The Marriage Act

by Alyssa Everett

  “What were you and Ronnie talking about on the stairs, back at the hunting box?”

  She flushed. “Why do you ask?”

  Was that a guilty look? “You’re my wife and he’s both my brother and my legal ward. Isn’t that reason enough for me to take an interest?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “I can’t remember what we were talking about, so it must not have been very important. We were simply chatting, I suppose.”

  “Then why were you whispering?”

  She darted a look of irritation at him. “Really, why is that any of your business?”

  “I just explained why.”

  She scowled—how was it possible for even a scowl to be beautiful?—and said, “If we were whispering, it was probably because we were making a joke we knew you’d be too stuffy to appreciate.” She looked away, staring out the carriage window. “I didn’t ask you what you and your valet were talking about yesterday when you were speaking German together.”

  “We were talking about the coachman’s injuries, and we were endeavoring to spare you the more unpleasant details.”

  Still looking out the window, Caro sighed. “This is hopeless.”

  “What is?”

  “Your appearing the least bit cheerful or carefree, and our convincing my father we’re happy together.”

  For a moment he’d been afraid she was going to answer, Our marriage. Not that her actual reply was much better. “I can be cheerful and carefree.”

  She gave a derisive laugh. “Oh, please. I want Papa to think we’re mad for each other, that you can’t keep your hands off me and I worship everything about you. Do you really see us carrying that off?”

  Not the part about her worshipping everything about him, to be sure, but...”It was your idea to try. Speaking for myself, I don’t see why that kind of playacting is necessary. Why not simply present ourselves as settled and leave it at that?”

  “Because ‘settled’ isn’t good enough. I want my father to be perfectly at ease about our marriage. I want him to be delighted with the way my life has turned out. But I can see you’re going to criticize and drag your feet every step of the way, and spoil everything.”

  “I’m going to spoil everything? I’m not sure how you expect me to look as if I can’t keep my hands off you when your idea of a suitable response is either screeching or rigid immobility.”

  Caro rolled her eyes. “Not last night again.”

  “Yes, last night again. If you doubt my ability to guard my tongue, I’m equally doubtful you can manage anything that remotely resembles affection.”

  She bristled. “For your information, I’ve always considered myself a most affectionate person.”

  “And for your information, I’ve always considered myself both reasonable and dependable. Why do you think your father recommended I consider a career in diplomacy?”

  Once again, mention of her father seemed to carry some weight with her. She paused, and a thoughtful look came over her face. “Perhaps that’s the answer...”

  “What is?”

  She turned to him, the gleam of an idea lighting her eyes. “John, what if you were to look at helping me not as a personal favor, but as a diplomatic assignment of sorts?”

  He frowned in confusion. “A diplomatic assignment?”

  “You said yourself that you were one of the embassy’s efficient-under-pressure administrators. Suppose you were to set aside your feelings for a time, and tell yourself that the more idyllic our marriage seems, the better the job you’re doing—like maintaining a united front before a foreign dignitary. Convincing my father we’re happy together might be less problematic, if your being a stickler works for us rather than against us.”

  Look at hoaxing her father as an assignment? She really was shameless, calling him stuffy and a stickler even as she plotted to hoodwink her father. But at the same time, what she said made a peculiar kind of sense. He would find it easier to play the devoted husband if he focused on the overall objective rather than on its fundamental dishonesty—like an actor endeavoring to give the most convincing performance possible even though he knew everything he said was pure gammon.

  And in the end, it was for a good cause. The bishop wasn’t only his father-in-law, but had also been something of a second father to him. Besides, while he was pretending to be a model husband, Caro would have to appear a model wife.

  “Very well,” he said. “If you want cheerful and carefree, then I’ll endeavor to oblige you.”

  The look she gave him, while conciliatory enough, was not entirely confident.

  Chapter Eleven

  What we hope ever to do with ease, we may learn first to do with diligence.

  —Samuel Johnson

  It was already growing dark when they reached the outskirts of Kegworth, but enough daylight remained to afford Caro a good view as they drove up the curving, tree-lined avenue to her uncle Geoffrey’s house. Stanling Priory was a former Benedictine nunnery, ivy-covered and built of pale coursed stone. Two stories high, it consisted of a large central block with a wing on either side. It had been in her father’s family for more than two hundred and fifty years, with succeeding generations making additions and alterations to the original structure. Now it was an attractive combination of the very old and the more modern, with mullioned windows and five gabled dormers rising from its slate-tiled roof.

  The post-chaise rolled to a stop before the house. Wordlessly, John came to his feet, opened the door and hopped out onto the gravel drive. Caro paused in the carriage doorway, expecting him to hand her out, but to her surprise he set both hands on her waist and swung her lightly to the ground.

  Meanwhile Ronnie had ridden up and dismounted. “Thank heavens we’ve arrived at last,” he said, handing the reins off to a groom who came running out from the nearby stables. “If I never spend another day in the saddle again, I’ll be a happy man.”

  Caro was pleased to see he’d sobered up nicely, any slight unsteadiness in his gait attributable to stiff muscles rather than to drink. He looked presentable too, his hat and the outdoor air having tamed his hair and brought healthy color to his complexion.

  Caro turned toward the house. The front door opened, and her heart leaped as she caught sight of a big, bearish gentleman with graying hair emerging to greet her. Papa!

  But her joy quickly faded as she realized the man wasn’t her father but her uncle Geoffrey. Of course—Papa was too unwell to come racing out. At least, she prayed that was the reason he wasn’t at her uncle’s side. What if she’d arrived too late, and he was already gone?

  Then Uncle Geoffrey grinned, and she knew in a rush she wasn’t too late. And just behind her uncle, her aunt Ella and her cousin Sophia were tumbling out of the house, Aunt Ella wearing a smile of welcome. The whole family were in their dinner clothes, and at eighteen, Sophia had changed considerably from the skinny, boyish eleven-year-old she’d been when Caro had last seen her. She had a shapely figure and a pretty, dimpled face.

  Before Caro could stop herself, she was running in a most unladylike fashion toward them, her arms outstretched as if to gather up all three in a single hug.

  Uncle Geoffrey enfolded her in his arms. “Caro!” he rumbled in his deep, gravelly voice. “Your father will be so pleased to see you.”

  “Sir Geoffrey?” John said as Caro darted ahead to greet her aunt and her cousin. “I hope you’ll forgive my arriving uninvited. I’m Welford, Caro’s husband.”

  She glanced over her shoulder to find him shaking her uncle’s hand, smiling with all the warmth and friendliness she could have wished. It was such a successful look that she was tempted to object, No, save your best efforts for my father.

  “Uninvited? As if a member of the family needs an invitation! Welcome.” Uncle Geoffrey waved his wife and daughter forward to complete
the introductions.

  John bowed smoothly over Sophia’s hand, then looked at Caro and said with a grin, “Caro, darling, you didn’t warn me that all the ladies in your family are lovely.”

  Sophia responded with a flustered air, blushing and lowering her lashes. It was all Caro could do to conceal her surprise, not just at the gallantry and the grin but also that she’d suddenly become Caro, darling. Why, John was doing marvelously.

  He exchanged a few pleasantries with her aunt, smiling all the while, and then introduced Ronnie to her relations. Ronnie produced a creditable bow, regarding Sophia with a spark of interest.

  “Shall we go inside?” Uncle Geoffrey said. “I’m afraid we keep country hours here and have already dined, but I’ll have the kitchen put something together for you. In the meantime, Caro, I expect you must be eager to see your father. He’s in the library, resting on the sofa.”

  Resting on the sofa. Caro’s stomach tightened. She was about to find out just how ill her father was. If Papa was too unwell even to be helped outside to greet her, it must be every bit as serious as she’d feared.

  And, once again, John surprised her, appearing at her side and setting an arm protectively—even affectionately—about her shoulders. “I’ll be right beside you,” he said in an undertone.

  She nodded, surprised that he’d wasted the remark by saying it too quietly for anyone else to hear. But at least he’d done nothing so far to give their deception away.

  They went into the house two at a time, John’s hand on the small of her back. In the reception hall, their footsteps echoed on the flagstone floor. With the sun setting but just enough daylight remaining to make candles unnecessary, the interior of the house was dim, and the shadows felt somehow ominous. Caro took off her bonnet and set it on the hall table.

  “We’ll see to the unloading of your carriage,” Uncle Geoffrey said. “Do you remember the way to the library?”

  “I’ll show them, Papa,” her cousin Sophia said.

  “I’ll help with the luggage while you and John say hullo to your father,” Ronnie offered.

  John gave Caro his right arm. Sophia seized his left and pulled them toward the library, looking up at John with a flush on her cheeks.

  Caro held back as they neared their destination, anxious to see her father but at the same time afraid of what she might find. Then again, he must be well enough to receive them, mustn’t he? Surely Uncle Geoffrey would have warned her otherwise.

  “You’ve come this far,” John whispered, slowing his steps along with hers when Sophia would have hurried them on.

  Impatient, Sophia let go of John’s arm and bounded ahead of them into the library. “Look who I’ve brought, Uncle Matthew,” she announced, so that Caro had no choice but to follow.

  Her father—her dear, kind, beloved father—was stretched out on the sofa, fully dressed but with half a dozen pillows propping him up. “Caro—and John!” he said in his deep baritone, breaking into a delighted smile. “What a sight for sore eyes the pair of you are. Thank God you’re safely back in England.”

  Though his failure to rise was telling, he wasn’t gasping or gray or any of the worst things she’d imagined. The five years that had passed showed in the crow’s-feet at his eyes and the gray in his hair, but his smile was the same joyful smile as always, and his face still radiated the same warm goodwill. She raced to his side, dropping down on her knees beside the sofa to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. “Papa!”

  “Cara mia,” he said, stroking a hand over her hair. He glanced past her to her cousin. “Thank you for showing them in, Sophia.”

  Sophia stole one last admiring look at John before taking her leave.

  “I worry about that girl,” Bishop Fleetwood said, more to himself than to them. “She has a good deal of growing up to do.”

  Caro gazed at her father, searching his face for some sign of his condition. “Uncle Geoffrey’s letter had me frightened half out of my wits. How do you feel?”

  “Fine, fine,” he assured her—though he sounded breathless now, and if he’d truly been fine, he would’ve made light of her fears. “And you? Did you have an agreeable journey?”

  “We’ll tell you about it later,” John said behind Caro, leaving her grateful she wouldn’t have to speak of the accident or the coachman’s injury. “It’s good to see you again, sir.”

  “And I can’t tell you how good it is to see you, both of you. Five years is entirely too long to be apart from loved ones.”

  John helped Caro to her feet. “I understand. Long separations are never easy.”

  My goodness, he was doing a marvelous job. He sounded like an actual human being with real feelings. “We wanted very much to come and see you, Papa, but John was needed at the embassy.”

  “And I refused to allow her to travel alone.” John gazed at her with an expression that suggested his only thought had been for her safety. “If you must blame anyone, blame me.”

  “Blame?” her father said. Though his voice was weak, he laughed his old hearty laugh. “What an ogre you must think me! Let’s hear no more talk of blame. I’ve had Caro’s letters to sustain me, and her wonderful stories of life in Vienna. What more could a father ask, except that his children are happy?”

  Her heart felt so full, she was sure it was going to spill over. Dear Papa. She hadn’t realized how very much she’d missed him until now, seeing him again. He made people feel better about themselves—as if heaven itself was smiling on them. As if all the bad things they’d ever said or done were forgotten, forgiven, unimportant.

  But then, mistakes were easy to forgive in the abstract. Would he still be so proud of her if he knew how she’d allowed Lawrence Howe to kiss her behind the Shire Hall, and ruined her marriage for the sake of those kisses? Could he laugh it off so easily if he knew she’d been lying to him for five years? She didn’t think so. How could she fail to look like a heartless liar when John was behaving with such uncharacteristic warmth? How could her father possibly understand choices she couldn’t satisfactorily explain even to herself?

  And that was why he mustn’t ever suspect what a mess she’d made of her life and John’s. Not if she could help it.

  * * *

  John watched Caro with her father. She sounded almost tearfully happy, talking with him. And more than happy—she seemed younger, more open, as if she were once again the warmhearted girl he’d walked home from church years ago. Was this the real Caro, or was it just a mask she wore on occasion? And if this was the real Caro, had marriage to him changed her that much?

  It must have. He wasn’t sure whether she’d actually cringed or simply been startled, but she’d definitely jumped when he’d first put his arm around her.

  “And how do you like married life, John?” Bishop Fleetwood asked.

  He was tempted—oh, he was tempted. All he had to do was speak up. It would be fine if not for your daughter or I suppose it’s better than being covered in festering sores, but not much. It was the perfect opening, and if he hadn’t promised to help Caro, he’d be justified in telling her father everything.

  But he only said, “I still have trouble believing I married such an enchanting bride.”

  “I brought you presents, Papa.” Caro’s voice was soft, eager, matching the affectionate glow that lit her face, making her lovelier than ever. “They’re packed in my trunk—a pair of carpet slippers I embroidered for you, and handkerchiefs with your monogram, as well.”

  “You always were clever with a needle.” There was a sweetness in the bishop’s smile that John felt sure must have played a large part in his rapid rise through the Church. Caro’s smile had the same sweetness, on those rare occasions when he got to see it. “So you were happy in Vienna?”

  “Oh yes, Papa. Very much so. It’s a beautiful place and John was doing important work
at the embassy.”

  “But no children yet,” the bishop said, his tone gently probing.

  “No.” Caro glanced quickly at John, and for an awful moment he had the alarming impression she was going to pop out with some fanciful explanation putting the blame squarely on his shoulders—that his stones had been horribly mangled in a hunting accident, or that he’d never been able to perform with a woman. After a pause, however, she merely dropped her gaze and said sorrowfully, “We haven’t been blessed with any.”

  “But we haven’t given up hope,” John said, wondering in the same instant why he hadn’t left well enough alone and let Caro’s answer—the very reply he’d suggested—stand unadorned.

  The bishop reached out to press Caro’s hand. “Try not to fret about it, little one. It will happen if God wills it, and worrying does no good.”

  “Yes. I know.” Caro swallowed hard.

  “And that goes for you too, my boy,” the bishop said, his eyes moving to John. “To everything there is a season.”

  Bishop Fleetwood’s fatherly smile was so warm and compassionate, John felt heartened right down to the soles of his boots—which was an odd way to feel, really, given that he knew perfectly well why he and Caro were childless, and it had nothing to do with the Almighty. “So I recall reading somewhere, sir.”

  The bishop chuckled and said briskly, “Well, then, that’s quite enough on that topic. Let me hear a little of your German, cara mia.”

  Caro’s blue eyes widened in a brief but unmistakable flash of panic. “I’m afraid I learned only the odd word here and there. I had John to translate for me, after all, and his German is much better—”

  John took pity on her. “The ladies of the embassy had little need to speak German, since the society they entertained was largely British, and most of the foreign diplomats spoke excellent English. Even those Viennese who didn’t were usually fluent in French.”