A Companion in Joy

by Dorothy Mack

  Later, she could recall nothing of the return trip up the long aisle, nor of the small ceremony of signing the parish register along with Deb and Robin as witnesses to her marriage. Evidently one could still perform such ordinary tasks as walking and signing one’s name in the proper place while the most vital elements of one’s brain were engaged in a monumental struggle to accept the reality of what was happening. She had actually heard very little of the marriage ceremony, and whatever Torvil might have said to her in the white carriage that carried them in solitary state to Brook Street went the way of lost childhood memories. Presumably she made the appropriate responses, because when she became fully cognizant of her surroundings again, he seemed his normal, slightly mocking self. It was the voice of Lord Sedgeley’s porter welcoming her as Lady Torvil that shocked her to a full awareness once again. She answered him hesitantly, fixing him with a wide, questioning gaze that flicked abruptly to the face of her new husband.

  “It’s strange, but I don’t feel different,” she murmured, a small frown of concentration testifying to the fact that this sentiment was expressed in a purely rhetorical spirit.

  Nicholas answered her anyway after issuing a quiet command that caused the porter to hurry away. “Why should you feel different when nothing of significance has occurred?” Something about the silkiness of his tones sharpened her revivifying senses still further. “Do you think you might contrive to appear aware of the felicitations that our guests will no doubt shower upon us in the next few hours if we repair first to the study, where I shall provide you with a restorative in the form of my father’s best brandy? Who knows,” he added with chilling affability, “a large enough glass might even enable you to produce an occasional smile so that one or two amongst the company might not take away the impression that you have been sold into slavery.”

  He ignored the gasp and flaring colour this taunt produced and led her into his father’s sanctum with a firm grip on her elbow that fitted her conception of the way prisoners were conducted from place to place. Kate was nearly goaded into a sharp retort by this deliberate attack, but with the hasty words trembling on her lips, she glared at him, and something in his tightly controlled expression suddenly reminded her of a small boy, hurt but determined to hide his wounds at all costs. The retort died on her lips.

  Swiftly she crossed the room to where he was pouring out the brandy and calmly took the glass from his hands, replacing it on the side table. The golden brown eyes stared steadily into his.

  “I won’t need the brandy, Torvil,” she said in a low voice. “I promise you I shall not give anyone cause to speculate about our … marriage.” She had to swallow hard against the ache in her throat before she could bring out the last word.

  Nicholas took hold of her arms above the elbows and drew her fractionally closer, unconscious of the incongruity of the lace mantilla draping itself over his dark sleeve. He studied his bride’s pale but thoroughly composed countenance.

  “Kate,” he began earnestly, “there’s no need to —”

  Whatever reassurance the viscount was about to impart was not destined to be disclosed, however.

  “There you are, my boy,” boomed the earl from the threshold, advancing into the room to shake his son’s hand and kiss his new daughter with surprising tenderness.

  In the hours that followed, Kate had the dazed impression that she had been kissed with varying degrees of heartiness by nearly the entire population of London. True to her word, she received the congratulations of their guests with smiling equanimity, though after a time her muscles felt stiff from the effort required to keep the smile pinned to her face. Nicholas never left her side and, truth to tell, she was appreciative of his support which, she suspected, was all that prevented some of his more roisterous friends from taking even greater advantage of the fact that brides were evidently for kissing by all and sundry. For a girl who, until the day before her wedding, had never been kissed by anyone outside her immediate family, the reception was a revelation and a sore trial. Gratefully, she clung to her husband’s arm and contrived to hide her wariness and distaste behind the modestly downcast eyes permitted to a new bride. By a tacit agreement, she and the viscount remained seated behind the comparative safety of the table as long as politeness allowed, though it could not be said that either did justice to the sumptuous repast that was set before the guests in the crimson and gold ballroom at Dunston House. Kate barely repressed a shudder of distaste at the plentiful array of cold meats, fowls, tongue, and cheeses of every variety, and was scarcely more tempted by the display of beautifully decorated trifles, syllabubs, jellies, and tarts that provided ample visual testimony to the caterer’s skill. At Lord Torvil’s urging, she nibbled reluctantly at something she never succeeded in identifying, noticing that for all his insistence that she eat, her bridegroom partook rather sparingly of the breakfast feast himself.

  Robin Dunston, as his brother’s groomsman, proposed a graceful toast to the bridal couple that was answered by Nicholas, who said simply and with apparent sincerity that he considered himself the most fortunate man in London. Kate steeled herself to ignore the sudden pain this blatant falsehood sent shafting through her body, remaining motionless with downcast eyes until the hearty applause finally ended. She summoned up yet another smile for the assembled guests but avoided her husband’s glance. Healths were drunk to the bride, the happy couple, the bride’s mother, and the groom’s father, to the king and queen and the prince regent among others as the abundance of food and drink induced a quickened tempo among the wedding guests. In company with the rest, Kate downed sips of vintage champagne with reckless abandon until Nicholas removed her glass and replaced it with hot coffee, a substitution that she quite failed to notice as she failed to notice the quick appraising glance he bent on her. She was unaware that he had accurately gauged the effect that even a moderate amount of champagne would have on a girl whose nerves were stretched to the utmost and whose stomach was essentially empty. But she certainly became aware in the hour that followed that Nicholas had no intention of leaving her side. There was one thought imprinted on Kate’s brain — smile, be agreeable — but when she attempted to translate this into an acceptance of an invitation to inspect the wedding gifts in company with a dashing young man with handsome military side whiskers, Nicholas stepped in and forestalled her with smiling efficiency. His grandfather, he explained genially to the disappointed petitioner, had just arrived and had commanded the immediate presence of his new granddaughter.

  “Oh, yes, I must meet Lord Bartram,” Kate declared, promptly forgetting the young officer, though she bestowed a dazzling smile of apology upon him, which he received with a rueful shake of his head. Torvil had magnanimously allowed a congratulatory kiss upon his bride’s cheek, but that failure to detach her from his side was going to cost him twenty-five guineas when he rejoined his fellow officers watching the tableau with derisive grins and only restraining their hooting in deference to the awe-inspiring reputation of their host. Kate was totally oblivious to this byplay or to the fact that Nicholas had acknowledged it by a slight mocking bow in the direction of his brother’s boisterous friends.

  When the viscount presented her to his grandfather a moment later, Kate was hard pressed to conceal her surprise at the latter’s appearance. Nicholas, Robin, and Lord Sedgeley were such large men that unconsciously she had been prepared for another such commanding presence though cognizant of the fact that this was his mother’s father. Not even in the full strength of youth could Lord Bartram have cut an impressive figure, for he was a small, slightly rotund man with sloping shoulders and very small hands and feet. Indeed his hand, grasping Kate’s warmly, seemed scarcely larger than her own, and their eyes met on a level. His were vividly blue and crinkled at the corners, and as the expression in them warmed rapidly from intense interest to an almost childlike friendliness, it took Kate just two seconds to decide that Lord Bartram must always have commanded affection if not the respect that was extended autom
atically to a man of more imposing stature like her father-in-law. His balding head with its few wisps of carefully combed, rusty grey hair was almost perfectly round. His face was round, too, and so were those lively eyes. A button nose and contoured cheeks above a small mouth and indeterminate chin increased his likeness to a rather elderly child. Except for the laugh lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, his firm skin was healthy looking and remarkably unwrinkled, and his movements had the quick decisiveness of a much younger man. She knew he must be past seventy, but it was difficult to accept this knowledge in view of the evidence of her own eyes. He was dressed with neatness and precision in a perfectly tailored blue morning coat worn over an old-fashioned embroidered waistcoat, and his graceful bow over her hand was a model of flattering attention.

  Nicholas noted with satisfaction tinged with amusement that his shrewd old fox of a grandfather had captivated his bride in short order and wondered if the process had been mutual. He was aware, as Kate could not yet be, that a cool and keen intelligence operated behind the bland ingenuous face his grandfather presented to the world.

  It appeared that the attraction had been mutual, for after an animated description of the various ills that had bedevilled his journey and caused him to arrive late for the wedding, told in a manner that brought appreciative laughter to brighten Kate’s pale face, Lord Bartram turned to Nicholas and observed kindly, “I felicitate you most sincerely, my dear boy, on choosing a truly lovely girl to be your wife.” With something of a flourish, he bestowed the hand that had remained comfortably in his throughout the conversation on his grandson, patting their awkwardly clasped fingers with the air of a benevolent monarch awarding the prize to the tournament champion. “It gives me the greatest pleasure to know that you now have a companion in joy.”

  The old gentleman beamed impartially on the bridal pair, blessedly unaware that his last words had affected them rather strangely. The brightness had faded from Kate’s face and her imprisoned fingers jerked spasmodically. Her new husband preserved his countenance but tightened his grip until the veins on the back of his hands stood out in relief. Both kept their eyes on their smiling relative, who proceeded to issue a mild command.

  “And now, my boy, if you will entrust your bride to me for a few moments, I wish to ask Katherine about her plans for my house while you circulate among your guests.” He patted the chair next to his, and Nicholas seated Kate before releasing her hand and acknowledging his dismissal with a slight smile.

  As he walked away, Kate was earnestly thanking Lord Bartram for his most generous gift, thanks that he waved aside. “Nonsense, the house will belong to Nicholas eventually, so he may as well have it fixed up to suit your taste at the outset.”

  On turning from the engrossed pair, Nicholas espied the brash young lieutenant gazing wistfully at Kate and his expression became thoughtful. He was entangled with a succession of well-wishers in the next half hour and it was not until his friend, Mister Waksworth, approached during a welcome lull that he had opportunity to check again on his bride. Kate was still engaged in animated conversation with Lord Bartram.

  Mister Waksworth followed the direction of his friend’s glance.

  “No need to call off the army, old chap. She’s been tied up nice and tight by the old gent this half hour and more. Robin’s friends have been circling, but there was no break in the wall.”

  “Never noticed it before, but your wife’s a real beauty.” There was a tinge of surprise in his tone.

  “Yes, she is,” Nicholas assented briefly.

  The merest hint of well-concealed irritation showed on his face, but it was not lost upon such an old crony as Mister Waksworth.

  “No need to look like that, old chap, I assure you,” he explained kindly. “Always knew she was a good-looking girl, just didn’t know she was a beauty, that’s all.” When this produced no appreciable softening in the viscount’s features, he added hastily, “It’s a good thing to have a beauty for a wife, at least so I hear. Never thought much about it myself — not much in the petticoat line, you know, but people seem to agree it adds to a man’s consequence to have a wife who’s much admired. A real feather in your cap, dear boy.” He eyed his stony-faced friend warily, aware that his well-meant remarks had somehow failed in their intent.

  “What’s eating you anyway? Damned if ever I saw such a Friday face!”

  Nicholas passed a nervous hand over his hair and forced a laugh. “Don’t mind me, Ollie. Getting married plays the very devil with a man’s disposition. Don’t let anyone talk you into it.”

  This strange piece of advice from a new bridegroom, moreover one who moments earlier had assured the assembled company that he considered himself the most fortunate man in London, was received with unmoved calm by Mister Waksworth.

  “Well, I won’t. In no position to enter the parson’s mousetrap anyway. Pockets to let as usual, no expectations worth speaking of unless that old uncle of m’mother’s leaves me something, and he never liked me above half. It’s my belief that he’s good for another ten years, despite the fact he’s forever calling us all to his deathbed. Never saw such a man for imagining himself at his last illness. Healthy as a horse, really.”

  It is doubtful if this rambling discourse made the slightest impression on the viscount, who blurted out after another glance in Kate’s direction, “How much longer can this affair go on?”

  Though this was poised in a rhetorical spirit of desperation, deliverance was on hand in the person of his father’s chef who appeared suddenly, wheeling out the elaborate creation that was his contribution to the festivities. The wedding cake must have stood fully five feet high, and Nicholas was dimly aware of the concert of admiring comments and smattering of applause that greeted its almost baroque splendour. The expression of extreme self-congratulation adorning Gaston’s sharp-featured face as he condescendingly acknowledged the plaudits of the guests was to remain one of the most enduring memories of his wedding day. While Nicholas stood gazing tongue-tied at the elaborately decorated four-tiered cake, he was rescued by his bride who had been escorted to his side by Lord Sedgeley. Kate gracefully accepted the task of expressing the couple’s sincere appreciation for this monumental labour on their behalf. He noted that she extolled the originality of using fresh rosebuds in the palest shade of pink to decorate the top of the bottom tier, which was iced with broad interweaving strokes to simulate the appearance of a straw basket, but whatever she found to say in praise of the miniature-carved swans and intricate, ribbon-tied arches that were featured among the miscellany adorning the remaining layers passed him by. It was enough to see that she had succeeded in producing a quantity of superlatives sufficient to satisfy even Gaston’s gigantic ego. It only remained for him to second all Kate’s remarks and help her cut the masterpiece with the aid of a sword pressed into her hands by the same smitten lieutenant.

  Nicholas was not a man who liked sweets, but he endured the cloying sweetness of the thickly iced cake with good grace as the bridal couple was urged on by their guests to feed each other a sample of the bridecake. He nearly succeeded in ignoring the gleam of mischief in the eyes of his bride, who was well aware of his dislike of sweets as she fed him the concoction, but when the younger members of the interested audience set up a clamour for him to kiss his bride, the rigid control he had exercised over his actions toward Kate since that angry, punishing kiss last night snapped. Her downcast eyes and flushed cheeks would be credited to maidenly modesty, but he knew she was gritting her teeth in suppressed fury, and his own sense of frustration which had been mounting during this interminable wedding fiasco dictated his next action.

  With deliberation he gathered the white-garbed girl into a close embrace, calmly ignoring the resentful stiffening of her body.

  “Remember our audience; you are supposed to be a happy bride,” he whispered in her ear in the instant before his mouth covered hers. She compressed her lips and glared defiance at him. Instead of bringing him to a sense of
the situation, he was exhilarated by her opposition, and he increased the pressure of both arms and lips until brute strength conquered. The stiffening went out of her backbone, her lips parted reluctantly, and the sherry brown eyes filmed over with angry tears. Fiercely triumphant for an instant, the ribald comments and applause from the guests shocked him to a belated sense of his surroundings, helped along by the pain of a sharp pinch administered to his rib section by his loving bride as soon as her imprisoned arms were partially freed. He raised the offending hand, now curled into a small fist, to his lips and kissed it gently while twin devils laughed into her carefully controlled face.

  “I hate you!” she hissed under her breath, then smilingly turned to acknowledge her sister’s timely assistance in straightening the lovely mantilla that had gone sadly askew during that violent embrace.

  His pseudo elation evaporated as quickly as it had arisen, leaving him drained and disgusted with himself. Fortunately, his public ordeal was now over. It was perfectly permissible for the newly wedded pair to slip away once the cake was cut, and this pair availed themselves of the earliest opportunity to do just that, only pausing long enough for Kate to kiss her mother and sister goodbye and be kissed in turn by her new father- and grandfather-in-law.

  The short carriage ride to the house on Albemarle Street in a custom-built carriage given to the couple as a wedding present by Lord Sedgeley and pulled by a top-notch team, also of his lordship’s providing, was accomplished in total silence. Kate was frankly sulking in a corner, and if her sulks were designed to cover up a more basic panic at her helpless position, vis-à-vis the disproportion existing between the physical strength of a large, athletic man and an average-sized female, her husband was too wrapped up in his own emotional turmoil to bring much discernment to the situation.