by Ella Edon
No one said a word. Finally, Simon managed to get his young wife to her feet and brush away the honeybees who had been drawn by the sugary cakes. "I want to go inside!" she demanded.
"Oh, but – my dear, please," Simon said, in a small voice that was not much more than a whisper. "We've only just arrived. The earl is here to join us. We cannot leave now."
"You stay then, if you cannot leave your dearest earl," retorted Beatrice. She obviously did not care if everyone heard her berating her husband. "Just leave your poor wife to the ravages of the sun and the ants and the bees, with no chance to eat properly!"
With a deep sigh, Simon gave up and took Beatrice's arm. "Come in, then," he said, walking her along towards the house as quickly as he could.
The rest of the group seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and then went back to their pleasant conversation and laughter. Yet Thomas could not help but wonder what had happened to his good friend's sweet and lovely young bride. In just the three months since the wedding, she had become selfish and demanding to the point of being rude and dismissive of her husband in public . . . and actually seemed proud of treating him that way.
Thomas lay back on the blanket and gazed up at the blue sky, watching the soft grey-white clouds drifting through it. He was well aware that his mother was becoming very concerned about his being married and wanted him to find a suitable bride as soon as possible. Lady Worthington had actually succeeded in restarting a series of subscription balls down in the village of Birdwell, and of course, she would expect him to attend.
Finding young and pretty feminine companions was no trouble for him. He was surrounded by them at this small picnic, mostly invited by his mother. But a wife? However did one know for sure whether he was getting a sweet-tempered companion or a selfish shrew who was only after the man with the biggest purse and the largest house?
It actually made him feel helpless, in a way. There was no hiding his great wealth as the proprietor of Worthington. Scattered on these grassy hills were the best herds of prime Teeswater cattle, good for both beef and milk and quite attractive with their splashy, red roan coloring and short, curving horns.
Thomas had found that he quite enjoyed the scientific side of farming. He loved trying to improve the animals, their pastures, and their corn, and found it very rewarding to see the local farmers make use of the excellent meat, milk, and feed, all of which had been created right here on his own estate.
Raising good herds and feed crops was not just a satisfying pastime. It was also very profitable. It allowed Thomas to both improve the estate and maintain a small herd of broodmares of various types, whose offspring added even more money to his coffers.
Never had it seemed possible that his fortune would cause him trouble. Most everyone saw wealth as the answer to all of life's problems. But Thomas knew that these delightful young women enjoying the picnic with him were not here simply for his company. They were well aware that that he was a successful man from a wealthy and titled family. His wife – whoever she turned out to be – would always have the very best that life had to offer.
Thomas closed his eyes. Sometimes, he almost wished he was poor . . . at least, just long enough to find a wife who might actually want him for himself alone. Someone who would not turn out to be a fortune hunter like the ever-nagging and complaining Beatrice Clarke.
Later that evening, as the sunlight began to fade, Grace carried a dripping tallow candle in a tin holder into the smaller sleeping room. Quickly, she closed the door behind her and peered into the dimness – yes, he was there as usual, sitting at his small table and looking out of the window. On the table were his pipe and a little bag of tobacco, along with a bottle of gin.
The full glass was in his hand. It rarely ever left.
"Hello, Father," she said quietly, setting the candle down on a rough bench near the foot of the bed. "Supper will be ready soon. Will you come out to the hearth and sit with us?"
Cecil Miller blinked, and slowly turned to look at her. "Grace! Good evening to you. Did you know there are red squirrels out there, in the hazel trees? Pretty little things, with those pointed ears. And such fine fur."
She smiled patiently. "Will you come out and join us for supper?"
"Oh . . . oh . . . supper?" He frowned a bit. "I think I'll do well to stay right here. I can light my pipe and have a smoke after supper. Your mother'll bring me a plate, now, won't she?"
"Of course, she will. And I'm sure she’ll sit with you for a time while you eat. I'll ask her to do that."
"That's my fine girl! Oh – and a bit later, ask Noah to get the cards or the dice and have a game with me. He's getting good at those, you know. Better than John, who only likes his books. But Noah, now, he already loves the games of chance!"
"All right, Father. He'll be in soon. And it will be cold tonight, so I'll get you the extra blanket."
He seemed not to have heard her, for he was already pouring himself another glass and gazing into the twilight at things that no one else seemed to see.
Grace had long since given up on expecting anything to change. When men gave themselves over to drink, as he had done, they never came back from it.
The entire family, including Uncle Leonard and Aunt Betsey, had an unspoken agreement to simply care for and protect him, and try to keep him out of sight. They did not want him to come to any harm, or possibly run afoul of someone and end up in gaol.
At the same time, they couldn’t risk his behavior further harming the family reputation. He had damaged it severely enough at Northcliff and they had all been forced to leave. Even the two boys could have trouble finding work if it was known that their father was a hopeless drunkard – to say nothing of Grace now hoping to make an advantageous marriage.
They all knew that keeping the family clear of any hint of scandal was of paramount importance. So, their father enjoyed a nice enough life, simply staying in his sleeping room or out in the pleasant, walled garden. As long as he had food, his pipe, and his bottle of gin, he was quite content, and never asked for anything more except the occasional game of dice or cards.
It was all that anyone could do for him.
Just as the twilight faded and true night fell, Thomas sat out on the expansive covered front portico of the great house and gazed out into the darkness. To the north, he could easily see, perhaps a mile away, the torches and lamps of the town of Birdwell, as well as the many scattered lights from the farmhouses all around it.
His friend, Simon Clarke, sat in the other chair. The small table between them held a lantern with a beeswax candle, a couple of glasses, and a fine brandy.
Inside the house, some of his friends from the picnic that afternoon were all enjoying some wine and a few card games. Thomas noted that Beatrice was especially good at cards and seemed very fond of a little gambling.
"Where did your wife learn to play?" asked Thomas. "She seems to enjoy it very much."
He heard Simon take a deep breath. "Apparently, her mother whiles away many hours at cards. Beatrice learned the rudiments of a few games there, and . . . and begged me to show her more."
"So you did."
He sighed. "I don't like having my wife gamble and waste her time on such pursuits. But – "
"But you will pay hell if you don’t allow it." Thomas stood up and refilled both his own glass and Simon's from the brandy decanter. "I'm sure I shouldn't be so blunt, but I'm sorry for you."
Simon merely shrugged and took another sip of his brandy. "I did it to myself. My parents adored her. She was so beautiful . . . so sweet, so thoughtful, so demure . . . I was swept away by her, by all that she offered me. In a fit of passion, I asked her to marry me. And now . . . "
"Yes, now." Thomas cleared his throat. "Simon. Did you know that my own parents tried their best to have me marry Beatrice? They, too, thought she would be an ideal wife."
"Yes, I do know," Simon said, after a moment. "Beatrice told me about it the very first time we quarreled – which was the morning
after our wedding night. And she has brought it up to me many times since, seeming to delight in holding it over my head that the earl himself wanted her for his wife."
Thomas couldn't help but smile a little. "My friend, if I had truly wished to marry her, I would have."
"Then I have to ask why you did not."
"I’m not sure," he admitted, and walked a few slow steps towards the edge of the portico. The lights down below still glowed steadily. "I certainly found her just as pretty as you did, and just as sweet and accommodating. And yet . . . "
"Yet?"
"I cannot name it. Maybe it’s just that I tend to be drawn towards dark-haired women and not the golden-hairs."
Both of them laughed. "That is as good a reason as any," said Simon. "But don't feel too sorry for me. I still have hope that she will turn back to the person she was during our courtship. I still have hope that I can find a way to make her happy and that there will be peace and conviviality in our home."
"Hope is not a plan, my friend," said Thomas. "You cannot build your life on it. It will not feed you, or protect you, or keep you warm at night."
"But it's all I have." Simon reached for the brandy bottle again. "It’s all that keeps me going, much of the time." He sighed. "I am twenty-four years old. And already I find myself living in the same way as so many of the old men that I see. They lead entirely separate lives from their selfish and ill-tempered wives, who care nothing about a husband's happiness as long as they have their own."
"And his fortune."
"And his fortune."
"You must mind that fortune very closely, Simon. When women gamble, they often lose everything. Do not let her do that to you. She has taken enough already. Do not allow her to ruin you with wild spending and profligate gambling in an effort to impress everyone in England except you. You really could lose all you have."
"I know. I know all too well." Simon drank the entire glass of brandy in one long draught. "It's just that I do not understand how anyone, man or woman, could change so much from meeting to marriage."
"Well, anyone, man or woman, can choose to be deceptive. I think your true question is: How did you not detect any signs of trouble beforehand?"
Simon laughed. "Which is the same as saying: How did she make such a fool of me?"
"Women make fools of us all."
"But surely not like this. Surely not to the point of losing all hope for a happy life." Suddenly, he slammed the empty glass back down on the small table. "I was willing to be married, but not like this! How could I have gotten it so wrong?"
Thomas could hear the despair in his friend's voice. "I don't know. But I'm afraid my own family is only increasing the pressure on me to marry. They want an heir for Worthington and so far, I am all they have. That's not enough."
"Well, not into the next generations, no. I suppose not."
"And I am still faced with the same problem that you had. That every wealthy man has: How do I find a wife who might love me at least a little, and who is not simply putting on a show to gain my family's fortune? Any woman can have the face of an angel and the airs of a delicate fawn when her cap is set for you, and then become a snarling she-wolf, determined to control all you have once married."
Simon just poured himself another brandy. "But how can you stop it? I don't want you to end up as I have. But how can you know for sure that your wife will not change, as mine did? As so many do?"
Thomas was truly saddened by the defeat and weariness in his friend's voice. He sat down again and reached for the bottle, pouring his own brandy before it was all gone. "I mentioned earlier that my mother has restarted the subscription balls down in Birdwell."
"You did. It's been a number of years since they were last held."
"It has. And I intend to go."
Slowly, for the brandy was evidently leaving him quite relaxed, Simon turned to look at Thomas. "Are you, now? Hope to find a simple country girl, do you, and try your luck marrying one of those?"
Thomas just grinned and took another sip of the good brandy. "Not quite," he said, lowering the glass. "But I have it in mind to try another way of finding a bride. I've been to countless parties and balls and picnics and hunts, with no luck. I intend to try another way of finding the sort of wife I hope for."
Chapter Three
A New Family Visits Birdwell
Simon frowned at his friend. "Whatever are you proposing to do, Thomas? What do you mean, another way to find the sort of wife you want? We should all like that very much! I cannot imagine what you are talking about."
Thomas gazed out into the deepening darkness. "You know that whenever Earl Worthington is about, all of the young women are on their very best behavior. I want to see them – and possibly meet them – when they are not wearing their masks, so to speak."
"Masks?"
"The mask of perfect behavior in order to catch a rich husband. I want to see them when they are – being themselves, without so much artifice."
"And however could you do that? Do you mean to spy upon them? Listen from another room? Peer into their windows?" Simon just laughed. "I think we would all like to see them as they really are, since we only see what they choose to show us. But it is fun to daydream about, I suppose."
"Oh, my friend, I intend to do more than just daydream. I mean to somehow go among them as someone else. Someone they don't recognize."
"You mean – a disguise?"
"Exactly so."
"Do you mean to throw a fancy dress ball?" Simon still sounded doubtful. "No matter how much you mask your face or wear the clothes of some odd character, the women will still know who you are. I don't think – "
"I don't think a fancy dress ball would help me, either. No, I intend to try something different. I intend to simply become an ordinary working man of some sort and go among the young women that way."
"An ordinary working man."
"Yes. It's not so difficult. Even tradesmen and merchants may attend an assembly ball. I could – "
"You would never succeed," Simon said flatly. "You could never pass yourself off as someone else at a ball. I think you’re either playing a great joke on me, or there is something far stronger than brandy in that glass."
"No, it's only the usual brandy in this glass," said Thomas, laughing. "I have been determined to do this for some time now. With the first of the subscription balls being held a fortnight from now, it seems like the perfect time."
"I don't think you could so much walk down the main street of Birdwell without being recognized, no matter what you wore. And if you couldn't do that, you'd never succeed at a ball where you would have all eyes upon you."
"Do I hear a challenge in your voice, Simon?"
"You do. If you are really serious, you'd best try it under simple circumstances first. But I think you'll find that it will never work."
"Well, you do seem to have your doubts."
"Of course I do. I don't want to see you held up to ridicule should you be found out."
Thomas glanced at his friend. Though Simon was trying to keep a serious countenance, he finally broke out laughing. "All right, then. I’ll make you a bet that you cannot walk down one side of the street in Birdwell and back up the other without everyone there recognizing you. Not even if you dressed in rags and said you were a beggar."
"That's a bet. How much?"
Simon considered it for a moment. "A bottle of whatever that is you're drinking. I can only hope to be so bold myself. Maybe that will help me."
"Done. Come down to Birdwell tomorrow morning at about, say, eleven. There will be plenty of folk about at that time. I’ll be there. Find me – if you can!"
The next morning, just past dawn, Grace and her young brothers, John and Noah, walked down the cottage lane to the road which led to Birdwell. The air was cool and the sun shone bright on the soft mist that was just fading away. Grace felt wonderful today, for she wore the prettiest dress she had ever owned: a pale green muslin gown that was one of t
he two Aunt Betsey had given to her.
The other gown was yellow-cream in color and printed all over with tiny pale pink roses. It remained at the cottage, for it was in need of some mending. Grace didn’t mind repairing a few seams for the privilege of owning two such very elegant gowns.
She still wore her old work boots, for she had nothing else. But that didn’t keep her from very much enjoying the day, which promised to be unlike any she had ever experienced in all of her nineteen years.
"John, do you think you will like the town? I'm not sure you have ever really seen an actual town!"
John, the older of her two brothers at fourteen, walked briskly along the road beside her. "Sure I have. There was Northcliff."