The Luck of the Bride--The Cavensham Heiresses

by Janna MacGregor

  For a moment, she had wanted to laugh at the absurdity of her situation, but one column caught her eye. Riveted, she had to read it three times to ensure she understood what it was saying.

  The paper claimed that Rupert had provided a copy of the marriage registry from Chelmsford and a sworn statement from the vicar stating that her parents married nineteen years ago.

  How could Rupert have convinced a vicar to support this outrageous fabricated story? It was a complete falsehood. It had to be.

  “March, have you read the back page?” Julia was the first to break the silence. “I must stop for a while as I’m making myself sick with all the lies.” Her sister pressed her eyes shut and exhaled. “How could Rupert have done this to us? We are a family,” she whispered.

  Before March could say anything, there was a knock on the door. Faith rose from the bed to answer. It was a thankful reprieve from the ghastly exposé of March’s ne’er-do-well ways.

  “These just arrived,” Faith offered as she kept one note for herself and gave the other to March. She tore open the seal, and her eyes darted across the page as she read. Slowly, she pressed her eyes shut for a moment. “Dr. Kennett will not be able to attend me this morning as he must spend the day away from London.”

  Julia reached over and squeezed Faith’s arm. “He’ll come as soon as he’s able.”

  Faith nodded, but continued to stare at the paper in her hands.

  March tore hers open since she recognized the Earl of Queensgrace’s seal. Expecting to find the time he would visit today, she stared speechless at the words. He extended his sincerest apology, but he would not be visiting anytime in the near future as he’d returned to Scotland on an unavoidable emergency. He’d simply signed it “Queensgrace.”

  She stared at the note, desperate to stall for time so she could offer a comforting response to Julia. Her sister would immediately believe he’d left her company for good, and March had no idea how to explain it since she didn’t understand itself.

  “It’s from the earl, isn’t it?” Julia asked. She busied her hands with folding a copy of The Midnight Cryer. “He’s not coming, is he?”

  Julia’s wispy voice carried an underlying note of disappointment. Her visage didn’t belie any upset, but her eyes were bright with pain.

  “Sweetheart, he was called out of town,” March soothed.

  Her youngest sister straightened her shoulders and gracefully moved from the bed to stand beside March. “Did he say when we might expect him?”

  March shook her head and leaned close to embrace Julia. “No, he didn’t. I’m sorry. But I shall write and ask when he expects to return.”

  Julia stepped away and walked to the window. She clasped her arms around her waist, either to stave off any more hurt or as a means to keep herself from collapsing on the floor.

  “I’d rather you not, March,” she whispered. “Whatever friendship we shared is over. He should have written me and explained directly and honestly.”

  Faith rushed to her side and took her in her arms. “Don’t say such words. You need to allow him the chance to explain.”

  Julia regarded Faith with a seriousness well beyond her eighteen years. “I’m not a child anymore, and I know what his note means. It’s easier to leave London and the scandal behind. Within two months, everyone will forget that he had any regard for me. When he returns to town, he’ll be able to pursue another without any societal censure.”

  March’s insides twisted at her little sister’s painful but truthful assessment. The Earl of Queensgrace’s political future promised to be one of great success. He couldn’t afford any hint of impropriety or scandal.

  The haunted look on both of her sisters’ faces nearly brought her to her knees. Rupert had damaged more than he could have imagined by his nefarious accusations. There was only one thing for her to do if she had any chance of repairing her sisters’ chances for happiness.

  She’d visit the Chelmsford vicar herself and right this wrong.

  * * *

  McCalpin noted wryly that Bennett’s tutor had made remarkable progress with the young man’s penmanship and spelling. The note from the young viscount was actually legible this time.

  However, the contents still caused his blood to boil.

  McCalpin,

  You’ve never seen such sadness descend on Langham Hall after last night’s despicable actions by Rupert. I loathe calling him my cousin. March isn’t the only one who suffers from abject humiliation. Rupert has managed to maim Faith and Julia with his ugly accusations. Neither Kennett or Queensgrace have bothered to visit today after yesterday’s uproar. They’re all blighters in my humble opinion.

  McCalpin agreed with Bennett’s assessment and sneered in disgust for the two men. They’d abandoned the Lawson sisters when they needed them most. He couldn’t dwell on it now. He’d decide how to deal with them later. Now, his schedule included only one thing, retrieving March from her hell-bent plan to visit the vicarage in Chelmsford on her own.

  March stole away in mid-morning. I saw her exit the servants’ entrance and leave Langham Hall via the alley by the carriage house. I found the note on her pillow that detailed her travel. She plans to catch the mail coach to Chelmsford and will return tomorrow.

  The blasted woman had left three hours before. Bennett apparently had a devil of a time finding an available footman to deliver the note to McCalpin House. The boy stated that he tried to visit McCalpin directly, hoping they both could find her together, but the tutor had immediately quashed the young viscount’s plan as he was due for a Latin lesson. He had quickly finished the lesson and penned the last few paragraphs before finding Milton, his favorite footman, and directing him to deliver the missive.

  Man to man, I must beg you to find my sister and bring her home. I can’t bear to see her traveling alone. What if trouble finds her? What if she doesn’t have enough to eat or money to return home?

  Respectfully yours,

  Lawson

  P.S. I’d find her myself, but Mr. Tatum has insisted we study Latin all day, then we’ll visit Gunter’s for an ice. The man knows my weakness and preys upon it.

  God, would they ever feel secure in London and at Langham Hall? He released the breath after his lungs had burned in protest.

  He pulled the bell and, within seconds, Buxton entered the study. “You rang, my lord?”

  McCalpin didn’t even bother to look up at the loyal butler. “Have the coach and four prepared along with a basket of food and wine. I’ll need a bag. I’m traveling to Chelmsford and plan to stay this evening at McCalpin Manor. I’ll return no later than tomorrow.”

  “Very well, my lord.”

  McCalpin pulled out a fresh piece of vellum and jotted a few lines to his parents that he was on his way to intercept March. He promised he’d keep them informed of his progress. As he handed the note to Buxton, he met his gaze. “Please ensure the duchess receives this promptly.”

  Without hesitating, the butler nodded. “My pleasure, my lord.” He bowed to leave the study, then halted his exit. “I wish you safe travels and hope you find Miss Lawson before she arrives in Chelmsford.”

  McCalpin quirked a brow.

  “I hope I’m not overstepping, but what if The Midnight Cryer’s claims are true?”

  His stomach fell as if a barn swallow had taken up residence. March would be devastated, and so would he.

  He didn’t even want to think about the resulting effects if she was, by chance, illegitimate. Not only would she be devastated, but also the scandal would be a black mark against her sisters. Bennett would be fine until he attended Eton. Then a haranguing consortium of bullies would hound him through the years.

  Yet, strategy was his forte. He just hoped it didn’t fail him now. This was a challenge he couldn’t afford to lose.

  It was fortuitous that he had a long carriage ride ahead of him.

  * * *

  March rolled her head in hopes that the ache in her neck would diminish. The cra
mped quarters in the mail coach necessitated that she keep her shoulders contorted in a slump the entire way from London. However, good fortune, that fickle beast, had shown its favor in March’s companions for the trip to Chelmsford.

  A kind couple had sat next to her the whole way from London. On the first stop, an older woman had joined them on the bench. She shared that she was returning to her daughter’s home after visiting her son.

  The young wife who sat next to March had chatted the entire way. Obviously smitten with her new husband, the woman went on relentlessly how lovely it was to be married to such a wonderful man. She’d even shared they were expecting their first child. Her husband had the good manners to redden at his new wife’s enthusiastic praise.

  When the young woman had inquired about her marital status, March’s cheeks had blazed with heat, leaving little doubt that her face had to resemble the young husband’s embarrassment. She’d shaken her head slightly. The young woman had bestowed a sympathetic smile and had been blessedly quiet the rest of the trip.

  March didn’t try to engage the young wife in any other conversation. She only hoped she hadn’t appeared rude, but her thoughts had consumed all her attention. Her mind wouldn’t let go of how critical it was she find the vicarage quickly and discover the proof that would turn Rupert’s claims into lies. Once she accomplished her goal, she’d return to London posthaste and refute the story. She whispered a silent prayer.

  Let it be that easy.

  She’d even bargain her own happiness for her sisters and brother to have the lives they deserved and spare them any more scandal. She tightened her hands into fists. The one holding the valise gripped the leather handles so tight it groaned in protest.

  Finally, the coach rolled to a stop, and the sounds of a busy inn surrounded her. The ostler called out a welcome to the newly arrived carriage. Stable-hands changed the livestock on the mail coach, and the innkeeper even made an appearance to greet the mail carriage coachmen as if they were old friends.

  With a deep breath for courage, she walked out of the inn’s courtyard. She rounded the corner and painfully exhaled. A simple church with a large steeple and a proper garden stood only a short distance away. A small vicarage sat next to the church. The church bell struck the hour, and as if encouraging her forward, the low bong vibrated through her tired body.

  Soon she found herself in the church vestibule. Windows on both sides provided an abundance of natural light even though it was a winter afternoon. The entry doors to the sanctuary stood open, and a man stood behind the altar arranging items and filling the tall pewter vases with new evergreens.

  Rooted to the floor, she waited for him to look up from his work. Eventually, he glanced her way. Without taking his gaze from hers, he wiped his hands on the apron that protected his garments from the menial tasks.

  “Good afternoon.” His clear tenor voice rang through the sanctuary. He rounded the altar and came toward her.

  She pasted a smile on her face and stepped forward. “Good afternoon, Mr.—”

  “Noah King.” He offered his hand, and for an instant, she hesitated.

  This was the man who supposedly swore her parents were married long after her birth? He was little older than she, but his handsome countenance with eyes the color of new spring grass bespoke a wisdom that defied the ages. Not certain what type of man stood before her, she quickly took his hand then released it.

  Immediately, she launched into her purpose for disturbing him. “Mr. King, I understand you have a marriage register that I’d be most interested in. My name is Miss March Lawson.”

  He nodded. “Come with me.”

  With a graceful turn, he led the way to the vicarage office. He motioned to the two chairs that faced the inviting fire. Without waiting, he poured two cups of tea and placed a plate of biscuits on the small table nestled between the chairs. “My wife is most fastidious that I eat at regular intervals. She always prepares more than necessary in case of visitors.”

  She let out a breath, hoping it would calm her wayward thoughts. Perhaps it was the hunger in her stomach and not the ache in her heart that made her feel empty. She’d seen so many couples over the last several weeks, ones who cherished each other, and the truth hit her like a blast of wind. If Rupert’s lies were true, she’d never have a husband.

  A vision of Michael swept into her thoughts, and her heart clenched in panic. She squared her shoulders in a desperate attempt to calm the unease. No matter what she wanted or what she expected for her own life, she shouldn’t allow any of it to intrude upon today. Yet, deep inside, she screamed silently. Why did she have to forgo everything? A husband, security, her own family, her own home? Why did she have to forgo even the stark certainty she could spend her life helping Bennett take his rightful place in society while teaching him how to run his estate?

  All her life, things she cherished were taken away—fanciful wishes and whimsical wants and eventually, simple needs. Fate had been cruel before, but now it was downright hateful.

  After all she’d sacrificed, she could expect abject ruin.

  She swallowed the lingering pain. She’d do it all again—subject herself to the sacrifices and the pain and the shame—as long as her family was safe.

  “Miss Lawson?” The vicar’s brow formed neat lines. “I expect you either are here to rail at me or set the church on fire.”

  “Neither, Mr. King.” She took a sip of the tea for fortitude and released her breath. When she set her cup down, a small amount of liquid spilt into the saucer, betraying her disquiet. “I just want to see the evidence for myself.”

  His serene expression rivaled one of the paintings that surrounded the four walls in the room. Angels, shepherds, and the church’s previous vicars gazed from their frames as if stuck in perpetuity to face a numb purgatory.

  Exactly how she felt—numb and stricken.

  “I understand,” Mr. King offered. His soothing tone indicated he had experience with grief and providing comfort. That talent would serve him well today since she was grieving. He rose, walked to his desk, and unlocked a drawer.

  Soon he returned with the register in his hand. A single ribbon marked a page. The large journal dwarfed his hand, and the leather betrayed its age with stains and worn corners on the front cover.

  He settled in the chair next to March and flipped open the book to reveal a rainbow of names composed in inks of blacks, indigos, blues, and grays. Silently, he handed her the register. She scanned the sheet bookmarked. The left column on each page listed the date, followed by columns containing the groom’s and bride’s names and signatures. The last column marked the date of the solemnized wedding vows.

  March’s gaze slowly swept the page until she found the entry for the eighth of October and the year 1794. Her eyes focused on the names.

  On the page was her father’s bold signature with her mother’s graceful one beside his. Time along with her heartbeat ground to a halt, much like a millstone when it lost its momentum.

  She blinked slowly in a poor attempt to clear the burn from her eyes. She couldn’t allow herself to fall apart—not in front of the vicar. Otherwise, she’d never be able to pick up the pieces again.

  Whether it was a minute or an hour that passed, he finally spoke. “I’m sorry.” The whisper floated through the air. “So sorry that my church and I are the cause of such distress in your life. I know this entry is truthful as I was there at your parents’ wedding.” He continued softly as he turned to face her. “I remember it distinctly.”

  March jerked her gaze to his.

  “It was the first cool day of autumn and my father, the previous vicar, had promised to take me fishing, but … when he told me of the ceremony, I bellowed my disapproval. He said if I behaved, I could attend, and we’d leave straight away from the church.”

  She took a moment to compose her thoughts. She would have been six years old. “Was I there?”

  “I don’t remember you attending, but your grandparents, Lord
and Lady Lawson, were in attendance.”

  If the service had taken place in October, then her mother had to have been carrying Faith—much too early in her pregnancy to be noticeable.

  “I have one vivid memory. Your father was livid at his father. After your parents signed the register, they left without a word.”

  “Is your father still alive? Perhaps—”

  The vicar shook his head. “No. My father died several years ago.”

  “Why here? My family’s estate is in Leyton.” She spoke the words to herself, but the vicar nodded as if understanding her confusion.

  “I don’t have an answer to offer you.”

  “Did my cousin share why he thought to look for this information here? How would he know?” Her confusion was mounting. None of this made any sense.

  “I believe someone advised him to come here and investigate, Miss Lawson.”

  As if he’d called her a charlatan, she flinched. Her name, the one she’d always answered to, was no longer hers.

  Her gaze swept over her pelisse, her valise, her reticule, and her half boots. All familiar but unrecognizable at the same time. Who was she? When she walked into the church, she was one person. Now, when she departed, she’d be another.

  There was no denying she was her parents’ child. She had inherited her mother’s height, and favored her father. For heaven’s sake, Bennett favored her. It made little difference as she wasn’t born within the confines of a legal marriage. Illegitimate children of peers walked in a no man’s land. Being born on the wrong side of respectability was only tolerable if there was money and the parents boldly accepted their bastards. Her parents were gone, so she was already working at a disadvantage.

  However, what was worse, she might have to forgo raising Bennett. If society shunned her presence, then by association, Bennett’s future could be tainted. If teased by classmates or deemed unacceptable by his peers, his life would be miserable. Her sisters might reject her if their husbands insisted there was to be no further contact or communication with their eldest sister.

  She closed her eyes to tamp down the onslaught of nausea. There was no other conclusion she could draw—she was ruined.