when you were in your cradle. What frightens you about this marriage?”
“I do not love you,” she said tremulously.
“Of course not,” replied the Marquis with infuriating calm. “I do not believe in love at first sight. But I think we should deal together tolerably well. Come, my child, be reasonable. Would you not like to have your own establishment and fine clothes and a Season in London?”
“Y-yes, of course I would like that. But I cannot be your wife.” Here she flung her head back in an overdramatic gesture worthy of that well-known actress, Mrs. Jordan… “unless you agree to a marriage of convenience, a marriage in name only.”
He took so long to answer that her neck began to hurt and she had to relinquish her dramatic pose.
At last he said mildly, “I shall expect you to produce an heir at some time or another, you know. But you are very young and I am prepared to wait. At the beginning of our marriage, at least, you may lead your own life and follow your own amusements.”
Jennie thought quickly. Oh, that she could marry Guy! But since she could not, surely it would be better to have a complaisant husband.
“Very well,” she said sulkily, staring at the Marquis’ waistcoat button.
He drew her gently to him and kissed her on the forehead.
“Why did you never marry before?” asked Jennie, suddenly shy.
“I must have been waiting for you,” he answered lightly, “although my friends tell me I am married to my tailor.”
If he cares only for clothes as Guy said, thought Jennie, beginning to relax, he will have little time to think of his wife.
Lord Charles and Lady Priscilla came into the room. They showed no surprise at the news that the couple were to go ahead with the wedding.
“Jennie has been trained to come to heel,” said Lord Charles. “You should have no trouble with her.”
“I hope, my lord,” said Jennie sweetly, “that you will put a ring on my finger and not a collar around my neck.”
“I shall supply you with whatever is necessary, I assure you,” remarked the Marquis. “I think we should be married in three weeks’ time.”
“So soon,” said Jennie faintly.
“Capital!” said Lord Charles.
“I see no sense in waiting,” remarked the large Marquis. “After all, my dear, we have been betrothed for such a long time!”
The announcement of the Marquis’ engagement to Miss Jennie Bemyss caused a ce
rtain flutter in London society, which had considered him a hardened bachelor.
One of the most astounded was his friend, Peregrine Deighton.
Peregrine was waiting impatiently for the Marquis on that gentleman’s return from Runbury Manor. He was a small, dapper man with a small, military moustache and thick, pepper-and-salt hair. He had a broad forehead and large, slightly protruding brown eyes, a thin, straight nose and a small, severe mouth.
It had long been a source of wonder why the elegant and indolent Marquis should choose such an old-maid for a friend. For Mr. Deighton was inclined to be very prissy and had an embarrassing habit of speaking exactly what was on his mind at the time. But Peregrine had fought in the Marquis’ regiment during the earlier years of the Peninsular Wars and the Marquis knew him to be gallant and brave, and sensitive to a fault, and repaid his little friend’s loyalty with the same regard.
The Marquis entered the drawing room of his town house in Albemarle Street and looked with lazy amusement at the small, trim figure of Mr. Deighton, who was perched on the edge of a chair with the knob of his cane in his mouth.
He unplugged himself at the sight of the Marquis and immediately burst into speech. “Tell me it’s not true!” he cried. “I could scarce believe my eyes when I read the Morning Post. You set out to tell the Bemyss family that you had no intention of getting married. What happened?”
“I must have fallen in love,” remarked the Marquis languidly, stripping off his York tan driving gloves.
“You? Love? Nonsense!” exclaimed Mr. Deighton, who then, in his usual embarrassing way, plunged straight on into the reason for his distress over the forthcoming nuptials. “What will happen to all the fun we have?” he said. “What will happen to all the races and prize fights? The clubs and the opera? The days in the park? A wife will put a stop to all that!” He bounced up and down on the edge of the chair, his dapper little figure fairly quivering with distress.
“Down, boy! Down!” said the Marquis good-humoredly, and indeed his small friend did look rather like an agitated puppy who had just been refused a walk. “My affianced bride assures me that ours shall be a marriage of convenience. We shall go our separate ways until such times as I feel it necessary to produce an heir. If you go on in this heated fashion, Perry, the world will begin to wonder about my… er… tastes. Play me no jealous tragedies, Perry.”
