by Diane Gaston
‘Oh, thank you, miss!’ Nancy jumped up and down. ‘If I had paper and a pencil, I could make a sketch to show you.’
Paper and pencil. If Tess had paper and ink, she could write to her sisters. She should at least let them know she had arrived safely in London. ‘Perhaps you could ask one of the servants how I might have paper and pencil for sketching and pen and ink, as well. Tell them both are for me.’
Nancy bobbed into a curtsy. ‘Right away, miss!’ She rushed out the door.
After she left, Tess collapsed in a chair and pressed a hand against her forehead. Wedding dresses. Writing to her sisters. The reality of her situation struck Tess anew. She was to be married to Marc Glenville, a man trapped into marrying her, a man she hardly knew.
A knock sounded at the door.
‘Come in.’ She expected Lady Northdon or Amelie.
The door opened. ‘Tess?’
She spun around. It was Marc.
‘I heard you were back,’ he asked from the doorway. ‘How was your shopping expedition?’
Her heart pounded. ‘Expensive for you, I am afraid. I purchased a great deal of everything.’
He held up a hand. ‘Do not worry over the cost. Enjoy your purchases.’
‘At least I will not look shabby.’ She gestured to herself. ‘Your mother made certain I will wear the latest fashions.’
He smiled. ‘She would know.’
His smile gladdened her.
She liked that he cared about his mother and was protective of her. Tess could not pretend to know Lady Northdon well, but after only a day, she knew that Lady Northdon was fiercely devoted to her son and daughter.
What would it be like to have such a mother? Marc spoke. ‘I was about to take a walk in the park. Would you care to join me?’
Her fatigue fled. ‘Certainly.’ She grabbed her bonnet, gloves and pelisse.
Soon they were out of doors, walking down the pavement to the Grosvenor Gate of Hyde Park. He led her through the gate and on to one of the walking paths. The afternoon sky was bright, but overcast. The air was chilly, but Tess did not mind. It felt wonderful to walk with him. Such a normal thing to do. There were a few other people in the park, but so far away it was as if they were alone.
‘It is a bit early for the fashionable hour,’ he explained as if reading her thoughts. ‘Both in the day and for the Season.’
The path took them across a long expanse of grass edged with trees and shrubbery.
‘It is almost like a walk in the country,’ she said.
He glanced at the sky. ‘But one without a rainstorm.’
She smiled at him. ‘I sometimes do take walks when there is not a raging storm.’
He smiled back. ‘As do I.’
Her heart lifted.
‘Do you know about the park?’ he asked.
‘Only that it is where London society goes to be seen.’ She’d learned that from magazines.
‘It was created by Henry VIII in the fifteen hundreds for hunting and was not open to the public until more than a century later. Most of the landscaping, including the Serpentine, was created about one hundred years ago. We’ll walk to the Serpentine.’
The Serpentine was the small lake in the park.
They reached the water. It was serene, cool, rippling gently in the light breeze. Such a contrast to the rushing, white-foamed water flooding the bridge to Tinmore Hall that fateful stormy day.
‘It is peaceful here,’ she commented.
‘I should tell you of my errands today,’ he said.
Somehow Tess’s sense of peace fled. ‘Where did you go?’ she asked politely.
‘To the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office for the special licence.’
The licence for them to marry. ‘Oh?’ she responded.
‘It will take a few days.’
She did not know if that was good news or not. She could not tell what he thought of it, either.
‘I also called upon a friend,’ he added in an ominous tone.
‘A friend.’
His words came in a rush. ‘Miss Caldwell. Doria. The sister of a school friend of mine who died at Ciudad Rodrigo.’ The terrible siege where so many soldiers died.
She turned to him, now understanding completely. ‘Speak plainly, Marc. Was this the woman you planned to marry? The sister of a friend you spoke about in the cabin?’
He met her gaze. His eyes, reflecting the sky and water, appeared grey. ‘Yes.’
She turned away and watched a brown-and-white duck swim in circles near the shore.
He spoke softly. ‘I needed to tell her...about us. I could not chance her finding out in another way.’
‘Of course you could not.’ She understood. Really, she did. ‘It must have been a difficult speech to make to her. And for her to hear.’
He rubbed his forehead. ‘The whole experience was unsettling. It was like being in a strange place, but one that was once as familiar as my own image in a mirror.’
That was precisely how she had felt when Tinmore’s carriage drove through Yardney. Everything familiar had suddenly turned foreign.
He went on. ‘I cannot tell you how she reacted. She was completely self-contained. But I must tell you, she has invited our family—and you—to a dinner party tomorrow night. I do not know how many guests are expected, but several, I imagine. Her cousin and some friends among them.’
‘A dinner party!’ She turned to face him. ‘Did you accept?’
‘I did.’
She turned away again.
He touched her arm. ‘We can cry off, if you wish it, but let me explain why I accepted.’ He wrapped her arm around his and started walking again. ‘Miss Caldwell’s cousin is around Amelie’s age. If we attend, it will give Amelie some social time with people her own age. I have no doubt Amelie will be a great success, so this might lead to more invitations.’ He paused. ‘You must know my family does not receive many invitations. I cannot stand in the way of her having some enjoyment, like other girls her age.’
Or the chance to meet potential suitors, Tess thought.
‘Besides this, my mother and father so rarely are seen out socially. This would be good for them, as well.’ He stopped and looked down at her. ‘What say you?’
She did not want to attend any dinner party, especially one given by the woman he wished to marry. ‘You do not think it cruel for me to attend? You were to marry her, Marc.’
‘I would not be cruel to you, Tess. If it would be too uncomfortable for you, I will send word we will not attend.’
And have her be the means of depriving his sister of a party? ‘I meant cruel to her, not to me.’
He shrugged. ‘She extended the invitation, which she certainly did not have to do.’
Perhaps this Miss Caldwell wanted a look at the woman who’d stolen her prospective husband. She straightened her spine. ‘I suppose I must face people sometime.’
Chapter Eight
The next day was a flurry of dressmaking.
Marc had not considered that Tess might not yet have a suitable dinner dress. Or that his mother and Amelie would tear through their wardrobes searching for the perfect gown to wear. Nothing they had was perfect. Everything required work.
Worse, his father loudly protested the commotion, insisting all the fuss was nonsense. That simply fired up his mother’s temper. There had been nothing to do but insist his father take him to his club and introduce him to his cronies.
His father sometimes retreated to Brooks’s Gentlemen’s Club, the club that attracted members of the Whig party and others a bit more tolerant of his choice of a wife and his liberal political views. Not that their tolerance resulted in the club members’ wives inviting the Northdons to many social events, but at least Marc’s father was accepted and comfortable among the other gentlemen in the club.
They sat in the dining room where three or four other gentlemen sat alone with their faces hidden behind the Morning Post. Marc ordered a coffee; his father, a Spanish bra
ndy.
‘Not too many members here today,’ Marc commented.
‘Hmmph.’ His father sipped his drink. ‘I’d wager there are still some tables full in the game room.’
Brooks’s was known for its gambling. At least his father never gambled. In fact, his father did not practise any vices, not that Marc knew of.
His father swallowed and took another drink. ‘I cannot abide all that fuss about dresses.’
‘It makes Maman happy, you know. What else has she to be happy about?’
His father frowned. ‘She is not happy. She blames me.’ He downed the brandy.
Marc peered at him, still a handsome man even with his silver hair and sagging skin. An unhappy man. ‘Is there more trouble between you and Maman?’ he asked.
‘More trouble?’ His father scoffed. ‘Do you mean her accusing me of your brother’s death? That is hardly new. How was I to know he would be so reckless?’
Lucien had fallen in love with an earl’s daughter, but her father refused his suit and the foolish couple eloped to Gretna Green. They never made it, however. Her father’s men went in mad pursuit and Lucien overturned his phaeton.
His father’s complexion turned grey and he stared into his drink. ‘She is right, though. I should have stopped him.’
‘Enough, Papa,’ Marc said gently. ‘Do not blame yourself.’ He put his hand on his father’s arm.
His father pulled away and took another sip of his brandy.
Marc felt the slap of rejection, but, then, nothing Marc did pleased his father.
He lifted his mug of coffee in both hands and leaned back in his chair. ‘The trouble I meant was—when I came home—you and Maman seemed to be accusing each other of infidelity.’
His father waved a dismissive hand. ‘Words.’ He signalled for another brandy. ‘There is no infidelity.’ He leaned closer to Marc. ‘What about you? Hmm? Why the devil are you marrying Sir Hollis’s daughter? You are being as foolish as your brother.’
Was he being as foolish as his brother? Perhaps, but he’d had no other choice, had he?
His father pointed a finger at him. ‘Have you lost your senses over her?’
No. But he certainly had the feeling he was battling against losing his senses over her.
The servant returned with more brandy and poured it in his father’s glass. His father swirled the nut-brown liquid. ‘Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure: Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.’ He downed the entire contents of the glass and gazed up at Marc with a bleak expression. ‘At least your brother was spared the repentance.’
* * *
That evening Marc’s father nursed another glass of brandy in the drawing room while he and Marc waited for the ladies to be ready.
His father tapped impatiently on the side table. ‘Your mother will probably change gowns ten times. We’ll be late. God knows how long your sister will be.’
‘I’m certain someone will be more fashionably late than we are.’ Marc felt anxious, too, but one family member needed to at least appear to be calm. His mother and Amelie would be nervous. And Tess? How could she not be?
His sister walked in the room. Her white dress seemed to float about her. Her blonde hair was all in curls like a halo around her head.
His father stopped in his tracks. ‘Amelie.’ His voice was hushed. ‘You look like—like your— You look like an angel.’
Marc rose and approached his sister to put a kiss on her cheek. ‘Papa is right. You are a vision.’
Amelie blushed. ‘You are both speaking nonsense, of course, but it is kind of you.’
His father continued to stare at her, almost as if he were seeing a ghost.
The door opened again and this time his mother entered. His father, for an instant, looked upon his mother with that same awed expression. It changed quickly to one that seemed devoid of all emotion.
Marc greeted his mother with a kiss, as well. ‘You are in fine looks, Maman. You look glorious.’
His mother’s dress was very simple and understated. It relied on colour for its beauty, a deep blue that accented her pale skin and blue eyes.
His mother smiled, but her smile turned uncertain when she glanced at his father.
‘Mother looks as lovely as Amelie, wouldn’t you say, Papa?’ Marc asked.
‘They both look fine,’ his father answered, but his gaze was averted.
Curse his father! One kind word and his mother would have been over the moon. Marc turned away and saw Tess slip into the room.
He lost his breath.
She did not appear ethereal like Amelie, nor elegant like his mother, but something that pleased him more, something real and warm and female. Her gown was simple, like his mother’s, but suited her perfectly, causing nothing to distract from her beauty and her presence. It was a deep, rich green that turned her eyes the same shade and accented the red tones in her hair. Perhaps he had nothing to worry over at this dinner. Surely when this woman entered the room, no one could possibly find fault with her.
There was no fault with her.
‘You look beautiful, Tess.’ His voice felt raw.
‘Thank you,’ she said tightly, obviously not believing him. ‘I am sorry to keep everyone waiting.’
The others noticed her then.
‘Ma chérie!’ his mother exclaimed. ‘You are perfection.’
Amelie smiled. ‘Tess, the dress looks so lovely on you. I am sure everyone will be impressed.’
‘Do you think so?’ Tess gazed at Amelie and her mother. ‘I think no one will notice me with the two of you there.’
Tess was kind to his mother and sister. How could Marc not value that?
He smiled. ‘Papa and I will be the envy of all the gentlemen at the party.’
His father started for the door. ‘Let us get underway, then.’
His mother held back. ‘We will not look out of place?’
Marc put an arm around her. ‘Maman, your taste in fashion is unsurpassed. You will not look out of place.’
‘I agree,’ said Tess with a reassuring smile. ‘Although I cannot know what ladies wear to a London dinner party, I would wager you have struck the perfect tone.’
His mother looked mildly heartened.
‘Come on,’ his father snapped. ‘We do not want to be the last ones arriving.’
* * *
The ride to the Caldwell town house was silent and thick with tension. Tess was nervous enough, but it made her sad to see Lord and Lady Northdon and Amelie this frightened to attend a dinner party, all because Lady Northdon had been a merchant’s daughter and the daughter of French Jacobins.
Would the guests at this dinner party be willing to overlook Tess’s scandalous family? Surely someone there would know all about her mother’s many lovers and her father’s foolish financial dealings. How many would have read of Lorene’s marriage to Lord Tinmore? Tess provided plenty for the guests to whisper about even if they would not yet know the circumstances of her betrothal to Marc.
At the town-house door a footman ran out to open the carriage door and help them alight. This was not as prestigious an address as Grosvenor Street, even Tess could tell. The town houses were smaller, the streets narrower. Another footman met them at the door and took their cloaks and the men’s topcoats and hats.
The butler walked them to the drawing-room door where he announced them. ‘Lord and Lady Northdon, Mr Glenville, Miss Glenville and Miss Summerfield.’
All heads turned and some turned quickly away.
A pleasant-looking man in his fifties approached them and right behind him, a pretty young woman.
‘Ah, Lord Northdon. Lady Northdon. How good of you to come. You know my daughter, Doria? Of course you do...’ The man’s smile was a little forced.
This was Mr Caldwell, obviously, and the young woman, his daughter.
Miss Caldwell looked at Tess with some interest. She was lovely. Dark-haired, fair-skinned, intelligent.
Mr Caldwell f
ussed over Amelie and the girl’s face turned bright pink. Miss Caldwell greeted the family warmly, as if these were old, dear friends.
Finally they came to Tess.
Marc presented her. ‘Mr Caldwell, Doria, may I present Miss Summerfield.’
‘How nice to meet you.’ The young woman seemed remarkably composed. She quickly turned to her father. ‘Father, do you recall I told you Miss Summerfield and Marc are to be married?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Mr Caldwell’s cordial tone turned a bit sharp. ‘Welcome, Miss Summerfield.’ He turned to Lord and Lady Northdon, quickly dismissing Tess. ‘Come meet the other guests.’
Marc offered his arm to Tess and leaned close to her ear. ‘I apologise for Mr Caldwell. He was rude to you.’
‘Perhaps he is disappointed,’ she whispered back.
Marc looked exceptionally handsome in his black coat. His blue eyes were even more riveting than usual in the candlelight of the drawing room. How could Miss Caldwell not despise Tess for taking him away?
They followed Marc’s parents and Amelie to where the guests were gathered. During the introductions, some people were kind and polite; some barely acknowledged them. Some guests’ faces sparked with recognition when meeting Tess. Were they remembering her scandalous mother? Or her father? Or the new Lady Tinmore?
Amelie earned surprised stares and some frankly admiring ones from the gentlemen present, some envious ones from the ladies. Miss Caldwell’s cousin took Amelie under her wing and included her in the group of younger people amusing themselves with a peg board in a corner of the room. Lord Northdon crossed the room to speak to someone and Marc was pulled away by Mr Caldwell.
Miss Caldwell found seats for Lady Northdon and Tess and sat with them, making pleasant conversation, mostly to Lady Northdon. She asked about Lady Northdon’s gown and soon drew another lady into the conversation about modistes and linen-drapers and the latest dress designs.
That left her alone with Tess. She smiled politely. ‘How long have you known Marc?’
Tess thought perhaps the question was not asked out of politeness. ‘Not very long.’ Less than a week, actually. ‘And you? You and your father seem like old friends of the Glenvilles.’
Miss Caldwell’s smile faltered a bit. ‘Old friends of Marc’s. He and my brother were in school together as boys and were inseparable. Marc spent as much time in our house as his own, I think. Through him we have been acquainted with his family.’