Marry in Haste

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “A friend of Charles’s in London? But you said he was a follower of Bonaparte!”

  “And so he is.” Not for the first time she recognised embarrassment under her father’s joviality. “And so, of course, is his friend, who passes, for the nonce, as M. Mireille, an émigré. In reality, he is here on a secret mission of the greatest consequence.”

  “You mean, I collect, that he is a spy.”

  “Oh, ma Camille, why must you always take things so awkwardly? I tell you of your brother’s friend, and you must talk to me of spies. Do you not think the English have their agents too, in Paris? But when you meet M. Mireille, as you will shortly, you will realise how wide you are of the mark, and how greatly things must be changed in France. He is an aristocrat to his fingertips. I will not tell you his title—the less you know, perhaps, the better—but to find such as he serving Bonaparte—ma foi, it makes me sure it is time we went home, you and I. This England is well enough for a while, but to tell truth, I am passing weary of their roast mutton and that dishwater they call coffee, and as for their manners! I have stood their condescension long enough. To be treated as an inferior by such canaille; it is a wonder I have endured it so long. Why, only the other day, when I was walking down St. James’s—”

  “But, Father,” she cut him short, recognising the beginning of one of his long stories of offended dignity, “what is this to the purpose?”

  “Ah ha, ma petite, always so practical. You wish to hear about the handsome husband and the dowry, n’est-ce pas? Well, so you shall. As for the husband, Mireille is the man and head over ears in love merely from hearing your praises, and, for the fortune, what say you to your share of our own estates, which I am promised on my return to France?”

  “And what must we do in exchange?”

  “Why, nothing of the slightest importance. Nor indeed would you have to return to France for the moment. Mireille is fixed in London for some time, so you would not be leaving your friends. I know how much the connexion with Devonshire House has meant to you: I am too good a father to snatch you away from all that.”

  She saw it all now: “And how much does the connexion with Devonshire House mean to M. Mireille?” she asked. “Does he expect me to assist him in his spying?”

  “Oh, Camilla.” He shrugged despairingly. “We are given a chance to recoup our fortunes, to go home to France, to see once more the brother you adored, and all you do is make difficulties. Well, let me tell you then, which I had hoped to spare you, that if you do not marry Mireille, I am a ruined man.”

  “Ruined? What do you mean?”

  “Why, merely that I owe him more than I can possibly pay. He has it in his power to disgrace me, Camilla, and all you can think of are your British niceties.”

  Now she was beginning, indeed, to see. “And because he has done this to you,” she said, “you wish me to marry him.” She rose and took an angry turn about the room, then came back to face him. “Father, you have surpassed yourself. But, tell me, how much, in. fact, do you owe this M. Mireille?”

  He was extremely reluctant to tell her, but she got it out of him at last. The figure, it seemed, was upwards of five hundred pounds and she knew only too well how impossible he would find the payment of such a sum. She was pacing the room again, in distracted consideration of his plight, when a disapproving footman appeared to announce that “a M. Mireille” was below asking for her.

  “Tell him I am not at home,” she said at once, and then, when the man had withdrawn, turned on her father, who had made as if to protest. “Really, Father,” she said, “this is the outside of enough. I collect you told him to give you the meeting here. Have you so little thought for my position that you would have me entertaining every Tom, Dick, and Harry of your acquaintance, and with the family away, too.”

  “But, mon amour,” he protested, “your intended husband? Surely that alters the case? I wish you may not have affronted him by having him sent away. I had best hurry after him, I think, and explain.”

  “Yes, she said, “perhaps you had. Say to him what you please, but do not tell him I have accepted him. He is no intended husband of mine.” And she cut short his further protests and exclamations by ringing for a footman to show him out.

  Alone at last, she paced the room in an agony of indecision. So this was the help she had hoped for from her father. Well, she told herself, she should have known him better than to allow herself even to imagine the chance of assistance from him. But what should she do? He was all too evidently on the high road to ruin. Could she save him? Almost, for a moment, she was tempted to sit down and write to Lord Leominster, accepting his offer on the spot and asking his help. Then she thought better of it. That his offer must be accepted, and his help asked, seemed certain, but, from what she had already seen of him, she thought she would do better to leave him tonight in doubt, rather than to seem to fall too easily into his hands.

  This decided, she went up to her room and unpacked her box, then joined Miss Trimmer for an evening of handwork and polite conversation. It was, she found, strangely soothing to be exchanging, once more, dry comment on the new ministers, the course of the war, and the new style in sleeves with this calm and reliable friend. Only, at last, alone in her room, did she let herself think of the future. “Well, my Lady Leominster,” she told the pale, large-eyed reflection in her glass, “and how, pray, do you do?”

  There was, of course, no answer.

  CHAPTER 3

  The morning had its own terrors. Suppose Lord Leominster should have changed his mind? But she would not even consider that possibility, setting herself instead to decide how to receive him. Theoretically, she certainly should not do so alone, and yet this was obviously essential. After some thought, she decided, inevitably, that the time had come to take Miss Trimmer into her confidence, and did so, telling her, of course, as little as possible of the story, and nothing about the strange nature of Lord Leominster’s proposal. Always reliable, Miss Trimmer congratulated her warmly on forming so eligible a connexion and came, with her usual good sense, straight to the point. “And he is calling on you today for your answer, you say? Well, I think I had best play mama to you, my dear, since the family are all away. We will receive him together, if you will be ruled by me, and then I will act the part of a wise parent by leaving you alone with him.”

  Since this was exactly the reaction Camilla had hoped for, she received it warmly and settled down to learn from Miss Trimmer whatever she knew of her future husband. This was not much, since Lord Leominster, as a Tory, moved in a very different circle from that of the Devonshire House set. But Miss Trimmer had heard enough about his charm and promise to make the time pass very pleasantly for Camilla, who allowed herself, for a little while, to be soothed into the illusion that this was an ordinary marriage she was contemplating. At least, there was something very encouraging about the warmth of Miss Trimmer’s congratulations, confirming, as they did, her own belief that a respectable marriage was worth achieving at almost any cost.

  But the time passed slowly and when Lord Leominster was announced at last, it was with a sensation of astonishment that Camilla realised that he had come almost as early as politeness warranted. Nothing else about him betokened the eager lover, and Camilla, watching him exchange polite nothings with Miss Trimmer, could hardly believe that his proposal had ever been made. Only, when he turned to her with a gleam of—what was it? Irony? Solicitude? Or something between the two?—and asked her how she had found her father, did she know that it was all real enough. Suddenly overwhelmed with nerves, she stammered out an incoherent reply and was still further shaken when Miss Trimmer took this as her cue to rise and take her leave.

  Alone with her, Leominster wasted no time. “Well,” he said, “you do not look, Miss Forest, like a young lady whose father has just won a fortune in the lottery. Nor,” he twinkled at her suddenly, “like one who awaits a proposal of marriage. Is it so very bad? Do you wish you had never encountered me?”

  Agai
n she found herself at a loss for words. This would never do. With a fierce effort she pulled herself together and contrived to match his lightness of tone. “On the contrary, my lord, I think I may have much cause to bless the day we met. But whether you will do so, I cannot but doubt.” And then, with a sudden rush: “Tell me, my lord, have you any money at all? Without recourse to your grandmother, I mean.”

  He laughed. “Well, that’s a frank enough question,” he said, “and one, I hope that you feel yourself entitled to ask, for the best of reasons. Yes, I have a few pounds to command at a pinch. Why? Am I to take it that you have found your father not so much fortunate as embarrassed?”

  Not for the first time, she blessed him for his quick comprehension. “Precisely so,” she said, “and there is worse than that. I think, before there is any more talk of marriage between us, I must tell you the whole. You may well feel, when you have heard it, that as a wife I should prove more of a liability than an asset.”

  And without stopping for any further doubts, she poured out the whole story, only minimising, as best she might, the sordid part played by her father and, by implication, her brother. At last she paused, looking at him expectantly, rather, he found himself thinking, like a young bird hoping for crumbs. A sudden, unfamiliar wave of feeling swept over him, part anger at her father, part pity for her desolate position in which, instead of being protected, she had herself to play the protector’s role. But his voice lost none of its lightness as he replied. “So, I take it, as a bride’s present, you would wish your father cleared of debt? Well, with a little contriving, I believe it can be done, and you are right when you think I do not much want a father-in-law in Bonaparte’s camp. You say he admits to five hundred pounds of debt? Then, I suppose we had best assume that the total amounts to half as much again. Well, I am afraid Cousin Harriet must say goodbye to her improvements at Haverford Hall.” He rose to his feet. “You had best give me your father’s direction, Miss Forest, and let me handle this. But, first, have I your permission to announce our engagement in the Gazette? It will infinitely strengthen my hand in dealing both with your father and with this M. Mireille, whose pretensions I propose to myself the pleasure of depressing.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, then hurried on to a point that had been troubling her. “You will not have M. Mireille arrested, will you?”

  He laughed. “As an acceptance, it lacks something of enthusiasm, but I thank you, just the same.” With a sudden courtly gesture he bent to kiss her hand, then continued, “And I promise I will do my best to make the married state tolerable to you. As for M. Mireille, do not trouble yourself over him. For one thing, he is not worth it; for another, I do not propose to do anything so drastic as having him arrested, which might, just remotely, involve you, but shall merely drop a word in the proper quarters. Once he is known for a spy, he can do little harm and may indeed do us good. But now, for our plans. My grandmother is most happily come to town—she wishes, she says, to see the last of me—and I am sure you will agree with me that we should lose no time in making you known to her. With your permission, I will call on her even before I see your father and ask her leave to bring you to visit her this evening.” Again came that irrepressible twinkle. “I think I can promise you that she will be the most surprised dowager in London. It is but three days since she made me her ultimatum, and here I present myself to her as a happily affianced man.”

  “Yes.” Camilla considered it somewhat doubtfully. “Do you think she will really believe it?”

  “You are not exactly flattering, Miss Forest. Do you find it so impossible that I should be able to woo and win a young lady in three days?”

  It was her turn to laugh. “I cry your pardon. I am convinced you could do it in one. And besides your grandmother will doubtless be too charmed at your obedience to look very closely into my motives. But, my lord, I do not know how to thank you—”

  He interrupted her. “Then do not try. Or rather tell yourself that I rescue your father merely out of motives of self-interest, which, you must long since have realised, is paramount in my nature. And, Miss Forest, I must beg you to give over calling me ‘my lord,’ which might, indeed, rouse some justifiable doubts in my grandmother’s breast. If you boggle at Maurice—and I should not blame you—my family name, Lavenham, will do well enough until we are better acquainted. And what, pray, am I to call you in return?”

  “Camilla, my lord—I beg your pardon, Camilla,” she said, colouring deeply as once again the extraordinary nature of this engagement was brought home to her.

  “Camilla,” he said with approval, “a pretty name, and suits its owner.” And with this, the first compliment he had paid her, he took his leave, promising to call for her that evening and conduct her to his grandmother’s house in St. James’s Square.

  He arrived punctually upon his hour and greeted her with a reassuring, “All’s well so far,” as he handed her into his carriage. “I have seldom had the pleasure of seeing my grandmother so surprised.”

  “And pleased?” she asked, somewhat wryly. “Is she prepared to sink my past in my future?”

  He laughed. “You make marriage with me sound like some kind of barbaric sacrifice,” he said. “I will do my possible to make it something less unpleasant. As for my grandmother, to tell truth, she reserves judgement until she has seen you, which, in my opinion, is more than half the battle. My only fear was lest she condemn you unseen, but she is all eagerness for the meeting. It has given her, she says, a new lease of life. And, of course, to see you will be to approve.”

  She inclined her head gravely. “That is the second compliment you have paid me,” she said, “this is better and better ...”

  “It is more, I think, than you deserve, with your hints that I am some kind of modern Minotaur merely because I am no lady’s man. But I have more news for you and what, I know, will please you. I have seen your father.”

  “Already? Oh, that was kind of you.”

  “Not at all. Think rather that I wished to have your mind clear for this important interview with my grandmother. Yes, I am happy to say that I now appear as your suitor approved by your father. No, that is putting it mildly; welcomed, I should say, and indeed kissed, most enthusiastically, on both cheeks.”

  “Oh dear,” she sighed. “I can imagine how you must have enjoyed that. I only hope it is the worst you will have to suffer for my sake. But what of M. Mireille, sir? What has my father’s approval cost you?”

  “Why, to tell truth, less than I had feared. I have met your other suitor, too, and put him roundly to flight. When I suggested to M. Mireille that a word from me in the proper quarter might put an end to his capacities for wooing for some time to come, he was only too happy to waive his claim to your hand and is now, if I mistake not, busy packing his traps ready for a precipitate return to France.”

  “And the five hundred pounds?”

  “I suggested to him that it would be well worth his while to waive his claim to that, too. Blackmail, Miss Forest, is a game two can play at, and I was in very much the stronger position. No, you will have no more trouble from M. Mireille, and your father is my very dear friend already.”

  “Dear me,” she said, “how”—she hesitated for a word— “how competent of you, my lord.”

  “Lavenham,” he corrected. “I beg you will remember not to go ‘my lording’ me at my grandmother’s. I can see that you are disappointed in me, Camilla—I must get into practice too,” he explained in parenthesis. “Does my method of ridding you of your difficulties seem odiously unromantic to you? I suppose it must, but you will, I hope, admit that it has many practical advantages. Mireille dead at my hand—or even in prison—would prove a continuing embarrassment to us. Mireille in France is none. Besides, I have warned you already to expect no romance from me. But here we are. Remember, I beg, that my grandmother is a very old lady indeed and used to say what she pleases.”

  Camilla laughed. “I am glad to think somebody bullies you.”

>   Lady Leominster’s house differed most remarkably from Haverford Hall. Here were no peeling paint and shabby curtains. The very smell of the house suggested beeswax, and everything shone, from the silver candelabra to the footmen’s wigs. They were conducted, at once, to Lady Leominster’s own apartments, where they found her enthroned in an enormous velvet-hung four-poster bed. She was a little monkey of an old lady, so small, so shrunk, so shrivelled up with age that it was hard, until one saw her eyes, to imagine her as a rational being, still less as the powerful tyrant of a whole family. But her eyes told another story. Large, dark, and brilliant as Leominster’s own, they seemed, to Camilla, to nave an added something that his lacked—was it, perhaps, wisdom?

  She held out a fragile claw to Camilla. “I shall not kiss you—yet.” And then with a laugh, “Very likely you will not wish to kiss me at all.” Both voice and laugh were an astonishment, deep, resonant, and beautiful. “But I am old enough to be tyrannical, as Lavenham will doubtless have told you, and you are young enough, I hope, to learn something from me. As for you, Lavenham, you will be so good to leave us. We will get on very much better without you. Tell Chatteris to give you a glass of whatever you wish I will send for you when I am ready.” And she held out her tiny begemmed hand to him in greeting and dismissal.

  Alone with Camilla, whom she had imperiously motioned to a seat by the bed, she looked her up and down for a moment, then said, with a sigh of satisfaction: “Well, at all events, you look ladylike enough.”

  Camilla could not help a little laugh. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Hmmm—and got some spirit, too, have you? Why, this may do well enough yet. Tell me, then, what makes you wish to marry my grandson?”

  Camilla looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then, “Why, his money, ma’am,” she said simply.

  Once again that amazing laugh rang out. “And a very good reason too,” said the old lady. “If you had told me some stuff about love at first sight I would never have trusted you more. But as it is, we may deal admirably yet, you and I. So you have been out as a governess, hey?”