A Most Unsuitable Bride

by Jane Toombs

  "Dr. Leicester informed me,” Edward said finally, “that you and Clive have been country friends for a number of years."

  Deirdre glanced at him, but he gave no sign his remark was anything more than an idle conversational gambit. “Clive spent his summers near my grandmother's home in East Sussex, where I grew up after the death of my mother."

  "You must be better acquainted with him than I am then, since I know him only casually."

  "We are, as you say, friends,” she told him, at the same time recalling Phoebe's assertion that a close friendship existed between the two men. Phoebe must have been misinformed.

  Again neither spoke for a time and again it was Edward who broke the silence. “Have you ever noticed how often men, and women as well, for that matter, often spend considerable time and energy in the pursuit of the unattainable?"

  "Do you refer to someone in particular?” Could he hinting that he had an interest in Phoebe, she wondered, who he well knew was betrothed to another?

  "No, I was merely thinking aloud, a habit I acquired in the wilds of Canada where I spent untold days with no company other than my own. It occurred to me that while one of the small tragedies of life is failing to get what you seek, a great tragedy is succeeding in getting it."

  She started to object, to dispute him, but then she frowned, admitting to herself that, in some cases, he might well be right.

  "Pray pay me no heed to my musings,” he said with a smile. “Some nights I sit into the late hours with my brandy and soda perfecting enigmatic remarks intended to astound and amaze the young ladies of my acquaintance."

  Young ladies such as Phoebe, Deirdre told herself. She could understand why Phoebe might find Edward fascinating, his wealth and social position aside, but she could not fathom how she could allow herself to flirt with him while awaiting Clive's return.

  Edward glanced at her, seemed about to speak, paused, then said, “I have fashioned a small gift for my young nephew, Ned."

  She detected a hesitancy in his speech, an unexpected tentativeness. Was it reluctance? Certainly it could not be trepidation. What then?

  "I wonder if you would be so kind as to assist me in ascertaining whether my gift performs as it should."

  "Assist you here and now?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

  "Now, yes, but certainly not here. Pray come with me.” He offered her his arm and, after a second or two of hesitation, she nodded and walked with him from the terrace into the garden and from there through a gate to the walkway in front of the Darrington house. He nodded toward an open carriage.

  When she drew back, he smiled and said, “Fear not, Deirdre, I have no plans to spirit you away to my gazebo."

  Despite herself, Deirdre smiled. “What then, sir, do you intend?"

  "All will soon be revealed."

  Turning from her, he shouted, “Cunningham!” A footman's head popped up from the rear of the carriage. “Come along, Cunningham, if you will,” Edward called to him, “and bring Ned's gift.” Looking at Deirdre as they walked on, he said, “You have my word we shall go only as far as the square across the street."

  "The gate is kept locked."

  "Ah, but since most such London parks are locked, I had the foresight to bring this from the Darrington house.” He took a large black key from his pocket and held it aloft.

  As they crossed the street, a rabbit woman walked past them crying her wares, “Rabbits, rabbits, who will buy my rabbits?” She carried a long pole over her right shoulder with dead rabbits suspended from the front, wild fowl and a basket from the back.

  "She probably carries pigeons in the basket,” Edward said as he unlocked the gate and held it open for her. After entering the small park, she looked behind her and saw Cunningham, a short and slender young man, hurrying after them clutching a red kite with a tail of white rags, a kite almost as tall as Cunningham himself.

  Edward intended to have her fly the kite with him. Was it her fate, Deirdre wondered, to have all young gentlemen treat her as though she were still a child? Clive had often called her his younger sister; now Edward sought to amuse her by flying a kite in the park. And yet the kite reminded her, happily, of being a carefree child, of roaming the fields with Clive.

  "The park is somewhat small for kite flying,” Deirdre noted, ruefully realizing her rose-sprigged muslin gown was not entirely suitable for such an adventure.

  "We shall manage quite well.” Taking the kite in one hand and twine wrapped around a small stick in the other, he thanked Cunningham and gestured his footman back to the carriage.

  "Determine the direction of the wind,” he told Deirdre. “First wetting your finger and—"

  "I am well aware of the method,” she said, smiling as she held her moistened forefinger above her head. “The wind is from the west."

  "If you would be so kind.” He handed her the kite and, as she held it by its wooden frame, he started to walk into the breeze, unwinding the twine as he went. “When I call out, release the kite."

  He began to run away from her; he called to her, called her name; she released the kite and watched as it rose steadily only to suddenly and swiftly veer to the right and fall, hitting the ground with a worrisome “crack."

  "Damnation,” Edward muttered as he knelt to examine the damage.

  Taking a piece of string from his pocket, he cut it with a knife and bound and tied the broken rib. “We must try again,” he told Deirdre.

  He handed her the kite, walked away, began to run, she let go and watched the kite rising, soaring up, up, up, to the top of the trees in the park, higher than the highest building, up into the pale blue of the sky, Edward laughing with delight at his success while Deirdre, a child once more, clapped her hands.

  He came to her, bowed slightly as he presented her with the stick wrapped round with twine. Holding the stick in both hands, she felt the kite tugging as it sought to fly break free of all restraint. She closed her eyes, imagining that Clive stood beside her, that they were together once more, young and happy.

  When Edward spoke, she was jolted from her reverie. “We seem to have an audience of one.” He nodded to the opposite side of the park where a small, begrimed boy of nine or ten peered at them through the iron bars of the fence.

  When Edward approached him, the boy turned as though to flee. Deirdre heard Edward speak quietly to him—he was too far away for her to understand the words—and the boy stopped and reluctantly returned to the fence. Edward stood on one of the lower iron railings, reached over the spiked top and lifted the boy into the park.

  "He tells me his name is Floyd,” Edward said when they came to Deirdre who stood holding the twine. “His mother happens to be the rabbit woman, so the boy is waiting for her sell the rest of her wares. I enticed Floyd into the park by offering him the chance to fly the kite."

  Taking the twine from Deirdre, he handed it to the eager boy and stood beside him as Floyd first brought the kite lower and then allowed it to soar higher than ever. How patient he was with the boy, Deirdre told herself, perhaps she should reserve judgment about Edward and his supposed wickedness. He seemed to be a man of contradictions.

  "Would you like to have a kite like this?” Edward asked the boy.

  When Floyd nodded eagerly, Edward placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “Then you do. As of this moment, the kite is yours."

  Floyd, still clutching the stick with both hands, eyed Edward with the suspicion of one accustomed to being betrayed.

  "He suspects I have some ulterior and probably dastardly motive.” Edward turned from the boy, taking Dierdre's arm and escorting her to the gate. “The best way to convince him otherwise is to leave him in sole possession of the kite."

  "How very kind you are.” Which was only the truth, she told herself.

  "Did it occur to you I may have given the lad the kite merely to alter what I suspect is your poor opinion of me? So you would possess a wee bit of evidence as to my true character to weigh in the balance against your rat
her wary assessment of me?"

  "And is that why you gave Floyd the kite? Merely to impress me? I find that difficult to believe."

  "As it happens, impressing you was but a secondary consideration. I took a liking to this boy, I wanted to do something for him. My nephew can wait another day or two while I fashion a second kite. Besides, this kite was damaged.” Edward stopped and looked at her, saying, “May I ask you a what-if question?"

  Without waiting for her reply, he went on. “That boy we just left in the park, the lad Floyd. What would you do, Deirdre, if your father came to you holding Floyd by the hand and said, ‘I want you to help me raise this boy?’ Recognizing that here we have a youngster with none of the social graces, whose every word brands him as poor and untutored, whose pallid appearance suggests a susceptibility to disease."

  "What a strange question. And what an unlikely thing to happen.” She studied him, but his face offered no clue to his reason for asking.

  "Admittedly strange,” he said. “You need not, of course, answer."

  "But I shall answer. I would do exactly as my father asked,” Deirdre said. “Not only because he wanted me to do it, but because I believe that what a boy—nay, any child—becomes is more important than what he once was or what he happens to be now."

  Edward nodded. “I more or less expected that would be your reply,” he said without indicating whether it pleased or disappointed him.

  Before she could ask him to explain himself, a carriage rumbled past them, slowing and coming to a stop in front of the Darrington house. Deirdre drew in her breath, forgetting Edward as a tall, dark-haired young man stepped down from the carriage, slowly climbed the steps to the front door and disappeared inside.

  Clive! At long last, Clive had returned home from the war.

  CHAPTER 6

  Once she saw Clive, Deirdre hurried toward the house after him, abandoning all else. Only when Edward called her name did she belatedly realize her impulsiveness was most impolite. She paused, waiting for him to join her.

  "Your eagerness to greet your stepsister's fiancé, the returning cavalry hero, is most commendable,” Edward said in an annoyed, almost an angry tone, “boding well for harmony between the Chadbourne and Darrington households following the wedding."

  Although nettled by what she considered his unprovoked and unseemly sarcasm, Deirdre answered calmly, “Months ago I dreamed Clive had been wounded during the fighting in Spain. My dream was so real I felt compelled to hasten after him to assure myself he was all right."

  "He certainly appears to be in fine fettle,” Edward said as he offered her his arm.

  After a slight hesitation, she allowed him to escort her into the house. She may have resented Edward's veiled reprimand, but he was, after all, correct. Phoebe must be the first to greet Clive.

  As they left the entry and began walking along the hall, Deirdre saw Clive standing to one side of the archway leading to the music room where the guests had gathered. Since the hum of conversation from the room continued unabated, she assumed he had yet to make his presence known.

  Clive, unaware of Edward and Deirdre's approach, squared his shoulders and stepped into the center of the archway, stopping there with his hands clasped behind his back. The talk and laughter inside the room subsided and after a moment ceased altogether.

  A woman screamed. Clive strode into the room, disappearing from Deirdre's sight.

  Edward hurried after Clive with Deirdre a step behind. As she paused beneath the arch, she saw Phoebe lying on the flowered couch, her face ashen and her eyes closed. Clive was kneeling at her side holding both of her hands in his. Deirdre gasped. There was a vivid red welt extending from just above Clive's left eye to his sideburns.

  Her dream! In her dream she had seen him wounded in battle. Just as she had earlier foreseen the celebration of his wedding on the terrace of this very house. Edward, she noticed, had turned to stare at her, undoubtedly recalling her description of her dream, his gaze skeptical while at the same time puzzled.

  "Dr. Leicester!” Sybil cried.

  The doctor stepped forward to grip Clive's shoulder, urging him to stand aside. Leaning over Phoebe, Dr. Leicester waved smelling salts back and forth under her nose. Phoebe sneezed and opened her eyes. She stared up at the doctor and then looked at Clive, her stricken gaze fixing on his wound.

  "Oh dear God,” Phoebe murmured, her hands flying up to cover her face. “What a shock, what a terrible, terrible shock."

  "I should have warned you, Phoebe,” Clive said with a rueful sigh. He glanced about him. “Warned all of you.” Again he came to kneel at Phoebe's side, taking her hands in his. “I said nothing, my dearest, because I wanted you to see for yourself I was safe."

  Safe, perhaps, Deirdre told herself, but hardly unchanged. Although, in her eyes, despite his injury, he was still the most handsome man she had ever seen or ever hoped to see, her searching gaze found no trace of the exuberant Clive who had left England only months before. That young man had been left somewhere in Spain to be replaced by this older, more somber Clive.

  As Phoebe slowly sat up, her mother, who had been anxiously hovering nearby, looked around the room at her guests and said, “Perhaps we should all let Phoebe and Clive have a quiet time together. To allow them to become reacquainted."

  "No!” Phoebe cried, shaking her head, her eyes wide and frightened. Drawing in a deep breath, she quieted herself. “Dear, dear, Mama,” she said with a wan smile, “I assure you I have quite recovered from my upsetness. I planned to welcome dear Clive home by playing one of his favorite songs and I shall do just that."

  She stood and, taking Clive's arm, allowed him to lead her to the pianoforte without, Deirdre noted, once glancing at him. Though unnaturally pale, Phoebe looked quite lovely in her blue muslin gown whose short sleeves and deep square neckline displayed the perfection of her beautiful skin.

  "I believe Phoebe intends to play ‘Jamie Douglas,'” Clive announced. When she nodded, he went on, “I apologize for being partial to such a lugubrious song, especially since this is such a festive occasion."

  The guests found chairs or stood around the sides of the room. Edward went into the hall and returned with a chair, standing behind Deirdre after she sat down. As Phoebe began to play, words from the plaintive ballad ran through Deirdre's mind...

  O fare thee well, my once lovely maid!

  O fare thee well, once dear to me!

  O fare thee well, my once lovely maid!

  For with me again ye shall never be.

  Deirdre sighed as she listened to the song telling of a wife abandoned by her husband. What, she wondered, had the unfortunate woman done to draw down such a punishment on her head?

  Edward leaned over the back of her chair. “In Canada,” he murmured, “I saw men who looked like that, men who had the same distracted look that Clive has. There may be more amiss with the man than we realize. Notice how attentive the good Dr. Leicester is."

  The doctor, she saw, stood with his arms folded a short distance from Clive. Though he appeared relaxed, his eyes never left Clive's face. Clive, who was slightly behind Phoebe, stared straight ahead rather than watching her play. Phoebe, for her part, glanced down at the keyboard, looked up at her audience, but never looked at Clive, in fact seemed to go out of her way to avoid looking at him.

  Suddenly Clive took an uncertain, lurching step forward. He reached for the top of the pianoforte, his hand sliding along the polished surface as he sought to gain his balance. Phoebe gasped, her hands dropping to the keyboard in a crashing discord. Deirdre half rose from her chair. Dr. Leicester strode to Clive's side at once, taking his arm and helping him to the couch where Clive sat with his head buried in his hands.

  The doctor murmured a few words to Clive and, when he failed to answer, took a candle, lit it and, forcing Clive to look at him, passed it slowly back and forth in front of Clive's eyes.

  Deirdre, thoroughly alarmed, turned to Edward. “What happened to him?"

&
nbsp; "It may be his wound. He could be reliving an unpleasant battle experience. All this hullabaloo may have brought it on."

  The doctor, keeping his hand on Clive's shoulder, stood to face the guests. “Our friend is not in mortal danger,” he told them in reassuring tones, “but he requires rest and quiet. I therefore intend to accompany him to his home without delay."

  With one arm supporting Clive, the doctor led him from the room. Sybil came to Phoebe, who had half-risen from the piano bench, and whispered a few words in her ear. After a moment's hesitation, Phoebe nodded and followed the two men from the room.

  Roger Darrington raised his hand. “I consider it best that we conclude the festivities now.” He was answered by a murmur of assent. “When Clive has recovered,” Roger added, “all of you are hereby invited to be my guests once more."

  Phoebe returned home within the hour, but ate dinner in her chamber rather than joining the family. Sybil, though, brought word from her daughter that Clive was now resting comfortably. Dr. Leicester, she reported, anticipated a full recovery.

  Despite this comforting news, when Deirdre retired for the night she discovered she could not sleep. After an hour of fretful tossing, she put on her robe and went down the shadowed stairs intending to fetch a book from the library with the hope, though not the expectation, that she could read herself to sleep.

  As Deirdre approached the partly open door of the library, she was surprised to see a single candle burning on one of the tables inside the room. Pausing in the doorway, she heard muffled sobs and when she looked into the glass over the mantel she saw the reflection of Phoebe sitting huddled on the seat of a high-backed chair.

  About to quietly back away and return undetected to her room, she stopped when Phoebe glanced up at the mirror, gave a start of recognition and began dabbing at her face with a lace-edged handkerchief.

  "I assure you there is nothing—” Phoebe began only to have tears again course down her cheeks.

  Deirdre hurried to her, kneeling at her side, murmuring words of comfort.