by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens
Chapter Twelve
Delyth rolled over and stretched, then sat up with a sudden start. Where was she? She looked around and sighed. She was in her assigned room at Merrithew House. She flopped back down on her pillows and took a moment to recall how she got here.
She had started out the evening in Simon Merrithew’s room. In Simon Merrithew’s bed! The soreness of her muscles (indeed the soreness of muscles she was sure she had never used before last night) and the tingling sensation elsewhere in her body were palpable reminders of how she had spent the time before she crept back to this room in the early hours of the morning. She had agreed to marry Simon. Even now, luxuriating in the afterglow of anticipating their wedding vows, she wondered what people would think when Mr. Merrithew announced his betrothal to a dressmaker. The thought put a damper on the fires still smoldering within her, but not enough of a damper to cause her to leap from her bed and take back her acceptance.
She still had a workday ahead of her. Regardless of a proposed marriage to a gentleman of the ton, Delyth was still determined to dress his sister for the coronation and to do whatever else would please both Louisa Merrithew and Felicity Dawkins. She owed them both so much. Delyth threw back the covers and pulled out the clothes she would wear today. Nothing good enough for the affianced wife of Simon Merrithew, but it would do for Miss Merrithew’s dressmaker.
My word. She had slept late and no one had awakened her. There was still breakfast on the sideboard and still a footman presiding over coffee and tea, but neither Simon nor his sister was in the breakfast room. Delyth accepted the tea offered her by the footman and asked, “Is Miss or Mr. Merrithew in the house?”
The footman blinked, and Delyth realized this was the first time she had ever addressed him. She waited until she thought he might have had time to process the question and then asked it again. “Not at the moment, Miss,” he replied.
Very well. That was an answer. Not one she knew what to do with. She supposed she could go to the workroom and begin another pattern. Time was drawing short and clothes must be made. She should also make sure she had sufficiently detailed sketches for the coronation gown. That should be started right away. Delyth knew she would need help to meet the deadlines she had set for herself. She could feel anxiety flooding her system.
What was she doing? She had promised to marry Simon and yet was agitated about his sister’s wardrobe. Would the betrothal mean she couldn’t make gowns? She didn’t know how this was going to work. And she could not bear to disappoint Felicity after all she had done for her, plucking her out of the theater and giving her a chance for a respectable career. Her heart gave a hard thump. A respectable career that would result in marriage to the brother of a viscount. There was trouble somewhere on the horizon. She just knew it.
Trouble ahead or not, Delyth proceeded with her day. Spreading out her drawing materials in the workroom, she began adding details to the sketch of Louisa’s coronation dress. She would need to have Louisa’s decision by the end of the day if she were to complete this on time. If she were to make the coronation dress and finish the other wardrobe additions that Louisa has already chosen, she would need the help Felicity had offered. This couldn’t wait. Leaving her paper and pencils where they were, she went back to her room to fetch her bonnet and shawl. She needed to talk to Felicity about using Alice or Sally or whether she should find another helper and where she could get one.
Neither Simon nor Louisa had returned by the time Delyth was ready to leave the house. She supposed she could leave a message with a footman, but decided it would be better to leave a note. She headed to the library, since that seemed to be the preferred location for both the Merrithews when they were at home. She stuck her head in, briefly recollecting what had happened in there with Simon. And briefly shivering in remembered arousal. She had to put that out of her mind if she were to get anything done today. No one was about, so Delyth walked to the desk to leave a note.
She knew where Simon kept his paper and pulled open a drawer to retrieve a clean sheet. As she reached for the pen, she noticed a half-filled piece of paper laying on the desktop. She averted her eyes. She was not here to spy on Simon, who seemed to be the one to use the desk most of the time. She would not read his correspondence. And then something caught her attention.
To Editor, Town Gazette. Please find “Aglaea’s Cabinet” for the next edition, Simon Merrithew
The handsome Miss S, London’s newest diamond, showed the rest of the ton how an incomparable should look. Her sea-foam green silk gown and silver net overdress—undoubtedly the work of Madame Cecily—was the perfect foil for Miss S’s silver-blond hair and flawless skin. Her turn as a delectable sea creature did not go unnoticed by the formally-clad fisherman of Almack’s.
On the other side of the beach was Lady V, looking distinctly crablike in her red satin panniers. Do au courante ladies still wear panniers, I ask you? Someone should whisper the news in Lady V’s shell-like ear.
One could go on, but perhaps one shouldn’t.
Delyth dropped into the chair and took up the letter with shaking hands. No. She definitely shouldn’t have read this. But she had and now her world had flipped onto its head. Everything she knew, or thought she knew, and everything she felt was a fraud. She had to leave. She scrabbled around the desk until she found the paper and pen that she had come for and began to write her own letter.
Simon Merrithew was out of sorts. He had spent the day talking to his man of business, his solicitor, his vicar, his banker, two purveyors of fine textiles, and Anthea Drinkwater. He had much rather have spent the day with Delyth, planning their life together, but he had, at least, put everything in motion to see that the marriage would happen as soon as possible. When the footman who opened the door answered his first question by telling him that Miss Owen had left the house before noon and had not yet returned, Simon’s mood turned even darker.
“Is Miss Merrithew in?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” The footman nodded.
“Good.” Simon strode off toward the library.
Louisa wasn’t in the library, but arrived almost immediately after Simon entered.
“Where have you been?” she asked, taking her usual seat near the fireplace.
“Arranging a marriage,” Simon stopped in front of his sister and dropped a kiss on her forehead.
“Whose?”
“Mine.” Simon sat opposite his sister. “But I can’t seem to locate the bride.”
“Delyth?” Louisa sprang from her chair.
“Delyth,” Simon said. “Have you some objection?”
“None.” Louisa clapped her hands. “I love Delyth. But I suspect that there will be objections from other quarters. The viscount will certainly not be pleased.”
“I could not be less interested in what Robert thinks of my choice.” Simon stood and hugged his sister. “But do you know where the future Mrs. Merrithew might be?”
“I… No.” Louisa looked puzzled. “She did not come down to breakfast at her usual time.” She stopped and gave Simon an assessing look, which he chose to ignore. “And, according to Sterling, she left right after she broke her own fast. I thought she had things to do at the shop, but now I think she might have had something else on her mind.”
“Well, I wish she’d get back. This has been a wretched day without her company.” It has not occurred to Simon until today, as he went from one meeting to the next, how much brighter his days had been since Delyth had joined the household. He could barely wait until the arrangement was permanent.
Louisa, who had wandered over to the desk to look through a pile of correspondence, paled. “You had better see this,” she said, showing Simon a piece of paper.
Dear Miss Merrithew,
Madame Follette’s has my designs and will bring you the dresses you chose for fitting. Thank you so much for your kindness, your hospitality, and your friendship. It has been a pleasure to spend this time with you and your brother. I will send for my thing
s within the next day or two.
Delyth Owen
Simon read the note twice and looked back at his sister. “What is this about? Did I propose marriage to an insane person?”
“No,” Louisa said. “I’d say she was quite sane. Take a look at what was on top of your desk when she came to leave a note.”
Simon moved to the desk, glanced at the top, and dropped into the chair with a thud. His knees felt incapable of holding him up. “How…?” he began and realized what a stupid question that was. Of course, he was at fault. He’d left out the damned, half-finished column and with his name on it, no less. Not only was it a stupid question, its answer was that Simon Merrithew was a stupid person.
He let the letter to his editor float back to the desk and looked at his sister in despair. “Can I make this right?”
“I certainly hope so,” Louisa said. “I like Delyth immensely and I think you’ll be miserable if she doesn’t marry you. Which,” she added, “looks like a distinct possibility at this moment. Now do something.”
Simon rose and paced the library for several minutes, running his hands through his hair. “I need to think,” he said, and left the room.
Simon strode though the Merrithew portrait gallery on the way to his room. He glanced at his father and wondered how he would feel about giving birth to such an inept son. He thought the late viscount would probably like Delyth and might even approve of his son’s unorthodox choice of wife. But he knew his father’s approval was not a factor in his choice of Delyth, nor would it have been if his father were still alive. Simon loved Delyth and that was the only factor as far as he was concerned. He gave his father a small salute and moved down the gallery, coming to stand in front of a portrait of his grandfather painted in 1765, the year Simon’s father had been born.
His grandfather had been painted in a long frock coat and breeches of what Simon supposed he would call violet damask. The waistcoat was a lighter purple and the white shirt was excessively ruffled. The viscount’s stockings were also white, but his shoes were heeled, crimson, and displayed a rather large diamond buckle.
Simon chuckled. Delyth was obviously born in the wrong decade. She would have loved these clothes. Recognition thrilled through Simon’s body. “Louisa!” he shouted.
A footman stuck his head out of a concealed door at the end of the gallery. “May I help you sir?”
“Yes.” Simon took a moment to lower his voice. “Tell Miss Merrithew to meet me in the attics, immediately.”
“What are you doing?” By the time Louisa entered the attic, Simon was wildly pulling clothes out of a trunk.
“I must find Grandfather’s clothes. I’m sure they’re here.” Simon did not stop his search but opened another trunk. “Yes!” He beamed at Louisa. “Here they are.”
“Are you demented?” Louisa asked. “Why are you rummaging in these trunks?”
Simon pulled out the very suit his grandfather had worn for the portrait. “Look at this,” he said. “Wouldn’t Delyth love this?”
Louisa blinked. “Yes. I imagine she would. But…”
“Do you think it will fit me?” He held up in front of himself and looked down.
“It looks as though it will.”
“Good. Find me stockings and look for the satin dress shoes Grandfather would have worn with this.” Simon continued his search and pulled out a heavily embroidered, lime-green waistcoat. “This one,” he said.
Louisa grimaced. “Are you sure? I think there’s a matching waistcoat in there somewhere.”
“No,” Simon said, shaking out the garment. “This is the one. Trust me.”
Ultimately, everything fit but the shoes. When Louisa pulled them out of another trunk, it was immediately obvious that the Merrithew foot size had increased significantly in the last half-century. “Drat,” Simon said. “They’re perfect. Ah well, I suppose I’ll have to wear dancing slippers.”
Louisa sighed. “I suppose you will.” She looked at her brother, splendidly arrayed in fabulous color and sumptuous fabric. “I think I know what you’re up to,” she said. “I hope it works.”
Failing to find a hat appropriate to the suit, Simon elected to go bareheaded, taking only his walking stick, which he thought would work in almost any century.
“Hush,” Louisa said to the footman who opened the front door for Simon. “And put your eyes back in your head.”
Simon managed to ignore the astonished faces at Madame Follette’s when he stopped to inquire whether Miss Owen was there. Everyone was polite, despite the fact that they obviously thought he had lost his mind, and one kindly suggested he go to Henrietta Street. This had been his plan if Delyth wasn’t at the shop. He executed a graceful bow, wishing he had the appropriate headwear to doff, and continued on his errand.
Anthea Drinkwater was not pleased to see him. “I think you have probably done enough damage today,” she said, opening the door only far enough to peer at him with a beady eye.
“Please,” Simon said, wishing once again he had a hat to remove. “Please. I must speak to her.”
“Why?” Anthea had put her foot against the door and was not about to relent.
“I need to grovel,” Simon said. “A lot.”
“In that case.” Anthea gave a grudging shrug and swung the door open.
Simon stepped inside and followed Anthea up the stairs to her drawing room.
“Wait here,” Anthea said. “I’ll see if Miss Owen is in.”
“Thank you, Miss Drinkwater.” Simon figured it wasn’t too early to begin the groveling.
After a few minutes, Delyth entered the room without Miss Drinkwater. Her eyes were red, but her face was composed. The moment she saw Simon she came to a dead stop and clapped a hand over her mouth. “What,” she said, “are you supposed to be?”
“I am,” Simon said, “a man in love.”
Delyth snorted.
“Please,” Simon said, dropping down on one knee and taking Delyth’s hand. “I have no reasonable explanation, but please let me apologize. I do love you.”
“Oh Simon, you fool.” Delyth pulled him back to a standing position. “I know you love me. No man who hated my color choices as much as you do would propose for any reason other than love.”
Delyth stood back and examined him from head to toe, which stirred interest in some of the more easily excited parts of his body. She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “What are you wearing?”
“Don’t you like it?” Simon asked. “It’s my grandfather’s.”
“In fact, I do like the colors,” Delyth said with a slight smile. “But, Simon, the embroidery! The buttons! I think I can get Anthea to put you on the stage. Where’s your hat?”
“Yes,” Simon said. “I knew I needed a hat, but I couldn’t find the right one. Why did you leave without talking to me?”
“You hurt me, Simon. You said things about Lady Marjoribanks’s dress that might have cost me my job and then you didn’t tell me you were Aglaea. What kind of a name is that anyway?”
“It’s Greek,” Simon said. “But never mind that. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Or perhaps I did at the beginning, but when I began to know you and understand your passion for color, I was so sorry.”
“Then you should have said so.”
“Yes, I should have. Is it too late?”
“You foolish, colorful man.” Delyth took his face in her hands and went up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “I suppose I am going to have to marry you to keep you in line—and properly dressed.” She stepped back. “I do like you in violet.”
Epilogue
Reverend Hodgson expected that St. George’s had rarely, if ever, seen a wedding like the one presently assembled in his sanctuary. It wasn’t a large group, but it was certainly … interesting. Lord Fulbeck was in a front row, along with his viscountess and his sister, Miss Louisa Merrithew. Although Lord Fulbeck was looking rather dour and his wife absolutely grim, Miss Merrithew exuded enough happiness to make up for the
rest of the row. A few other members of the haute ton were scattered among rows behind them.
On the right side of the center aisle, a prosperous-looking and well-dressed gentleman, who had introduced himself to Mr. Hodgson in a broad Welsh accent as the bride’s father, sat next to a lady the vicar thought he might have seen on the stage at some time. Behind them, there were several other interesting persons, all of whom looked like they might be theatrical people. He hadn’t asked. Behind these was a group of less flamboyantly dressed young women and one very large man. And, rather incongruously, the Duke of Barrowmore. Other than the duke, he hadn’t the vaguest idea where they were from, but they looked happy to be there.
Right now, all he must do was stand next to the groom and await the bride. The groom was well known and well liked in London society and the vicar was surprised that his wedding had collected such an odd assortment of guests. Mr. Simon Merrithew, however, did not look the least bit discomfited, nor did he evince the usual jitters Reverend Hodgson had come to associate with his grooms. He looked calm, confident, and, one might say, triumphant as he turned toward the door through which his bride would enter. In fact, he looked the ideal bridegroom if one discounted the fact that, over the traditional bridegroom attire, he was wearing a violet damask dress coat from the previous century.
When the door opened and the bride appeared, everything became clear. Miss Owen’s gown was a celebration of color: violet to match her groom’s jacket, with pale yellow piping and crimson gussets. Rather than a bonnet, she wore a wreath of vibrant flowers. Her prayer book was the only subdued element about her. Oh, but she glowed. She seemed lit from within, her smile wide and joyful. All else about her paled in the light of that smile.
As the bride began her solitary walk down the aisle, the groom left his place in the chancel to meet her halfway. The vicar smiled. This would be an interesting marriage.
