by M C Beaton
Then he noticed the way the rough grass sparkled like marcasite under the moon.
Frost.
He found himself wondering in a numb, detached kind of way whether she was dead.
The earl walked lightly across the glade and knelt down beside Emily. She was fast asleep with exhaustion. He was moved to a feeling of pity, but hard on the heels of his pity came the thought, If she has contracted the ague, then she might die and I will be free.
But that unworthy thought went as quickly as it had come.
He bent and picked her up in his arms. She opened her eyes and let out a low moan of terror.
“It is I,” he said grimly. “Devenham.”
Emily struggled weakly in his arms, but he paid no attention. He strode back the way he had come, the lantern dangling from one hand, as he cradled Emily’s body in his arms. He did not need to use a lantern to light the way. The mist had lifted and, besides, he felt he knew every inch of the muddy track by heart.
Emily was asleep again. Again he felt pity for her, but fought it down. His sole aim was to get her into the inn without being observed.
Emily found herself being shaken roughly awake. They were outside the arch leading to the inn courtyard.
“Stand there,” said the earl, “until I return for you. If you run away again, I will find you and beat you. Do I make myself plain?”
Emily nodded, her eyes wide with fear.
“Good!”
He strode off into the courtyard. Emily leaned her head against the rough stone wall. Her body felt strange and light, and the sounds from the inn seemed to reach her ears from over a very long distance.
The earl came back. In his hand he held a rough sack.
“Climb in,” he ordered.
“Why?” said Emily, in sudden terror. “I know! You are going to throw me in the river.”
“Much as I would like to,” he said between his teeth, “I am not. In order to avoid scandal, I told the landlord that I had gone out to search for something that had dropped from the carriage. You are that something. Get in this sack immediately and do not utter one word until I get you upstairs.”
He looked stern and forbidding, and, in any case, Emily felt too weak to protest further.
She climbed into the sack. He tied the string at the top and heaved her onto his back. Emily could hardly breathe. The sack had contained grain of some sort, and little particles of dry chaff went up her nose with every breath she drew.
She was bumped against his back as he strode across the inn courtyard.
“Evening, my lord,” came the landlord’s voice. “Found what you were looking for?”
“Yes, thank you.” The earl’s voice. “I hope I did not waken you.”
“No, my lord. Expecting the mail coach any moment. No sleep for me this night. Allow me to carry that.”
“No, no. I am well able to handle it.”
“Lucky it waren’t stolen, my lord. I call to mind …”
The earl dumped the sack on the floor. Emily suddenly knew she was going to sneeze. The landlord’s voice droned on and on, somewhere above her head. Emily tried not to think about sneezing; she tried pinching the bridge of her nose. It was no use. The sneeze was coming. Ah … Ah … Ah … oooof! The earl had kicked the sack, and his foot had caught her on the side of the head. It had the effect of stifling the sneeze at birth. The kick had been no more than a nudge, but Emily began to think the earl really meant to kill her. If you tied your wife up in a sack and then kicked her in the head, it followed that your feelings toward said wife were not of the sweetest.
At last, she felt herself being lifted up again.
“Looks uncommon like a dead pig you’ve got in there, m’lord,” said the landlord.
“How very clever of you,” came the earl’s voice. “That is exactly what it is. I never go on any of my honeymoons without a dead pig.”
“Eh? Ah, my lord. I was near taking you serious-like. That’s a good ‘un. I’ll tell missus. I never goes on my honeymoon without a dead pig!”
His laughter followed them up the stairs. The earl opened the bedroom door and let out a sigh of relief. He opened the sack and released Emily by simply dragging the sack along the floor until it was clear of her.
“We will go into this matter in the morning, my lady wife,” he said. “We are going to bed. Do not look so stricken. I have no intention of touching you.”
Emily quailed before the blazing contempt in his eyes. She picked up her nightgown and cap and headed for the parlor door, meaning to change in the privacy of the other room.
He caught her by the hair and jerked her about. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he grated. “Stand still.”
He took her cloak from her shoulders and threw it on a chair. He twisted her about and deftly untied the tapes at the back of her dress and the tapes at her waist. He removed her corset élastique and contemptuously pinged it across the room. She clutched desperately at her shift, but he said coldly, “It either goes over you head or is ripped from your body. Take your pick, madam.”
All at once, too tired, too numb with cold to feel ashamed, she raised her arms meekly above her head. He crumpled the shift into a ball, and then dropped her nightgown over her head.
“Sit down by the fire.”
Emily sat down while he shoveled coals on the fire. He then carried over a water can and basin, slid off her torn stockings, and bathed her feet. It was all done deftly and impersonally.
He then picked her up, carried her to the bed, and tucked her in.
As he began taking off his own clothes, she turned and buried her suddenly hot face in the pillow. The terror of what he was about to do to her would, she was sure, effectively keep her awake, but her eyelids drooped and a welcome darkness engulfed her.
The earl climbed into bed and jerked the curtains closed. He lay with his hands behind his head, staring up at the canopy, which was gleaming red from the leaping flames of the fire.
Tomorrow, he would decide what to do with her. She moved in her sleep, murmured something, and then rolled over until she was lying pressed against the length of his body. She smelled faintly of soap and rose water and pine.
She did not wake up when he pushed her roughly away.
What do you do on the first day of your marriage when that marriage has not been consummated? Emily awoke in all the intimacy of the inn bedchamber. For one blissful moment, she thought she was at home. Then a faint sigh beside her brought her back to reality with a thud. Without even looking at her husband, she scrambled nervously from the bed, drawing the curtains tightly around the bed in case he should wake up and watch her dressing. She gave herself a perfunctory wash and scrambled into her clothes. Her first thought was to go out for a walk so as to escape the embarrassment of facing him when he woke up. But her second, saner thought was that he would probably be in a towering rage if he found her missing again. She dressed and, since he was still asleep, she began to wish she had made a more thorough toilet. Her stomach gave a faint protesting growl. Somewhere below, someone was grilling kidneys and frying bacon. It was agony sitting here waiting for him to wake up. Should she go into the parlor and order breakfast? Or ring for breakfast?
They talked incessantly at local assemblies about the enviable freedom of married women, thought Emily. Sitting here too frightened to move until the lord and master decided to wake up could hardly be called freedom. Emily looked longingly at the bellpull on the wall. One jerk of it and a little bell on the kitchen wall downstairs would ring; some blessed servant would arrive, and in that way he would wake up and she would not be alone with him.
Emily became very angry with herself for being so timid. A married lady would probably call her maid and go about things as usual. But not on the first morning of her honeymoon, said a treacherous voice in Emily’s brain. So the obvious solution to the immediate problem was to wake him up. Perhaps he was already awake, lying behind those bed curtains, staring up at the canopy and working out plans of revenge
.
Emily gave a timid little cough.
Silence.
She coughed again. Louder.
Silence.
The bed curtains did not move.
“Devenham!” she called softly.
Then loudly. “Devenham!”
Emily sank down in a chair by the window.
Perhaps he was dead. That would be very sad, of course, but she would be free. And she would still be the Countess of Devenham without any of the responsibilities. She would call the surgeon. She would be expected to cry. Well, that would not be so very difficult if only she remembered that kiss. And she would make sure he had a really splendid funeral. Perhaps he would have to be buried in Westminster Abbey. Black horses with black plumes to do justice his rank. And mutes. Mutes would have to be hired. But she would be expected to go to his home on her own and face all his servants. Perhaps they might blame her for his death. Perhaps she might be tried and sent to Tyburn! No, Tyburn scaffold was gone, and they now hanged people outside Newgate. But she was a peeress, so she might be executed at the Tower. The gates of the Tower clanged as she was led from the river up the damp steps.
There was the executioner’s block and there was the executioner in his black mask. There was Mary, crying desperately. “She sacrificed herself for me,” wailed Mary. The prince regent had come in person to witness this interesting execution. “Stay!” he cried. “I cannot bear to see one so fair die beneath the headman’s axe.”
“Your Highness,” said Emily. “Although I did not kill him, I cannot bear to live without him. Please let the execution go forward.”
Yes, that was terribly touching. Tears ran down Emily’s face as she sat by the window.
“You brought it on yourself, you silly widgeon,” said a sleepy voice at her ear.
“Devenham!” screamed Emily. She had been so immersed in her dream that it was horrifying to see the man she had so lately buried standing beside her clad only in a nightshirt.
“Who on earth did you expect to see?” said her husband crossly. “The way you go on, young lady, leads me to wonder whether you are touched in your upper works.”
He walked over to the toilet table and began to pull his nightgown over his head.
“Devenham!”
“What is the matter? Are you going to sit there screaming Devenham all morning?”
“You are taking off your nightgown!”
“You have a great deal to learn about me that is interesting and strange,” he said caustically. “I do not normally wear my nightgown under my clothes during the day. Strange, is it not?”
He wrenched off his nightgown. Emily took one horrified look at his well-muscled back and buried her hot face in her hands. There was a great deal of splashing, then the sound of him crossing the room, followed by the imperative summons of the bell. After a few moments, the door opened and Emily lowered her hands as he heard the earl say, “You may barber me now.”
While his Swiss got to work, Emily summoned up courage to ring for Felice. She began to relax as the French maid tut-tutted over the mess of her mistress’s hair and began to set it to rights. At one point, Emily caught the maid and the valet exchanging a glance as if both were wondering about this strange wedding morn. After her hair had been carefully curled and styled and her face and arms bathed in warm water and cologne, Emily felt that the day might not be quite as bad as she expected.
My lord and my lady were informed that breakfast awaited them in their private parlor. Emily did not know whether to be glad or sorry that there was not much opportunity for conversation, since the earl had his nose buried in the morning paper.
At last he lowered the newspaper. “What shall we do today, Devenham?” asked Emily brightly.
He drained his tankard of small beer and looked at her thoughtfully. She was looking very beautiful, if a little pale. Her gown of blue silk velvet enhanced her blond beauty and the purity of her skin. The earl sighed. When he had planned this honeymoon he had meant to spend most of the first day in bed and then, on the following day, travel to his country home. He shrugged. “I do not know, my lady. This is market day in Market Warborough, which is the nearest town. Perhaps I might go to see if there is something interesting in the way of horseflesh. You may come if you wish.”
The day matched Emily’s mood, being cold and gray, with the bare branches of the trees rattling in an icy wind. They made their silent way to Market Warborough, finally stopping at an inn in the very center of the town. Everything was noise and bustle, farmers and their wives, horse dealers, shepherds and market women, all jostling along the narrow, cobbled lanes under the shadow of the overhanging Tudor buildings. What long and mysterious conversations the gentlemen seemed to have about horses.
Emily stood patiently with her toes beginning to ache with cold and her nose turning first pink and then blue. Finally the earl became aware of her patient waiting.
“Go back to the inn,” he said, “and I will join you shortly.”
Emily made her way back to the inn and then stood inside the door, wondering what to do. Everyone seemed to be very merry, very loud, and very drunk, and there was not another lady in sight.
A buck looked out of the open taproom door and called, “Venus in our midst, fellows. A veritable Venus!”
Emily was soon surrounded by beery, grinning faces. Her clothes were of a fine enough quality to stop her admirers from more open insult, but on the other hand, she had no maid and no husband, so the throng pressed closer and the jokes became warmer.
“You are all disgusting and drunk,” said Emily, goaded beyond endurance. “You cannot hold your drink like a gentleman should … or even a lady for that matter. I swear I could drink any of you under the table!”
To her horror, this was taken as a challenge; she was swept into the tap and a glass of wine thrust into her hand. She looked wildly about and prayed that Devenham would come to rescue her. How could he desert her so?
The Earl of Devenham had just finished buying a splendid-looking bay and was giving instructions to deliver it to his home when a stout farmer’s wife tapped him on the shoulder with her umbrella. “Sir,” she said. “Do you have anything to do with the pretty young miss with the yaller hair? Is it Your Honor’s daughter perhaps?”
“My wife,” said the earl curtly. “What about her?”
“Them ruffians has got her in the tap and the poor little lady’s drinking something cruel. My Bill said he couldn’t stand no more of it, and he sent me direct to …”
But she spoke to the open air, for the earl was already off and running.
Emily was in a state of euphoria. What jolly, splendid gentlemen they all were! And how missish she had been to be afraid of them. She drained another glass of burgundy in one long swallow and smiled mistily at the subsequent roar of applause.
Then she blinked. Where had all the cheery gentlemen gone? One moment she had been surrounded by her cheering admirers, and the next, they had faded away. She swayed and clung to the back of the chair.
“You are in no fit state to answer my questions at the moment, madam,” grated the earl. “Come!”
Emily let go of the back of the chair, took one step forward, and fell in a heap on the floor.
He picked her up in his arms, and she smiled dizzily up at him laying her head against his shoulder.
“We will go to my home, Maxton Court, on the morrow,” he said, “but tonight you will learn to behave like a wife.”
The journey back came to Emily in flashes of consciousness before she dropped off into a drunken sleep.
Then she felt him carrying her upstairs.
She tried to struggle awake as she felt his fingers busy with the tapes of her gown. Cold air fanning down her body made her realize she was naked. She tried to scream in alarm, but only a mumble of protest came out.
The Earl of Devenham stripped off his own clothes and then lay down beside his wife.
He gathered her in his arms.
“Now, madam,�
�� he said.
Snore …
Emily was fast asleep.
He pushed her away and, climbing out of bed again, lifted her and covered her with the bedclothes. He got back in beside her and stared at the ceiling as Emily snored gently beside him.
“I have married not only the wrong sister,” he said, “but a drunkard as well!”
Chapter Six
Maxton Court loomed up dark and forbidding against a steel gray sky.
“My grave,” thought Emily with a shudder. “He is going to kill me.”
But the future murderer said in a normal voice, “This is our home. It once belonged to a family called Maxton, but they all died out.”
“It is very black,” ventured Emily uneasily. He did not reply. A rising wind rattled the trees lining the drive.
Maxton Court had been built in the reign of James I. It had a moat and drawbridge, since the first Maxton had not quite believed that guns and cannon were here to stay, despite the fact that both had been around for some time before he had had the house built, and he believed strongly in moats, boiling oil, and armor for protection.
The whole rambling building was smothered in ivy, which fluttered and moved restlessly in the wind, giving the building the odd effect of being in motion. The moat had been drained. When Emily looked down as the carriage rattled over the bridge, she could see a herd of deer grazing beside bales of hay on the cropped grass.
The servants were all lined up in the vast draughty entrance hall to meet their new mistress. The earl was pleased to note that Emily behaved very prettily. The servants were amazed at the new Lady Devenham’s youthful appearance, since they had all heard of the earl’s youthful romance. Exactly how they had heard of his early love was hard to tell, since the earl had never spoken of it, but servants’ gossip had a truly marvelous way of carrying a very long distance.
Emily was relieved to find she had a private bedchamber and drawing room. Felice chattered happily as she set about unpacking her mistress’s belongings. La! It was dark and cold. And old.
Emily answered automatically. What did this husband of hers plan to do with her?