Though she had hardly cried all her bitter tears, she began to laugh. How good it felt! It began in her belly and soon she was holding her sides as a morbid amusement consumed her. Undignified as it might be, laughter was indeed good medicine, and Henrietta felt its restorative properties take firm hold.
Of one thing she was now certain, she was not going to make those men fetch her and drag her back to the house like either a prisoner of war or a spoiled child. She did still have a modicum of pride. She was going back to Nightingale to eat her wedding feast as would any dejected bride of convenience, and if that Marquess decided to make himself scarce and give the gossipmongers even more to wag their tongues about, so be it. He would have only himself to blame for more scandal. She would hold her head high and she would eat cake.
Knowing she must be quite a sight to behold, she stood and began to brush the leaves and such from her now grass-stained gown. The hem had been torn when she had collapsed in the grass to catch her breath. She touched her head gingerly to survey the damage to her hair. So carefully attended to by Molly that morning, it was now an unruly mess, the perfect braids far worse for wear. The lacy veil was long gone. She hardly cared.
Insult to injury indeed. If that man couldn’t bear to look at me before, what will he possibly think now?
She began to laugh again. She raised her palm to stop Ronscales and Davids, and she walked alone in surrender. Things were about to get interesting indeed.
Chapter 11
Ewan continued his heated argument with his father, his body shaking with anger. This was too much, and everything in him resisted the Duke’s attempts to placate him.
“You cannot have seriously done this to me!” he insisted inconsolably. “Keeping her from me until this moment. The heavy veil, the –”
“Son,” the Duke began, “you must –”
“No,” Ewan cut him off harshly. “You must. You. You must understand—”
The Duchess stepped into the vestibule, her face drawn tight with concern. She interrupted her son without apology and addressed the Duke.
“My dear, Miss Oliver has fled.”
Ewan felt something like relief rush through him as the news momentarily derailed the argument. As he calmed down, his father lit up with his own fresh wave of indignation.
“What?” the Duke roared. “Fled where? On foot?”
“Yes, dear. What shall we tell the guests?”
“Has anyone gone after her?” He turned to Ewan. “Go after her.”
“I will not,” Ewan replied defiantly.
“My dear,” the Duchess continued, “the guests?”
“You will!” the Duke roared again. “Now!”
“I will not. We will let her go God-knows-where. It is for the best.”
The Duke looked at Ewan in disbelief. “For the best? Do my ears deceive me? She is your wife!”
“And we are not children. I will not be commanded to chase her like a child,” Ewan snapped. “She has run off on her own power, and I will be damned if I will drag her back against her will. Mother, please tell the guests that the wedding dinner will be served as planned and all are expected to stay.”
The Duchess ducked back into the chapel and began to make the announcement.
“With no bride?” the Duke questioned Ewan with a sneer. “You will eat your nuptial dinner alone?”
“What I do, with or without my wife, is my concern, Father. Mine alone. You have done quite enough. I will do my best to cope, but you will please refrain from further meddling in my affairs. Now if you will excuse me, I need to compose myself.”
With that, Ewan quit the vestibule and walked briskly toward his apartments. He was becoming completely unhinged, barely held together by the slimmest of restraint. It was all a cruel joke, the type that leaves no one actually laughing.
He entered his rooms and went straight to the decanter, poured a scotch and drained the glass in one swig. He poured another.
What a wreck. His parents meant well, but he should never have agreed to go through with this. Yes, they were right to be concerned about the future, the duchy, an heir. All of that was very real. But there was still plenty of time to address those matters. They had pressed him too soon.
And then there was the girl! Who was this girl and where did she come from? And how, in the name of all that is holy, could she be the mirror image of Patricia? Again, a cruel joke.
A knock on the door brought out his growl. “Go away.”
The door opened a crack and Lord Averson poked his head in.
“I hear this is where you hide the good scotch.”
“I am in no need of company, Averson.”
“Clearly. However, I am in need of good scotch, so you’ll forgive me for interrupting your moody musings.” The man made himself at home at the decanter.
Ewan grunted at his friend’s blithe characterization of this debacle.
“Come now, what say you?” Averson asked cheerfully.
Slumped in a large chair, Ewan extended his glass to Averson. “Another drink, if you don’t mind.”
“That bad, eh?” Averson replied, taking the glass and adding to it.
“You were there as I recall.”
“Yes, yes, indeed I was. You were all nervous excitement when you went to lift the veil. It was quintessentially quaint!” Averson announced dramatically. “And then you made quite the scene, leaving that poor girl to think you had looked upon Medusa herself.”
Ewan winced and took another swig of scotch. He was acutely aware that was not his finest moment.
“I might owe her an apology for that,” he mumbled.
Averson laughed. “You owe her something, that’s for sure.”
“I truly fail to see how this is all so amusing, Averson,” Ewan asserted indignantly.
“Come now, my friend. Is it really so bad? To be wed to a clever and comely girl? You could do much, much worse. The stupid ones are incredibly hard to bear.” He downed the last of his drink. “Even if they are pretty.”
“Clever how?” Ewan’s mind shot back to the ruse of visiting a sick relative. Nothing good ever came from dishonesty. And since the ruse was part of keeping her mysteriously out of his sight until today, well, the taste in his mouth just turned all the more bitter.
“She’s smart, Ewan. I have a new valet who was recently in the employ of General Oliver. Seth tells me that your bride was caught on more than one occasion reading medical journals well into the night — much to her father’s chagrin. And the General suspects his daughter of frequenting the circulating library in Byrne to feed this incessant hunger for knowledge. The medical journals,” he repeated with annoying emphasis. “The General keeps her close, but she has been known to become separated from her abigail from time to time. It’s naturally all hushed up.”
“And just what interest could this girl possibly have in medical journals?”
“That is what I behoove you to discover.” Averson finished his drink. “Again, I say, you could do much worse. Ladies like Miss Oliver are curious creatures. Very intriguing, wouldn’t you say?”
“No. I would not say. Sounds like trouble. I don’t want trouble, Averson. I just want to be left alone. Why does no one understand that?”
Ewan had given a standard answer, but truth be told, he was intrigued, if only a little.
“Well, being left alone is going to be a problem, at least for a few days. There are nearly a hundred people in the Nightingale dining room currently eating a wedding feast with a very gracious, if unconventionally attired, bride and noting the very conspicuous absence of a groom.”
Ewan stood, set down his glass, and straightened his tailcoat. Intrigue had won the day over melancholy. “My Lady hath returned from far afield to sit at table?” he mocked.
“She has indeed, sir.”
“Then methinks we best attend to her promptly, Lord Averson. It is most-bad form to maketh my Lady wait. Especially on her wedding day.”
“Indeed, it
is,” Averson replied with a smile, following his friend out the apartment doors. “Indeed, it is.”
Chapter 12
Henrietta, with shoulders back and chin high, returned to the house with Ronscales and Davids dutifully in tow. With a distinct determination, she set her jaw and marched through the large front doors of Nightingale. Her mother, however, stopped her cold in the foyer before she could enter the dining room and take her appropriate place at table.
“Henny, you are a disgraceful mess. You will retreat to your rooms this instant and dress appropriately before you sit down to dinner.”
“Mother, I don’t have rooms here yet. You will please step aside. I am going into the dining room.”
“I forbid you, Henrietta! Your appearance is atrocious. Running about the countryside like a wild animal. I will not allow you to be seen like this! Go!”
Henrietta cringed before she drew a deep breath. “And I will not allow you to speak to me like a child, Mother. I am, need I remind you, the new Marchioness of Peterborough. And by your design if I recall. Now, please, excuse me as I expect dinner is waiting on me.”
Tabitha drew back in surprise, thus making way for her daughter to pass. “You are making us all fools, Henrietta. This is too much.”
Henrietta chuckled sardonically. “Mother, you could not be more correct.”
A hush fell over the large dining room, and the din of chattering guests fell awkwardly away as Lady Henrietta Maria Oliver Clark, the new Marchioness of Peterborough, stepped into the room. A hasty announcement of her presence was made by a quick-thinking steward and everyone in the room rose to stand. With all the poise she could muster, she walked tall toward the two conspicuously-empty chairs at the head table. She felt a wayward ribbon brush her cheek as it dangled dangerously from her disheveled hair. Blowing at it momentarily from pursed lips, she paid it no more mind. There was no going back now. She knew there was no forgiving her appearance, but it served the Marquess right. Insult to injury, indeed.
When she reached her chair, she faced the crowd of wedding guests, every last one a complete stranger. She noticed her father’s look of complete mortification as her mother sidled up to him with a look of disgust all her own. That look seemed to say, I tried to stop her.
Henrietta forced a nervous, regal smile, as she imagined the finest lady of the realm would do. “Please, everyone sit and enjoy,” she announced boldly. The music started, breaking the tense silence, and the guests resumed their chattering conversations, of which she was quite sure she was the central subject matter.
Henrietta sat down and sighed in relief. Her hands were shaking, which was surely a small victory given that all her insides felt like they were dissolving into useless mush.
It was painfully awkward to be alone at the head table, not least because she apparently had been deserted by her groom. After hearing all the fussing outside the chapel, she was not really surprised. Eventually, a few couples, probably important people she should know, filled in the spots at the outer ends of the long table, but the chairs closest to her remained unoccupied. At last, a friendly voice addressed her, and even better, its owner sat down beside her.
“You’ve had a quite a day, haven’t you, my dear?”
Relief quickly turned to angst as Henrietta turned to look into the dark steady eyes of her new mother-in-law.
“Yes, Your Grace,” came her stilted response.
“You look absolutely dreadful.” There was no insult in her voice, only something strangely reassuring. “But I blame you not for running, and I applaud your return. Well done, even such as you are.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. You are very kind.” Relief returned as Henrietta considered with surprise that the Duchess might prove to be a friend. She certainly hadn’t expected as much.
Large platters of food arrived, and the noise level rose with the clatter and clang of good silver in use. Henrietta found the duck placed before her temptingly glazed to perfection, but her stomach turned over in warning.
“Will the Marquess be joining us for dinner, Your Grace?”
The Duchess smiled. “At this point, your guess is as good as mine, my dear. I feel compelled to apologize for his behavior. It was most untoward and most unlike him.”
“A man is entitled to his opinions, though I warrant few would bestow such enthusiastic disapproval in such public circumstances. I didn’t mean to be so displeasing,” she finished quietly.
“About that, Henrietta,” the Duchess began carefully, “Ewan has been a bit,” she searched for a word, “unstable of late.”
“But why should he be, Your Grace? I mean no disrespect, but I see a man of privilege, with wealth, education, independence, and every creature comfort at his beck and call. Why should he be so unstable as you call it?”
“My, but you speak your mind freely, child.”
“Forgive me. But given the woeful impression I have already made upon your household and your community, Your Grace, have I really much more to lose?”
The Duchess sighed and then forced a weak smile. “We approach the anniversary of his first wife’s death.”
Henrietta gasped. No one had told her anything about this man or his family. She only knew they were of sound reputation, but the particulars had been nil. In truth, she hadn’t bothered to inquire, but given her recent state of house arrest, what of significance could she really have learned anyway?
“Your Grace, I had no idea. I –” she faltered.
“She died in childbirth,” the gracious lady explained. “He loved her very much.”
“And the –?”
“Yes. And his son. It has been a difficult year for him, for all of us.” The Duchess looked at her plate somewhat vacantly before she looked again at Henrietta. She reached over and squeezed her new daughter’s hand affectionately. Another forced smile. “But here you are. And we are hoping for brighter days.”
“Indeed, we are,” the man in question offered as he slipped into the chair on Henrietta’s other side. A shock of surprise jolted through her before she felt herself stiffen self-consciously. Where had he come from? She watched out of the corner of her eye as her new husband fussed with his napkin and motioned to the steward to bring him a plate of food. She then fixed her gaze straight ahead, unwilling to acknowledge him.
I will not look at him. I will not speak to him. I will not. This will be a very long and quiet meal indeed.
Or so she thought.
Chapter 13
Her appearance shocked him for the second time that day. This time, however, he was in complete control of his faculties and managed his surprise quite comfortably. He entered the dining room without announcement, and as he drew closer to the table where his new wife sat chatting with his mother, he could not help but feel amused by her. Her hair was a beautiful burnished gold, almost bronze, and while earlier in the day it had sat in neatly tamed braided ropes beneath the lacy veil, the abigail’s best work now hung in soft tatters around her pretty face. Something – was it dirt? – left faint streaks upon high cheekbones, beginning just below her eyes and trailing off down the column of her fine neck.
In such a state of disrepair, any resemblance she had to Patricia seemed as good as gone. At least for now. He felt himself relaxing, the tension slowly draining from his body as he took his seat next to her. Truly, she looked ridiculous, but to sit in that chair next to his mother looking as she did was something to consider. This girl was brave to be sure. And somehow, as Averson had suggested, intriguing. Curiosity pushed him to engage her.
He settled his napkin on his lap and motioned to the steward to bring him a plate.
“My Lord has decided to join his wedding feast?” Henrietta managed with soft sarcasm. She kept her gaze straight ahead, apparently determined not to look at him. Though she would not meet his eyes, at least she spoke. He liked the smoothness of her voice. It was distinctly hers.
“My Lady has decided to cease foraging in the wood for her supper?” he countered
with humor in his voice. He was remarkably relieved that she had shed the blanket of lace that had covered her from head to toe. Though her escapade had left her dress a disaster, losing the veil was an improvement that allowed him to appreciate her heretofore hidden form.
“I find it most curious, my Lord, that the first words you ever speak to me as wife are in regard to nuts and berries. Curious indeed.”
“I can only imagine your appearance to be the result of a failed attempt at scrounging out of doors for food. I assure you, we can provide all you need right here within these magnificent walls,” he teased.
Sacrificing the Untamed Lady Henrietta: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 8