A Wedding Wager

by Jane Feather

  “So, if ’n you’ll give me the ready, I’ll be gettin’ on wi’ it, then.” The man sheathed his dagger at his belt.

  Heyward opened a billfold. “Twenty, we said.”

  The suggestion received a short, derisive laugh. “For a fast chaise an’ all those changes on the road? Don’t make me laugh. Fifty.”

  The general peeled off two bank notes and went to the desk to unlock a drawer. He withdrew a purse of sovereigns, counted out ten, and pushed them across the desk. His visitor slid them off and bit each one with a reflective air before dropping them into the pocket of his moleskin waistcoat. “Right, I’ll be off, then.”

  “You’ll let me know when you’ve delivered the letter?”

  The question was not dignified by a response, and the man in the moleskin waistcoat left the library without a word of farewell. He was crossing the hall to the front door when Flanagan materialized from the shadows behind the staircase.

  “Kitchen door,” the butler said, gesturing behind him to the door to the back regions.

  The man in the moleskin waistcoat gave him a look of contemptuous indifference and continued on his way to the front door, which opened as he reached it. He brushed past Serena as she came in and hurried off down the street.

  Serena stood in the doorway for a moment, frowning. What was her stepfather up to now? She knew the visitor. He was always nameless, but she knew the general employed him to deal with the occasional young man who found it difficult to meet his gambling debts. One visit from the moleskin waistcoat was usually sufficient to ensure instant payment.

  She shrugged and headed for the stairs. It was already past five o’clock, and she had to dress for the evening.

  “Good evening, Lady Serena.” Flanagan bowed. “Cook is rather put out. I wonder if you would see her for a few minutes.”

  “Yes, of course. What’s the matter?”

  “A problem with the fish, I understand, ma’am. Not as fresh as she would like.”

  “Oh, dear.” Serena grimaced. The cook was of a somewhat temperamental nature and inclined to see disaster where none really existed. “I’ll go to the kitchen now.” Her idyllic day was well and truly over, it would seem. She touched her ring finger, smiling at the feel of the dainty circlet beneath her glove. She would have to take it off before she saw her stepfather, of course, but for the moment, whenever she touched it, the memories of the afternoon would become so wonderfully vivid she had difficulty keeping a smile from her lips.

  She dealt with the kitchen crisis by suggesting that the cook prepare chickens in elderflower sauce instead of the spoiled whitefish. “Either is lovely with the sauce,” she offered in soothing accents, and was relieved to receive a rather dour nod in response. She hurried upstairs to dress, preparing herself for the evening’s social obligations and mental gymnastics.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jonas Wedgwood presented himself at the house on Bruton Street with a carefully chosen posy of hothouse winter roses for his hostess. He was nervous about his reception by the lady of the house but did his best to appear confident. He thought of Sebastian and tried to emulate that easy manner, the appearance of being totally comfortable in his skin. He knew his dress was impeccable. His coat of dark blue silk was perfectly complemented by his striped waistcoat of blue and silver damask. His knee breeches were dove-gray silk, his stockings plain white. In the froth of lace at his throat, a diamond winked, as good a gem, he thought, as any in Mrs. Sutton’s jewel box. Tucked into an inside pocket of his coat was a small packet containing a delicately engraved silver locket that he thought was perfect for Abigail. In perfect taste, not too ostentatious, not in the least vulgar. No mother could object to her daughter’s receiving such a gift from her betrothed.

  Always assuming the betrothal would happen. But Jonas would not allow himself doubts on this score.

  He knocked and was admitted by Morrison, who, it seemed to him, had a smile in his eye and a certain warmth in his voice as he took his hat, cane, and cloak and said, “The family is in the drawing room, sir.”

  “Thank you, Morrison.” Jonas twitched at the wide skirt of his coat, fingered the lace at his throat, swallowed, and went manfully up the stairs in the butler’s wake.

  “Mr. Wedgwood, ma’am … sir.”

  Jonas stepped into the drawing room. Abigail was sitting on a sofa, an embroidery frame in her lap. She looked as enchanting as always in a gown of palest pink chiffon, with a lace fichu at her neck. Her hair was bound in bands of cherry-pink velvet ribbon, and she peeped up at him with a shy smile, rising to curtsy before sitting down again.

  Mrs. Sutton did not rise from her chair. She regarded Jonas through a lorgnette, a new adjunct to her appearance, he reflected. If it was intended to intimidate, it would have succeeded but for Abigail’s smile and William Sutton’s hearty boom of greeting.

  “Come in, m’boy, come in and welcome.” He shook Jonas’s hand vigorously, patting his shoulder. “Sit down … over there by Abigail. Plenty of room on that sofa, eh, puss?” He twinkled at his daughter, who blushed a little but moved her skirts closer against her to create more space.

  Jonas smiled at Abigail before bowing to her mother and presenting his posy. “Ma’am, I hope you like roses.”

  Marianne received the gift with a stiff smile. For all her frustrated ambitions for her daughter, she was incapable of an overtly unkind response to such a charming gesture. “Thank you, Mr. Wedgwood. They’re very pretty.” She leaned sideways to ring a little handbell on the table and instructed the parlor maid, who appeared almost instantly, “Put these in water, Sally. They’ll look very nice in the small cut-glass vase.”

  “So what’ll you drink, Jonas?” William asked. “The ladies are curdling their insides with ratafia, but I daresay you’d like something stronger … a tankard of ale, perhaps?”

  “No, Mr. Sutton, Mr. Wedgwood will drink sherry or madeira,” his wife said quickly. “Ale is all very well for the morning but not before dinner.”

  William looked disappointed but said cheerfully enough, “So my lady has decreed. Which will it be, m’boy? Sherry or madeira?”

  “Sherry, if you please, sir.” Jonas took his place on the sofa beside Abigail, and she gave him a quick sidelong smile.

  “When are you planning to return home, Mr. Wedgwood?” Marianne inquired, taking a genteel sip of ratafia. “Soon, I expect.” She seemed to answer her own question.

  Jonas looked a little startled. “I haven’t made any plans as yet, ma’am.”

  “Surely your uncle requires your presence in his business?”

  “I am conducting his business here in town at the moment, ma’am. He has given me several other commissions to execute.”

  “Oh … really?” Marianne sounded doubtful.

  Jonas looked in appeal to Mr. Sutton, who declared, “Such an inquisition, Mrs. Sutton. ’Tis well and good that he’s doing his uncle’s business in London, if he’s to go a-courting. Eh, puss?” He beamed at his daughter.

  Abigail murmured something inaudible, but her eyes glowed as she glanced at Jonas. Marianne gave a tight smile but said nothing.

  “Well, now, surely ’tis time for dinner,” William stated into the awkward moment of silence. “Let us go down. Mrs. Sutton …” He offered his arm to his wife. “Young Jonas here can take Abigail down.”

  Marianne had little choice but to put a brave face on what was clearly now a fait accompli. Abigail was going to be Mrs. Jonas Wedgwood, and she might as well accept it. With acceptance came the first glimmer of pleasure as she thought of announcing to her fellow mothers of marriageable daughters that her daughter was to be the first among them … married before her eighteenth birthday and married to the scion of one of the most prominent and successful families in the Five Towns. She knew they would be green with envy. And of course, William would spare no expense on the wedding. It would be the most lavish affair seen in the Potteries in the last ten years. She permitted herself a small smile as she took her sea
t at the table and glanced at her glowing daughter. After all, when all was said and done, Abigail’s happiness was really all that mattered.

  William caught his wife’s little private nod and was well satisfied. He knew his Marianne, and he’d known that she would see the light eventually. He could bid farewell to the peaceful routine he was accustomed to for the next few months. Life in the Sutton household would be a whirlwind of preparations, Marianne would be in and out of his business office with demands, suggestions, crises both real and imagined, but he would endure with a good grace if it would make his womenfolk happy. He nodded to himself and began to carve the sirloin of beef in front of him, serving his guest generously.

  “Nothing like a good piece of beef, I always say.” He passed the full plate to the footman, who placed it in front of Jonas. “You have some of that good Yorkshire pudding now, m’boy. Mrs. Sutton’s cook knows exactly how to make it. And those roast potatoes are the best in the country, I’ll wager. Need to feed you up if you’re going to live through the next few months.” He laughed and winked.

  Abigail’s shyness dissolved under her father’s merry innuendos, and she began to chatter in her usual free and easy fashion. By the end of dinner, Jonas had lost his wariness and set out deliberately to charm his soon-to-be mother-in-law.

  He succeeded so well that when William said, “I expect you two young people would like a little time to yourselves. We’ll go up to the drawing room, eh, Mrs. Sutton?” Marianne merely nodded and rose to take her husband’s arm. Jonas stood up, clutching his napkin, and bowed.

  The door closed on them, and Abigail was once again mute with shyness. She played with the stem of her wine glass. Jonas coughed, pulled at the damask square between his hands, then sat down again. A second later, he jumped to his feet and blurted, “Miss Sutton … Abigail, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Abigail raised her downcast eyes from the tabletop and whispered, “Yes.”

  Jonas gave a great whoop of delight, seized her hands, and pulled her to her feet. “Yes, you will? Really … truly?”

  She nodded. “Really … truly, I will, Jonas.”

  He danced her around the table, laughing with relief. “You have made me the happiest man in the world … the luckiest man in London.” He caught her against him and impulsively kissed her.

  “Jonas, you shouldn’t,” she murmured. “Not until we are wed.” But she made no effort to escape his hold.

  “Oh, no, I’m sure I shouldn’t,” he said, kissing her again. “But I can’t help it, Abigail, my dearest Abigail. My love.”

  He began to dance with her again, swinging her off her feet in his exultation.

  “Oh … I almost forgot … I have a present for you.” He released one hand and reached into his inner pocket. “I hope you like it.” He placed the little packet in her free hand and watched anxiously as she freed her other hand and unwrapped the locket.

  “Oh, ’tis lovely, Jonas. So pretty.” She opened it up. “What should I put in it? Oh, a miniature of you … but that will take too long, and I want something now.” She frowned, then her expression cleared. “A lock of your hair.” She darted to the sideboard and took up the little pair of grape scissors in the fruit bowl.

  Jonas submitted to the loss of a dark strand but then took the scissors from her and cut one of her own guinea-gold curls. He twisted the two locks together and inserted them into the locket, closing it gently. “There now … a promise of a lifetime together.” He turned her around and fastened the clasp at her nape.

  Abigail stood on tiptoe to see her image in the mirror above the mantel. She lifted the locket and gazed at it in the mirror, her eyes shining. “Oh, ’tis exquisite, Jonas. Quite perfect.”

  “Made by a silversmith in High Holborn,” he said with a touch of pride. “I’m told he is renowned throughout the city.”

  She smiled at him in the mirror. “How did you know of him?”

  “Oh, someone told me,” he answered vaguely with a careless wave of his hand. “Someone who knows about such matters.”

  “Oh … I wonder who.” But to his relief, Abigail didn’t press him further. He was reluctant to tell her that Sebastian had given him the information, even as Sullivan told him with a wry smile that he would be hard pressed to afford the silversmith’s work himself. It would be both inappropriate and vulgar to share that confidence with his beloved, Jonas felt.

  “We should go back to Mama and Papa,” she said, slowly dropping the locket back to nestle in the hollow of her throat. “Before Mama sends Morrison to fetch us.”

  “Yes … yes, of course.” He had no desire to find himself on the wrong side of redoubtable Mama again. He hurried to the door, opening it wide, bowing as Abigail went past him with a little curtsy of acknowledgment and a mischievous smile that quite spoiled the decorum.

  William was pacing restlessly in the drawing room. He wanted to retreat to his private sanctum with a glass of brandy and his pipe before seeking his usual early bed, but he couldn’t leave his guest, and Marianne was showing signs of impatience at the lovers’ prolonged absence. He sighed with relief as the door opened and the young people returned. One glance at their faces told him all he needed to know.

  “So, ’tis settled, then … all right and tight,” he declared, coming forward with hands outstretched. “Welcome to the family, dear boy.” He enclosed Jonas’s slender hands in his own giant paws. “You just make sure you make my little girl happy.”

  “Oh, I will, sir. Indeed, I will.” Jonas was aware that his smile was probably somewhat fatuous. He turned to Marianne, who was smiling, although with rather more restraint than her husband. “Ma’am, I will treasure Abigail,” he said earnestly.

  She nodded, and a small smile lurked at the corners of her mouth. “See that you do.” She turned to her daughter, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “What is that around your neck, child?”

  “’Tis a locket, Mama. A present from Jonas … Mr. Wedgwood. Is it not the prettiest thing?” She leaned over so that her mother could inspect the piece.

  Marianne nodded her approval. “Most appropriate, very pretty, indeed.”

  “We have twined two locks of hair together,” Abigail confessed, blushing a little. “I shall wear them close to my heart.”

  Marianne looked a little askance but was willing to grant a degree of latitude to young love. “Well, that’s as may be, child. But ’tis time you sought your bed after all this excitement. Bid Mr. Wedgwood good night. You may call upon us tomorrow morning, Mr. Wedgwood. I daresay Mr. Sutton has various matters of business to discuss with you, and then you may sit with Abigail for half an hour.”

  Abigail couldn’t help a little moue of disappointment. “But Mama, I am not in the least sleepy. ’Tis still early.”

  “’Tis past nine.” Marianne set her needle firmly into her embroidery and laid the frame aside.

  Abigail gave her father a pleading look, and he laughed. “Oh, let the girl say good night to her betrothed, Mrs. Sutton. There can be no harm in a private word of farewell.” He winked at his wife. “I remember that you and I shared a few private good nights during our betrothal, eh, Mrs. Sutton?”

  Marianne shot him a repressive look but couldn’t hide the sudden softness in her eyes.

  William chuckled. “You may see him to the door, puss. I’m sure your mother has no objection to that.”

  If she did have, Marianne was not about to articulate it. William had spoken. “Just to the door, then,” she agreed.

  “Oh, thank you, Mama. You are the best mother.” Abigail flung her arms around her neck and kissed her cheek. “And I promise we shall be most discreet.”

  “If I thought there was the slightest danger otherwise, child, you would walk no further than the drawing-room door with Mr. Wedgwood, betrothed or not,” Marianne pronounced, but her eyes were still soft.

  Jonas made his bows, agreed to present himself at nine the following morning to discuss settlements with Mr. Sutton, and fo
llowed Abigail downstairs to the hall. She was dancing with exuberance, jumping off the last two steps, laughing up at him.

  “Oh, I do so wish you didn’t have to leave, Jonas.”

  “But you know that I must.” He smiled the smile that he didn’t think would ever leave him. It seemed to have become a permanent fixture of his features. “But only for a short while. Once we are wed …”

  Her eyes narrowed, startling him with the sudden seductiveness of their expression. “Once we are wed, we shall never be apart,” she stated, reaching for his hand.

  Morrison watched indulgently from the shadows at the rear of the hall, moving forward to the front door only when the couple did. He unbolted the door, opening it onto the crisp, cool night air of late autumn. “Good night, sir.”

  Jonas stepped past him onto the top step. “Good night, Morrison.”

  Abigail darted out to stand beside him. “Oh, just close the door, Morrison … just for a minute. ’Tis too cold to leave it open.”

  The butler regarded her with a raised eyebrow, then said, “I’ll pull it to just for a minute, Miss Abigail. You mustn’t catch cold.” He stepped back, allowing the door to close on the latch at his back.

  Abigail chuckled, reaching to stand on tiptoe to circle Jonas’s neck with her arms. “Good night … oh, I wish we didn’t have to say it.”

  Jonas put his hands at her waist, lifting her slightly against him as he bent his head to kiss her mouth. After a long minute, he let her feet touch the step again and reluctantly moved his mouth from hers. He held her face for a moment, and she looked up at him, something lurking in her wide blue eyes that startled him for a moment. It was hunger, even passion. He was inexperienced in the ways of love himself, but the need he saw in Abigail’s eyes matched the need that was now stirring his loins, setting his blood afire.

  Hastily, he stepped away from her. “Go in, Abigail, ’tis cold.” He kissed his fingertips to her as he hurried down the steps to the street. “Until tomorrow, my darling.”