by M C Beaton
“But of course I know how to use a fowling piece. And the one I have at Pringle House is equally old-fashioned, having a flintlock instead of one of the new percussion caps. So I loaded it, and when they entered the room—they had locked me in—1 fired it. not at them but at the ceiling. They ran away and I chased them out and barred the door. And here I am.”
“I hear my servants returning,” said the marquess. “I will take you to my carriage and you may rest there until I deal with the authorities. My redoubtable Harriet. You will let me take care of you from now on.”
He led her out and along the lane past where his servants stood with a small band of the local militia, calling to them that he would return in a moment.
Dizzy with fatigue, Harriet was lifted into the carriage, and warm rugs were tucked about her. His lips pressed briefly against hers, and then he was gone.
Later, she tried to struggle awake when the carriage started to move, but his quiet voice beside her said, “Sleep, Harriet. There is nothing to trouble you now.”
She awoke again to feel herself being lifted out. All about was the bustle of a posting house. She was led in to the elegant hall of the hostelry. The marquess was talking and explaining. Then two chambermaids helped her upstairs to a pretty bedroom, undressed her, put her in “one of mistress’s nightgowns,” and helped her into bed. “I could eat five breakfasts … I am so hungry,” mumbled Harriet, and then fell asleep once more.
When she awoke, the sun was streaming through the window and the marquess was lying on the bed next to her—but on the top of the bed with all his clothes on and a book in his hand.
He rolled over and kissed her slowly and passionately.
“You see,” he said softly, “your reputation is quite ruined, so you will have to marry me. I have decided we will be married here.”
“Here?” said Harriet, struggling up against the pillows.
“Yes, here. Far from Cordelia and London scandal. I have already been to see the vicar. We are both to call on him, so I will leave you to dress.”
“I am glad to be away from Cordelia,” said Harriet. “But poor Aunt Rebecca! Cordelia must be making her life a misery—may even have turned her out in the street!”
“My servants have gone back to London to fetch your aunt, your clothes, my clothes, my servants, a lady’s maid for you, my love, and every comfort they can bring back with them. Your new clothes are on that chair.”
Harriet looked at the muslin gown and the pile of lacy underthings and blushed.
“The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Bradfield. did the shopping.” He laughed. “How pretty you are when you blush. Kiss me, Harriet!”
After a few happy moments, he smiled down at her and traced the line of her swollen lips with his thumb. “What are you thinking about?”
“I am thinking that I am so very hungry.”
“Poor Harriet. Dress, and you may eat as much as you like.”
He swung his legs out of bed and put on his boots.
“What did you tell the landlord here?” said Harriet.
“I told him we were to be married in his village. The tales of your heroism have set the place afire. You can do no wrong. Your respectability is intact. So dress, my love, while I order your breakfast.”
He walked to the door. “Oh,” he said over his shoulder. “The enterprising Bertram did not walk to London. I am well known at this hostelry, since I often use it when I am journeying to and from London. My estates lie in the north, unlike those of my parents, which are a short distance from town. So Bertram merely strolled in. used my name, and commandeered the best room in the house. He is still here.”
The marquess went out and closed the door.
Bertram! Harriet began to dress hurriedly in the muslin gown and pelisse that had been purchased for her. She did not want to see Bertram again.
In another part of the inn, Bertram sat nursing a sore jaw. His large cousin had declared it was just punishment for his having struck Harriet Clifton. All the pangs of conscience Bertram had suffered over his behavior toward Harriet had fled. He felt ill used and misunderstood. He had written to his mother and his servants, and both should be returning together with his mother’s carriage.
To console himself, he took out a new copy of The Calendar of Horrors, which he had been saving in his coat pocket. So addicted was he to this magazine that Bertram saved up each issue until he could bear the suspense of waiting no longer, rather like a child saving up sugarplums.
He plunged into a new story, and as he read, his eyes grew rounder and rounder. For surely it was about him.
There was a young man of dashing and Byronic appearance who was to inherit his wealthy cousin’s money. The cousin was a rake and a waster. Everyone agreed the land and estates would be better in the hands of the hero. But then the cousin became enmeshed in the wiles of a seemingly young, fresh, and innocent maid. But the innocent maid had the heart of a Delilah. Nor was she the tender country bloom she appeared, for, underneath, she was a rough sort of woman who could shoot like a gamekeeper and swear like a trooper. Before the marriage, she planned to persuade the cousin to sell his lands and estates and settle in Italy, where she and her evil international companions would shorten his aged existence by introducing him to a round of dissipation and vice. So the hero, desperate to stop the wedding, masqueraded as the vicar. The cousin discovered his beloved was not a virgin and cried with relief when the hero told him he was not really married. The grateful cousin promptly turned over estates and fortune to the hero and went to a monastery.
Bertram read the story over and over again. Hearing the sound of laughter below the window, he crossed the room and looked out.
Harriet and the marquess were strolling back from the vicarage. Harriet looked very happy and very beautiful.
Bertram struck his forehead and then crossed to the mirror and struck it again to see the effect. “She is a consummate actress,” he told his reflection.
When Harriet eventually met Bertram, it was to find a penitent young man who begged her forgiveness and then begged his cousin to allow him to stay for the wedding.
“If you must, you must,” said the marquess, relieved that Bertram was behaving himself. “I gather your mother is to join us. Well, it will be a family wedding after all. Oh, my love, I had forgotten.” He drew a flat jewel box out of his pocket. “I bought this for you.”
Bertram’s eyes narrowed as Harriet opened the box and drew out a magnificent necklace of diamonds and sapphires set in antique gold. The sunlight slanting through the window struck the jewels and sent prisms of fiery light dancing about the parlor where they sat. Sparks of light were reflected in Harriet’s large eyes, and Bertram thought he was seeing the real Harriet, greedy and evil, peeping through the mask of innocence.
“I am going out for a walk,” said Bertram, getting to his feet. But Harriet had thrown herself into the marquess’s arms and neither of them noticed him leave.
He stalked stiff-legged through the village like a defeated dog. It was some time before he realized a young man was dancing along beside him, trying to thrust a playbill into his hand.
Bertram stopped, holding the playbill gingerly by one corner, for the ink was still wet.
“Why do you choose to perform in such a small place?” he asked the actor.
“Because there’s a big market in three days’ time. I perform all sorts of roles. I can play the miser, the lover, the villain, the priest …”
“Stop!” said Bertram. “Do that again. Play the priest.”
“But it is not a good example of my art,” cried the actor. “One only has to look pious.”
Bertram had had his gold returned to him. He drew out a sovereign and held it up. The gold glinted in the sunlight. “Play a vicar,” said Bertram.
The actor was really very good, reflected Bertram. He was a colorless sort of man who only took on features and color when he was acting as someone else.
Bertram took a deep breath. “I have a
job for you … a job that will earn you more money in one night than you earn in a year.”
“Nothing criminal?”
“I want you to assist me in playing a joke on a relative of mine. Nothing criminal.”
Chapter Nine
Since the marquess had obtained a special license, they were to be married one day after market day.
Aunt Rebecca had arrived, awash with tears and draped in scarves. She was crying with relief. Cordelia had not thrown her out but had moved her back to the attic.
When the marquess told her of her son’s wanton behavior, Bertram’s mother, a faded, doting, constantly complaining woman, threw a bout of hysterics to rival anything Aunt Rebecca could produce. Mrs. Hudson became convinced that Harriet had turned the marquess against dear Bertram, and so fueled Bertram’s mad ideas by constantly bemoaning the loss of his inheritance and saying Harriet had stolen it away.
“I am taking you far, far away,” said the marquess to Harriet. “Aunt Rebecca may go and stay with my parents. They are not strong enough to travel here for the wedding, but I promised them we would be married again from their home. Bertram may go and live with his mother. I no longer care whether he gets fleeced by every card sharp and doxy in London. I want you all to myself. I fear I am giving you a very simple, rustic wedding.”
Harriet was amused at her love’s idea of simplicity. The inn was full of his servants, and the kitchen had been taken over by his chef. He had conjured up a lady’s maid and a wedding dress from London.
Harriet still distrusted Bertram. There was something sly about the boy and he constantly seemed to be acting out a role.
Aunt Rebecca was inclined to be huffy about not being allowed to accompany the couple on their honeymoon, which was to be spent in Naples.
So anxious was Harriet to get away from all of the moaning and complaining that she did not suffer any prewedding nerves at all.
Meanwhile, Bertram and his new actor friend, Jasper St. Clair—real name, Alfred Bennet—worked out their plans. Jasper had studied the vicar from a distance and felt sure he could easily impersonate him. He and the vicar were of a height, and both had brown hair. The vicar wore thick glasses, and it was easy for the actor to find a similar pair.
They planned to attack the vicar when he was alone in the vestry, gag him, tie him up, and put him in a cupboard. There was a capacious one in the vestry. Jasper would then call at the vicarage and tell Mrs. Bradfield her husband had been taken ill. When she arrived at the church, they would tie her up and put her with her husband. All that was left to do then was to tell the vicarage servants that their master and mistress had been invited to join the festivities at the inn and would not be back until after midnight.
It would be left to the fake vicar to tell the marquess after the ceremony that Mrs. Bradfield was ill and that he must return home. Then he would slip out of the door at the back of the church.
That way he would avoid being examined too closely in daylight by the members of the vicar’s parish. He knew his disguise would fool even the verger in the dimness of the church. But he doubted very much that anyone seeing him outside would be fooled.
Jasper considered himself the most fortunate of men. He was being paid well for taking part in a joke. Bertram assured him that a generous donation would be given to the church to soothe the vicar.
“Are you sure this cousin of yours is going to enjoy the joke?” asked Jasper.
“Oh, yes,” said Bertram cheerfully. “He has a prodigious sense of humor.”
He made sure Jasper found a seat at the back of the church during the wedding rehearsal.
Jasper’s first sight of this cousin with the prodigious sense of humor was the first thing that made him wonder whether to go through with it. He took one look at the marquess’s hard, handsome face and lean, athletic body. He noticed the love in the couple’s eyes as they looked at each other,
But the theatrical company was moving on the evening after the wedding. And this Mr. Hudson was paying him a great deal of money.
He quieted his conscience by telling himself over and over again that it was all just a joke. He studied the vicar, Mr. Bradfield, and his lips moved silently as he rehearsed the vicar’s high, precise voice.
Next day, everything went according to plan. The vicar and his lady were lying trussed and gagged on the vestry floor.
“Right,” said Jasper cheefully to Bertram. “Give me a hand with them and we’ll pop them out of sight.”
To his horror, Bertram took out a sock weighted with sand and brought it down on the vicar’s head and then on his wife’s.
“You’re mad!” squeaked Jasper. “Why did you do that?”
“We don’t want ‘em kicking the door and making a rumpus,” said Bertram, rather white about the gills. The vicar and his wife looked so frail and helpless that Bertram experienced a spasm of pure terror. He had been acting out a fantasy, and he could not bear to come back to earth.
“Stop squawking or it will be the worse for you,” he snapped.
Numbly, Jasper helped him put the unconscious bodies in the cupboard.
“Pay me now,” he said.
“No,” said Bertram. “You will be paid after the service and not before. You will perform the service correctly or I will shoot you. Remember, I am the bride man and will be watching your every move.”
Strung-up and terrified, Jasper put on the performance of his life. Even Bertram was startled and thought for one awful moment that it was the real vicar.
Ethereal in white muslin and Brussels lace, Harriet felt it was the happiest day of her life. All her worries and humiliations were over.
There was a simple reception at the inn. Bertram was wildly elated, toasting the happy couple and telling several very funny jokes. The marquess smiled at his young cousin indulgently and privately forgave him all. Bertram was young and silly and spoiled, but there was no real vice in him.
The wedding breakfast was finished at about seven in the evening. Harriet’s only regret was that the vicar and his wife had chosen not to join them.
The marquess led her up to the bedchamber that had been prepared for them and slowly drew her into his arms. “Now, my lady wife,” he said. “I have you all to myself.”
The strolling players were moving out of town in the soft twilight, some walking and some riding beside the unwieldy cart that held the company’s costumes and scenery.
Jasper was fortunate in that he owned a wiry little pony.
The evening was tranquil and the first star shone down from a violet sky.
Jasper was haunted by the specter of murder. Was there enough air in that cupboard? Had that young fool struck them too hard?
With a sudden cry to the other players that he had left something behind in the village, he swung his pony around and clattered back down the road.
Hoping the church would not be locked, he crept around to the back door and gently turned the handle. To his relief, the door opened. He fumbled in the darkness of the vestry until he found a candle. For a while, he thought the flint on his tinderbox would never spark, but at last he succeeded in lighting the candle.
He unlocked the cupboard door and held the candle high. The vicar and his wife, blinking like owls, glared up at him.
“Oh, merciful God, you are still alive,” breathed Jasper. He took out his knife and cut the bonds that held their wrists.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, and then turned” and ran.
He mounted his pony and set out after the other players. Sovereigns paid to him by Bertram jingled happily in his pocket. He did not fear a chase by the law, for the marquess would not want to see his own cousin in court. But that marquess would certainly give young Bertram a hiding.
And, at that merry thought, Jasper began to sing, and was still singing happily when he caught up with the company.
Harriet was afloat on a sea of love. Naked as the first time the marquess had seen her, she lay wrapped in his arms. He had spent a long time kis
sing and caressing her, afraid of frightening her.
But passion was making them frantic. “Now, my wife,” whispered the marquess, and the broad shield of his chest rose before Harriet’s eyes.
“Stop!” screamed a voice from the doorway.
And then the room was full of people, lights, and noise.
Harriet screamed and dragged the blanket over her body as the marquess rolled to one side. She dragged them up to her chin, her enormous, frightened eyes peering over the top.
“What in hell’s name …?” roared the marquess. “Bradfield!” he exclaimed, recognizing the vicar. “What on earth are you about, to burst in on me?”
“You are not married!” cried the vicar. “You are in mortal sin.”
Aunt Rebecca appeared behind the vicar, and Mrs. Hudson behind her.
“But you married us yourself,” said the marquess. “No, my lord,” said the landlord. “Vicar says as how some actor ‘personated him, and young Mr. Hudson hit him and the missus on the head and stuffed them in the vestry cupboard.”
“No!” screamed Mrs. Hudson. “I must find my poor boy.”
“You will find your poor boy?” raged the marquess. “I, madam, will find your poor boy, and when I do, I will put him in Bedlam.”
“The question is, my lord,” said the vicar, turning red. “Have you, er, um?”
“Have I consummated my nonmarriage? No, dammit, I have not. Clear the room while I dress. I will find that Bertram no matter where he is hiding.”
“He must wait,” said the vicar firmly. “You must be married right away. Ah, my dear,” he added as his wife, looking pale and flustered, appeared in the doorway with his robes, “you are just in time. Help me on with my robes. Landlord, you must stand in as bride man. Go to his lordship’s side of the bed. Miss Clifton, be so good as to give the landlord, Mr. Hoskins, your ring. And the elder Miss Clifton, be so good as to go to your niece’s side of the bed.”
Surprisingly calm, Aunt Rebecca did as she was bidden.
