by Mira Stables
Honor smiled at her gratefully but did not answer and Aunt Thomasine relapsed into a not unsympathetic silence. To the girl the journey seemed dreamlike. She had no doubts, no regrets. She was glad of the presence of her aunt which added a note of homely familiarity to the proceedings, but even without that support she would have gone with her lover just as willingly.
In this blissful trance-like state it seemed perfectly natural to be ushered into one of the guest rooms at the Hall to find an exquisite wedding dress spread out on the daybed and a very heavy-eyed Jennet in attendance. Aunt Thomasine bustled across to the window and inspected the dress.
“Excellent,” she said approvingly. “You have done wonders, Jennet. Be sure you will not regret it.”
Jennet curtsied tiredly. “It was a pleasure, ma’am. And Mrs. Brownlow and two of the maids helped me, but I thought it would never be done in time.” She turned to Honor and began to unhook the green muslin. “Do you think, ma’am,” she went on to Aunt Thomasine as her fingers automatically performed their task, “that his lordship will permit us to watch from the gallery?”
“I have already sought his consent,” Miss Helmore assured her kindly, “and well pleased he was to give it, so hard as you have all worked. But let us see how the gown fits.”
Carefully the two of them slipped the wedding dress over Honor’s head. It was made of a fabric such as she had never seen before, a brocade, heavy but supple, embroidered all over with tiny flowers in silver thread. The bodice was cut very low and tightly laced to enhance a slender waist, the skirt so full that as Honor turned obediently under the ministering hands it swung out in a great bell. “That’s what gave us the most trouble, ma’am,” said Jennet. “It was made to wear over a circular hoop, you see.”
Aunt Thomasine subjected the fabric to close examination. “Yes. I can see where the breadths of stuff have been taken out, but it will never show in the chapel in the dim light. The gown belonged to the Marchioness,” she told Honor. “No, not your Aunt Honoria. The first wife—Lord Melborne’s mother. It was his idea that you should wear it, if it could be made to fit in time. Now the silver tissue, Jennet. All the way to Bristol I went to find this, so that you should go decent to your wedding. These low cut gowns may have been all the crack fifty years ago but by modern standards they are quite shocking.”
She draped the length of silver tissue about the girl’s shoulders and bosom and pinned it into place with a very pretty pearl brooch. “A bridal gift for you, child,” she said affectionately. “Now, Jennet—the necklace.”
Save for thanking her aunt for the charming gift, Honor had stood passive enough under their hands, but mention of the necklace brought her head up sharply. There could be no mistaking the familiar case that Jennet was opening. “The Marquess wished you to wear it for your wedding,” said Aunt Thomasine smoothly, sensing the protest that hovered on the girl’s lips. “It is quite customary, you know. A bride wears something borrowed to bring good luck. The necklace seemed particularly appropriate since your dear godmother also wore it on her wedding day.”
It would be childish and ungrateful to refuse, and there could be no denying that the necklace looked exactly right with the dress. Jennet pinned a light veil over her hair, put a knot of white roses into her hands and she was ready. There was an exclamation of dismay from Aunt Thomasine. “Shoes! I forgot all about shoes!”
Honor looked down at her feet, the toes of her little green slippers just peeping beneath the folds of white brocade. “I shall wear these,” she said softly. And then, on a note of reminiscence, “Green is the colour of true love.”
“I must say they look very pretty,” admitted Aunt Thomasine. “Come then, child.”
It was cool and quiet in the chapel. Honor was vaguely aware of candles burning on the altar; of jewels of colour, the sweet scent of roses. And then of an erect figure attentively awaiting her coming as Aunt Thomasine slipped quietly into a front pew and left her face to face with her bridegroom.
In the almost empty chapel her own voice sounded strange in her ears as the two of them repeated the promises that pledged them to each other. Honor had been bred in a devout family, but, like many another girl before her, she had frequently beguiled the duller parts of the Church’s services by reading those pages in her prayer book that were devoted to the Solemnization of Matrimony and by dreaming of the man who would one day stand beside her. The service was perfectly familiar to her, though never, in her wildest flights of fancy had she imagined anything approaching her present circumstances. Presently she noticed something a little odd. Yes! Of course! In repeating that impressive string of names after the clergyman, the bridegroom had included his surname! ‘I, Simon Marcus Julian Vereker St. Osyth Jocelyn,’ he had said. So in spite of his outward composure, he too must be feeling just as strange and as nervous as she was. A tender little smile touched her mouth as she in her turn began, “I, Honoria Mary,” and lest it should draw attention to his slip, she, too, repeated the ‘Jocelyn’. It could scarcely make any difference to the legality of the ceremony.
Then it was done and they were in the tiny vestry signing the register. There was not very much room because Aunt Thomasine and Lord Melborne—she had not even been introduced to him yet—had come to witness the signing. She wrote ‘Honoria Mary Fenton’ for the last time and handed the pen to Aunt Thomasine. She wished that Mama could have been there. Perhaps it would please her to know that Lord Melborne himself had witnessed the ceremony.
Her husband—how strange that sounded—heaved a deep sigh, took his bride in his arms and kissed her gravely. “Mine to cherish,” he said, so low that no one else could hear. And then, more firmly, “God send that I may do so, and that you may never have cause to regret the trust you have shown in me today.”
Aunt Thomasine had turned in time to catch the last words. “Here’s a high flight,” she said lightly. “She’ll do no such thing. She’s a very lucky girl—and I am very well suited with my new nephew.”
Mr. Jocelyn put an arm about her shoulders and hugged her hard, stooping his tall head to kiss her cheek. “And I with my new aunt,” he said gaily. “Without her help I doubt if I should ever have won my wife.” He turned again to Honor. “We thought that you would like your Mama to see you in all your wedding finery,” he said gently. “And very beautiful you look, my darling. So if you agree to it we shall return to Beaufort Square. Everything has been arranged, thanks to Aunt Thomasine. Goodborn is expecting us and my friends will come too, to drink to our future happiness.”
“But Mama!” said Honor anxiously. “She will be so angry. By now she must be wondering what in the world has happened to us. Oh dear! I’m afraid I had forgotten all about her.”
“And very proper, too,” said Aunt Thomasine tartly. “A bride’s thoughts should all be for her husband. However, you need not look so guilty. I left a note with Goodborn to be given to her if we were not returned by noon. By now she knows all about it and will be expecting us. I think you will find her surprisingly well reconciled to your marriage,” she added with an irrepressible grin.
“But I shall still have to make my peace,” said her new nephew, with a distinctly rueful air.
“And very well able you are to do so,” retorted Aunt Thomasine. “If you could cajole a crabbed old spinster like me into running your errands all over the countryside yesterday, not to mention poor Jennet sitting up half the night because only the best would do for your bride, you should have little trouble in conciliating—. But I talk too much,” she broke off abruptly. “We should be on our way, if you mean to take ship tonight.”
“I thought to take you to the Isles of Greece for our wedding journey,” explained Mr. Jocelyn, turning to his bride. “But there is plenty of time to decide about that. You may prefer to go somewhere else. Shall you object to a closed carriage for our return to Beaufort Square? I cannot help feeling that, dressed as you are, in an open landau you might attract more attention than either of us would really enjo
y.”
Honor was beginning to feel positively dazed and stupid from the quick interchange of words and plans. She was willing to assent to anything, so that she could be quiet for a while to collect her thoughts and savour the fact that she was actually married. She was grateful that neither her husband nor her aunt had much to say on the journey home. A three cornered party was awkward, especially when two of the party were newly wed. She sat contentedly enough, her hand in her husband’s, her eyes adream, until the carriage drew up in Beaufort Square.
In the press of traffic in the city, the second carriage, bringing the clergyman who had performed the ceremony, Lord Melborne and the two strange gentlemen who were presumably the friends whom Mr. Jocelyn had mentioned but whom Honor had not even seen in the chapel, had fallen a little way behind. Goodborn had obviously been on the watch for them. He threw open the door as the carriage drew up, his air so delighted, so almost jaunty, that Honor could not restrain a smile of sympathy. But professional etiquette held firm. Though his aged countenance was wrinkled in smiles his voice was calmly detached as he told them that Mrs. Fenton was awaiting their arrival in the Pink Drawing Room. Ceremony upon ceremony, thought Honor, for the room was one that they never used, a large and formal apartment on the first floor. She did not wait for her husband who had lingered to warn Goodborn that the second carriage was to be expected at any moment, but hurried up the stairs to make her peace with Mama. Despite Aunt Thomasine’s reassurances she still feared a display of resentment and chose that it should vent its first unpleasantness upon her rather than upon her husband.
She might have spared her pains. As she went, rather shyly, into the stiff, unfamiliar room, fearing she knew not what, Mama surged forward to meet her and enveloped her in a warm scented embrace. “My dearest child,” said Mama. “Why did you not confide in me? I vow I was never so happy in my life!” and held and kissed her with an affection that was quite unfeigned.
Honor was bewildered. Mama held her at arms’ length and praised her dress. Charming—and so unusual—and the little green slippers—so quaint! Never was such a change of front.
Aunt Thomasine surveyed the affecting scene with sardonic satisfaction. So she had been right. As usual.
The door opened. Goodborn, pale with importance, announced in his most stately tones, “The Most Honourable the Marquess of Melborne.”
Honor turned, expecting to see the small party of guests, and moving forward to welcome them.
Mr. Jocelyn came quietly into the room.
Chapter Sixteen
For one startled moment Honor still misunderstood. She looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the gentleman whom she had taken to be the Marquess appearing in his wake. Then, as Goodborn quietly closed the door behind him, she looked at him in surprised question—and met a look compounded of appeal and amusement that showed her the truth in one blinding flash. The Marquess of Melborne. Why, oh! why had she not guessed? Idiot. Crass, purblind idiot, she thought furiously. There were a thousand indications that should have pointed her to the truth—now that she knew it. And that she was the last to know it there could be no doubt. This was why Aunt Thomasine had connived at that secret wedding; why Mama was so warmly welcoming. How he must have chuckled over her gullibility. She blazed with fury, remembering how she had tried to assure him of her domestic capabilities, believing him to be no more than an employee of his wealthy relative. The lies that he had told her!
And there she stopped short. Even in her anger she knew, without even thinking about it, that he had told her no lies and never would. But he had deliberately allowed her to remain in ignorance of the truth, and how could she ever bring herself to forgive him, despite the love that suffused her whole being at the mere touch of his hand?
“My lady,” he was beginning softly, seeing that she could find nothing to say to him, when Goodborn flung open the door once more and sonorously proclaimed, “My Lord Esterdale, the Reverend Mr. Wolsingham, Colonel Sir David Vansitter and Mr. Henry Pugh.”
The moment for explanations was over and Honor did not know whether to be glad or sorry. The business of meeting her husband’s friends with a proper degree of cordiality absorbed all her attention. Lord Esterdale, it appeared, stood in much the same relationship to the Marquess as Aunt Thomasine did to her. His estates were in Ireland and he had not seen his young relative in years. But having come over to Leicestershire on a matter connected with horses—he bred hunters, it transpired—he had decided to look him up before returning to his ancestral acres.
“He it is who is descended from the scallawag ancestor who brought back the ‘Luck’,” explained the Marquess in a swift aside while the rest of the party were temporarily engaged in recollecting mutual acquaintances and tracing relationships. “You perceive the resemblance, I make no doubt. But he is extremely respectable, I promise you. That’s not to say he wouldn’t cheat you over the price of a horse if you were so green as to let him, but that is just in the way of business. Apart from that, meek as a mouse—or a Marquess,” he added softly, seeing their guests still happily occupied with pedigrees. “A very meek and penitent Marquess, my darling. Can you not find it in your heart to forgive him?”
Since the gleam in the blue eyes, between lashes far too long and dark to have been wasted on a man, was anything but meek, she awarded him only a scathing glance. “Play actor!” she said scornfully and would have favoured him with her opinion of such deceiving wretches when Goodborn again intervened to save him, bringing in the wine in which the guests were invited to pledge the married pair.
Sheer pride made Honor behave prettily, curtseying, smiling, deferring to her newly acquired lord and master, though her self-control was nearly overset when he murmured lovingly in her ear, “Speaking of play actors, my sweet—” so that she almost choked over her wine. Talk ran merrily on honeymoon plans and prospects for future meetings—in London for the season—in the shires for hunting—over to Ireland to try the sweetest mare that ever carried a dainty lady, but eventually, with many references to preparations for imminent departure, hints of a tide to be caught and nautical computations incomprehensible to Honor about the draught of the Grey Gull—the Marquess’s yacht, presently lying off Portishead, the gentlemen were at last persuaded to take their departure. Aunt Thomasine, who had seen the storm signals flying in her niece’s face from the moment of the Marquess’s announcement, decided, in very cowardly fashion as he subsequently informed her that, she and Mrs. Fenton had best see that all Honor’s gear was properly packed, and withdrew from the room with that laudable object in view. Or so she said.
Left to themselves at last, they faced each other, the Marquess wary, Honor defiant. Truth to tell, her first fury having cooled, she was more concerned to save face than to quarrel. An explanation was certainly her due, and, she felt, a humble plea for pardon. Then she would be magnanimous and graciously forgiving.
But the sinner very meanly maintained a calm silence. He did not even seem ill-at-ease. He simply waited for what she would say. She was forced to take the initiative. “Perhaps you would care to explain this cruel deception, sir—I beg your pardon—My Lord Marquess,” she said, deliberately provocative.
He grinned appreciatively. “Yes. I suppose that hit was irresistible,” he acknowledged. “Very well. I will confess that in the first instance the deception was perfectly deliberate, though I would plead in mitigation that it was kindly intended. How could I guess, so early in our acquaintance, that I would fall deep in love with you, and that I was preparing a pitfall for my own feet? When first we met, I had just written to you to open negotiations for the purchase of the necklace. As soon as I learned your identity I realised the fix I was in. You already felt yourself under some sort of obligation to me for my timely arrival in Avon Street. If you had learned, then, that I was Melborne, would you not have felt bound to hand the thing over immediately out of simple gratitude?”
“I suppose so,” she conceded, with reluctant honesty.
; He smiled a little. “I thought I had judged aright—even at that stage of our acquaintance. And though I wanted the necklace back, I desired even more that your Aunt Honoria’s wishes should be carried out. I was not very kind to her in the early days of her marriage to my father and although, before she died, we had become good friends, I felt that I still owed her something. In arranging one or two small matters for the comfort of her sister and her godchild I felt that I redeemed in some degree my earlier unkindness.”
She nodded. So far, at least, she could understand his motives.
“And that would have been the sum of it,” he acknowledged frankly. “But fate cast you across my path again, just when you had discovered the arrangement about the sedan chairs. At that point, I confess, it became an amusing game—to see how far I could conceal the truth without actually lying. I found it most entertaining and felt that I was succeeding very well—but the result was unexpected. It is difficult to explain this part of the story. I would not have you imagine that I kept up the deception from some romantic notion of having you learn to love me for myself alone. That sort of behaviour belongs to fairy tales—and I have always thought it a very conceited attitude. The hero must, indeed, rate his personal attractions pretty high. But, at the same time, I am bound to admit that I had lived all my life against a background of wealth and rank; I had been accustomed to deference—probably far more than I deserved. You, on the other hand, accepted me on equal terms. I thoroughly enjoyed our arguments and found your independence of mind very refreshing. As our friendship grew and I had reason to believe that I had won your trust and even your liking, I was well content—though I did not realise how deeply I had come to need you until your young brother opened my eyes for me. I knew, then, that I wanted you for my wife more than I had ever dreamed was possible. And by that time you had already made it exceedingly clear that you disliked and dreaded all the paraphernalia of rank. I was not so confident of my charms that I could be sure they would outweigh the disadvantages of my position, and I had already learned that the wealth that I could offer to my wife would mean little to you. Some lingering scruple drove me to warn you that there were circumstances connected with my way of life that you would dislike, but the fear of losing you made me dread telling you the truth.”