Endearing Young Charms Series

by M. C. Beaton

  Emily had drugged Mary’s morning chocolate with laudanum, placed the blonde wig on her sister’s head, and drawn the covers up about her face.

  Attired in the brown wig and with her lively features carefully schooled to copy Mary’s demure expression, Emily was sure that with the help of the thick white veil which went with the wedding dress, she could easily pass for her sister.

  As soon as Mary had drunk the drugged chocolate and gone back to sleep, Emily told Felice to inform Mama that “Emily” was too ill to attend and to take the bridesmaid’s gown to Cousin Bertha with the plea that Bertha perform Emily’s part during the service.

  Although it was not yet time to get dressed, Emily then urged Felice to help her into the white silk wedding gown, trimmed with seed pearls and Valencienne lace, so that she was gowned and veiled by the time Mrs. Anstey came upstairs to look at poor “Emily” and wonder what Emily was doing sleeping in Mary’s room.

  Emily gave her mother a long tale of nighttime headaches and sickness and said that “Emily” had begged to be allowed to rest and would join the family at the wedding celebrations.

  Mrs. Anstey tiptoed into Mary’s room and gazed down anxiously at the sleeping figure on the bed, while Emily fretted, hoping that her mother would not draw back the covers and guess that the girl in bed was not Emily.

  The enormity of what she was about to do did not really strike Emily. She set her sister’s happiness far above the haughty earl’s humiliation and far above any embarrassment to the Anstey family.

  She was also living in a dream world, playing out the part of a heroine in a novel. In fact, when all was discovered, Emily planned to faint, quite in the best manner, because surely no one would rant and curse an unconscious girl.

  She prayed and prayed that her mother would stay away until the time came to set out for the church, but Mrs. Anstey considered it her duty to hint delicately at the mysteries of the marriage bed. Fortunately, this caused the good lady so much anguish and embarrassment that she looked anywhere in the room but at Emily.

  All at once it was time to leave. Flushed with excitement at appearing in the limelight for once in her life, Cousin Bertha looked feverish and animated, her long nose pink with excitement. Her gown was rather full in the bust for her flat figure, but she had solved that problem by stuffing her reticule down the front.

  As Emily stood at the entrance to the church, leaning on her father’s arm, she suddenly felt sick with dread. As she looked at the glowing pride on her father’s face, her conscience gave her such a sharp stab that she nearly cried aloud.

  But, somehow, it was too late to turn back. The church door was open, the organ was playing, and her father began to lead her forward.

  She approached the altar with her head meekly bowed, wishing her veil were thicker.

  Then she raised her eyes and saw the earl standing stiffly at attention, watching her approach. He was wearing a rose silk coat so beautifully tailored that it seemed molded across his shoulders.

  His knee breeches were of white silk and his shoes had diamond buckles. Diamonds blazed among the snowy folds of his cravat and on the buttons of his long silver-and-white waistcoat. His black hair was curled and pomaded and seemed to shine with blue lights in the dimness of the church.

  Very stiff and white in his green and gold robes stood the vicar, Mr. Peter Cummings. He looked down to say a silent good-bye to his love and his gaze seemed to burn right through the white veil, as the sharp and anguished eyes of love detected the face of Miss Emily Anstey.

  There was a long silence. The congregation began to fidget, wondering why the vicar did not begin.

  Mr. Cummings drew a long, silent breath of relief. Obviously, Mary had found the courage at the last minute to say she would not wed the earl, and the earl had been content to take the younger sister instead.

  Emily only realized what was happening when she heard the vicar say in measured tones, “Will you, Emily Martha Patterson Anstey, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?”

  Automatically she replied, “I will,” and then she waited for the earl to shout that it was all a trick.

  But he said nothing.

  Stunned and shocked, Emily stood as if turned to stone as the lengthy wedding ceremony went on and on. As in a dream, she made the responses which she knew by heart, having attended many weddings, and also because she said them into her pillow to her dream lover on many spring nights.

  She heard the earl promise to worship her with his body and endow her with his worldly goods.

  Mr. Cummings’ voice grew in strength. Triumphantly, he headed toward the end of the service.

  “O Merciful Lord and Heavenly Father, by whose gracious gift mankind is increased, we beseech thee, assist with thy blessing these two persons,that they may both be fruitful in procreation of children, and also live together in godly love and honesty….”

  Children! thought Emily, feeling sick and faint.

  Her head burned. The vicar’s voice seemed to ebb and flow.

  At last it was all over. She threw back her veil, helped clumsily by the over eager Cousin Bertha. The earl’s eyes blazed down into her own. “Welcome, wife,” he muttered between his teeth. I’m married to him, thought Emily weakly. Oh, what have I done?

  Chapter 4

  The scene in the vestry was dreadful. The parish register was open, awaiting the signature of the happy pair. Mr. Cummings was beaming all over his face, perfectly sure that nothing was amiss, only willing to believe the best.

  Then it finally dawned on him that the earl was so cold and chilly he looked iced, and that Emily was wearing a brown wig and looked so white she seemed about to faint.

  Mr. and Mrs. Anstey were standing proudly by, their faces lit up with happiness.

  As far as they were concerned, it was Mary who stood before them.

  “What’s amiss, Mary?” demanded Mrs. Anstey cheerfully. “You are supposed to sign your name.”

  “I am not …” Emily began, swaying slightly as she stood, one hand on the book for support.

  In a split second, it dawned on the reverend what had really happened and why Emily was wearing a brown wig. It was horrible! The scandal! And where was Mary?

  He leaped into action. He murmured to Cousin Bertha and Mr. Chester that it was customary in St. Martin’s for the married couples’ attendants to wait in the main body of the church with the other guests. He prayed they would not protest.

  To his relief, they left.

  With a sinking heart, he looked up at the earl’s face.

  “Perhaps you would care to explain, Lord Devenham?”

  The earl removed a snuffbox from his pocket and carefully took a delicate pinch. With maddening slowness, he returned the box to his pocket.

  “What is going on?” demanded Mr. Anstey.

  Summoning up all her strength, Emily willed herself not to faint. She raised shaking hands to her headdress and veil, removed both, and set them down on a vestry chair. Then, with one quick movement, she removed her wig. Her blond curls tumbled about her face.

  “Emily!” cried Mr. and Mrs. Anstey.

  “I’m sorry,” said Emily. “So very sorry. But Mary was miserable. I thought if I took her place and it was discovered afterward to be me, then the marriage would not be a marriage at all.”

  “But you are married,” said Mr. Cummings. “I recognized you, so I spoke your proper name.”

  The earl continued to stand cold and unblinking, his gray eyes fastened on Emily’s face.

  Mrs. Anstey raised chubby hands to her crumpled fat face. “The shame of it,” she said, beginning to cry. “The humiliation. To have played such a trick. To have ruined our moment of glory. We shall be the laughing stock of the county.”

  Then Mr. Anstey began to berate his daughter, while Mr. Cummings kept demanding to know what had happened to Mary, and Mrs. Anstey bawled at full force.

  In the midst of her misery and shame, Emily suddenly caught a faint gleam of humor in th
e earl’s eyes. He had had his revenge on the Anstey family at last. And she had been the one who had got it for him.

  Her noble gesture would appear to be a vulgar, hoydenish trick. The entire county would say she was jealous of Mary and wanted the earl for herself and so had drugged her sister’s chocolate. Emily began to doubt her own sanity.

  The Earl of Devenham felt a weary distaste for the whole business. He realized he did not love Mary Anstey. He felt quite sure it was highly unlikely he would ever repeat that folly of his youth by falling in love with anybody else.

  For a moment, he had enjoyed the humiliation of the Ansteys. But as he looked at Mrs. Anstey’s crumpled and pathetic figure, he saw a kindly, silly woman who had tried to do the best for her daughter.

  He, Devenham, would have to marry to secure the line. He wanted children.

  If he accepted the marriage, then he would be spared the tedium of a London Season with its attendant miseries of courtship. Emily was young and beautiful. She was wayward and childish, but she had acted with a certain gallantry.

  His cool voice broke into a babble.

  “I think the best thing to do,” he said, “is to let the marriage stand.”

  It was then that Emily did faint.

  Fortunately, she was caught by the earl before she hit the floor.

  Mary Anstey struggled awake. Her head felt hot and heavy, and her mouth dry. Somewhere at the edge of her consciousness loomed a great black cloud of dread. She murmured sleepily and turned her face into the pillow, determined to go back to sleep.

  And then it struck her.

  This was her wedding day!

  She glanced at the clock ticking busily on the mantel. Two in the afternoon.

  No, it couldn’t be that. The clock must be wrong. Her head was so hot. She put a hand up to her brow. Her nightcap felt so heavy. She felt under her chin to untie the strings and then frowned. She wasn’t wearing a nightcap. Then what …?

  A wig!

  She tugged it off and looked at the blond curls lying on the coverlet. She could almost hear Emily’s voice whispering that ridiculous suggestion.

  Mary tugged furiously at the bell rope and then waited. But no one answered. Her first thought was, of course, all the servants are at the wedding.

  Her second—Emily’s done it. She’s masqueraded as me. She must not.

  Mary leaped from bed and made a hasty toilet. Her legs felt weak, and she had a dreadful thirst.

  Then she heard the sound of the village band and ran to the window and looked out.

  In true country tradition, the wedding procession was walking back from the church to the house. Headed by the band, the Earl of Devenham and Emily led the procession. Even from this distance, Mary noticed that Emily was very white, although she was attempting to laugh at something the earl said.

  Mary sank down in a chair, her head throbbing. It seemed as if the haughty earl—for she could hardly think of him as Peregrine now—had decided to go along with the joke. The guests all seemed in high spirits as well. Emily could not be married to the earl because she would take her vows as Mary Anstey.

  The noise of the band drew nearer. There was the clink of glasses and dishes from the refreshment marquee on the lawn.

  Mary wondered how she could possibly have overslept. She looked thoughtfully at her empty chocolate cup beside the bed. She picked it up and sniffed at it. Laudanum. She remembered Emily bending over her, urging her to drink it all up.

  Mary felt that Emily had made too great a sacrifice. The Earl of Devenham was no longer the shy young captain she, Mary, had loved. He was a hardened, sophisticated, experienced man. Emily was little more than a schoolgirl. The isolated life the two sisters had led had seemed to stop Emily from maturing as other girls of her age.

  It was her, Mary’s, duty to go downstairs and help Emily face the music. If the other guests did not know the marriage was a fake, then they soon would.

  At least, Emily had not paid the ultimate sacrifice of actually marrying the earl, thought Mary. She was sure Devenham was putting a face on things for the moment, but his pride and his temper would surely make him start to tongue-lash Emily any moment now.

  She put her finest silk gown on over her petticoat and added a little rouge to her pale cheeks. She placed a smart velvet bonnet on her head and picked up her reticule. Mary squared her shoulders.

  The first person she met, bustling up the stairs at a great rate, was her mother.

  “Mary!” she gasped. “Was there ever such a thing! I would not have believed you would have been so naughty. But Lord Devenham assures us that he is happy to be married to Emily. Was ever a man so forgiving! Such manners. Ah, that’s the quality for you. I had thought we was socially ruined.”

  “Let us go into the drawing room a moment, Mama,” said Mary, urging her back down the stairs.

  “Now,” said Mary, when they were both seated, “I am afraid the matter is serious. Emily is not married, for Mr. Cummings would be under the impression that I was the bride, and so …”

  “No, no, no,” said Mrs. Anstey eagerly. “We thought that was the way of it. I did not pay much attention to what was going on, I was so excited, and neither did Mr. Anstey. First thing we knows is when it all came out in the vestry. But my lord, he ups and says he’s happy with Emily. Upon which she fainted….”

  “Mama! This is monstrous. Emily must not …”

  “Must not what?” demanded Mrs. Anstey crossly. “Mark my words, she fancies the earl for herself and is playing Miss Martyr to the hilt. How she talked you into it is beyond me.”

  “She drugged my morning chocolate.”

  “Ah,” sighed Mrs. Anstey, with something like relief. “Then I have the right of it. I noticed the way Emily watched him, you know. She wanted him for herself.”

  “Let us go and see her,” said Mary, folding her lips into a thin line. “She must be suffering quite dreadfully. She did not try to trick me. She did suggest the trick, but I refused to have any part of it, and so she put laudanum in my chocolate.”

  Cousin Bertha reluctantly surrendered her place at the top table to Mary.

  Mary looked at Emily, and Emily smiled faintly and turned her head away. She had regained her normal rosy color and, although her manner seemed slightly stiff and formal, she did not look at all like a girl who had just found herself married to a man she did not like.

  Puzzled, Mary looked next at Mr. Cummings. The blaze of love in his eyes warmed her heart despite her distress. Oh, if only it could turn out that Emily were really happy.

  There was no opportunity to talk to Emily until much later. After the wedding breakfast, there was dancing, and everyone wanted to dance with the bride. The party became noisy as even the haughty relatives from the Devenham side of the family began to unbend under the effects of the Ansteys’ lavish hospitality.

  Mary found herself alone for a moment with Mr. Cummings. In a hurried undertone, he told her of the scene in the vestry. Tears stood out in Mary’s eyes.

  “The marriage must be stopped, Mr. Cummings. It must be annulled.”

  “After the initial shock had worn off,” said Mr. Cummings cautiously, “it appeared to me that Miss Emily was quite pleased to be a countess.”

  “Emily does not set any store in titles,” said Mary. “Come with me. Let us try to get her away from the other guests for a little.”

  This proved to be more difficult than it should have been. Emily appeared to be avoiding her.

  Strangely enough, the guests did not comment on the change of bride. The Devenham guests had referred to his bride-to-be as “that daughter of a counterjumper” ever since they had received the invitations and assumed that the common Ansteys had put the name wrongly on the wedding invitations “because that class of persons always does make mistakes like that.”

  The Anstey guests and relatives were puzzled, but did not dare say so, since it might turn out to be one of those upper-class ways of going about things which were so terrifying a
nd so mystifying.

  At last, Mary managed to pull Emily a little to one side. Mr. Cummings came up to join them.

  “Emily,” she said. “You cannot do this thing. Devenham must be quite mad, or his great pride makes him feel he must go along with it. The marriage must be annulled.”

  Emily seemed to sway a little toward her beloved sister. For one split second, Emily was about to throw herself on her sister’s bosom and beg for help.

  But in that split second, she saw Mr. Cummings take Mary’s hand and give it a squeeze and saw all the love in their eyes as they looked briefly at each other, and her face became a careful mask.

  “La! What a to-do you are making, Mary,” laughed Emily. “You don’t want him, and he is happy with me. You must not become jealous at this late date.”

  “Miss Emily,” said Mr. Cummings, who felt that by not giving her correct title, he was showing her he had not accepted the marriage. “Do but listen. You are a very brave girl, but you must not make this sacrifice.”

  “You forget yourself, Mr. Cummings,” said Emily in a flat voice. “In future, use my title when you address me. I am to be a countess—I am a countess—and I will make a much better one than Mary would have done.” She flicked her sister’s cheek with her long white fan. “If you ever want to raise your eyes higher than this village prelate, do but come and join me in London, Mary dear.”

  Emily drifted off, leaving them both scandalized.

  “She is acting!” said Mary after she had furiously thought about her sister’s outrageous behavior.

  “Not she,” said Mr. Cummings. “Just look.”

  Emily was hanging onto the earl’s arm and flirting quite blatantly with him. The close-fitting wedding gown set off the trimness of her figure and the swell of her bosom.

  The earl looked politely amused. It was hard to know what he was thinking.

  “This may mean we can be married,” said Mr. Cummings in a low voice.