by Joan Smith
“You really are a wizard!” Mrs. Meacham declared, and kissed her a resounding smack on the cheek.
“We shan’t wait past the end of summer,” Alice declared. “If she can’t bring Henley up to the mark by then, I will marry George.”
“I doubt it will take that long,” Cecilia assured her. “But are you quite sure, ma’am, that he is a suitable parti for Martha? Do you not find him a trifle unsteady?”
“It is just a phase he is going through,” Mrs. Meacham told her. “He used to be better behaved, and he will be better again once he gets over this notion of being a fashionable buck. There was never anyone else for Martha. Henry wanted it, you know. If she can get him, they will have my blessing, and so will you, Cousin.”
Cecilia already knew Martha to be determined in her quest, and if Mrs. Meacham thought it would do, she decided that those most intimately involved knew best. She would arrange the match if she could. She had arranged more difficult ones in the past.
It had been a full evening, and after much discussion of both parties over cocoa, the ladies went to bed. Cecilia’s plans were proceeding excellently. There was not a reason in the world to be feeling so flat. What could cause it? Was it the repeated wish of all her friends at the party that she should finally be settling down? They seemed quite concerned for her. If she left off marriage much longer, folks would begin calling her a spinster. Well, Dallan already had.
She had not found the arrangement of her cousins’ matches so enjoyable as usual. She would like to have blamed Wickham, but as she considered it, she admitted that any enjoyment in the affair had centered around him. Lady Elgin had hinted that he would make her an excellent parti. She had not a doubt in the world that she could have him if she wished. Without even trying, she had got farther than any of the other ladies who lived nearby and had constant access to him. Was it time to give off helping others and help herself?
She would observe Wickham carefully tomorrow and see if she could be happy with him for a lifetime.
Chapter Eleven
It is not to be imagined that Kate Daugherty stayed away from Laycombe the next morning. She spent an hour at the Meachams receiving their congratulations, expressing openly her own delight at having got her offer from Andy, and making plans for the wedding. Nor did she forget to tender a shy thank you to Cecilia, whom she felt had been a great help to her.
When Sally Gardener issued from her house, the girls took the idea of telling her and any other neighbors who happened to be out the great news. They put on their bonnets and went into the street. Cecilia remained behind, congratulating herself on Kate’s betrothal, and planning how to help her cousins to the same condition.
The pleasure of a trip to St. Martin’s was outshone by Kate’s visit, but it was by no means despised. The carriage was brought around at one thirty, and at the appointed hour, it drew up in front of the abbey. Mrs. Meacham now felt quite at home amidst the grandeur and smiled her friendly smile at their host.
“G’day, Lord Wickham. Here we are as we promised. A dab of culture will do these hussies no harm,” she told him. “If they know a Greek from a Roman, it is more than I do, but what we are all eager to see your broken statues. Not the naked ones, mind.”
Cecilia bit back a smile at this lowly description of the artworks and went with the others to view those pieces deemed fit for the eyes of virgins and widows. She could discern little difference between the Grecian originals and what Wickham called the “inferior” Roman imitations, but at least she was interested to learn, which was more than could be said of the others. Their only wonder at the exhibition was that anyone would bother bringing home such rubble, when the monument maker at Reigate could fashion a new piece at a very good price. The angel with spread wings guarding Mr. Meacham’s grave—now that was a statue!
After the viewing, Wickham showed them around some of the drawing rooms and the gallery of the abbey. When tea was served at last, the company felt completely at ease. Mrs. Meacham recognized Wedgwood china when she saw it and could venture an opinion of a fairy cake as well as the next one. She declined the offer to pour tea, passing the honor onto Cecilia. “For I am all thumbs, Lord Wickham. I would not like to spill tea on your nice carpets.”
While Cecilia poured, Mrs. Meacham took note of the room’s decor, deducing from it that Wickham was too nice to think the room needed redoing. She told him so in a chatty way, like a friend. While all this was going forth, Wickham watched Miss Cummings with a wary eye, imagining her at the head of his table, where he decided she would do very well.
Cecilia noticed he was observing her with unusual diligence. She already felt a little ill at ease as a result of her own thinking, and his observation added to it. It almost seemed he had read her mind and was measuring her as she measured him, in the role of prospective spouse. Confusion lent a touch of consciousness to her usually calm behavior. She found herself speaking in awkward blurts.
“The abbey is charming, Wickham. Anyone must be happy here.” Then, deciding that this hinted at self-interest, she quickly added, “For a country place, I mean. For myself, I always spend part of the year in London.” That was even worse, putting herself firmly at the center of it all. “Do you have a house in town?” she asked.
“Yes, I, too, spend the Season in London. I did not do so last year, so soon after my late wife’s death. There was much to see to about the estate after my trip as well, but I plan to in the future, certainly.”
“Lord Elgin mentioned that he would be happy to see you there, to bolster his own antiquarian interests.” This hinted at having discussed him behind his back and turned her cheeks a becoming rose.
“I expect you will be leaving Laycombe soon, as the Season opens next week” was his next speech.
Even these harmless words she managed to endow with ambiguity. “I have not set a firm date. Do you go next week?” Now why had she added that pointed question, as though planning to match her departure to his?
“Soon, I have not decided precisely when I shall leave.”
“Perhaps we shall meet there,” she said, and gave up any hope of appearing disinterested. She was amazed at her own clumsiness. If Wickham had not guessed at her interest before now, this must surely have done it. “At parties, I mean,” she added in desperation, and was unhappy with that chilly speech, too.
“I hope I may do myself the honor of calling on you,” he said, smiling at her every gaucherie.
“Papa’s house is in Hanover Square,” she said, and took a slice of plum cake, which she did not want in the least, but would keep her mouth busy and out of mischief.
No one else noticed anything amiss in the conversation, but Wickham was surprised at her confusion. After some talk of yesterday’s party, Cecilia said, “Oh, we have not seen the faun, Wickham. You mentioned it as a particularly well-preserved piece. May we see it?”
“Certainly. It is hiding from Elgin in a corner of the rose garden, behind the house. We’ll just wait till everyone is finished tea.”
Mrs. Meacham was far from finished. She had not even tried the plum cake and had seen quite enough marble rubble in any case. “You run along, Cousin. I am quite satisfied here.”
Cecilia looked expectantly at the sisters. “Girls?”
They were disinterested in this plan, and it was only Wickham and Cecilia who left. He led her through the house, into a rose garden hedged in yews. The faun was as he had described, a lovely piece in yellowish marble, with some veining on the back that gave a suggestion of a faun’s spots. “This is lovely!” she exclaimed. “It looks so natural, so perfectly at home here, as if it might lift its head and shyly dart away.”
He smiled in pleasure, and said, “I have had the same feeling about you today, Miss Cummings—Cecilia. May I call you Cecilia?” His voice was soft, with an unusual warmth.
She nodded, but kept her face averted, ostensibly admiring the statue.
“Are you not going to ask me my meaning?” he prodded. She looked o
ver her shoulder, waiting, and he continued. “You, too, look perfectly at home here, but I have had some impression of—uneasiness in your attitude. I hope you don’t mean to dart away too soon.”
She chose to ignore any special significance and replied, “It is time we should be leaving. The sun is beginning to lower.”
He examined the sky and then drew out his watch. “It is only four o’clock! And you have all of five miles to go. That won’t do for an excuse.”
“We were invited to see your statues and have tea. We have done both.”
“Is that the only reason I asked you?” he said archly.
Cecilia found herself more at ease in an outright flirtation than in the strained atmosphere that had formerly prevailed. “That was the reason you gave, sir, and I took you at your word,” she smiled pertly.
“No fear of an ulterior motive?”
“I doubt you would have invited the family had you planned to turn into a flirt. This exercise must therefore be spontaneous.”
“So it is. As to asking the family, I doubt you would have come without them. I sometimes find myself carried away when I am alone with a pretty lady.”
“Forewarned is forearmed. I shall take care we are not often alone.”
He walked closer, not touching her, but close enough to touch. “Now you put me in a quandary, Cecilia. I had hoped to induce you to ride out with me tomorrow. We must not rob Lady of her exercise. Can you trust me to behave?”
“I have not seen anything to suggest you will not. I am free in the morning, but will be busy preparing for company in the afternoon. Guests are coming,” she said vaguely. “Are you free in the morning?”
“Is ten o’clock too early? It’s not the rush of business that leads me to suggest an early hour, but eagerness. I am free all morning.”
“I’m an early riser. Ten is fine.”
He took her arm and led her inside. After another cup of tea, the ladies rose, expressed their thanks, and left. Wickham walked with them to their carriage.
“That was just dandy, Lord Wickham,” Mrs. Meacham assured him two or three times.
He nodded and smiled. “I shall see you at ten tomorrow, Cecilia,” he reminded her, as he closed the door behind her.
This had to be explained as soon as the carriage was moving. “An appointment with Wickham tomorrow?” Mrs. Meacham said, surprised.
“He called you Cecilia,” Alice said.
“Upon my word, I smell a match here! Don’t try to tell me otherwise. I knew how it would be as soon as he laid an eye on you,” Mrs. Meacham exclaimed, and laughed heartily while Cecilia disclaimed with equal vigor.
Martha gave a sulky look and said nothing. The higher Cecilia rose in everyone else’s estimation, the more neglected she felt. It seemed Cousin Cecilia could arrange a match for everyone else but her. If she weren’t so busy flirting with Wickham, she could do what she came to do.
* * * *
Wickham called the next morning as planned, and Cecilia had herself under sufficient control that she could greet him without blushing. Her mind was pretty well made up to have him. At least she would not say no; she would ask for time to consider it. He seemed partial to her; he was eligible, and she was ready to marry. Nothing stood in the way. Upon first seeing him in Mrs. Meacham’s saloon, some of her former confusion rose up. He looked outrageously handsome in his well-fitted jacket and buckskins. His eyes went to her, and she read the admiration there. She didn’t bother taking a seat, but just said, “All set?” He rose, made his adieux to Mrs. Meacham, and they left.
“What destination do you have in mind?” she asked.
“I thought we might ride around my land, if that suits you?”
It suited her very well. She was naturally curious to see the extent of his holdings and assumed he was taking her there for that very purpose. As he was accompanied by Cecilia, Sally Gardener didn’t think it worth her while to grab a bag and run into the street, but as she already had on her bonnet to do so, she decided to call on the Meachams instead and discover where they were going.
The morning was fair, the heat of the sunshine alleviated by a spring breeze. The couple left the main road as soon as possible and cantered through meadows at a quick pace till they reached Wickham’s land.
“I have five thousand acres,” he said. “The income is ten thousand a year.” This was so pointed she almost felt she should tell him her dowry was thirty thousand, but she refrained, and he continued outlining his holdings. He told her his crops, his livestock, his timber acres, the number of his tenant farmers, and a great deal more about St. Martin’s. Cecilia nodded and expressed her pleasure and satisfaction.
“Good company is thin hereabouts,” he mentioned. “The Lowreys are connected to me on my mother’s side. They live in a large way and are quite sociable. I must take you to meet them one day. Of course, you have your Meacham relations nearby, and there are always friends to entertain from a little farther afield. That, with the London Season, keeps one from being dull.”
The more he spoke, the clearer it became that he was outlining the advantages of a match. It could hardly be clearer had he asked her for her father’s address to write for permission to offer. As he talked, they continued riding, with Wickham pointing out various features of his estate. When they reached the orchards, he suggested they dismount and walk a little. The rows of trees provided privacy from any prying eyes and lent a romantic aura. Cecilia was as sure she was going to receive an offer as she had ever been of anything in her life. She felt her heart pound as they both looked at the burgeoning apple trees. Buds swelled the branches to pink clouds that had not yet burst. In the treetops, birds warbled their throaty songs.
He would begin by some joking reminder that he was not entirely to be trusted, alone with a pretty lady. His arm would steal around her waist... Wickham stood some two yards away, and she waited with a palpitating heart for him to come closer. When he came, she just looked at him silently, with glazed eyes. He pulled her into his arms without saying a word. Though surprised, she went willingly enough. His manner was more direct and forceful than she had imagined. This pleased and excited her. When he saw the glitter of excitement in her eyes, his arms tightened, crushing her against his chest.
Her head fell back, and she gazed at his face looming above her. She had thought his expression would be soft, smiling. Its harsh, hungry look astonished her. She even felt a tremble of fear, but before she had time to think or speak, his head lowered and his lips found hers. But when they touched, the kiss was tender, not the predatory sort of attack she had feared. Cecilia tried to keep her head, to assimilate her feelings at being embraced by Wickham.
His lips were warm and intimate. As the kiss continued, she decided she liked the firm warmth of his body against hers. The kiss deepened, and she felt her blood quicken. Her arms tightened insensibly in response to his. Her mind reeled and lost all track of assimilating anything. It wasn’t something to be analyzed, but experienced—like falling off a horse, but more pleasant. After a moment she sensed Wickham’s attack becoming stronger, and she pulled away.
With a breathless voice she said, “You go very fast, sir.”
Now the sweet talk would come. He would apologize for having got carried away. Instead he stepped back, took up a pose, feet splayed, arms crossed over his chest, and an expression on his face that had nothing to do with romance.
“Miss Cummings—Cecilia,” he said, “I think you know what all this has been leading up to. I wanted to make sure we should—suit, physically I mean—before speaking. I would be very much flattered if you would marry me.” She blinked and looked at him, in his unromantic posture more suited to argument than courting. He was ill at ease. She must cajole him a little, for she had no intention of settling for this cool sort of offer.
“This comes as a great surprise, Wickham. We are only new friends. Why do you offer on such short acquaintance?” A word about “love at first sight” would not have gone amiss—“I
knew as soon as I saw you...”
“We are well matched as to fortune and social standing, and the other,” he added. She blinked in confusion. “Damn, I don’t want a wife who flinches ever time I touch her.” A memory of Adrianna passed like a shadow over his thoughts. “I need a wife. You need a husband. Elgin and everyone seem to think we would suit. Our interests are not dissimilar. It is true I am a widower, but to counter that, you are no longer quite young.”
She felt a strange ringing in her ears. This could not be happening. She was being offered a marriage of convenience! Her dowry was the draw, and her advanced years the price she should pay for his being a widower. Her heart clenched in anger, and two splotches of red formed high on her cheeks.
“You will be surprised to hear I do not consider myself quite reduced to bartering my dowry for a husband yet, sir.”
“I did not mean to offend you,” he said swiftly, but it was pretty clear that her words had offended him. On top of it all, he had thought she would jump at that insulting offer!
“Did you not?” she demanded, with nostrils flaring. “Can you possibly have thought this offer would be anything but an offense?”
“I think we would suit admirably. I have just been telling you how I am situated. You would not find me a demanding sort of husband. Naturally I must have a son and heir—it is the main reason I—”
She had heard enough. “I am in the fortunate position of not having to provide a son and heir, for either myself or anyone else. Without that inducement, I see no reason to marry you, Lord Wickham. I would like to return home now, if you please.”
She turned on her heel and went straight to her mare, where she got into the saddle with no help from her escort. He stood gaping, unable to credit her refusal, and the sharp nature of it. When Cecilia dug her heels into the mare and began to clatter away without him, Wickham quickly mounted and finally caught up with her just as she reached the road. Her head was throbbing and unshed tears stung her eyes. Tears more of humiliation and anger than grief. That might come later, but for the moment she was too full of the wicked insult to think of anything else.
