by Sandra Heath
“I’m just as bad, so you mustn’t blame him. Actually, he’s great fun to be with, and I like him very much.” He looked at her. “He does have Stukeley’s book. It’s called An Account of the Avenbury Curse. Mama, you do know about the curse, don’t you? Only, when Bysshe blurted it out, I thought it came as a complete shock to you.”
“Perry, I’d rather not discuss—”
He interrupted, looking intently at her. “Bysshe says it’s true, Mama.”
“The writing of a book on a subject doesn’t make it true. You know what I think of superstition, Perry.”
“Yes, you dismiss it as nonsense. But I believe in magic and the supernatural.”
“Oh, Perry.”
“And so does Bysshe. He’s always reading books about that sort of thing. He says that every Lord Avenbury is destined to die young because in 1534 the first lord deliberately broke up a sacred druidic rite at the stone circle that encloses the village of Avenbury. It’s the largest circle in the whole of England,” Perry added.
Marigold had to look away, for she could hear Rowan by the Druid Oak. My name is Rowan, and I am the thirteenth Lord Avenbury ... The only other things you need to know about me are that I am wealthy, and completely at liberty to offer marriage. Oh, and that I would regard it as an honor to protect you and your son.
Perry spoke again. “It’s all in Stukeley, Mama. If you ask Lord Avenbury, he’ll have to admit it.”
Footsteps sounded on the grass, and Bessie hurried up. “Begging your pardon, madam, Master Perry, but Lord Avenbury says it’s time to leave.” Perry got up quickly, and assisted his mother to her feet. Sir Francis stirred as well, shook his feathers, then waddled after Perry, who ran toward the house.
Marigold paused beneath the willow to smooth her skirts. There was a flutter of little wings overhead, and Marigold was so attuned to the sound that she knew it would be the robin. He hopped along a branch and then cocked his head to look down at her. She saw immediately that he wasn’t alone, for a tiny brown wren was at his side. They perched together, so like sweethearts that Marigold almost expected the robin to put his wing around his diminutive companion. Robin Redbreast and Jenny Wren, she thought, for in times gone by the two birds had always been spoken of as a pair.
The wren sang a few sad, sweet notes, then both birds flew off again. Marigold’s eyes filled with tears as she watched them disappear, for there had been something desperately sorrowful about the brief little song.
Chapter Nine
Two days later Marigold and Rowan were married by special license at the Grosvenor Chapel in Mayfair. The midday sun was shining brightly as Rowan greeted the fine town carriage conveying his bride and her son. He wore the bridegroom’s traditional brass-buttoned royal blue coat, and white waistcoat and breeches, and was accompanied by two strangers, a country gentleman and his lady who happened to be passing by, and who had gladly agreed to be witnesses.
As her bridegroom kissed her on the cheek, Marigold was immediately conscious of a change in him, and for a dismayed moment she wondered if he was about to cancel everything. It was a fear that had lurked at the back of her mind ever since the visit to Eton, and was entirely due to the so-called Avenbury curse, about which she had tried on several occasions to speak to him. But he had resolutely—even angrily—refused to discuss it. The atmosphere between them had become tense because she found it as hard to leave the matter alone as he did to speak of it. Now as he handed her toward the chapel steps, she was afraid her persistence had proved too much.
She paused in the doorway, nervously arranging her skirt and then toying with her posy of marigolds. Marigolds were said to be for marriage, but right now she felt they must be the opposite! She almost turned back to the carriage before he could shun her at the altar, but then common sense took over, and she relaxed a little.
He was dressed as a bridegroom, he had secured two witnesses, and he had greeted her with a kiss; none of which he was likely to have done if he no longer intended to marry her. Nor would he have settled Perry’s fees, acquired a fine suite of rooms for her at the luxurious Pulteney Hotel in Piccadilly, arranged for their departure for Avenbury Park in the morning, or sent a fashionable couturier to show her a dazzling new wardrobe of the most stylish clothes imaginable.
The Pulteney was acknowledged as the finest hotel in London, and the couturier, who was the most sought-after, had supplied the prospective Lady Avenbury with a number of clothes that had been cancelled at the last minute by a notoriously fickle duchess who happened to be Marigold’s size. The gown chosen for the wedding was part of this elegant wardrobe. It was made of pearl-stitched cream silk, and showed off her red-gold hair and the marigolds in her posy.
Thus the most startling wedding of the Season proceeded without society realizing. The names of the bride and groom meant nothing to the witnesses, the couturier was prized for her discretion, the clergyman had not broadcast the ceremony, and no one at the Pulteney knew of their lady guest’s intimate connection with Lord Avenbury.
Perry discharged his duty proudly, in spite of looking decidedly under the weather due to what did indeed seem like the onset of chicken pox. He escorted his mother down the aisle, and then solemnly gave her hand to her new husband. There was only one brief interruption, and that was caused by another appearance by the robin.
Without Jenny Wren, he flew in through the open door and perched on the polished brass eagle lectern, where he began to sing his heart out. Marigold turned with a smile, for she had come to regard the little bird almost as a friend. As she wondered again why he seemed to follow wherever she went, the clergyman saw him too, and exclaimed in horror. Robins were bad luck indoors, he cried, and temporarily abandoned the ceremony in order to rid his chapel of such a harbinger of doom. Vestments billowing, he tried to shoo the bird toward the chapel door, and it was such a comical sight that Perry choked with laughter, Marigold wanted to giggle, and even the witnesses found it something to smile at, but Rowan frowned and turned toward the altar again. Marigold’s mirth was extinguished, and her insecurity swept back. What was wrong? Why had he changed so much? She felt as if he were pushing her away instead of drawing her closer.
Suddenly the robin decided to fly away of its own accord, and the flustered clergyman returned to the altar. Marigold remembered little of the remainder of the service, except the moment Rowan slipped the wedding band on her finger, and they were pronounced man and wife. This time Rowan did not seal the moment with a kiss, but turned to politely thank the witnesses. As the small wedding party emerged into the sunlight again, Marigold felt more like crying than smiling.
Rowan made an effort to be amiable for the fine French meal he, Marigold, and Perry enjoyed afterward at the Pulteney. Perry chattered happily during the drive back to Eton, telling his mother and new stepfather about the elaborate system he and Bysshe had devised for keeping Sir Francis out of Dr. Bethel’s path. The mallard, it seemed, was sticking to the boys like a shadow, and no matter how many times they took him to the river, he always came back. Now they’d given up, and were resigned to his presence.
After leaving Perry at Eton, the return journey to Rowan’s town residence in Berkeley Square was conducted in virtual silence. Marigold became more and more ill at ease, and by the time the carriage drew up at the house, she was again close to tears. Had she made a monumental error of judgment by marrying this unpredictable man? Tomorrow they were to leave London for Avenbury Park in Wiltshire, where they would be alone except for the servants. Could she endure it?
They went inside, and her hand trembled as she placed her posy upon the table in the echoing green marble entrance hall. She glanced around. Lofty columns rose into the shadows of the upper stories, an imposing double staircase dominated one side, and unsmiling statues gazed from all directions. It was far from welcoming.
Rowan tossed his upturned top hat beside her posy, together with his gloves. “It would seem the deed is done, Marigold,” he murmured, toying with the fril
l at his cuff as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
She had to say something. She steeled herself, and then faced him. “Thus far ours is a marriage in name only, so if you have regrets, sir, there is still time to undo it.”
“I do not wish to undo anything. Except perhaps ...” He broke off.
“Except perhaps what?” she asked.
He looked at her. “Nothing you need be concerned about. Tomorrow we leave for Avenbury Park, but this evening you and I are attending Vauxhall Gardens.”
She was unprepared. “Oh, I—I’d rather not...” she began, for she had imagined they would spend the evening quietly and then set off early for Wiltshire.
He took no notice of her protest. “I have reserved a box at the gardens. We will dine, enjoy the concert, and then observe the fireworks display afterward.
“Lady Fernborough will be there,” she said quietly, knowing that Alauda would have returned from Castell Arnold by now, and that when in town she seldom missed the concerts at the famous gardens. Knowing also that it was at Vauxhall that Alauda’s liaison with him had begun.
“Most of the ton will be there, Marigold,” he pointed out, glancing at the butler, who waited at a discreet distance.
“Does she know about us?” It was an unwritten rule that a wife should never mention her husband’s mistress, especially in the presence of a servant, but Marigold couldn’t help herself.
There was a disapproving pause before he replied. “No.”
“But, surely—” Marigold blundered on.
“My marital arrangements are no concern of hers,” he interrupted tersely, and waved the butler away.
“No concern of your mistress?” Marigold’s discretion vanished over the horizon.
“Nor are my private arrangements any concern of yours, madam,” he added very coolly.
Her knuckles had been rapped, and she knew it. Resentment and humiliation flushed into her cheeks as she fell into a mutinous silence. He’d just made her his wife, so how dared he say his private arrangements were none of her concern!
He realized he’d been a little heavy-handed, and extended an olive branch. “Forgive me, Marigold, I did not mean to be so harsh.”
Oh, yes, you did, she thought, but managed to find a smile of sorts. “You will have to forgive me as well, sir, for the lady in question has always appointed herself grand bane of my life. When I left Wales, I hoped I’d left all things Arnold, now it seems I must still endure her.”
“A fact that was known to you from the outset of our acquaintance,” he observed reasonably.
“Knowing and accepting are sometimes poles apart.”
“You need have no fear that she will encroach.”
“I sincerely hope not, sir.”
“If she is at Vauxhall tonight, do I have your word that any encounter will be conducted with dignity?”
“My behavior has never been questionable, sir, but hers certainly has.”
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “This, er, contretemps, has only arisen because we are going to Vauxhall tonight. The whole purpose of the excursion is to acquaint London with our nuptials, so that our scandalous bones can be chewed during our absence in Wiltshire. Now then, the subject of a certain lady is banned from now on, are we agreed?”
She met his gaze. “Rowan, where you are concerned, there are too many banned subjects.”
He immediately drew away. “All in good time, Marigold.”
“But you can’t possibly believe in such things as curses! This is 1806, not the Dark Ages!”
“And you, I suppose, are the personification of enlightened womanhood?”
“Well, this is supposedly an enlightened age!” she retorted. “You’re being very unfair, Rowan. I’m your wife now.”
“I know I’m being unfair, damn it!” He ran his fingers through his hair, and then took her hand. “I didn’t expect to find it so difficult to tell you, Marigold, and if I’m treating you shabbily as a consequence, I apologize. The curse isn’t something my family has ever cared to broadcast, and if it weren’t for that damned Stukeley volume, Bysshe wouldn’t know, and neither would you.”
“But I have a right to know.”
“Maybe so, just as I have a right to feel reluctant to talk of something that has dogged my family ever since the sixteenth century.”
She could not deny the reasonableness of this. “I—I’m sorry I’ve harped on so. Please forgive me.”
“There is nothing for me to forgive, Marigold, on the contrary, the forgiveness must come from you to me. Were the situation reversed right now, I have no doubt that I would be far less tolerant and understanding than you. I’m not shutting you out deliberately, I’m merely trying to find the right moment. And the right words,” he added, before drawing her palm to his lips.
His lips were soft and warm against her skin, and she suppressed a delicious shiver of pleasure. “There is no curse, Rowan, and I will prove it,” she whispered.
“And how do you imagine you will do that?”
“I don’t know, but somehow I will.”
Chapter Ten
There was no bridge across the Thames near Vauxhall Gardens, which lay on the south bank, so most people arrived by water. Darkness had almost fallen, and thousands of little colored lamps twinkled among the ornamental trees.
There were twelve acres of avenues, cascades, pavilions, obelisks, triumphal arches, and grottoes, all laid out in the formal splendor of the middle of the previous century. Some of the avenues and grottoes were less well lit, and as a consequence were much resorted to for flirtation, assignation, and intrigue.
Music drifted on the sweet summer air, and a fashionable crowd had already arrived as the boatman Rowan had hired maneuvered his craft through the crush at the stairs, and made it fast.
Marigold wore a simple décolleté silk gown that was muted orange-gold in color, and her new maid had pinned her hair into an intricate style. As she prepared to let Rowan help her ashore, she knew she looked as well as possible. If only she felt as good on the inside, but she didn’t. Her stomach was knotted, and she was almost sick with nerves as Rowan stepped ashore.
The diversions at Vauxhall Gardens were breathtaking, and under any other circumstances she would have enjoyed them all, but she knew the beau monde was about to be startled in no small way by the new Lady Avenbury. That was bad enough as far as she was concerned, but worse by far was the possibility of encountering Alauda.
She glanced at Rowan. Oh, how easy it was to see what drew Alauda to him. Like most of the other gentlemen, he wore the formal attire that was de rigueur at Vauxhall, a black brocade coat, lace-trimmed shirt, white silk waistcoat and breeches, and a tricorn hat, but he stood out. With his tall elegance, and darkly handsome looks, he more than warranted his reputation as one of England’s most fascinating and attractive men. But was he also the final victim of an ancient druidic curse, and doomed to die young, no matter what?
He held a hand out to his bride, and before she knew it, he’d pulled her close to put his lips to hers. It was a very public kiss, with people brushing past them on the crowded steps, but she felt as if they were alone. Wanton feelings began to race through her again, desires that longed to be satisfied.
Tonight she knew he would come to her, and oh, the pleasure she would know when she surrendered to him. Let the intervening hours pass quickly, but let the night go slowly. Oh, so slowly ... He released her, severing the train of thought as a druid’s golden sickle severed mistletoe. “Come, Lady Avenbury, let us face the world,” he said softly.
Marigold’s introduction to the ton of London was postponed just a little because she and Rowan chose to perambulate the gardens before joining the main throng of fashionable guests in the Grand Walk. From then on, however, the new bride was the center of attention, and found it a most disagreeable experience.
Rowan presented her as the former Mrs. Arnold, and at first, since Arnold wasn’t a name exclusive to Falk’s family, no one made the con
nection. However, the usual pleasantries soon elicited the necessary information, and after a while she was aware that her identity was known more and more to those to whom she was introduced. This was because whispers were in circulation behind her back. It seemed that some of London’s most fashionable salons were already acquainted with the titillating story of Merlin’s will.
The Arnold version of events naturally made certain that she figured to great disadvantage, in fact as little more than a kept woman with a child born the wrong side of the blanket. She endured the stir as best she could, thinking how very unfair it all was, for she had been married to Merlin, and Perry wasn’t illegitimate.
Glancing around at the whispering lips, raised fans, and scrutinizing eyeglasses, she could not help wondering if Rowan had really considered the many disadvantages of marrying someone who had nothing to offer except an undeserved but shocking reputation.
She was relieved when the time came to retreat to the row of supper boxes, which stood across the Grand Walk, directly opposite the orchestra pavilion. From here the concert could be enjoyed while sampling chicken salad, followed by Madeira cake, both courses enjoyed with champagne. Champagne was Marigold’s favorite drink, but it was inclined to go a little to her head, so tonight she was particularly resolved not to drink more than two glasses. It was a resolution that was not to be adhered to for long.
The June evening was warm and balmy, a tenor and soprano were singing duets, and the supper was excellent. Rowan seemed oblivious to the effect his bride had upon everyone. He made her smile by recounting amusing stories, one of which made her laugh outright, since it concerned a plump but odious fellow she had detected in the act of relating her supposed past to a group of companions.
The story revolved around the ice that had been used to chill the champagne they were drinking. Such a precious item was not easily acquired, and the management of the gardens had procured it the previous month from a vessel from Iceland that happened also to be patronized by Messrs Gunter, the famous confectioners of Berkeley Square. It seemed that the Gunters considered the entire cargo to be theirs, and from all accounts there had been a most unseemly quayside fracas. Insults had been hurled, tempers had flared, and the representative from Gunter’s— to wit, said plump and disagreeable tittle-tattler—had been deposited ignominiously in the Thames.