Wedding the Widow

by Jenna Jaxon

  A week later, with her father’s reluctant permission and a special license clutched in her hand, they had married in St. Nicholas’s Church in Brighton, before her family and Dickon’s mother. After a blissful month as newlyweds, Dickon had left for Spain, leaving her uncertain and fearful that he would never return. Thankfully he had, though almost a year later.

  “Charlotte, will you have this man to be your husband? To live together in the covenant of marriage?” Mr. Moore’s voice suddenly brought Elizabeth back to the present, to the sight of Charlotte’s face as she gazed at Nash. Her eyes sparkled, and her face glowed radiantly with an inner beauty born of true happiness. Surely, that was how she herself had looked when she had married Dickon. Would she look thus at Lord Brack if she married him?

  A wave of heat rose from her neck into her face and even into her head, until her hair felt like it was on fire. Lord, had someone lit a fire beneath her feet? She dug into her reticule for a fan, though it might seem inappropriate to fan herself. If she didn’t get some relief, she would melt into the pew.

  “What is wrong, Elizabeth?” Fanny whispered in her ear.

  “Hot. I’m terribly hot all of a sudden.” She found the fan, opened it as quietly as possible, and waved it as surreptitiously as she could toward her face. It helped a little, but the burning heat in her face continued. “Are my cheeks red?” she whispered back to Fanny as the vicar blessed the ring.

  “A little.” Fanny peered at her, a frown puckering her brow. “Are you unwell?”

  Elizabeth abandoned conversation, concentrating instead on breathing slowly and keeping her fan going. The cool December air outside would be a blessing now. Soon she would be out in it, for Mr. Moore was about to proclaim the marriage.

  “Now that Charlotte and Nash have given themselves to each other by solemn vows, with joining hands and the giving and receiving of a ring, I pronounce that they are man and wife, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Those whom God has joined together let no man put asunder.”

  The congregation rose, bringing Elizabeth gratefully to her feet. What had come over her?

  Charlotte and Nash turned toward them, happiness radiating from their smiling faces.

  Elizabeth tried to smile in return, tried to catch her breath, but the world had suddenly turned black, and she faintly heard Fanny calling her name before the darkness enfolded her completely.

  * * *

  “Oh, wretched smell!” Elizabeth jerked up into a sitting position. The horrible smell of sal volatile reeked in her nostrils still. She opened her eyes to find her circle of friends— Fanny, Georgie, Jane, and even Charlotte in her beautiful blue wedding dress—gathered around her. Fanny had removed the small silver vinaigrette with the smelling salts from her face, though the scent lingered in the air. Georgie and Jane had their own small bottles in their hands, ready to step in if Fanny’s didn’t work. “What happened?”

  “Goodness, Elizabeth.” Georgie bustled forward to help her sit up. “You gave us such a fright.”

  “You swooned, my dear.” Jane peered at her and felt her cheeks, her hands cool and soothing on her hot skin.

  “Went over like a sack of potatoes, just before Charlotte and Nash started down the aisle.” Fanny had capped her silver vial and slipped it back in her small, black reticule.

  “Charlotte! I am so sorry.” Elizabeth turned to her friend, mortified that she’d made such a spectacle of herself, ruining Charlotte’s long-awaited wedding. “I don’t know what happened. Can you ever forgive me for spoiling—?”

  “Hush. You’ve spoiled nothing, my dear.” Charlotte patted her shoulder soothingly. “I am just as married as I will ever be. But what happened to cause you to swoon?”

  “I cannot think.” That was true. Her head was in a whirl. Gingerly, she lay back down on what appeared to be a plain, cracked leather sofa. A swift peek at the room—small, plainly furnished, with a religious painting of Jesus addressing a mass of people—led to the conclusion she must be in the vicar’s office.

  “She complained that she was hot just before it happened,” Fanny said, feeling Elizabeth’s forehead, “though she doesn’t seem to have a fever.”

  “Should I run and ask Jemmy to fetch the apothecary?” Georgie pocketed her vial and headed for the door.

  “No.” Trying to rise, Elizabeth’s head spun even worse, and she dropped back onto the sofa. “Please. If I could be taken back to Lyttlefield Park and put to bed, I will be quite recovered by morning. I believe,” she halted, then gathered her courage. “I was thinking about my wedding to Dickon, Charlotte. It must have upset me more than I thought. I believed I was over his death, but I see that is not true.” She closed her eyes and sighed, fearing that might not be the reason at all.

  “Of course, my dear.” Jane stepped in to take charge. “Georgie, get your brother to fetch the carriage. Fanny, find Elizabeth’s cloak, and Charlotte . . .” Jane stopped giving orders as the friends scattered. She grasped her cousin’s hands. “You return to your husband and continue to Wrotham Park for the wedding breakfast. I am certain, after all the trouble to win his bride, Lord Wrotham will hardly heave without her.”

  “But Elizabeth—”

  “I will see to Elizabeth.” Jane hugged her cousin.

  “I will be fine, Charlotte.” Elizabeth raised up on her arm, which fortunately didn’t make her head any worse. “Please, go and enjoy your wedding breakfast. Lord knows, you deserve it more than anyone else I know.”

  Brows puckered, Charlotte shifted from foot to foot, glancing toward the door. “As soon as the breakfast is over, I shall come to see you. If you are not better, I will go get Mr. Putnam myself.” With that dire threat lingering in the air, Charlotte strode through the doorway.

  “Now, my dear,” Jane pierced her with China blue eyes. “What seems to be the matter?”

  * * *

  Turning a page in the tooled-leather copy of The Monk, by Mr. Gregory Lewis, that had been left in the room, Elizabeth shuddered at the alarming illustration of a monk pulling a young woman by her hair while raising a dagger to stab her. She snapped the volume closed. No further shocks today, thank you.

  Laying it on the bedside table, she glanced away from the disturbing book. Who could have left such a work here? Lord Fernley seemed a likely candidate. An extreme young man in every way. So fortunate he had not been invited to the wedding. He had quite set everyone’s teeth on edge.

  Of course, now she had nothing to read. She had quite recovered her senses and felt fine. All that fuss over her had not helped as much as good, old-fashioned rest. She glanced at the book again. It wouldn’t take much effort to venture down to the library and choose something less sensational—preferably by Maria Edgeworth or Jane Austen. Somehow, though, she couldn’t muster the energy to rise and go in search of something to read. Very well, then, a nap would insure that she would be ready to go down for dinner later. She yawned, and her eyes drooped shut. With a sigh, she turned on her side, wishing to shut out the whole debacle this morning. As she was just drifting off, a gentle tap, tap at the door jerked her awake.

  Groggily she rubbed at her face and called, “Come.”

  The door opened and Charlotte popped around the walnut-paneled door, still attired in her wedding dress. “You weren’t asleep, were you?”

  “No, please come in.” Elizabeth twisted around, her heart filled with dread. She might as well face Charlotte and get it over with. She’d ruined the wedding, and while her friend would forgive her, she would never forgive herself. Why was she doing this incredible number of horrible things?

  “How are you feeling?” Charlotte settled herself on the side of the bed.

  “I am truly well, save for being extremely tired. I cannot think why I cannot rouse myself more thoroughly.” A languor did seem to have settled over her. Still, that was no excuse for her behavior at the church. She glanced away from Charlotte’s face, filled with a concern and kindness that only stoked Elizab
eth’s guilt.

  “I have found myself more tired of late as well.” Charlotte gazed at Elizabeth’s hand, as though unwilling to meet her eyes.

  “Well, of course you are, what with all the wedding preparations, and readying Lyttlefield Park to close, moving your household into Wrotham Park. Anyone would be tired.” Elizabeth twisted her hands. “I have no excuse, save an attack of the vapors.”

  “As long as you are well, Elizabeth. That is what matters most.” Charlotte patted her hands and gently unclenched them. “Please don’t—”

  “No, Charlotte.” Elizabeth moved restlessly beneath the covers. “I cannot excuse my . . . my disgraceful behavior at the wedding. God knows, you of all people deserved a perfect wedding day, and now I have spoiled it.” Tears pricked her eyelids. She’d be weeping outright in a few moments. Why did she have to be a watering pot on top of everything else? “I’m so sorry.”

  “I said before you have spoiled nothing, my dear.” She seized Elizabeth’s fingers and shook them. “I am jubilantly happy to be married to Nash, and he is overawed in his new role of husband.” Charlotte’s face took on a serene beauty it seldom attained. “Husband. Never have I enjoyed saying that word more. Nothing you could have done, Elizabeth, save perhaps fire the church, could have taken the magic and joy from this day. So”—she fixed Elizabeth with eyes that suddenly glinted a vivid green—“what is the matter, my dear? Is there some illness I know nothing about?” She gripped Elizabeth’s hands so tightly they ached. “Have you tried to spare me some ill news because of the wedding?”

  “No, Charlotte, I swear to you, there is no illness.” Elizabeth came to a complete stop, her earlier conversation with Jane weighing on her conscience.

  “Nothing is wrong at home, or with the children?”

  “Again, no, my dear. The children are fine, save that my mother has a tendency to try to raise them as she sees fit, rather than according to my wishes. Otherwise the children, my parents, my sisters are all very well.”

  “Only you, it seems, are not.” The deepening concern on Charlotte’s face made Elizabeth’s guilt grow. “I promise you can tell me anything, Elizabeth.” Her friend took a deep breath, as though steeling herself for some unpleasantness, and gripped her hands. “Are you in love with Lord Brack?”

  “Charlotte.” Wanting to squirm like a worm washed out of the garden onto a pathway, Elizabeth tried to form an answer. “I . . . we . . .”

  “I know you got on well together at the house parties, but when you went away so abruptly from the last one, I wondered if you had had a falling out.” Charlotte worried her bottom lip, pulling at it with her teeth until Elizabeth feared she would draw blood. “Georgie swears she knows nothing, and Fanny refuses to speak, which makes me even more suspicious.”

  “Why would you say that?” Elizabeth eased herself up in the bed. At least Fanny had kept her confidence.

  “Because you two have been so much in company in London. Fanny knows something, because if you had a secret she would pull it out of you quicker than a snake sheds its skin.” She gripped Elizabeth’s hands tightly. “I want you to trust me as much as you do Fanny.”

  “Fanny does know something,” Elizabeth swallowed hard, “but she does not know everything.”

  “Surely, if there is a problem, I can help you now, Elizabeth. I am the Countess of Wrotham.” Charlotte sat straighter, lifted her chin. “Whatever is wrong, Nash and I will do whatever it takes to make it right.”

  “I know you would if you could, but there is no help for it.” Elizabeth lay back and drew the covers up to her chin.

  “Would it help if Nash spoke to Lord Brack? If he has broken your heart, he will feel not only the wrath of Wrotham, but my personal vendetta against him as well.” Eyes flashing, Charlotte jumped off the bed, her voice ringing out loudly as she began to pace the length of the room. “How dare he come here, like Lord Fernley with his advances, or . . . or make promises that he has no intention of keeping.”

  Aghast, Elizabeth drew back further into the soft mattress. Never had she ever seen her friend this frenzied, storming about like an avenging angel. The pose certainly became her—she’d become both terrifying and magnificent. Had Lord Brack actually done those things, he’d soon find himself at the unforgiving mercy of the Countess of Wrotham. But she had to step in and stop Charlotte from mowing a swath of destruction that would cut down anything in its path, including Jemmy.

  “Charlotte, I assure you, it is not what you think.” Her words arrested her friend mid-stride.

  “What do you mean, ‘not what I think’? Does it concern Lord Brack or not?” Deep green eyes glared at her.

  “Yes, it does concern him; however—” She raised a finger to stop her friend’s headlong push for vengeance. “He has made me no promises he is not willing to keep. He has made no unwilling advances.” She sighed. “Quite to contrary.”

  “So all is well between you?” A perplexed frown marred Charlotte’s face. “I don’t understand.”

  “I have not spoken with him today, but I think I must. We had appointed today to settle things between us.” Elizabeth shuddered to think how that coming interview would unfold.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Charlotte flopped onto the bed, her face now wreathed in smiles.

  “I had not seen you, and I didn’t like to write it.” Sticking her resolve, Elizabeth looked her friend in the eyes. “But I will tell you now, and then I will see Lord Brack.”

  “And you will tell him . . . what?” Her friend’s happy face smote her, yet she must continue.

  “I must tell him I believe I am increasing.”

  Chapter 13

  “You believe what?” Color drained from Charlotte’s face as her hand flew up to clutch her throat.

  Elizabeth blinked back tears. Until recently, she hadn’t given a thought to the possibility she could be with child. She and Dickon had been married a month, trying delightfully hard for her to become pregnant before he had to leave for the Peninsula campaign, but she had not conceived. So why would she have thought it could happen in just one night? “Yes, I believe I am going to have another child.”

  “And the father is . . . Lord Brack?” Charlotte whispered, as though she thought someone could hear her through the door.

  “Of course, it is Lord Brack’s child.” Indignant, Elizabeth sat up in the bed. “Dickon has been dead for well over a year.”

  “No, no, my dear.” A flustered Charlotte twisted the coverlet in her hands. “I only thought perhaps you had been attached to . . . or succumbed to an old friend in London. So of course, Lord Brack.” Her brows knit. “But when did you . . .”

  “The night of that wretched Harvest Festival.” She covered her face. “When they crowned the Corn Maiden, something came over me, over us.” Picturing the Harvest Lord kissing the Corn Maiden was all it took to make her blood begin to stir. “You really should ban that pagan ritual, Charlotte.”

  “You went into the fields at the festival and . . .” The excitement in Charlotte’s voice jerked Elizabeth’s gaze back to her friend, who was looking guilty herself.

  “No, of course not.” Indignation rose in Elizabeth once more. “Why would you think I’d do something that brazen?”

  “Well, because . . .” Charlotte’s face turned the exact shade of red of the apples in the still-life painting on the wall. “Nash and I . . .”

  “Charlotte, you didn’t!” Lord, she’d never have believed her friend could do such a bold thing. “My dear, how pagan of you.” And Fanny had said she and Lord Lathbury had been in the shadows of the field as well. Perhaps the feeling of power that night hadn’t been a product of her imagination.

  “Nash said it was an ancient fertility custom. If the Harvest Lord and the Corn Maiden made a child in the field on that night, the spring crops would be plentiful. We had already agreed to marry, so . . .” Red now to the tips of her ears, Charlotte smiled and shrugged. “We even had a corn dolly presiding over us.”

&
nbsp; “A what?”

  “A corn dolly. A little figure of a woman made from the last stalks of wheat cut this year. Also to insure fertility.” Charlotte ducked her head. “Apparently it has worked, for I am certain I am increasing as well.”

  “Charlotte! Oh, my dear, how wonderful.” Elizabeth hugged her friend, thanking the Lord for this good fortune. “Does Nash know?”

  Charlotte nodded. “I told him as soon as I was certain, or fairly certain. I haven’t had my courses since that night. I’ve also been tired lately and queasy in the mornings.”

  “Then I’d say you are almost definitely with child. My goodness. That makes three of us widows caught at your house parties, if you still count little Maria.” That news had been the talk of the company even before the festival.

  “Well, I suppose I must include the Countess of Kersey, because even though we cannot be certain she began increasing while she was here, she surely met the man here.” A look of fleeting irritation passed over her friend’s face.

  “It seems you have already had practice as a matchmaking mama, Charlotte.” Elizabeth laughed.

  “Indeed, I have.” Charlotte joined her, then quickly sobered. “So you will marry Lord Brack?”

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Elizabeth sat up on the side of the bed. She had to come to terms with the only option she had left. “I suppose I must under the circumstances.”

  “You don’t sound sure at all, my dear.” Her friend’s brows puckered into a deep V. “Do you not love him?”

  “That is part of it, I suppose. There has been so much between us since that night.” Oh, that wretched slip of the tongue. “He may be surer of his feelings than I am. But, Charlotte”—she grasped her friend’s hand as though it were a lifeline—“is it possible to love two men at the same time? I do have very great affection and regard for Lord Brack, but I’ve never lost my love for Dickon.” She hung her head. “What if I never do?”