The Brigadier's Daughter

by Catherine March

  Unless…she did as Georgia had suggested. She could quite literally step into Georgia’s shoes, and the wedding would go ahead, no one any the wiser. All would be as it should be, the bride would arrive on her father’s arm, and she would marry the groom. There would be peace and happiness. What had Georgia said? ‘…a perfectly perfect solution.’ Sasha’s lip trembled as she contemplated such an audacious plan. Could it be done? Would she, could she, possibly have the nerve to carry it off? Sasha chewed her lip, and surmised that it would only be for a day or two, until Georgia and Felix were married, just to keep the peace and avoid a tragic family scandal. For a moment or two she wondered how Reid would react and how it would affect his posting to St Petersburg. Did he desperately need to have a wife at his side? Surely it would not matter one way or another; besides, once he got to the Embassy and the Russian court there were bound to be plenty of beautiful young ladies only too willing to become his bride.

  Certainly Georgia’s madcap suggestion that she marry Reid in her place was going to be difficult to achieve, but in the circumstances she could see no other solution, none that would not bring dishonour and disgrace on both Reid, Georgia and the Packard family.

  Climbing out of bed again, Sasha tiptoed into Georgia’s bedroom. She lit a candle and then opened the door of the dressing room to stand and gaze at the spectacular frothy white creation of Georgia’s wedding gown. She felt the blood drain from her face as she wondered if she would indeed be able to fit into it. Georgia most definitely had a bigger bosom, but no doubt she could pad the bodice out with a few stockings if it gaped. And the hem would be too long, yet there was no time to alter it. But she could wear the shoes with the two-inch heels; with that in mind, she searched through the shoe rack until she found them. They were beige silk and did not exactly go with the dress, but with the length of it she hoped that no one would notice anyway.

  The plan began to form, and one link led to another as she hurried about in an attempt to cover every possibility. She made sure Georgia’s door was locked, as well as her own, and when Polly came knocking she would pretend that Georgia had had an attack of the nerves and would see no one except her own sister, Sasha. And then she would have to dash out and convince Mama that she would not be able to attend the wedding; after all, it would be impossible to play both bride and bridesmaid at the same time. But what possible excuse would Mama tolerate on this, the grandest day of her year, her life even? A cold or headache would not be enough, she was sure; it would have to be something nasty, something contagious.

  She had an idea and hurried to Georgia’s dressing table, reaching for a small bottle of lavender oil that had long been abandoned, as neither of them cared much for the scent and it had given Sasha a most unpleasant rash. Biting her lips, Sasha opened the vial and sprinkled a few drops on her forearms, rubbed it into her skin, and then her neck. Sure enough, within a few moments it began to burn and itch. Her nose tingled and she sneezed, and in a panic she rushed to the washstand, scrubbing with soap and water at her arms and neck. Not even for Georgia could she put herself through this! But it was too late; even though she had removed all traces of the lavender oil, her skin was indeed irritated and would take a few days to recover.

  The household was beginning to stir, the maids knocking on doors and delivering trays of tea, drawing back the curtains, the footmen bringing up shoes that had been polished the night before, and jugs of hot water for the guests’ morning ablutions.

  Sasha realised that she would not be able to dress herself unaided, there were far too many tiny hooks and eyes on the back of the wedding gown, and she would need Polly to help her put the veil on. She decided to take Polly into her confidence, and when the little maid arrived, she let her into Georgia’s room, locked the door behind her, and gave her a very brief summary of the night’s events, swearing a shocked, yet loyal, Polly to absolute secrecy.

  ‘Will I be in trouble, miss?’ asked a nervous Polly. ‘Jobs is hard to come by nowdays.’

  ‘Oh, no, Polly, don’t worry.’ Sasha hugged the young maid. ‘I will leave a note explaining everything, and that you had no idea whatsoever what was going on. Besides, you know the Brigadier and her ladyship well enough, they would never vent their wrath upon you.’

  The hardest part was to convince Victoria and Philippa that they could not come in. They wailed, and moaned, and made threats and promises in equal quantities if only they could please, please come in, just for a moment. Sasha was reduced to lying, making false promises that as soon as Georgia was ready they could come in to see her, but first they must go and enjoy a hearty breakfast to keep them going through the long day, and then get ready themselves.

  Her mother proved to be an easier case, as she did not appear at all, having herself succumbed to a fit of nerves and was resting in her room at her father’s insistence, Polly reported. Her father knocked once upon Georgia’s door, and Polly called out in reassuring tones that ‘they’ were busy bathing and getting dressed.

  ‘Very well,’ replied the Brigadier through the door panel, in relieved tones. ‘But, Georgia, make sure you are downstairs in the hall at ten forty-five sharp, the carriage will be here then to take us to the church.’

  He moved on down the corridor to check on his other daughter, and when Sasha called out in a feeble whimper for him to enter, the Brigadier poked his head around the door with an alarmed exclamation.

  ‘Come along, Sasha, what on earth are you doing still in bed?’

  ‘Papa, I feel very unwell. I think I may have a fever, and look, a horrible rash.’ She pushed back the long sleeves of her nightgown and showed him her arms and neck.

  ‘Good Lord!’ He edged nervously away, half-closing the door. ‘Really, Sasha, how very inconvenient! As if we don’t have enough to worry about today, of all days.’ He sighed heavily, preoccupied with his father-of-the-bride duties. ‘We will send for Dr Symons later, but there’s just no time now. Stay in bed, and for goodness’ sake do stay away from your mother, you know how delicate she is.’

  ‘Yes, Papa,’ Sasha replied in a meek voice, as he began to close the door. ‘I’m so sorry, Papa.’

  The Brigadier grunted and went off, deciding to keep to himself Sasha’s condition, a frown creasing his brow as he went to his dressing room to sit with a brandy and the newspaper before his valet helped him don his best dress military jacket, striped breeches, leather belt and sword, and attached his medals. All he was most concerned with was getting Georgia to the church and married to that Bowen fellow—why did he have this nagging feeling that the girl was going to be contrary?

  As soon as the door had closed, Sasha threw back the bed covers and Polly came hurrying in from Georgia’s bedchamber. The maid began to help her into the bridal gown and when she was fully dressed, the veil secure, Sasha paused and looked at herself in the mirror. But she cringed, horrified at what she was about to do. She thanked the maid and then sent her to check the luggage was ready for removal to the ship, seeking a quiet moment in which to gather her thoughts, and to sit down at her writing desk and pen a note. For long moments, anxiously aware of the ticking clock, she stared at the blank sheet of cream paper, and then with a tremulous sigh set the pen’s nib to write, ‘Dearest Mama and Papa, please do not worry or be too angry, but…’ When she had finished, she folded the page and slipped it into an envelope, rising from the desk and looking about the room for a place to leave the note, where it would be found, but not too soon. Eventually she propped it on the mantelpiece, behind the gently ticking ornate gilt clock. It was twenty minutes before eleven o’clock and with a last glance about her bedroom she settled the veil over her face, leaving the room quickly before she changed her mind.

  The carriage conveyed them to the Church of St Ann at precisely five minutes before the bells of eleven o’clock began to peal. When they rumbled to a halt, Sasha stepped down from the carriage, assisted by her father and her two young sisters acting as bridesmaids. The heavy Spanish lace veil was indeed so thick
that no one could see her face, but she could hardly see anything, either. Her father was extremely smart in his dark green-and-gold Light Dragoons uniform, yet he was indistinct. She could not see more than a green shadow and she reached out blindly to take his arm as they mounted the steps of the church. She could hear the genteel tones of the organ music; when they came to a halt in the vast arched door way, her heart suddenly lurched and pounded very hard in rapid beats.

  This was it. She stood on the threshold of a moment—her life, and the life of everyone else involved in this marriage, was about to change in ways unimaginable.

  The organ paused for a moment, and then launched into Handel’s ‘Hornpipe in D Water Music’. Her father took a step forwards, and she followed, placing her feet slowly and carefully on the dark blue carpet, the congregation on either side a mere blur. That walk seemed the longest of her life and she wondered if it would ever end, but then at last her father halted, and she became aware of another taller, broader shape in a scarlet jacket, moving to stand at her side.

  Remembering the rehearsal a few days ago, Sasha turned to Philippa and handed her the bridal bouquet, a heavy and ornate arrangement of lilies, roses, ivy and forget-me-nots that made her arms ache and her nose tingle. She could feel a sneeze tickling in her nose and throat, the scent of all the flowers arranged in the church upsetting her already lavender-annoyed senses. As Captain Bowen reached out to take her left hand in his, she could not stem the succession of sneezes that erupted from her.

  The congregation were amused and sympathetic, murmuring gently with soft chuckles, yet Sasha was mortified. She felt the prickling heat of a red-hot blush sear her cheeks and she glanced up nervously to Captain Bowen. But she could not see his face, whether he was amused or annoyed at this lack of decorum, but fortunately the vicar had a pressing timetable and he launched at once into the ceremony.

  Sasha whispered the vows, flinching inwardly and praying that she would not be struck down by lightning as she professed to be Georgia Louisa Roberta, who promised that she would love, cherish, honour and obey Reid Peter Michael for all the days of her life until death parted them. At one point, as she sniffed and was tempted to wipe her nose with the back of her sleeve, her mama leaned forwards and pressed a lawn handkerchief into her hand. The vicar had to pause for a moment as the bride blew her nose, but then at last, to his relief and the Brigadier’s, he pronounced them man and wife. The final hymn was sung, the bride avoided being kissed by blowing her nose and reaching for her bouquet, and then they departed to the registry to sign the marriage document. Sasha scrawled Georgia’s name, albeit illegibly, and now considered it the right moment to swoon and make her escape.

  The Brigadier muttered darkly that his eldest girl was at home unwell and feared that it might be catching. Captain Bowen lifted his bride up from where she had collapsed on the stone floor, in a froth of shimmering white organza, silk and tulle, holding her in his arms and somewhat surprised at how small and light she felt as he carried her prostrate form from a side door of the church and out to a waiting carriage. He climbed in beside her and ordered the driver to take them at once to the docks at Tilbury. He feared that his wife’s family would insist that she was not well enough to travel, and he could not possibly afford to miss the sailing of the naval warship HMS Dorset on the evening tide.

  All in all, it was remarked upon for weeks afterwards as the most extraordinary wedding of the year: the bride sniffed and sneezed throughout the ceremony and then fainted in the registry, the happy couple never appeared at the wedding reception, which was thoroughly enjoyed by everyone else, and the father of the bride, usually a most upright fellow, became so drunk he had to be carried home, bellowing ‘God Save the Queen’.

  Chapter Four

  Reid gazed down at the new Mrs Bowen as she slumped sideways in a corner of the carriage. He patted his hip pocket and wondered whether to give her a shot of whisky from the small silver flask he had fortified himself from earlier in the day. But he decided against it—no telling how the girl would react to strong spirits and he certainly didn’t want to have to deal with a pie-eyed bride as well as a sick one. With a frown he wished someone had warned him that Georgia was ill.

  Sasha longed to fling off the suffocating weight of her veil, and wondered how on earth she was going to keep Captain Bowen at bay. Should she tell him now? How far was she willing to proceed with this charade? Was Georgia safely married at Gretna Green yet? She would be twenty-one in two days’ time, and then no one could prevent her from doing as she pleased. And, Sasha had to admit, with a shocked little shiver at her own daring, she rather liked the idea of being Captain Reid Bowen’s wife. It had been very pleasant when he had lifted her up into his arms, as though she were a mere feather, and carried her out of the church. His chest and his arms had felt both solid and warm, and he smelled so nice…

  ‘Georgia? Are you all right? Shall I help you remove this veil?’ He leaned over her and gently shook her shoulder.

  Drat! There was no help for it but to make a reply of some kind, so she croaked an incoherent confirmation and moaned that she might be contagious.

  Captain Bowen, realising he was far too close if that was the case, sat down opposite, his long legs in the close-fitting breeches and shiny leather boots very close to her own. They gazed at each other, Captain Bowen noting the way she turned her head to lean against the bolster of the carriage, and his voice very gentle as he asked, ‘Are you feeling absolutely rotten, Georgia?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Sasha croaked in reply.

  ‘As soon as we arrive on the ship, we can get you some tea, it will make you feel better.’

  Sasha stifled a gasp, hesitating, realising that she would have to lift her veil to sip from the cup. Soon there would be no need to pretend illness, as a faint wave of nausea and dizziness washed over her. But still, she did not dare move, for fear he would notice something, anything, out of character. As the moments ticked by, she became aware that he was staring at her intently, with his very blue and beautiful eyes.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Reid, leaning forwards slightly, his hands clasped between his knees, and his voice lowering to an intimate tone that made Sasha tense. ‘Considering that you are not at all well, I thought we might give the reception a miss and go straight to the ship. The Navy surgeon on board can take a look at you and the sooner we get you into bed, the better.’

  A peculiar squeak strangled in Sasha’s throat as her shoulders jerked with shock and her glance flew to his face.

  ‘I—I mean…’ Reid suddenly realised how his words may have been interpreted and hastened to make amends. ‘Of course I don’t mean, um, er…’ He searched for delicate words on an indelicate subject to a young and innocent bride. Failing, he merely murmured, lifting a corner of the blind to look out of the window in a distracted fashion, ‘Well, not tonight, anyway.’ He let the blind fall and turned his attention back to her. He peered at her, trying to see if she was blushing, expecting a throaty Georgia laugh, but there was only silence.

  ‘At least you’ve stopped sneezing.’ He smiled, with what he hoped was an encouraging tone.

  She smiled in return, though all he could see was the faintest glimmer of teeth and the slight movement of her head.

  ‘Must have been all the flowers in the church.’

  She nodded in agreement.

  The carriage continued on its way, and Sasha sat there, mute as a marble statue, part of her, the sensible logical part, urging her to speak up, to tell him the truth. She had the opportunity, she could not deny that, but the other part of her, the romantic, womanly, playful, lonely part kept her silent. She realised, as the moments flew by, that she did not want to stand up and confess. She did not want to stop being his wife—indeed, she very much wanted to find out what it would be like to truly be Captain Reid Bowen’s wife in every sense of the word. And so she kept quiet, and they arrived at the docks.

  It did not take very long for her to walk up the gangplank of HMS D
orset, pausing on the deck as Captain Turnbull greeted them and shook hands with her ‘husband’, bowing to her respectfully, agreeing heartily that they were more than welcome to board ahead of schedule; indeed, they were only waiting for them before pulling up anchor.

  ‘Aye.’ The ship’s Scottish captain grinned, his mouth framed by a thick beard. ‘We may as well catch the early tide and be on our way. Save this lot from going ashore and getting bladdered.’ He nodded his head at the sailors hurrying about deck. He beckoned to one and told him, ‘Show Major Bowen and his wife to their cabin.’

  ‘I don’t get my majority until I take up my post,’ Reid pointed out.

  ‘That may well be,’ replied the Navy man, ‘but there can only be one captain aboard this ship.’

  The two men laughed, while Sasha clutched at her veil as the wind suddenly snatched at it. She followed behind the seaman, who led them down steps and corridors until they arrived at a cabin towards the end of one corridor. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, her thoughts had not ventured this far, but there had been a vague expectation of a large hotel-like room. As the matelot opened the door and showed them into their cabin, she was rather dismayed at the small, narrow space. There were two bunks on one side, a bureau with an oak-framed mirror fastened to the wall above it on the other side, a rattan tub chair in a corner, and in between was the porthole, with a narrow strip of dark grey water and pale sky her only vision of the outside world.

  Captain Bowen thanked the sailor and then asked him, ‘Is your surgeon about? I’d like a word with him.’

  ‘Aye, sir, this way, sir.’

  He turned to her as he stepped over the high doorway. ‘Georgia, I’ll be back shortly. Why don’t you get that contraption off so you can breathe fresh air—’ he waved one hand at the veil ‘—relax and lie down for a while?’

  She nodded, and then hastened to lock the door as soon as it closed. Taking a few steps over to the porthole, Sasha pulled off the veil covering her face, laying it on the chair and taking great gulps of salty air in through her nose. She looked out at the murky waters of the harbour and above her the cloudy sky. Squinting to left and to right, she could just make out a fraction of the crowded docks, but there was little else to see. There was much noise, a faint vibration of feet running on the decks and the rumble of the steam engines deep in the heart of the ship as all was made ready to depart, stowing luggage and supplies in the hold, preparing the equipment on deck, stoking up the boiler.