Buckler's Hard

by Kelly, Sahara

  The beast snorted indignantly as Marcus swung himself into the saddle. "Don't take it personally."

  He casually glanced at the windows and noticed a slight movement behind one of them. "She's watching us. Let's make a dignified departure, shall we?"

  With flair, Marcus dug his heels into his horse and wheeled him around, cantering out of the stable yard and onto the road to Calshot.

  He could feel Mariah's gaze boring into his shoulder blades, but in spite of the overwhelming urge, he refused to look back.

  Not this time.

  From this moment on, Mariah was going to have to face the truth on her own.

  *~*~*~*

  He didn't look back. Not once.

  Mariah moved away from the window as the horseman disappeared from her sight. Suddenly she shivered, feeling more alone than she'd ever done before. Tears stung the back of her eyes, but she refused to surrender to them. She'd not cry. Not now.

  Not until he'd gone for good.

  Even though he'd chosen to spend what would be his last night away from her, preferring the company of his military friends.

  She gulped. It had come, then, the time she knew would arrive. The time when she had to close the door on what had been a perfect interlude. Just as the adventures into free trading of her "lads" had ceased with the onset of the autumn storms, so had the glow of her little romance.

  All things must end.

  But did they have to hurt quite so much when they did?

  "Here you are." Peg walked calmly into the room. "Finished sorting those blankets yet?"

  Mariah wanted to scream and rail at her, but she held her peace. "No. Not quite."

  Peg nodded. "Never mind. Best you tidy up and go see what Mrs. Partridge wants."

  "I could do without that this evening." Mariah stared moodily out the window at the darkening sky.

  "Come on, dearie. Can't neglect our duties, now, can we? Where'd we all be if we only did what we wanted, not what we had to?"

  Mariah shrugged. "I suppose."

  She turned forlornly to see Peg digging in the back of a cupboard. "Look what I found the other day, Mariah. Remember this dress? I took it with me, beggin' your pardon for not asking, of course. Fiddled with the lace. My mam was always a good hand with lace, God rest her soul."

  She emerged with a soft gray silk dress, its neckline filled with creamy whorls and tiny flowers artfully blended into the tissue-thin embroidery.

  Mariah blinked. "Good heavens. I'd forgotten about that."

  Peg smiled. "Why don't you go and tidy up and put it on before you go to Mrs. Partridge? You know what a stickler she is for appearances and her house is always a bit on the hot side. With your woolen pelisse, I think this'll be a treat. Lift your spirits a bit."

  "Oh, I don't know..." Mariah ran the fabric through her fingers. "You've done a lovely job of repairing it, Peg. Seems silly to wear it for a trudge to the village."

  "Nonsense. You need a bit of cheering up. We'll all miss Sir Marcus when he goes, but we'll manage somehow."

  Mariah swallowed, nodded and then embarrassed herself enormously by bursting into tears.

  "Aww—" Peg rushed to her and folded her into her arms, cuddling her and making comforting clucking noises. "There, there. Don't take on so."

  "He's going away. He's leaving." Mariah wailed her pain into Peg's neck. "What am I going to do?"

  Peg patted her shoulder. "We'll go on, Mariah. We always do. It's hard, but you didn't want to marry him, after all."

  "I couldn't." Mariah sobbed. "It would have been all wrong for him. I would have been all wrong for him. It would have been a terrible mistake, Peg."

  The older woman sighed. "Oh, you poor girl. I suppose you're right. Especially if you didn't love him. He was nice to look at, but there's got to be more than looks when it comes to marriage. If you didn't care for him enough, then you made the right decision."

  Mariah was silent for a moment, feeling the tears spill down her cheeks. "I love him, Peg. That's not the problem."

  "Then what is?"

  Mariah lifted her head. "Can't you see? Can't you understand how far apart we are? He's got all these responsibilities to his title. His name. His inheritance. He's got to have an heir and it should be with somebody who can bring something to his estate, not just a farmhouse and a few chickens. Certainly not a lowly countrywoman. And one who's a widow, to boot."

  "What's being a widow got to do with anything?" Peg lifted an eyebrow. "It's not like you gutted your first husband with a carving knife. Although the good Lord knows there was provocation enough."

  "I'm not a virgin." Mariah's shoulders sagged. "That's another thing the aristocracy is fussy about."

  Peg rolled her eyes. "Lot of nonsense, if you ask me. When a man and a woman find the right things in each other, all the stuff you're babbling about shouldn't matter a damn." She lifted her chin. "And I won't apologize for my language, neither."

  Strong fingers poked Mariah in the shoulder. "I doubt too many of those fancy Ton brides are virgins. Even if they are, they pop out the heir and a spare, then go off and do awful things with a lot of men who aren't their husbands. That's what I hear, anyway."

  "You've been listening to Nora Dunnigan, haven't you?"

  "Mebbe." Peg wrinkled her nose. "Mebbe she's right too."

  "Awful things?" Mariah glanced at Peg. "Did she tell you what those awful things were?"

  "Even if she did, I wouldn't be repeating it." Peg pulled out a handkerchief. "Now go dry your eyes, wash your face and I'll make sure this dress is fresh for you. Run along. Best thing right now is to take your mind off your problems and if anyone can do that, it's Mrs. Partridge."

  Mariah pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. "Maybe you're right."

  "Of course I'm right. Put some rosewater on your eyes too. That woman sees anything unusual and she'll dig it out of you with all the skill of a terrier going after a rat."

  Peg spun on her heel, leaving Mariah to struggle with a sound that wavered between a sob and a hiccup of laughter. God bless Peg. She was truly the salt of the earth.

  There was no help for it—she was going to have to see Mrs. Partridge. And although dress was usually the least of Mariah's concerns, she knew her old gray silk would find favor in the woman's eyes. The vicar himself, of course, was above such worldly considerations.

  What he lacked, his wife more than compensated for.

  If nothing else, it would pass the time until Marcus returned. He had to come back, realized Mariah, since he'd left his belongings at the farmhouse.

  So there would yet be chance to say a proper farewell.

  If only she could do it without weeping, she'd be fine. At least that's what she told herself. And she knew, of course, that it was an utter and complete lie.

  Chapter Ten

  "Come in, dear Mariah." Mrs. Partridge welcomed her over the threshold with all the pomp of a countess greeting her bosom-bow for an evening's whist. "It's a chilly evening, isn't it?"

  Mariah smiled politely and nodded. "It is indeed."

  "Here, let me take your pelisse."

  Mariah was glad to shed the heavy cloak, since Mrs. Partridge's house was warmer than an oven. A large fire roared in the small parlor, heating quite possibly the two houses next door as well.

  "It's good of you to come over." The woman fussed as she led Mariah near the blaze.

  "Where's the vicar this evening?" Mariah felt the question appropriate.

  "Oh, he's in the church, I think." Mrs. Partridge waved her hand airily. "Something to do with the Bible. Putting bookmarks into the relevant passages for Sunday's sermon. Or perhaps making sure the children didn't leave any scuff marks on the pews." She sighed. "I wish our church was bigger, believe me I do. But God's word has to be spread, no matter how tiny the surroundings."

  Mariah nodded. The Buckler's Hard church was indeed deserving of the adjective "tiny". There were no more than four pews, each holding five or six people if
they squashed snugly. Which barely left room for the organ and a small altar, not to mention the vicar himself. Fortunately, he was a thin man. If he'd been larger—well, several sermons had passed unheard while Mariah had pondered the matter.

  They held multiple services on Sundays simply by virtue of the inability of the church to hold its entire congregation at one time. But even in spite of all the drawbacks, Mariah loved the little place.

  It smelled holy, a mixture of incense and time and quiet devotion. That typical fragrance that seemed unique to places of worship everywhere, no matter what their size.

  She drew her thoughts to more immediate matters. "I understand it's time to think about refilling the pew cushions?"

  Mrs. Partridge nodded. "Yes indeed. Before the winter comes on, you know. I was wondering if you had any of that nice sheep's wool left? The softest ever, it was. People commented on it."

  They chatted in front of the fire, discussing the varieties of wool, the logistics of re-stuffing the cushions and the difficulty of obtaining matching threads locally. Would they need to send to Southampton for them?

  Mariah forced her thoughts to focus on the topics. It wasn't easy, but she managed. It had been a long time since she'd had to rigidly listen to every word spoken in order not to weep aloud.

  The last time—well, it had been a conversation with her husband. One that had ended badly, just as she knew it would.

  She swallowed and pushed that memory aside. The tears she'd shed then were ones of hopelessness. Now it was a bittersweet grief that clogged her throat.

  She coughed. "Mrs. Partridge, if you'll forgive me—it's been a long day. Perhaps we should work with these ideas and meet again?"

  "Hmm." The woman tapped her chin and—oddly—glanced at the clock. "Well, you're probably right, but before you leave, let's just pop in to the church and take a good look for ourselves at those cushions. Just so we know what we're talking about when it comes to repairs."

  Mariah sighed and stood. "Very well. But then I must be off."

  "I like your gown, by the way. Very pretty silk and the lace is lovely." Mrs. Partridge's gaze was approving.

  "Thank you." There was little more to say. Mariah walked behind Mrs. Partridge to the small door that led into the adjoining church.

  All the buildings lining the main path to the waterfront were linked into a row, making it quite easy for the vicar to attend his flock without getting his feet wet in the event of rain.

  It wasn't raining now, but it was still chilly as Mariah stepped through behind Mrs. Partridge into—

  Into—

  Marcus watched as Mariah eased through the little door and stepped into the brilliant light of at least two dozen candles.

  Her eyes got wider as she stared around at the people gathered in the cramped pews and spilling out through the open door into the chilly twilight beyond.

  Then, finally, her gaze returned to the altar and she saw him standing next to the vicar.

  "M-M-Marcus?" she stuttered, pale as a ghost in spite of the heat that seeped in behind her from the Partridge residence.

  He smiled. "Hello, love."

  This was the moment, the time to set aside all pretense, all superficial nonsense and cut straight to the heart of the matter.

  She absently put a chilled hand into his outstretched one. "What the dev—" She glanced around and blinked. "What the dickens is going on?"

  "We're getting married."

  "What?"

  "You and me. Married. Here. Now."

  "What?"

  "You're repeating yourself, darling." Marcus drew her hand through his arm and turned to the vicar. "If you would begin the service, sir?"

  Vicar Partridge nodded and spoke the words that had passed down through the ages. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here..."

  "Wait just a minute..." Mariah hissed the words and tugged on his arm. "We can't do this."

  "Why not?" he whispered back as the vicar paused.

  "Because...because..." She frowned. "Because it wouldn't be legal. The banns and things..." She looked helplessly at the vicar. "Tell him."

  Marcus remained unmoved, merely waiting while Reverend Partridge adjusted his glasses, reached beneath his robe and extracted a piece of paper. "Actually, Mariah, it's all quite legal."

  She shook her head. "I don't understand."

  The vicar smiled paternally. "Special license, m'dear. All signed by the Bishop of Lyndhurst too." He glanced at Marcus. "Friend of yours, is he?"

  Marcus had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "Not exactly." He cleared his throat. "I believe he had a tendre for my mother when she was young."

  A few muttered snickers sounded from the little crowd behind them and the vicar colored. "Oh. Well. In any case, it's quite legitimate." He folded the paper and tucked it back beneath his robe. "So, shall we continue? Dearly beloved, we are gathered here—"

  "Wait." Mariah interrupted again. "You can't just do this. Marry me out of hand."

  The vicar sighed.

  Marcus turned to her. "Why not? It's quite legal."

  "Yes, but—" She paused, apparently at a loss for words.

  "Dearly beloved." The vicar tried again.

  "Are you sure? This can't be right, Marcus." Mariah ignored the vicar and turned to face him, her eyes swimming with tears. "I'm the wrong woman for you. The wrong sort of wife. You're—you're—Sir Marcus Camberley, for heaven's sake. You're titled. A member of the aristocracy. You have a family crest or something."

  Marcus grinned. "I heard that, actually. I believe it's embroidered on my nightshirt." He swore he could hear her teeth as they clenched on her temper. He was rather enjoying this.

  "I don't care about your nightshirt."

  "I know. You prefer me naked."

  "Marcus." She squeaked out his name. "Remember where you are, for heaven's sake. You're in church." The snickers had turned to outright giggles and Mariah was blushing furiously.

  Marcus realized it was time to set the funning aside. If he wanted to survive his own wedding, then he probably shouldn't be inciting his intended bride to commit violence at the altar.

  "Mariah." He took her hand and folded into both of his own. "Do you love me?" He stared at her. "Remember where we are. We're standing in the sight of the Lord. Don't lie, sweetheart. Just answer the question. Do you love me?"

  She gulped, lifted her chin, stared him right in the eye and answered. "Yes."

  "Good. I love you too." He turned to the altar. "If you would?"

  "Dearly beloved, we are—"

  "Just a minute." Mariah pulled Marcus' hand. "It's not that simple."

  The congregation groaned and the vicar closed his eyes in what could have been an oath or a prayer.

  "Get on with it, Mariah. I've got a roast in the oven and Ned needs to pee." Peg's whisper wasn't quiet.

  "Shhh." Mariah glared at Peg. "This is important." She looked back at Marcus. "This isn't right. Not for you or the Camberley name."

  He let his gaze roam over her face as silence followed her words. "Mariah. The Camberley name means nothing to me. You mean everything."

  He spoke clearly and firmly now, not wanting her to misunderstand a word he said. "Some time ago I thought I was going to die. I did a lot of things I'm not proud of and a few I don't even want to think about. I'm not a prize catch, love. Having a title doesn't make me a perfect man." He paused. "Loving you is what makes me—right."

  There was a sniffle from Peg's section of the front pew. Marcus tried to ignore it.

  "I set out to find my future not long ago. I had no notion of how to go about it or even what it would entail. I'd met friends who convinced me that love could overcome the worst of adversities and I took strength from them. Then my horse brought me here and I met you."

  Mariah's throat moved as she swallowed, but for once she remained silent.

  "And I discovered that they were right. Love can indeed overcome the direst of circumstances. Love can heal, love can hurt, love
can do any number of incredibly powerful things. I learned all this because I managed to fall in love with you the first time I kissed you on the beach."

  He held her gaze, refusing to let her look away. This was between them now, a duel to the finish, a struggle to attain what Marcus knew he had to have.

  "I don't care about anything else. Any of these matters you find so overwhelming. I know that beneath it all, you're looking out for me, putting your own needs aside so that I may go on and live the life you seem to think I want."

  He moved closer and put one hand beneath her chin, tipping her face into the candlelight. "I only want one thing. You."

  A tear welled from one of her eyes and she blinked it away. "You do?"

  "I do." He took a breath. "What do you want, Mariah?"

  "I want you too."

  "Really?"

  "I do."

  The vicar exhaled loudly the spoke as fast as he could. "Then by the power vested in me by God and the Church, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride." He slammed the Bible shut and grinned.

  A massive roar erupted in the tiny church, rippling outside to the assembled crowd that had gathered there as well.

  Marcus didn't hear any of it.

  He was too busy kissing his wife.

  *~*~*~*

  "Well, all things considered, that was rather an unusual wedding." Mariah chuckled as Marcus finally closed their bedroom door behind them.

  It was late, since as soon as the vicar did the deed, they were swamped by well-wishers, invited down to the inn and feted for several hours. In fact, the celebrations were still going on, but Marcus and Mariah had managed to sneak away without anyone noticing.

  It was possible the second barrel of ale the partygoers had tapped might have had something to do with it.

  Whatever it was, Marcus didn't care. He had accomplished his goal and married the woman he wanted by his side for the rest of his life. Everything else was just details.

  "I enjoyed it." He grinned as he removed his coat. "I'm glad I don't have to do it every day, but it was certainly something to remember. Your face, when you walked in to the church..."