Married to a Perfect Stranger

by Jane Ashford

  “We should find the buffet and fill some plates and discover a secluded place to talk,” said Mary.

  “I don’t think seclusion is likely to be…” Conolly began.

  “Perfect,” said Lady Caroline, linking an arm with Mary’s and setting off.

  They did manage to find a circle of chairs well away from the crowds. And in the face of Arthur’s defection and Caroline’s glee, Conolly had to concede that they had engineered Fordyce’s humiliation.

  “Even though I thought it unwise,” said John.

  “I couldn’t let him get away with treating you and Mary the way he did,” Caroline insisted. “Especially because I…gave him the opportunity. I had to make it right. And we came across this monkey.”

  “Came across?”

  Caroline shrugged. “Well, searched out then.”

  “It isn’t really a golden monkey, is it?” Mary said. “Are there golden monkeys?”

  John turned to look at her. “Surely you were not in on this?”

  “No, but I should have figured it out, what with one thing and another.”

  “You heard me talking to your maid about the hair dye.” Caroline shrugged. “I knew you thought it odd. They do have golden monkeys in China. I found it in a book. But this was just a regular monkey.”

  “A regular devil,” Conolly added. “The owner was so pleased to be rid of the beast that he practically paid me.” He shook his head.

  “You actually dyed a monkey?” John couldn’t quite believe it.

  “A deuce of a job it was, too,” Conolly replied.

  “Was that when it scratched you?”

  “It did that every chance it got, the wretch. I had no idea monkeys had such a set of claws. Or teeth.”

  “You told me you were attacked by your aunt’s cat,” John accused.

  “I told you she has a vicious cat, which she does,” his friend replied.

  “Lying by misdirection.”

  “I work at the Foreign Office,” said Conolly with a grin.

  “The poor creature,” Mary said.

  Lady Caroline had the grace to look contrite. “I spoke to Kate again. She assured me the dye did no harm. Its fur will grow in brown. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to…”

  “Perhaps?” John interjected.

  “The dyeing it part,” Caroline said, unrepentant. “Otherwise it worked wonderfully.”

  “Did you train it to do that?” Mary wondered. “With the skirts?”

  Arthur giggled over his nearly empty plate of food. Conolly made a face. “We had no need to train the beast,” he said. “It had every bad habit possible to a monkey. And some I would have thought impossible. Although the fellow who sold it to us might have said that it…”

  “Ran under ladies’ skirts,” finished John dryly.

  “I swear we never imagined anything like that.” Conolly looked sheepish. “We just thought she would…misbehave.”

  “Well, I think you’ve gone mad. If anyone connects you to…”

  “I was exceedingly careful, John.” Conolly’s tone was serious now. “Everything was done through several intermediaries, or people we can trust absolutely.”

  Arthur held up a hand as if taking an oath. “I’d die before I told anyone else. I told ’em if you asked me, I’d have to let on.”

  “The connection will not come out,” Conolly finished. “I like my job.”

  “And we’ve found the poor beast a good home,” said Caroline with an air of great virtue. “Which she did not have before.” When they all turned to look at her, with varying degrees of approbation, she giggled. “Edmund Fordyce’s face…” Her eyes locked with Conolly’s. He snorted. Mary chortled. Arthur started to cackle. John felt a bubble of mirth rise in his own chest.

  In the next moment, they were all laughing like lunatics.

  Twenty-three

  Sitting in front of the parlor fire on a cold December Sunday, John Bexley dangled a piece of string, twirling it rapidly to make the end wiggle. The gray kitten in his wife’s lap rose on still wobbly hind legs to bat at it, then tumbled over on its back. Undaunted, he attacked the string with all four paws from that position.

  “What shall we call him?” Mary wondered.

  “Mouser?”

  She laughed. “Mrs. Tanner might like that, though she wanted an older cat who could ‘get right to work.’”

  The kitten captured the string in its mouth and worried it with needlelike teeth. John tugged a little and elicited a tiny growl. “Arthur got off with no problems?”

  Mary nodded. “We all walked with him to the stagecoach. Even Kate, to my surprise. I spoke to the driver about looking after him. His father will meet the coach at Bath.”

  “Has he reconciled to the idea that Arthur wants to study engines and mechanical processes?”

  “So he says in his latest letter. I think he’s grateful that Arthur wants to study anything at all. He thanked you for ‘setting the boy straight.’” Mary grinned impishly at him.

  John grimaced in response. “An undeserved accolade! Although I still cannot see how Arthur interpreted what I told him as encouragement to join Conolly and Lady Caroline’s…”

  “Adventure?” Mary put in.

  John shook his head at her, then laughed.

  The kitten flopped over in Mary’s lap, wrapping the string around its chubby body. She freed it gently. “It all ended well, after you took him to see that steam locomotive to…redirect his thoughts.”

  “And the coin stamp at the mint. Don’t forget that.”

  “How could I?” Mary replied, widening her dark eyes. “It sounded so fascinating. Did you know that it has the capacity to…?”

  “Stop!” John groaned. “If I had to hear Arthur enumerate the virtues of that machine one more time, I think I would have strangled the lad. I’m sure steam engines are a great invention, but their inner workings are astonishingly tedious.”

  Mary nodded, conceding the point. “To us, and not at all to Arthur. It just shows how we all have our own unique talents.”

  Their eyes met in a moment of perfect understanding. Smiles full of tenderness lit their faces.

  Nancy, the new maid, came in with the tea tray and set it on a small table near Mary’s elbow. “Thank you,” Mary said. She lifted the kitten. “Take…Mouser to the kitchen, please. He will try to climb into the milk jug.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nancy replied, with a curtsy and a smile.

  She seemed quite happy with her position, Mary thought gratefully. And she got on well with Mrs. Tanner, even at the times when Kate visited and stirred things up. Mary poured the tea. “So what are we going to do about Christmas?” she asked her husband. “My mother will make a great fuss if we don’t go.”

  “As will mine.” John took the cup she offered and sipped. He’d been able to make certain that George’s nosy friend heard about his commendation from the Foreign Office for extraordinary service. George had been very frustrated when he asked what it was for and was told the matter was confidential. Mary’s part in foiling the assassination attempt, and her new responsibilities, were more secret. Could he bear to see his family treat her carelessly without being able to say anything?

  “I was thinking we might spend a few days with each one,” Mary said. “A few days only.”

  “They expect much longer visits,” he pointed out.

  She shrugged. “Perhaps they must learn to expect something different.”

  “We can hope.” He gave her a wry smile as he accepted a macaroon from the plate she held out.

  “I thought we might take some special…gifts.”

  “Of course we must…” He noticed the spark dancing in her eyes. “What sort of gifts?”

  “Wait a moment.” Mary rose and went out. In a few minutes she was back, holding two long rolls of pap
er tied with string. She carried them to the table under the front windows, where she removed the string and spread them out, one on top of the other. She had to weight down the corners to keep them flat.

  John rose to look. Mary had glued together sheets from her sketchbook to form a bigger page. And there she had drawn a group of people, placed as in a formal portrait. A middle-aged couple sat in chairs in the center. Five younger women were grouped around them in a loose crescent. Mary was among them. “Your family,” John said.

  She nodded. “I left out my sisters’ husbands because the page was getting crowded. Besides, they are…”

  “Negligible?”

  She laughed. “Not at all! At least…not in their own homes, where I’m sure they are benevolent monarchs.”

  “Only in your mother’s?” John examined the faces. Of course he did not know the Bexleys as Mary did, but like all of her drawings this one revealed much. Her mother was so obviously the center of the family. Something in the way she sat and the lines of her face told a viewer that she organized and ruled this household, with Mr. Bexley’s amiable agreement. And covert refusal to take responsibility, John thought. Here was a man who enjoyed the luxury of blaming the difficult things on his wife. He glanced at Mary. Did she see that in her father? He wouldn’t have liked seeing such a thing himself.

  He turned back to the drawing. Mary’s sisters—John had to think a moment to name them all: Eliza, Lucy, Sophia, and Petra—showed varying temperaments. Something deep inside him thanked God he hadn’t been married off to Sophia, sure of the feeling without really knowing why. There was much more to see, but he couldn’t take it all in at once.

  “It’s the oddest thing,” Mary said as he gazed. “I realized I had never drawn my mother. Well, not since…”

  “Since?”

  “When I was eleven, I decided to create a special portrait for her,” she said, her eyes on the page. “As a Christmas gift, actually, I’d forgotten that. I spent hours on it. I took such great care. I thought it would please her…and show her…”

  Her voice trailed off. John had an urge to take her hand. “But it didn’t,” he said.

  Mary shook her head. “She seemed quite…shocked.”

  “I’d give a guinea to know what she saw in it. Some aspect of herself that she didn’t wish to acknowledge?”

  His wife turned to stare at him. Slowly, her melancholy expression shifted, and she began to smile. “Perhaps. I wonder if she remembers that?”

  “She may have some memory. More than likely it doesn’t match yours. People—families—seem to recall incidents from one’s childhood…quite selectively. In order to fit them into a settled story.”

  She looked much struck. “That’s very wise.”

  “Wise!” He shook his head.

  “It is!”

  She thought he was wise. And somehow, with her, through her, he had become so. John felt a bubble of joy in his chest that was becoming familiar but never old. “Dare I ask what is on the page underneath?”

  “I think you know.”

  He lifted the top page and set it aside. And there was his family, grouped in the same manner, except that it was only his mother in the center of the four brothers. It was sad that Mary had never been able to meet his father. “Do not attempt to argue with Frederick,” he said and was slightly startled at his own words. But it was plain to see that his eldest brother was not open to new ideas. He would never convince him to change his mind. It was amazing that Mary could catch this when she had met him just a few times.

  “Roger may not be right. I only spoke with him for a few moments at the wedding.”

  Yet she had captured his youngest brother’s insouciance and humor, along with a fierce determination John hadn’t recognized till now. Suddenly, he was convinced that Roger’s ventures in India would be a great success. A little hesitant, he looked at the portrait of his mother. “Disappointed?” he said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I…” What about her life had put that discouragement in his mother’s eyes? He’d thought she was pleased and proud of her household and her sons—most of them. Was it his father’s early death, or…?

  “Are you disappointed? Of course I don’t know them as I do my own…”

  “No! It was…something I noticed.”

  Mary nodded as if she knew exactly what he meant. “Should I not have drawn…?”

  “If they are to be gifts, we must have them properly framed,” he said.

  “Are they?”

  She watched him. He understood the question in her eyes and felt that her answer was the same as his. “Great gifts,” he replied. This time he did take her hand. “We should go to your family first, as it’s farthest away, then stop at mine on the way home.”

  “It’s a great deal of traveling for such short stays,” Mary remarked.

  He nodded, still a bit preoccupied.

  “It’s a pity that we can’t just stay home and invite Caroline and Mr. Conolly for Christmas dinner,” she said.

  “They will be with their own families,” replied John absently. He was imagining his mother unwrapping the portrait, George and Frederick looking at it. He would see if he could find something to say to his mother that lightened that disappointment behind her eyes. And if he did, would she begin to see him differently as well?

  “They might rather be with each other,” Mary replied. When he turned to look at her, she added, “Caroline and Conolly. I think they are becoming attached.”

  “Doesn’t she come from one of those families Conolly spoke of? Who wouldn’t consider him a good match?”

  “Caroline’s grandmother would take her part.”

  John felt a twinge of concern for his friend. “Her father is the important one in the matter of marriage. And our neighbor may turn out to be more conventional than you imagine.”

  “Eleanor wants Caroline to be happy,” Mary insisted. “As do I.” She cocked her head at him. “Mr. Conolly too.”

  John’s mind filled with a host of complications. “I don’t think it’s wise to interfere in something so…”

  “But I am a ‘managing woman,’” she interrupted.

  He nodded to acknowledge that he remembered—and regretted—the phrase. “You are an extraordinary woman, a talented woman, and the love of my life, but…”

  “But…?” Her dark brows arched. Her smile was rueful.

  He gazed at the lovely figure next to him, dearer than words could express, and thought how amazingly fortunate he had been in the end. His life could so easily have gone otherwise. If he hadn’t been sent to China, if he hadn’t returned changed, to find an entrancing stranger, where would he be now? How drab and pointless his existence might feel. Overcome with gratitude and love, he said, “And I trust your judgment implicitly.”

  Fortunately, his cup was nearly empty when Mary threw her arms around him, so only a few drops of tea fell, unnoticed, onto the sofa.

  Order Jane Ashford's next book

  Charmed and Dangerous

  On sale June 2015

  Order Jane Ashford's next book

  Charmed and Dangerous

  On sale June 2015

  Read on for an excerpt from

  The Bride Insists

  The schoolroom of the Benson household was agreeably cozy on this bitter winter afternoon. A good fire kept the London cold at bay, so that one hardly noticed the sleet scratching at the windows. In one corner, there were comfortable armchairs for reading any one of the many books on the shelves. A costly globe rested in another corner, nearly as tall as the room’s youngest occupant. Scattered across a large oak table, perfect for lessons, were a well-worn abacus, pens and pencils, and all the other tools necessary for learning.

  “I am utterly bored,” declared seventeen-year-old Bella Benson, sprawled on the sofa under the dormer window. “I ha
te winter. Will the season never start?”

  “You could finish that piece of embroidery for…”

  “You are not my governess any longer,” the girl interrupted with a toss of her head. “I don’t have to do what you say. I’ve left the schoolroom.”

  And yet here you are, thought Clare Greenough. But she kept the sentiment to herself, as she did almost all of her personal opinions. Clare’s employer set the tone of this household, and it was peevish. All three children had picked up Mrs. Benson’s whiny, complaining manner, and Clare was not encouraged to reprimand them when they used it. “It’s true that you needn’t be in the schoolroom,” she replied mildly. She sorted through a pile of paper labels marked with the names of world capitals. The child who could correctly attach the largest number of these to their proper places on the huge globe would get a cream cake for tea. Clare had an arrangement with Cook to provide the treats. It was always easier to make a game of lessons than to play the stern disciplinarian, particularly in this house.

  “I won’t do what you say either,” chimed in twelve-year-old Susan Benson, as usual following her older sister’s lead.

  “Me neither,” agreed ten-year-old Charles.

  Clare suppressed a sigh, not bothering to correct his grammar. Charles would leave for school in the spring. Only a lingering cough had kept him home this term. He was hardly her responsibility any longer. Bella would be presented to society in a few weeks, effectively disappearing from the world of this room. And Clare would be left with Susan, a singularly unappealing child. Clare felt guilty at the adjective, but the evidence of a year’s teaching was overwhelming. Susan had no curiosity or imagination and, of the three children, was most like her never-satisfied, irritable mother. She treated Clare as a possession designed to entertain her, and then consistently refused to be entertained. The thought of being her main companion for another four years was exceedingly dreary. Surely Clare could find a better position?

  But leaving a post without a clear good reason was always a risk. There would be questions that Clare couldn’t answer with the simple truth: My charge is dull and intractable. I couldn’t bear another moment of her company. Inconvenienced, Mrs. Benson might well refuse to give her a reference, which would make finding a new position nearly impossible. Clare wondered if she could…nudge Susan into asking for a new governess? Possibly—if she was very clever and devious, never giving the slightest hint that it was something she wanted. Or, perhaps with the others gone, Susan would improve. Wasn’t it her duty to see that she did? Clare examined the girl’s pinched expression and habitual pout. Mrs. Benson had undermined every effort Clare had made in that direction so far. It appeared to be a hopeless task.