by M C Beaton
“I’m sure I shall manage,” said Chemmy looking around the sparsely furnished room. “Jennie, I…”
But his young fiancée had already dropped him a demure curtsey and closed the door behind her.
The Marquis crossed to the windows and eventually managed to open them. The view was mostly obscured by ivy. He suddenly felt dirty and tired, and pulled on the bellrope.
He waited a considerable length of time until he heard the door opening behind him. Without turning around, he snapped, “Well, you took your time about it, laddie. Fetch me a bath directly!”
“That is a little difficult,” said the voice of his fiancée.
“Goodness!” said the Marquis, swinging around. “Have you no servants?”
“Indeed we do,” said Jennie earnestly. “But they are not in the way of dealing with houseguests. They are all very old, you see, and when they die, my grandfather does not replace them. I carry up my own bath water. Don’t you have a valet?”
“He is traveling here separately,” said the Marquis. “Is there a pump?”
“Oh, yes, behind the stables.”
“Very well,” said the Marquis. “I shall go and put my head under it before dinner. You do have dinner?”
“At four o’clock every afternoon.”
“That leaves me an hour to wrestle with the pump,” said the Marquis.
A faint rattle of carriage wheels sounded through the open window.
“Guy!” cried Jennie, her face lighting up with delight. She flew from the room, banging the door noisily behind her.
“I wonder,” said the Marquis to himself as he stared thoughtfully at the closed door, “I wonder if I should go through with this.”
But no sign of his doubts appeared on his handsome face at the dinner table. He was groomed and polished and scented, magnificent in silk coat and knee breeches. Jewels glittered in his cravat and on his long white fingers. As they sat down to dinner, he raised his quizzing glass and indolently surveyed his fiancée.
Jennie blushed to the roots of her tangled hair. She had not even bothered to change her dress for dinner, hoping thereby to show the Marquis how little she cared for him, but the plan had somehow backfired. The elegant Marquis, without moving a muscle or opening his mouth made her feel like a scrubby hoyden.
Guy may have convinced her that the Marquis was an effete dandy, but she could not help feeling that the elegantly arrayed Marquis was paying a courteous compliment to his hosts by his formal dress and wished that Guy had done the same, instead of having his shirt open at the neck and a Belcher handkerchief tied around his throat.
Perry was in a thoroughly bad mood. He had had a long and exhausting fight with an elderly hound who had taken possession of his bed, and the hound had won the battle, depriving Perry of a much needed afternoon’s sleep. He had tugged on the bell cord until it had come away in his hand but no one had answered his summons. The copper water cans on the marble washstand were empty of everything, save dust.
Now, the cooked remains of a tough and athletic cow stared up at him from his dinner plate. The meal had begun with a mulligatawny soup that defied description. This had been followed by a dry and withered salmon at one end of the table and a greasy and oily turbot, flanked by bony and brittle smelts, at the other.
The muscular beef fought back gamely as he tried to cut it into small pieces, since fashion decreed that he must spear a piece of everything on his plate on his fork at the same time and pop the whole of this compound cookery between his jaws. He was further frustrated by a large helping of peas, which he was expected to eat with an old-fashioned, two-pronged fork. The heat of the room was oppressive and the smell from the side dishes, which appeared to be several abortive attempts at Continental cooking, made him feel queasy.
He gave up the battle and toyed moodily with his wine glass, watching Jennie’s animated face as she laughed at something that Guy was saying. He then turned his gaze to his friend. Could not the Marquis see that the ill-garbed, ill-behaved hoyden was besotted with young Guy?
The elderly footman fuddled the remains of the beef to the sideboard and then carried forward a ham, a fowl and a tongue with frail, trembling arms. What had happened to the butler? Chemmy could have told him that the butler had probably died but Chemmy was keeping up an easy flow of conversation, not one whit abashed by the awful food, the strange company or the heat.
At last the dreadful meal was over. Lady Priscilla led Jennie off to the drawing room and Lord Charles (as was the custom), led the gentlemen into the garden to urinate on the lawn.
Guy had drawn Lord Charles a little way across the lawn from the others but his voice carried on the still night air. “Saw a prime elegant tit at Tatersall’s, sir,” Guy was saying. “It’s going for fifty guineas… lovely bit of horseflesh, as fine a bit of blood as you ever saw.”
“Ah,” sighed Lord Charles reminiscently, “that reminds me of my old mare, Clara. What a stout heart that poor beast had. Never a nag to touch her on the field. Ah, Clara!”
“As I was saying,” went on Guy with a slight edge to his voice. “It’s a matter of fifty guineas.”
“What’s that?”
“Fifty guineas, sir.”
“Very, very, very kind of you, dear boy. But keep your money. Keep it, dear boy. We are in funds at the moment. Yes, yes, yes. But very kind. Yes, very kind…” He ambled towards the Marquis and Perry, while Guy closed his mouth which had fallen open in surprise. Either Lord Charles was senile or cunning, and Guy thought rather grimly that it was the latter.
Lord Charles led the gentlemen into the drawing room. Jennie had changed her dress and combed her hair and was sitting, engaged in placing delicate little stitches on a piece of tapestry.
The Marquis made his way towards Jennie, who immediately arose and crossed to the pianoforte which she proceeded to play with more enthusiasm than finesse until it was time for the company to retire to bed, being all of eight o’clock in the evening—a time when the Marquis and Mr. Deighton were usually sitting down to dinner.
In response to his friend’s pleas, the Marquis removed the hound from Perry’s bed before retiring to his own.
He thought of how pretty Jennie had looked that evening and decided that it was just as well they were getting married after all.
Unlike most brides, Jennie, as she walked up the aisle on her grandfather’s arm the next day, searched her groom’s face hopefully for some sign of anger. But to her disappointment, he seemed as bland and smiling as ever.
She had secretly hoped that the sight of her wedding dress would have made him call off the marriage. Now he did not seem to notice or care and she was left feeling like a quiz, having to endure the shocked stare of the best man.
Perry could hardly believe his eyes. He did not know that Jennie was wearing Lady Priscilla’s wedding gown. He only saw that she was dressed in yellow, dingy lace, heavily embroidered with pearls, which kept escaping from their moorings and rattling off into the pews.
He felt he owed it to his friend to stop this disastrous marriage and, in a last ditch attempt, pretended he had forgotten the ring. The Marquis merely smiled, drew his own ring from his finger and fitted it over Jennie’s smaller one.
Only after the happy couple had signed the register in the vestry of the little Norman church and were moving slowly down the aisle did Perry become aware of impending doom.
Standing at the entrance to the church, dressed in the very latest of Parisian modes and surrounded by a group of fashionable friends, stood Alice Waring.
Jennie noticed that one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen was staring at her gown with amused contempt. The Marquis halted in front of Alice and presented his bride. Awed by the fashionable dress of Alice and her friends, Jennie dropped an awkward curtsey. Immediately several hundred pearls broke from the worn threads of her gown and rattled noisily to the ground.
Alice gave an enchanting laugh and her eyes caressed the Marquis. “Dear me, Chemmy,�
� she drawled, “you should send your little bride to join Wellington’s artillery. Those Frenchies would soon be routed.”
Then she bit her lip in vexation. The Marquis was looking at her with a rather hard gleam in his eyes and she knew she had gone too far.
“You must forgive us for not inviting you to the wedding breakfast, Mrs. Waring,” said the Marquis gently. “But it is, as you see, a family party. Come, my dear.”
Jennie gratefully allowed her husband to lead her away from the mocking eyes of the watching group.
She was now desperate to return to the Manor and change her dress, and, after she had done that, enjoy all the luxury of a good cry.
But on descending the stairs to join the wedding breakfast, she found the Marquis making his apologies to his hosts and their various guests. He was anxious to take his bride directly to London, he said, turning and giving Jennie a warm smile and ignoring the mutinous look on her face. Perry had fallen into the clutches of the burly maid of honor, Sally Byles, Jennie’s only friend, who lived in the next county, and was hoping that Chemmy would take him, too.
But the efficient Marquis had had his bride’s trunks corded up and placed in the back of the phaeton and was now gently urging her towards the door.
Jennie waved a tearful farewell—more to Guy who was standing outside on the steps watching her with amusement—rather than to her old home.
The carriage rattled briskly down the drive and past the untenanted lodge with Jennie perched beside her new husband and John, the groom, clinging on the back.
After several miles, Jennie found her voice.
“Is this how we are to go on, sir?” she gritted. “Are my wishes never to be consulted? For your information, my grandmother expected us to stay for a few days.” Her lip trembled. “But now it seems that no sooner is the ring on my finger than I am to be wrenched from my beloved home.”
The Marquis reined in his horses and looked down at his furious bride. “My heart of hearts!” he exclaimed, “How could I be so callous? To think that… following my own selfish whim, of course… I had planned to take you to my box at the opera and then to the fireworks display at Vauxhall afterward. I was even silly enough to have the family diamonds cleaned for you to wear! But you have a mind above such flummery. Of course, I will take you back to your beloved home directly.” He ignored a low groan from his groom and edged the carriage around in the narrow country road and proceeded to set a brisk pace back towards the Manor.
Jennie bit her lip and did not know whether to throw a temper tantrum, box his ears or burst into tears. She contented herself by muttering a stifled, “Thank you.” She tried unsuccessfully to fight away the vision of herself, bedecked in diamonds, sitting at the opera, enjoying the music and all her new-found position in society as a wealthy young marchioness.
The guests gave them a noisy welcome, with the exception of Guy who had left for London.
The wedding breakfast was turning out a resounding success, much to Perry’s surprise. The ancient cook, Martha, had succumbed to a bottle of gin and had been unable to cook anything. But the ladies of the county had not yet learned the fine art of allowing servants to do absolutely everything and had been trained, in the old way of the last century, to do everything a servant could, and better. They accordingly had donned pinafores over their gowns descended en masse to the ancient kitchens and had proceeded to compete with each other in producing the most delightful delicacies.
Perry had reached the bottom of his first bottle of port and was thinking dreamily that Sally Byles was not a burly, masculine girl after all. She was merely suffering from an excess of puppy fat and the buoyancy of seventeen summers and when she, too, took her turn in the kitchen and emerged floury and triumphant, bearing a plate of delicious apricot tartlets, his admiration knew no bounds. He begged her to join him, noticing for the first time that her eyes were a pretty periwinkle blue and that her mouth was small enough to please the highest stickler of the ton.
Sally was only too delighted to gain the attention of this dapper, older man. She complimented him on his friend the Marquis’ elegance and said that Jennie was indeed a lucky girl.
“I hope she appreciates him, that’s all,” said Perry, broaching his second bottle.
Sally’s blue eyes opened to their widest. “I haven’t seen much of Jennie recently,” said Sally. “We live so far apart. But I feel sure Jennie must be in love. She is not the kind of girl to marry for money.”
“Oh, no?” said the indiscreet Perry gloomily.
“No!” said Sally flying to quick defense of her friend. “And his lordship will find he has a treasure for his wife. Jennie is worth a hundred beautiful women… even as beautiful as that gorgeous creature I saw in church. Who is she?”
And Perry, fuddled with wine and fatigue, and plagued with his customary honesty, said baldly, “That is Mrs. Alice Waring, Chemmy’s mistress.”
Sally stared at him, puzzled and alarmed, and began to edge away, wishing to retreat to her safe world where young girls got married and lived happily ever after. She looked across to where Jennie was standing, talking to one of the wedding guests. She looked very young and vulnerable. “I shall tell her,” said Sally.
Shock sobered Perry. “Oh, my cursed tongue,” he cried. “Please forget what I said, Miss Byles. That affair is most definitely over. Why, anyone can see that Chemmy is in love with his wife!”
Sally stared at the Marquis, who smiled lazily back. There was no emotion registered on his face other than a rather sleepy good humor.
“And what do you expect Jennie to do about it?” pressed Perry desperately. “Come now, Miss Byles, you must promise me you will not say a word about it.”
“I don’t know,” said Sally mulishly. “I shall say nothing at the moment. But I am to go with my parents to London next month and if I see any sign that the Marquis has not terminated the liaison, then I shall tell Jennie. So there!” And with that Perry had to be content. He returned to his bottle for solace and wondered what on earth had caused the couple to return to the Manor.
Jennie was wondering if she had gone mad. She had suddenly remembered that Lady Priscilla had roused herself from her customary vague indifference to have a bridal suite prepared. The light was fading outside and the guests’ jokes were becoming bawdier and several were wondering noisily why the couple did not go to bed.
At last she felt a hand on her arm and found her large husband smiling down at her. “Come, Jennie,” he said. “It is time to retire.”
The noisy guests cheered them up the stairs, blowing hunting horns and hallooing and whooping.
Feeling as if she were walking in a dream, Jennie allowed Chemmy to lead her up the stairs and along the twisting corridors to the bridal chamber. She did wonder, however, how her lord knew where it was.
The old four-poster bed had been turned back to reveal damp and yellowing sheets, which smelled strongly of camphor. The Marquis crossed and opened the window and was immediately greeted with cheers, whoops and advice from the garden below. He waved his hand good-naturedly to the guests and turned to his bride.
“I shall use the dressing room,” he said. “You may prepare for bed here.”
“Are you going to sleep with me?” squeaked Jennie in alarm.
“Yes,” he said good-humoredly. “I am going to sleep with you. Beside you, that is. Come now. You do not expect me to sleep on the floor.”
“I could go to my old room,” whispered Jennie.
“So you could,” he agreed, “but our guests would certainly find out, since I believe your room has been given up to one of them. Be a good child and get into bed and go to sleep. I am not going to touch you.”
He strode off into the dressing room, leaving Jennie standing beside the bed.
Jennie scrambled hastily out of her clothes and then into an old flannel nightdress, which she buttoned tight up to the neck despite the close heat of the room.
“I could have spared myself this if we had go
ne to London,” she thought bitterly. “Oh, Guy, where are you?”
She lay rigidly on the bed, staring sightlessly up at the canopy. She did not believe for one minute that the Marquis would simply go to sleep. He would make love to her, of that she was sure, and then she would really be his wife. Perhaps he would make her fall in love with him and then she need no longer feel so guilty about being married to one man and being in love with another. Perhaps it would not be so bad after all.
The dressing room door opened.
“What are you wearing?” screeched Jennie, suddenly sitting bolt upright.
“Nothing,” said her husband’s amused voice. “I am in my buffs, my dear. It is the way I usually sleep.”
Jennie sank down into the bed, pulled the covers up to her throat and screwed her eyes shut. The bed gave a protesting creak as her husband’s great bulk climbed in beside her.
“Good night, my wife,” he said softly.
But Jennie did not answer. She kept her body rigid and her eyes shut tight and then started counting under her breath. When she had reached two hundred, she slowly opened her eyes. The merrymaking of the guests sounded noisily from the garden and, beside her, came the faint gentle sounds of rythmical breathing.
She cautiously propped herself up on one elbow. In the faint light of the moon shining in at the window, it was all too clear to Jennie that her lord had fallen fast asleep.
It was then she began to shake with muddled distress and anger. Her looking glass told her that she was pretty. But obviously her husband did not think so.
One of the wedding guests had decided to serenade the bridal couple, and his pleasant tenor voice floated in through the window on the still summer air. It was a familiar Scotch ballad made famous by Mrs. Mountain, who had sung it at Vauxhall. The sweet, lilting notes echoed in Jennie’s ears like a dirge.
Kirkcaldy is a bonny place,
