The Autumn Bride

by Anne Gracie

  “Yes, Papa,” Henrietta said. Those gloves would be ruined, Abby thought, watching her.

  Was she normally nervous in society, or was she responding to Lady Beatrice’s chilly politeness that barely concealed hostility? Henrietta seemed a great deal more sensitive than her father. It was as though a bull had fathered a doe.

  Abby felt sorry for the girl. One’s first visit to one’s prospective in-laws—one’s all-but-official aunt-by-law—would be nerve-racking enough without there being an obvious class difference. And then there was the matter of the disparity in age—and the nine-year engagement, starting from when Henrietta was a child.

  It was all most peculiar.

  Mr. Parsloe chuckled again. “Likes everything that’s new and bright, does my lass. Chip off the old block.” He glanced around. “No doubt the minute she becomes mistress of the house, she’ll be after her papa to buy her some fashionable new furniture.”

  Lady Beatrice swelled and seemed about to explode, so Abby said quickly, “Much of this furniture has been in the family for years. They’re valuable antiques.”

  “Valuable?” Mr. Parsloe pursed his lips dubiously. “Ah, well, if you say so. My lass has her heart set on making a splash in London society once she’s Lady Davenham, and a fashionable London house on Berkeley Square is just the ticket. You’ll like living here, won’t you, puss?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  She didn’t sound too excited, Abby thought, but no doubt the poor girl was mortified by her father’s crassness.

  “Have you been to London before, Miss Parsloe?” Abby asked her, as much because she felt sorry for the girl, as from wanting to distract the company from Mr. Parsloe’s disastrous conversational attempts.

  “No, it’s my first visit.”

  Abby smiled. “I know when I first came to London, I was so excited, I made a list of all the things I wanted to do and see. Have you made a list?”

  “She doesn’t need one,” Mr. Parsloe said firmly. “Lord Davenham will show her everything she needs to—”

  “Abby, we’re going out. Do you want— Oh,” Jane exclaimed as she came to an abrupt halt in the doorway. “I’m so sorry, Lady Beatrice; I didn’t realize you had visitors.”

  “My sister, Miss Jane Chance,” Abby said, and introduced the Parsloes.

  “I’m sorry to have burst in on you like that,” Jane said with a smile. “But since it’s the first bit of sunshine we’ve seen in days, we’re going for a walk and thought Abby might like to come.”

  “Thank you, but I think I should stay here,” Abby said, knowing she could not possibly leave Lady Beatrice alone with Mr. Parsloe.

  Lady Beatrice slumped elegantly back in her chair. “Oh, dear, I’m exhausted,” she declared, closing her eyes. “Abby, ring for Featherby to show these people out. Good day to you, Parsloe, Miss Parsloe,” she said without opening her eyes.

  It was very rude, but effective. Mr. Parsloe immediately said he understood, with my lady having been ill and all, and got up to leave, bidding Henrietta to say her good-byes.

  Neither Abby nor Lady Beatrice said a word until the front door was shut firmly behind them. Lady Beatrice sat up, all signs of exhaustion gone.

  “Promised at the age of nine, damn him! I detect the ambitious hand of Papa Parsloe—though how the devil he managed it . . . The only way Max would have agreed to something so outrageous was if Parsloe had him in a trap, some sense of obligation. So what was it? Why would Max throw his future away on the nine-year-old daughter of a cit—good God, he was just eighteen himself at the time.” She wagged her finger at Abby. “You can’t tell me an eighteen-year-old boy just out of school is thinking of marriage—let alone with a child of nine!”

  “You had no idea?”

  “No, and if I had I’d have stopped it. All these years I’ve been thinking of Miss Parsloe as an older woman, the kind of woman who’d take advantage of a young boy’s calf love to trap him into a promise of marriage. And all the time she was just a child! So why? Why?”

  Abby had no answer.

  Lady Beatrice was silent for a long time, staring out the window with a brooding expression.

  “Can you think of anything that happened to your nephew around that time?” Abby asked. “Something that may have prompted him to . . . I don’t know . . . get into some kind of trouble? Gambling, perhaps? A young boy might—”

  “No, Max was never interested in that kind of thing,” Lady Beatrice said. “He preferred horses. And machines. He was mad for machinery.”

  Abby couldn’t see how machinery would get an eighteen-year-old into trouble. “So you can think of nothing nine years ago that might have prompted him to this . . . agreement?”

  “Nine years ago? No, there was nothing, only my husband dying and Max inher—” She broke off, an arrested look on her face. “Good God!” she half whispered. “Of course!” She slumped back in the chair, looking suddenly old and gray and crumpled. “I’ve been such a fool. . . .”

  Abby waited, but Lady Beatrice didn’t explain. After several moments of silence she opened her eyes and hauled herself wearily upright.

  She sent for Featherby and ordered a brandy, and when it came, she drank it straight down, shuddering. Slowly her color returned. At last she sighed, and said, “We need to fix this, Abby. I won’t have that boy making such a sacrifice.”

  “Sacrifice?” Abby asked, but Lady Beatrice wasn’t listening. Or didn’t choose to answer.

  “Although how we are to prevent it—short of drowning the wretched gel—is more than I can imagine, for Max has given his word, and when he gives his word, wild horses, flocks of elephants and the angel Gabriel himself cannot make the boy break it, curse him!”

  “Have they tried?”

  But Lady Beatrice was in no mood for a touch of gentle levity. “You know what I mean. Max would rather die than break a promise.” She shook her head. “Men and their cursed sense of honor.”

  “Would you have him any different?” Abby asked softly.

  The old lady sighed. “No, of course not. I just don’t want his future happiness ruined.”

  “They might be happy,” Abby suggested. “One cannot tell in advance how a marriage will turn out.”

  Lady Beatrice made a scornful noise. “With that man for his father-in-law? Interfering in everything—because a blind beggar could see he’s the meddling type. Did you see the way he turned his nose up at my furniture? And wanting to pull down Davenham House and build some ghastly modern monstrosity in its place? Wretched cit!”

  “Mr. Parsloe is a forceful man, used to having his own way, I admit, but I don’t believe he’ll be able to bully Lord Davenham. I don’t know what he was like as a boy, but the man I know is more than a match for the Parsloes of this world. Or anyone, really.”

  Lady Beatrice gave a halfhearted shrug, which might have indicated agreement.

  “And Henrietta is pretty and seems very sweet and biddable, and she’s young and will soon learn how to please—”

  Lady Beatrice cut her off. “You think my nephew could be happy married to a spineless little ninny with no conversation? A cit’s daughter who can only bleat, ‘Yes, Papa, no, Papa, three bags full, Papa’?”

  Abby didn’t think that. Or rather, she didn’t want to think it. But in her admittedly limited experience men did generally like women who were sweet and pretty and who agreed with everything they said.

  Abby was plain and she tended to argue back.

  “Well, when all’s said and done, it’s not up to us, is it?” she said. “Lord Davenham will do what Lord Davenham wants.”

  Lady Beatrice sighed and said in a defeated voice, “No, Lord Davenham will do what he believes is right—there’s a difference. Now, Miss Burglar, ring for William and my maid. I’m tired and I need to lie down.”

  * * *

  Just over a week later, Max returned to London. He’d had a thoroughly wasted trip. It was early afternoon as he threaded his way through the busy streets, but when
he turned into Berkeley Square, he was surprised to find a line of carriages lined up along one side of the square. Somebody holding some kind of event, he presumed. Odd for the time of year; London in summer was usually thin of company. Then again, it wasn’t exactly a typical summer.

  Impatient with the slow-moving traffic, he jumped lightly down from the carriage and cut across the square to his house. He was eager to get home. Home? The thought startled him.

  He’d slept only a night in the house; why would he think of this place as home? His aunt, he supposed.

  But it wasn’t the prospect of seeing his aunt again that had put the spring in his step. And it had to stop, he told himself firmly.

  The housekeeper at the Parsloe residence in Manchester had told him that Mr. and Miss Parsloe, having heard of his arrival in England, had posted down to London to prepare for the wedding. They’d set their hearts on the most fashionable kind of wedding—St. George’s in Hanover Square—and Miss Parsloe was intent on ordering her bride clothes from the most fashionable London modistes.

  The arrangement stood, then, firm and unalterable. He’d given his word; he was a betrothed man and he should not—could not—look at any other woman.

  To do so would compromise his honor—and hers.

  As he crossed the park in the center of the square, he saw two fashionable ladies being admitted to his house. A moment later another two stepped down from their carriage and mounted the steps of his new house. They too were admitted.

  Morning callers for Aunt Bea. Excellent. It was as he’d hoped: This location would make her much less isolated.

  Max quickened his pace. By the time he reached the house, two more carriages had disgorged their occupants, and fully half a dozen more people had entered Max’s house. What the devil was going on?

  Bemused, Max mounted the steps.

  “Lord Davenham, is it not?” a voice hailed him from behind.

  Max turned. An old friend of his aunt’s stood there beaming, a small, fussily dressed white-haired old gentleman. What was his name again? Sir something.

  “Don’t suppose you remember me, do you, Max, m’boy?” the old gentleman said. “You were a mere striplin’ the last time we met.”

  “Of course I remember you, sir, how do you do?” Max pumped the old gentleman’s hand, hoping the name would come to him. Sir Edward? Sir Oliver?

  The door opened, and they entered. “Ah, Sir Oswald,” Featherby greeted him as they entered. Sir Oswald Merridew, Max thought. Of course.

  Sir Oswald turned to Max. “Your aunt’s literary society is provin’ a great success.”

  “A literary society?” Max repeated blankly. He’d been gone not quite ten days. How had his aunt established a literary society in that time? Besides, a literary society? Aunt Bea?

  The old gentleman beamed. “Indeed, and not like the usual sort of literary society—all allusions and metaphorical whatsits and epigrammatic thingummies—frightful bore, that kind of thing, too clever for me by half. But this one . . .” He rubbed his hands. “Somethin’ to look forward to each visit—as good as going to the theater. Those pretty nieces of hers—Griselda’s gels—they do a splendid job of readin’, simply splendid.”

  “Gris—They aren’t Griselda’s girls. Griselda is just some nonsense my aunt made up. The young ladies are simply guests of my aunt, no relation at all.”

  Two ladies who had just entered exchanged speaking looks as they passed them in the hall. “I told you,” one said to the other. She gave Max a pitying look. The second lady tsked reproachfully at him.

  Sir Oswald drew Max aside and said in a confidential tone, “Don’t mind me sayin’ this, m’boy, but I’ve known you since you were breeched, and take it from one who knew both your father and your uncle—it’s time you accepted the truth about those gels. It’s the manly thing to do.”

  “But—”

  “To be sure, it’s a scandal—no family likes divorce—and one that was well hushed up at the time; I knew nothin’ about it, and I’m usually beforehand with the latest on dits—”

  Max gritted his teeth. “There was nothing to know—”

  “A shame you were raised in ignorance, when as the heir you should have been informed, but you do yourself—and your aunt—no good to deny those gels now they’re here. Why, society has taken those sweet young ladies to its bosom, and it’s clear your dear aunt is very fond of them, and they of her.” He patted Max on the arm in a fatherly manner. “So, best you just accept the gels for who they are, eh? Now, I’d best get along. I don’t want to be late. Might miss somethin’ excitin’.” He hurried along to the large drawing room, leaving Max in the hallway, shaking his head.

  “I trust your trip to Manchester was pleasant, my lord.” Featherby hovered at his elbow.

  “Complete waste of time,” Max said.

  “Indeed, m’lord, so we suspected when Mr. and Miss Parsloe called here not two days after you’d left. May I fetch you some refreshment?”

  “They called? Here?”

  “Indeed they did, m’lord. And Mr. Parsloe had a nice long chat with your aunt.”

  “Damn.”

  “Are you sure you won’t take some refreshment, m’lord?”

  “No, I want to see what’s happening. A literary society? Founded by a woman who’s never read a book in her life? What the devil is going on, Featherby?”

  “It’s not for a simple butler to say, m’lord.” Featherby bowed and glided away. Looking smug.

  Simple butler indeed. Max gritted his teeth and marched toward the large drawing room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “It is not every man’s fate to marry the woman who loves him best.”

  —JANE AUSTEN, EMMA

  The din was deafening. At least thirty people—all talking—were seated inside the room on chairs arranged in a semicircle. A good many were of his aunt’s vintage—ladies and a few gentlemen—but Max was surprised to see dotted among the throng a number of young ladies and, still more surprising, almost a dozen gentlemen of about his own age or younger. And not the sort of gentlemen who usually attended literary affairs.

  Facing the semicircle of visitors sat three of the Chance sisters. His heart leaped at the sight of Abby. She wore a dress in sprig muslin with a green velvet spencer that brought out the color of her eyes, and she’d done something different with her hair. He forced his gaze off her.

  His aunt, in an afternoon gown of claret satin that clashed superbly with her titian hair, sat to one side in her favorite chair. She was talking to someone and didn’t notice him enter. Daisy sat beside her.

  And there was Freddy, he was astonished to see, also to the side, but as near to the front as possible, wearing an expression strongly reminiscent of a dog guarding a bone. Max’s lips twitched. He’d swear Freddy had never so much as touched a book since he left school.

  His gaze returned to Abby. As if she knew he was there, she looked up, straight at him. Their eyes met. And held.

  Her sister nudged her. Abby blushed and hurriedly lifted a small, blue-bound book. “Chapter fifteen.” Her voice was low and clear and carried to all corners of the room. A ripple of pleasurable anticipation passed through the audience.

  A hush fell as she started to read: “‘Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been little assisted by education or society. . . . ‘”

  Good God, it really was some kind of a literary society.

  There was a spare chair at the back. Max sat down to observe.

  Abby read and everyone listened—he’d not heard such a hush except in church; even in theaters, people tended to talk. It wasn’t any hardship to listen; her voice was beautiful, and she read so well it was almost like having the story unroll in front of you.

  It was an entertaining story too, he had to concede; it even surprised a smile out of him once or twice.

  When she finished the chapter there was an audible sigh from the audience, and then the din broke out again as every per
son there seemed compelled to talk to his or her neighbor about the story. Cakes and wine were handed around, and it all seemed to be finished. Max stood, about to go over to greet Aunt Bea, when a clear young voice announced, “Chapter sixteen” and the hush fell again.

  This time Jane read, and though she was not as skilled a reader as her sister, the audience paid her rapt attention. Particularly the young men, he noticed. Aunt Bea was beaming. He didn’t think she’d spotted him yet. She waggled her brows at Abby with a quick triumphant expression.

  So that was what this was about.

  He glanced at Abby and found her watching him. She blushed and looked away. Ah, Aunt Bea had noticed him now. A series of expressions crossed her face—surprise, a kind of gleeful defiance, which made him smile—but then the glee faded and the expression that was left puzzled him; it almost looked like . . . a mixture of reproach and guilt and . . . grief?

  * * *

  “It’s all your uncle’s fault, I know. Tell me the worst.” The literary society meeting had finished and his aunt had retired to her bed, supposedly for a nap. Instead she’d summoned Max to interrogate him in private. “What was the extent of his debts? What did you have to do?”

  Max had no intention of telling his aunt anything. He’d spent the last nine years protecting her from the mess his uncle had left, so there was no reason to hash over the past. It would only upset her. “It’s not important now.”

  “Pshaw! Of course it’s important. It’s the reason you’re marrying that dreary Parsley child, isn’t it? The arrangement was made nine years ago—Papa Parsley said as much—and I can put two and two together. Besides, it’s as much my responsibility as yours.”

  “Nonsense. I was the heir.”

  “You were eighteen years old.”

  “Nevertheless, I managed.” Damn Parsloe for presenting himself to her without Max in attendance. She’d obviously done a great deal of thinking about the situation since then; she’d always been acute.