Marry in Haste

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Yes, I told Lord Leominster I thought you would not like it.”

  “Not Leominster,” snapped the old lady. “Lavenham to you and me—his first name is too ridiculous for use—Maurice—pah! But there were Lavenhams at Haverford Hall long before the house of Hanover was thought of—or the Stuarts either, for that matter. You are yourself of good family, I understand, despite the governessing. The Comte de Foret, is it not? Surely I know something of him?”

  “Nothing good, I fear, ma’am,” said Camilla calmly. “I come to you with many liabilities.” She made it a statement, rather than an apology and it was taken as such.

  “Oh, as to that,” said the old lady, “you will find that we have enough of our own. To begin with, I must tell you that I hold the purse strings, and shall continue to do so. Since you tell me that you are marrying Lavenham for money, you had best understand at once that it is mine.”

  “So it is easy to see, ma’am, by the state of this house compared with Haverford Hall,” said Camilla dryly.

  “Touché,” again came that swashbuckling laugh. “You have me there, Miss Forest. Is it so very shabby? I have not been there this age.”

  “Deplorable,” said Camilla simply. “It is worse than shabby, ma’am, it is falling to pieces. It will cost a pretty penny to set in order again.”

  “Well, there is time enough to be thinking of that,” said the dowager. “But let us return to you. This Mrs. Cummerton was your first employer, was she not? And until you went to her you had lived at Devonshire House—as one of the family?” she added sharply.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And are now back there?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And will remain there till your marriage, of course. Will the Duke give you away?”

  “I have no doubt he would if I were to ask him. But you forget, ma’am, that I have a father. Whatever may be said against him, I will be given away by no one else. Besides, I do not wish it suggested that I am another of the Devonshire House miscellany.”

  “That’s good.” The dark eyes flashed approval. “That’s excellent good; the Devonshire House miscellany! No, we’ll not have you confused with that. But the Cavendishes will be there to dance at your wedding, I take it? Oh, it might be worse—it might very well be worse.”

  “Leominster—I mean Lavenham—said you would be too happy he was marrying at all to make many objections to me,” said Camilla, greatly daring.

  “Why, to tell truth, child, he was right there. I do not know when I have been more astonished—or more delighted. I only hope you know what you are doing. We want no more scandals in our family: if you marry Lavenham, you are to stick to him, understand?”

  “Of course, ma’am. That is my idea of matrimony. But,” Camilla hesitated, “you say, ‘no more scandals’?”

  “Ha.” It was a grunt almost of satisfaction. “I thought he’d not have told you. Well, you’d best know, since it explains much about Lavenham that might puzzle you else. Besides, if I do not tell you, there will be enough kind friends to do so. Best hear it from me. What has Lavenham told you about his parents?”

  “Why, nothing, ma’am. We have not, to tell truth, had much time for conversation.”

  “No, I suppose not, since you only met—am I right?—the day before yesterday. But it would be years before Lavenham told you, and you had much best know now. Lavenham’s father—my son—was killed in a duel defending his wife’s honour (as he thought). She watched from her lover’s carriage and left England with him afterwards. They are living still, in Italy. Lavenham was a child of ten at the time, his sister a mere baby. He has not, I think, forgotten.”

  “Oh.” There seemed nothing to say, but then, “He ... he told me he did not like women. I could not understand it, but now I begin to see.”

  The dark eyes snapped. “Told you that, did he? A good sign, a very good sign. This may do yet. But you will have to be patient, child, patient as Job. Do not delude yourself this is a romantic history you are embarked on ... it is something quite other ... Hmmm,” she paused for a moment, “told you he did not like women, hey? Did he tell you he’s had all the eligible girls in town dangling after him and paid them as much attention as he would a flock of sheep when he’s hunting? I tell you, my threat to disinherit him if he did not marry was the throw of despair: I never thought it would work. But now, we must talk business, you and I.”

  “Business? You mean I have passed?”

  “Passed? Why, child, I am thanking heaven for you, on bended knees, or would be if it were not such a confoundedly awkward position. You’ll do far better for Lavenham than one of those milk and water society misses who think marriage is just another kind of nursery game. You seem to have some idea of practical living, and I tell you, you’ll need it with Lavenham. But now, to business, I shall buy your trousseau and put Haverford Hall in order for you. I shall also deal with Mrs. Cummerton—which should not, I think, be difficult—and launch you in society. If you are to be a diplomat’s wife, no one must be able to cast the least slur on your antecedents. You have not, I take it, been presented, or made your appearance at Almack’s, or done any of the things a young lady should? Well, it will be difficult, and that will make it interesting. I have not the least doubt in the world but that we shall succeed, if you will keep your head and do as I tell you. I shall also provide your dowry and give you an allowance independent of what I give Lavenham—which I shall, of course, increase. But I think it will be better for you—and for him—if you are in some sense independent of him. I would rather I was your tyrant than he. And, one more thing, when you bear us an heir, your allowance will be doubled. Now, I am tired. Ring, and have Lavenham sent for.”

  So there was to be no more discussion, and Camilla was relieved. The question of the heir was something she did not feel she could discuss even with her remarkable old grandmother-to-be. Nor, needless to say, did she mention it to Leominster, who was, however, heartily satisfied with what she did tell him of the interview. She had wondered how he would take her separate allowance, but he welcomed it with evident relief. “So you are to be independent of me. Admirable; we shall agree much better so.” It was one of those remarks of his that gave her, each time, a strange little pang about the heart, and, each time, she told herself, angrily, not to be a fool. He did not for a minute forget that this was a business arrangement they were embarked on. Well, neither would she.

  Lady Leominster had announced, in parting, that she was tired of being, as she put it, “a bedridden old crone” and would be up betimes in the morning to take Camilla shopping for her trousseau. “Clothes come first, always: society must wait.” Arriving, Camilla found her dressed in the very height of the fashion of ten years ago and looking more like a performing monkey than ever. This morning, she offered a brown, rouged, and wrinkled cheek for Camilla’s kiss saying, as she did so, “I am glad to find you so punctual, child: we have much to do today. Lavenham has been here already this morning. His orders are changed: he must leave for Portugal before the month is out.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yes; they are having some crisis or other over there and apparently his presence is urgently required. He seemed doubtful whether you could be ready in time, but I told him not to trouble himself: we shall do it if it means hiring every mantua maker and milliner in town. He has gone off to arrange for a special licence, and you have but to decide, since it must be done hugger-mugger like this, whether you would liefer be married quietly in town or at Haverford on your way to Falmouth.”

  Something in the course of this speech had alerted Camilla. “Dear madam,” she said, “forgive me, but I must ask. Does Lord Leominster wish me to go with him now?”

  “Lavenham, child, Lavenham, if you love me,” barked the old lady, and then, with her cavalier’s laugh, “What a sharp little thing you are, to be sure. I confess it had crossed my mind too that Lavenham was, shall we say, prepared to bear a delay. But I am not; and we’ll not discuss it further
. In many ways, too, ’tis an admirable arrangement. There will be no question, now, of presentation, or appearing in society. You marry Lavenham, leave for Portugal, and return, at leisure, Lady Leominster full blown. I must look out some dowager’s purple: I have ladied it in the title alone for so long I shall hardly know how to conduct myself. But, come up to my room: I have commanded the attendance of all the best modistes in town and we must apply ourselves to tricking you out as every inch the diplomat’s wife.”

  That was the most exhausting week of Camilla’s life. She did, between fittings, manage to make an opportunity to speak to Lavenham alone and ask him with a straightforward anxiousness that he found oddly touching, “Do you very much mind having to marry me so soon?”

  He laughed. “Surely an odd question from bride to groom? No, of course, I do not mind. The sooner, in many ways, the better.”

  And with this Camilla had to be satisfied, though she could not help feeling that he sounded uncomfortably like someone swallowing a disagreeable dose of physic, to get it over with. Perhaps it was as well for her that she was too busy for much thought. It was not only her personal trousseau that had to be assembled, but almost the entire furnishings for a house. Her betrothed, who knew Portugal well, assured her that although the houses were handsome enough, she would not find a towel or a pair of sheets fit for an English beggar. They must take with them everything necessary for comfort, let alone luxury. “You see how selfishly wise I have been in getting myself a wife to do all this for me.”

  After he had left to make one of his long visits to Mr. Canning at the Foreign Office, Camilla nibbled slowly and luxuriously on the crumb of comfort he had offered her. She might, after all, be able to earn her keep as a wife, and perhaps his gratitude, by looking after his comfort in Portugal. She threw herself with a new enthusiasm into the choosing of the household linen for which old Lady Leominster was so lavishly prepared to pay.

  After some discussion, it had been decided that the wedding had best take place in the village church at Haverford. Lady Leominster, who normally proclaimed herself far too aged and infirm to travel, was so miraculously rejuvenated by a week of hard labour and constant bullying of tradesmen that she pronounced herself easily fit for the journey. “And besides,” she twinkled at Camilla, “it will give me an opportunity to see just what kind of a fortune I have committed myself to spending in setting the house to rights for you.”

  She and Camilla’s father were to be the only witnesses at the wedding. Camilla, on learning this, had raised a problem that had been troubling her. Lavenham had come in. briefly, on his way to the Foreign Office to discuss the arrangements for shipping their household stuff, and he and his grandmother had then turned to the order of the journey down. Learning from this that only her father was expected to go with them, Camilla had ventured to interrupt. “But surely,” she said, “will not your sister be accompanying us?” She had wondered several times why no move had been made to make her known to Lavenham’s sister, who was, she knew, at a school on the outskirts of town, and now it seemed that Lady Chloe Lavenham was not even to be present at her wedding.

  “Chloe?” Lavenham raised an eyebrow. “I confess I had not thought it necessary. What think you, ma’am?” As usual, he referred the point to his grandmother.

  “I think she had much best stay at school and try to learn some conduct,” said the old lady roundly. And then, seeing Camilla’s amazed expression, she laughed. “I collect Lavenham has told you nothing about his sister. Oh well, unpleasant duties always fall to my share. Go you to your appointment, Lavenham, for which I suspect you are already late, and I will explain to Camilla why Chloe had best not grace your wedding.” And then, after Lavenham had taken his leave, “You will think our family cursed with scandal, child, when I tell you that, young though she is, Chloe had already come near to disgracing us all. What think you of her trying to elope, at sixteen, and with the music master? Did you ever hear of anything so Gothic?”

  “Well,” said Camilla thoughtfully, “I suppose it is not really so much worse than marrying a governess. But, tell me, how far did they get?”

  “Not too far, by God’s mercy, though far enough in all conscience. Lavenham was in Portugal at the time, so it fell to my lot to rise from a sickbed and pursue them on their very inefficient way to Gretna. Luckily, the young man was a fool of the first water and all their arrangements went awry. By the time I caught up with them I think poor Chloe was positively glad to see me. She has never spoken of him since. That was six months ago, and we told her that a further year at school must be her penance. I think when you return from Portugal will be time enough for you to meet her.”

  Camilla could not help but be sorry for the motherless girl, who, had had, she suspected, all too little of thought or affection from either her brother or her grandmother, but she had learned that, when Lady Leominster spoke with that touch of finality, it was best to let a subject drop, and therefore did so, only resolving that, if she could not contrive to meet Chloe before she left, she would at least enter into a correspondence with her. She had learned the direction of her school and kept hoping for an opportunity to go there, greatly daring, and visit her without consulting either Lavenham or his grandmother, but the press of work was too great, the day came for their move to Haverford, and the opportunity had still not arisen.

  It was an oddly assorted quartet that set forward in two travelling carriages for Haverford Hall. Camilla’s father was resplendent in gleaming new buckskins and topcoat that she shrewdly suspected her betrothed had paid for, and was more Gallic than ever in his flowery attentions to her and to Lady Leominster. In some ways, it was a relief to find she was to drive down with him, while Lavenham escorted his grandmother. At least he would not be troubling them with his airs and graces, but nevertheless, she could not repress an illogical pang of disappointment. It had been absurd to hope that Lavenham would accompany her, but she had done so just the same, and had counted more than she had quite realised on this time alone with him to allay some of the doubts and fears that tormented her. Instead, she had to listen for the intolerable length of the journey to her father’s enthusiastic congratulations on her good fortune—and his. In the course of his long and exclamatory monologue it came out that Lavenham had undertaken to make him a small allowance—on condition that he kept away from the gaming tables. Camilla did not know whether to be more touched at this instance of Lavenham’s thoughtfulness or amused at the ungrounded optimism that made him believe her father’s asseverations that he would never touch another pair of dice. She would as easily believe him if he told her he would never draw another breath. Still, it was clear from a slight bitterness in his tone that the allowance was so tied up that it would be impossible for him to anticipate it. At least it should help to safeguard him from blackguards like M. Mireille, who, she was relieved to learn, had indeed packed up and left at once for France. But here, too, was matter for a slight pang. To have been so nearly in touch with her long-lost, dimly remembered older brother and then to have had nothing come of it was a sad blow. But the fact remained that he was only dimly remembered—and he had thrown in his lot with Bonaparte. Perhaps, after all, it was best this way. If peace ever came, which seemed unlikely, it would be time enough to resume relations with him.

  At Haverford Hall, as in London, she was too busy for thought. Lady Leominster, after a volley of horrified exclamations at the state of the house, turned to with a will to plan its renovation. And Camilla must be consulted about everything. If she suspected that this was a device of the old lady’s to keep her, as she had done in London, too busy for thought, she was, in the main, grateful. The die was cast. What was the use of thinking? Instead, she must decide which paper should be hung in the dining room, and whether the curtains there should be of green-or rose-coloured brocade. She must decide the colour scheme of her own suite of apartments, which Lady Leominster intended entirely to remodel: “We’ll have no memories of his mother lingering there to haunt
Lavenham,” she explained, when Camilla protested at the expense. This was a silencer. Impossible to suggest to the old lady that the chances of Lavenham’s ever visiting these apartments were remote indeed.

  As their wedding day drew relentlessly near, he seemed more and more a courteous stranger. Considering her in everything, he nevertheless contrived really to talk to her about nothing. They might, she thought in despairing tears one night, be the merest of chance acquaintances, not a couple who were to marry in two days. And, as so often before, she pulled herself up, dried her tears angrily, turned over the pillow, and composed herself for sleep with the thought that they were indeed mere acquaintances, and likely to remain so. Since this did not, somehow, prove conducive to slumber, she made herself, instead, catalogue the items of her trousseau, which despite the speed at which it had been assembled, overwhelmed her by its richness and variety. But not even the enumeration of silks and gauzes proved soporific, and it was with a tear still trembling on one eyelid that she fell asleep, at last—to dream, maddeningly, of Lavenham.

  She woke to something like panic. Tomorrow was her wedding day. They were to be married early in the morning, then leave at once for the long journey to Falmouth. By spending one night in Exeter, they would break the journey and reach Falmouth in time to go aboard their ship the evening before she sailed. It all seemed too near, too soon; in short, impossible. And yet to retreat was equally impossible; she was caught, a helpless prisoner in the web of Lady Leominster’s kindness. The certainty that this was exactly what Lady Leominster had intended made no difference. She had gone too far, now, to turn back; she must go through with her mad bargain.

  But it was with an aching head and a pale face that she joined the others at breakfast. Lady Leominster looked at her sharply, said nothing, and presently engaged her grandson to drive her out to pay a morning call on Mrs. Cummerton. “I will not go so far as to invite her to your wedding, my love,” she told Camilla, “but I warrant you I’ll silence her effectively enough without.”