by Gloria Gay
For a few moments there was unbearable suspense and she could see that he hoped against hope she would decline his offer—an offer he was being forced to make.
Still gazing at her as one gazes at a stranger, Lord Berrington sighed and then said in an almost lifeless voice:
"Miss Presleigh, will you do me the honor of accepting my offer of marriage?"
There was a long silence while Lord Berrington waited for her to answer.
Belinda did not think of her mother and her obsession with social status. She did not think of the scandal whirling about them. She thought of none of these things, for everything outside of this room where she was with Berrington disappeared, was blacked out as with a sudden inky night. She saw instead the barren years that lay ahead for her, and a realization of the love that she had for this man, this man who viewed her as a stranger, hit her full force. She would always love him, she was certain of it. She was not the kind of person, she knew, who could accommodate several loves in a lifetime. To her only Berrington existed. After him no one else would.
She knew she was unable to resist the offer of being connected to him in name for the rest of her life. He might choose to live apart from her, yet she would always have a connection to him. The alternative was that she would never again see him. And death would be a kinder choice for her then.
She realized that Berrington was expecting her to decline. He had made the offer merely as a formality so that she would not lose face, as she had been compromised.
Something in his expression told her clearly that he considered marriage to her impossibility.
Taking a deep breath Belinda looked into his eyes.
"I am honored with your offer of marriage, my lord. I accept."
Chapter 6
In the silence of St. George's Cathedral, the clergyman's voice rang out unnaturally high, and to Belinda's ear, hurtfully strident.
"Do you, Richard Branston, Earl of Berrington, Baron D'Estel, take this woman, Belinda Presleigh, of Hunsley Manor, as your lawfully wedded wife, to love and honor until death do you part?"
They called it becoming leg-shackled, thought Berrington, feeling a choking sensation in his throat, but they were wrong, he felt the shackles around his neck, so tight that he had trouble breathing. He knew these shackles would be with him for the rest of his life. The thought now made his chin tremble with suppressed rage.
"My lord—" The clergyman's voice was worried, apologetic. He looked up at Berrington expectantly, as a long silence hung heavy on the pale staring faces of the few wedding guests who had been able to attend with a few days' notice. Everyone seemed to be holding their breaths.
Belinda, waited, feeling numb. For the first time in the days that had followed she realized the enormity of what she had done and felt the full weight of it on her mind. She now realized that however idealized her image of Berrington and the love she had for him, he would never come to feel for her a fraction of what she felt for him. She was bathed in humiliation by his long pause and felt an embarrassment for which there was no description. He obviously despised the thought of marriage to her and could not even bring himself to utter the words.
She now wished he would say no. The embarrassment of being jilted would be nothing compared to that awful hesitation, that long pause in which everyone looked at each other, some with smirks of “I told you so,” some almost laughing. The pause told her clearly, as clearly as if Berrington had shouted it, that he would resent her for the rest of her life.
Belinda felt the sting of tears in her eyes as she realized she could not now undo what she had done.
The awful deed had come to roost in her heart.
Finally, Lord Berrington's voice rang out—loud, impatient, and clear.
"I do."
* * * * *
In the stillness of the opulent carriage, Belinda felt like an interloper as she leaned against luxurious squabs inside a carriage where she felt she had no right to be.
Avoiding the unsmiling, averted face of Lord Berrington who sat before her, she turned to view the drenching rain and lowering dark clouds.
She stared at the raindrops splashing on the window and realized that her life had now become a nightmare from which she was not allowed to wake.
Not a word was spoken in the carriage during the five hours that it took to reach the first village, where they would spend the night and continue on the journey to Winterhill.
After a few minutes of stony silence Berrington had taken out some newspapers and given his attention to these for the larger part of the trip.
Belinda, feeling in enemy ground, kept herself from falling asleep by recalling poems she had memorized or the plots of novels she had read. She would not lie there asleep, helpless before him, so that he could view her with cold contempt at his leisure.
For the next two hours she managed to keep her mind blank as she stared out the window, keeping away from thoughts about the life that awaited her at Winterhill.
Lord Berrington continued asleep and Belinda's mind wandered to her last day in London.
"It is incredible that Lord Berrington refuses to speak to me," her mother had said excitedly. "He and that unpleasant sister-in-law of his, Flora Liston, made all arrangements for the wedding without the slightest need to consult me, and communicated only through your father.
"He seemed to want the business over and done with and as rapidly as possible—"
"I wanted it that way too, Mama," Belinda interrupted. "I'm glad he was able to get a special license. All London was gossiping about us. I'm also glad we are leaving the city, for I don't think I can bear one more loud whisper as I go by or any more angry glares from all those people."
"Umm, well, I suppose that may be his reason," answered Mrs. Presleigh. "But how can you excuse the fact that I was not consulted about anything? Why, that woman didn't even feel a need to discuss your wedding gown, of all things. I would have thought that at least in that…everything done at the speed of lightning and without even as much as a by-your-leave."
"I didn't care what gown I wore, Mama," said Belinda, remembering the dreadful gown Flora had chosen for her. It had hung loose on her body and was of so heavy a material and so lavishly embroidered with pearls and appliqués that it had tired her the few hours she had worn it.
She intended never to set eyes on that gown again, and shuddered as she recalled the awful wedding breakfast.
Thankfully, Berrington had whisked her out of the place after one excruciatingly embarrassing hour.
"But he allowed that woman Flora to oversee everything, and made certain I was excluded," her mother still protested.
Flora Liston was already on her way back to Winterhill. Belinda and Lord Berrington, however, were to spend another day in London while Berrington took care of some unfinished business.
And rather than take her to his large townhouse, he had arranged for her to spend their first wedding day and night in the company of her parents. He would collect her the following day, he had told her in the few words he had addressed to her during the wedding breakfast.
Most of his time there had been spent speaking to the wedding guests, many of whom had come up to wish him well. Dozens more guests had been able to attend the breakfast than had the ceremony and Belinda had felt her face flushed as she had been ushered into the salon amid a sea of probing faces that stared at her as though with their eyes they would tear her apart.
"In time Lord Berrington will thaw in his feelings toward you, Mama, I am hopeful of that," she said sadly, although she hardly believed it herself.
"Ah…well, I am his mother-in-law, my dear; he will eventually realize he cannot escape that fact," said Mrs. Presleigh contentedly, and her mind darting to something else, she added,
"You must call your husband either Richard or Berrington, Belinda." She now began to check Belinda's portmanteau. "It is your privilege, for you are now his countess."
Belinda winced at these words. She was quite certain she w
ould never be able to call him that. However, she merely nodded, while Mrs. Presleigh had then embarked on a subject that made Belinda blush to her ears.
"Minnie," she had said to her abigail, "I need to talk to Belinda alone. Go check to see if the laundress has her handkerchiefs ready."
"Yes, ma'am," said the amiable Minnie.
"Now, Belinda, I must speak to you about your first wedding night with Lord Berrington…" she began when they were alone.
"Mama, I would rather not…" said Belinda, a tremor in her voice.
"Now, there is no need to panic," Mrs. Presleigh assured her daughter. "It will be an ordeal of only a few minutes and then it will be over. When Lord Berrington approaches you in the bed, close your eyes tight and think of a place other than where you are—think of that place you like to go wandering off by yourself back home. Pretend you are there, rather than on the bed."
"Why?"
"Because that way it won't hurt as much…"
"Mama," said Belinda with wide eyes, for she was still a complete innocent, "what will hurt?"
"What he is going to do to you, my dear," said her mother. "Never mind, for it will not last long," she added hurriedly on seeing the look of horror in Belinda's eyes. "Men have great pleasure in these things—more so with light skirts than with wives, of course— but women must just put up with the whole unpleasant business. Unfortunately, it is the only means of getting children. Once the appropriate number of children is achieved, though, they then turn to their other women and leave you at peace."
"Mama—I would rather not talk about this anymore. It's making me sick."
During the flurry of hurried preparations for the wedding, Belinda had gone through everything as in a trance, allowing herself to be led here and there without protest. Lord Berrington's sister-in-law, Flora, who had not smiled at Belinda once, and had spoken the bare minimum to her, had taken charge of everything and made all the decisions without once asking Belinda for her opinion, not even in the choice of wedding gown. Belinda had blanked her mind to all but the immediate present, so that on being reminded now that there was to be a contact between Lord Berrington and herself on their first night together panic now came to her in choking waves. She had again that sensation of her lungs being filled with water.
Belinda's information concerning relations between men and women came from books of poems. Embraces she read about in these pages were intensely romantic occurrences and kisses were as light as the touch of dew. Pain often stealed through these love scenes, but only as the pain wrought from separation or from a faithless love.
But this pain her mother had spoken about—it was a physical pain she meant, a pain that had nothing to do with the idealized version of love Belinda had.
Belinda pressed her hands to her temples and wondered if she even had the capacity to withstand the horror that her life had now become.
There was to be no honeymoon, and for that Belinda was thankful, for she couldn't imagine what she and Lord Berrington would find to talk about if forced to each other’s company during an extended length of time. It was enough that the journey to Winterhill was to be done in three days, stopping in inns along the way, for it could not be done any faster.
"Yes, dear," said her mother, cutting into her uneasy thoughts, "I think it is best not to talk about it. In any case, men don't want their brides to be too knowledgeable about the subject, it makes them suspect they might have experience."
"Mama—"
"Alright, I shall not speak anymore about it. Ring for Minnie then so she can finish with your packing."
* * * * *
Belinda, lost in her thoughts, looked out the window of the Blue Teal Inn, a large, well-run establishment on the Northampton Road, and at the activity of coaches arriving and departing. She was brought back from her reverie by the voice of her new abigail, a lady's maid Flora Berrington had engaged for her in her usual peremptory manner.
But Belinda liked the girl, who was young and as inexperienced in everything as she was and looked at her admiringly.
"My lady," said Bessie, holding a light blue nightgown in one arm and a white one on the other, "which would you prefer?"
"The white one, I think," said Belinda without enthusiasm, and choosing it merely because the other was too revealing.
She had gone through a silent meal with her husband; his inscrutable brown eyes as shut to her as if they had been closed. He had been cordial on their arrival at the inn, though, and attentive, if in a distant way, as if he were speaking lines on the stage at a theater, but like his sister-in-law, spoke the bare minimum to her. His sister-in-law, however, had not even bothered to be cordial.
And after forcing herself to swallow a few bites of the meal which stuck in her throat like straw, she had excused herself from the table and gone up to her room.
After helping her out of her clothes and into the nightgown, Bessie asked her if she would like her hair unbraided. Belinda nodded absently, her mind becoming increasingly uneasy as she recalled her mother's words in relation to what was to happen this night.
"It's a nice color, mum," said Bessie enthusiastically, as she undid the single thick braid at the back of Belinda's head and brushed it vigorously, "like dark honey. I wonder you don't arrange it in a style that shows it off more."
"Because it doesn't curl, Bessie," answered Belinda. "It's as straight and thick as a horse's mane." She repeated her mother’s description of her hair.
"But pretty—look mum, see yourself in the looking glass."
Bessie led Belinda to the wardrobe mirror and Belinda looked at herself with little interest, merely to please Bessie, whom she was beginning to like a lot. She looked at her thin face with masses of heavy hair all around it and grimaced.
"No, Bessie, it looks—wanton, all loose that way. Please, braid it again as it was."
"Yes, my lady," said Bessie disappointed and proceeded to do was she was told. Then brightening she said:
"Some other time, my lady, I could perhaps show you some styles my cousin Alice showed me. They take a lot of time to do, of course. My cousin worked with Lady Serelia of Taverling Hall, and Lady Serelia, mum, she had that famous stylist in London do her hair—a Monsieur Debrec."
"Yes, some other time," smiled Belinda kindly on the talkative Bessie, "I will let you experiment on it, although I can't assure you you will have any luck with it. My mother gave up on my hair long ago. She decided that it was much better braided and out of the way than to have to wrestle with it. You see, it's so heavy it can't even be curled with paper curlers. And around my face it makes my face look even thinner."
"When there's such a lot of hair like you have, mum, you have to put twice the number of rag curls. That's probably why it wouldn't curl. But I'm sure I can do something with it," said Bessie with conviction.
And once she had put Belinda's clothes away and brought the covers up over Belinda in the bed, she puttered around still, as if reluctant to leave her mistress and go up to the little garret where she was to sleep, sharing another lady's maid's room.
"Bessie…"
"Yes, mum?" asked Bessie, eager to extend the conversation a bit more. She was a buxom young lass with mounds of energy. More than one ostler had cast a glance at her small, curvy figure on their arrival.
"Does your cousin Alice…I mean…has she…does she speak to you about…about…" Belinda wondered how she could broach the subject of first wedding nights. Perhaps Bessie knew a little more about it. The suspense of not knowing what was to happen to her was making her shake all over.
"Yes, mum?" asked Bessie when Belinda hesitated.
"What I wondered is—I mean, first wedding nights—" Belinda closed her eyes and said boldly,
"Do you know anything about them?"
"Oh, yes, my lady!"
"I have been told that it's so terribly painful that I should imagine myself somewhere else so that I will not feel the pain."
"Who gave you that silly advice, mum?"
"My moth—" Belinda stopped herself, wondering if it was wise to discuss such a delicate subject with her maid, whom she hardly knew, at that. But the panic that was overcoming her was stronger than the dictates of convention.
"Mum," said Bessie excitedly, "I promise you you'll not be thinking of any place other than where you are. Lord Berrington, now," added the lusty Bessie with a naughty grin, "he'll fill up the picture right to left and there won't be room for nothing else, mark my words on it!"
There was a knock at the door. It was the abigail Bessie was to share a room with who had come to show her where the room was.
"Go on, Bessie," said Belinda, relieved in part that the conversation had been interrupted, and in part sorry that her chance at finding out what was in store for her was now lost.
The hours crawled and the candle on the bedside table sputtered in a pool of wax. At every little noise Belinda started, expecting Lord Berrington to open the door wide and burst into the room. Her body was tense with anticipation and fear, and she wished she had died like her sister, rather than live a life that promised to be nothing more than a basket of thorns.
* * * * *
"Milor'—ahem—sir. Beg pardon, your lordship," said the innkeeper of the Blue Teal,
"Will you be wanting anything else?"
It was past midnight, Lord Berrington realized as he looked at the clock in the corner of the private dining room where he sat alone at a table, an empty glass and wine bottle before him.
"Oh—yes," answered Berrington. "Uncork a bottle for me, will you? And bring me another wine glass."
"Yes, milord, right away."
The man left and came back shortly where Berrington was getting ready to leave.
"Here it is, your lordship. Would you like a lad to take it up for you?" he asked.
"No," said Lord Berrington, "I'll take it up myself, thank you." He took the wineglasses by their stems and the wine bottle with one hand and with the other grabbed his coat, which he flipped over his shoulder. He then left the dining room and went up the stairs to his bedroom.