The Lies of Lord John

by Fiona Monroe

  "Thank you, Margaret. I am a Justice of the Peace. I do not need a lecture on the laws of the land from my twenty-three-year-old niece."

  Margaret bit her lip.

  He closed the book with a snap. "Very well. You are correct. There is nothing I can do in law to protect you from your own obstinacy and folly. Be very clear, however, that neither you nor he will be welcome in this house once you are married. I cannot prevent you, but I would advise very strongly to think the better of it. Now, go. I am very disappointed in you."

  Margaret stood her ground for a moment, searching her uncle's face for any hint of softening. Then, to hide the flood of tears that pressed against her throat and eyes, she turned abruptly and fled up the stairs to her room. There, she threw herself face down on the bed and cried bitterly but silently into her pillow.

  Margaret awoke on her wedding day with a sense, not of joy or impending liberation, but of sickening dread. She had a few minutes before opening her eyes to the cheerful spring sunshine flooding into her room when she could not shut her mind to the reality of what she was about to do, and the atmosphere in the house over the past two weeks had not helped.

  Apart from a couple of visits from the ancient solicitor, Mr. Mackenzie, whom her uncle had brought in to ensure that a proper marriage settlement was drawn up, the forthcoming event had been entirely ignored by everyone at number seventeen. Margaret had received a few letters from Lord John, so short that they might be described as notes, courteously consulting her about the practical arrangements; the ceremony would take place at St. Andrew's Church in George Street on Friday sennight, if that was convenient for Miss Bell, and they would be received initially into the household of Sir Duncan and Lady Buccleuch, until they could find suitable accommodation of their own, if that was agreeable to Miss Bell.

  It was not particularly agreeable to Miss Bell. The whole scheme fell very far short of the romantic notions she had always entertained about how her married life would begin. She realised as she folded away another business-like note from her betrothed received over breakfast and steadfastly ignored by everyone at the table, that she had always cherished vague visions of being swept away by an irresistible passion. If she were to marry against her family's wishes, it ought not to be so subdued and practical an affair. It ought to involve a secret correspondence and a clandestine escape at midnight, a knock on the window, and pounding hearts.

  As it was, the only secret correspondence she was carrying on was with Emmeline Douglas, and Emmeline was exulting in the expectation that once she was married, there would be no more need for subterfuge. Since Emmeline had been instrumental in arranging her marriage, she was now taking it for granted that Margaret had forgiven her and would be equally delighted to renew their friendship once she had escaped the 'restraints' of her home.

  Her aunt had spoken not one word to her since the morning that Margaret had accepted Lord John's proposal. Mrs. Cochrane acted as if Margaret had already left the house, except for some pointed lectures delivered to Charity—but obviously directed at Margaret—on the ingratitude and folly of disobedient modern young ladies.

  Charity, too, seemed not to be speaking to her. Charity had retreated behind her mouse-like, silent demeanour and appeared to do nothing but work on her eternal sampler or read a book of sermons. Her face was constantly pale and expressionless. Margaret had thought more than once of seeking her in her room and attempting a proper conversation with her, but she was very conscious of the fact that she had not fulfilled her promise to speak to her uncle and advocate for the match with Mr. Obidiah Carluke, and guilt over that made it easier to decide that Charity did not want her company after all.

  For it was impossible now that she could have any kind of conversation with her uncle. Unlike his wife, he was not entirely silent toward her, but the few words he directed to her made her wish that he, too, would behave as if she were not there at all. In place of his old warmth, he was cold and courteous and brief.

  So it was Friday, the second Friday in March, and this was supposed to be her wedding day. She sat up in bed and looked around at her bedchamber, the light and airy room where she had slept almost every night since she had been thirteen-years-old. Before then, they had spent part of the year at Leuchars House in Fife, but when she was thirteen, her uncle had decided that they would live mostly in town, where she could go to school and where he could attend more readily to his business. She had awoken to this pale cream ceiling, that mahogany wardrobe, and those silk drapes, near every morning for the past ten years.

  Where was she going to wake up tomorrow? She would be amongst strangers.

  She dressed herself in her nicest morning gown and went down to breakfast as if it were any other day. Certainly, the rest of the family were seated around the table and did not even look around at her as she sat down.

  Her uncle rattled his paper. "Looks like the situation in Germany is getting serious. King Ferdinand of Swabia is reported to be gravely ill, although his court is denying it, and it is thought that the kingdom might be subsumed into Wuttenburg at the Vienna talks."

  "Uncle," Margaret said, after nobody commented upon the health of King Ferdinand or the Vienna talks. "I am…my wedding is at eleven o'clock this morning. Will you... are you going to give me away?"

  Mrs. Cochrane drew in breath, and Mr. Cochrane said, without lowering his newspaper, "I will do whatsoever is fitting, niece, as I have always done by you."

  Margaret risked a sideways glance at her aunt and saw that her face was thunderous.

  "Thank you, sir," said Margaret with dignity.

  A dreadful silence ensued, broken only by the persistent ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and the arrival of the post.

  The footman handed the usual bundle of letters to Mr. Cochrane and two to Mrs. Cochrane. Margaret looked eagerly to see if the last one was for her—perhaps, at the last moment, some kind of tender missive from her husband-to-be—but the final envelope was handed instead to Charity.

  Charity got very little post. She came out of a kind of trance to look surprised, then her face went paler than ever as she took the envelope; when she opened it, she drew out an enclosure, what looked like a small piece of fabric or card covered in needlework. It fell onto her saucer. She turned the envelope over, as if looking for writing, then picked up the rectangular object, studied it, and put her hand over her mouth.

  "Charity!" said her mother sharply.

  Charity had stood up abruptly and was on the point of leaving the room in a great hurry. She stopped at the door, turned and curtseyed, mumbled, "Pray excuse me," and fled.

  Mrs. Cochrane huffed. "That child's behaviour has been abominable lately," she said loudly. "She has become idle, ill-tempered, and downright rude. I was obliged to remind her of her duty toward her parents only the other evening, and I had thought we were past the age of chastisement with her. It just proves how a bad influence can cause even a well-brought up girl's conduct to deteriorate. There has always been an underlying wilfulness in Charity that both I and her poor dear father worked hard to subdue. I am greatly relieved, on the whole, that, after today, she will no longer be exposed to a corrupting influence. We can hope the ill effects will not be long-lived. What is this?"

  Mr. Cochrane rustled his paper but said nothing.

  She picked up the discarded envelope. "What is this? No note. Very irregular. Ah, a postmark from Penicuik. This must have come from Mr. Carluke. Surely, he is not writing to her? I made it plain to her how improper that would be."

  "It would appear he has not written to her, since the letter is blank," said Mr. Cochrane.

  Mrs. Cochrane shook her head. "I will speak to her." She rose from the table and bustled out of the room with an air of grim purpose.

  Mr. Cochrane sighed and folded his newspaper down. He took out his pocket watch and consulted it ostentatiously, though the mantelpiece clock might have told him the time just as well.

  Margaret glanced at it and saw it wa
s nearly half past nine.

  She started to try to form words to say to her uncle. It was possible, it was probable, that she would get up from this dear old polished oak table, never to sit down at it again in her life. More sobering was the thought that if her uncle's resolution held, then she would never see him again, either. She was suddenly desperate for some words of reassurance, to be told that he did not really intend to cut her off entirely.

  Before she could get the words out, he said very coldly, "The carriage will be at the door in an hour's time. I suggest you get yourself ready."

  And before she could speak, he left the table and was gone from the room. A moment later, she heard the door to his study shut with a bang.

  Margaret made a few last adjustments to her dress, found her favourite bonnet, and packed a bag with a few precious trinkets. She had made no attempt otherwise to organise the packing of her clothes or possessions, nor had any of the servants offered to do it. She supposed that her things would be sent on, to wherever she settled.

  She tried to remind herself that she was leaving in order to be mistress of her own establishment, that she would have a home of her own where she would preside as she pleased; that life and freedom was about to open up before her. That her prospect was opening, not closing. It was no good. She could not persuade herself to feel anything other than scared, sad, and wrong.

  Her face in the mirror, as she rearranged her hair under her bonnet, looked pale and afraid. It was not the blooming face of a bonnie bride.

  Anderson brought her a note with a smirk and a curtsy, just as she was pulling on her gloves. It was from Emmeline.

  My dearest Margaret,

  So, today is the day! Today is the happy day you leave maidenhood, and dependence, and tyranny behind, and step into the world as an independent woman! I am so happy for you, my dearest sister by adoption and so happy that it was I who brought about the blessed escape!

  If your uncle forgets his pride for long enough to do the decent thing and give you away, then I know that he will not want to see me at the ceremony. But I shall be watching nonetheless, outside. There is no law against anyone standing on the pavement! And as soon as you emerge from the church on the arm of your new husband, as soon as you step into the light of day as Lady John Dunwoodie and the mistress of your own life, I will be there to welcome you!

  Until then, my dear.

  With a heavy, sinking feeling of foreboding, she crumpled the note and dropped it into the dying embers of her morning fire.

  She took a deep breath and turned from her room, trying not to think that she would likely never enter it again. She might as well go and sit in the hallway and wait for the carriage to be brought round to the front door.

  As she was walking slowly down the spiral staircase, she heard sharp voices above her and paused. There was no doubt, it was the strident tones of her aunt, berating Charity. What was unusual was that she was sure she heard a retort, a high-pitched rejoinder, cut short by the pistol-crack sound of a slap. After that, there was a few moments' silence, and then her aunt came out onto the upper landing and hastened down the stairs.

  Margaret stood back, against the banisters, but her aunt paid her absolutely no attention. She swept down past her with a face as dark as thunder, all the way down to the ground floor, and disappeared into Uncle Cochrane's study.

  Margaret hesitated then turned back and sprinted upward to Charity's room.

  There was no reply to her knock at Charity's door, so she looked into the room.

  Charity was half-lying on the bed, curled up, sobbing silently but wretchedly.

  "What do you want?" she cried as Margaret entered. "Have you not gone yet? Or have you come to gloat?"

  "Charity, I would never gloat. I don't mean you any harm, please!"

  "Just go, go and marry your lord and leave me!"

  "But what is the matter? Can I not help?"

  "You? You have caused this!"

  Margaret was nonplussed. She had never seen Charity so upset, and she was unsure as to what the exact trouble was or how she could possibly be responsible. "Please, Charity. Is your mother coming back? I-I do not want to leave you like this."

  Charity appeared to make a great effort, heaved in some breaths, and sat up on the bed. Her face was streaked with tears, and there was a livid red handprint on her pale cheek. "I am… I am sorry, cousin. I spoke out of turn. I should not be so wilful... I sin against the fifth commandment all the time. You are not responsible for that."

  "Just tell me what is the matter." Margaret sat by her on the bed. She was listening out for Mrs. Cochrane's tread on the stairs and conscious of the time ticking on toward her own wedding, but she could not simply walk out on the distressed girl.

  "You do not know?" Charity gulped. "Your uncle wrote to Mr. Carluke senior and told him that you were going to marry someone else—not his son—and Mr. Carluke was very offended. He regarded it as a breach of honour. Mr. Carluke wrote back to say that neither of his sons would have anything more to do with our family, in that case."

  Margaret had heard nothing of this. She was only conscious that nothing more had been said about the Carlukes after that memorable Thursday morning, and she assumed that the whole scheme had sunk without trace. It had not been discussed in her presence, and she had certainly had no interest in revisiting it.

  "That is... unfortunate," she said carefully. "But, Charity, you know, you only met Mr. Obidiah Carluke the one time. You cannot be so very attached to him."

  "How many times have you met Lord John Dunwoodie? And yet, here you are about to marry him!"

  Only to escape, Margaret thought bleakly. I am not convincing myself that he is the love of my life. Charity's earnestness seemed both pitiful and enviable.

  "Besides," Charity continued, in a much lower voice, "we may only have met the one time, but we have been writing to one another. Until my mother found out, that is. She told me that since his father has forbidden the match, it is not proper for us to correspond. Of course, I promised I would not, in that case, and wrote to Mr. Carluke to tell him so."

  Margaret was impressed that Charity had been managing to conduct a clandestine correspondence at all. "But what was that you received this morning?"

  Charity rounded her shoulders. "My mother came to ask me the same. I said, nothing, he did not write to me. She could see the letter. It was empty."

  "But there was something inside the envelope. I saw it."

  "I did not lie. He did not write to me. I tried my very hardest not to lie to her, Margaret. But I did not give this up." She got lightly to her feet and ran to the door, listened at it, then returned to the bed and reached under the mattress to draw out the object that Margaret had seen fall out of the envelope at breakfast. She handed it over.

  Margaret took the mysterious non-missive. It was a rectangle of card, like a bookmark, covered in fine cotton, delicately embroidered with two hearts, a cross, the date March 1819, and the legend 1 Corinthians 13.

  "You see!" said Charity, with a gasping noise that was half a laugh, half a sob. "I did not lie. He did not write. Oh, what shall I do?"

  "And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity," Margaret said aloud.

  Charity covered her face with her hands. "Oh! He ought not to, without his father's blessing. But th-that is a declaration of love, is it not? Do you think it is?"

  "Undoubtedly." She handed back the amorous embroidery.

  "And I know I ought to show it to my mother, but I cannot bear to!"

  They both turned toward the window as they heard the stomp of horses' hooves and the rattle of wheels on cobbles directly below.

  "You are so fortunate," said Charity desperately, seizing her hands. "Sometimes I wish I had your courage, but it is hopeless. Then I comfort myself and think, at least I am dutiful. But it is hard! At this moment, I wish I were you!"

  Margaret reflected, as she extricated herself from her step-cousin's bony embra
ce, that she did not at that moment share her desire.

  Chapter 12

  St. Andrew's was the first and grandest of the churches built to serve the wealthy of New Town. There was another, even larger church in Charlotte Square itself, where the family usually worshipped, but Margaret was glad Lord John had not chosen that venue for their nuptials. She preferred not to be gawped at by people in her own congregation, and she did not want to be married by her own minister.

  She knew nobody at St. Andrew's, which was a considerable distance further along George Street, much beyond Mrs. Hamilton's house. Only her uncle handed her up into the carriage, and the pair of them rattled down the long, straight road wrapped in awful silence.

  I am free, Margaret thought determinedly, looking out of the window at the houses of George Street as they passed. I am going to my freedom.

  It seemed only two minutes before the carriage came to a halt in front of the church, which had a grand neoclassical entrance. As she was accepting her uncle's hand down to the pavement, he spoke at last. "Margaret. If you would rather—"

  Margaret turned her head to look up at him, and then her eye was caught by a movement nearby. A little further along the street, another carriage was halted, and leaning out of its window was Emmeline. She waved at Margaret, smiled delightedly, and blew her a kiss.

  Margaret drew closer to her uncle, hoping desperately that he had not noticed Mrs. Douglas. There was something about the drawn, stony expression on his face which suggested that he had. Certainly, he broke off what he had been about to say and turned with a heavy step to lead her up the steps into the neoclassical pillared entrance of the church.

  The interior of St. Andrew's church was vast and curiously oval in shape. Margaret had little inclination to look about her, however. The whole light-filled space seemed to swirl around the little group of people clustered near the altar.