by Joan Smith
Gervase brought them invitations to a party that evening in honor of the bridal couple. Marianne’s hopes soared, then fell to the ground again when the duchess decided she was too fagged after the journey and would stay home. Lady Thornleigh thought it looked dreadfully like rain. As she disliked to have the horses put to in the rain, she would remain at home as well.
The sisters and Marianne had dinner at seven-thirty in a drafty dining room, where the conversation was as dull as the food. Over mutton and turbot in white sauce, they discussed people from their youth, names Marianne had never heard. Most of them seemed to be dead. The cause of their demise was of great interest to the octogenarians. At eight-thirty they retired to the purple saloon. At nine o’clock tea was served, and at nine-thirty they retired to their beds.
In the morning, Lady Thornleigh mentioned going to Bond Street to buy new gloves for the wedding. Again Marianne allowed herself to hope, but as the sky was gray her hostess decided against having the horses put to and sent a footman instead. To keep her “amused,” Marianne was given a tangled wad of colored embroidery woolens to separate, and she sat at this chore while the sisters entertained a few relatives. One of the duchess’s daughters came, not Eugenie but Hortense. Eugenie was too busy with wedding details.
Strangely, the duchess did not mention the troubles she had encountered on her journey. When her daughter inquired, she said only that a bridge had failed them, and a nice gentleman had helped them escape drowning. Neither her daughter nor her sister was curious enough to inquire for his name. Sir Gervase paid a brief visit in the afternoon and again ate most of the bread and butter, even the crusts, which put Bingo into a snappish temper.
Marianne was sorely disappointed with her visit to fabled London. Were it not for her memories and her hopes, she would have been in the mopes. While the old ladies gossiped, her mind was back at the inn with Captain Macheath. He had said he would call. Perhaps he would come that evening. She imagined herself seeing the real London with him. She knew a highwayman would not be accepted in polite society, but she pictured herself at a ball with him, floating in a lovely silk gown that she did not, in fact, possess. Her hair was piled high on her head, and at her throat sparkled the diamonds she claimed were of no interest to her.
“Eh, Marianne?” the duchess said, interrupting her daydreams.
Marianne returned to reality with a guilty start. “Er, sorry, ma’am. I didn’t hear you.”
“Belle was saying you will want to have a jig with Gervase at the wedding. He is a widower, you know. An excellent parti. Not so young as he might be, of course, but there is plenty of life in him yet.”
“Not young?” Lady Thornleigh said, lifting her eyebrows in astonishment. “He is not a day over fifty-five.”
“Rubbish! He is sixty if he is a day.”
“No, no. You remember he married in ‘81, the year Papa died, and everyone said he was too young to shackle himself with a bride. And she had no dowry to speak of, either. I remember perfectly, for we could not attend the wedding as we were in mourning.”
“That wasn’t Gervase. It was Cousin Lloyd. He married the Rafferty girl—an Irish chit, but with a hefty dowry.”
They were off on another ramble down memory lane, and Marianne’s thoughts returned to greener pastures. When she had hoped to meet an undemanding gentleman, it was not some widower old enough to be her grandpapa. She sat with one ear cocked, hoping every time she heard the door knocker sound that the butler would enter to announce, in a disapproving voice, “Captain Macheath.”
It didn’t happen. Relatives and friends aplenty dropped in to gossip about the wedding, but they all had either gray or white hair except a Lord Penniston, who had no hair at all on his head but a fair-size bush growing out of his ears.
With a wedding to look forward to in the morning, the ladies retired at nine that evening.
The wedding was to take place at two o’clock the next afternoon in St. George’s, Hanover Square, with a reception at the groom’s papa’s mansion in Park Lane after. The mansion on Grosvenor Square was all aflutter. The sisters were busy comparing toilettes, worrying whether an egret fan was too lavish or the painted chicken skin too common.
“I shall wear my emerald pin on my turban,” Lady Thornleigh explained. “The chicken-skin fan does not really go with emeralds.”
“I shall take my painted parchment fan,” the duchess said. “It is not stylish, but it gives a wonderful breeze, and you know how hot the duke keeps his saloon. As bad as Carlton House. I should hate to pay his heating bills.”
“Oh, as to giving a breeze, I find my ivory fan—”
“Ivory! The very thing, Belle. Elegant but not showy. Ivory is at home anywhere.”
Knowing she would be required to assist the duchess with her toilette, Marianne arranged her own early. Mercifully, the blue slippers that matched her gown had not been ruined during her adventures. When she slid the silk stockings on, she felt quite like a lady of leisure. Her blue gown was simple, but its color suited her. With it she wore her mama’s pearls, which she had hidden in the pocket of her best petticoat to escape the highwayman and forgotten all about until she required them. She drew her curls into a nest on top of her head and fastened them in place with half a dozen pins, which she knew would give her a headache before the party was over, but it would be worth it.
Her toilette was as fine as she had ever worn when she went below to ask if Her Grace was ready to begin dressing. Her face was pale, though, from waiting and worrying. She was afraid the duchess would rag at her for looking so stylish, but neither of the sisters noticed her improved appearance.
Wedding or no, the duchess never wore anything but black. Her gown was of silk, however, smuggled in from France. The diamonds looked well with it. She wore a fond smile as Marianne hung them around her crepe-like throat.
“I wonder if we shall ever see him again,” she said in a dreamy voice. Not the Captain, not Macheath, but him, as if he had been preying on her mind, too.
“He said he would call,” Marianne reminded her. Was it possible the duchess had forgotten?
“So he did. I very much doubt we shall see him. I could see he was not really interested in Lady Amelia. He never asked a single question about her looks. Even in a marriage of convenience, a gentleman always inquires for a lady’s looks. He only played along to amuse me. A sad rattle like Macheath would have no use for a lady. I expect the moping face you have worn these two days is in his honor. Forget him, Marianne. He is too dashing for you. You are in London now. You want to forget him and enjoy it.”
Sorting woolens was no more exciting in London than in Bath, but Marianne didn’t say so. She was afraid if she mentioned the promised tour the duchess would say Sir Gervase would escort her, and she had already decided she would as lief stay at home. Sir Gervase had begun casting sheep’s eyes at her. She hoped to meet someone more agreeable at the wedding. And even if she didn’t, the Prince Regent and two princesses were to attend. That would be something!
At two o’clock, Lady Thornleigh’s ancient black carriage with the lozenge on the door drew up in front of the house on Grosvenor Square. Marianne felt a tingling excitement as the liveried footman helped her up the stairs into it. The long-awaited day had arrived, and she tried very hard to forget John and enjoy it, but she was dreadfully aware of an aching emptiness inside that had not been there before.
Unfamiliar with London, she anticipated a long drive through fashionable streets and was disappointed when the carriage stopped after only three blocks. This trip did not take half an hour by any means. By leaving home early, Lady Thornleigh achieved her aim of sparing her team the excitement of heavy wedding traffic, though Marianne did enjoy a glimpse of a few elegant rigs drawn by blood teams.
The ladies entered the Corinthian portico into St. George’s, where a few eager guests sat waiting. The ladies were escorted halfway up the aisle and shown into a pew. The duchess planted herself firmly on the aisle seat and didn’t
budge. The other guests sharing her pew had to scramble in over her legs.
She gave Marianne a sharp poke in the ribs when Prince George and his two sisters strutted up the aisle. It would be wrong to say Marianne was disappointed in the prince. He was certainly an elegant figure; it was just that there was so much of him. His portly person was encased in blue satin and bedecked with ribbons and medals enough to impress a maharaja. The royal sisters were undistinguished as to either face, figure, or fashion. They would have been right at home in Bath. They looked like a couple of frumpy provincial matrons.
The bride was a vision of loveliness and the groom another disappointment. He was a pale, chinless, slender young gentleman who looked frightened to death. A wedding always appeals to the ladies, and with the prince, two princesses, and more tiaras than could be counted, Marianne was well enough entertained. She knew it was impossible that Macheath could be there, but she found her eyes searching the fashionable throng for him while the traditional vows were exchanged.
When the ceremony was over, the couple and their guests went in a cavalcade to Berkeley Square, another trip of only a few blocks, but all of the scenery along the way was most elegant. The duke’s house, the guests, the rich and plentiful feast—all were as Marianne had been imagining. It was the largest and most exquisite party she had ever attended or could hope to attend. Once she was close enough to the prince to touch him.
She was excited, but still she could not seem to be happy. She was very much aware that she was an outsider here. If she had only one friend, one special someone, it would make it complete. She didn’t know any of these people, who all seemed to know one another. She looked and listened as if she were attending a theater performance.
She remained with the duchess and was presented to a few aging people who smiled dismissively at her when they heard the words “my companion.” She kept thinking about Macheath, how much more handsome he was than any of the grand noblemen who were here, talking and laughing too loudly and drinking too much of the duke’s champagne.
In the evening, they were led to the ballroom. The duchess and Lady Thornleigh headed directly to the bentwood chairs around the room’s perimeter and had soon gathered a group of their coevals around them. Sir Gervase was the youngest person there, other than herself. After half an hour’s conversation, he turned to Marianne and said, “Would you care to stand up with me, Miss Harkness?”
Tired of sitting, she accepted. He was a good dancer, but more importantly, he introduced her to a few people younger than eighty. One of them was even younger than Sir Gervase. Mr. Thompson was a sprig of forty. He had been the groom’s tutor and remained his friend. He had been rewarded with a living on one of the ducal estates. While the least demanding of spinsters would not have called him handsome, he was by no means ugly. His brown hair had very little gray in it. His nose was not so very long, and his eyes were quite nice. He was exactly the sort of gentleman Marianne had hoped to meet. He seemed to like her, but she did not go an inch out of her way to attach him. She had lost her taste for mere eligibility in a husband. After her dealings with Macheath, she demanded more.
She had the cotillion with Mr. Thompson, and when it was finished he said, “The waltzes are next. I daresay no one would notice if we stood up together again. I own I feel a little out of my league here amongst so many titles.” He did not say, but it was implicit in his manner, that he realized she, too, was out of her league.
“I’m sorry. I don’t waltz,” she said.
“Perhaps later, another set?”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. I would enjoy it.” It was better than sitting with the oldsters. They remained on the floor talking during the short intermission.
“Have you seen much of London yet?” he asked.
When she said she had not, he spoke until the musicians returned of the various sights she might enjoy seeing, then he took her back to the duchess, where Marianne sat, watching the waltzers.
She was not looking at the doorway when he arrived. It was Sir Gervase who spotted him and said, “There is young Lord Fortescue. He was not at the wedding, was he?”
Marianne looked and her heart gave a leap. It was him! But it was impossible! What could Macheath possibly be doing at the Season’s most stylish wedding—unless he had come to rob the guests, and he was not wearing his mask. He wore a mulberry velvet jacket and gray pantaloons. In the fall of immaculate lace at his throat, a ruby glowed richly.
“Fortescue, you say?” the duchess asked sharply, staring with narrowed eyes at the new arrival.
“Aye,” Sir Gervase said. “He was in Spain with Wellington when his uncle stuck his spoon in the wall. Quite a hero, they say. We all thought he would make a name for himself in Parliament and amongst the ladies when he returned, but he makes himself pretty scarce. His uncle left the estate in a shambles I expect, and Fortescue is busy shoring up the cracks.”
“He has come spying out a well-dowered bride,” Lady Thornleigh said approvingly.
“Fortescue, you say?” the duchess repeated.
“Aye, his estate is close by,” Gervase told her. “Fernwood is just a few miles west of London. I see him at a ball or the theater from time to time.”
“Oh yes, Fernwood. It is on the other side of Chertsey, is it not?” she asked in a casual manner.
“That’s it,” he said, nodding. “A great old Gothic heap. I used to hunt there when his uncle was alive.”
While they discussed him, Marianne stared in disbelief. Her highwayman was a lord! Rather than cheering her, this news was a crushing blow. A reformed highwayman might marry her, but a lord! He had come to spy out a fortune, as Lady Thornleigh had said. She watched with an aching heart as he looked all around the room, from one pretty lady to another. Then he turned his gaze toward the bentwood chairs around the edge of the room, examining each face until he saw the duchess.
A small smile lifted his lips. His gaze continued until he saw Marianne. Then he began to walk purposefully toward her.
Chapter Twenty
Marianne had the strange sensation that she was suffocating. She heard excited voices echoing around her but had no idea what they were saying. Every atom of her attention was riveted on John. The voices were a mere babble in the background, until a sharp pinch on the arm jarred her to attention.
“Don’t say a word. Let me do the talking,” the duchess hissed in her ear. The command was unnecessary. Marianne could not have spoken if her life depended on it.
In seconds, Macheath was standing in front of her, bowing to the older ladies first, before allowing himself the pleasure of a close scrutiny of Marianne.
“Fortescue,” Her Grace said, allowing him to take her hand. “Speak of the devil. We were just talking about you. I was telling Lady Thornleigh how you rescued me when my carriage slid into the river.”
“I am happy to see you looking so well, Your Grace.” His eyes just flickered to the diamonds. The duchess patted them and smiled. Then he turned again to Marianne. “And you, Miss Harkness.”
“This is my sister, Lady Thornleigh,” the duchess continued. He bowed to Lady Thornleigh and Sir Gervase.
“Nice to see you, Fortescue,” Gervase said, nodding. “How is your mama? I did not see her at the wedding.”
“She is at Fernwood, Sir Gervase. I shall tell her you were asking for her.”
“I hope you are not planning to dart off to Fernwood immediately?” Her Grace said. “You recall we had some plans for you, Cap—Fortescue.”
“Indeed I am not, ma’am. I shall do myself the honor of calling on you tomorrow, if you permit?” The duchess nodded graciously.
Having done the pretty with the oldsters, he could at last turn his full attention to Marianne. “May I have the pleasure of a waltz, Miss Harkness?”
“I don’t waltz,” she said in a stricken voice.
“The patronesses of Almack’s would not approve,” Sir Gervase mentioned.
This was enough to incite the duchess to ob
jection. “I do not require Lady Jersey’s approval!” she said at once. “If a young lady under my charge wishes to waltz at my great-granddaughter’s wedding, she may do it.”
“Aye, it is a private party after all,” Sir Gervase said at once.
“But I don’t know how to waltz,” Marianne explained.
Macheath gave her an impatient look. “I’ll teach you,” he said, and taking her hand, he helped her from her chair and marched her out of the room into a lofty corridor where a few groups of guests stood talking. As they walked off, he said, “Really, Marianne! You made it demmed awkward to escape.”
She turned to him and said, “Why did you lie to us?”
“If you are referring to my being Fortescue, you knew my name wasn’t really Macheath. You charged me with it some time ago.”
“I didn’t know you were a lord,” she said accusingly.
“I felt it the wiser course to conceal my identity until I was away from the inn. A careless word could have been disastrous. If Bow Street ever tumbled to it that Fernwood was harboring a felon, it would have been embarrassing for Mama.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Celebrating the nuptials of an old friend. I was invited! I was too late to get to the church, so I came here, looking for you. Why did you think I had come? To steal the ring off the bride’s finger?”
“You need not worry the duchess will reveal your secret, milord.”
“It is not the duchess I am worried about.”
“I won’t tell, either. No one would believe me if I did.”
“Good. Now that we’ve got that sorted out, let us find some place to talk.”
He took a crippling grip on her arm and led her at a lively gait down the corridor, past the ballroom to a door on the left. He peered into a small parlor and, finding it vacant, drew her inside and closed the door.
His dark eyes moved over her hair, her face, lingering on her lips. “I have come to claim my reward, Marianne,” he said softly.