by Cheryl Holt
“I’m to beg a stranger to keep me clothed and fed?” she snidely inquired.
Peyton shrugged. “It’s up to you. If you’d rather not confer with him, you don’t have to, but then, you won’t receive a penny.”
“Am I to have no say at all?”
“There’s no time for me to debate the issue with you. You’ll be able to state your case to Thumberton as to your expenses, but he will choose what to allow. He has complete discretion, so don’t harangue at him. It won’t help.”
“What about me?” Richard whined. “Am I to provide my labors for free? Or am I to be compensated for my work?”
“No, Richard, you won’t collect any further salary. You’ve been terminated from your position. For insubordination—remember? Thumberton will be hiring a manager to replace you.”
“You bastard!” Richard spat.
“Now, now, let’s don’t bring my mother into it.” Peyton realized what he’d said, then he chuckled. “Actually, I suppose you can denigrate her if you wish. Hasn’t it always been the rumor that I’m a bastard and not a Prescott? Is that what galls you two the most? I’ve inherited everything, and I’m not even a relative.”
At his mentioning the ancient gossip, they stiffened with affront, and Barbara huffed, “I won’t dignify that comment with a response.”
Peyton ignored her and focused on her brother. “Richard, I won’t point out that you’re still on the premises when you shouldn’t be. I’d love to engage in a hard fight with both of you, but I can’t dawdle. But please take a bit of advice from me: You should leave Benton. My new agent is about to arrive. Could you stand it?”
Richard was very snotty. “I’ll try to bear up.”
“Fine. Have it your way. As I said, I won’t bicker.” He shifted his gaze to Barbara. “If you’d like, there are funds for Nancy and Alice to attend school in September. We haven’t discussed it, but they’re nine and eleven, so they’re certainly old enough. It might be good for them to get out of Benton and be around some other girls.”
Barbara bristled again. “My daughters are much too young.”
“It was just a suggestion, but I’d like you to contemplate it for the future. Once I’m back in England, I may insist on it.”
“You’re not sending them away,” Richard seethed. “I won’t permit it. Not when she doesn’t want it to happen.”
“Well, Richard, there’s the problem for you and for her. Alice and Nancy may be her daughters, but they’re my wards. My brother put me in charge, and I will have the final say about them—in every instance until they come of age.”
Richard glared with an enormous amount of malice, and if a glower could slay a man, Peyton would be dead on the floor.
Peyton pretended not to note his venom though. He thought Alice would be delighted if she went away to school. He kept recalling how miserable she’d been that day out in the woods. She’d enjoy the chance to have an adventure.
“What if Alice and Nancy need important items?” Barbara asked. “You’ll be on the other side of the globe. What if they grow out of their dresses or need lesson books?”
“Talk to Mr. Thumberton.”
“We have to hire a governess. May I proceed with interviews?”
“Yes, but Mr. Thumberton will tell you how much you can spend.” He stood, his patience exhausted. “Is there any other topic you’d like me to address?”
Richard scoffed. “There are a thousand subjects you haven’t covered, but that’s your style, isn’t it? You’re the most flippant ass I’ve ever met. You float through the world, never caring about anything.”
“I care about some things,” Peyton replied. “Just not Benton. Just not you, Richard. I’m trying to care about your sister and my nieces, but you’re making it difficult. Every time you open your mouth, I’m less inclined to be generous.”
“Prick,” Richard muttered.
Peyton merely rolled his eyes. “While I’m away, Richard, do me a favor. Don’t burn the place down. When I return, I’ll expect it to be in pristine condition.”
He spun and walked out. The butler was at the door, and he noticed it was Mr. Newman from the town house. He wondered if Barbara had let any of the other servants work at the estate, but he doubted she had. She wouldn’t have had the money for wages.
Newman handed over his hat and cape, but from his caustic expression, his dislike of Peyton was undeniable. They probably didn’t need to chat.
He donned his garments and strolled out. His horse was still saddled, and a footman was tending him in the driveway. Peyton bounded down the steps to the animal, and he practically leapt onto it. He was that excited to be away, but he paused to stare up at the manor.
It was a beautiful building, in a cold, drafty, haunted kind of way. There was no one peering out of any of the windows to wave as he departed. For a moment, he envisioned evicting the current occupants someday, then moving in with Jo and Daisy.
Could it become a happy spot if they joined him? Perhaps. Anywhere Jo lived might become a happy spot.
He pulled the horse around and urged it into a gallop, and he raced off down the lane. His conversation with Barbara was over, so he was finished with all his tasks but the wedding. It would be held the following morning.
Jo had arranged it. She’d found a chapel where the preacher conducted quick services, one after the next. Theirs was scheduled for eleven, so afterward, he could tarry with them for a few hours. Then he’d have to head to his ship.
He’d barely checked the vessel, but his crew was reliable, and they’d been preparing for weeks, waiting for him to declare himself ready to sail.
Jo had told him to spend the evening at his club, feeling it would be bad luck for him to see her before the ceremony, so he’d agreed to meet them at the church. But he thought he’d stop by anyway and persuade her to misbehave.
Just from thinking of the possibility, he grinned from ear to ear.
He felt awful that he wasn’t able to give her a grander celebration, but he’d make it up to her in the future. He’d promised her a big wedding, with guests and gifts and suppers, and he meant for her to have it.
He loped along, and his merry disposition kept being interrupted by misgivings. Was he mad to marry her? Was he acting like a lunatic?
With how rapidly he’d decided, it certainly seemed as if he should be locked in an asylum. He wished Evan wasn’t angry. He’d have liked to ask his friend’s advice, although Evan would have counseled him to pick an aristocrat’s daughter. Or he’d have insisted Peyton locate an heiress who could bring a fortune to the table.
Yet Peyton didn’t want a bride like that.
Besides, Jo was very likely increasing with Peyton’s child. It might be a son who would inherit Benton after Peyton, so of course, he had to proceed. He couldn’t risk any delay and put that birthright in jeopardy.
As he realized he was fretting over Benton and continuing the family line, he laughed aloud. If his dastardly father hadn’t been rolling in his grave before, he definitely was now. Peyton couldn’t help gloating and being delighted with himself.
He hadn’t slowed down for a single second, and with his mood so joyous, he was distracted and not being cautious, so he didn’t precisely know what startled his horse. He was cantering across a rickety bridge, and the wood slats were damp and slick from all the recent rain.
Suddenly, the horse shied and reared up, and it happened so fast that Peyton couldn’t keep his seat. The horse lost its balance and slammed into the railing, and the boards snapped off and collapsed. The animal screamed, Peyton shouted, and they plunged off the bridge and down to the stream below.
The descent took forever, and the ground approached with a sort of peculiar fascination—as if he were in a dream. He tried to kick free of the saddle, but his foot was caught in the stirrup, and he couldn’t.
His last coherent memory was that he landed very hard, and after that, he remembered nothing a
t all.
* * * *
Jo warned herself to buck up and stride forward bravely. Then she climbed the chapel steps. She would be fine, and she had to cease her worrying, but she was incredibly anxious. It had all played out much too swiftly for her liking, and what was the old adage? Marry in haste, repent at leisure.
Peyton’s situation with the navy had altered in an instant, and it was the type of incident that would occur frequently. His life wasn’t his own, and his commitment to the navy would always come first.
Mentally, she understood that fact, but emotionally, it was difficult to accept her new reality. She’d like to have an ordinary husband who worked in London all day and returned home for supper in the evening, but her illicit conduct had guaranteed that she’d fallen off the common path.
And what female wouldn’t love to have a naval officer for her husband? Her years with him would never be dull, that was for sure.
Still though, she had jitters that couldn’t be quelled. Her initial attempt at matrimony had ended so horribly, and she was about to participate in another wedding that would be speedy and slapdash, with no guests and no kin to sit in the pews.
At the prior disastrous occasion, Maud was the only one who’d been present. This time, Jo had Daisy which was a lot, but the church would seem very empty.
She felt very sorry for Peyton. He had many friends in the navy who should have been invited, but she didn’t know any of them, and he’d been too busy to write a guest list. He’d told her they could have a large ceremony later on, when he wasn’t in such a rush, and she intended to hold him to that promise.
Not for herself, but for him. He deserved to have a grand event.
Daisy stared up at the dull gray bricks. “Is this it?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been here before?”
“Yes, once.”
“Was the bride pretty?”
“Very pretty.”
“How about the groom? Was he handsome and dashing?”
“He was quite handsome, but I wouldn’t describe him as dashing.”
She was talking about her own debacle with Mr. Cartwright.
When Peyton had asked her to arrange the service, she’d agreed that she would, but she wasn’t very familiar with London. The current chapel was the only spot she’d ever heard of where a minister performed hurried ceremonies. She’d had no idea where else to inquire on such short notice.
Quick weddings with Special Licenses were the preacher’s forte.
A more superstitious bride would have avoided the spot like the plague, but after careful consideration, she’d decided to thumb her nose at Holden Cartwright and the terrible past he’d dumped on her. She would march into the same chapel—happy and optimistic—and she wouldn’t be afraid. She wouldn’t fear she was courting bad luck.
Daisy glanced down the street. “Where is Uncle Peyton?”
“He’s probably inside already.”
“Shall I check?”
“Let’s both check.”
“No. If he’s in there, he shouldn’t see you before we start.”
“It’s not that fancy of a place. I think I can risk him catching a glimpse of me.”
“No, Aunt Jo. You stay here.”
Daisy skittered through the door, but Jo didn’t follow her. In many ways, Daisy was more excited than Jo. Jo was trying to be excited, but she was too panicked. She kept being swamped by a dreadful sense of…of…tragedy which was absurd. Peyton had dealt with the necessary details. What could go wrong?
She suspected she was suffering so many qualms because she would be left on her own to manage Daisy and the house and the birth of her baby. It was all too much to contemplate, and she often waxed nostalgic for the quiet period when she’d lived with Maud in the country.
Her sister had been overbearing and spiteful, but the days had drifted by with no drama or problems. Now Jo had a niece to raise, a military husband to fret over, and a baby to welcome. It was thrilling and exhausting.
Daisy peeked out, and she was grinning.
“Is your uncle there?” Jo asked.
“I haven’t looked, but may I have your reticule?”
“My reticule? Why?”
“I’ll show you.”
Jo handed it over, and Daisy went in. When she returned, she was holding a lavender bouquet that matched Jo’s gown.
“We forgot that you should have flowers,” Daisy said.
“Aren’t they lovely? Where did you get them?”
“There’s a boy selling them in the vestibule. It’s why I needed money. Let me find Uncle Peyton. Don’t come in until I tell you.”
“I won’t.”
Daisy flitted inside again, and Jo took several deep breaths, determined to hide her anxiety. Once Peyton laid eyes on her, she wanted to seem poised and happy rather than frantic and bedraggled.
Daisy was gone forever, and Jo’s concern mounted.
Peyton had ridden to Benton the previous morning. He’d begged to stop by the house after he was back, but she’d forbidden any visit. But she’d been certain he’d sneak in anyway. She’d tossed and turned all night, being positive she heard him creeping up the stairs, but he’d never arrived.
He hadn’t joined them for breakfast either, hadn’t sent a note. She wasn’t worried precisely. They’d agreed to meet at the church, so there was no reason to be agitated, but she was awash with nerves.
Finally, Daisy emerged. Jo smiled, expecting he’d be standing behind Daisy, but he wasn’t.
“Is he there?” Jo asked.
“No. There’s a ceremony concluding, and there are a few people watching. He’s not one of them.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Daisy slipped her hand into Jo’s. They tarried together, peering down the busy street, but no matter how vigilantly they searched, he didn’t appear.
The church doors opened, and the wedding couple burst out. She and Daisy scooted down the steps, observing as the couple’s friends clapped and threw rice. All of them climbed into their carriage, and the vehicle rolled off. It grew ominously quiet.
Eventually, Jo said, “It’s silly to dawdle outside. Shall we go in and sit down?”
“We probably should. You and Uncle Peyton are next.”
They entered the chapel, and she was greeted by a woman who introduced herself as the vicar’s wife. Fortunately, she wasn’t the one who’d been there two years earlier, so she wouldn’t gape at Jo and try to figure out where she’d seen her before.
“We’re the Prescott party,” Jo told her. “We’re waiting for my fiancé. He should be here shortly.”
“Have a seat in the rear pew,” the woman said. “That way, he’ll find you the moment he walks in. The vicar will be ready whenever you are.”
Jo glanced toward the altar, and the vicar was still there. He closed his prayer book and tiptoed out a side door. Fortunately again, he was a different vicar too. There was luck all around, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
They slid into the pew. Daisy was grinning, whispering, chattering incessantly. Jo mostly ignored her, offering a remark when it was required. She didn’t have a timepiece, but the minutes were passing much too rapidly, and her pulse accelerated.
She’d been in this predicament once prior, and it was a revoltingly awful spot to occupy. She supposed every bride secretly wondered if the groom would show up, but it wasn’t like Peyton to be late. It wasn’t like him to make her fret.
She noticed she was tapping her foot, the sound echoing, and she forced herself to stop. But then, she was fidgeting. Then she was trembling.
The vicar’s wife bustled over. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. Is your betrothed here?”
“Not yet.”
“We have another service at eleven-thirty. If he doesn’t come by a quarter past the hour, we’ll have to reschedule.”
“He’s a sailor with
the Royal Navy, ma’am, and he’s shipping out this evening. We can’t reschedule, so I hope you can accommodate us.”
“I’ll have to confer with my husband. In the interim, why don’t you check the street again? Perhaps he’s riding up even as we speak.”
“Yes, perhaps he is.”
The woman smiled a tight smile, and Jo rose and marched out, Daisy hot on her heels. They stared and stared, yearning, praying, but to no avail.
When Jo had been eighteen and Holden Cartwright had failed to appear, she’d been perplexed and devastated, but she wasn’t devastated this time. She was very, very angry. How dare Peyton do this! How dare he shame her!
Daisy was blessedly silent, realizing the cheery event had gone terribly wrong. Ultimately, she asked, “Where is he, Aunt Jo?”
“I have no idea, Daisy.”
“Something must have happened to him. Something bad. He must have gotten sick or had an accident.”
“Nothing’s happened,” Jo staunchly insisted. “He’s just been…delayed.”
She started to pace, having to step out of the way again as the next group raced in for their hasty ceremony. The vicar’s wife peeked out and asked, “Any news?”
“No,” Jo said. “You can proceed with the other couple. We’ll continue to watch for him.”
“That might be best. In light of your fiancé’s dilemma, the vicar is willing to fit you in, but he’ll wrap up by three o’clock. He’s not as young as he used to be, and he tires easily.”
“Yes, yes,”—Jo was overly snappish—“I understand the situation.”
How many brides had stood on the same sidewalk, having been jilted by their bridegrooms? Was she the only unlucky one? Or had there been many others in the past?
The whole place was a wedding factory where people could accomplish the matter in a hurry. By its very nature, it catered to a lower class of person, one who didn’t plan in advance, one who had to make rushed decisions, one who—as Jo had done—got herself into a jam and had to quickly get herself out of it.
