by Valerie King
“She did so,” Harris said, sounding a great deal younger than his two and twenty years.
Madeline stared at him for a long moment. Suddenly she knew, at least in part, how to respond to Sir Roger’s question. “Were the matter of passing judgment left to me, I should have Harris sporting a pair of colors before the year was out.”
“A pair of colors,” he said, his eyes brightening. They dimmed as quickly. “M’mother would never permit it.”
Madeline ignored this quite pathetic response. Instead, she turned to the older gentlemen. “As for you, Captain Bladen and Mr. Calvert, I am persuaded you knew quite well I meant no such thing as the burning of Pelworthy. Harris, I will allow, might have believed it because he is young. However, even if I disliked Sir Roger, which you knew very well from my conduct with him on Saturday past that I did not, you also knew of the devotion I have always felt for the castle. Therefore, I believe your actions were based solely upon your jealousy of the man you knew I had come to love,” she turned to Sir Roger. “As for you, I fear you will be required to forgive all three of them for that. How could they have known that you would steal my heart as you did? I did not imagine such a thing would be possible myself. To sentence them to death, therefore, because each fancied himself in love with me would be foolish beyond permission, given your desire to raise your children among the finest of Chilchester society. However, there are reparations to be made.”
She shifted again to look Captain Bladen in the eye. “You, sir, I would banish forever from a thirty-mile radius of the valley. I would forbid you to purchase Maresfield, for I have heard other opinions of your character in the past sennight which lead me to believe you would not always be welcome in Chilchester.” Since he merely eyed her uneasily and did not in any manner protest, she knew that Georgiana’s warnings to her about the captain had not been far off the mark.
She turned once more and met Mr. Calvert’s sullen gaze. “Your task will be the more difficult one, I believe. I could hardly sentence you to banishment or to the army, for you are the owner of a fine estate. Were I to do so, I should start a war, even if your nefarious deeds became known. Your atonement, therefore, will be to fund the necessary reparations for the damage to Pelworthy caused by the fire.” His eyes bulged in his head, for he was a notorious pinchpenny, but he kept his mouth clamped shut as well. Here she smiled. “Were you to refuse, I would make it known that you were the author of the fire. You would be forgiven among many of your peers, but not all, and certainly the common folk would look with great disapprobation on last night’s crime.”
She drew in a deep breath and turned to Sir Roger. “These would be the judgments I would pass. These gentlemen could, of course, be held up to the scrutiny and chastisement of the law, which 1 believe would be severe, but if you hope to remain in Chilchester, I think it would be a great deal wiser for you to soften the blow. If you are not entirely enchanted with my ideas about how best to proceed, I would advise you to consult Squire Crawley, who seems to have a peculiar adroitness in handling such matters.” Without waiting for him to approve or disapprove, she simply excused herself, saying she was quite fatigued, and left the ravine, scrambling with some difficulty up the path, since her limbs had begun to shake. She was as unsettled by the night’s trials as she was by the sure knowledge that not only had three of her closest friends been the authors of the burning of Pelworthy, but that Sir Roger undoubtedly believed her equally as guilty.
Returning to the castle, she found that her father was awaiting her with his coach. She boarded the fine vehicle with some difficulty, as though great weights had been attached to each ankle. Finally, however, she was seated beside him. Without a single thought having entered her head, she burst into a hearty bout of tears, which did not cease until she had arrived home, been bathed and rid of all the soot, clothed in a warm nightdress, and tucked between the sheets.
When she awoke several hours later, she turned toward the window and watched as sparrows flitted about the thick ivy encroaching on the window frame. She smiled, though wearily. Her eyes felt swollen and scratchy, a swift reminder of all that had transpired in a fragile four and twenty hours.
Her maid brought tea to her at five o’clock for which she did not leave her bed, but rather propped herself up on several pillows and cradled the cup in her hands. “How did you know I was awake?” she asked softly.
Her maid, who had begun busying herself by checking the condition of every pair of silk stockings in Madeline’s possession, smiled. “I was told to awaken you if you were yet abed. I would not have liked to have done so, but Mr. Piper requested it most particularly, so I felt obliged to come to you.”
“I suppose he does not want me to sleep too long, then awaken at midnight and be awake through dawn.”
“Actually, miss, he told me to tell you that his solicitor is downstairs and there seems to be a problem with your dowry that needs discussing. He was hoping, if you were not too fatigued, that you would be able to receive him.”
Madeline could not make sense of this. She could not imagine in what way her dowry would have even the smallest complication, since it had been settled in her mother’s marriage papers so many years ago. Besides, there was something more. “My father’s solicitor has called on a matter of urgency on Sunday evening?” she asked, greatly surprised.
Her maid shrugged and appeared not to comprehend the meaning of it either, but a faint smile clung to her lips that made her suspicious. Whatever game was afoot, if indeed there was a game, Madeline felt the need to see for herself in what way her dowry had become a point of concern.
A half hour later, wearing a gown of embroidered muslin and her hair caught up in a simple knot atop her head, she entered the drawing room and found not only her father and his solicitor present but Sir Roger and an unknown gentleman in attendance as well.
At the mere sight of Sir Roger, her heart began to hammer, and she felt near to fainting all over again. What was the meaning of his visit? Her father, perhaps seeing her quick discomfiture, immediately went to her, catching her arm in his and holding her firmly. He led her to a wing chair near the fireplace, which she sank into gratefully. Her legs were trembling again. She was still greatly fatigued, and her nerves were in a tender state. Her father then brought her a glass of sherry, which she began to sip in hopes that she might become more at ease.
However, the unhappy and truly distressing thought occurred to her suddenly that the man with Sir Roger was his solicitor, as well, and that somehow he was holding her responsible for the burning of Pelworthy. She almost began to weep anew, so certain she was that she was to be tried for the crime instead of her three friends, which she had to admit held some merit. She gulped her sherry instead and came up sputtering.
“Madeline,” her father said, a little shocked.
“Another glass please, Papa? I am not feeling at all the thing, and I believe that whatever it is you have to tell me will certainly require at least another small glass of wine.”
“Madeline, I think you misunderstand,” he began.
“Please, Papa, I would be most grateful.”
“Allow me,” Sir Roger said. He approached her quickly and took her glass from her trembling fingers.
He was clean shaven and appeared rather well-rested, though faint circles rimmed his eyes, evidence of his night’s exertions. He was as handsome as ever, and as usual she felt dizzy just looking at him. When he smiled in an amused manner, his blue eyes strangely tender in expression, she was able to offer an unsteady smile in return. In a trice, she was holding a second glass of sherry.
He addressed her father “Perhaps it would be better if I spoke with your daughter alone, to soften the blow.”
These words, precisely the same ones she had used when suggesting the manner of punishment for her beaus, nearly caused her to faint.
“Of course. Use my office.” He waved an arm in the direction of the entrance hall.
She saw that Sir Roger’s expression
had now turned rather grim. Perhaps he had been polite in bringing her a glass of sherry but she could see how it was. He had, indeed, come to lay the charge at her door. She must therefore be brave. She must accept. She must die at Tyburn Tree for the torching of Pelworthy.
When he extended his hand to her, she lifted her chin and rose from her seat holding herself as proudly as she was able, given the circumstances. She would go to her death with every measure of courage she could summon.
‘‘There, there,” he murmured, patting her hand which was presently holding his arm. “This will not be too painful, I promise.”
“Not for you, perhaps,” she returned on a half sigh, swallowing with some difficulty.
“That much is true,” he said. “I am finding this interview remarkably easy.”
“Then I have meant so little to you?” she asked quietly, as they passed into the hall. “All is forgotten, then? The love of which you spoke, even the kiss we shared on Lady Cottingford’s terrace?”
“Oh, I shan’t forget any of those, I promise. Your father spoke of his office?”
“Oh, yes, there. The door opposite.”
He led her inside at which time she again sank into a chair, the same one she had occupied when her father had lied to her about having lost his fortune. So the whole business had come to this: Sir Roger, though saying he would never forget his love for her, found it remarkably easy to set aside his affections because of the present horrible circumstances. He clearly blamed her completely for the fire. She lifted her gaze to him, and waited.
He frowned slightly. “My dear, you do not need to look so very sad, unless you mean to refute the evidence.”
She swallowed hard again, and straightened her shoulders. “You have heard all the evidence. I suppose, therefore, the judgment must belong to you.”
“There is something I must know, however, before I continue. Can you love a Scot?”
Tears darted to her eyes, but she did not waver her gaze from his, not even a bit. “More than you could ever imagine,” she responded. “Just as I said last night.”
His expression softened anew, and the former look of tenderness suffused his eyes once more. “That is all the evidence I require,” he stated.
“For sending me to Tyburn Tree?” she asked, much shocked, as well as thinking he had perhaps become addled from being too near the fire last night.
He moved toward her, took strong hold of her aims, and lifted her to her feet. “No, my silly goosecap,” he said, pulling her into a warm, tight embrace, “for asking if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Madeline placed her hands on his shoulders and blinked at him several times. “You . . . you wish me to become your wife?” she asked, incredulous.
“Yes, my darling Madeline. The sooner the better, though I suppose proper form requires that we wait an entire month.”
“I do not understand,” she said, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. “I had thought you despised me. I was certain you believed me responsible for the fire.”
“For some time I questioned it, but my doubts were resolved at the nature of your judgments. There was nothing in them of prejudice either toward them for the nature of their crime or toward me in favoring them above any culpability at all.”
“Yet you said nothing and you did not stop me from leaving. Why? She swiped at her cheeks.”
“Because I knew you were exhausted, and I had to deal very quickly with the culprits, before anyone else was apprised of the truth.”
“And did you?” she asked, astonished.
“Yes. My solicitor has already resolved matters with Mr. Calvert, who has agreed to assume the cost of the repairs for Pelworthy. Captain Bladen, for his part, has left town with intentions of making his home in Somerset. Lastly, Mrs. Rockingham has finally agreed to purchase a pair of colors for her son.”
She stared at him in some wonder. “You accomplished all this today?”
He nodded.
After a moment, she asked, “Did you actually tell Mrs. Rockingham what her son had done?”
He shook his head. “No, Harris informed her himself.”
“But in your presence?”
“Yes.”
Madeline sighed. “Then I am happy for him. He should have been in a cavalry regiment all these years instead of suffering through several unpropitious terms at Oxford. But, Sir Roger—”
“Please, Roger will do.”
She could feel a blush stealing up her cheek. “Roger, are you certain you wish to marry me? Could you truly love an Englishwoman?”
He smiled, again so tenderly that her heart melted and she leaned into him. “With all my heart,” he responded.
He kissed her, so sweetly, so lovingly, that Madeline heard a series of coos which she realized must have come from her own throat but which seemed a thousand miles away. She was lost, as she had been so many times before, in the wonder of his embrace and in the sure knowledge that she loved and was loved and that somehow she was being permitted the truly remarkable joy of marrying a Scot.
~ ~ ~
Much later, when Sir Roger opened the door to the office, a bevy of faces stared back at Madeline—her father, both solicitors, all three of her sisters, Lord Anthony and Cressida Crawley, and her father’s betrothed, Madame Charbonneau.
“Is it all settled?” Hope asked, her face lit with excitement.
Madeline nodded and was immediately swamped by her sisters, who flocked about her, hugging her and saying how happy they all were. Lord Anthony kissed her cheek and Cressida admitted that she was betrothed as well. Madame Charbonneau kissed both her cheeks and wished her every happiness. Her father, the solicitors, and Sir Roger retired to the office to finalize the marriage agreement after which the legal representatives left. Those who remained enjoyed a quiet dinner, though one served with a great deal of champagne, with a little music and dancing afterward.
Madeline marveled, as she stood opposite Sir Roger for a country dance, that her first encounter with him so many months ago at Pelworthy could have ended so wonderfully. She remembered the shock at the time of realizing that a Scot had actually taken possession of her dear Pelworthy and that now nothing pleased her so much as the thought of being married to him in the near future. How much had changed.
When Lord Anthony had left to escort his betrothed home and her father had settled Madame Charbonneau in his coach by which he meant to see her safely to Elsbourne, when her sisters had discreetly retired to their bedchambers, she was alone at last with Sir Roger once more. She requested that a small log fire be built in the grate, an unusual occurrence for the summer months, and together they sat before the leaping flames, her head on his shoulder.
“I wish we did not have to wait a full month, my love,” she whispered, tilting her face to his and receiving a kiss in return.
“Well,” he murmured, sweeping a stray curl away from her face. “We could always elope.”
She began to giggle. “To Gretna Green,” she said, still chuckling.
“Why so amused?” he asked.
“Because it is in Scotland,” she said, laughing harder still. “I thought the notion would please you above all.”
“Actually, it does. There would be some wonderful irony to it, I think.”
“Yes, and if you truly wish to go, I shall pack my portmanteau even now.” Part of her was suddenly completely in earnest.
He kissed her again. “Darling Madeline, how you tempt me, and how you delight me by saying so. But no, ours shall be a stodgy betrothal, a stuffy marriage, and my—that is, our—children will have every advantage of going about in society as much as they desire. I would be foolish to succumb to your entreaties, and I beg you will stop looking at me in that wicked manner. You shock me, dearest.”
“I mean to shock you,” she said. “A great deal.” With that, she kissed him full on the mouth and spoke with her lips all the intentions of her heart for the coming months and years.
Pushing her a
way slightly, he said, “If you are not careful, I will be forced to take you to Gretna Green.”
“I want to go,” she said abruptly. “More than anything else in the world. Roger, take me to Gretna, this instant. What would be more appropriate than being married in Scotland?”
“Madeline,” he cried, obviously shocked.
“I am quite serious. You do not know what it is to have lived in the confining society that I have. You have had your adventures. You had the wondrous pleasure of living in India for fifteen years, while I was afraid to smile very much lest I give the wrong impression. There may be something to be said for discretion, but not in this moment, not now. Will you take me to Gretna?”
He searched her eyes for a very long moment. “I will,” he said. “Everything is settled with your father, the papers have been signed. You will leave a note saying that we will return in a year.”
“A year?”
“Well, you do want to see India, do you not?”
Madeline leaned away from him. “Tell me you are not teasing me—for if you do, I vow I will not marry you at all. Of course I wish to go, more than you could ever know.”
“Then pack your things, Maddy. We leave tonight.”
Madeline did not hesitate. She packed a portmanteau just as she said, wrote four letters, one to each of her sisters and one to her father, and bid her maid good-bye. Sir Roger had brought his coach round and was awaiting her in the entrance hall.
“If you are having the smallest doubt,” he said, “we do not have to go.”
“The truth of it is, Roger, that I have no doubts at all, not even one.”
She took his arm and, beside him, drove from Fairlight and into the future.
~ ~ ~
“But how did you know?” Madame Charbonneau whispered to her betrothed in her lilting accent. His coach was secreted in the shadows of a great oak down the lane, and Sir Roger’s coach had just passed by, beneath the light of a full moon. Visible within was Madeline. Visible without was her baggage.
Mr. Piper swiped at a tear. “Because until the events of the past three weeks, she had been her mother’s daughter exclusively, but now she is mine.”