The Marquis Takes a Bride

by M C Beaton

  Jennie sat as rigidly as a statue as the carriage jolted down the rutted drive. She was tortured with guilt.

  “I hardly ever thought of them these past weeks,” she murmured aloud. “Perhaps I could have saved them had I been more dutiful. Oh, poor Guy, he will suffer as much as I, for he loved them dearly.”

  The image of the Guy of her childhood came back before her eyes, gentle and smiling, and she suddenly ached for his comforting presence.

  As soon as she reached her rooms at the local inn, Jennie sat down to write a letter to Guy. She and no one else must break the terrible news to him. After all, he was all she had to cling to now, the only family she had left.

  Guy Chalmers put down the tear-stained letter with a triumphant smile and slowly swung around to face his visitor, Alice Waring.

  Alice had decided to call on Guy before attending Almack’s subscription ball. She no longer bore Guy any ill-will, having felt that the Earl of Freize had settled the score for her by humiliating Guy that night at the opera. Despite the chill of the evening, she was wearing a pale pink Indian muslin gown, damped to reveal the most of her charms. Diamonds—a gift from the Earl—blazed at her throat and in her hair.

  She had called on Guy since she still nourished a curiousity about the Marquis’ marriage and the arrival of Jennie’s letter had interrupted her questions.

  “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” she laughed. “Has someone left you a fortune?”

  “By God, I think they have,” said Guy exultantly. “My dear cousin informs me that those old quizzes, Lord and Lady Bemyss, have gone to meet their Maker. Lord Charles didn’t hold with females inheriting money and he had the good sense to pop off before Jennie produced any brats. Oh, my stars! How rich he must have been! Stupid old miser.”

  “Often people considered by all the world to have been misers shock them by dying and revealing that they were, in fact, abyssmally poor all along,” said Alice scornfully.

  “Not he,” cried Guy. “Look you, I used to wait until he had his afternoon nap and I would check his business papers. Anyway, mean as he was, he never raised the tenants’ taxes or rents in all his long lifetime. By George! What a shock they will receive when I arrive on the scene. I’ll have every man Jack of them paying double.”

  “Yes,” murmured Alice. “I can see you in the role of wicked landlord, throwing widows and orphans out into the snow.”

  “So,” went on Guy with a sneer, “you can take yourself off, my dear doxy. I have no more use for you!”

  “You never were any use anyway,” said Alice, her good humor unimpaired. “You are not much of a man.”

  “Get out!” said Guy with a dangerous glint in his eye.

  “Oh, I’m going, I’m going,” said Alice. “But, hark on, Guy Chalmers. Insult me no further or I shall tell that cousin of yours of your true nature.”

  “What do I care?” laughed Guy. “Tell the world and his wife! Rich people like me do not need to worry about social blandishments.”

  Alice shivered and pulled her ermine cloak up around her bare shoulders. “Well, my late collaborator,” she said, rising languidly to her feet, “think on this piece of advice, for I have learned it in a hard school. Wish revenge and hate on the world and that is exactly what you will get back… double fold. Good day to you, Mr. Chalmers.”

  But Guy’s head was once more bent over the letter and a smile of triumph played on his lips.

  Just wait until that will was read!

  The will was read three days after the funeral of Lord and Lady Bemyss, in the drawing room of the Marquis of Charrington’s town house.

  Only Jennie, Guy and the Marquis were present. The lawyer, Mr. Humphreys, was even older than his late client and his thin, frail voice echoed around the room as he at last began to read from the papers in front of him. Snow fell gently outside the windows.

  Mr. Humphreys began with a long list of bequests to Lord Charles’ old servants, many of whom, Guy was pleased to note, were already dead.

  He suddenly heard the sound of his name and sat very still. “To Mr. Guy Chalmers I leave five hundred guineas with the earnest plea that he will not immediately dissipate it in some low gambling hell.” And as Guy sat rigid with shock, the elderly voice went on. “The bulk of my estate, I leave to my dear granddaughter, Jennifer, Marchioness of Charrington, secure in the knowledge that it will be expertly managed for her by her husband….” The voice droned on, describing the extent of Lord Charles’ fortune in detail. Guy had been right in only one thing. Lord Charles had, indeed, been a very wealthy man.

  Guy felt he would die of an apoplexy. The will had said “Jennifer, Marchioness of Charrington” and had therefore been changed after Jennie’s marriage. But he would never achieve the revenge he thirsted for if he showed his hate. As Shakespeare so rightly said, “One may smile and smile, and be a villain.” He was about to turn around in his chair to twinkle boyishly at Jennie who, he knew, was seated behind him by the fireplace, when the voice of the lawyer again caught his attention.

  “Should my beloved granddaughter, Jennifer, die childless, then the bulk of my estate, my moneys and my properties will pass to my great-nephew, Mr. Guy Chalmers.”

  Chemmy stood by the fireplace, leaning his arm along the mantle and watching the back of Guy’s head. He suddenly wished very much to see his face.

  When the reading of the will was over, Jennie was inclined to be tearful and apologetic to Guy. How wicked of Grandpapa! He should have left dear Guy more. And Guy smiled and disclaimed.

  As the Marquis led Mr. Humphreys out to the hall, Guy waited until he was out of earshot and then playfully seized Jennie by the hands and swung her around.

  “Poor Jennie,” he said ruefully. “Had Lord Charles only died a little earlier, you would not have had to endure this farce of a marriage!”

  “Oh, Grandpapa!” said Jennie, her eyes filling with tears. “No, I do not complain about my marriage, Guy. I am glad I married Chemmy now. At least before he died, Grandpapa had no worries about me.”

  Little hypocrite, thought Guy viciously. But he said aloud in a tender voice, “Ah, how brave you are, my little cousin. I shall always be here by your side, Jennie, to take care of you. You know I love you and will always care for you.” He dropped her hands abruptly as Chemmy strolled into the room.

  “I must speed you on your way, Chalmers,” said the Marquis amiably. “My wife has been under a considerable strain these past few days and I feel she should rest.”

  “Of course,” said Guy, all solicitation. He pressed Jennie’s hand to his lips, bowed to the Marquis and took his leave suddenly anxious to be alone—to plot and plan.

  Although Guy called assiduously at the mansion in Albemarle Street, he was steadfastly refused admittance. Her ladyship was always “resting.” Jennie had, in fact, settled into a solitary life, mourning for her dead grandparents, having found out too late how much she had loved them. Her husband was an easy and undemanding companion and her tutor, Mr. Porteous, called daily to further her education.

  A blustery spring blew past and soon the London Season came around again. Jennie began to dress in half-mourning and the Marquis informed her that it would be quite in order for her to attend balls and parties, provided she did not dance.

  All of a sudden, Jennie was anxious to be out in the world again and, like a butterfly emerging from a kind of literary cocoon, she escaped from Mr. Porteous’ teaching and books into the sunshine of calls on acquaintances and drives in the Park.

  Her first surprise on emerging from her seclusion was to find that Sally Byles had “an understanding” with Mr. Deighton and that the engagement was about to be announced.

  Sally had emerged from her puppy fat and was now a slim, pretty debutante, radiant with happiness. To Sally, Perry Deighton was her shining knight in armor and all she seemed to want to do was to talk about his manifold merits by the hour. Jennie was at first amused, wondering how anyone as spirited as Sally could love
the prim and censorious Mr. Deighton. Then she began to feel qualms of jealousy. Since the death of her grandparents, her husband had been urbane and polite but had refrained from any of those kisses and caresses which had disturbed her so much.

  She was returning from a visit to Sally and was being helped from her carriage by a footman when, with a leaping of her senses, she saw the slim, debonair figure of her cousin, Guy, bearing down on her.

  “Oh, Guy, how I have neglected you,” cried Jennie, immediately contrite.

  “How slim you are,” smiled Guy, feeling his sun shine again. Jennie was very obviously not expecting a Charrington heir. He decided not to tell her that he had been refused admission to her home for fear she might have changed and would not wish to offend her husband. But ascertaining that Chemmy was from home, he let Jennie bring him into the drawing room and listened with disbelieving amazement to her tale of her months of mourning for her grandparents. And who shall blame Mr. Chalmers for his cynicism? No one really knows for sure the thoughts or emotions of another and, therefore, one credits other persons with one’s own faults, beliefs and humors—particularly one’s faults.

  Guy made sympathetic noises while he privately felt a growing admiration for Jennie. What a little actress!

  “I believe I shall see you at the Tremayne musicale this evening,” said Guy, proud to have secured such an irreproachable invitation for himself.

  Jennie nodded. “It will be my first party since… since…” her voice faltered.

  Guy pressed her hand, thinking impatiently that she was overdoing her broken-hearted act a trifle.

  Guy heard the sound of the Marquis returning and hastily took his leave. Chemmy, who was standing in the hall with Mr. Porteous, the tutor, gave him a civil nod, but the craggy Scotchman gave him a strange look from under his shaggy brows.

  Jennie applied herself impatiently to her lessons for the rest of the afternoon. She found herself hoping that Guy would be very attentive to her that evening and that Chemmy would notice. Her husband sometimes did not even seem to notice she was a female!

  The heavy brogue of her tutor broke into her thoughts. “I think, my leddy, that you have maistered a fair copperplate. We will finish today in this fashion. I will read you this passage from Cicero’s De amicitia which you will write out for me. ‘Nature ordains friendship with relatives, but it is never very stable.’ Aye, just so.”

  The Tremayne’s musicale was an elegant affair. Jennie was flushed and happy to be back at a party again. She looked very pretty in her half-mourning of lavender with touches of black. Guy was as attentive as she had hoped but her amiable husband smiled lazily on them both with unimpaired good humor.

  A buffet supper was to be served in the conservatory after the recital and, as the chairs scraped back and people rose to their feet, Jennie noticed with a bitter little pang that Alice Waring was of the company.

  Mrs. Waring was dressed in lavender also, but clinging and revealing lavender muslin, which seemed to mock Jennie’s sedate half-mourning.

  A magnificent collar of diamonds flashed on her creamy neck and a fairy-tale tiara of diamonds flashed in the gold of her hair. The Marquis had crossed to her side and was bending his head towards her, laughing at something she was saying.

  Jennie became aware that Guy was studying the conflicting emotions on her face and said hurriedly, “What magnificent diamonds Mrs. Waring has on. I wonder if the Charrington diamonds are half as beautiful. Chemmy must have forgotten to give them to me. I must remind him.”

  Guy had such a sudden, brilliant, dazzling idea that he nearly choked. Hurriedly composing himself, he said in a low, sad voice. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Jennie.”

  “Why?” demanded Jennie, her eyes wide with amazement.

  “Oh, my wicked tongue,” said Guy. “Never mind.”

  Jennie looked from Guy to the diamonds decorating Alice Waring and back to Guy again.

  “If you do not tell me what you were about to say, I shall never speak to you again,” retorted Jennie, her voice with a shrill edge.

  “Hush, now. Forget it.”

  “Tell me,” hissed Jennie. “Tell me, now.”

  “My dear,” said Guy with a great show of reluctance, “I will only tell you what I know if you promise never to tell your husband. I do not wish to be killed.”

  “I’ll promise you anything,” said Jennie, stamping her foot.

  “Very well,” sighed Guy. “If you must know, the diamonds…”

  “Come. Let me escort you to supper, dear heart,” came the voice of the Marquis. Guy hurriedly retreated.

  Jennie did not know what she ate, she did not know what Chemmy said. She picked at the food on her plate and gulped down a great quantity of wine and watched and watched for some opportunity to talk to Guy again.

  To her horror, she heard the Marquis suggesting that they take their leave. Other guests were already departing. The Marquis turned his head to greet a friend and Jennie seized her opportunity. Muttering something about needing to repair her dress, she fled from the room, throwing Guy a pleading glance as she went. She ran lightly up the stairs and then paused half way and looked down into the hall until she saw Guy emerging from the conservatory.

  “Well?” she whispered urgently. “Well?”

  And Guy’s mocking whisper floated back up the stairs, “The diamonds Alice is wearing are the Charrington diamonds.”

  The conservatory doors swung open behind him and a rush of noise poured into the hall as the Marquis and several other guests appeared.

  Jennie went slowly and numbly down to join her husband. Silently, she listened to his pleasant drawl as they jolted home in the carriage. Silently, she sat in the drawing room with him, lifting the mixing bowls and cannisters out of the rosewood teapoy, preparatory to making the nightly pot of tea which they had become accustomed to sharing.

  “You are very sad and worried-looking tonight,” said the Marquis in a more serious voice than he normally used. “I had hoped your distress over your grandparents’ death would have abated by now.”

  Jennie’s numbness fled leaving her shaking from a series of violent emotions—jealousy, fear, loneliness, and hate for this two-faced thing of a husband who had just turned out not to be the paragon she had become to believe.

  “I’ll tell you why I’m sad,” she said in a light voice which belied the violence of her feelings. “I haven’t really been mourning for poor grandpapa. I have been mourning for myself.”

  She flashed a glittering smile in the direction of her large husband and then proceeded to pour tea with a steady hand.

  “Yes, indeed,” she went on, “if only the old man had died sooner, then I would have had money enough and not have had to endure this farce of a marriage.”

  “You’re drunk,” said her husband.

  “In vino veritas,” mocked his wife.

  Jennie had often in the past hoped to provoke some violent reaction in her husband. She looked up into his eyes and realized she had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams.

  He was standing over her, staring down at her with his blue eyes burning with rage.

  “Get to your feet, madam,” he said in a very gentle voice. “I married you for an heir and we shall do something about begetting one tonight for, by God, by tomorrow, the sight of you will make me impotent.”

  Jennie shook with fear and stared pleadingly up at him. She longed to hurl the story of the Charrington diamonds in his face, but she had given Guy her word, and for all her spoiled and willful behavior, Jennie was still the soul of honor.

  “Please, Chemmy…” she began.

  He picked her up in his arms, ignoring her cries and pleas and struggles and carried her upstairs to her bedroom.

  He threw her on the bed and held her down by the simple expedient of grasping her neck in his long fingers and forcing her head back on the pillows. Deaf to her broken sobs and cries, he stripped her naked with the other hand, the loose and flimsy styles of the day making
it all too easy.

  “This is rape,” she gasped.

  “It will not be,” he said grimly, sinking on to the bed beside her.

  He began to kiss her fiercely and passionately from the top of her head to the soles of her feet and only when she finally lay trembling and unresisting in his arms, did he remove his own clothes.

  At one point before dawn, she turned in his arms and laid her head on his broad chest and fell quietly and peacefully asleep like a very young child.

  The Marquis of Charrington lay very still in the gray light and stared down at the top of her curls. He then stared at the curling Chinese dragons on the bed hangings and wondered how he could possibly have been such a fool. He had, despite his protests to the contrary, fallen in love at first sight. He had given his heart and his name to what he had thought was an endearing, willful child. But the child had shown herself to be the type of woman with which he was all too familiar, hard and grasping with a bank ledger instead of a heart. He had put down her passion for her cousin to nothing more than a girlish crush which she would easily outgrow. But they were well-matched, Jennie and Guy. His little child-bride had only married him for his money. Had she been able to get her hands on her grandfather’s fortune before the wedding, she would have laughed in his face.

  Though he was bitter and disappointed, it did not strike him as odd that he, who had prided himself on loyalty, could trust and believe in someone, then later believe that this someone was everything that was cheap and conniving.

  The fact was that the small ember of jealousy for Guy had suddenly burst into a roaring flame and he would have seized on anything at that moment to show that Jennie was not worthy of his love.

  He had been feted and petted and sought after for so long because of his wealth and his title. He believed Jennie to be no better than the rest. To date, the Marquis had had a pleasant life paying for his pleasures. Now he was paying for them, not in gold, but in humiliation and rage.