A Most Unsuitable Bride

by Jane Toombs

  "You must despise me,” Phoebe said. “All of you."

  Deirdre, confused, shook her head. Why should she despise Phoebe?

  "For the unseemly way I behaved toward Clive today,” Phoebe said. “When I should have offered him words of comfort, I turned my face away. When I should have tried to help him, I thought only of myself. Can I help being the way God made me?” she asked plaintively. “Can you? Can any of us?"

  "The long days of anticipation,” Deirdre said softly, “the excitement of seeing him at last followed by the shock of his having been wounded overwhelmed you. Time will heal his wound."

  "What of mine?” Phoebe shook her head dolefully. “Will my wound heal? What am I to do about Clive, about our betrothal? What would you do if you were in my place, Deirdre?"

  "Why, marry Clive just as though nothing had happened. He is, despite his wound, the same man we said good-bye to months ago."

  "Yes, I expect you would marry him, Deirdre. How like you to make the noble gesture and then waiting to hear everyone applaud your unselfish devotion. Even while realizing the marriage might be the greatest mistake of your life."

  Deirdre barely controlled her anger. How waspish Phoebe could be, always ready to retaliate by stinging others with her sharp tongue after she herself had been hurt. “I fail to understand how you could consider marrying Clive a great mistake."

  "Because Clive has changed. How can you say this is the same man I bid farewell to before he sailed off to war? Surely you must have seen how strangely he behaved at the party today. Like a total stranger. Could you bring yourself to marry a stranger?"

  "I believe the change in Clive is only on the surface. With a little time and the thoughtful affection of all of his friends—"

  "Time! You constantly speak of time, Deirdre, of months, of years. I celebrated my twentieth birthday on the thirteenth of last May. Twenty!” She glanced up at the looking glass. “See the shadows under my eyes, the lines at their corners."

  Deirdre fought down her impatience. Phoebe's eyes might be shadowed from crying, but her beauty was undiminished. Her anguish seemed real even though misplaced. Phoebe thought of herself first and foremost.

  "Everyone speaks of your beauty,” Deirdre assured her. “All the women at the Harmon ball as well as Clive, James Aldrich, Edward, everyone."

  "Edward?” Phoebe asked with quickening interest. “He has?"

  Had he? Deirdre searched her memory without success. “His many admiring glances in your direction speak for him."

  "Edward has been most attentive,” Phoebe said. As she dried her tears and then tucked her handkerchief beneath the belt of her blue robe, Deirdre rose from the floor and sat in a chair next to her.

  "I was told by a little bird,” Phoebe said, “that you and Edward were observed earlier today flying a kite in the park."

  Deirdre smiled at the memory. “We did fly a kite, a gift from Edward intended for his young nephew. A kite he fashioned himself."

  "Clive has told me time and again,” Phoebe said, “that he has always thought of you as a little sister. And now evidently Edward has come to share his feelings, treating you as the younger sister he never had."

  Annoyed and hurt, even though she'd had much the same feeling herself, Deirdre wanted to say, “At least, being only eighteen rather than twenty, I have a few more years before I must face the hideous prospect of spinsterhood.” The cruelty of the words persuaded her to hold her tongue, however, and she said nothing in reply to Phoebe's barb.

  "Edward, of course,” Phoebe said, “means absolutely nothing to me.” She looked directly at Deirdre, her blue eyes still glistening with tears. “I love Clive,” she said, almost defiantly, “with all my heart. Since I only want him to be happy, I fear a precipitous marriage could make both of us miserable for the rest of our days."

  After a few moments’ thought, Deirdre said, “Rather than marrying Clive at once, you might consider waiting a few months, perhaps have a Christmas wedding."

  "The boughs of fir over the mantel, the holly, the mistletoe.” Phoebe closed her eyes as though picturing the scene. “My wedding gown a pristine white silk, as white as the frost on the windowpanes, as white as the snow falling gently outside.” She opened her eyes. “Yes, a postponement until Christmas is the very thing and you, Deirdre, are a dear for suggesting it."

  Standing, she took Deirdre's hand and together they left the library.

  Two days later, Deirdre was in the drawing room working on her embroidery when Alcida burst into room.

  "Phoebe and Clive have agreed to delay their wedding,” Alcida cried. “Phoebe just this minute told me. ‘To allow time for the two of us to become reacquainted after Clive's dreadful experience,’ she said."

  Deirdre, not surprised, nodded. “Postponed until Christmas?"

  "Christmas?” Alcida shook her head. “Phoebe made no mention of settling on a new date. In fact, she said the delay was quite indefinite, the length depending, I imagine, on Clive regaining his health.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Vincent believes his affliction is more of the mind than of the body, a condition he has observed in many men returning from the war."

  So he was Vincent now, Deirdre thought fleetingly, rather than Dr. Leicester. “If only I could find a way to help Clive,” Deirdre said fervently without stopping to consider her words.

  Alcida glanced sharply at her but only said, “Everyone who knows Clive shares your feelings. Phoebe, I expect, more than any of us. Yet how can we help when, as Vincent has told me, he spurns all assistance, absolutely refusing to speak of his experiences in Spain?"

  On the following Monday, Dr. Leicester drew Deirdre to one side and repeated what he had told Alcida. “You knew Clive when he was young,” the doctor went on, “and he often speaks fondly of your rides and rambles in East Sussex. In fact, he seems to consider you to be almost a member of his family. I believe his condition might be improved by a return—in his mind, at least—to the carefree days of his boyhood. Since you were often with him during those happier days, perhaps you can help Clive."

  "If only I could."

  "Will you come with me to see him?"

  "Of course,” she told him. “When?"

  "I rather think it should be now."

  CHAPTER 7

  "Clive has taken lodgings in Bloomsbury,” Dr. Leicester told Deirdre as they drove along Oxford Street

  . Noting her surprise, he added, “He thought it best to live apart from everyone, even from his father, for a time. I attempted to dissuade him, but to no avail."

  Deirdre, picturing Clive brooding alone in his bachelor lodgings, clasped her hands in distress. “How is he? Pray tell me the truth, doctor."

  "His wound, as you saw, has healed, which is remarkable considering its severity, and his general physical condition is good if not excellent.” He shook his head. “The temper of his mind is something else again and, despite what most of my colleagues maintain, I believe the state of one's mind is just as important as the condition of one's body. Perhaps even more important.

  "An American, Dr. Benjamin Rush, did considerable research on the subject during the revolt of the colonies and discovered that events occurring in the war could affect the human body through the medium of the mind. He stated, and I hope I quote him accurately, that ‘the reciprocal influence of the body and mind upon each other can only be ascertained by an accurate knowledge of the faculties of the mind.’ Which knowledge, alas, we do not have."

  "I would think,” Deirdre said, “a physical ailment caused by the mind would be most difficult to cure."

  Dr. Leicester nodded. “Precisely. Let me give you but one example ... Despite having been a cavalry officer, he now absolutely refuses to mount a horse. At the same time he gives no reason for his reluctance. Despite all my entreaties, Clive absolutely refuses to discuss whatever it is that troubles him. I hoped that you, a dear friend from his childhood, an amiable young woman, might be able to induce him to reveal, at l
east in part, whatever it is that is causing his unsettled state. I suspect that only when he confronts this hobgoblin will he be on the road to vanquishing it."

  "What of Phoebe? She is his betrothed.” Despite her best intentions, Deirdre felt a certain satisfaction that the doctor believed Clive might confide in her rather than in Phoebe.

  "Phoebe has tried to induce him to speak, but to no avail.” The doctor sighed. “You must be aware by now that their marriage has been put off until some indefinite date in the future.” When she nodded, he went on, “Clive seems to accept the delay, even gives evidence of being relieved by the postponement."

  "Oh?” How surprising, she thought, if true. It well might not be, she ruefully told herself as she recalled the many times she had misread Clive's words or actions. Now Dr. Leicester may have done the same. Or was it possible that Clive's affection for Phoebe ran shallower than she or anyone else had imagined?

  The doctor glanced at her and when he spoke, she could almost believe he had been reading her thoughts. “Clive insists he wants to marry Phoebe, and I have no reason to doubt him. I suspect he might—” He shook his head. “Enough of my speculations. Let Clive speak for himself if he happens to be so inclined. I can only conjecture. He knows his own heart and mind infinitely better than I do."

  Deirdre wondered if, in fact, he did, after the having to endure the last few tumultuous months. The heat of battle must be enough to temporarily cloud any man's mind. And when it came down to it, did anyone truly know his or her own mind? I do, she assured herself. Or at least I know my own heart.

  They found Clive waiting for them in a small garden, enclosed by a privet hedge, at the rear of his lodgings. The doctor, promising to return within the hour, left them seated side by side on a rustic pine bench at the far end of the rose arbor. To Deirdre, Clive appeared much as he had at the welcoming home party, seemingly calm, somber, and curiously lifeless.

  "How young and alive you look,” Clive said, nodding at her muslin afternoon gown. “Green becomes you, Deirdre.” He shook his head sadly. “Your gown reminds me of the forest in East Sussex. Ashdown Forest. It brings to mind the glen, our glen, the good times we had there. All that seems so long ago. Years and years ago."

  His speech, once so fluent, now seemed strangely disjointed. Despite her concern, Deirdre managed to smile. “Yet we last visited the glen only a few months ago,” she reminded him.

  He blinked, then nodded. “Of course, I remember. I carried the picture with me all the time I was in Spain."

  Now it was her turn to be confused. “The picture?"

  "Your portrait. I have it still, though I must admit I allowed it to become somewhat tattered and torn.” He reached into an inside pocket of his waistcoat and brought forth a creased piece of drawing paper. Unfolding the paper with care, he smoothed it on his knee.

  "Ah,” she said, touched, “I remember now, the picture Mr. Turner drew after we came upon him sketching beside the bridge. How flattered I am you kept it all this time.” Just as I pressed and saved the wild rose you gave me that day, she wanted to add, but dared not.

  "I often looked at your likeness while in Spain,” he said, “to remind me of home."

  Clive carefully refolded her picture and replaced it in his pocket. Rising, he walked slowly to a nearby climbing rose bush, shaking his head as though his thoughts were elsewhere. He snapped off a half-opened white bud, cupped the flower in the palm of his hand as he stared down at it, frowning.

  He remembers his gift of the wild rose, Deirdre told herself as tears misted her eyes, and now he intends to give me another.

  Clive turned to her and, to her dismay, allowed the rosebud to slip fall from his hand to the ground. Looking over her head into the distance, he said, “Lord Wellington despised the cavalry. The cavalry gallops at anything and everything without preserving order, he claimed. The hussars never think of maneuvering when facing the enemy, he said. They never hold back or keep a reserve, he said. God knows, the cavalry would better serve me if they turned loose their horses and became infantry, he said."

  Deirdre stared at him in amazement, not knowing what to make of his bitter comments. Could Wellington's poor opinion of the cavalry be what troubled Clive? It seemed highly unlikely.

  Clive put his hand to his wound, touching the scar lightly. “The terrible truth was ... Lord Wellington was right. He was absolutely right. In my first action—” He grimaced. “As it happened, it was also my last action. In my first action, our hussars charged the French, their swords unsheathed, with great gallantry. A magnificent spectacle, you never saw the like. But to no purpose, none at all.” Clive abruptly came back and sat beside her on the bench. “Deirdre, do you swear to reveal nothing of what I am about to say? Do you swear a solemn oath?"

  "Of course,” she promised, her heart leaping with hope. “To no one, not to Vincent, not even to Phoebe. Not now, not ever. I swear."

  Clive nodded. “At times,” he said, massaging his temple, “I become lightheaded. I hear the French cannons or imagine I do.” He blinked, looking away from her toward the climbing roses. “Vincent claims the condition will subside with the passage of time. I have no reason to doubt him."

  "While you were gone,” Deirdre said, “I dreamed you were hurt in battle. The dream was so real that when I awoke I felt your pain."

  He turned to her. “How strange. I seem to recall, though, my father once telling me your grandmother had the gift of being able to see into the future. Could you have inherited her ability?"

  "I consider it a disability, as does Grandmama. She claims her dreams were a curse because, even though they were often right, just as often they were so jumbled and confused they led her astray.” Recalling her vision of Clive's wedding day, she wondered, as she had so many times before, what that dream meant.

  "If only what happened to me were a dream and nothing more.” Clive drew in his breath, pausing, his gaze fixed not on her but inward on a scene only he could see. When he spoke again his words came in a rush. “We charged the French infantry. They scattered. We swept on, to their rear. To my left some of our horses and riders plunged into a ravine. I saw the flash of French cannon firing from a wooded hill. We galloped up the hill.” He shook his head and stopped.

  "You need not go on,” Deirdre told him.

  He ignored her words. She wondered if he had even heard them.

  "We charged up the hill. One of my men, Timmons, a young lieutenant, was unhorsed. I rode toward him. Intended to pull him onto the horse with me. I saw a flash of light. Heard a great roar."

  When he again paused, she said very softly so as not to break the spell of his remembering, “And then?"

  Clive shook his head. “Nothing. I recall nothing at all until I regained consciousness many hours later. By then it was night and the French army, thank God, was in full retreat from the field of battle. The surgeon told me they found me not on the hill where I was wounded but more than a half mile away. A half mile nearer our own infantry position."

  He sounded so despondent her heart went out to him. She reached to touch him on the arm but drew back her hand at the last moment. “You remember nothing of what happened after you were wounded?” she asked encouragingly.

  "Nothing. At least twelve hours have disappeared from my life. Except there is one important circumstance I omitted from my account. And that exception is what haunted me then and haunts me now more than ever. Before I was wounded I was afraid. Afraid, Deirdre. I never expected to be afraid."

  "Everyone must fear for his life in battle,” she protested, “even the heroic Lord Wellington. I imagine even Admiral Nelson often feared for his life."

  "It was more than the fearing for my life,” he said. “What troubles me most is that I have no memory of what I did after I was injured. I was found half a mile distant and closer to our own troops. Did I turn tail and flee the French? Was I a coward who deserted not only Lieutenant Timmons but all of my men?"

  "You were wounded,” she remi
nded him. “Seriously wounded. You must have been in a daze, probably unaware even of where you were or what you were doing. How can you possibly blame yourself for whatever happened?"

  "An officer never deserts his men."

  Deirdre, realizing he was determined to blame himself, decided to take another tack. “This Lieutenant Timmons. What did he say afterwards?"

  Clive shook his head. “Timmons either died of his wounds or was taken prisoner by the French, probably taken prisoner since his body was never found.” Clive gripped her shoulder, making her wince. “Was I a coward, Deirdre? Did I desert my men? I have to learn the truth. Ah, if only you could help me."

  If only she could, Deirdre told herself. But how could she? How?

  * * * *

  "Vincent believes your visit raised Clive's spirits,” Alcida said the following day as they sat sewing in the morning room, “although Clive still refuses to discuss his affliction."

  Remembering her promise to Clive to reveal nothing of the cause of his torment, Deirdre merely said, “I only hope he recovers completely as the weeks go by. I want to help him, only I have no notion how to go about it."

  Deirdre laid aside her embroidery, a linen runner depicting red and green footmen holding aloft elaborate candelabras. Ever afterwards, when she happened to look at her finished handiwork, she recalled these terrible, troubled days during which she so dangerously misconstrued the motives of others, of Phoebe, Clive, and Edward, while at the same time also failing to understand her own.

  Alcida patiently re-threaded her needle. “Edward was here yesterday, supposedly to extend a dinner invitation to my mother and your father, but actually"—she glanced around and lowered her voice—"I do believe he came first and foremost to see Phoebe. She was all aflutter after he left."

  "I fear Phoebe encourages him,” Deirdre said. “Probably without meaning to."

  "She does, without a doubt, and, moreover, to my mind deliberately. Though she is my sister, I must admit that Phoebe has always been a flirt. What I fear is that Edward is the sort of gentleman, and I used the word loosely, who wishes to reap some of what he considers to be the rewards of marriage without ever submitting himself to the wedding ceremony."