Reckless Angel

by Jane Feather

  “Nay, ’tis not so,” Will stammered. “There has been no dishonor—”

  “Don’t ye lie to me, you young blackguard! I’ll give you a drubbing ye’ll never forget!”

  “Sir, you cannot fault Will.” Henrietta found her voice, taking an agitated step toward her father.

  “Ye’ll have your share, make no mistake,” he said viciously. “But I’ll deal with this whoreson first.”

  “Sir, I’ll not be called so.” Will, white-faced with outrage at the insult, drew himself upright. The next minute he fell to the floor beneath a hammer blow from Sir Gerald’s fist. Will’s chin cracked against the corner of the fender and he lay still before the cheerful crackling of the fire on the hearth.

  “You have killed him!” Henrietta dropped to her knees beside the fallen figure.

  “I’ve not begun yet. A taste of this will soon bring him to his senses!” Sir Gerald raised his heavy whip. “Move aside, girl.”

  “Nay.” She looked up at him, appalled at the brutality that would horsewhip an unconscious man. “Ye’ll not touch him. He’s done you no injury.”

  “You’d prefer to be driven away, would ye?” The long thong of the whip cracked. Henrietta’s breath whistled through her teeth as the pain bit deep into her shoulders, but she remained where she was, shielding Will with her body. At the next blow she cried out, but the innate obstinacy her father knew only too well kept her still, gritting her teeth, her will to resist only strengthened by the means used to break it.

  Daniel Drummond heard the whip crack and the cry from abovestairs as he strolled into the inn. The innkeeper stood at the foot of the stairs, his expression both indignant and fearful. “This is a respectable ’ouse, sir,” he blustered as Daniel strode past him. “’Tis the young lady’s father ’as come fer ’er. I don’t want no goings-on, sir. Either the wench is yer niece or she ain’t. I would never ’ave given ye room if ’n I’d known.”

  “Known what?” Daniel snapped over his shoulder, cursing himself for not having expected this so soon. He had thought to have time to prepare Henrietta and explain his actions. “There’s nothing to know!” He mounted the stairs two at a time and burst into the parlor.

  “God’s grace, man! Leave her be!” He covered the distance between the door and the tableau by the fire in two strides.

  “And just who d’ye think you are?” demanded Sir Gerald, although he stayed his arm. “’Tis no business of yours to come between a man and his child.”

  “Daniel Drummond,” Daniel said shortly. “And in this instance, Sir Gerald, I claim that right. Get up, Henrietta.” He held out his hand to her, but she recoiled as if he offered something noxious.

  “You betrayed me,” she said without expression. “You broke your promise and you betrayed me.”

  He shook his head. “It may look like that, but ’tis not so. Is Will hurt?”

  “Now just a minute,” broke in Sir Gerald. “I’ll accept that I owe ye some gratitude, sir, but I’ve a mind to know how ye became involved with this pair of fornicators, much as it grieves me to use such a word of my own daughter.”

  “Then it is fortunate such a word is misapplied,” Daniel said dryly. “I can assure you, Sir Gerald, that to my certain knowledge, there has been no dishonor and your daughter is still in possession of her maidenhead.”

  Will groaned and stirred. Henrietta bent over him again, her own pain forgotten in her anxiety. “Will, are ye all right?”

  His eyes opened. “My head! What happened?” Then the face of Sir Gerald Ashby swam into focus and memory returned. “Sir, I’ll not stand for your insults.” He struggled to sit up, his face contorted with effort to form the words of dignified outrage.

  “Y’are not in a state to stand for anything at present.” It was Daniel who spoke. “Come, let me help you up. Sit yourself down and take a mouthful of brandy. Henrietta, fetch the decanter from the sideboard.”

  “I do not think we require your assistance, Sir Daniel,” Henrietta said bitterly, getting to her feet, wincing at the smarting in her shoulders. “Or your instructions. ’Tis your interference that has led to this.”

  “You mind your tongue, girl!” Sir Gerald decided that he had been off center stage for long enough. “Y’are coming with me. Lady Mary will know how best to bring you to a sense of duty.” He seized her arm, pushing her toward the door.

  “One minute, Sir Gerald.” Daniel moved swiftly to stand before the door. He had no choice and had known it since he walked into the room. A man who would take a horsewhip to his daughter while she was attending to an unconscious lad was not a man to listen with a sympathetic ear to the idea that Henrietta should be established in the childless household of Sir Daniel Drummond’s sister. Frances would have welcomed her companionship, and Daniel had assumed that Sir Gerald and his lady would be only too glad to be rid of their troublesome daughter in respectable and economical fashion once such a solution was presented to them. It was commonly done, after all. When disagreement or disgrace made family harmony impossible, the cuckoo would be sent to another nest.

  Now there was but one way out of this tangle. It was a tangle he had woven for himself when all was said and done, and the solution, while it had elements to alarm, for some reason did not throw him into despondency. With a calm resignation that a few weeks ago would have amazed him, he heard his voice above the gentle hiss and crackle of the fire. “There are some matters I would discuss with you before you leave.”

  “If ’tis a matter of what I owe ye for taking charge of this—”

  “Nay, ’tis not that,” Daniel interrupted. “I would ask your daughter’s hand in marriage, Sir Gerald.”

  The silence in the room was profound. Will gawped, his jaw dropping slackly. Henrietta stared. Sir Gerald’s bloodshot eyes popped in his suffused countenance.

  “Why ever would you wish to wed me?” Henrietta said finally, just when it seemed as if the silence would continue forever, the figures remain forever graven in the attitudes they held.

  “Why should I not?” He looked at her with quiet eyes.

  Henrietta shook her head slowly. “I think perhaps this is the way you would make amends.”

  “You do not think that perhaps I could not in honor wed you without your father’s permission?”

  “And that is why you told him I was here?” Her eyes became even larger in the heart-shaped face. “Why would you not say something of this to me first?”

  “Make amends?” broke in Sir Gerald, recovering from his astonishment and thus sparing Daniel the need to reply. “If ye’d make amends for a maidenhead ye’ve spoiled, sir, I’ll tell ye now—”

  “I am not Master Osbert, Sir Gerald. Ye’ll cast no aspersions on my honor as if I were some young puppy!” For the first time anger flashed in Daniel’s eyes. “I have said that your daughter is as chaste as my own child. Do not doubt my word.”

  “My daughter is promised,” Sir Gerald said, a sullen note in his voice—the note of a bully obliged to back down.

  “I’ll not marry Sir Reginald!” cried Henrietta.

  “Ye’ll marry where I bid ye!” He still held her by the arm, and now he raised his other hand in threat.

  She turned her head aside in a quick ducking movement that told Daniel more than anything could have done how accustomed she was to both threats and their fulfillment.

  “Ye’ve a debt due on staple-statute as I understand it,” Daniel said. “Let us see if we can come to some arrangement.”

  Sir Gerald looked uncertain. “What mean ye?”

  “I think ’twould be best to discuss this alone,” Daniel said evenly. “Henrietta, take Will to his chamber and see what you can do for him. ’Tis a monstrous bruise appearing on his chin.”

  “I do not understand,” she said. “And I wish to.”

  “’Tis not your place to take part in marriage discussions,” he reminded her. “This is between your father and myself.”

  “But am I not to say whether I am willing or no?
” She would not dispute his statement, and she would not ask this question of her father—his answer she knew all too well. But she would ask it of the man who seemed to be assuming control of all their lives.

  “When I have talked with your father, you and I will talk,” he promised. “You may say what you will then.”

  “Come, Harry.” Will stood up groggily. “My head aches as if the drums of an entire regiment were beating a tattoo upon it.”

  Henrietta still stood looking uncertainly at Daniel. Her father’s hand dropped from her arm. “Do as y’are bid,” he said harshly. “If ’tis possible to salvage something from this escapade, then ye can be grateful.”

  It was clear to Henrietta that Sir Gerald had rapidly calculated that the possibility of the bird in hand was worth exploring. Sir Reginald was presumably very much in the bush at the moment. She thought of returning home, of her vindictive stepmother, of what awaited her with or without Sir Reginald at the end of it. She turned and opened the door. “I’ll see if the landlord can produce some witch hazel, Will. Ye should lie upon your bed for a while.”

  The door closed behind them and Sir Daniel walked over to the sideboard. “Wine, Sir Gerald, or do you prefer brandy?”

  “Wine.” The older man seemed to have lost much of his former assurance under these new circumstances, but he attempted a further bluster. “I’ve a good marriage arranged for my daughter, sir. Ye’ll have to do much to meet the terms. If y’are a Malignant, then ye’ll have little to play with, seems to me.”

  “And what position have you taken in this war, sir?” Daniel asked smoothly, handing his guest a pewter goblet. “Kept safely out of it, I daresay.”

  “I’m for the king,” Sir Gerald said, flushing. “But there’s little sense in endangering land and family. I compounded for three hundred pounds in forty-six and I’ll not risk more.”

  Daniel nodded. “We shall all now be obliged to compound and take the National Covenant. But tell me of this debt. If I assume it for you, then ye’ll be as surely rid of it as if Henrietta married your creditor.”

  His future father-in-law regarded him slyly. “She’s a pretty enough wench, I daresay. Good breeding stock. But she comes with no portion.”

  “Why is that?” Daniel sipped his own wine, asking the question almost neutrally. It was unheard of that a maid in Henrietta’s social position should have not a penny to her name in the form of dowry.

  “I’ve three other daughters to provide for. This one has been nothing but trouble from the moment of her birth.” Sir Gerald shook his head disgustedly and drained his cup. “If ye want her, then ’tis good riddance. But she’ll have nothing from me.”

  Daniel smiled wryly. “And I am to take up your bond in payment for your daughter. Is that the manner in which you will have this conducted?”

  “Aye, sir, it is,” Sir Gerald affirmed with that same sly look. “’Twas ye who hit upon this, I’ll remind ye. ’Tis nothing to me, for I’ll have her wed to Sir Reginald once she’s been brought to a proper sense of her duty.”

  Daniel nodded, keeping hidden his revulsion at this unnatural parent. “Then let us have done with this.” He placed his goblet on the sideboard. “I would speak alone with Henrietta first, then we will draw up the documents before a justice who may perform the marriage at the same time.” His eyes skimmed derisively over Sir Gerald’s expression. “I assume ye’ll not be interested in celebrating your daughter’s marriage with any ceremony?”

  “Ye assume right, sir.” Sir Gerald refilled his cup, unmoved by the derision in both face and voice. “’Tis a case of good riddance, as I told ye.”

  Daniel left the parlor, closing the door behind him with exaggerated quiet. He was seething with a fury greater than he had ever experienced. He was to buy a portionless bride from a brutish lout, who was now presumably smugly congratulating himself on having brought off a veritable master stroke.

  The maddening reflection did not encourage a softness as he entered the chamber he shared with Will. Will was lying upon the bed, Henrietta sitting beside him holding a damp cloth to the swelling on his chin. It was clear that they had been in deep discussion by the abrupt silence that fell as he came in. Henrietta looked at him anxiously.

  “Let us go into your chamber. We have things to discuss,” Daniel said curtly, holding the door for her.

  “Sir, I think you must be regretting an offer you made on impulse.” She began to speak with difficulty, but Will interrupted her.

  “Dammit, Harry, do not be so stiff-rumped. I have been telling her these last ten minutes, sir, to accept her good fortune.” He struggled onto one elbow. “The devil of it is, sir, she thinks ye offered for her out of pity and not because you would really wish to.”

  “And why would he wish to?” Henrietta demanded, dashing angry tears from her eyes. “You do not wish to, and we plighted our troth two years past.”

  “’Tis not that I do not wish to,” Will protested, “but I do not think I am ready to wed just yet. If ye would wait until I gain my majority, then maybe…”

  “By which time I would be wedded and bedded with some rank dotard!”

  Daniel felt his anger run from him. It had not been directed at Harry anyway, and it was certainly unjust at this point that she should bear the brunt of it. He smiled reassuringly. “Come, child, I am ready to wed, and I trust I am neither rank nor a dotard. Surely, ’tis a better fate than any other that offers itself at present.”

  Henrietta frowned. “’Tis not that I am ungrateful, but I do not understand why, if ’tis not pity, you would make such an offer.”

  Daniel perched on the broad windowsill, deciding that he might as well have this discussion in Will’s presence as not. “I have been a widower for four years,” he said. “’Tis lonely and I would have a wife again. My daughters want the care and companionship of a mother. Y’are young, Henrietta, but not too young.” He smiled suddenly. “Did ye not say that you would seek employment as governess?”

  “Aye, but you said a man would have had to have escaped Bedlam to employ such a one as I,” she objected.

  “And you said I did not know you,” he reminded her quietly. “I know you better now, and would further that knowledge.” His eyes held hers for long minutes and he could read the thoughts reflected in the candid brown depths. “I would not be less than honest with you,” he said finally. “And I would have your honesty in return. Is the thought of marriage with me distasteful to you?”

  Henrietta dropped her eyes. A tinge of pink colored her cheekbones as she thought of the puzzling confusion she felt so often in his company, the way her body stirred so strangely when he touched her or smiled at her in a particular fashion. No, the thought of marriage with him was not in the least distasteful to her, and she could learn to be a wife and a mother to his children. It would be up to her to ensure that he did not regret his bargain.

  She looked up to meet his steady regard. “’Tis not distasteful to me, sir. I will try to be what you would have me be.”

  “Nay,” he said softly, “I would have you be yourself.”

  She smiled hesitantly. “But I am a ramshackle hoity creature, sir. Ask Will.”

  Will was looking immensely relieved. “’Tis true enough y’are, but my mother says ye need only the right husband and ye’ll grow into a proper woman.”

  “Your mother said that?” Henrietta’s jaw dropped.

  “She did,” Will affirmed. “Just as she said I was not the right husband for you.”

  Daniel burst out laughing. Henrietta’s expression was a picture of indignation, Will’s of complete confidence as if he had just quoted the oracle. “Y’are the most absurd pair of children,” Daniel declared. “Will, we shall need ye as witness. Are you well enough to rise?”

  “’Tis to be done now?” Henrietta asked, startled.

  “There seems little point in procrastination,” Daniel said gently.

  “No, I suppose not.” A wistful look fleetingly crossed her face, then she s
hook her head in brisk dismissal. “My father will wish to return home without delay.”

  Daniel had not missed the wistfulness and could guess at its cause. A maid was entitled to dream of a grand and glorious wedding, with fife and drum, feasting and congratulation. Although Parliament accepted as legal no marriage that was not performed by a justice of the peace and had outlawed church ceremonies and all celebration, such ceremonies and celebrations were still clandestinely conducted. But this one would be a hasty, hole-in-the-corner affair—a father ridding himself of an undutiful daughter with the minimum of expense and fuss.

  “Make yourself ready then,” was all Daniel said, however. “I will find the direction of the nearest justice.”

  The landlord furnished the information that Justice Hazlemere was to be found at the sign of the quill on Boulder Lane, but two steps away. They dined first, an awkward party since no one seemed to know what conversational topics were appropriate in the circumstances. Henrietta played with her food, although Will’s appetite seemed not impaired by his bruised chin. Sir Gerald consumed enormous quantities of a meal that would not be charged to his account, and Daniel gloomily contemplated the prospect of being saddled with a considerable debt at a time when he was bound to face crippling fines imposed by Parliament for his support of the lost Royalist cause.

  At the sign of the quill, he assumed the debt of five hundred pounds owed by Sir Gerald Ashby of Thame in the county of Oxfordshire to Sir Reginald Trant of Steeple Aston in the same county.

  Justice Hazlemere was a dour man with a pinched face and watery eyes. He performed his duties with expressionless efficiency. Clasping the Directory, the set of rules for public worship compiled and ratified by Parliament, he inquired of Sir Daniel Drummond if he intended to marry Henrietta Ashby. On being told that Sir Daniel did indeed intend such a thing, the justice turned to Henrietta.

  “Do ye, Mistress Ashby, intend marrying Daniel Drummond, Baronet?”

  Henrietta swallowed, cleared her throat, moistened her lips. “Yes,” she said.

  “Then,” said the justice, “I pronounce you man and wife. You may pay my clerk five shillings and he will draw up the parchment witnessed and attested by me that y’are properly married in the eyes of the church and the law.”