“Be certain to tell her, though, that it is I, come to call upon her. Come to offer, yes, if I may be so bold, not only comfort, but guidance, in this, her hour of distress and despair, of dark and drear—”
“Oh, lud, how does that windbag know anything is amiss?” Violetta hissed in the moment before Ladimer’s tap sounded on the door.
“Enter,” Mama singsonged cheerfully before dropping her voice to a furious whisper. “Indeed. How does he? Gwendolyn?”
It took everything I had left not to cringe. “I might have sent a note round.”
Silence greeted this announcement. Hostile, accusing, questioning silence.
“He did marry me to the wrong man,” I pointed out, reminding myself that I was in the right of things. “And so, I believed, should be a participant in this little discussion.”
The tips of Ladimer’s ears were flushed and his eyes were fixed on Mama’s lacquered Chinese console, but his voice was impassive. “Madam. The Reverend Twigge is with us at present, wishing to offer, if he may be so bold, not only comfort, but guidance, in your, er … hour.”
“Loves the sound of his own voice, Twigge. Never uses two words when two thousand can say the same,” Violetta said as Ladimer exited. I directed a significant look in her direction, to see whether she was able to recognize anyone else with that tendency. She, however, appeared undeterred by introspection.
Mama said, “And now we have a real problem.”
Summoning the Reverend Twigge had seemed like the correct course of action earlier this morning. I mean, it seems to me that when a man of God marries you to the wrong man, he should have something to say for himself.
“It shall, I suppose,” Violetta said as though such a burden fell to her lot daily, “be up to us, Almeria, to right the situation.”
My mother nodded just as Ladimer ushered our visitor in. “Ah, dear Reverend Twigge,” she said so brightly I could hardly credit it. “How lovely to see you once again. And so soon!”
“My lady!” he said fervently as he bowed over her hand. Mama smiled benignly at him.
“Macaroon, Mr. Twigge?” Violetta inquired as he seated himself.
“Why, no, thank you. I could not possibly. Why, when I think—”
“Ginger biscuit, then, perhaps?” Violetta suggested, and then, when he shook his head, cried, “A meringue, then!” as she all but thrust the plate into his hands.
He looked down at it with a frown. “I am afraid that I am left quite without appetite by the thought of what has transpired,” he replied.
“Transpired? What has transpired?” asked Mama, sounding artfully surprised.
“Why the, er, marital disaster, of course,” Mr. Twigge replied, looking so distressed that I almost felt sorry for him. “Why, I am completely done up. I thought Lady Gwen was supposed to marry the Earl of Cambourne, even though everyone was to believe him to be Milburn! Which seemed easy enough to accomplish, what with the similarity of names and their identical appearances and the special license—”
I decided that the time had come for me to insert myself into the conversation. “What special license?” I asked.
He looked surprised. “Well, the one necessary so you could be married in the parish without having had the banns called for three Sundays before the wedding. It is a requirement, you know, which we were quite unable to fulfill due to the, er, supposed bridegroom being away at the time.”
I nodded. “Yes. But—”
“Quite convenient, as it turned out,” Mr. Twigge continued, “since the last thing we wanted people to be aware of was the change in bridegroom, which, of course, would have been difficult with the banns. I was quite proud that when I read the name during the ceremony no one remarked anything amiss. But I now greatly fear that I must have misunderstood the instructions given me by you, dear Lady Axton, and the earl was only meant to be a proxy groom.” He leaned forward confidingly. “Although I realize we are forbidden to speak of it.”
“Well, Mr. Twigge,” said Violetta cheerfully, “what’s done is done, as the saying goes. Lovely day, is it not?”
I had clearly been lagging a conversational footstep behind since entering the room that morning, but now I could not help but feel that I had missed the path completely.
“For this time of year the day is fine, indeed,” he allowed, as Mama passed him tea. “Thank you, my lady,” he continued. “I always say there is no restorative for the nerves quite like a cup of tea. And you always do a fine blend!”
I watched him sip his tea. “Ah.” He sighed. “Do I detect a hint of oolong, Lady Worth? The merest dash mixed with your usual exceptional hyson?”
Mother nodded, looking modest.
“A bold move!” he said, his nose in his cup. He was rolling the tea around his mouth. “Am I not correct, my lady, in surmising that there is just a soupçon of lapsang in here?” he said.
“I look forward to a long coze, Mr. Twigge,” said Mother. “My daughter,” she said firmly, “is just leaving. She is positively bursting with impatience to return to her new husband!”
“Whoever he may be,” I said, darkly.
But she only laughed gaily. “We elders shall simply have to endeavor to take my mind off how bereft I am at the loss of my baby, my only daughter, the last fledgling in the nest.”
Since I had more or less been tossed out of the nest, and without any instruction at flying, this seemed a little much. When I had come to my mother this morning, I had hardly expected that she would throw consoling arms about me. It was not that she was not fond of me, precisely, but more that she was not overly concerned by my happiness or lack thereof, shall we say. All the same, I had never, in my wildest imaginings, thought that she would either ignore my plight so entirely, or possibly have conspired to bring it about. But she was, and it seemed she had, and I would have had to be an imbecile not to realize that I was being firmly dismissed. Her words, at least, seemed to have the effect of rousing Mr. Twigge.
“But—but—” the poor, confused man spluttered as he jumped to his feet, slopping some of the prized blend into his saucer. He looked pleadingly at me. “Your note, Lady Gwen, it said—”
Mother looked at me pointedly. “Au revoir, darling,” she said, firmly cutting him off. “We shan’t dream of keeping you a moment longer. Sit, Mr. Twigge!”
He immediately dropped back to his seat as bidden, and began mopping tea off his trousers.
Violetta affixed me with her gimlet eye. “Run along, gel. You’ve chickens to truss, in case you’ve forgot.”
“Cookery!” said Mr. Twigge.
“Not at all,” Violetta returned.
“Oh,” he said, looking confused, as well he might.
“Now, Mr. Twigge,” my mother said, “I am so glad you called this morning, as my husband said to me only last night that he cannot help but feel that we have been lax in our patronage of your fine old cathedral. I am aware, however, that this is the sort of dull conversation that a new bride will not want to burden herself with. Gwendolyn!”
Most impressive in its subtlety. But I stood, nonetheless. And so did Mr. Twigge, this time having the foresight to place his cup and saucer on the table. He shot me a helpless glance, as though apologizing for my forced departure. I had to admit that I could hardly blame the man for crumbling in the immutable face of the Mama/Violetta united front.
Glaring, I headed for the door. Truly unable to legitimately linger any longer, I closed it behind me with a somewhat less than completely ladylike thump.
“Naturally, it was Cambourne’s name on the special license,” I heard Mother say.
Her tones had been unsatisfyingly muffled, so I bent down and applied my ear to the keyhole, and heard Mother say, very clearly, “I just knew we could rely on you, Mr. Twigge!” Her best laugh tinkled out. “Now, as I was saying, Axton said to me just last night that we should very much like to make a substantial donation to …”
I had to face it. There was something going on that I did not un
derstand. My parents knew it, Mr. Twigge knew it—or some of it, anyway, Violetta knew it, and Cambourne knew it. In fact, I was apparently the only one of us whose mind was not burdened by any understanding whatsoever of what had taken place, since I could not for the life of me understand why on earth would the wrong brother—particularly this wrong brother, who could arguably have had any woman in England—want to wed, and almost bed me.
And now, it appeared my mother was buying Mr. Twigge’s silence. “You are most generous. Exceedingly, my lady, but Lady Gwen was most insistent—”
“You would do well to disregard her behavior entirely,” Violetta recommended.
“I trust I may indulge in speaking plainly with a man of such excellent sense as yourself, Mr. Twigge?” Mama added, and then continued, in a whisper, “Bridal nerves! My daughter has been prey to the most dreadful case of maidenly fear. Why, she has been in an alarmingly precarious state for some weeks now.”
“In fact,” Violetta piped in, “I should not, were I you, give credence to a word she says, at the moment. Dismiss them as the ravings that they are!”
Ravings! I gritted my teeth against the desire to march back in there, as Mr. Twigge said, pithily, “I did not like to say anything, but now that you mention it, I thought I did detect a nervous inattention and what I greatly feared was an incipient hysteria during the homily.”
“Precisely,” Mama agreed. “Now, let us move on to more pleasant topics. Such as the belfry. I understand that you have long desired to rebuild the belfry, Mr. Twigge?”
“The Axton Belfry,” he tried, sounding delighted, now that they had disposed of me and my petty problems (not to mention ravings). “I do so like the sound of that. And do you know, my lady, I daresay, a macaroon or two should not go amiss after all… .”
And then, to my surprise, the door was flung open. “Aha!” Violetta crowed as she towered over me, her purple turban dangerously askew. “Precisely what I thought we’d find.”
Had it been someone else caught in the act, I might have thought the situation amusing. As things stood, I was guessing that it would be quite some time before I saw the humor in it.
Before I could utter a word in my own defense, Violetta spoke up again, which I should have expected as at least ten seconds had elapsed since her last words. “Duchesses,” she said, “may listen at doors with impunity. A countess can get away with the odd door on occasion. Clumsy virgin chits without a grain of sense to their names, who don’t know any better than to get caught, have not got a prayer of carrying it off.”
“Well then,” I said, giving her a very hard stare, “I suppose that’s reason enough to aspire to snaring a duke.” I turned to Ladimer, who had appeared on silent feet. “Is my father at home?”
To which he replied, “I believe he is to be found in the library at the moment.” I lifted my head another notch and glided gracefully from the room. And the effect of my dignified departure, I told myself, had not been the least bit spoilt by the remark I heard in my wake.
“A good toss between the sheets is what that gel needs,” said Violetta in bracing tones. “And, mark my words, if that husband of hers had been just a trifle faster off the mark, she’d be right as rain today!”
6
In which my father reluctantly sheds a fraction more light on matters
As I stood at the foot of my parents’ Adam staircase pondering the dimensions of my problem, I looked round at the familiar marble statues in their niches, and struggled to hold back tears. What I really wanted was to run to my best friend Cecy’s cozy little house. She would summon Myrtia, away from whatever cause, society, or good work was consuming her today, and the three of us could sit in front of the fire and have a little tribunal. They would be powerless to do anything, of course, but just a little sympathy—just one person saying, Oh my goodness, how dreadful! would be awfully comforting.
I knew my father was unlikely to say anything even approaching that, and, since he never acted without Mother’s approval, it was equally unlikely that he would offer any actual assistance, but I could see no alternative but to try. I poked my head into the library where he was asleep with the paper over his face. “Father?”
At my voice, he snatched the newspaper away and shot to his feet. “Eh? What? Gwendolyn?” He squinted down at me. “Just doing a little thinking about, er, Abernathy’s proposal!” he assured me.
At the sight of him, something inside me burst. “Papa,” I sobbed, giving way to my more dramatic instincts and casting myself into his arms.
He moved me away just a little so he could peer into my face. “Something amiss, m’dear?” He patted my shoulder ineffectually.
I managed a watery sniffle. “I should say so.”
At this, he put me a little farther away, straightening his waistcoat as he did so. “You are overset and will be wanting your mother, I’m certain,” he said, with an air of profound relief as he fished in his pocket and handed me a handkerchief.
I accepted it and sat in one of the well-worn leather chairs. “Actually, no,” I said, dabbing at my eyes. “I have already seen Mother. It is your counsel I seek.”
“Indeed!” He sounded surprised, and not, I must admit, particularly pleased, as he once again settled into his chair. “Me! Really? I suppose you’d best tell me what all this is about then.”
I frowned at him, willing him at least to feel a shred of shame over his, their, duplicity. “Oddly enough, as it turns out, I am married to the wrong man!”
“You don’t say?”
“Indeed,” I replied through tight lips. “It came as something of a surprise to learn of that small switch at the altar—Cambourne for Milburn!—which, one hesitates to point out, no one deemed worthy of mention.”
“Well!” he said, as he walked to the decanter and poured out two sherries. “Cambourne.” He poured a third glass, this one of brandy, and lost not a minute in tossing it back. Having done so, he handed me the smaller of the two sherries and seated himself with the larger. He sipped, and I followed suit, waiting to see what he would say next. And then rather wished I hadn’t.
Since, “Good man on Corn, Cambourne,” was what he eventually did say. “Until recently at least. Does seem to have gone off course a bit in recent weeks, but—”
“Father!” I said, striving to keep my voice steady. “While I could not be more pleased that you approve of his stance on Corn Laws, that hardly addresses my problem.”
“Right. S’posed to get sprogged to Milburn, were you?” he said as though I were quibbling over a triviality.
Since it had been his idea in the first place for me to get sprogged to Milburn, as he so delicately put it (it was undeniable: the man did have a way with words), this seemed a somewhat disingenuous question. “Yes,” I replied, frowning darkly at him. “I was.”
He shook his head. “I don’t s’pose Milburn cares much one way or t’other—”
“How can you possibly say that?” I sputtered.
“—on Corn, I was about to say.”
“Possibly not,” I said through gritted teeth. “Milburn might, however, care quite a bit, one way or t’other,” I parroted, “about his brother marrying his intended bride.”
“Said so, has he?” asked Father blandly.
“No, but—”
“Well, then,” he said, “p’raps not. If so, fellow needs must step up and say so, make himself heard, etcetera. Which, to be brutally honest, I ain’t seen ’im doing. And we were rather in need of a bridegroom, as you might recall.” He glared at me.
“Where is Milburn?” I demanded. “Does he even know?”
Father crossed his legs and eyed the decanter wistfully. “Not s’posed to let on that Cambourne ain’t Milburn,” he said as though that explained everything.
I closed my eyes against the headache that was beginning to steal up the back of my neck. “Who is not supposed to let on that he’s not Milburn?” I asked.
“All of us. Shouldn’t really be having this
conversation a’tall, actually. One of the reasons we didn’t mention any of it to you.” He gave me a hard look. “Not sure if you could be trusted.”
“With the identity of my own husband?” I asked, acidly.
“Listen,” he said. “There we was, all sitting around here waiting for Milburn to turn up for the wedding, see? And as you might recall, he was taking his sweet time about it.”
I nodded.
“Fellow always was a dashed loose screw,” he muttered, I thought as much to himself as to me. “Two days before the wedding, still no Milburn. Went to Cambourne, I did—man to man. Said, ‘Where’s your leaky-brained coxcomb of a brother?’ He said, ‘Delayed, I’m afraid.’ I said, ‘How delayed?’ He said, ‘Apparently, quite.’ I said, ‘Quite as for a week? Or quite as for a year?’ He said, ‘I’m not certain.’”
Unfortunately, I could picture my father’s half of the conversation all too clearly.
“I think you can understand, Gwendolyn”—he gave me quite a hard glare—“that we was in a very difficult position, particularly on account of the splash we was making because of the Trafford business. So that was when I told ’im,” he continued. “Said that the prospect of the wedding not coming off was a sure bet to drive your mama over the edge. Y’see?”
“I can well imagine,” I said, drily.
“I hardly dared come home of an evening.” He shuddered then, and stared into the fire as though reliving dark days indeed.
I gave him a level look. “And then what transpired?”
He shrugged. “Well, your mama and the Worth creature sat about whipping themselves into a frenzy of hysteria.” He shuddered again. “Finally, she insisted that I go back to Cambourne and insist that he stand in for a proxy wedding.”
“Was she not concerned that a proxy wedding was like to cause quite a stir on its own?”
He shot me a surprisingly astute look. “Not half so concerned as she was about no wedding and you ending up ruined, apparently,” he said, and then added, “Only see, it was brilliant: She thought because they was twins it would work not to let it out a’tall that it was a proxy marriage. Wanted me to threaten breach of promise if he balked!”
The Accidental Duchess Page 6
