The Marriage Mart

by Teresa DesJardien

  A heavily loaded tea tray explained at a glance that their cook had been pressed to produce a number of wonders, not least of which was a spun-sugar bowl of tiny marzipan fruits, nearly hidden as it was among the tea cakes, trimmed sandwiches, fresh fruit tarts, sugared nuts, and cleverly carved and arranged slices of ham and cheese that he took to be a representation of the Yardley coat of arms.

  Having taken his midday meal just before he came, he found the display a bit overwhelming…and not just the edibles; also the daughter. Miss Yardley was dressed in the very latest frock, cut daringly low for a day dress, with a gossamer fabric that hinted at the charming form beneath. John found himself a trifle disconcerted that parents should allow such an ensemble, at least in the full light of day, and also for the blatant display of consent it so obviously implied. Should any of his nieces appear in such a rig, he’d order them straight back to their rooms.

  He found himself thinking he could very well have that ride alone in the dogcart with Miss Yardley, if he were to so much as open his mouth and mention the idea.

  Vowing in a moment’s time that if the girl’s papa, Sir Edmund, asked to speak a moment with him, John would at once have to develop a tremendous megrim, or some such by which to refuse such a meeting, for he could see they had every hope of an offer for their daughter’s hand. It couldn’t be clearer than if they’d hung a sign about her neck which read “take me, please”. And who could blame them? Even if their daughter became his marchioness and John proved to be cutting and shared nothing of his wealth with them, the Yardleys would still profit on the social scale by association alone.

  John accepted a cup of tea, trying to murmur small appropriate noises when he must, for his mind flitted yet, trying to slide away from attention to the conversation.

  It was not that he had no idea of how to undo their hopes, should he choose to--that was a simple thing, in fact. He was practiced at dashing presumptions. No, it was instead the unusual inability to decide if that was really what he wanted to do or not. They wanted him. Did he want the girl? He turned his gaze to the daughter of the house, and was rewarded by a bright, yes, even stunning, smile. It was an eager smile, one that promised much. And she was too young to promise those things in falsehood, of that he would swear. She was not capable of complicated games, as were others from his past.

  Even so little as a few years ago, he would have been deeply cautious--but time and experience had proved him grown not completely incapable of assessing others, so that now he felt some confidence in his conclusions. Should he rethink his first impulse to run and hide, allow himself to be open to the occasion? Mary had told him yes, and Mary cared for him. She would not deliberately lead him into harm’s way, of that, too, he could swear. No, that he knew.

  He settled back in the chair his hosts had offered him, and feeling rather uncharacteristically awkward and not some little bit uncertain, allowed them to paint a pretty, perfect, pastoral scene around him with their barely veiled hints at a more permanent connection. And though he was nobody’s fool, and could rightly call himself an intelligent man, all the while he wished Mary were here, for that sense of not quite understanding his own mind overcame him again, and he longed for her to explain it all to him.

  Chapter 13

  Mary found she was able to slide easily back into the world of parties and fetes, dances and card evenings. Her absence had only served to make her more sought after, as her brief sojourn meant she might have something new and interesting to say. And so she did, though she was careful to tell no tales on her hosts--not even so much out of good manners, but because such tales would serve to stir up longings in her to return there. And how easily she had forgotten London’s propriety! She chafed a little under the daily censure, the gossip that told all, that made one watch one’s tongue, but at the same time she welcomed it, for it kept her mind very busy, this routine of thrust and parry, come and go, take but not give, or at least give only a little in return.

  She had gone sailing with Lord Pentford, but that had proved to be a wretched event. She had been forced to dedicate nearly all her time to poor Mrs. Pennett, who alternately lay upon a bunk with a cool cloth to her head, or felt the need to hurry above “for air”. Mary did not know if seasickness was contagious, but after awhile she had not felt so well herself, and firmly made up her mind she was never sailing again, and so she knew she must discount Lord Pentford as a groom-to-be.

  Lieutenant Hargood had returned to London, and made a point of securing a dance from her whenever they met. She enjoyed his ability to move gracefully, and so often gave him two dances. If this occasioned some whispered speculations, well, that was to the good, as well. Lt. Hargood was a man with an ear for talk, and to hear of himself would not displease him; it might even steer him the sooner in the direction of more serious contemplations, Mary believed. She could not much care for the thought of being a military wife, having to move about or to await the man’s return from duty. Too, she did not think the lieutenant terribly well-to-do, but (as she told herself) “beggars can’t be choosers”. He was serious-minded, well-read, a fine dancer, and reasonably attractive. A woman could do much worse, Mary assured herself.

  Lord Faver still sought her out for dances as well, but he had a knack of wanting to talk softly through the exercise, causing Mary to have to often ask him to repeat himself. She amused herself with thoughts of a sort of verbal duel taking place, as they came together, called something quickly, came away, and back together for a reply or a call of “what was that?” Yet, when the dance was finished, and they were moved to the side of the room, he seemed to lose most of his ability to speak, only instead nodding or shaking his head and murmuring ‘hmmm-mmm’ in reply to her comments. Although his reticence did not unduly upset her, she did find herself wondering if he would be able to speak at all were they to find themselves alone together.

  Of her suitors, if such they could be called, it was Lord Bretwyn who seemed the most likely to possess both the ability to speak a proposal, as well as to initiate one. He was possessed of a bright mind, an ability to tell a tale or two, and a ready smile. Mary thought well of him, for it was clear he would be the kind to nurture the family fortunes rather than spend them; to have affections in this life, if perhaps not any grand passions; and to settle comfortably to the ways and works of a wedded pair. His only keen flaw was that he favored a pipe, but Mary knew such women as forbade them in their homes, and she suspected Bretwynwould not mind having an excuse to stroll to his club of an evening were she to follow their example. Yes, he had all these attributes, plus the reassuring one of seeking out her company deliberately. His sister had never again shown so overtly her interest in the two making a connection, but Mary was fairly sure she knew, if she were to ask outright, what Lady Hammand’s wish would be.

  It was therefore disheartening to find she had no real enthusiasm in the playing of the marriage mart game, and only wished time away, so that she could have already been given and accepted an offer. Yet, for all that Mary felt this way, she knew it was early days yet, and she could not rush her fences.

  It was in a rather melancholy frame of mind that she found herself at a Hazard party at Lord Faver’s. The play had not gone her way, and therefore in no way lightened her day. She had excused herself from the table and gone in search of punch for lack of anything more inspiring to do. Mrs. Pennett was not to be seen, and so was probably at the lady’s necessary, as she was nothing if she was not punctilious about attending her charge. Taking up a glass of punch, Mary decided to wander about until such time as Mrs. Pennett made her reappearance, and then she thought she might return home, the evening having been less than sparkling. There was no dancing, and Lord Pentford had avoided her ever since she’d had the poor grace to have a seasick companion, and Lt. Hargood was gone on duty again. Lord Faver was busy entertaining his guests, and the Bretwyns were not in attendance. Mary had already circled and chatted with the others present whom she knew, and did not relish the thought
of doing so again. It was natural then, surely, that her mind returned to the letter from John she had received just today.

  It had started with its usual protestations against his family, except for a happy point that told her Georgette was much on the mend. Then came a couple of bittersweet references to “your abandonment of me to my fate,” but then the tone had changed:

  Ah, Mary, I find myself thinking of you and my eldest protagonist (I mean Hortense, not Mama), closeted together with you so many times. I shudder to think what she must have told you of me! I was a beastly child, I feel sure--Mary had shaken her head, for she had never heard anything but what a delightful child he had been to his many sisters--but an even more beastly man. I feel somehow compelled to defend myself, to tell my side of the story, in my own way and words. Will you indulge me? If not--for nothing is more boring than when a man writes of himself--then you have but to burn this. But pray do not return the ashes to me, for I find I do not care to truly know if you have read these words or not. Foolish, I know, but you already knew this of me, and loved me anyway.

  What to say, now that I am down to it? What did Hortense whisper in your ear? Ah well, of my ‘supposed broken heart’, no doubt. And truth, dearest, is that she is right, in a way. I did break my heart. However, nearly fifteen years after, I have stitched it back together rather well, I say. Enough so that I do not look upon Miss Yardley with all-consuming terror, as once I might have done.

  And so the tale begins: I was a young lad. Not even twenty. An age of stupidity, all told. Aye, and even so for women, not just men. For this is the age when women make fateful life choices, sometimes based on nothing more than a notion, or as pathetic a thing as how a man may appear on the surface.

  Her name was Melinda. That is enough of a name by which to call her, as she is married now. She was fair, light and lovely. In truth, I do not remember her face well now, but do not think me too peculiar when I say I do recall she had lovely, even, white teeth. Such a smile! Radiant enough that it is what I retain of her now. As to her nose or eyes or chin, perhaps I would know them if I saw them, but I do not recall them particularly well, and neither do I try to do so. Perhaps I remember those teeth because she laughed all the time. I do not have a memory, scarce even one, where she is not laughing, not even at the end.

  After nine weeks of acquaintance, I bid her be my wife. She told me ‘yes’, and--now, remember you promised to blush no more before me (or even my written words)--I tell you she said ‘aye’ to more than just my title. We found ourselves tumbled together, in the way, I suppose, of many young lovers. I thought such intimacies meant we were ‘one’, as the ancient sayings go, and therefore did not think to question if that were so. I allowed myself to fall deeply in love with her--no, not with her, but what I thought her to be. And I allowed her murmured remarks as to my physical beauty--there speaks my vanity again!--to have the same sound to my young ears as would words of eternal devotion.

  Imagine my surprise when a week later we were engaged no more, and a month after that she was wed to another. I had thought, for a while, this was some kind of test or game, but I could not believe that any longer when I sat in the church and watched her take her vows to the other man. Of course, my father was well and hale in those days, and it seems the lady was not willing to wait to become a marchioness.

  ‘Well,’ I told myself, ‘I guess we were not meant to be.’ So, although I ached and sighed, and had grown much wiser by far, it wasn’t too long before I was foolish enough to try the whole again.

  Sandra was as dark as Melinda had been fair. She was much the same in style though, and I think that is what caught my eye at first. Ah, but how people told us of how fine we looked together! It was quite heady, to be part of such a pair. But, no longer being a green boy, I was much more cautious this time. We were betrothed for six months, during which time I was as chaste as any priest in a remote and womanless village. I thought me that if the lady could be devoted for a length of time, it would be proof of her future steadfastness.

  They say God watches over fools, and it must be true. The day came when I was convinced of her, and so she allowed me to know more than the touch of her lips on mine. But she had miscalculated, for though I was young and had been a long time celibate, I was no longer a complete fool. It was clear that here was no maiden.

  And still, I meant to be not too judgmental, not too exacting, and thought of Melinda, and how I had not left her intact for her eventual husband. But some wise voice whispered in my head, and I told the lady I must delay the wedding a while yet. She was not happy for it, and talked to me often to try and persuade me otherwise, but it was not two months later that there was no disguising the fact she was increasing, and by the advanced thickening of her waist that it could not possibly be my child. The proof of this was come into the world four months later, a big, healthy, timely baby girl.

  There then, are my tales. I am not afraid to tell you I sought no faithfulness after that. I have slept where I was bidden, but I have never pretended to desire anything more than amusement. There is not a woman who could say otherwise. I’ve made no promises. I know you have heard rumors of my antics, and quite some few of them are true, as I have never tried to hide from you, but never were promises of any kind uttered.

  They say the measure of a friend is when they know you well, and love you still. I pray--again my Mary has me praying!--that you will love me still, as ever I adore you.

  (I realize it is not quite the same thing, for I am wicked, and you are not, but perhaps my sad stories have moved your heart a little, and you are not quite ready to cast me off.)

  John

  Remembering the letter, and how the words--words of pain and heartache, of betrayal and trust gone awry--those things he had written between the lines of script, perhaps without even meaning to, had caught at her heart. He had silently pleaded for forgiveness, as if it was hers to give, but it was not. Forgiveness must come of himself, though the thought that he believed there was much to forgive made her eyes glisten with unshed tears for him. She understood then that to host a great beauty could be as heavy a burden as to have a face that held no beauty at all.

  It was then, as she stood in an alcove, staring off into space with eyes that shone with tears in the candlelight, that a shadow fell over her and caused her to slowly recall herself, and turn to see who was come to her side.

  “Lady Mary, how very great a pleasure to see you again.”

  She managed a smile with one side of her mouth, but even that quickly faded as she kept herself from sighing at his reappearance at the same event she had chosen to attend. “Lord Stephens.” She curtsied instead of uttering lies about it being her pleasure to see him again.

  “Ah, even though it yet rains, I vow the sun has come out for me, now I see you again,” he said, catching up her hand to bow low over it.

  She pulled her hand away as soon as she could, only grateful that he had not kissed it.

  He had noticed her quick withdrawal. “Lady Mary, I do not know why you have taken me in such dislike,” he said, and there was hurt in his voice, enough to make her instantly regret she had not tried to be more subtle. But his next words erased that softer feeling, as he said, “But I assure you I am as fine a fellow as any of these that you pursue.”

  “Hmmm,” she said, unable to scold since it was only the truth, if poorly done to speak so baldly.

  “You would do well to consider,” he pressed. “I, too, am a man of some years, in need of a wife, and therefore not so particular as some. Come, we are of an age to be less coy, so I tell you honestly your shocked looks do not give my tongue the order to cease and desist. Why not be forthright? For what other purpose do you frolic here? Indeed, Lady Mary, put an end to all this posturing and wondering of ‘who’ and ‘when’, and take me. We could be wed in a week’s time, if we should so wish it. That would suit us both, would it not?”

  She stared at him, some part of her brain thinking he was as outspoken as her be
loved marquess--but there was a world of difference between these cutting words and John’s, for the one was ill-spoken, and the other meant to amuse her and never to wound.

  Another shadow fell across her, and Lord Stephens as well. It was John standing there, and John saying quietly, “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

  He reached out a hand, his thumb and forefinger closing in a tight pinch upon Lord Stephens’ nose.

  “Ouch!” cried the man, but as his hands would have come up to bat away Rothayne’s offending touch, one was caught in John’s own large hand. It was a moment’s work to step to one side of Stephens and bring his arm up behind his back, causing the man to give another bellow of pain, his nose still held aloft by that firm grip.

  “Pray offer your apologies to the lady,” John said calmly.

  “My abologies,” Lord Stephens tried to say. “Ow! Wothayne, you are hurding me!”

  “Yes, quite. Now, explain to the lady that you will never offend her with your presence again.”

  Lord Stephens gave John a wild-eyed look, but an extra tug at his nose caused him to cry out hurriedly, “I was twying to be logical, dat’s all. An old maid, an old man--Ouch! You bwute! Let go of me, I say--Ow! Aw wight, aw wight! Lady Mawwy, I will not bovver you again. Ever. I know when I’m not wanted.”

  “At last,” John said. “Now we will go and make your excuses to our host, shall we?”

  Mary’s gaze followed them from the alcove, her hands covering her mouth to hold back hiccups of surprise, and she watched as Lord Stephens was escorted by his nose past Lord Faver, allowed to pause just long enough to give another holler by way of a farewell, and then he was ushered out the door. Titters from the many observant eyes then broke out, which rolled on as John returned to the room. He carefully dusted his hands together, like a man who has just carried old ashes out to the dustbin, and was heard to murmur, “It’s the only way to handle some bull-headed fellows,” which was followed by even more laughter.