Marry in Scarlet

by Anne Gracie

  George didn’t really care which of the designs she chose, but in the end—surprisingly—they all liked the plainer one, to be made in cream silk with piping. George liked its simplicity, Emm said it was both elegant and charming, Aunt Dottie said she’d look like a queen in it, while Aunt Agatha gave it as her opinion that she supposed it would be dignified enough for the bride of a duke. So that was that.

  The carriage pulled up outside the House of Chance, and, as George helped Aunt Dottie to alight, a couple of ladies strolled along, eyeing her as they passed. She could only hear snatches of their conversation, but she had no doubt of their subject.

  “. . . she’s a bastard, I heard . . . I wonder he allowed himself to be caught . . .”

  “. . . outrageous . . . lewd behavior . . . entrapped . . .”

  “Ignorant and ill-bred people,” Aunt Agatha said loudly. “Ignorant and ill-bred.”

  George set her teeth and went into the shop.

  Two more ladies were inside. As George entered, they exchanged glances and rose to their feet. One muttered, “This place will take anyone.”

  The other said loudly, “There’s nothing here that any lady could possibly want.” The two women left.

  George looked at Miss Chance in dismay. Was she driving customers away? The House of Chance was a relatively new business, she knew.

  Miss Chance caught her look and laughed. “Don’t give ’em a thought, Lady George. The world is full of small-minded petty bitches—forgive the language, Lady Dorothea—and I learned young never to take notice of ’em.”

  “Quite right, my dear, quite right,” Aunt Dottie said briskly. “I have observed an astonishing lack of conduct in ladies of the ton these days. No upbringing at all. Their nannies should have been dismissed without a character—their charges certainly exhibit none. Now, George, my dear, show Miss Chance the design we chose.”

  Miss Chance approved their choice, checked George’s measurements—they never changed—and took them through to a back room where a new shipment from China had just come in. It was an Aladdin’s cave of gorgeously colored silks and satins, embroidered fabrics and ready-made sequined and jeweled motifs of exquisite and intricate design. Miss Chance’s husband ran a large international trading company, and she had first choice of their goods.

  They oohed and aahed over the glorious fabrics, and Miss Chance showed them the silk she recommended for George’s wedding dress. It was cream silk, fine and luxurious, but heavy enough to drape beautifully.

  Aunt Dottie also took collection of a gorgeous new nightdress in delicate peach silk, all ruffles and lace, practically transparent, with a bed-jacket to match. She held the nightie up against her body and posed. “Not suitable for an old lady at all, is it, George, my love?”

  George didn’t know what to say. Aunt Agatha would have a fit.

  Aunt Dottie giggled. “It’s perfect, Miss Chance, just perfect. Wrap it up—I’ll take it with me now.”

  The decisions all made, they left. The carriage was waiting and the footman hurried to let down the steps. A small group of ladies was walking toward them. They lowered their voices as they approached, but George could see from the malicious glances that they were talking about her. She clenched her jaw and waited while Aunt Dottie handed her precious parcel up to the footman.

  “. . . scandal that a catch like the duke should be caught by a strumpet of no background.”

  “Certainly one of no morals.”

  “Do strumpets have morals? I don’t think so.” Tittering, they flounced past George with smug looks and superior smiles.

  She gritted her teeth. That. Was. It. She’d had enough.

  “Now, George,” Aunt Dottie said warningly.

  She gave her aunt a brittle glittering smile. “It’s all right, Aunt Dottie—just realized I forgot something. In Miss Chance’s. Back in a minute.”

  She dived back into the House of Chance. Its proprietor looked up in surprise. “What is it, Lady George? Forgot something?”

  “Changed my mind.” She grabbed Miss Chance’s hand and towed her into the back room. She glanced around and pointed. “I want my dress in that fabric.”

  Miss Chance frowned. “For your weddin’ dress, you mean?”

  “Yes. That.”

  Miss Chance gave her a searching look. “You sure now? Time is tight and if you change your mind . . .”

  “I won’t change my mind.” She nodded at Miss Chance and hurried back to the carriage.

  “What did you forget?” Aunt Dottie asked as the carriage moved off.

  “Nothing much. A small detail I wanted included.”

  “What detail?”

  George shook her head. “It’s a surprise.”

  * * *

  * * *

  A few days later, George came downstairs after her regular morning visit to Emm and the baby. Mother and baby had both drifted off to sleep, and she was considering how to pass the rest of the morning. She was sick of shopping—she failed to see why she needed so many more things just because she was getting married. Besides, shopping wasn’t as much fun without Lily and Rose to encourage and advise her. Aunt Dottie thought everything was lovely and Aunt Agatha thought nothing George liked would do for a duchess.

  Lily and Rose would be coming to London soon, returning for her wedding—and, of course, to meet baby Bertie. George couldn’t wait. Maybe she’d write to them. She was heading for the library, when the sound of voices coming from the front entry hall distracted her. It was too early for anyone to be paying morning calls—and in any case it was too soon after Emm’s confinement for her to be receiving callers.

  The voices increased in volume. One was male, the voice low and indistinguishable, the other sounded very much like Aunt Dottie—an increasingly agitated Aunt Dottie. George hurried to investigate.

  “Give them to me. I must leave at once!” Aunt Dottie was protesting. “Every minute counts.” She was dancing up and down with impatience.

  The butler, Burton, was holding a small portmanteau and a bandbox back behind him, out of the old lady’s reach. What on earth was going on? Bits of garments poked messily out beneath the lids. No servant would have packed like that; Aunt Dottie must have done it herself, which was unheard of.

  “Surely you should consult Lord Ashendon bef— Oh, there you are, Lady Georgiana,” said Burton in relief. “I was just explaining to Lady Dorothea—”

  “He won’t give me my things, George,” Aunt Dottie said distressfully. “And I must leave.” She was almost in tears. George had never seen her so upset.

  “Aunt Dottie, what’s wrong?”

  “I am needed at home. I need to leave right this minute.” She turned back to the butler. “Did the boy at least order the yellow bounder as I told him to?”

  “Yes, m’lady, but—” He gave George an agonized look, a clear plea for assistance.

  “Aunt Dottie, what on earth is the matter?”

  “I told you—I need to go home, right this minute. Or as soon as the wretched post chaise gets here.”

  “But why are you leaving, Aunt Dottie? Has someone upset you?”

  “A letter came for her this morning, from Bath,” Burton explained. “Whatever it said has upset her. She sent the new footman to order a post chaise, but he didn’t clear it with me, and I didn’t realize—”

  “The silly man wants me to wait until Cal gets back. But I don’t need Cal’s permission to do anything, and I haven’t got time,” Aunt Dottie wailed. “I have to go to Bath now!”

  Obviously George wasn’t going to get any sense out of Aunt Dottie while she was in this state. “Let’s have a cup of tea and some cake, and you can tell me all about it,” George suggested in a soothing voice.

  “Tea?” Aunt Dottie said in a voice of loathing. “Cake? I am talking life or death and you offer me tea and cake?”

&
nbsp; Just then they heard the sound of a carriage pulling up outside. “Is that for me?” Aunt Dottie pushed past Burton and wrenched open the front door. “Yes, yes, it is. A lovely shiny yellow bounder. Now give me my baggage, Burton, or I’ll go without it.”

  The butler said in a low voice to George, “You can’t let the old lady travel all the way to Bath on her own, Lady George. Not in a hired carriage.”

  “Who are you calling an old lady?” Aunt Dottie demanded. She jumped and made a grab for the bandbox, pulled it from his despairing grasp and hurried down the steps, calling to the postboy to help her.

  “Lady George, you have to stop her.”

  “How? I can’t very well wrestle her to the ground or lock her up,” George said. “She’s determined to leave at once and—oh, lord! Wait, Aunt Dottie,” she called out. “I’ll come with you. Give me two minutes.” To Burton she said, “Send a footman to hold that postilion. The state she’s in, I don’t trust her not to leave without me.”

  Burton made a strangled sound of protest, but he snapped his fingers and sent a footman running. “You can’t mean it, Lady George. Go all the way to Bath without any preparation?”

  She turned a hunted look on him. “There’s no other choice. Cal isn’t here, and I don’t want to distress Emm—she’s still recovering from the baby—so what else is there to do? As you said, Aunt Dottie can’t go all that way on her own, and even if we sent a maid or footman with her, can you see her listening to a servant in this state? Now quickly, give me a pencil and paper—I’ll leave a note for Cal and you can explain it in more detail.”

  Burton handed her some notepaper and a pencil. “But you don’t have any luggage, m’lady.”

  George scrawled a hurried explanation. “I don’t care about luggage. Send some after me if you want, or I’ll buy or borrow something. I don’t know what’s got her so distressed, so I have no idea how long I’ll be away.” She thrust the note at him. “Give that to my uncle when he gets in and tell him what’s happened.”

  Finn, with a dog’s instinct for any change in routine, trotted up behind her, pressed against her legs and gave her a meaningful, where-are-we-going look. She glanced at the post chaise. It was too small to fit two people and a large, hairy dog.

  She clipped his lead on, scratched him affectionately behind the ears. Murmuring apologies to Finn, she handed the lead to Burton. “Don’t let him follow the coach—because he will if you give him the slightest opportunity.”

  Burton snapped his fingers to summon a footman and passed him the lead. “Give the animal a meaty bone and lock him in the garden. Don’t let him out of your sight.” Dragging against his lead, Finn was led reluctantly away as if to his execution.

  George felt ridiculously sad to be leaving her dog behind. They’d never been separated before. “You will take good care of him while I’m away, won’t you, Burton?”

  “Of course, m’lady. Now, do you have any money? I doubt Lady Dorothea has even thought of it.”

  “No. Oh, curses! What will I do without—”

  “Here.” Burton unlocked a drawer and pulled out a small wad of banknotes. “That should cover you both until you get to Bath.”

  “Burton, you’re a treasure. I could kiss you!” She grabbed the notes and, wishing she was still in her riding breeches which had sensible things like pockets, stuffed the notes into her bodice, grabbed Aunt Dottie’s portmanteau, ran to the post chaise and climbed in.

  “Now move, postboy,” Aunt Dottie shouted. “Spring ’em!”

  George sat back, waiting in silence while the postilion skillfully steered them through the ever-shifting tangle of London traffic. Aunt Dottie was clearly too anxious for conversation. She sat, leaning forward on the edge of her seat, her hands pressed against the glass window that stretched across the front of the carriage. “Faster, faster, faster!” she urged the postboy. Not that he could hear her from his position on the back of the left-side horse, thank goodness.

  It might have been better to hire four horses, instead of two, but Aunt Dottie was in no state to think of that, and clearly the young footman didn’t know to order four. Good. George had never had to hire a post chaise before—never even traveled in one—but she’d heard they were expensive, and four horses and two postilions would be even more expensive. She pulled out the money Burton had given her, and surreptitiously counted it before tucking it back inside her bodice. She’d come away without even a reticule.

  Finally the city fell behind them. They’d passed through Kensington, the traffic had lessened, the road was smooth and well-made and the carriage bowled along at a smart clip. They couldn’t keep that up for long, George knew, but it served to relax Aunt Dottie somewhat. She sat back against the leather squabs and heaved a sigh.

  George took the old lady’s hand. “Now, Aunt Dottie, tell me, what’s all this about?”

  Aunt Dottie gave her a puzzled look. “Didn’t I tell you, dear? Logan is dreadfully ill.”

  “Logan? Your butler?” All this, because her butler was sick?

  “My Logan, yes. Cook wrote to say he was ill, running a terrible fever. They’d had the doctor to him, but she thought it best if I come.” Her mouth wobbled. Her eyes filled. “You know why people want you to come when someone is terribly ill, don’t you? Because they think . . . because they expect . . .” She burst into tears.

  George put her arms around the old lady and let her sob into her shoulder. Her mind was whirling. She knew Logan had worked for Aunt Dottie for years, but this was an overreaction, surely.

  And then she thought, what if it were Martha who was ill, possibly dying, maybe even already dead. Martha, who had been like a mother to her. Would not George race to be at her bedside?

  She rubbed Aunt Dottie’s back in a slow, soothing rhythm and, once the sobs had quietened, Aunt Dottie curled into the corner of the seat and closed her eyes. Poor thing, she must be exhausted by all the worry and the emotional storm. George pulled a rug out from a compartment and tucked it around the old lady, and soon she was asleep.

  The journey stretched before her. Wishing she’d brought a book, George put her feet up against the front of the carriage and watched the countryside slip by. Aunt Dottie slept on. It was only when they stopped to change horses that she woke, and urged that they get moving again with all speed. Once they were back on the road, she dozed off again.

  George wished she could do the same. Alas, she was not built to sleep in a rattling, bouncing carriage. At every posting station she got out and stretched her legs while the postilion changed horses. Sometimes she purchased food or drink, and at others she had to convince Aunt Dottie that making a call of nature would not hold them up. Not that there was a choice.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Where are we?” The voice startled her. Aunt Dottie was sitting up, yawning, but wide awake. She peered out of the window, rubbing the mist away with her glove.

  “I’m not sure. I was miles away, not taking much notice of where we are, I’m afraid.”

  Aunt Dottie nodded. She seemed calmer now. Perhaps because of the weeping storm and the sleep, or perhaps it was simply that they were on their way and there was nothing else to be done except wait to arrive.

  George opened her mouth, then closed it. Would it upset Aunt Dottie to talk about Logan or not? She didn’t want to stir up her distress once more. Then again it might help pass the time if they talked.

  Aunt Dottie took the decision from her. “I suppose you’re wondering. All this fuss for a butler.”

  George nodded cautiously.

  “You know, of course, that he’s not just a butler, that he’s much more to me than that, don’t you?”

  George didn’t know what to say. She did think he was just a butler; he was clearly the kind of butler who was almost one of the family. “Like Martha was more to me than just a cook or housekeeper?”

&
nbsp; Aunt Dottie gave a tremulous smile and shook her head. “Not quite the same.” She snuggled back into her corner seat, pulled the rug around her and settled down to tell her story. “I’ve known Logan since I was a young girl. He was one of my father’s grooms. I remember the day he first started work—I was almost fifteen. I’m talking about Ashendon Court—that was my home back then, of course.”

  She gave a fluttery, reminiscent sigh. “So young and tall and handsome he was—he’s only three years older than I am, but three years seems an age when you’re not quite fifteen and he’s already turned eighteen.”

  She smiled mistily. “Of course I fell in love with him. What girl wouldn’t? I wasn’t mad about horses back then—I rode, of course, but it wasn’t a passion with me, not like it is with you, dear. But once Logan started work, oh, my, yes, I positively haunted the stables. Papa was so pleased to think I was finally taking an interest in his horses. But of course my fascination was entirely with Logan.”

  Fifteen? George gave her a troubled look. At that age, girls could be very vulnerable to the attentions of handsome older men. Especially gently raised girls, who were kept so ignorant of their own bodies and how easy it was to get carried away. And girls who were due to inherit fortunes were a temptation for men who worked with their hands.

  Emm, she knew, had been ruined in her youth by a handsome scoundrel of a groom. She’d lost everything—or thought she had, for years. Until Cal offered her a convenient marriage.

  And as a girl, George herself had developed a very painful attachment for a young man only a few years older. He wasn’t a groom; he was worse—a gentleman. So-called. He’d been neither gentle nor honorable . . .

  “Fifteen is very young,” she began.

  Aunt Dottie laughed. “I know. But in that I think Rose and I are alike. She says she knew Thomas was the man for her, even though she was only sixteen, and I knew Logan was the man for me.” She laughed again. “The problem was that Logan didn’t agree. He’s terribly straitlaced, you know. It was years before he would let me kiss him properly, and even then he refused to let it go any further. I had to have two whole seasons before we so much as kissed. Such a waste of time—though those London balls were lovely. I did have a lot of fun in my seasons, and several very flattering offers, but of course I wasn’t interested. I’d already found my Logan.”