The Marriage Bargain

by Diane Perkins

  Emma, he thought as his head seemed to explode against something hard on the ground. Forgive me.

  Chapter TWO

  M y lady, two gentlemen to see you!”

  Emma Keenan, Countess of Kellworth, jumped to her feet at the footman’s quick approach. The weeds she’d just pulled from the vegetable garden scattered at her feet.

  “To see me?” Wiping the dirt from her gloves, she caught Tolley’s apparent urgency. Whoever these visitors were, they could not have arrived at a worse time. She looked more like a field hand than the lady of the manor.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Tolley sounded worried. “Mr. Hale said to fetch you straight away and to make haste.”

  Such dispatch from the elderly butler did not bode well. Poor Mr. Hale tended to move at the pace of a lame snail. For him to request speed suggested a matter of great importance.

  At one time she would have been certain such unusual callers would have come to tell her that her husband had been struck dead on some battlefield, but she knew Spence to be in London at present. His cousin had informed her of that fact.

  Shaking out her skirt, Emma nearly ran to keep up with Tolley, who undoubtedly took Mr. Hale’s word very seriously. As they crossed through the kitchen gardens to the house, the out-of-breath footman could tell her nothing more about the callers. She and Tolley entered the house from the back, and Emma hung up her wide-brimmed hat and her apron on a hook by the door. She removed her muddy half boots and slipped her feet into the worn pair of shoes she’d left there earlier.

  “Tell Mr. Hale I shall be there directly,” she told Tolley, before dashing up the servants’ stairs to her bedchamber.

  Her maid, Susan, nearly as ancient as Mr. Hale, dozed by the window, a piece of mending in her lap. She woke with a snort when Emma closed the door.

  “There are callers, Susan. I must change.”

  “Callers, ma’am?” It took several seconds for the maid to move her stiff limbs out of the chair.

  “I must dress quickly.”

  But Susan could move only so fast, so Emma unfastened the laces of the shabby dress she wore to work in the garden and pulled it over her head. She washed her face and hands and removed one of her better dresses from the clothes press. While the maid’s arthritic fingers slowly worked the buttons, Emma stuffed her hair into a fresh cap. It wasn’t until she was halfway down the main staircase that she remembered the lace of her sleeves was sadly frayed.

  Mr. Hale waited for her in the hall, looking very somber, so unusual for him. He typically was cheerful and the most pleasant butler she’d ever encountered, though she could probably count that number on the fingers of one hand. “Two gentlemen in the drawing room, ma’am.”

  “Who are they, Mr. Hale?”

  His brow furrowed. “Friends of the earl.”

  Spence’s friends. Her heart quickened at the thought of her husband. She mentally kicked herself for it. After these three difficult years, the mention of his name ought not turn her into a besotted schoolgirl.

  The gentlemen must be here by mistake, that was it. They must think Spence in residence at Kellworth, not realizing how unlikely a prospect that would be. Spencer Keenan thought nothing of Kellworth. Or of his wife.

  Emma hurried into the drawing room, one of the few rooms where the furniture was not covered with sheeting against the dust and dirt.

  Two tall gentlemen turned at her entrance, one fair-haired and quite handsome, the other dark and forebiding. Both looked to be in shock, as if powder had suddenly exploded in their faces.

  The fair one approached her. “Lady Kellworth?” His voice rose incredulously. “Allow me to make our introduction. I am Viscount Blakewell and this is Mr. Gideon Wolfe. We are friends of . . . of your husband.” He had to swallow to get those last words out.

  Emma extended her hand. “How do you do.”

  Blakewell shook it, managing a congenial smile that created two deep dimples creasing his cheeks, but did not reach his eyes. “Forgive us, my lady. We are somewhat surprised at your appearance.”

  She could not doubt that, trying to surreptitiously fold the tattered lace under her sleeve before turning to shake Mr. Wolfe’s hand.

  “Where is my husband, gentlemen? Perhaps you may give me his direction so I might contact him.”

  The two men exchanged dark glances.

  Emma could guess what that meant. “He has forbidden you to give me his direction, I suppose?” She gave a derisive laugh. “Well, I beg you would pass on a message from me to him. It is about his estate—”

  Mr. Wolfe broke in, his gaze filled with suspicion. “The place looks shabby. Neglected. Why has it not been cared for?”

  Emma bristled, tossing the dark man the quelling look he deserved. “I have kept out the elements and made sure its people had food to eat. More than that I’ve not had the pleasure to accomplish.”

  Blakewell stepped between her and the indignant Mr. Wolfe. “There is much we do not know.” His eyes full of sympathy, he reached toward her as if to pat her on the arm.

  Emma stepped out of his reach. She did not know these gentlemen any better than she knew her husband. “What is the purpose of your visit, if you please?”

  The two men again exchanged looks that could only be described as stressed.

  A muscle near Blakewell’s eye twitched. “Do sit down, Lady Kellworth. Perhaps a companion might be summoned to join you?”

  Emma felt apprehension, as insidious as a garden weed, grow through her from head to toe. “I will stand, thank you.” She managed to keep her voice steady.

  Blakewell paused, turning away and pressing his fingers against his eyes before facing her again. “Your husband is dead, ma’am. We come bearing his coffin.”

  Even though she had guessed what his words would be, Emma felt as if the walls of Kellworth had fallen down upon her. It was difficult to remain on her feet.

  She closed her eyes. “How?”

  “He was killed—” he began.

  Mr. Wolfe interrupted. “Blake, take care!”

  Emma could hear Blakewell turn from her to address his friend. “We must tell her. She is Spence’s wife, man.”

  “What do we know of her?” Wolfe countered. “Nothing. We ought to heed what we do.”

  Emma opened her eyes and raised her voice. “How did my husband die?”

  Mr. Wolfe swung away and paced over to the window. Blakewell stared at her a long time, before finally answering her. “He was killed in a duel.”

  Another blow. His death had not been due to something as honorable as war, or natural as illness. It had been in a duel, a useless way to die, something men chose to do over such trifles as insults or card games or women.

  At the thought of Spence fighting over a woman, a surprising shaft of pain nearly doubled her over. She hoped Blakewell had not noticed, and tried to manage a brave stare. “Pray tell me why my husband fought a duel.”

  Blakewell took a breath. “He was accused of cheating at cards—”

  “He cheated at cards,” she repeated in disgust.

  Nearly as bad as dueling over a woman. Until Spence’s abandonment of Kellworth, Emma would not have thought him so lost to honor as to cheat. Had Spence fallen that much in debt?

  “He was falsely accused!” Mr. Wolfe cried. “And, if you ask me, he was set up.”

  “Yes. Yes,” agreed Blakewell. He gave Emma an intent look. “He was not cheating, my lady, but need I say this is a delicate matter. Duels are illegal, you must know, and, for everyone’s sake, especially for your husband’s good name, I beg you will tell no one he died in such a way.”

  “I wonder you told me at all,” she said miserably, hating that these two strangers were informing her of how her husband died. “I wonder why you even brought him here.”

  “We brought . . . brought Spence here to be buried in the family vault. It was the least we could do.”

  “The very least,” Emma whispered. “When did this happen?”

  “Yes
terday morning,” Wolfe told her.

  Yesterday morning. Had it been at the same time she worked on the accounts, trying to contrive some way to pay for the spring planting? Had Spence fallen mortally wounded, drawing his last breath when she’d slammed her fist onto the desk and wished him to the devil?

  How could she bear having done such a thing?

  Feeling as if she were about to shatter into little pieces, Emma forced herself to lift her chin. “Gentlemen, please be seated. I shall step out to arrange for tea.”

  She walked out of the room and into the hall, where Mr. Hale waited, the housekeeper, Mrs. Cobbett, at his side. She stood stiffly in front of them.

  “Is it the earl?” Mr. Hale asked, his wrinkled face even more creased than usual. “They bore a coffin.”

  She nodded, tears springing to her eyes. “He is dead, Mr. Hale. The earl is dead.”

  “I feared as much.” The elderly butler’s shoulders sagged.

  Mrs. Cobbett opened her arms and Emma collapsed into them as waves of grief assaulted her, every bit as unexpected as the news of Spence’s death.

  She thought she hated him. How many times had she cursed him for leaving her with a crumbling estate, elderly retainers who deserved to be pensioned off, and so little money she could barely keep them all in food? The whole countryside cursed him. The failure of Kellworth to prosper had affected everyone.

  But at this moment all she could think of was that tall, handsome soldier, his red coat trimmed with gold, gazing down at her with eyes the color of a summer sky and hair as dark as the fertile earth in which she had just been digging. She could still feel the press of his lips upon her forehead after they had spoken their vows and had been pronounced man and wife.

  The very next day he had brought her here to Kellworth, not even staying a night here before leaving for the coast, back to war. How young she had been. How her eyes had been full of stars! Now she could see how blind they’d made her.

  At the time she’d thought him the most romantic of men, so sensitive to her youth and inexperience that he’d been willing to forgo marital relations with her, though she had snuggled with him in the same bed that one and only night.

  She had always believed he would return. For the last two years, she had dared him to return. Dared him to face her wrath for leaving her with the sorry mess that was Kellworth. But always, always she thought she would see him again.

  “There, there now.” Mrs. Cobbett patted her back as if she were a small child.

  Emma sniffed away her tears and straightened. Mr. Hale, his eyes moist, fished in his pockets and handed her his pristine white handkerchief, folded and warm from being in his breast pocket.

  Emma dabbed at her eyes. “Mrs. Cobbett, do we have any tea? I must serve something.”

  Mrs. Cobbett put her fleshy arm around Emma and Emma leaned on her once more. “Never you worry, m’lady. I’ve a few leaves saved. And Betty is making biscuits from the flour and sugar left in the pantry.”

  Emma gave her a wan smile. “What would I do without you?”

  Mrs. Cobbett squeezed her once more. “Well, I expect you won’t find out anytime soon. I’ve a good many years left in me, you know.”

  Emma watched Mrs. Cobbett hurry away, her skirts rustling and her keys jangling. These servants were like family to her. Emma was so grateful to them. After Spence departed from her, it had been left to Mr. Hale and Mrs. Cobbett and the others to teach her how to go on and make her feel at home. The servants and Reuben, of course.

  She turned to Mr. Hale. “Can we send Tolley to fetch the vicar? He must hear this news directly and we need his help, I think.”

  Spence’s cousin Reuben had the living of Kellworth Parish. He had also been Emma’s steadfast friend.

  “I took the liberty of sending for Reverend Keenan already. If he is at home, Tolley should bring him very soon.”

  Emma found her eyes again filling with tears. “Thank you, Mr. Hale.” She wiped them away. “I suppose we must also find a room . . . for . . . for the earl’s coffin. And . . . and bedchambers for our guests.”

  It was difficult to think of all that must be done, but so much easier than thinking of Spence lying in a wooden box.

  “I have also taken the liberty of having Master Spence . . . I mean, Lord Kellworth’s coffin moved to the gallery. Mrs. Cobbett has sent two of the girls to ready the guest bedchambers in the west wing.”

  She would endure, Emma decided. These lovely people would hold her together and she would withstand this final blow from Spence.

  Emma squeezed the butler’s bony hand. “You have anticipated everything. I do thank you.”

  He squeezed her hand in return and limped off. Emma took a deep breath and walked back to the drawing room.

  Still standing, the two gentlemen looked as if they’d been having a very heated discussion. They broke apart, both red-faced.

  Emma lowered herself into the most worn of the parlor chairs so she could hide its shabbiness. “Please sit, gentlemen.”

  Blakewell, the charmer, took a chair near her and leaned forward. “How are you faring, my lady?”

  She waved off the question, not needing these men to hear her private turmoil. “Forgive me, but I know nothing of you. Who are . . . Who were you to the earl?”

  “We are his friends.” Mr. Wolfe’s voice cracked with emotion. He paused, taking a moment to compose himself. “We knew Spence since school days. We served together in the war. We were closer than brothers.”

  Such fast friends and she had known nothing of them. If she had, she would have tried to reach Spence through them, to beg him to attend to Kellworth’s needs.

  “He told us so little of you.” Mr. Wolfe’s tone made it sound as if that had been her fault.

  She straightened her spine. “Perhaps my husband forgot about me, as he forgot about Kellworth.”

  “He would not have done so!” Mr. Wolfe protested. “Spence would not have allowed his home to fall into disrepair.”

  Emma might have retorted that Spence had not cared enough even to inquire after his property in all this time, but she was suddenly too weary. Besides, that old, constant ache merely added to her grief.

  Another worry arose, adding to the tempest of pain and despair she was trying so hard to control. She would lose Kellworth, as she had lost her childhood home. Zachary Keenan, Spence’s uncle, would inherit.

  Blakewell shot his friend a quelling look. “Lady Kellworth has had enough of a shock for one day. Let us not tease her with such matters now.” He turned to Emma. “Is there anything we might do for you, my lady?”

  She did not know which of the two she wished to throttle first. Blakewell, with his feigned solicitude, or Wolfe, with his unfounded accusations.

  Mrs. Cobbett herself carried in the tea tray, the look of warmhearted concern on her face enough to spark more tears. Emma blinked them away and busied herself pouring, confining conversation to how the gentlemen preferred their tea.

  It occurred to her that she did not know how Spence might have taken his tea. She had never had an opportunity to serve him. She had known him so very briefly, but that March day in 1813 when he walked into his uncle’s parlor remained as vivid as if it had been yesterday.

  Her mother, hastily remarried after Emma’s father’s death, had never been much of a presence in Emma’s childhood, always gadding about to wherever the beau monde frolicked. When the distant cousin who had been her father’s heir took over Emma’s beloved childhood home, all that changed. Her mother brought her to London and rushed her into a come-out, treating her as if she were some pet project, bent upon her making a spectacular marriage. She had been seventeen at the time, and much too much a country miss to know how to go on in the city. She hated London with its noise and dirt and confusion, and begged her mother to marry her off to some country fellow. Her mother, ever conscious of status and rank and ever as indifferent to her daughter’s wishes, found her a successful Member of Parliament instead. Zachary Ke
enan, Spence’s uncle, had been nearly as old as her father, and frightened her with his air of importance and the hungry gleam in his eye when he gazed upon her.

  Emma had felt many strong emotions these last three years, anger and anxiety chief among them. But not until this moment had she experienced the same sense of despair she’d felt in that London parlor when faced with the frank admiration of Zachary Keenan, his countenance filled with an expectation that Emma had no idea how to fulfill.

  And then Captain Spencer Keenan had walked in, tall, vital, and handsome in his infantry uniform. She had never seen a young man so gloriously handsome. When he was introduced to her as the Earl of Kellworth and Zachary Keenan’s nephew, he smiled down with eyes the color of a country sky in spring. She thought her heart would stop beating. When her mother told Spence his uncle was courting her. Emma had turned away, unable to bear the young man’s reaction.

  At dinner the older Mr. Keenan had been seated next to her. He’d brushed his hand along her leg from under the table, and her cheeks had burned with embarrassment. Later when she fled Mr. Keenan’s more ardent advances, it had been Spence who found her and dried her tears.

  The next day he called upon her mother. Before Emma knew it, her mother pushed her into the parlor with Spence and closed the door on them. He proposed, not marriage so much as a marriage bargain. He would marry her and settle her on his estate and he would go off to war. She would have the protection of his name and the country life she loved in a home even more grand than the one of her childhood.

  Emma had readily agreed. Spence had been to her like a knight of old, charging in on a white steed to rescue her from the evil villain. Never once had she believed it when he said theirs would be a marriage of convenience. She thought the reason he spared her the marriage bed was because he had seen how shaken she’d been by his uncle’s fervor. She thought he would initiate a true marriage when his soldiering was done; when she was a little older and more ready to be a wife. And a mother. She believed Spence had spoken so out of love for her, a love as pure and fine as in any tale of courtly love.