Tallie's Knight

by Anna Gracie

  "The rig ours and difficulties of The Grand Tour make it too exhausting

  and dangerous for females to attempt." His voice brooked no

  argument.

  "Nonsense. I have read Letters From Italy, and--' " Hah! " Magnus

  snorted.

  "Anne Miller's book was written thirty years ago and more."

  Tallie bridled.

  "I know, for my mother read it on her Grand Tour, when she married my

  father. And it was much more dangerous in those days.

  Now that The Terror is over, all of England is nocking to the

  continent. People of the utmost respectability. " Her eyes dared him

  to contradict her.

  There was a short silence.

  "It will be extremely uncomfortable. You will be miserable with the

  appalling accommodation," stated Magnus.

  "I

  know because I have travelled on the Continent. You cannot imagine the

  state of the roads--if roads they can be held to be. And as for the

  wretched inns--if inn you can find--on several occasions I had to sleep

  in a barn! With the animals! "

  Tallie shrugged, unconcerned.

  "It does not seem to have done you any harm. And if it is me you are

  concerned about, then let me remind you that I have spent most of my

  life in a seminary for young ladies--' Despite his anger, Magnus's lips

  twitched.

  "Are you suggesting that a seminary for young ladies is worse than a

  barn full of animals?"

  Tallie laughed.

  "Well, there were a couple of absolute cow--' She blushed, and caught

  herself up.

  "No, of course not but it was a very Spartan place, and I am tougher

  than I look." She fixed him with her most determined expression. A

  few weeks ago he'd called her sturdy. Now, to save himself

  inconvenience, he was pretending she was too delicate. Lord

  d'Arenville would find he could not have it both ways.

  "And anyway, you promised."

  Magnus swore under his breath. He was trapped and he knew it. The

  wretched girl was not going to give in on this-he could tell from her

  mulish expression. And he had promised, even if he hadn't meant what

  she said he'd meant. But he was damned if he was going to give in

  tamely. He cast around for a way out and had a sudden thought.

  "Travel is very dangerous for ladies who are in a delicate state," he

  stated. Let her try to refute that one.

  Tallie looked puzzled.

  "But I just told you I was stronger than I look. I am not the

  slightest bit delicate."

  He stared down into her innocent face and cursed silently.

  "But you may be in a delicate state soon after your wedding," he

  said.

  "And many ladies become quite ill."

  "But why, when I am strong now? A little thing like a wedding isn't

  going to weaken me..." Suddenly Tallie paled, realising what he

  meant.

  He was talking about it. And he expected her to be ill after she had

  endured it. It was worse, then, than she had thought. It was not just

  that she must not move or cry out while she endured it, she could be

  sick for some time afterwards. Gracious--it must be very dreadful.

  "If I were in a delicate state, and I am ill, would it last long, do

  you think?" she whispered.

  Magnus was torn between concern at her sudden extreme pallor and

  embarrassment at discussing pregnancy with such an innocent. At least

  she was an innocent, he thought, and she should be discussing pregnancy

  with Laetitia, not her prospective bridegroom. But he had clearly

  frightened her by raising the question and was obligated to respond.

  "I am not sure but... I, er ... I believe many women feel ill for the

  first few months."

  Months! It must be appalling, Tallie thought. No wonder people did

  not inform girls about such things--they would never agree to marry.

  But surely it got better, otherwise why would women wish their

  daughters to be married?

  "And after that?"

  "After that, I believe they usually feel quite well until they are

  brought to bed." Magnus drew out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. His

  betrothed was clearly shaken. Obviously it had not occurred to her

  that she might begin breeding while she was on the Continent. Strike

  while the iron is hot, he decided.

  "So we are agreed--if you find yourself in a delicate condition the

  Tour will be called off and we will return to England at once."

  Tallie chewed her lip. She was strong. Her mother had managed it. So

  could she. And if she really was ill, she supposed there would be no

  point in travelling.

  "Very well," she agreed grudgingly.

  Magnus refrained from nib bing his hands in triumph. He had every

  intention of getting her with child before there was any question of

  travelling beyond Paris. He would take her to Paris, show her the

  sights, purchase gowns and hats and perfumes and all manner of feminine

  fripperies, then whisk her home to d'Arenville Hall to await the birth

  of their child.

  Their child. He could not wait. But first he had to get the wedding

  over with.

  "And what is your next " condition", may I ask?" he said.

  "Next condition? There are none. You have agreed to everything, more

  or less." Tallie was still worrying about the wedding night.

  Magnus was stunned, and vaguely suspicious. He'd been certain that she

  was building up to something truly outrageous.

  Tallie stood up to leave.

  "Thank you for agreeing to speak to me. You have relieved my mind...

  about some things.

  "And frightened me to pieces about others. She opened the door.

  Magnus recalled the jewel case in his pocket.

  "Miss Robinson, a moment longer, if you please."

  "Yes?" She turned back and looked at him, wide-eyed and pale, "You may

  wish to wear these at your wedding. They belonged to my mother." He

  held out the box.

  Tallie opened it.

  "Pearls, how pretty," she said dully.

  "Thank you very much. I shall wear them tomorrow, since you ask."

  She shut the box and left the summerhouse. Magnus stood watching her

  cross the lawn and enter the house, frowning. He'd never had a woman

  accept jewellery in quite that manner. There'd been no squeals of joy,

  no excited hugs or kisses, no play-acting and flirtation. Not that he

  wanted that sort of response from the woman he would take to wife,

  Magnus told himself. Not at all.

  He should be happy to discover his intended bride wasn't greedy or

  grasping. He was happy. Her cool acceptance was well-bred and

  ladylike. It was, in fact, exactly how his mother had accepted jewels

  from his father.

  And why did that thought annoy him so much?

  Nonsense! He was not annoyed. There was no reason to be annoyed.

  She'd answered him perfectly politely.

  Too politely.

  She'd accepted his gift of priceless pearls like a child accepting an

  apple, with polite, mechanical thanks, quite as if she was thinking

  about something else.

  Damn it all, but this girl was an enigma to him. Magnus didn't like

  enigmas. And he was very annoyed.

  Chapte
r Five

  Mr. Penworthy, the organist, plays the opening chord, so softly that

  at first the congregation is barely aware of it. Gradually the music

  swells, filling the ancient and beautiful church with a glorious

  torrent of sound. The bride has arrived.

  The pews are crowded to bursting point, mostly with friends of the

  bride, well-wishers from the village and from much farther afield.

  There are foreign dignitaries, resplendent in silk hats, glittering

  with medals and imperial orders--men who knew the bride's father

  abroad, who come to her wedding representing princes, dukes--even an

  emperor.

  Outside in the churchyard, tall, handsome men watch from a distance,

  loitering palely, some gnashing their teeth, others silent and crushed

  with despair--their hopes and hearts dashed for ever by the bride's

  acceptance of another.

  In the lane beyond the churchyard wall sit two elegant carriages.

  Rumour has it each carriage contains an aristocratic lady, each one an

  heiress and a diamond of the first water. Screened from the stares of

  the vulgar by delicate black netting, the ladies weep. Their beauty,

  their riches and their rank serve them naught, for the groom has chosen

  his bride, and she is no famous beauty, nor even rich or aristocratic.

  But she offers him a prize he values beyond earthly riches--her heart.

  And he gives her his in return.

  The first chord draws to a close and the bride steps into the centre

  aisle. The congregation turns to look and a sigh whispers around the

  church. From where she stands, the bride can hear only fragments of

  what they say. "Lovely gown..."

  "A beautiful bride..."

  The music swells again and she begins her slow walk down the aisle.

  Her beloved awaits her. His eyes feast on her. He makes a small move

  towards her, as if he cannot wait for her to reach him but must rush up

  the aisle and take her in his arms. She almost weeps with joy at his

  loving impatience; she, too, wants to run down the aisle towards him

  and fling herself into his arms. Instead she walks in proud and happy

  dignity, her head held high, feeling, as she always does when he looks

  at her, beautiful.

  Mr. Penworthy times it perfectly; as she reaches the altar, the music

  soars to its final crescendo. The last notes echo around the ancient

  oaken rafters and her beloved takes her hand in his, murmuring,

  "Tallie, my own true love, you make me the happiest man on earth." He

  lifts her gloved hand to his mouth, and. "Ouch! Bloody h--what the

  dev--er, deuce do you think you're doing?"

  exclaimed Lord d'Arenville angrily, one hand clamped over his nose--the

  nose that Tallie's gloved hand had forcibly collided with.

  His eyes were watering from the impact. He blinked down at her, then

  took her hand, which still hovered dangerously close to his face. A

  faint cloud of aromatic brown dust rose from her glove.

  He stared down at her hands, raised one cautiously to his nose and

  tentatively sniffed.

  "Good God! They reek of coffee!"

  Tallie didn't respond. She just stared up at him, the last remnants of

  her dream shattering around her feet. For one heart-stopping moment,

  when he had lifted her hand to his face again, she'd thought he was

  going to kiss it. But it was not to be. The Icicle was incapable of a

  romantic gesture like that. He was merely inspecting her gloves.

  His grip on her hand tightened and he thrust it down between them. He

  nodded at the vicar. The vicar stood staring at Tallie, bemused.

  "Get on with it, man," said Lord d'Arenville curtly.

  "Er, of course," the vicar muttered, then announced in ringing,

  mellifluous tones, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered..."

  Dazed, Tallie stood there, listening to herself being married to The

  Icicle. And a very bad-tempered Icicle he was, too. He was positively

  glaring at her. Of course, he did have reason to be a little cross,

  but it wasn't as if she had meant to hit him on the nose, after all.

  Mind you, she thought dejectedly, he seemed always to be furious about

  something--mainly with her. Towards others he invariably remained

  cool, polite and, in a chilly sort of fashion, charming. But not with

  Tallie. It didn't augur at all well for the future.

  Still, Tallie rallied her spirits, this was her wedding day, and she'd

  made up her mind to enjoy every moment of it. She began to mentally

  tick off her blessings: the weather was almost sunny, and the wind not

  too cold at all. And her frock had turned out quite well--the lovely

  amber material was absolutely perfect for her colouring, and she was

  sure no one would notice the one or two little mistakes she'd made.

  The music had been absolutely glorious--Mr. Penworthy had truly

  outdone himself--and her cousin's husband George had escorted her down

  the aisle looking every inch a gentleman. He wasn't even very drunk,

  as far as she could tell.

  And if she wasn't the most ecstatic bride in the world, she was

  determined no one else would notice. All brides were happy and

  joyful--she didn't want her friends and relations upset by her own

  misgivings. That was why she'd invoked her fantasy--it was one of her

  favourites--and because of it she'd been able to act like a radiant

  bride should. She hoped everyone had been taken in by her

  performance--she didn't want to disappoint them.

  She wondered where they were sitting--she'd been too involved in her

  fantasy to notice. She turned her head to take a quick glance at the

  pews behind her, searching for Brooks, Mrs. Wilmot and the children.

  "Thalia!" Lord d'Arenville's hand jerked her back to face the altar.

  Tallie blinked at it for a moment. She felt dizzy, bereft,

  disorientated. She looked helplessly up at Lord d'Arenville. He

  stared back, his brow furrowed, his cold grey eyes intense. One hand

  held hers. His other arm slid around her and tightened around her

  waist.

  For a moment it seemed to Tallie that he could see into her very

  soul.

  She quivered under the hard gaze and closed her eyes--the intrusion was

  too painful. For a moment or two she was aware of nothing but the cold

  chill of the church and the pressure of his arm supporting her.

  His arm felt warm, but the grey eyes watching her looked angry. In the

  distance she could hear the vicar mumbling something. She closed her

  eyes harder, wishing with all her heart she could invoke her fantasy

  back to deal with this. She heard the vicar mumbling again. Lord

  d'Arenville gave her a little squeeze and Tallie opened her eyes.

  "Do you, Thalia Louise Robinson take this man...?" intoned the vicar

  forcefully, his manner conveying to Tallie that he was repeating the

  question, and not for the first time.

  Embarrassed, Tallie mumbled, "I do," and hurriedly repeated after him

  the words about loving, honouring and obeying Lord d'Arenville. She

  shivered.

  She was bound for life to Magnus Philip Audley St. Clair, Seventh Earl

  of d'Arenville. A surge of deepest misery washed over her. Her

  wedding was so very different from what
she had hoped for, dreamed of.

  And she didn't mean all that nonsense about rejected suitors and

  important guests and beautiful gowns--that silliness had nothing to do

  with her true dreams.

  All she truly wanted was to be loved.

  The other had been mere play-acting, an attempt to distract herself, to

  get through the day with some semblance of good spirits in order not to

  disappoint her friends. But there hadn't been much point. Dully, she

  felt her glove being tugged off.

  "With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship..." His voice

  was deep, harsh.

  The ring was cold as it slid onto her finger.

  She was married.

  Tallie glanced up at her husband. He was staring down at her small

  hand, still resting in his large one. She followed his gaze and saw

  the faint brown stains on her fingers from the dye she had used on her

  gloves and lace. And at the end of each grubby hand was a chewed and

  ugly fingernail. That was what her new husband was staring at--her

  dirty hands and horrible bitten nails.

  He put back her veil and kissed her, a hard, brief pressure on her