Memory's Bride

by Decca Price

  “Perhaps a tray...?”

  “Oh, Simmie, I’m so sorry to snap at you. Yesterday—is it only yesterday? -- was so terrible. But it doesn’t signify. I got a little wet in the rain and had to make the best of it until I could come home.”

  “I heard about Dickon,” Simmie said, then hesitated.

  “Don’t spare me, Simmie.”

  “They say Tressel threatened to quit, but Mrs. White assures me he won’t. I’m afraid Mr. Carey is looking quite grim.”

  Claire winced. “I don’t suppose anybody had a word of concern for me, not that I deserve it. Why do I never listen to anyone?” She rang impatiently for Annie. “I deserve everything Mr. Carey and the rest of them must be saying about me right now. And Mr. Latimer no doubt will use it as another reason to chide me.”

  “He called while you were asleep,” Simmie said. “I told him you’d caught a chill.”

  “There was a note from him yesterday,” Claire said. “I didn’t open it. He’s been so short with me lately. He was so kind in the beginning and now he acts as though he just wants to get the work on Josiah’s papers done so he can be shut of me.”

  “He seemed eager to see you today,” Simmie remarked. “He said he’d be waiting to hear from you.”

  Annie alone seemed oblivious to the cloud hovering over her mistress. The dressing table had been restored to its normal state and a mirror brought in from another bedchamber, and as Annie happily brushed the tangles out of Claire’s hair, she burbled about a Scott poem involving knights and fair ladies. While Annie extolled Lochinvar and histed over the treachery of his lady’s family, Claire absently opened Latimer’s note and began to skim.

  She got only a few lines past “My dearest Miss Burton,” when she asked Annie to leave. Still seated at the dressing table, she forced herself to read slowly, from the beginning.

  My dearest Miss Burton,

  I sincerely hope that when we parted last, the impatience I expressed did not seem to be directed at you. Impatience, it indeed was, but merely because of the inability of myself to find the proper time, place and words to explain my feelings for you. I fear you see in me a harsh man only interested in correcting and chastising you. Believe me, my concern stems wholly from my regard.

  These past weeks laboring at your side in our work of mutual interest has revealed to me your bright intelligence, spirit of loving kindness and soul of purity. Day by day, my feeling for you has traveled further from friendly interest in your welfare to a keen desire to make that welfare the most solemn duty in my life, after my obligations to my calling. In short, it is my deepest wish to unite my life with yours and, as your husband, have the right to call myself your friend, supporter, companion and protector.

  Miss Burton, I request that you make me the happiest of men by bestowing upon me your hand in marriage. From that day forward, we will put the past behind us and together build a future as if it never were.

  Realizing that this proposal may take you completely unawares, I apologize sincerely for startling you with such a declaration. I will understand if you wish to take some time to consider your answer, and, should you decline, will continue ever to be

  Your most sincere friend,

  Edward R. Latimer, CE

  Claire carefully folded the letter. Her hands were shaking, so it took her several tries before it slipped back into its envelope. Curling in on herself and clutching the small cream packet to her chest, she rocked back and forth on the small slipper chair.

  Marriage!

  She sprang up, only to be hobbled by the stinging in her feet. She hopped over to the chaise near the window, settled herself and gazed out at the bright crescent moon hanging like a spangle in the deepening twilit sky.

  To be married to Edward Latimer, she told herself, would mean safety. She would no longer have to fight every day for acceptance nor battle temptations she knew now she was too weak to resist.

  As Mrs. Latimer, she would be secure from the insults of men like Rhys Fitzgordon. And she would have the influence she longed for. With the sanction of the Rev. Edward R. Latimer, rector of St. Michael the Archangel, the people of Abbot Pyon would embrace rather than reject the good things she wanted to do for them. But to be married to him would mean exchanging freedom for obedience—a state she was more accustomed to, except for these recent exciting, dangerous, lonely months.

  Put the past behind them. She understood now what Edward meant, and why Rhys was so angry despite his offer. That knowledge would make her decision easier.

  The sky was dark when Simmie came back with a tray of food.

  “Oh, not dressed yet—did you change your mind after all? Well, never mind. I’ll bring a chair over and I can pass you things as you want them.”

  Claire slipped Latimer’s letter under a cushion.

  Simmie handed her a small plate of roasted chicken with some lettuces, then reached out to feel her forehead. “You look feverish again. Are you feeling ill?”

  “I want to ask you a question,” Claire said. “But I’m not sure how. It’s, well, delicate.”

  “If I can’t give you a satisfactory answer, I’ll say so.”

  Claire took a deep breath. “What is it men want? From women, I mean.”

  Simmie looked down at her lap and took what seemed to Claire like hours to reply.

  “What do you think, Claire?”

  “Men want to be admired, but not the way we women do. They want to be seen as powerful and in control of life,” Claire said slowly, measuring her words. “They want their own way in all things—”

  “Like we women do?”

  “Yes and no. We want our homes, the things around us, the particular way that suits our taste. Men need to be right all the time.”

  “And we don’t?”

  “Not in the same way. Women are used to bending, keeping silent, snatching their happy moments from behind men’s backs. When I think of Papa, I marvel at how little he really knows about what goes on in his own home. And I don’t mean to criticize Papa! I suspect it’s that way in every home. The women lead the men to believe they are in charge, but they aren’t really.”

  “So what you are saying is that women trick men into thinking they are right and pretend to obey when it suits them?”

  Claire nodded uncomfortably.

  “And what did the men do to deserve such treatment? Surely, if their wives and daughters loved them, they would be happy to obey and ashamed to deceive them?”

  “That’s what I trying to get at,” Claire said wearily. “Why do men and women marry—apart from the obvious?”

  Simmie shifted in her chair.

  “The obvious?”

  “Yes. Women need a home and someone to support them. Apart from children and someone to keep house for them, what do men get?”

  “Oh dear, Claire. You’ve gone from a girlish romantic to a cynic in less than a day! Where is all this coming from so suddenly?”

  Claire averted her face. “I can’t say, at least not yet. But I used to be so sure of what life was about and now I don’t know what to believe. I know there’s more. Men have needs, physical needs. Isn’t that what I’m reading about in Josiah’s diaries? But they don’t need wives for that.”

  Simmie got up and lit the lamp beside Claire’s chair. She revived the fire in the cooling grate, then pulled the heavy velvet drapes across the tall windows.

  “You aren’t retiring already?” Claire asked, disappointment evident in her voice despite her weariness.

  “No,” Simmie replied, settling again in the chair next to Claire. “I think we’re going to be up talking for some time. I’m going to tell you a story that I hope will help. You’re leaving out the most important part of why men and women marry—or not—as the case may be. Love.”

  “But what is that? I don’t know anymore!”

  “How could you, if you’ve never been in love?” Simmie held her hand up to silence Claire’s startled protest. “Here me out and then you can talk.” />
  “I was married once. John Simms was the most wonderful man I’ve ever known. Kind, generous, funny. Oh, how he could make me laugh! Sometimes I think that’s what I miss most about him.”

  The lamplight illuminated Simmie’s face in the shadowy room. It could have been simply the soft light, but the power of memory transformed it. She looked like the young woman who first came to Thurn Hall 10 years before, when Claire was just 16 and Simmie was Claire’s age now.

  No, Claire corrected herself, Simmie looked like that grave young woman, only happier. With a pang, Claire realized that in the youthful preoccupation of those days, she had never seen that Simmie was unhappy.

  She became a new person to Claire now, seen for the first time as separate, with a personality, a history and thoughts of her own. Claire waited, afraid to disturb her. Simmie sighed and continued.

  “I met John when I was governess in the home of a wealthy corn merchant near Oxford. He came into the parish a month after I did as the new curate. The children loved him—he always had some surprise in his pockets and was ready for a game or a story.

  “He came from a large family of younger brothers and sisters, so he still saw the world through their eyes, I think.

  “I missed my family and he saw that, too. It wasn’t long before his pockets included some small thing for me—an extra sweet, an unusual plant specimen he’d found on one of his walks, one of Mr. Arnold’s poems he’d copied out. It was simple kindness at first, but before we knew it, our regard had deepened and we were courting—discreetly, of course. The master and mistress of that home never would have tolerated it if they’d suspected.

  “When John and I decided to marry, though, they let me stay on through the weeks while the banns were read, even though they disapproved. But I was so happy I didn’t care. Not only was I going to make a home of my own with a fine man who shared my interests, we were in love and had such dreams together!

  “I’m sure every bride feels the same way, but the heavens smiled down on our wedding day. There is so much joy in those early weeks, Claire! We couldn’t afford a wedding trip, of course—we went straight from the church to our new home. But to share our first meals together, to say goodnight and not have to part! Each day, we discovered more to love in each other and more ways to show our regard.

  “I learned the secret then—if each of you puts the other first in his thoughts and actions, love and happiness increase day by day! And John proved to be such a tender lover, always considerate of my feelings, that it wasn’t long until we were truly one and I treasured every minute of the day and night. There was no happier wife in the county than me, I was certain.

  “We shared a year of bliss together. We didn’t have much in the way of money, but we were better off than many a poor curate. John had a small allowance from his family that just saw us through. Then our son was born. I thought I could never be happier. But within a month, everything I lived for was gone.

  “John called on a poor family on the edge of town one wet night and came down with a fever the next day. I nursed him as best I could and summoned the doctor to our home more than once—for by the second day, our baby was ill as well.

  “My husband died in my arms on the fourth day, believing he left me secure and with our baby to comfort me. I couldn’t tell him little John had gone ahead to greet his papa in heaven.

  “I don’t know how I got through the next days and weeks. I was ill myself, but to my sorrow, I recovered. I soon had no money, for the income from John’s living ended immediately, as did the small allotment from his family, who chose not to continue it since our boy was gone. I was alone.

  “How could they be so cruel?”

  “It’s the way of the world, Claire. They did not know me and their other children naturally would come first. I had earned my own bread before, and if John had not provided for me, that was not their concern.”

  “But Simmie!”

  “No, dear, let me finish. There’s not much left to tell. Just as I was preparing to leave our house and move to lodgings, one of my former master’s business acquaintances called. He was direct. As a widower of some months’ standing, his children needed care and he wanted a wife. A former governess fit the bill nicely on both points and he remembered me as quiet, ladylike and not unattractive—would I marry him?

  “I’m sorry to say, Claire, that I seriously considered his offer for two days before I declined.”

  Claire couldn’t stop herself. “But how could you?”

  “How could I accept—or how could I say no?” She smiled sadly. “I know which you mean—but many of my acquaintance were astonished that I turned down a grand home, higher social standing, the chance to wear fine clothes and ride in my own carriage. But the thought of sharing the bed of a man I did not love repulsed me. He was a perfectly fine gentleman in every way but one, Claire. There was no love between us.”

  “Mama says love come afterward.”

  “No, Claire. She is correct that income and connections can’t be ignored entirely, but if those are the only reasons a woman marries, well—unless she is very fortunate in her husband, she faces trials she cannot imagine. In the place of love there will be only duty or even dread. Marriage is such an intimate state, you cannot imagine!”

  Claire flushed.

  “Just as it’s a sin to marry a woman only because she is rich or beautiful?”

  “Yes. Without the sweetness of love to sanctify their union, neither a man nor a woman is any better than the beasts in the field.

  “Yet society approves such marriages.”

  “Such marriages often lead into secret sins,” Simmie said. “Men and women need to love and be loved, and if the choice is between a cold home...”

  “... and a warm bed?”

  Simmie looked at Claire sharply.

  The silence lengthened between them, and Simmie took Claire’s hands in hers. “Now tell me what it is you really want to know. Has something happened?”

  Claire handed her Latimer’s letter, the amethysts on her hand glinting in the lamplight. She watched anxiously as Simmie read.

  “What are you going to do?” she said as she returned the letter to Claire.

  “I don’t know, Simmie. I only answered to say I would consider his offer.” Simmie sat up, brows raised, mouth open to speak, though she said nothing. “You don’t approve?”

  “I’m just surprised, Claire. You’ve been so firm about Mr. Carter. And this is so sudden, don’t you think?”

  “I was wrong about Josiah’s character, I know that now, and I think my inexperience made me rather foolish. I tell myself that if I truly loved him before, I would still love him. But I must not have. I barely mourn him.”

  She looked away into the fire and Simmie could barely catch what she said next. “And there’s more. I don’t want to speak about it, I’m so ashamed, but Lord Montfort, he, well, I...”

  Simmie gave Claire’s hand an encouraging squeeze.

  “Lord Montfort kissed me, and instead of showing him I was insulted, I let him see I liked it. And I did,” she blurted. “I hardly knew what I was doing. We were in the oast house during the storm, and it was so exciting. I know it was wrong, but I let him do it again. And more. And he laughed at me when he realized—oh, Simmie!” Claire cried hoarsely. “Please say you didn’t know what everyone here thinks about me and Josiah! I’ve been such a fool!”

  “I’ve had a suspicion,” Simmie said quietly.

  “Do you see my problem?” Claire said urgently. “How can I accept Mr. Latimer with that standing between us?”

  “Oh, Claire, think! Of all people, Mr. Latimer would know—and obviously he’s decided otherwise. He alludes to it in his letter. The real question is whether you love him. And whether he’d make you happy.”

  “Happy,” Claire said. “Do love and happiness go together, Simmie? Or is that a romantic dream?”

  Simmie rose and pressed her lips against Claire’s forehead. Brushing her hair back t
he way she used to when Claire was still a girl, she looked at her sadly and pulled her shawl close around her shoulders.

  “All I know is that it’s difficult to have one without the other,” she said and left Claire to her thoughts.

  Chapter 15

  “To love” was the first duty Edward Latimer promised his bride as he spoke his vows on their wedding day. She, too, pledged to love, after first swearing before God to obey and serve her new husband.

  With mixed feelings, the bishop had traveled from Hereford to Abbot Pyon to perform the ceremony on this hot August day. Claire Burton and the Rev. Edward Latimer were marrying in the least time the church permitted—the banns had been read four successive Sundays immediately after they agreed to marry, so barely seven weeks had gone by since she had accepted him. Had it been any other man, the bishop would expect a christening before Lent.

  It scarcely left time for Latimer to find a suitable curate for St. Michael’s and get him installed. As it was, the new man found himself lodged at The Dragon. Most of Latimer’s possessions sat in crates at Oak Grove, to be unpacked and arranged in the master’s bedroom while he honeymooned in the Lakes with his new wife, but the rector wanted no company under his roof before then.

  The bishop stayed at Oak Grove rather than at the rectory, however, and that laid his doubts to rest. Like its mistress, he observed, the estate was handsome without too much of the vulgarity of new money. The rector of St. Michael’s showed acumen in bringing both under his purview, he concluded, and the income at least would go a long way toward promoting Latimer’s career on a broader stage, out of the diocese.

  The bishop acknowledged Latimer’s many personal gifts, but he didn’t care for the man.

  After receiving Latimer’s proposal, Claire spent a restless day sandwiched between two sleepless nights before inviting her suitor to Oak Grove to receive her answer.

  He made her wait most of the day before calling. In one sweeping glance as he entered the drawing room, he took in her somber expression and dark gray gown. Any other girl would have spent the time fussing over her hair and costume, he reflected, eager to be at her best for the most momentous day of her life. This evident lack of care braced him for a denial only half-expected until then.