The Autumn Bride

by Anne Gracie

  All the girls except Daisy were dressed in old-fashioned clothing, the dresses sagging a little, as if they were children dressing up. But Abby was no child. She was dressed—half dressed, he saw with a leap of his pulse—in an eighteenth-century brocade gown with panniers. She moved slightly, defensively.

  Her back was to the freestanding cheval looking glass and he saw at once that the dress was not properly laced. . . .

  She was naked from the nape of her neck to just below the small of her back. His breath caught in his chest as his gaze traced the graceful line of her spine.

  Unaware of what the looking glass revealed, she faced him calmly, secure in the belief that the gown she held to her chest protected her modesty. Her shoulders and arms, as well as her back, were completely bare. She was wearing no chemise.

  If she dropped the gown . . .

  A delicate wild-rose color flushed her just-concealed breasts, and slowly spread to her cheeks. She’d noticed him staring.

  With an effort he dragged his gaze off her. Off her image in the looking glass.

  “These clever gels are going to make new dresses from my old clothes—we’re checking to see what is suitable.”

  “Everything.” Daisy sighed. “It’s all beautiful.”

  His aunt’s words finally penetrated Max’s fogged brain. “From old clothes? Good God, why?”

  His aunt shrugged. “Exactly what I said myself, but they insist. So I’m giving them all of these.” She gestured to the welter of clothing that covered the room.

  The girls gasped. Miss Chance gasped too and then had to hitch her gown higher. As he watched, she stole an arm around behind her. Had she felt a draft? She gasped again and stepped behind a screen, blocking his view of her slender, creamy back and shoulders.

  From behind the screen he could hear rustling noises, and in his mind’s eye he saw the green silk dress ripple down her body and settle in a puddle at her feet. He imagined her, like a Botticelli Venus, rising naked from a green pool. He swallowed to get rid of the hard lump in his throat, and forced his mind off the image, telling himself the sounds he heard were nothing but that gray woolen dress being dragged over her body.

  “Old clothes? For God’s sake, I have a silk warehouse, Aunt Bea,” Max said irritably. “Anything you need, you can take from there.”

  That got another series of gasps and a whole lot of excited exclamations, in the midst of which Miss Chance stepped out from behind the screen with heightened color, as he’d expected, thoroughly swaddled in the gray dress. She glanced at him, bent down and picked up the ginger kitten. Max couldn’t see her expression.

  He decided to drop his bombshell now, while his aunt was in a good mood. “It’s no bad thing you’re sorting through your old possessions, Aunt Bea. We’re moving house.”

  “Moving house?” Aunt Bea repeated. She groped around in the tumble of clothing on her bed and found her lorgnette. She raised it and peered at him with a beady expression. “Not Davenham Hall? Not the country? Because I’ll tell you now, Max, you won’t get me—”

  “To Mayfair.”

  “Mayfair?”

  “I purchased a house on Berkeley Square this morning. We move into it next week. So you can start the servants packing, Aunt Bea.”

  There was a stunned silence. Finally Aunt Bea said, “You bought a house?”

  “I did.”

  “And we’re moving? And just when did you think to tell me?”

  Max smiled. “Just now, and there’s no point arguing, Aunt Bea. We move in at the beginning of next week.”

  His aunt stared at him through her lorgnette. “And what if I say I don’t want to move?”

  He just looked at her. “As I said, you have to the end of the week. And now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have a dinner engagement at the club. I bid you all good evening.”

  And before anyone could say a word, he left.

  There was a short silence. The girls looked at Lady Beatrice, concerned for her feelings.

  Lady Beatrice looked back. “Well,” she said after a moment. “I do like a masterful man.”

  “You what?” Jane gasped.

  “As long as he does exactly what I want, that is.”

  “And if not?” Abby asked.

  “Oh, then he’s impossibly arrogant and interfering.”

  Abby smiled. “And in this case?”

  “In this case I’m delighted, though I won’t tell my nephew that, of course. Not for a week, at least,” Lady Beatrice confided. “It really doesn’t do to let men think they can have their way just like that.”

  “You really won’t mind leaving this house?”

  “Not at all. I’m fed up with it, if you want to know the truth. I’ve lived here since I was a young bride, more years than I care to count. It’s been my London home—my only home since my husband died—and I never did like it in the first place. Nor did I like Davenham Hall—that’s the country seat of the Davenhams, my dears. I haven’t had to go there in years, thank goodness. Max arranged something before he went away, so I wasn’t bothered with it. I never could abide the country. So noisy with all those ducks and dogs and whatnot. No, not ducks—peacocks. My late mother-in-law adored the creatures and kept a dozen of them. Have you ever heard the cry of a peacock?” She shuddered. “Disembodied shrieks from the grave—enough to curdle your blood.”

  Abby laughed. “So you don’t mind moving to Mayfair?”

  “Not at all, my dear. High time I had a change, and Mayfair is where everyone lives these days. Of course, it’s bound to be a little poky—”

  “Poky? On Berkeley Square?”

  “Exactly, all those modern houses are. I daresay it will have only half a dozen bedrooms. Still, that’s to be expected. Nobody in the city builds houses on a decent scale anymore. We’ll squeeze in, I suppose.”

  Abby smiled, but didn’t respond. She was too busy wondering whether Lord Davenham’s plans included the Chance sisters or not.

  * * *

  “He said he was moving his aunt to Mayfair. And himself. He didn’t say anything about us going with them,” Damaris said later that evening.

  So Abby wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the omission. Lady Beatrice had retired for the night, and the girls had gathered in the small, cozy downstairs parlor.

  “You think he’s going to leave us behind?” Jane said.

  “Lady Bea won’t let him,” Daisy said.

  They all looked at Abby. “Daisy’s right—Lady Beatrice won’t let us go without a fight, but it does change everything.”

  “I don’t see why,” Jane said.

  “It will be his house, and what he says goes. If he wants us gone . . .”

  There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of the fire crackling in the grate.

  “Do we have enough saved to go to Bath yet?” Damaris asked.

  Abby shook her head.

  “With the dresses Lady Bea gave us we’ll have enough material for the clothes we need,” Daisy said. “But it’ll take a lot more than a week to make them.”

  “Did you hear what he said about the silk warehouse?” Jane said.

  “Don’t get your hopes up. That was for his aunt, not us,” Abby said.

  “New silk. I wonder what that’d be like?” Daisy murmured. “I’ve never made nothing from new. Never cut into anything that hasn’t been worn before.”

  “You’ll just have to talk him ’round, Abby,” Jane said.

  “Me? What makes you think he’d listen to me?”

  “He likes you.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Jane shrugged. “You don’t see the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not looking.”

  “It’s true, Abby,” Damaris said. “I believe he desires you.”

  “Desire is even better. When a man desires you, you have him on a string.”

  “Jane! Where did you pick up such notions?” As if she didn’t know.

  Jane gave her a knowing look. “You don’t need to
look at me like that—I knew that much even back at the Pillbury.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have the first idea how to influence Lord Davenham, even if he did desire me, which I very much doubt. He is betrothed, recall.” And if he did desire her, well, Abby knew where that path led. It was playing with fire, she knew to her cost.

  For all Jane’s worldly talk of desire and leading men about on strings, she was still basically innocent and heart-whole. Jane hadn’t a clue of the dangers involved, of the pain that could result.

  Abby might be attracted to Lord Davenham, but she’d never act on it. A man’s desire was not anything Abby wanted to evoke again. She’d been badly burned once, and never wanted to feel such pain again.

  But talk, reason, argument—that she could do. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” she promised.

  Later, as they were preparing for bed, Abby sought her sister out. She was still a little disturbed about what Jane had revealed when they’d been discussing marriage earlier. “I thought you remembered Mama and Papa being happy together.”

  “Well, I think I do, but mainly I remember you telling me how happy they were.”

  “Because they were happy. And they loved us both very much.”

  Jane nodded. “I know.”

  “Then why wouldn’t you want that for yourself?”

  Jane gave her a rueful look. “Because they’re just stories, Abby. All I really remember about Papa is being lifted up by him, and feeling so safe and tall in his arms. And his smile. But I remember Mama’s stories about her come-out and the balls and everything, because you used to tell them to me when we were in the Pill. What I mainly remember of Mama is her being sick and coughing all the time.”

  Abby looked at her in dismay. “Don’t you remember anything else about them? Anything good?”

  Jane shrugged. “Mainly I remember being cold, Abby, and being hungry and frightened, and a couple of times having to sneak out of our lodgings in the middle of the night because Papa couldn’t pay the rent. And I remember Mama worrying endlessly and trying not to let Papa see, and Papa doing the same, and you worrying most of all.”

  “Me?”

  “Oh, Abby, you spent your entire childhood worrying about all of us, and you do it still. And I thought, if that’s what marrying for love means, I’m never going to do it. I don’t want my children to go through what we did.”

  “I never thought . . . I didn’t realize you were so aware of all the bad things. You were so small.” Only six when Mama had died.

  “At the time I didn’t understand, but I remembered a lot. And I think when you’re small you remember bad things more easily than good ones. After you left the Pill, I had plenty of time to think about it and realize in retrospect what it all meant. I decided then that I was never going to go hungry, or be cold or frightened again.”

  “Oh, Jane.” Abby hugged her sister. “And then you were kidnapped.”

  Jane gave her a determined look. “Yes, and it has to mean something that I escaped from the brothel—unscathed—against all the odds. And in that attic room, I could have died of that fever but I didn’t. That’s when I made up my mind once and for all—we’ve got one chance in life, Abby, and I mean to seize what I can to make mine better.”

  She grasped Abby’s hands in hers. “Mama was given a pretty face and she wasted it. I’m not going to waste the only gift I’ve been given. Somehow I’m going to marry well and get myself a better life. And, big sister, I’m going to take you with me.”

  Abby hugged Jane tightly. She didn’t agree with her—loving Papa was the right thing for Mama, no matter what the cost. To believe otherwise was a betrayal of them and their love; it was the one certain thing in her childhood—and if she didn’t believe in that, well, she couldn’t believe in anything.

  Abby hadn’t forgotten the bad things either, but she remembered more than Jane, and the most important thing she remembered was that the love between her parents and their love for their children made the bad times better.

  But in another way her little sister was right: They had a chance, here with Lady Beatrice, to make a better life, and she should seize it with both hands.

  Seduction was out of the question. Even if she were the kind of woman who could seduce men to her will—which she wasn’t—it was too risky, too painful. The woman always paid the price.

  Still, Abby could try to talk to Lord Davenham. You never knew; he might listen, though she doubted it.

  She might not be the seductive type, but she did have brains. If only she could think of a plan.

  * * *

  Lady Beatrice spent the morning after Lord Davenham’s surprise announcement writing notes to all her old friends, informing them that she’d been ill but was now well on the way to full recovery, and from the following week onward would be in residence at her new home in Berkeley Square, where she would welcome callers. The last two words were heavily underlined, and thus would carry, Abby suspected, almost as much weight as a royal decree.

  The first batch of notes had barely been delivered when, late that afternoon, the front doorbell rang. A few moments later Featherby carried in a calling card on a silver salver. Lady Beatrice inspected it through her lorgnette.

  “Clara Beddington!” she exclaimed with delight. “One of my oldest friends. Show her in, Featherby.” To the girls she said, “Good thing I decided to dress and come down this afternoon. Wouldn’t do to have Clara see me lolling about in bed—terrible gossip, Clara.” She tidied her hair, straightened her beautiful cashmere shawl and sat up straight.

  Featherby announced the visitor. “Lady Beddington, m’lady.”

  A small, plump woman trailing several shawls and a sumptuous fur entered excitedly. She hurried across the room and the two women embraced. “My dear Bea, when I received your note I simply couldn’t wait. Do you know, I cannot recall how many times I called on you in the last year, only to be told by that horrid butler that you weren’t at home—not even to moi! I’m so glad you got rid of him, the disagreeable creature—this new fellow is so much better!” She bestowed a gracious smile, two shawls and a frilled purple oiled-silk parasol on Featherby, who received them all with unruffled composure. “Do you know, I was so worried about you that I wrote to your nephew. And I can see you’ve been ill—not surprising, given the truly appalling weather we’ve been having—can you believe this is supposed to be summer? Summer? It’s absolutely freezing!” She retrieved one of the shawls from Featherby and flung it around her neck in a dramatic movement that caused Max the kitten to pounce on the tempting fringe.

  “Good God, is that a kitten? How amusing. I dislike cats. This illness of yours, it’s nothing infectious, is it? I should have asked that first, shouldn’t I? Never mind, I’m sure you wouldn’t pass it on. And how are you, my dear?”

  “I’m well, Clara, thank you, and you’re looking the same as ever. It’s nothing anyone can catch, and thanks to these dear gels—my nieces, you know—I’m getting stronger every day.” She introduced the four girls to Lady Beddington and then said, “Now, I know it’s atrociously ill-mannered of me, but would you mind terribly, Clara, if we let Abby finish the chapter she was reading me when you arrived? She’s only just started chapter two and it’s at a very interesting point. It won’t take more than about ten minutes.” She glanced at Featherby and added, “And in the meantime my butler can bring us tea and cakes.”

  “You’re reading books now, Bea? Good heavens! Well, of course I don’t mind, if that’s what you want.” But though she allowed herself to be seated in a comfortable chair by the fire, it was clear she thought the request a peculiar one.

  However, as Abby read on, Lady Beddington edged forward in her chair, twisting her shawl into a rope, listening eagerly, until by the end of the chapter she was perched right on the edge of her chair, hanging on every word.

  When Abby finished the chapter Lady Beddington fell back in her chair, exclaiming, “Bless my soul, I never knew a book could be so entertaining.” />
  “I know,” Lady Beatrice said. “Before these gels came to live with me, I can’t remember when I last read a book. All the books I’d ever been made to read were dreary, improving things, full of morals and lessons and homilies or facts—and that’s when I could understand the dratted things. But Abby and the gels always find the most thrilling tales, and the only thing that’s improved when we’re finished is my mood.”

  “I wish I’d read the start of that one,” Lady Beddington said.

  Abby held out the book to show her the title. “You could always buy a copy, or borrow it from the circulating library.”

  Lady Beddington squinted at the cover, then shook her head, dislodging her shawl. “No point, my dear. I can’t read much of anything these days. Eyesight ain’t what it was.”

  “I know,” Lady Beatrice agreed. “Which is why these gels are a godsend.”

  “And you read so well, Miss Chance. As entertaining as a night at the theater, I do assure you.”

  Featherby arrived with the tea and cakes, and Abby and the girls retreated to leave the two old friends to catch up.

  A couple of hours later Abby was summoned to return.

  “Lady Beddington is going to stay for dinner, Abby, dear.”

  Abby smiled at their visitor. It was clear her visit had done Lady Beatrice a lot of good. “How delightful. Do you wish me to speak to Cook and—”

  “No, no, Featherby can see to that. Lady Beddington has a special request for you—go on, Clara.”

  Lady Beddington hesitated, fiddled with the fringe of her shawl and then said, “My dear Miss Chance, would you mind very much reading me the first chapter of that delicious book?”

  Abby stared at her in silence for a long moment. An idea had popped into her mind, a crazy, possibly ludicrous idea. . . . If she could bring it about . . . it might just be the solution to all their problems.

  “Abby?” Lady Beatrice prompted.

  Abby gave a start and picked up the book. “I’m so sorry; I was woolgathering. Of course, I’d be delighted to read it to you, Lady Beddington.” She looked at Lady Beatrice and said, “It’s just that I had . . . an idea.”