The Five-Minute Marriage

by Joan Aiken

  “Nay, but consider the stems of the lilies!” remonstrated Jenny, in answer to his remark. “You can have no idea how dreadfully I found myself entangled among them—my arms and limbs all tied up, quite powerless!—and my head being slowly pulled under by the current—I had begun to despair and feared every moment would be my last!—But it is no matter now; ‘twas but a trifle!” she added heroically, fetching up an absolutely graveyard cough from the region of her diaphragm. “Ahem, ahem! Now that I am on dry land again, I think nothing of it at all; ‘tis not of the slightest consequence, after all! Pray let us not refine upon it any longer. Only, I think perhaps I had best get afore a fire, and replace these sopping things by dry ones—or I might easily take one of my inflammations—my lungs are so delicate, so wretchedly delicate—they give me Old Scratch at the least hint of a chill. Alas, I fear I am a sad invalid!”

  Since Jenny was as robust as a shire horse and had never, to Delphie’s knowledge, suffered a day’s illness in her life, the latter gazed at her wide-eyed after this statement, and received a very innocent look in return.

  The second of the three men remarked calmly,

  “Certainly you should change your garments, ma’am, and that without delay. Even on a mild day like this, some harm might accrue. Fidd, see to it, will you? Direct one of the maidservants to make ready a suitable bedchamber; lead these ladies to it, and make sure that a fire is lit, hot water brought up, and suitable refreshment is offered to them.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Fitzjohn,” said the third man, who was elderly, white-haired, and wore the uniform of an upper servant. “Would you care to follow me, ma’am?” he said to Jenny.

  “Oh yes—but I need my bag from the coach” uttered Jenny in failing accents, “for all my dry things are in it. Could you get it out, Bodkin?”

  “Surely, miss,” said Bodkin, wooden-faced. “I’ll just carry it in, shall I?”

  “Yes—and you had best bring Miss Carteret’s too—in case there is anything I lack. You do not object, dear Miss Carteret, do you?”

  “Of course not,” said Delphie, but her response was lost in the bustle, as Mr. Fitzjohn, remarking, “I had better take your arm, ma’am,” escorted Jenny carefully across the bridge, she clinging to him, looking fearfully down at the water, and letting out little nervous cries at every step.

  Mr. Fitzjohn seemed completely at home in Chase, and Delphie, following thoughtfully behind the pair, at the side of the dark-haired man, wondered if he were a member of the family—as seemed possible from the assured tone of his orders to the servant—or merely a member of the household. He was a stocky, thickset personage, of considerable height, but appearing shorter because of his broad shoulders. His countenance was square and somewhat taciturn-looking, though not unhandsome; his eyes were light blue and extremely piercing, his complexion both freckled and lightly tanned, his thick hair of a sandy hue.

  While they were crossing the grass, Delphie murmured some awkward commonplaces as to her gratitude—the unfortunate accident—their regret for the imposition they were causing—but these were received with such dour grunts by her black-browed companion that she set him down as a churlish boor and abandoned her attempts at conciliation.

  The party ascended the steps to the front door and entered a large, cold, stone-paved entrance hall, adorned with a diversity of stags’ antlers and foxes’ masks along its walls, but hardly furnished at all. Five or six large, melancholy, molting hounds lay about on the paving stones, as if they had nothing to do, and greatly regretted the circumstance.

  “Here we will leave you in Fidd’s charge,” remarked Mr. Fitzjohn, removing his hand, with some relief, Delphie thought, from Jenny’s damp velvet arm. “Fidd, look after the ladies as well as you can. Pray send word, ma’am, should there be anything further you require, or think we could supply.”

  “Thank you; you are extremely kind,” said Philadelphia, immensely embarrassed by this whole sequence of events. “I cannot say how much I regret—I am sure we need nothing—”

  “Perhaps a doctor?” faltered Miss Baggott in dying accents. “After such a prolonged immersion I am afraid my lungs—” She coughed again several times, and then gasped, “My poor mother would wish me to see a doctor, I am sure.”

  As Mrs. Baggott had lain in Highgate Cemetery for the past twelve years this seemed a doubtful assumption, but Mr. Fitzjohn rejoined impassively,

  “By all means, ma’am. There will not be the least difficulty about that. A doctor is in the house at present, and I make no doubt he will be able to wait on you when he has finished attendance upon his other patient It may be a matter of some little time yet, however.”

  Philadelphia pricked up her ears at this. Who could the other patient be? Perhaps it was Lord Bollington? Her heart sank at the thought. If her great-uncle were ill, then this was a most inauspicious time for an unheralded visit.

  She longed to put questions to Fidd, but scrupled at interrogating a servant. He was leading the way at a rapid pace up a wide flight of polished (and villainously slippery) stairs; Delphie took Jenny’s arm and assisted her to follow.

  At the top, where the stairs led into another wide hallway with numerous passages leading off it, the manservant selected a rather narrow passage turning sharp to the left, past a long row of windows, and took them down it for what seemed an excessively long distance.

  “Pray don’t take trouble fixing a chamber especial for me,” panted Miss Baggott after a while, as they went farther and farther. “The housekeeper’s room would do well enough!”

  “There’s no housekeeper at Chase, ma’am,” said Fidd. He added, with what sounded like grim approval, “His lordship can’t abide wimmen getting their fambles on things.”

  “Good gracious. Are there no women servants at all?” inquired Philadelphia, with mixed curiosity and disapproval.

  “Oh, yes, miss. There’s maids, but they’re only under-servants, and has to keep in their place. They dassn’t be seen in the passageways or rooms where his lordship might come—if he should set eyes on them, they’re turned off directly. And they has to do their work while he’s still abed. Now, here we are, miss.”

  He opened the door of a large, pleasant chamber, agreeably illuminated by the rays of the westering sun, and furnished with a few handsome pieces which were, however, both dusty and in bad order. The bed-curtains, Delphie noticed, were half eaten away by moth, the chairs seats were threadbare, and the carpet had a great faded patch where the afternoon sun lay across it.

  Fidd vigorously tugged on a beaded bell rope, and then left them. Bodkin deposited their bags, glanced about him, and then said, rather doubtfully,

  “Shall you be all right here, Miss Carteret? It seems a hem queer set-out—axing your pardon, miss!—if no women’s allowed to be seen in the place? Say the word, and I’ll fetch you away, soon as Miss has changed her things.”

  “I think we shall do, thank you, Bodkin,” Delphie replied, with rather more firmness than she in fact felt. “Do you go onto Cow Green and make arrangements for yourself and the outriders to spend the night there. If I do not send you word to the contrary, come and pick us up here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, miss. Very good, miss. I—I’m sure I hope you manage to get what you came for—and I wish you good fortune, miss.” Touching his forelock, Bodkin left them to themselves.

  Directly he had done so, Jenny, who had sunk onto a straight-backed chair as if utterly exhausted and shocked, raised a round face brimful of glee and self-congratulation.

  “Well!” she said to Philadelphia. “Wasn’t I clever? Wasn’t I artful? Didn’t I play them a famous turn? Wasn’t it as good as a box at Covent Garden? Now we’re fixed here for as long as we like. They dursn’t turn us out while my lungs is inflamed!”

  “Do you mean to say, you wretched girl,” exclaimed Delphie, aghast—though in fact she had half suspected as much—”Are you telling me, Jenny, that you fell into the moat on purpose?”

  “S
ure’s you’re born, I did!” said Jenny triumphantly. “Wasn’t it just the nackiest thing? Didn’t I do it as it might ‘a been done in Drury Lane? But I had the hardest trouble in the world not to bust out laughing when I saw the look on all your faces!”

  “But your dress—your hat—they are ruined!”

  “Lor, what’s a few bits of clothes?” said Jenny largely, “I dare swear, when you come into your rights, that you’ll buy me some others! (And to tell truth, I never cared for this dress above half—it’s well enough, but has no dash, to my mind. I prefer something that’s trimmed up a bit more. I’ve always fancied a cherry-red...) But didn’t it fall out handsomely? ‘Is somebody being murdered?’ the tall fellow calls out as he comes a-running—oh, I could have died laughing, it was all I could do to keep a straight face. And come, now, ain’t they a fine pair? I never saw two prettier-looking fellows! With any luck, my dearie, you and me has fixed ourselves up with as handsome a couple of beaux as any young lady could wish for! (Seeing Mr. S., my gentleman friend, isn’t calling any more.) Who do you think they are? Is any of your kinsfolk named Fitzjohn?”

  Delphie was obliged to reply that she did not know, and Miss Baggott’s further remarks were cut short by the arrival of a pair of maids, who proceeded respectively to kindle and light a fire in the hearth, and to pour hot water into a hip bath.

  The warmth of the flames was decidedly grateful, for the room had been as chill as a tomb, and Delphie was beginning to be anxious for Miss Baggott in good earnest.

  One of the maids (who both seemed young, timid country girls) then shyly offered to stay and assist Miss with her undressing and bath.

  “Ay, I’ll be glad of that!” said Jenny. “And do you,” she said to the other one, “do you make up the bed—plenty of covers, mind!—and thrust a warming pan atwixt the sheets; then you can bring me up a nice mug of hot negus with a twist of lemon peel in it!”

  Delphie was astonished. Here was Jenny Baggott, whose father had run a laundry, whose mother was a seamstress, conducting herself in this mansion with all the confidence and aplomb of one born to it; while she, Delphie, who had some right to be there, whose mother actually had been born in the house, felt nothing but diffidence, embarrassment, and awkwardness.

  However, seeing Jenny so thoroughly prepared to take care of herself, or rather, see that care was taken of her, Delphie said,

  “If you will not dislike it, I think perhaps I should go down now—if you can spare me, Jenny dear? I feel I ought to say everything that is proper to those gentlemen.”

  “Ay, do that!” approved Jenny, who, stripped of her sodden green cloth, was just in the act of stepping into the hip bath like a large pink seal. “Ah!” She sank into its steaming depths with a sigh of gratification. “Now’s your chance, I reckon, to grab the bull by the horns. So you keep your pluck up, dearie, and don’t let yourself be choused out of your rightful due! Never fret your head about me, I’ll be as snug as a bee in bugloss!”

  With which parting salutation, she closed her right eye and contorted her face in a violent wink, unseen by the maid, who had turned to put more wood on the fire.

  Delphie, while in the bedroom, had seized the opportunity to tidy her hair and remove her pelisse, but as she threaded her way back along the endless corridor she regretted the pelisse, for the house was excessively cold. However, all this region seemed uninhabited; she hoped that the occupied rooms might be warmer.

  After carefully descending the slippery stairs, she paused at the foot, undecided in which direction to proceed. There were no servants about; and even the aged hounds seemed to have vanished. As she stood hesitating, she heard two voices issuing from an open doorway.

  “How the devil the wench came to do such a totty-headed thing as to fall off a wide bridge into three feet of water passes comprehension!” said a cool male voice.

  “My dear fellow, it was obviously a hoax!” replied another, equally cool, but with a faint hint of amusement in it. “What else could you expect from that type of female? They know nothing of a straightforward approach—it is all tricks and artifices and cunning. The hussy wanted access to this house—for some purpose of her own—and that was her means of achieving it.”

  “You think so?”

  “My dear Mordred, I am sure of it.”

  “But the other girl—the pretty one—seemed quite a different kind; much more ladylike, and better bred altogether.”

  “She’s sharper, that’s all; has picked up a bit more of what passes for polish. My advice to you, Mordred, is to bundle them both out of doors as soon as the wet one has got dry clothes on her back. Think what my uncle would say if he knew they were here!”

  Evidently the other shrugged, or grimaced, for the first voice spoke again.

  “Well, to be sure, he is not likely to know—but in the circumstances it will hardly do to allow two strange females to remain. Consider his disgust for the whole sex!”

  Delphie had heard enough to give her considerable food for thought. Acting with almost instinctive care, she retraced her steps across the wide hall, walking soundlessly on the dusty flagstones; she then returned toward the open door at a brisk pace, making as much noise as possible.

  Now one of the voices was saying impatiently,

  “I wish Elaine would come. When I met her during that month in Bath I thought she consulted her own wishes more than anything else in the world, but I thought also that she had reasonable sense. This is no time for some flighty quirk!”

  “She’ll come, Gareth, never doubt,” the other said soothingly. “Probably stopped to assemble a suitable wardrobe. What a combination of events, after all—!”

  There was a snort of laughter from the speaker addressed as Gareth; and then Delphie walked into the room, and the two men, who had been standing by the fireplace, turned, with a signal lack of enthusiasm, she thought, to greet her.

  The room she had entered was a library, well furnished with leather-bound books, which lined three of the walls, and all of which looked to be of considerable antiquity. A fire burned under a black marble mantelpiece, a businesslike desk, covered with papers, occupied one corner, and a large table, leather-covered, gold-embossed, and badly in need of repair, stood in the middle of the room. A clutter of armchairs surrounded the fire, which Delphie approached with shivering gratitude. It was impossible to come very close to it, however, because of the aged dogs now huddled around the warmth.

  “May I have the honor of procuring you some refreshment, ma’am?” said the man called Fitzjohn, after a short, awkward pause. “What shall it be? I fear we are somewhat at sixes and sevens at present for we have illness in the house—Fidd has been called off—would you care for a glass of Madeira? I am afraid the household may not be supplied with tea, or any such ladies’ drink.”

  Delphie replied equably that Madeira would do very well, and he went quickly away. She was left with the dark-haired man, who appeared to be taking calmly hostile stock of her. Delphie’s spirits always rose to such a challenge—she had bested enough antagonistic and recalcitrant pupils to be unmoved by dislike; she met his regard with an equally cool appraisement, and remarked, since he had not inquired,

  “My friend is going on well, thanks to the prompt and practical attention of your servants, for which I thank you; I am in hopes she may suffer no ill effects from her unfortunate mishap.”

  His eyes were very handsome, she thought (at least they would have been if they had held a pleasanter expression): almost black, and well set under level dark brows; his face was rather too long and thin, certainly, but his mouth, if it had not been folded into such an unaccommodating line, ought to have been redeemingly wide; and he had a good nose, straight, but not too narrow in the nostrils. His face seemed faintly familiar; could she perhaps have seen a sketch of him in one of Jenny’s illustrated magazines?

  “I must thank you also for coming to the rescue of my poor friend, sir,” she continued in her clear, musical voice, for she felt the awkwardness
of remaining with him in silence. “I must, also, apologize for your being troubled by such a tiresome incident when, as I gather, you have sickness in the house?”

  She paused inquiringly, but he said nothing, and she went on, “I deeply regret—but it is no use talking—”

  “No use whatsoever!” he agreed in the dryest possible tone. “But since it is by speech that we must communicate, and only by speech that we are able to learn, may I inquire to whom I have the honor of speaking? And who is your unfortunate friend? And what brought you here—not chance, I infer? My name, by the by, is Gareth Penistone—at your service.”

  “Gareth Penistone?” she exclaimed. “Why then you must be my cousin! No wonder your face appeared so familiar! I see now that you have a strong resemblance to my grandfather’s miniature.”

  His dark brows shot up at this, and she explained,

  “I should have told you at the outset that my name is Carteret—Philadelphia Elaine Carteret. I am the daughter of Elaine and Captain Richard Carteret. Are you the son of Lord Bollington?”

  At this moment Fitzjohn reappeared, carrying a decanter of wine and three glasses, which he set on the table.

  “Only think, Mordred,” remarked Mr. Penistone, turning to Fitzjohn, still with his brows very high, and an expression of total skepticism on his countenance, “we have here a new cousin! This lady has just favored me with the surprising information that she is Miss Carteret, daughter of my deceased cousin, Elaine Penistone Carteret. Is not that a remarkable piece of news?”

  Mr. Fitzjohn’s hands paused, momentarily, in their task of pouring Madeira into a glass; then he filled the glass up and handed it to Delphie, who received it with a nod of thanks and, since no one invited her to do so, sat down uninvited in one of the armchairs, pushing her way past a large snoring hound. She took a sip of the wine, and it fortified her courage.