by M. C. Beaton
The church was damp and smelly and cold, and Penelope shivered her way through the marriage service with the vicar’s spinster sister as bridesmaid while Lord Andrew had the ancient sidesman as bridesman.
For a time it seemed as if the wedding ceremony would drag on forever, but the vicar, getting thirsty, brought his sermon to an abrupt end, and they found themselves outside the church again, this time as man and wife.
They walked along in silence. Penelope felt awful. She had drunk too much the night before, and her head ached. Flashes of memory began to dart through her brain. Village girls talking and giggling about their wedding nights. “I declare, it hurt so bad, I thought I was like to die.” “They never tell you you’ll have to put up with that.” “There was blood all over the sheets.”
Passion withered and died.
Lord Andrew wondered if there was madness in his family. Here he was after a squalid ceremony, married to a lady of whom he knew little apart from the tartness of her tongue and the independence of her mind. The wave of feverish passion that had consumed him all the night before receded, leaving him escorting this little stranger along the street of a market town. He looked down at Penelope’s beauty, and all he could think of was how she had looked with her spectacles on the end of her nose. Her eyes had been too sharp and intelligent for a woman.
“What shall we do now?” asked Penelope in a little voice.
“Go back to the inn, I suppose,” he said in dull, flat tones. “I need some sleep before my journey on.”
“Journey where?”
“To my home, Baxley Manor, in Shropshire.”
“Oh.”
“Did you have other plans?” he asked sarcastically.
“No,” said Penelope dismally. “I shall probably never see my little cottage again.”
“You can see that hovel of yours any time you want.”
“There is no need to be so rude about it. I think you are a bully and you have a very low opinion of women. Perhaps you should have married someone stupid.”
“It appears I did.”
Penelope looked at him, at the shadows under his eyes and the bitter, disappointed twist to his mouth. Something had to be done. Instead of shouting at him, she said candidly, “What on earth possessed us to get married? We are quarreling already, and you are wondering what came over you.”
She linked her hands over his arm and looked anxiously up into his face. “Did you have to pay that vicar an awful lot of money?”
“No, not terribly much. Not as much as I expected.”
Penelope’s face cleared and she gave a little skip and jump. “There you are then. It is all very simple. All you have to do is go back and bribe him again and get the marriage lines torn up!”
“I said I would marry you, and I have married you, so let that be an end of it.”
“No, I won’t!” said Penelope, stopping in the middle of the busy main street and facing him. “I won’t be married to someone who looks as if he has just received a prison sentence.”
“My dear child, there is no need for these dramatics.”
“Every need, my dear lummox. I do not hide behind social lies and correct social behavior. I am not going to be tied for life to someone who despises me and talks down to me!”
He passed a weary hand over his face. “I shall sleep first,” he said, “and talk to you afterwards.”
“But, Andrew, you must listen to sense!”
He took her arm and roughly hustled her along, lecturing her on her behavior as he went. He was still nagging as they went upstairs to their room, where he at last stopped railing at her. He threw himself facedown on the bed and, in a minute, he was asleep. Penelope glared at him. Then gradually her face softened. Poor Perfect Gentleman, used to being flattered and fawned on all his life. Loved for his money, loved for his title, loved by all except his own mother and father. Penelope leaned down and gently stroked the heavy black hair which was tumbled over his forehead. She loved him still, and she knew she could not bear to be married to him if he did not love her with equal force. His passion for her would return after he had rested, but she would know it was merely a transient lust without respect.
In the years to come, he would thank her for what she was about to do.
She knew he kept the bulk of his money in a drawer in his traveling toilet case. She gently slid a hand into his pocket and dew out his keys, trying one after the other until she found the one that fitted the money drawer. She extracted a thick wedge of five-pound notes and peeled off six. What monstrous great white things they were, thought Penelope, who, like most of the population, hardly ever saw a five-pound note. Like pocket handkerchiefs!
She put on her bonnet and pelisse and made her way back to the church. There was no sign of the vicar, but the verger, who was sweeping out the pews, told her she could find him at the vicarage, which was round the back.
Penelope picked her way along an unsavory lane and round to a low door in a brick wall on which “Vicarage” had been chalked in a shaky hand. There was no bell or knocker. She banged on the door with her fists.
No reply.
She looked about her and found an empty gin bottle a little way away and proceeded to apply it energetically to the door until it shattered and nearly cut her. She was about to scream with frustration when the door opened and the vicar stood swaying in front of her.
“Ish the bride,” he said. He executed a great leg with a long scrape, fell forward, and clutched at her for support.
“Come inside, Mr. Ponsonby,” said Penelope sternly. “I have business with you.”
It took her an hour of pleading and raging and threats of legal action to get Mr. Ponsonby to strike the record of the marriage off the parish books. Thrifty Penelope, satisfied that she had achieved her ends without paying a single penny of Lord Andrew’s money to get them, returned to the inn and quietly entered the bedroom. The marriage lines were lying on the desk by the window. She tore them up, drew forward a letter, explained she had canceled the marriage, wished Lord Andrew well, and left both letter and torn marriage lines on the desk along with five of the five-pound notes.
She quietly packed her own case and, thankful it was a small one, picked it up and made her way out of the room and out of the inn. She asked directions to the nearest livery stable and, offering the five-pound note, hired a post chaise to take her back to Lower Bexham.
Triumph at having overcome all difficulties so quickly buoyed her up for part of the journey, but all the aches and pains of love soon returned. She looked out at the countryside, eyes hot and dry with unshed tears. Then she took out her spectacles and put them on her nose.
Miss Penelope Mortimer had decided to renounce men for life.
Chapter 10
The Duke of Parkworth read a very long and complicated notice in the newspaper which stated, as far as he could gather, that Miss Ann Worthy was engaged to the Duke of Harford and that her previous engagement to Lord Andrew Childe was to be considered null and void.
He scratched his head, took a sip of hot chocolate, and turned to more interesting news. His desire to aid his wife in her campaign against Penelope had withered and died. He was as fond of his duchess as he could be of anyone, but even he was beginning to find her scenes wearisome. He even found it in his heart to envy Lord Andrew, who was well away from the storms and upheavals. He assumed his son must have set that Mortimer girl up as his mistress by now and vaguely wished him well.
But when he eventually collected the morning papers and wandered into the morning, it was to find his wife looking much her old self. She appeared calm and rational and began to discuss the idea of turning one of the bedrooms into a bathroom with running water.
“Are you sure?” asked the duke. “All this washing all over is newfangled nonsense. Do you know some fanatics even soap themselves all over! It’s a wonder their skin don’t fall off.”
“It’s a matter of keeping up with the times,” said the duchess practically. “The
Dempseys have a very pretty one. The bath is shaped like a cockleshell, and it has a machine at one end to heat the water.”
“Waste of money,” said her husband. “Why keep a lot of servants who are perfectly well able to carry hot water up from the kitchens and then heat the stuff yourself?”
“It’s a fashion,” said the duchess patiently, “like Mr. Brummell’s starched cravats.”
“Oh.” The duke’s face cleared. “Well, so long as you don’t expect me to use it. It’s sweat, you know, that keeps a man clean.”
“Good. I shall call in an architect and have the plans drawn up.”
“Seem like your old self again,” said the duke. “Forgotten about the Mortimer girl, hey?”
“Oh, yes. I feared, you know, that Andrew might be stupid enough to marry her. But he always does the right thing. He will simply set her up as his mistress until he tires of her. She teaches music, you know, so when he is wearied of her, he will be able to buy her a little seminary in Bath.”
“All this matchmaking is a bore,” yawned the duke, “whatever side of the blanket it’s on. How on earth do you think Harford managed to propose to Miss Worthy, or do you think she proposed to him?”
“WHAT?” The duchess turned a dangerous color.
“It’s in the paper,” said her husband, who had not been looking at her and therefore did not see the danger signals. “She’s finished with Andrew and is getting herself hitched to Harford.”
“No she is not!” screamed the duchess. “No one… do you hear me… no one jilts a member of my family.”
“Come now. You said yourself you had brought down a mother’s curse on Andrew’s head and all that. You can’t curse people,” said the duke practically, “and then start ranting and raving if they have a bad time of it, though if you ask me, Andrew’ll probably be glad to get free of that frosty-faced antidote. Never liked her.”
“Miss Worthy is a perfect lady. Entirely suitable. Good family, good fortune. It’s that Penelope Mortimer. She ruined everything with her blowsy blond looks. Oh, that I had never seen her!”
The butler came in. “There is a person to see Your Grace.”
“Which Grace?” asked the duke.
“Both, Your Grace.”
“And who is this person?”
“A Mr. Baxter.”
“Send him packing.”
The butler bowed and retreated.
“I shall go to Ann Worthy, and I shall tell her what I think of her,” said the duchess. “She will be sorry she ever was born. To think how that Blenkinsop female must be crowing over me. It’s past bearing.”
The butler came in again. “Mr. Baxter will not go away. He says this can either be settled amicably or he will return with the Bow Street magistrate.”
“What are you talking about?” screeched the duchess. “Don’t stand there gawping.” She threw a plate of toast in the butler’s face and immediately felt much better.
“He says Lord Andrew seduced Miss Mortimer, and he has witnesses to prove it,” said the butler, picking bits of toast from his livery.
At that, Mr. Baxter himself walked into the room.
The duke took one horrified look at Mr. Baxter’s somber black clothes, fringe, low collar, square-toed shoes, and said, “Damme, if it ain’t a Methody. Throw him out.”
Mr. Baxter raised his arms above his head. “God grant me strength to bring light into the black souls of these decadent people,” he shouted.
“I said throw him out,” snapped the duke.
Two large footmen came running up the stairs, alerted by the shouts. They picked up Mr. Baxter and carried him out. He went as stiff as a board, so they hoisted him up on their shoulders and carried him down the stairs as if bearing off a corpse.
“I didn’t hear anything, did you?” said the duchess, dabbing her mouth with her napkin.
“No, my love,” said the duke, who knew his wife well.
“And I shall never mention Miss Mortimer’s name again. She does not exist.”
“Quite.”
“I must have Perkins to set out my best tenue, for as you know, that toad Blenkinsop gives a breakfast, and I intend to put her in her place.”
“I don’t know why they call these affairs, which begin at three in the afternoon and go on till all hours in the morning, breakfasts,” said the duke. “I don’t want to go.”
“Never thought you did,” said his wife. She half rose, and then sat down. “Tell me, was there a most odd man in here talking rubbish a moment ago?”
“I think we imagined him.”
At that, the duchess did stand up and placed a kiss on top of her husband’s head.
“You are quite right, Giles. You are always right,” she said.
At Maria Blenkinsop’s breakfast, the duchess resorted to the Duke of Harford’s tactics by going stone-deaf when anyone asked her about her son’s engagement. Miss Amy Tilney, who really wanted to be assured that Penelope was well, plucked up her courage and approached the duchess only to retreat trembling before a basilisk stare.
Tables had been set out in the gardens of Mrs. Blenkinsop’s Kensington villa. Kensington was only a mile outside London, far enough away to give the benefits of fresh air, but not far enough away from town to be vulgar.
Everyone was chattering and exclaiming over the beauty of the weather and saying they could never remember England enjoying such idyllic sunshine.
Despite her envy of Maria Blenkinsop, the duchess began to enjoy herself. Her new gown of watered silk had, she knew, struck an arrow of jealousy into Mrs. Blenkinsop’s breast. No longer plagued with questions about Lord Andrew, the duchess settled down to enjoy her food. On the terrace which ran along the outside of the house a little orchestra was playing. The famous diva, Madame Cuisemano, was shortly to entertain them.
Mrs. Blenkinsop waved the orchestra into silence. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “May I present Madame Cuisemano!”
There was a ripple of applause and then silence as Mr. Baxter walked onto the stage.
He was burning up with rage and fury. He had gone to Bow Street, where an alarmed magistrate, on hearing talk of perfidious dukes and duchesses, had told him he would be put in Bedlam if he did not leave. So Mr. Baxter had returned to Park Street, seen the duchess leaving, and had run all the way behind her carriage to Kensington. He had entered the villa by climbing over the back wall.
As he walked onto the terrace, he saw them all, sitting before him, the hated aristocracy. Their jewels winked and glittered in the sunlight, mounds of exotic dishes were laid out in front of them; he saw their haughty, hard, staring eyes and knew with all the passion of a martyr that he would gladly go to the gallows provided he could tell them exactly what he thought of them first.
“You have all sinned!” he cried, his eyes glittering. “You are useless, bejeweled worms. You stink of iniquity.”
Two burly servants crept towards him.
The Duchess of Parkworth heaved a sigh of relief.
The Countess of Winterton, a great social leader, suddenly jumped to her feet and cried, “Let us hear this divine preacher. You are a wonder, Maria. Such originality!”
There was a spattering of appreciative applause, and then they all settled down and listened with great enjoyment as Mr. Baxter ripped them all to pieces. But when he began to outline the sad plight of Penelope Mortimer, he had them sitting, breathless, on the edge of their seats. “I can see her now,” ended Mr. Baxter, “carrying her baby—”
“Jolly fast birth, what!” a young man cried, and was scolded into silence.
“Carrying her baby through the snow,” Mr. Baxter went on “while Lord Andrew goes on to seduce yet another fair maid. They must marry!”
“Poor Lord Andrew, poor Penelope,” whispered Amy Tilney to her fiancé, Ian Macdonald. “What are we to do?”
“Absolutely nothing,” said Ian Macdonald cheerfully. “Let this madman have his say. Andrew will have him in prison for libel soon enough.
”
“They must marry,” repeated Mr. Baxter passionately. “Justice must be done. Now, let us pray.”
There was a shuffling and rustling and whispering as the delighted guests got down on their knees. When the prayer was finally over, Mr. Baxter solemnly blessed them all and urged them to see the folly of their ways. Then he stood in the sunlight and blinked as deafening applause sounded in his ears.
“For the poor,” said the Countess of Winterton languidly. She unclasped a gold necklace and tossed it at Mr. Baxter’s feet. Brooches, necklaces, bracelets, and all sorts of expensive baubles followed.
“I have never felt quite so exalted in my life,” sighed Mrs. Partridge to the duchess.
The duchess rose to her feet. She walked straight up to Mr. Baxter and hissed, “Follow me!”
“Do not worry, dear sir,” cooed Mrs. Blenkinsop. “My servants shall collect all the jewels for you.”
The duchess marched into a music room which led off the terrace and sat down. Mr. Baxter stood in front of her.
“Hear this,” said the duchess. “Penelope Mortimer is a heartless slut. She betrayed my trust. I am always helping the unfortunate. I took her out of poverty and took her into my home and gave her a Season, and this is how she repays me.”
“But right must be done. She must be married.”
The duchess ignored him. “For years I have been helping people, giving all my time and money. And what is my reward? To be humiliated in front of Maria Blenkinsop.”
“But Your Grace,” said Mr. Baxter eagerly, “there are more sound ways of helping people than giving them a Season. For example, there is one orphanage of genteel females in Highgate Village alone which is constantly in need of food and clothes. There must be two hundred girls at least.”
The duchess was about to scream at him, but the impact of what he had just said entered her brain. Two hundred lame ducks! Two hundred! She felt quite breathless. Two hundred packages of gratitude just waiting to be unwrapped.