His Colonial Rose

by Vanessa Brooks

  After that, the wedding seemed to take on a momentum all of its own. There were endless fittings for Rose's dresses, hats and shoes and she barely saw anything of Benedict.

  Benedict was also busy. Unbeknown to Rose, he had several meetings with Henry Randolph, her father, about business matters; in particular Rose's dowry and Henry's last will and testament. It seemed that until Rose had a husband, should anything happen to Henry, then his entire estate and the duty of guardian to Rose, would go to his brother James, Rose's bachelor uncle. That is, apart from a small cash legacy set aside for Rose from her mother's family and her dowry from her father. Once Rose had a husband, then the will altered in favour of Rose's husband.

  Benedict wanted Rose to have an income all of her own, however, one with which she could buy any dresses, gifts or fripperies that she desired, without the humiliation of coming to ask him for money all the while. He met with his man of business, Arthur Griffin, and between them, they organized the arrangements to put his future wife's allowance in place. After Griffin had gone, Benedict whistled to Holly; she needed more exercise. The dog had become tubby and complaisant of late, no doubt missing that dreadfully behaved terrier of Rose's. Holly padded over to him, her tongue lolling and her intelligent green eyes excited at the prospect of a walk. Benedict scratched her head, reached for his greatcoat and they left the house together.

  The days passed quickly until finally the big day finally arrived. The groom was full of anticipation and excitement while the bride was full of nothing but nerves and feeling a sense of dread.

  As tradition required, on the morn of her wedding, Rose placed the final stitch into the hem of her wedding gown thus ensuring harmony within her marriage. Her wedding gown was made of the palest pink silk, tiered with the finest organza in a shimmering gold. Perfect silk roses of differing pinks ranging from a deep dusky rose to a soft baby shade were sewn one after another in a line from the centre back of the dress to the start of the ruffled skirt. The centre front panel of the dress was embroidered with roses in the same pink tone as the silk ones running down the back of the dress.

  On the rim of the bodice of Rose's wedding gown were similarly coloured rose buds sewn in a repeating pattern about the edge of the low cut gown. Rose's décolleté was modestly covered with a white fichu of lace. Rose chose to keep her jewellery simple and wore only her mother's pearl necklace. Her headdress was a white lace mantle sewn with scattered pink and white pearls. Her silk slippers were pointed and backless, made from the same pink silk of her gown.

  Rose had four attendants in all. As was the custom, they were each dressed in the same pink silk but the gowns were made of a plainer style than her own. The belief was that evil would not be able to distinguish between the bride and her attendants and thus the bride would remain pure and undetected by the devil and his minions.

  As the footman helped the chilled Rose up into the ornate golden carriage made available by Queen Charlotte, she lifted her face skyward and sent a prayer into the heavens that she would be happy within this union. A soft dusting of snow settled upon her cheeks and nose, causing Imogene, who was the only one of her attendants she knew, to cry, "Good luck and fertility for the bride, it has snowed upon her, how very lucky that is, dearest Rose!"

  Chapter Fifteen

  As the coach neared Westminster Abbey, Rose could hear the wonderful mellow pealing of the old bells, tolling in hers and Benedict's honour.

  Her father helped her down from the carriage himself and placed a gentle kiss upon Rose's cold temple. "You look quite stunningly beautiful, my dearest child. I hope that you will be as happy in your union as I was with your dear mother." Rose reached out and hugged her father before she placed her hand upon her father's arm. Taking a deep breath, they stepped forward together, heads held high as they moved into the entrance of the medieval magnificence that is Westminster Abbey.

  They gathered themselves in the huge entrance leading to the nave. Rose's attendants placed themselves, two deep, either side behind Rose and Henry. Imogene handed Rose the family prayer book to hold, carried by all previous Mortimer brides on their wedding day. Inside the Church, chanting began their cue to move forward and walk down the seemingly never ending aisle of Westminster Abbey.

  Rose stared straight ahead ignoring the concerted stares of the English ton who had turned out to watch this unusual occurrence, an English earl marrying a commoner and an American colonial to boot!

  The sporadic blue winter sunshine lit the tiny dust motes and fine powder spilled from the many wigs worn by the hundreds of guests seated within the Abbey. Tiny specs were suspended in the air, adding a sprinkling of magic to the already fairy tale feel of unreality for Rose.

  As Henry and Rose finally reached the inner sanctum of the Abbey, the chanted Psalm: 33 came to an end.

  Silence filled the Church. Henry first led Rose to where King George and Queen Charlotte sat on their church thrones. Henry bowed his head showing his respect, but as a colonial man, felt unable to execute a full bow. Rose, who had been practicing the perfect curtsy, now executed the low dip of her body from the waist.

  Benedict stood awaiting her at the altar steps. Henry gently placed her hand on Benedict's arm, kissed his daughter's cold cheek and turned away to find his seat.

  Rose gazed uncertainly at Benedict; he looked quite unlike himself in a white dusted wig. He was dressed with a cornflower blue frock coat, white shirt, silver waistcoat and white breeches. In his pale blue silk cravat, a large sapphire pin twinkled with his every gesture. The blue of his ensemble bought out the azure in his eyes and Rose thought he looked like some exotic prince of old.

  The actual ceremony passed by in a haze that was almost a dream for Rose but as Benedict placed a heavy gold band upon her finger, Rose's eyes met those of her new husband and a calm serenity washed over her in a gentle wave. It was done, Benedict, Lord Mortimer, the Right Honourable Earl of Straddock was now, and forever after, her husband. With a jolt, Rose realised that she was now an English Countess.

  Benedict led Rose to be seated next to him while Handel's anthem of the Psalm: 128 was sung by the all-male choir. It was a beautiful and moving sound as the young voices soared high into the stone carved eve of the Abbey. When they sung the verses:

  'Thy wife shall be as the fruitful vine upon the walls of thine house. Thy children like the olive branches round thy table'

  Rose felt laughter bubbling inside her, oh dear god, do not let me giggle, she prayed. Luckily, she was able to stifle her merriment and the rest of the prayers and blessings passed without a hitch.

  After the National Anthem of God Save The King was sung, Benedict led his new Countess over to where King George and Queen Charlotte sat together. Rose executed a low and elegant curtsy and Benedict made a leg. Queen Charlotte rose from her seat and kissed Rose's cheek before the King stood and took his wife's arm, leading the way toward the entrance of the Abbey, with Benedict and Rose following on behind their monarch.

  As they moved in stately procession back toward the knave, the choir's voice again soared in celebration of the nuptials and the bells of Westminster Abbey rang out joyfully.

  They travelled to the Queen's Palace in Benedict's dark blue coach with his crest, their crest now, painted on each door of the carriage. They were followed by the Golden Coach which took the attendants.

  When they arrived, having driven around for some time in order to allow their Majesties enough time to arrive first, Benedict lifted Rose from the carriage and set her down gently on the red carpet that led into the small palace.

  He bent to kiss her lips, cupping her head with his large hand. "Mmm, delicious, I look forward to much sweeter kisses later, my love. You look so gorgeous, wife, and I am truly the proudest man alive today!" Rose flushed, even as her teeth chattered.

  "You are frozen, my love! Come let us get you into the warmth. Take my arm and we will enter together. Tell me, Rose, how does it feel to be a Countess?"

  Rose turned to sur
vey the Palace building before answering Benedict. It was a built of solid honey coloured stone. Palladian steps overlaid with red carpet, led up to the main entrance of the palace, a stone pillar stood either side of the grand entrance.

  "Rose?"

  She glanced up at Benedict, giving him a shy smile. "I feel very strange, I cannot explain it to you right now. I need time to digest everything later when I am alone."

  Benedict lowered his mouth to her ear, his breath warm on her frozen cheek, his voice husky with pent up desire.

  "I do assure you that you will most certainly not be alone later, my Rose… come now, their Majesties are waiting to greet us." Benedict slipped his hand under Rose's elbow and led her up the steps and into the Palace.

  Rose was hot now. She had stood for what seemed like hours smiling and smiling again at hordes of the British elite and frankly, by now, she had enough. Benedict was conversing with Squiggleworth and his cronies and Rose needed to use the powder room. Excusing herself quietly, she made her way across the enormous reception throng toward the wide sweeping staircase which led up to the designated powder room.

  A woman's lacy clad arm suddenly barred her way. Rose stopped as the owner of the arm sank into the deepest of curtsies, her powdered head lowered so that Rose could not see who the lady actually was.

  "I offer you my fondest congratulations, my Lady. and I beg that you forgive me for any past slights that may have offended you." Rose stared at the back of the woman's head; she seemed slightly familiar but Rose was still unsure of her identity.

  "Of course I forgive you, after all it is my wedding day and I wish for nothing more than everyone should enjoy the day, please do arise."

  As the woman straightened Rose swallowed a gasp, oh phish, it was the hateful Lady Margaret. What a fool she had been not to recognize the woman.

  "Thank you, your ladyship, your forgiveness shall go a long way in restoring me to my rightful place within society," she simpered.

  "I do not understand," Rose whispered.

  "'The Cut,' m'dear! You and your husband have seen to it that we are persona non grata but if I am seen to be talking with you as I am now, then others will follow and my mother and I shall be restored to our former place."

  Rose sighed, oh bodkins, she was useless at this British peer etiquette system. She was also furious to have been tricked in such a simple way by Margaret Beauchamp. Well, she was an English Countess now and copying Benedict's best and most chilling voice, Rose replied as coldly as she could, "What has been done can also be undone."

  She noticed panic in Margaret's eyes as she started to move away. Hastily, Margaret followed Rose, staying behind her all the way up the stairs to the enormous room set aside for the ladies' use.

  Inside, several Chinese screens had been set up along the longest wall of the rectangular room, a china chamber pot stood behind each screen. At the far end of the room, three chaise-lounges were set spaciously around a large ornate dressing table holding a silvered and scrolled mirror. On this table stood a number of cut glass jars, with hinged, solid silver tops, each containing lead whitening face creams, powder and patches. There was also the very naughty addition of a pot of rouge.

  Maids were on hand to help ladies use the necessary, lifting and holding the ornate gowns out of the way of the chamber pots. After Rose had made use of their services, she went to the dressing table and pondered Benedict's reaction to some rouge and perhaps a very small heart shaped patch? Would he approve, she wondered?

  "You are really most kind to forgive me. I realize that I misjudged you completely, my lady. I am sincere don't y'know and to prove my sincerity I shall share with you a little known secret. The child that you rescued from the gutter…"

  Rose spun around incensed to find Margaret by her side yet again. "How do you know about that?" she asked heatedly.

  "I rather think our entire set knows about you and your strange little visitor! Especially since Benedict has been at such pains to keep you both apart. How hilarious it would be if it weren't so terribly tragic!"

  "What on earth do you mean?" Rose asked in a leaden voice, a feeling of doom trickling coldly down her spine.

  "Why, Lord Mortimer's by-blow, my dear, the very child that you rescued and brought into your own home… as I said, it would be too funny if it were not so very tragic."

  Rose felt chilled to the bone but she straightened her back and stared Margaret in the eye, replying as haughtily as she could, "I fail to see what business any of this is of yours, Lady Margaret. However, I will say this. Nancy is a most welcome addition to our household and she will never leave our protection again. I bid you good day, madam!" With that, Rose swept from the room leaving Margaret grinding her teeth in rage.

  At least half a dozen of her compatriots had overheard the exchange between the two women and Margaret knew that this latest piece of gossip would not help her return into society. After the entertaining sight of Lady Margaret wearing Rose's champagne at the opera, coupled with the juicy gossip about being flung from Lord Mortimer's country estate, on their return to London, both Lady Amelia and Lady Margaret gradually found themselves cut from every hostess's guest list. They had been singled out by their peers for ridicule, estranged from society, thus enduring the unthinkable, 'The Cut'.

  On returning to the reception below, Rose's mind reeled, could it be true? Was Nancy really Benedict's love child, would he do that to her? A footman passed by with crystal flutes brimming with creamy champagne. Rose reached out and took two, downing one, she replaced it on the tray. Picking up another, she downed that too and placed the empty back with her first glass, ignoring the shocked look upon the young footman's face. She pushed through the throng and sipped a third glass of champagne while musing on the gossip that Margaret had imparted.

  Could it be true? Benedict had not wanted her to rescue the girl, he had wanted to give the man that Nancy called her brother, money. Was this guilt? Rose was too shocked to think straight, but when the crowd around her gave one unanimous gasp, she turned to see what had caused the consternation amongst the guests.

  On the staircase stood the Lady Margaret, and bent on one knee at her feet was Benedict's friend Wiggington, Squiggleworth. As Rose watched, he reached for Margaret's hand. The lady herself was moaning and shaking her head in frantic denial. Rose realized that Wiggington was talking and she strained to hear what he said.

  "…do me the very greatest of honour in becoming my wife!" he finished triumphantly. There was silence for a moment and then much clapping and laughter which then suddenly died away as the King and Queen returned to the reception. The crowds fell away bowing and curtsying leaving a pathway open to the sweep of the stairs. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, King George called up to Thomas Wiggington, who was still kneeling as Margaret balanced herself with her hand placed upon his shoulder, steadying herself since she too had curtsied, as etiquette demanded as soon as the Royal couple had entered the room. Thus, the picture they presented was one of a happily engaged couple.

  "My dear Wiggington, our sincere congratulations sir, come join us and introduce us to your future wife, Lady Margaret Beauchamp, is it not?"

  Obviously fuming at the impossible situation she had been placed in, Margaret had no other option but to obey, and once the King and Queen had given their Royal approval, the deed was done and she would indeed be affianced to a pauper with impeccable blood line but with absolutely no coin.

  Rose still didn't understand what was happening, partially due to feeling somewhat foxed by all the champagne she had drunk rather too quickly.

  A hand snaked about her waist and Rose realized with a jolt that it was Benedict, grinning inanely from ear to ear. "Went like clockwork, just as we planned! We landed the fish, hook line and sinker! Even the King was in on our plan! I told you I'd sort Margaret out for you, didn't I, Rose!"

  Rose stared up at him somewhat befuddled. "But I still don't understand. Whatever is the point? Margaret will simply break off
the engagement later on."

  "Huh, no she won't, the King has approved it d'you see? Social suicide. If Margaret breaks her engagement now, no one else would have her and she'd have to leave London because of the disgrace!"

  Rose shook her head. "I shall never ever understand the rules of English aristocracy."

  "You don't have to; you just obey your lord and husband as you promised to do today!"

  "Oh phish, I did promise you that didn't I? Surely you won't expect me to obey you all of the time?"

  Benedict frowned. "Well, yes, actually, Rose, I do expect exactly that… I say are you all right, you look a little green…"

  "Oh, uh, I do feel a little odd and a bit... sick…"

  When Rose came to after her faint, she was lying on a chaise-lounge in the ladies' powder room, stripped down to her underwear and surrounded by maids.

  "What happened?" she murmured, her head thumping.

  Beatrice, her new mother-in-law swum into her view and said, "You fainted, child, how d'you feel now, m'dear?"

  Rose put a hand to her head. "The room is spinning and I feel sick."

  Beatrice clicked her fingers and a large wide china bowl was passed to her by a maid. "Here, Rose, take this and sit forward." Rose did as she was bid and promptly vomited into the bowl.

  "That's right, my Lady, bring it all up and you'll feel right as rain again!" The maid held Rose's head until the nausea had passed and then offered a glass of water for Rose to sip from. There then passed the most uncomfortable half hour in which Rose, who still feeling extremely unwell, was pulled and prodded into her 'going away outfit', a pale blue striped confection. The whole change of clothes seemed utterly ridiculous to the protesting Rose, since she was only to leave here and travel no more than a mile to Benedict's London house, her new home!