The Marriage Wager

by Ashford, Jane

  “I have suggested that he refrain from entertaining the younger members of the staff with his, er, reminiscences,” Clinton continued. “They do not seem to me at all suitable for a household such as ours. Quite the contrary, my lord. But he has not chosen to heed my advice.”

  “Oh dear,” said Emma again.

  “And I fear, my lord, that some of the footmen encourage him,” Clinton concluded. “They appear to forget all the training they have received here when they are in his presence.” His face remained absolutely expressionless, and his voice was glacial, but Emma thought she saw a spark of something like fury at the back of his pale eyes.

  “I’ll see to this,” she said.

  “Mr. Ferik did mention, my lady, that he takes orders only from you.” Clinton did not look at her as he said this.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Clinton,” she replied. “I did explain the household to him, but Ferik does not always…”

  The butler continued to stare at the far wall as she trailed off. Colin looked impatient with the entire subject. Pushing aside her weariness, Emma added, “I’ll just go down and speak to him.”

  “Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady,” said Clinton frigidly. He stood stiff as a wax figure, every line of his body expressing indignation.

  Emma sighed. Although she had known there were likely to be adjustment problems, she had hoped for domestic peace. Resignedly, she headed for the back staircase and made her way down. As she neared the entrance to the kitchen, she could hear Ferik’s deep resonant voice rising and falling in a near-hypnotic cadence. She paused to listen before going in.

  “And I saw that he was chasing me through the streets with a great cleaver in his hand,” Ferik was saying.

  “Gor,” responded a high female voice. “Why would he be doing that?”

  “He was very angry,” Ferik pointed out.

  “I’d say so,” agreed a man. One of the footmen, Emma thought.

  “And, you see, the punishment for this intrusion was to be made a eunuch.”

  There was a short silence.

  “What’s a unik?” inquired the woman then.

  After a meditative pause, Ferik replied gravely, “The horse Riley is a eunuch.”

  There were sniggers. More than one footman was present, Emma thought.

  “You mean they cut… with a person?” Nancy’s voice rose toward a delighted screech once again.

  Emma could almost see Ferik’s slow nod.

  “And so, I ran like the wind.”

  “Didn’t you just!” exclaimed a footman. “That would be the thing to give a man legs, it would! A cleaver! Lord have mercy.”

  “This lord had none,” Ferik pronounced.

  “That’s blasphemy,” accused a hostile male voice.

  Emma decided it was past time to intervene. She pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen. Ferik sat in a wooden armchair, his hands on his knees, looking like a giant idol. Two young housemaids, three footmen, and the scullery maid had been clustered around him, gazing upward with rapt attention. When they saw her, this group scrambled to their feet. The tiny scullery maid ducked her head and scuttled away as the others bowed or dropped curtsies. Ferik climbed ponderously upright, a huge smile lighting his face. “Mistress,” he said. “You have returned safely, thanks be to God.”

  “Yes, Ferik.” He had been convinced that she would be murdered on the road without his protection. “I wish to speak to you,” she added sternly.

  “Of course, mistress.” Like a monarch, he waved the other servants away. “Take this chair,” he suggested, offering the one he had been using with a broad gesture.

  Emma shook her head. “Ferik, I thought I explained to you very clearly that Mr. Clinton is in charge of all the staff here.”

  “Of course, mistress.” The huge man gazed back at her with bland innocence.

  “You must accept that that is the way of things in this house, and you must not annoy him,” she commanded.

  Ferik drew himself up and crossed his heavily muscled arms on his chest. “I have been very polite to Mr. Clinton,” he replied, deeply offended. “Even though he is a—”

  “Ferik!” She knew very well what he had been doing. He had been pretending to defer while he undermined Clinton’s authority in a host of subtle ways, making certain there was nothing specific anyone could accuse him of. In the time they had been together, she had learned from his stories and his behavior that Ferik was addicted to intrigue. “You must not keep the other servants from their work,” she admonished.

  A look of injured astonishment descended on Ferik’s mobile face. “I, mistress?”

  “As you were just now, when I came in.”

  He spread his hands. “A few moments taken from the day. A small rest.”

  He was hoping to form alliances, Emma knew. He also loved attention and admiration. “No more reminiscing,” she said.

  “Remin… I do not know this word.”

  “No stories,” she clarified.

  “But they take such joy in—”

  “And you must stop plotting, Ferik.”

  He spread his hands again and opened his eyes very wide, the picture of a man wrongly indicted.

  “That is not the way things are done in England,” Emma insisted. Then, recalling details of some of the stories he had told her over the last year, she paled slightly. “And you are not to put anything in Mr. Clinton’s food,” she commanded, looking as stern as she could. “Or anyone else’s food. Do you understand me, Ferik?”

  He was scowling. “I do not need to use poison,” he informed her haughtily.

  Emma heaved a sigh of relief. “Good,” she said.

  “I can rise to the top of this household without any such—”

  “Mr. Clinton is in charge,” repeated Emma. “And he will remain in charge. He has been with his lordship for years and years.”

  Ferik grew more alert. His frown gave way to a look of intense concentration. “Your lord husband favors Clinton?” he asked.

  “Y-yes,” said Emma, not liking the look in his eyes.

  “Clinton has been in his service for a long time?”

  She agreed warily.

  “Perhaps since the lord was quite young?”

  “I’m not certain. I think so.”

  “Ah.” Ferik nodded to himself as if he had suddenly unraveled some complex problem.

  “So, you understand what I have told you?” Emma said.

  Ferik smiled. Emma didn’t like the look of it at all. But he said only, “Yes, mistress.”

  “And the stories will stop?”

  “Of course, mistress. I am at your command.” He bowed slightly, one hand on his massive chest.

  As long as she knew the precise commands to make, thought Emma skeptically. For Ferik, anything that was not expressly forbidden was fair game. “I told you that you must conform to the rules of this household,” she added.

  “Conform, mistress?”

  “Follow the rules, obey them.”

  “Ah. I have been doing my best. But there is always some new thing that I do not understand.”

  It was true that he had been taught an entirely different code of conduct, Emma thought with a twinge of guilt. He could not be expected to know English ways. “If anything puzzles you, ask me,” she told him.

  “Yes, mistress. Thank you. There is one thing.”

  “What?”

  “John the footman says that he is about to ‘lob a shot over Nancy’s defenses.’ Could you tell me the meaning of this expression?”

  Emma searched for words. “Well…”

  “I fear it may involve a dishonorable act,” Ferik added.

  “Uh…”

  “I like John. I would regret it very much if I had to kill him,” he informed her solemnly.

&nbs
p; “Kill him!”

  The giant gazed at her. He seemed surprised at her reaction. “To defend the honor of your household, mistress.”

  “Oh.” It had been far simpler when she had no household, Emma thought. She and Ferik had dealt very well together then. He had folded his massive arms and glared at anyone who treated her with disrespect, and such people had promptly melted into the woodwork and disappeared. But Mr. Clinton was not going to disappear. Neither were John and Nancy. “You will not kill anyone,” she said firmly. “I forbid it.”

  “But—”

  “Absolutely, Ferik. Put the thought from your mind. Anyway, the, er, honor of the household is my responsibility.”

  He looked doubtful. “In England, the mistress watches over the honor of her women?”

  Emma nodded.

  “But you cannot fight. How are you to punish wicked men who try to violate your attendants?”

  “There are laws to take care of that,” she said, with more conviction than was quite warranted. “But the point is, Ferik, that you need not concern yourself with this. Do you understand that?”

  “England is a country of many laws,” he replied, shaking his head. “I do not see how you remember them all.”

  “We are trained in it,” Emma lied. “So you must do nothing without consulting me. Promise, Ferik.”

  The huge man sighed heartrendingly. “It is all very confusing, mistress. Have I not guarded you well as we traveled here?”

  He had been vital to her survival, Emma thought. And she was grateful to him. “Very well,” she acknowledged.

  “But now you do not need me. You have your lord husband and his servants to guard you.”

  The truth of this roused a guilty protectiveness in Emma. “You will always be my companion and guardian,” she declared.

  His face lit.

  “But you must do as I say,” she hastened to add. “No more talk of killing.”

  “Of course, mistress,” said Ferik. “I am at your command.” He bowed again.

  “And you must listen to Mr. Clinton and do as he asks,” said Emma.

  Ferik gave her a serene smile. “As you say, mistress.”

  Emma eyed him. He spoke as if this was a matter of no importance, and she knew that was not how he felt. He was still plotting, she realized. “Mr. Clinton is in charge of the household,” she repeated yet again.

  “So you have said.”

  “And so you agree?” she insisted.

  “Of course, mistress.”

  Though she was not at all reassured by the spark in his dark eyes, Emma could think of nothing else to forbid. As she walked back upstairs, she determined to keep a sharp watch on Ferik. Then she sighed because she knew that would be next to impossible.

  At least he was safe for now, she thought. He would not attempt any new schemes so soon after talking with her. She could have her cup of tea and lie in her comfortable bed without fear of upheavals. Emma stretched her stiff shoulders. She could almost feel the pillows supporting her aching head, the cool sheets, the delicious relaxation of her whole body.

  Clinton was waiting for her in the front hall. Was he expecting a report on the success of her mission? she wondered.

  “You have a caller, my lady,” he said.

  “Now?” replied Emma, dismayed.

  “I told him you had just arrived home and were undoubtedly fatigued,” he said. “But the young man was most insistent.”

  “Young man?”

  He held out a visiting card. “Your brother, I believe, my lady?”

  Gazing at Robin’s card, Emma sighed again.

  “He seemed rather agitated,” Clinton told her.

  Was the butler punishing her for Ferik’s transgressions? she wondered. But she could find no trace of this in the man’s face, which remained, as always, completely unreadable. “Is he in the drawing room?” she asked.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Clinton.” Emma took deep breaths as she walked up another flight of stairs. She wanted to grow closer to her brother; she only wished he had chosen another day to begin the process.

  Robin was standing before the fireplace when she entered the drawing room, half turned away, kicking at an ember that had fallen from the coals with his highly polished Hessian boot. He was gravitating toward the dandy set, Emma decided, taking in the massively padded shoulders of his coat, the strangling height and complexity of his neckcloth, and a waistcoat in astonishing stripes of yellow and orange. He didn’t need to go to such extremes, she thought. He was quite an attractive youth without any embellishments. “Hello, Robin,” she said, smiling and moving into the room. At once, he turned to face her, and she was struck again by his strong resemblance to their dead mother.

  “Hullo,” he replied. “That toploftly butler said you wouldn’t wish to see me, but those fellows are always trying to fob one off.”

  He spoke with a mixture of bravado and uneasiness that prevented Emma from telling him she was worn out. “Sit down,” she suggested, and subsided gratefully onto the sofa.

  “I wanted to call at once because I didn’t get to see you before you left town,” he added. “The thing is, I didn’t know where you were staying.”

  “I must have forgotten to tell you. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, well.”

  How soft the sofa cushions were, Emma thought. Almost as comfortable as her bed.

  “And I wanted to apologize.” He flushed. “At the wedding, you know. I had a bit too much champagne. Not used to it. Those soldiers. Made a muck of my toast.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Emma assured him.

  “Does,” he insisted. “I wanted to make a good showing, you know. Only brother. All those Warehams about. Have to hold up our end.”

  “It was all right,” said Emma sleepily.

  “They laughed,” objected Robin, as if he were accusing her.

  One could practically lie down on this sofa, it was so broad, Emma thought. And most importantly, it did not bounce or tilt or throw one suddenly into a hard coach corner. It was heaven. “They didn’t mean anything by it,” she responded dreamily. “You have to admit it was rather funny.”

  Robin’s flush deepened. “I don’t see the joke,” he replied, aggrieved. “I might have hurt myself, you know. Falling like that.”

  “Well, I’m sure you will not drink so much again.” This sofa was like floating, Emma thought. She would just close her eyes for a moment, only a moment.

  “Now you sound like Father,” complained Robin.

  “Do I?” murmured Emma. “How dreadful.”

  “I thought you were different.”

  “I am,” said Emma, forcing her eyes open again. Sleep was dragging at her like a drug. She couldn’t recall when she had been this tired.

  “I had hoped that we might become acquainted,” Robin continued. “For one thing, it’s deuced odd, having a sister one hardly knows. People think you’re some sort of fool.”

  “Yes,” said Emma, her voice a bit slurred with fatigue. “We must learn all about each other quite soon. Let us set a day to…”

  Looking pleased, Robin scooted the chair in which he was sitting closer to the sofa. “Well, you know, right after you, er, went away, they sent me off to school. Awful place up north. Cold as… cold as ice. And the masters were horrid. Not one of them less than sixty. They made us wear knee breeches and…” He launched into a detailed history of his troubles during his early years at school.

  In a distant sort of way, Emma realized that Robin was complaining about the dreariness of his school holidays. She felt as if the sofa were a deliciously comfortable, huge white cloud, and she was sinking slowly into it—down, down.

  “But Father just left me there, no matter what I told him. Kept on saying I needed discipline. That discipline was the mo
st important thing in life.”

  She had to fight her lassitude, Emma thought. Robin was speaking to her. But somehow, his words were merging into a dream of the sound of ocean waves at Trevallan. A soothing rhythm that was utterly impossible to resist.

  Robin went on talking, covering each of his years at school and a long succession of disputes with his father. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen.

  “So I came up to town for good eight months ago,” he went on. “He couldn’t keep me away any longer. And I’ve been on the toddle every since.” His pride in using this bit of slang was palpable.

  “London suits me down to the ground,” he added. “I think I shall be a great success here, if only…”

  Pausing, Robin cleared his throat.

  He had come to the crucial part of his speech—the place where he revealed their father’s shocking rigidity about money and recruited his unknown sister as an ally. Since the first proof of her sympathy was to be a rather large loan, he was finding this part of the conversation difficult. Looking at the floor, Robin stumbled through the words he had spent days composing. He had so wanted to appear urbane and sophisticated before Emma.

  At last, it was over. He had said it all. As he waited for her reaction, his eyes remained on the carpet. Anything would be all right as long as she didn’t mock him, he thought.

  The silence lengthened. The soft pop of the dying fire was fully audible.

  Had he made her angry? Robin wondered. Or was she just trying to decide how to refuse? Unable to stand the suspense, he sneaked a sidelong look at her, keeping his head bent.

  Robin’s pale brows came together. He straightened. Unable to accept what he saw, he rose and took a step forward. It was true. His eyes hadn’t deceived him. She was fast asleep. “Blast it!” he exclaimed, quite loudly.

  “Uhh.” Emma jerked awake and blinked up at him, seeming, briefly, to wonder who he was.

  “That tears it,” said Robin savagely.

  “I… oh dear. Did I drop off? I am so sorry. It was such a long journey, and the inn last night was dreadful—”

  “It is I who must apologize,” interrupted Robin through clenched teeth. “I did not realize I was such a bore. You may be sure I will not trouble you with my… my dull conversation ever again.”