by M C Beaton
“Infuriating man!” exclaimed Amaryllis. “Impertinence. He is no gentleman! I shall not marry him.”
But she did.
Amaryllis was to remember her wedding as being a very hole-in-the-corner affair. Foster and Mrs. Jarrett stood sentinel at the door of the drawing room. Mr. Bagshot was best man, Miss Wilkins maid of honor.
The rain pattered steadily against the windows. The wind howled in the chimneys. Both Amaryllis and Lord Philip were in morning dress. The drawing room with its rented furniture had the slightly cold, shabby air about it that furniture has when it does not belong to the occupants of the house.
Amaryllis was wearing a lilac-and-gray morning gown which looked suspiciously to her groom like half-mourning.
He was impeccable in blue swallowtail coat and knee breeches.
The gentleman who was to perform the service was weaving slightly and hanging onto a lectern, which had been set up in the drawing room, for balance. He was the vicar of Saint Twoddy’s-in-the-Fields, and he emanated spirits rather than spirituality. He prayed long and incoherently for the Dear Departed while the ladies knelt and the gentlemen stood with their hats over their faces. Lord Philip had deliberately chosen a prelate as far removed from London Society as possible. Now he wished he had attended more to character than to geography.
When it finally dawned on his small congregation that the vicar, Mr. Jumbles, was under the impression that he was officiating at a funeral rather than a wedding and Mr. Bagshot stepped forward to whisper in that gentleman’s ear, Amaryllis was prey to a strong fit of the giggles and Lord Philip was rigid with anger.
The bewildered prelate focused his rheumy eyes on the couple before him, fumbled through the pages of The Book of Common Prayer, and to everyone’s relief, obeyed Mr. Bagshot’s muttered instructions to “get on with it.”
Mr. Jumbles caught hold of enough sobriety to marry them before relapsing into a wine fog. He exhorted everyone not to cast the first stone and while they were wondering when he would either come to his senses or be done, he quite suddenly collapsed on the floor and went to sleep.
The subdued party filed into the dining room for the wedding breakfast, leaving him to sleep it off.
Miss Wilkins was so upset she could not eat. She blamed Lord Philip for this mockery of a marriage. Mr. Bagshot was feeling guilty. He wished he had never suggested to his friend that a rich heiress might be the answer. Lord Philip was wishing himself a thousand miles away. He dreaded to think what his bride would say when she found he had very little money. He tried to remind himself that his squeamish guilt made him possibly unique among the members of the London Season. Great lip service was paid to love—but everyone who was anyone knew it was something you found outside of marriage.
Well, he had promised to endow her with all his worldly goods—viz., one army pension, one beggarly allowance from his father, and his tailor’s bills.
By the time the meal limped to its final course—cheese and red herrings—the wedding party was mute and depressed. Mr. Bagshot thought fervently that when he took his Priscilla to the altar, the whole of London town would know about it.
At last Lord Philip appeared to make a Herculean effort to rouse himself. He told amusing stories, he positively chattered, he passed the decanters around the table and begged Foster and Mrs. Jarrett to join them, he took wine with Mr. Bagshot, he took wine with Mr. Foster, he took wine with his new bride and finally raised a brimmer to Miss Wilkins.
His gaiety, however forced, was infectious and the little company began to relax and chatter quite easily. Flushed with wine and dizzy with food, Amaryllis almost managed to forget she was married, until, at last, her brand new husband put down his glass and turned to her with a smile. “It is time we were on our way,” he said.
The couple were to spend their wedding night at a posting house, near Richmond, famed for its food. Since they had only a little way to go, Lord Philip had suggested it would be more romantic if they dispensed with maid and valet.
The reason was that he hoped to tell his bride as soon as possible that his financial situation was not what he had led her to believe. And since Amaryllis also planned to make her confession, she had readily agreed to this rather bizarre arrangement.
Soon the happy couple were seated high on the box of Lord Philip’s traveling coach. The rain had ceased to fall and a chilly, blustery wind was bustling about the London streets, bringing memories of November.
Foster and Mrs. Jarrett returned to the house after waving good-bye to their new master and set about decanting the reverend into a hack.
Lord Philip drove at breakneck speed. His leaders were a bit wild but his wheelers soon steadied them, and Amaryllis began to enjoy the exhilarating pace and realize that the deed was done, and as soon as she had confessed to his lordship that her estates were mortgaged to the hilt, then she could be comfortable again.
She had envisaged a quiet thatched country inn, but the Seven Wanderers turned out to be a modern posting house with an air of quiet luxury.
She was surprised and upset to find that Lord Philip had bespoke their rooms under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Baxter. Lord Philip hurriedly explained that he did not want any passing traveler to learn their identities and spoil their first night. It all seemed sensible enough but she could not rid herself of an uneasy feeling that she was a Scarlet Woman and not wed at all.
If she had not felt so guilty herself, she would have been completely outraged. But she was reluctantly glad of the secrecy, and forced down her niggling worries.
Soon they were alone over dinner in their private parlor. A cheerful little fire crackled away busily on the hearth to dispense the chill of the English summer. Amaryllis talked idly of this and that but could not bring herself to mention Beaton Malden.
People in Society considered it vulgar to talk about their estates anyway. It was an age when people boasted of their place in the ranks of the elegantly idle. It was unfashionable to know the extent of one’s resources. One did not describe one’s land but only one’s rent roll. So-and-so was worth so many thousands a year. It was never mentioned where these thousands came from.
Lord Philip talked wittily and at length of his military service in India, and their first meal alone together passed cheerfully enough until the port and walnuts, when that large double bed in Amaryllis’s room began to loom on the horizon. Amaryllis began to wish they had talked of more intimate matters but, as it was, it was two married strangers who finally arose and gloomily braced themselves to face a night of passion.
Lord Philip had bespoke two rooms and Amaryllis had a wild hope that perhaps she might not have to fulfill her marital duties on the first night, but, as he turned to leave her outside her bedroom door, he said over his shoulder, “I shall join you presently,” and she suddenly felt very lost and forlorn.
Well, she thought resolutely, at least I am not a virgin. All I need to do is think very hard about something else until it is all over.
The fact that it had been marvelous when he had kissed her she did not account as much when it came to the night’s performance facing her. Kissing was something else.
She had never enjoyed the intimacies bestowed on her by her late husbands. But then, what woman did?
She gave a last brush to her hair and smoothed down the lace of her nightgown, tied a saucy wisp of a nightcap on her head, and climbed into the four-poster bed and snuggled down under the quilt.
Amaryllis was just about to fall asleep when the door opened and her husband walked in. The small, high-ceilinged room was faintly lit by the red glow of the dying fire and when he removed his dressing gown, she was startled to see that he was naked under it.
Neither of her husbands had ever come to bed naked, both elderly gentlemen having a preference for voluminous flannel nightshirts.
She suddenly wished he would speak. Say something. Anything.
He spoke.
“Amaryllis, my love, there is something I must tell you….”
>
She was sitting up in bed and, in the faint rosy light, her eyes looked enormous in her small face.
“No matter. It can wait until morning,” he said, climbing into bed.
Amaryllis sank back against the pillow. She lay rigid as a board, eyes staring up into the blackness, hands clenched into fists. Ten minutes, fifteen at the most, and then it would all be over.
He gathered her in his arms and began to kiss her, slow, long, lingering kisses. At first she was too frightened to respond but at last her senses took over and she began to return his kisses with increasing passion until, with an impatient sound in the back of his throat, he threw back the bedclothes and eased her nightgown over her head and threw it on the floor.
All at once he was on her, inside her, around her. Commanding her senses, controlling her body, until she cried out in a wild glory of surrender and at last subsided limp and shaking and totally in love under his relaxed body.
She fell asleep only to be aroused, somewhere around dawn, by his busy, exploring hands and demanding mouth.
Again, Amaryllis, all passion spent, fell back over the cliff of sleep and did not awaken until a servant rattled at the doorknob, only to be sent away by Lord Philip’s imperative demand that they be left in peace.
Hungry and debilitated, nerves throbbing and burning beneath the naked skin, they made love a third time, aware this time that it was love they were making, both elated and afraid of their new commitment to each other.
It was two in the afternoon before they sat down to a combination of breakfast and dinner in their private parlor, sometimes gazing into each other’s eyes, sometimes gazing dreamily out at the green fields and winding river, smiling in the sunshine.
“Let us walk for a little, my love,” said Lord Philip at last. “There is something I must tell you.”
“I have something to say to you as well, Philip,” said Amaryllis shyly. She no longer felt afraid. He loved her and he would understand.
They walked hand in hand out of the inn and down through the pretty gardens which led to the river.
Lord Philip swung her around to face him, looking down at her intently, his handsome face serious.
“Amaryllis,” he said gently. “I fear I may have misled you as to the extent of my fortune. I am no nabob but a fairly penniless ex-soldier with a small pension.”
Amaryllis looked at him in dawning horror. “But your clothes… your horses and carriages….”
“I have paid for my horses but that is all. My tailor’s bills are quite staggering. It is all a facade. A man’s wealth is judged by the horseflesh he owns. You see, it was important to present myself as a wealthy man so that I could meet…” His voice trailed away.
“So that you could entrap a wealthy heiress,” said Amaryllis in a small, thin voice.
“Well, put like that it seems inhuman but, after all…”
“I have no money.”
“What!”
“I have no money,” said Amaryllis again. “I was hoping to repair my losses by making an advantageous marriage.”
The water chuckled lazily past, a little breeze whispered through the reeds by the river, high above a skylark poured down his summer song. There was a long silence.
“You tricked me,” said Lord Philip finally.
“I? I did not pose as a wealthy nabob. It was you, sirrah, who hustled me into this shameful marriage. And to add insult to injury, you pretended to love me… did you not?”
“At first,” began Lord Philip, “I did indeed pretend, but…”
“Ooooh!” breathed Amaryllis, putting her small hands up to her flaming face. She remembered her abject surrender of the night before. What had seemed like the ideal consummation of two people deeply in love now seemed like the vulgar writhings of abandoned lust. “Well, I only pretended to love you,” she said in a trembling voice. “I am a good actress. Very good.”
“Oh, yes, madam,” said Lord Philip grimly. “You fooled me.” His eyes were cold and hard. He wanted to hurt her. His mouth curled in disdain.
“Slut.”
“Mountebank!”
“Jade!”
“Sleazy, nasty, old man!”
“You are not exactly spring lamb yourself,” said his lordship in an icy rage. “I take it you have no assets whatsoever?”
Amaryllis thought furiously. Why had she allowed this rushed marriage? Her lawyers would soon have found out his penury had she allowed them to demand a marriage settlement. Now he probably owned Beaton Malden. But he should not have it. Never! She would come about.
“No,” she said baldly. “You have tailors’ bills. I have dressmakers’ bills. It will not help matters if we stand here bandying insults. The marriage must be made void.”
“I agree,” said Lord Philip savagely. “That reverend was so foxed that I doubt if he will remember a thing about it. You have only to tell your servants it was a joke….”
“I shall tell them the truth,” said Amaryllis coldly. “They will not talk and neither will Miss Wilkins. So you are free, my lord. Free to return to your hunting ground and seduce some other poor female.”
“That is exactly what I mean to do. And you?”
“This time,” said Amaryllis, “I shall find a gentleman.”
The summer wind played among the chestnut tresses of her hair and moved the soft muslin of her gown against her body. Lord Philip suddenly felt he would die from rage. If only she had said she loved him, then he would gladly have found a way they could both manage on his pension. But the fact that last night had meant nothing to her was past bearing.
He took a handful of sovereigns from his pocket and pressed them into her hand.
Amaryllis looked wonderingly down at the gold. “Pray, what is this for?”
“Oh,” he said carelessly, “I always pay my doxies.”
He hoped she would strike him, rage at him, show some emotion. But her beautiful eyes held a world of infinite contempt as she moved slowly away from him, across the sunny lawns, toward the inn.
He stayed for a long time, looking at the moving water. When he finally returned to the inn, it was to be told that his wife had commanded a post chaise and had left. She had also paid their shot at the inn.
He felt infinitely grubby.
And he hated her the more.
Four
Exhausted and close to tears, Amaryllis arrived back at the rented house in Green Street as the pale light of a perfect summer’s evening gilded the cobbles.
“Come into the drawing room, Foster,” said Amaryllis to her butler, “and bring Mrs. Jarrett with you. Also tell Miss Wilkins to join us immediately.”
Amaryllis sat in a high-backed chair, refusing to speak to Miss Wilkins until Foster and Mrs. Jarrett had joined them.
She asked the servants to sit down and to serve themselves wine and biscuits. Surprised, and somewhat alarmed at the rare honor, Foster and Mrs. Jarrett sat nervously on the very edge of a backless sofa and gingerly sipped small glasses of Vintage Yesterday. The few remaining cases of good wine were reserved for guests.
With only a slight tremor in her voice, Amaryllis began.
“You are all to forget about my marriage. It is null and void. Lord Philip has no money. I was deceived. He thought I was an heiress, or he would not have married me.”
“But his father is the Duke of Dunster,” exclaimed Miss Wilkins.
Foster gave a discreet cough. “The youngest son, I would like to point out.”
“Lord Philip has no money,” repeated Amaryllis firmly. “The reverend who performed the service was fortunately well to go. It is possible that he will not remember anything about it. There is no need for anyone to know. I shall just need to find a suitable husband.”
“But that will be bigamy,” said Miss Wilkins, raising her mittened hands in horror.
“So? If I do not wed soon, then perhaps our good servants will receive no wages at all,” replied Amaryllis.
“But, my lady,” burst out Mrs. Jar
rett, “I am sure me and Mr. Foster here could manage without wages until the estate begins to pay again—and that goes for the other servants. If you is in love with your good man—forgive me for being so bold—then it seems a shame to cast him aside like a withered glove.”
Despite her misery, Amaryllis smiled. “No, Mrs. Jarrett. I am not in love with Lord Philip so you need not consider him a… er… withered glove. Nor is he in love with me.”
Miss Wilkins studied her young mistress’s face, noticing the strain and the misery in her eyes.
“Have you not paused to consider that you deceived him?” she said gently.
“I shall tell you about it sometime, Tabby, but not now. Take my word that he did deceive me in a certain way that made me take him in dislike. I simply want you to know that I am still Lady Lovelace and I wish to forget about Lord Philip.
“I do not want to see him again, although I suppose I will have to since the world of Society is so small. Thank you all for your understanding. Foster and Mrs. Jarrett… you may go.”
The two upper servants rose to their feet and made their exit. When they were safely esconced in Mrs. Jarrett’s parlor and discussing a bottle of the best burgundy, Mrs. Jarrett suddenly said, “Well, it’s a rum to-do, Mr. Foster, and that’s the truth. It ain’t no use me a-looking for another situation because housekeepers’ jobs are as scarce as hens’ teeth.”
“And butlers’,” said Foster gloomily. “If Beaton Malden were only one of them grand palaces, perhaps we might make a bit o’ money. Did you know, Mrs. Jarrett, that the housekeeper of Warwick Castle retired the other day with thirty-five thousand pounds?”
Mrs. Jarrett nearly dropped her glass. “Thirty-five thousand pounds! How could a housekeeper make that kind of money?”
“Vails, Mrs. Jarrett. Vails. People always come in droves to see around the castle and she was the one who took them around and took the money.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Jarrett, the light of comprehension dawning on her pug face.
As well it might.
