"Yes, he said as much," James said. "It seems my poor brother has succumbed to a laudanum addiction; I feel sorry for the poor chap, for I saw what it did to some of the men that I served alongside."
Laudanum tinctures had been widely prescribed to sailors who had been wounded in battle. James had seen how the drug had turned grown men into whimpering children in their need for it. He himself, having suffered a stab wound, had refused to imbibe any of the cursed stuff, preferring instead to suffer through the pain of his wound, rather than the pain of withdrawal from opium.
"It is your Uncle, Arthur Livingstone, who manages Lord Livingstone's affairs now," Ruan informed James. "Do you know him well?"
"Tall, bald, rather a cold fish," James said glibly; he knew nothing of Arthur Livingstone, except that he had calmly decided to send his nephew to fight in a war that he hoped would kill him. That wasn't something James cared to share with Everleigh, no matter how solid the man was, so he kept his peace.
"Keyford thinks that your Uncle is hiding something about your father's death."
"He insinuated as much to me," James gave the Duke a helpless look. "Though what can I do about his suspicions? I barely know my Uncle, he too would struggle to recognise me today, so it is doubtful that he would confess to whatever it is Keyford thinks he has done, simply because I am his nephew."
The Duke nodded, his face troubled. James felt a stab of momentary resentment; why was he here, dredging up the past, when James had a new life to look forward to? The Duke must have had some powers of omnipotence, for he changed the subject to land values and properties nearby which might suit a new family. James leapt on the subject and the pair chatted amiably over another pint, before parting ways.
The gentle, mundane conversation about property had calmed James, but once he was alone, ambling back to his cottage, his mind began to ponder. There was something rather strange about his father's death, as Lord Keyford had said, and his Uncle had already demonstrated that he had no moral qualms about getting rid of unwanted relatives through means of violence. Perhaps his Uncle's hand had been involved in the death of late Earl of Ludlow, but for the life of him, James did not know how he could prove it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The whole village seemed to have turned out for the wedding, Polly thought, as she floated up the aisle of the church in a daze. She was so nervous that she could not even recognise any of the faces of the people who filled the pews as she marched toward her husband to be.
Her whole morning had been something of a muddle; she could scarce remember even getting dressed, though she assumed she was, for surely someone would have let a shout at her if she wasn't. Her hands, which gripped a bouquet of Michaelmas daisies and late gypsophilia--supplied by the Duchess of Everleigh--were sweaty with nerves. Polly had always thought that brides were supposed to be radiant, overjoyed and a whole host of other superlatives, but she felt as though she was seconds away from casting up her accounts.
The previous evening, she had been filled with excitement; the guests of the boarding house had gathered together for one final meal and it had been a boisterous affair. Afterwards, despite many protests, she had excused herself to the kitchen to clean up, where she had been joined by Mrs Tarpy, the woman who was to run the boarding house until the season ended.
"Your last night as a spinster," Mrs Tarpy had observed, as she assisted Polly by drying the dishes. "I hope you're prepared..."
"Yes," Polly had replied, running through the list in her head of everything that she needed for the next day. "My dress is freshly pressed, my belongings are all packed into a trunk, and so are Emily's —everything is perfectly in order."
"Ach," Mrs Tarpy had scoffed, in her thick, Scottish accent. "I don't mean prepared for the morning, I meant are you prepared for the wedding night."
"Ah, well I..." Polly had not known how to reply to such a forward question. She had only met Mrs Tarpy the previous day and speaking of such things to a close friend would be strange enough, but to have a practical stranger bring up the subject was mortifying.
"My poor, wee pet," Mrs Tarpy had shaken her head sadly, as she took in Polly's baffled expression. "I suppose, since you've nae mother alive, no one has warned you."
"Warned me?" Polly asked sharply;what on earth was there to warn her about?
"Aye," Mrs Tarpy took her by the hand and sat her down at the wooden table. "Warned you about the pain."
"The pain?" Polly gulped; she was brave--braver than most in fact--but the ominous look upon Mrs Tarpy's lined face was worrying.
"Oh, it's terrible, just terrible," the elderly widow had shaken her head again, whilst patting Polly's hand consolingly. "Listen up, lass, and I'll tell you what to expect."
White faced, Polly had listened to Mrs Tarpy's rather graphic description of the act she would be expected to perform once she and James were wed and the agony that it would induce. Just when Polly thought it was over, Mrs Tarpy then took it upon herself to describe what Polly might expect to experience during childbirth, if that same aforementioned act was fruitful enough to leave her with child.
"Heavens," Polly had nervously wiped perspiration from her top lip; why had nobody told her about this? Not even Olive, her closest confidant, had sat her down to explain the gore that would ensue once she said "I do".
"James is kind, though," Polly had protested in a feeble attempt to assuage her nerves. "I could not imagine that he would want to hurt anyone, he is a true gentle man, my Captain Black."
"He's a sailor?" Mrs Tarpy blessed herself several times, "Why they're the worst of the lot!"
"They are?"
"Aye," Mrs Tarpy's eye narrowed into a thoughtful frown. "Tell me this lass, have you a good fire-poker?"
That was how the conversation had ended and at Mrs Tarpy's insistence, Polly had packed the fire-poker from the drawing room into her trunk, so she would be well prepared for her scurrilous, sailor husband's demands on her wedding night.
Now, she was walking toward him, filled not with the joy she had anticipated, but rather a nervous dread that was threatening to overwhelm her. Polly focused on James' face, as she traversed the last few steps to the altar; his blue eyes were filled with kindness and love, his expression one of excitement.
He is your friend, Polly reminded herself sternly, not a salivating dog waiting to maul you.
When she reached James' side, she forced herself to take a deep breath, offering him a shy smile before turning to Mr Wilpole and waiting for him to begin the ceremony. As the vicar began to speak, she allowed his words to wash over her, his gentle, lilting voice a soothing balm to her frayed nerves.
It seemed to Polly, that almost as soon as he had started, Mr Wilpole was gesturing for the couple to face each other to exchange their vows. As they reached the part where they exchanged rings, James took out his mother's ring to place on Polly's finger, causing the vicar to let out a cry of excitement.
"Excuse me," Mr Wilpole blushed, as James turned to him questioningly. "Continue on..."
Under the watchful eyes of St Jarvis, Polly and James exchanged rings and promised to love and honour each other until parted by death. Polly could hear a few muffled sobs coming from the pews and from the corner of her eye, she was almost sure that she could see Mr Lawless loudly blowing his nose into a large handkerchief.
Then it was done, and Mr Wilpole was pronouncing them man and wife, and urging them forward to sign their names to the marriage register. It was during this moment of bureaucracy, while the congregation was chattering amongst themselves, their voices like a swarm of happy bees, that the vicar leaned forward to peer at the ring on Polly's finger.
"May I?" he asked and when Polly nodded her consent, he lifted her hand up so that he could examine the ring from a closer vantage point.
"Baroque," he said to himself with wonder, holding Polly's ring up so that it caught the light.
"It's not broken," James replied, looking at Polly in confusion, "Is it?"
&
nbsp; "No, he means baroque," Polly explained patiently to her husband, "It's an artistic style which originated in the seventeenth century."
She fought back a giggle as James gave her a rather astonished look, but rather than divulging the source of her information, Polly turned back to the vicar, whose face was wreathed in a confused frown.
"Is something the matter, Mr Wilpole?" Polly asked, wishing to hurry him along, for the noise of the guests behind them had risen to a high crescendo. Polly had invited most of the village to the wedding breakfast to celebrate and she recognised the sound of hungry guests quickly growing impatient.
"It's just your ring, my dear," Mr Wilpole pushed his spectacles up his nose. His round face was rather flushed and he seemed very excited. "You see, I have seen this ring before. Just over thirty years ago, when I first arrived in St Jarvis, I married a young couple and the husband gave his new wife this exact ring."
"He did?"
Polly started at James' sharp tone; her new husband's eyes were narrowed and his mouth was a grim line at Mr Wilpole's observation.
"Yes; let me see if I can find their names," Mr Wilpole flicked through the pages of the marriage register quickly, letting out an exclamation as he found what he was looking for.
"Ah, here it is," the vicar proffered the register for James to read. "Flora Black and Horace Boris Livingstone; I remember wondering if perhaps the ring was stolen, for they were in such a rush to be wed. They were out the door almost the moment that I pronounced them joined."
James' mother had married the Earl of Ludlow? Polly felt rather faint and judging from the ghost-like pallor of her husband's skin, he was similarly affected by the news. His dazed expression was worrying and Polly could not quite understand it, until the penny dropped, and she realised what Mr Wilpole's revelation meant.
James Black was the rightful Earl of Ludlow.
Goodness, Polly thought, if he is an Earl, then that makes me a Countess. The idea was so ridiculous that she almost laughed, but she restrained herself somehow.
There had to be some kind of mistake, she reasoned, some reason why Flora Black had not spent her days living in luxury as Lady Livingstone. Perhaps the marriage had been invalid in some way, though what way that might be, she could not say. Mrs Black and the Earl had most certainly consummated their marriage, for if they had not, James would not be standing before her.
"Perhaps, vicar," James said, pulling Polly from the muddled thoughts which clouded her brain. "We can discuss this further, once everyone has left?"
Mr Wilpole looked up from the register, as though he had only remembered that there were other people gathered in the church with them.
"Heavens," he said cheerfully, "I nearly forgot what we were in the middle of! Come, you two, names on the register, then we can all go and have some tea."
Polly and James dutifully signed their names into the book; though Polly noted that James' hand shook slightly as he wrote. It was all so strange and dramatic, but also a little relieving to have something to distract her from her previous fears.
They exited the church to the sound of clapping, cheering, and Mr Lawless blowing his nose loudly. The villagers then streamed through the doors and out into the small courtyard, where every one of them came to shake the newlyweds' hands and whisper blessings or well wishes.
"Stay sharp, lass" Mrs Tarpy whispered into Polly's ear before passing by James with a stern glare.
"Have I done something to offend her?" James whispered in bemusement, as he watched the stocky, Scottish woman bustle across the green.
"Not yet," Polly replied faintly, but was spared having to explain herself as the Duke and Duchess of Everleigh approached them.
"My congratulations to you both," Everleigh said solemnly.
"Oh pish, Ruan, you sound as though you're at a funeral and not a wedding," Olive interjected, a wide smile on her beautiful face. The Duchess embraced both Polly and James, cheerfully chattering about the sermon and the forthcoming breakfast.
"We brought a few bottles from Pemberton Hall," Olive said, her eyebrows waggling with mischief. "I rather think it's not a proper toast, unless there's champagne in the glass."
A few bottles was an understatement, for when they arrived to the garden of the boarding house, where a dozen wooden tables had been set up for their guests, Polly saw that the Duke and Duchess had brought nearly a hundred bottles of French champagne. When she protested that it was too much, the Duchess had waved away her concerns with a lazy hand.
"Call it reparation for having endured employment with my husband for so long," Olive laughed, casting an affectionate look at the Duke, who stood somewhat apart from the crowd, a stern look upon his face. Poor Everleigh, Polly thought; he presented such a cold exterior to the world, hiding the fact that he was one of the most gentle, honest people Polly knew. He had plucked her from employment in a tavern in Bristol, sensing a brightness that no one else had ever noticed, and had changed her life completely. She held nothing but love and admiration for the man--even if he did have a tendency for highhanded outbursts.
It was rather fun to have the guests of the boarding house serving, for a change. The ladies had insisted that Polly would not lift a finger on the day and they rallied together, weaving through the tables with plates stacked high with salmon, salad and strawberries for the guests. Polly and James sat side by side at the top table, the Duke and Duchess of Everleigh to their left and Emily, Mrs Actrol and Mr Wilpole to their right. Her new husband had worn a smile for the entirety of the meal, but Polly knew that beneath his cheerful facade, he was filled with trouble. And while she enjoyed the celebration, she longed for it to be over, so that she could discuss with James the revelation of his parent's marriage.
The breakfast stretched into the late afternoon, only finishing when the champagne bottles were empty and the children had become tired and cross. As the last of the villagers left, and the ladies of the boarding house began to clear away the tables, James suggested that the group retire into the drawing room.
Once they were settled, James asked Mr Wilpole to repeat the story of Flora Black and Horace Ludlow, for those who had not heard it.
"Goodness," Mrs Actrol exclaimed, fanning herself with her hand. "To think that she left that morning to marry Ludlow and she didn't breathe a word to anyone."
"I don't understand," Everleigh said slowly, his dark eyebrows knitted together in thought. "How did Ludlow marry again, if he was already married to Flora?"
"I have my suspicions," Polly glanced at James in surprise; how could he already have suspicions, when they had only learned of the marriage that very morning? She listened, enthralled, as James retold the tale of how the vestry where the parish records were kept had been burned to the ground a short time after his parent's marriage.
"So, you think Ludlow returned to destroy any evidence that he had wed Flora?" Olive said, her eyes alight with interest at the intrigue.
"I knew I hadn't left a candle burning," Mr Wilpole interrupted, looking rather pleased with himself, then flushed as the collected group sent incredulous looks his way. "Though of course, that is not important in the grand scheme of things..."
"I do not think it was Ludlow who started the fire," James continued, as he gave Everleigh a meaningful look that Polly could not interpret. "I rather think it was someone else..."
He paused, to let this sink in, though the Duchess cut across James, before he could elaborate.
"Why," Olive clapped her hands together restlessly, "You must go to London at once and fix this mess. Ruan, call for a carriage, we could be in town by daylight."
The prospect of spending her wedding night in a carriage with the Duke and Duchess of Everleigh was far preferable to Polly than being alone in a bedroom with her new husband. As the daylight had started to fade outside the window of the drawing room, her fears had returned. Even the drama of the strange, secret marriage of Flora Black to the Earl of Ludlow, was not enough to keep her nerves at bay.
"I rather think, my dear," the Duke said gently, dashing Polly's hopes. "That we should leave James and Polly retire for the night, before we go capering off to London."
The Duke and Duchess exchanged a secret smile that left Polly blushing. Even Mrs Actrol gave an amused laugh as she gave James a ribald glance.
"I suppose you've been waiting for this night for more than a decade," the authoress said, as she stood and smoothed her skirt. "To make you wait one night more would be cruel."
On this note, the group stood to leave, offering goodbyes and promising to reconvene again in the morning.
"Are you certain that you wouldn't like to stay for one more cup of tea?" Polly asked desperately of Mr Wilpole, who shook his head cheerfully.
"I'm afraid Mrs Wilpole will be wondering what has become of me," he replied, "And I am simply dying to tell her about the fire; I've spent thirty odd years, listening to what a feather brain I am. You couldn't understand how excited I am to inform her that she has been mistaken all this time."
The vicar left with a wave, leaving Polly and James alone in the drawing room, as Emily had already left with the Duke and Duchess, with whom she was staying for a few days whilst James and Polly settled into married life.
"I wonder will we be like that in thirty years?" Polly questioned, as the door closed behind the vicar. "Bickering and squabbling over forgetting to blow out a candle."
"Who knows?" James smiled, stepping forward to take her into his arms. "Though, I promise I will always make sure that all candles are extinguished before we retire to bed."
"Thank you," Polly replied simply, wondering if he could feel her heart hammering in her chest at the mere mention of the word "bed". Indeed, it seemed to have ignited something in James, for he seemed suddenly filled with urgency.
"Shall we?" James lifted an eyebrow in question, as he gestured to the front door.
"I can't think why not," Polly replied truthfully. No matter how much she tried, she could not think of any reason to delay the inevitable.
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