Marry in Scarlet

by Anne Gracie

  “But you didn’t marry him.”

  “Oh, heavens no, we couldn’t let on that there was anything between us. Papa—your grandfather, dear—would have had poor Logan horsewhipped and thrown off the estate, or even bundled onto a ship and forced to emigrate. Or worse. And me married off by force to some horrid old duke—there were several who were interested.” She pulled a face. “Old goats.

  “You didn’t know your grandfather, but he wasn’t a nice man. Very proud and autocratic and horridly strict—you cannot imagine. No interest in his daughters or what they wanted. Our only duty was to marry well and produce heirs for their husbands. You can see how that attitude shaped poor Aggie—she married well, but heirs?” She shook her head. “Still, you can see a little of my father in her, can’t you? The pride and arrogance and inflexibility, and she still thinks that’s all girls are for.”

  George nodded. She wasn’t sure she’d ever forgive Aunt Agatha for the part—the several parts she’d played in arranging George’s own wedding. She might have accepted her betrothal now, but that didn’t justify Aunt Agatha’s deception.

  Aunt Dottie continued, “My brother, Alfred, once he inherited the title, was even worse. He was such a high stickler that even your father—his heir—avoided him wherever possible. And by his standards, he indulged Henry. Mind you, Henry was always lazy and selfish and irresponsible, even as a boy.”

  George sat drinking this up. She knew so little about her family. She’d never met her father, Henry, who’d abandoned her and her mother shortly after their forced wedding. And she knew very little about her grandfather, Aunt Dottie and Aunt Agatha’s brother, Alfred, who was Cal and Rose and Lily’s father. And what she knew wasn’t very nice.

  “When Alfred remarried, he allowed his second wife to more or less edge poor Cal out of the family—he was still just a boy, sixteen or so—but was never really welcome at Ashendon after that. The army became Cal’s home.”

  And when Alfred’s second wife had died, George thought, he’d done much the same thing with Rose and Lily, taking his two recently bereaved daughters away from everything they knew and dumping them into an exclusive seminary for girls.

  Aunt Dottie sighed. “Alfred was never a good father. He had the same attitude to girls as our father had. The way he treated poor Lily after he’d discovered her little problem.” She shook her head. “My brother only ever did two good things in his life, and one of them was to let me buy a little house in Bath and live there with a companion—once he’d been convinced I had an aversion to marriage.” She gave a mischievous half smile. “I did, but only to his kind of cold-blooded marriage. Not to men, and especially not to Logan.”

  She stared out of the window for a long moment and her mouth quivered. “Oh, Logan. What if . . . ? I couldn’t bear . . .” She wiped a tear away. “No, I must be brave. He will be all right. He will.”

  George waited for her to add, I have one of my feelings about it. Aunt Dottie’s feelings were famous. But she didn’t say it, which was a worry.

  “What was the other good thing your brother did?” George prompted gently. The reminiscences seemed to be doing her good. And, besides, they were fascinating.

  “What? Oh, sending Rose and Lily to a seminary in Bath. His reasons were vile—he couldn’t be bothered with girls, and he found poor little Lily an embarrassment—but it meant I could see a lot of the girls.” Her face softened. “They’ve been like daughters to me.” She glanced at George and patted her on the arm. “As are you, dear child, even though your very existence was unknown to us for so long.”

  She sighed. “The Rutherford men have a great deal to answer for—all so selfish and so arrogant. All except for dear Cal—I wonder how he turned out so different? Protective and responsible and loving. Did his mother play Alfred false, I wonder?”

  George opened her mouth to object, but Aunt Dottie shook her head. “I suppose not. All you have to do is look at the family portraits, and you’ll see his likeness looking back at you from a dozen frames. Yours too, my dear—anyone can see at a glance you’re a true Rutherford. But Cal is kind—which is not a male Rutherford trait. Interesting, isn’t it? I wonder who little Bertie will take after . . .”

  Before George could suggest that with Emm and Cal as parents, young Bertie couldn’t go wrong, the carriage pulled into an inn yard, the wheels rattling loudly over the cobbles. Darkness had fallen. Ostlers ran out. The postilion dismounted and walked a little stiffly toward them.

  Aunt Dottie peered out into the lowering gloom. “What is it, postboy? Why are we stopping?”

  He opened the carriage door. “We’ll stop the night here, ladies.”

  “No, no!” Aunt Dottie’s face crumpled worriedly. “We must go on.”

  He gestured at the sky. “No moon tonight, and even if there was, see that there fog gatherin’ in the hollows? It’s good and thick and it’s only going to get worse. Can’t drive on a moonless night in the fog, m’lady. Too dangerous.”

  “Light some lanterns then.” Aunt Dottie’s voice rose with incipient panic. “We have to go on.”

  The postboy—he was about forty and no boy—shook his head. “Sorry, m’lady, but I won’t do it.”

  “I’ll pay you extra to go on.” She clutched her reticule, and George wondered if it was a bluff. Aunt Dottie never usually carried money.

  He hesitated, and shifted uncomfortably, but shook his head. “Not worth me life, ma’am, nor yours.” He glanced at George, a silent plea for her support. “Best stay the night, m’lady, safe and warm in the inn—it’s a good place, clean and honest—and we’ll go on first thing in the morning.”

  George slid an arm around her. “He’s right, Aunt Dottie. You wouldn’t do Logan any good if you had an accident on the way. We’ll leave first thing in the morning, at dawn.”

  “Dawn.” Aunt Dottie’s eyes filled with tears. “You know that’s when people . . . you know. Just before the dawn . . .”

  George squeezed her gently. There was nothing to say to that. “Come along, Aunt Dottie.”

  All the fight drained from the old lady. All the hope too, George could see. She seemed to have aged ten years in the last day. The last ten minutes.

  Traveling and reminiscing had kept the demons of worry at bay for a time, but they were back now in full measure.

  A good night’s sleep—if such a thing could be had in this situation—would make the old lady feel better. Stronger, anyway. As long as . . . as long as Logan survived the night. He was no longer a young man . . .

  “The sun will rise around five. We can be on the road by then, and be in Bath before noon.” She glanced at the postboy, who nodded.

  “And in the meantime we pray,” Aunt Dottie whispered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  But there are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has very little power . . .

  —JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY

  Hart greeted his host and hostess, Lord and Lady Filmore, ignoring the hush that accompanied his arrival, the low speculative murmur. He swept the room with an icy glance. Beneath it, eyes dropped, gazes slid sideways. His lip curled.

  The previous week Lady Salter had sent him a list of all of Georgiana’s engagements in the lead up to the wedding. The sooner he was married, the sooner this going-to-parties nonsense would be over, and people would move on to some other source of gossip.

  He wouldn’t even be in London. He and his bride would be on their way to Venice.

  He glanced around the room. Where was she? He could see Lady Salter in an alcove talking to some of her cronies. No sign of Georgiana or the plump little aunt. He strolled into the next room. Not there, either.

  He glanced into the card rooms. He didn’t think she was fond of cards, but he still didn’t know her very well. She wasn’t there. He frowned.

  The Filmore house had no garden, just a small
terrace and courtyard, but it was drizzling, and nobody would be outside. So where was she? The ladies’ withdrawing room?

  He accepted a glass of wine, sipped it—a very inferior vintage—and set it on a nearby table. He waited. Ladies came and went, but none of them was Georgiana. He sought her aunt.

  “Lady Salter, did you not inform me that Lady Georgiana would attend this—”

  “Oh, yes, duke,” she said hastily. “I’m so sorry, I should have sent a note around. My niece is, ah, indisposed this evening. I do apologize.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “No, no, just the—the headache.” She seemed a little flustered. It was unlike her.

  “I see.” Hart made a few polite inquiries about Lady Ashendon and the baby, then took his leave. A wasted evening, he thought as he headed out into the night. But he was glad to escape the party. Inane conversation, inferior wine and nobody there he cared two pins about.

  * * *

  * * *

  The yellow bounder rattled into Bath just before noon and pulled up outside Aunt Dottie’s house. She almost fell from the carriage in her haste to get down, but George caught her in time. They were both exhausted. Aunt Dottie had been restless and anxious the entire time. She’d barely eaten a mouthful of the very good dinner the landlady had provided, and though they’d gone to bed straight after dinner, the old lady had barely slept a wink—she’d jumped out of bed a dozen times through the night, peering out of the window into the darkness and wondering aloud how much longer it would be until the dawn. And since George and she had shared a room, George hadn’t slept much either.

  Aunt Dottie hurried up the front steps and rang the doorbell.

  The jangling of the bell echoed within. They waited.

  Aunt Dottie choked off a sob. “Logan always opens the door for me. Always.”

  Not knowing what to say, George rubbed her arm in a comforting manner. Eventually light footsteps came running. The door opened and Betty, Aunt Dottie’s maidservant, opened the door. Normally neat and trim, she looked bone weary. Her hair was a mess and her face was stained with drying tears. “Oh, m’lady, I’m—”

  “Nooo!” Aunt Dottie wailed, clutching the doorjamb.

  “No, no,” Betty said hurriedly. “He’s alive. The fever broke in the early hours of this morning. Mr. Logan is out of danger.”

  “He’s alive?”

  Betty nodded. “He’s upstairs in his bed, m’lady, sleeping peaceful as a baby. He—”

  But Aunt Dottie was gone, puffing up the stairs as fast as her short legs could carry her. George followed. To her surprise, instead of the servants’ rooms, on the upper floor, Aunt Dottie went straight to her own bedchamber.

  George knew Aunt Dottie’s bedchamber. George, Rose and Lily had lived with Aunt Dottie in the weeks leading up to Cal’s marriage to Emm. But the old lady went through her bedchamber, directly into her dressing room and opened a door George had never noticed.

  It led to a small chamber containing a large bed, and in that bed lay Logan, sound asleep. Aunt Dottie gazed at him, tears rolling down her face, and smoothed his silvery hair back from his brow.

  “You’re sure the doctor said he’d be all right?” she whispered.

  “Yes’m, he left not an hour ago,” Betty whispered from the other doorway that led to the servants’ stairs. “He says Mr. Logan is to sleep as much as possible and that when he wakes he’s to be given soup and a little bread. Nothing heavy.”

  “Soup? He hates soup.”

  Betty smiled. “Cook is making chicken soup now. Smells lovely, it does.”

  Aunt Dottie glanced around. “Is there only you and Cook here?”

  Betty wrinkled her nose. “The new girl didn’t want to stay, not with fever in the house. She would have it that Mr. Logan had scarlet fever, but the doctor said that was nonsense.”

  Aunt Dottie frowned. “So who has been looking after Logan?”

  “Mostly me, ma’am. Me and Cook and my cousin Sue who came in some days to give us a hand, after that silly maidservant left.” That explained Betty’s frazzled appearance. The poor woman must be exhausted.

  There was a short silence. “Thank you, my dear.” Aunt Dottie took Betty’s work-worn hands in hers and kissed her on the cheek. “I am . . . you have no idea how grateful—”

  “Ah, ’tis nothing, ma’am,” Betty said gruffly. “You and Mr. Logan been good to me and Cook. There ain’t nothing we wouldn’t do for either of you.”

  “It’s not nothing and I shall think of some way to express my thanks to you all later.” Aunt Dottie pushed her maid toward the door. “You can help me now, Betty, by putting yourself to bed and getting some much-needed sleep—no, don’t argue. The rings under your eyes tell their own tale. I am here to care for Mr. Logan now.”

  Betty went reluctantly and the old lady gave a gusty sigh. “I am blessed in my servants. Now, unhook me, George, dear.” She presented her back to George.

  “Here?” She glanced at Logan, sleeping in the bed.

  “Yes, of course here. Where else?” Slightly bemused, George helped the old lady remove first the dress, then her stays, petticoat, shoes and stockings until she was down to just her chemise which, to George’s relief, stayed on. Aunt Dottie was the old-fashioned type who wore no drawers.

  Then Aunt Dottie slipped into the bed beside Logan. He stirred. “That you, Dot?”

  She kissed him. “Yes, love. I’m here now.”

  His arm wrapped around her. “Missed you.”

  “I missed you too, my darling. What a fright you gave me, but you’re through the worst of it, thank God. Now, back to sleep, love. Sleep and get well again.” She snuggled her head on the old man’s chest, closed her eyes and, under George’s fascinated eye, the elderly couple drifted off to sleep.

  George was ever so slightly shocked. It was one thing to know that Aunt Dottie and her groom had fallen in love all those years ago. That wasn’t so surprising. And even after Aunt Dottie had told her how they’d even talked about marriage and babies, it still hadn’t occurred to her that it was anything but a story of the long-distant past. She’d assumed that they’d stayed together out of friendship and loyalty. And habit.

  But that they were lovers—still. She hadn’t really taken it in.

  They were old. Did they still . . . ?

  She recalled the pretty—and revealing—nightdresses and bed-jackets Aunt Dottie had purchased from Miss Chance. George’s face warmed just thinking about it. Obviously they still . . .

  All the time George had lived in this house she’d never had any idea that there was any more to Aunt Dottie and Logan’s friendship than, well, friendship. Of the mistress and servant kind. Though, come to think of it, Logan had made a point of calling Aunt Dottie “my mistress” and sometimes “my dear mistress.” With an odd little smile.

  She found herself grinning. The sneaky old thing.

  She was certain Rose and Lily had no idea—if they’d known, they would surely have said something. Aunt Dottie had made no secret of the fact that she’d known Logan since she was fifteen. It was clear she was fond of him. And he was clearly devoted to her and took excellent care of her.

  But the idea that there was anything more to it had never occurred to George. Or, apparently, to anyone else. All these years . . .

  Who was it who said that Aunt Dottie could never keep a secret?

  She turned and found Betty watching from the doorway. “Innit sweet?” Betty whispered. “Such a fond old couple they are. I hope I end up like that one day.”

  The thought had never occurred to George. What would it be like to be loved like that? Together for fifty years or more, and still to be a loving couple. She swallowed. She was marrying the duke. She was never likely to find out.

  She tiptoed from the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

  * * *<
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  * * *

  Aunt Dottie slept away the afternoon and only appeared later in the evening, wanting soup for Logan who she reported as feeling not only better but hungry. After feeding him the soup she joined George for a quick supper.

  “How is he, Aunt Dottie?”

  Aunt Dottie beamed. “He’s asleep now, but he was grumbling about needing proper food, not soup—isn’t that wonderful?—so manlike, and it shows how much better he’s feeling—but he drank the whole bowl right down—and it stayed down. Cook’s chicken soup is as good as any doctor’s potion.”

  They both went up to bed early, Aunt Dottie because she needed to keep checking on Logan, and George because she was tired and because there was nothing else to do. She’d read all the books in Aunt Dottie’s small library last year, and had no patience with playing patience. She didn’t embroider or knit or tat, and there was no dog to walk or play with.

  She hoped they were remembering to feed Finn, and then decided that, given his thespian talents, he was probably more in danger of being overfed.

  * * *

  * * *

  Over the next few evenings Hart diligently attended the events on the list Lady Salter had sent him, but found no sign of Lady Georgiana at any of them. It was very annoying; Lady Salter had been most pointed about sending him the details of the social events his betrothed was scheduled to attend, yet she couldn’t be bothered apprising him of any changes. Nor did Lady Salter turn up herself.