“But why does he m-m-marry at all if he does not w-w-wish to do so?” Elizabeth persisted.
“Because his father specified in a codicil to his will that if Kenrick does not marry by the age of thirty, a particular estate that is not entailed will immediately pass to his heir presumptive—a cousin, I believe. That codicil was divulged to the marquess only last week, and he turns thirty in less than two weeks.”
“Then he must be married soon,” Elizabeth murmured, beginning to understand at least a portion of this strange situation.
“She states the obvious well,” the earl remarked to his countess.
Elizabeth chose to ignore him. “Did you say the marriage is to take place in just three days?” she asked.
“The marquess arrives here the day after tomorrow,” her mother replied. “You will be married the following day, after which the marquess will take you to your future home. You are not to live at Oak Groves, his principal seat in Surrey, for he will wish to entertain there occasionally and would not want to be embarrassed by your presence. He will be taking you to a house only thirty miles from here. He assures us it is very secluded. You should be happy there.”
The earl had moved to stand beside his wife and now addressed Elizabeth in firm tones. “Pay attention, Elizabeth, for I do not wish to repeat myself. You are a very fortunate young lady. Had I not heard about Kenrick’s problem and approached him in White’s with my suggestion, you might never have found a husband. The marquess was quite pleased with this solution to his dilemma, and he has been extremely generous. Not only is he providing a home for you, but he has also agreed to ensure that you are kept comfortably for the rest of your life. I was pleasantly surprised, I can tell you. I had heard the man was high in the instep, but he has been quite amiable about this venture. He is even bringing his own chaplain to perform the ceremony, and—so you need not fear being exposed to too many new experiences at once—he has suggested that the wedding take place in this house.”
“Here?” Elizabeth asked, frowning. “But I would prefer being m-m-married by the vicar in the v-v-village church.”
Her father scowled. “Nonsense. Kenrick went to a great deal of trouble to obtain a special license, and he has requested a secluded ceremony. You will be married here by the marquess’s chaplain.”
“I want to be m-m-married by the vicar in the village church,” Elizabeth repeated, softly but firmly.
“The vicar?” the countess interjected. “Do you refer to that gentleman your father hired to oversee your spiritual instruction?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“I’d forgot him,” her father said. “I never could remember his name.”
“John Smythe,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, yes,” her father replied, shrugging. “In any case, his name is irrelevant. You will still be married here in this house by the marquess’s chaplain.”
“Very well, Papa,” Elizabeth said, dropping her gaze. “I’ll t-t-t, instruct Mrs. Capes to prepare the k-k-kitchen for a wedding ceremony.”
“The kitchen?” her mother exclaimed. “Why would you think a wedding service would be conducted in the kitchen?”
“There is no other room in g-g-good enough repair except my bedchamber. Would you prefer I be m-m-married in my bedchamber?”
“Blast it all,” her father yelled. “What have the servants been doing for the past several years? Why has the place been allowed to go to rack and ruin?”
“I helped as much as I could, but still there were not enough of us to do the work, Papa,” Elizabeth said. “Nor was m-m-money supplied to replenish those things that decayed with time.”
A slight flush darkened her father’s cheeks, but only for a moment. “Bah! Then it will have to be the village church, I suppose. But the marquess’s chaplain will perform the ceremony.”
“I prefer the vicar.”
“No!” The earl’s shouted response ruffled the nearby draperies, raising a miniature cloud of dust.
“As you wish, Papa. I was m-m-merely thinking of how embarrassing it will be when I am unable to repeat my v-v-vows.”
“What do you mean?” her mother asked quickly.
“That the presence of a stranger such as the m-m-marquess’s chaplain will surely make me so nervous I shall never be able to repeat the m-m-marriage vows. I do not stutter around Mr. Smythe. But of course I would never go against your and P-P-Papa’s wishes.”
The countess glanced at her husband and grimaced. “I suppose we must let Elizabeth have her way in this.”
The earl sighed. “Very well,” he said, then turned to Elizabeth. “You can have the vicar. I shall explain to Kenrick somehow.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
The earl looked into Elizabeth’s face searchingly, as though looking for some sign that she had been manipulating him, but her bland expression provided no hints that she was feeling any satisfaction or happiness or any other emotion.
“May I be excused now?” she asked.
When the earl nodded, Elizabeth stood and walked to the door. She then paused and turned to face her parents. “One more thing,” she said with a degree of firmness that caused both of her parents to raise their eyebrows in apparent surprise. “I shall be taking Mattie with me.”
After the earl and countess had nodded their acquiescence, Elizabeth, her head high, turned and stepped into the corridor. She paused right outside to compose herself and thus heard the brief conversation between her parents.
“Who’s Mattie?” her father asked.
Her mother responded with a sigh. “Lord knows. Probably one of those dolls the child used to be so fond of.”
Chapter Two
Elizabeth hurried up the stairs, aware that when she reached her bedchamber, she would find Mattie, half sick with worry, waiting for her. Dear, kind, motherly Mattie, who had been hired as Elizabeth’s nurse and had stayed on to become her treasured companion. A tiny smile momentarily banished the frustration from Elizabeth’s face as she visualized Mattie sitting rigidly in her straight chair near the window, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her ears straining for the sound of Elizabeth’s footfalls. Elizabeth approached her bedchamber softly, pausing for a second to compose herself before she opened the door.
Mattie was already jumping to her feet when Elizabeth lifted the latch. “Well, Miss Liza?” she demanded as soon as Elizabeth had stepped inside the chamber and closed the door behind her. “How did they treat ye this time?”
“As usual,” Elizabeth said, forcing a smile as she struggled to subdue her emotions. “As though I were naught but a sapskull.” She had tried for a detached air but immediately realized her distress had been reflected in her tone. “Blast!” she muttered to herself.
“Ah, me,” Mattie said, shaking her head morosely. “It’s hard to understand how two people so smart can be so lackin’ in wisdom.”
“True,” Elizabeth said, sighing softly. She looked into Mattie’s concerned gaze and quickly turned away, blinking rapidly as she hurried to sit down at her dressing table and begin straightening her mussed curls. It was an exercise, she admitted to herself, designed to avoid any more of Mattie’s questions for a moment. After all, she could not explain, even to herself, why she felt such a deep sense of betrayal. Had she really hoped that after all these years, her parents could admire her for the qualities she possessed rather than despising her for the knowledge she lacked?
Only a few seconds passed before Mattie stepped up to take the brush from her hand. “I’ll do the back fer ye, Miss Liza,” she said, fondness clear in her tone. She worked in silence for a few more seconds but obviously could sense Elizabeth’s tension because she soon spoke again. “There now, Miss Liza. You just relax. There’s no use blaming yourself. There was no way you could have convinced your parents that you’re not backwards.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, reaching up to press her fingertips against her forehead. “Perhaps not,” she agreed. “On the other hand, perhaps I should have tried. I
could have told them what the vicar says about me. You remember, Mattie. I told you that Mr. Smythe claims I already possess more knowledge than most gentlemen acquire during their years at Oxford or Cambridge?”
“I know, Miss Liza.” Mattie nodded slowly. “The vicar tells anybody who’ll listen that you’re the smartest pupil he’s ever tutored. Why did you not tell your parents what he said?”
Elizabeth opened her eyes, met Mattie’s gaze in the mirror, and grimaced. “You know they would have thought me addled—or poor Mr. Smythe deranged—if I had repeated his claims. Still, I would have been tempted to try had my stutter not interfered. I was too mortified to talk more than necessary.”
“So your stuttering came back! Well, they always did get on your nerves.”
Ah, but her problem went much deeper than nerves, Elizabeth knew. She had struggled for years to silence a nagging little voice hidden somewhere deep inside her that kept scolding her for failing to live up to her parents’ expectations. Sometimes she succeeded in quieting that voice for months on end. Sometimes, with the support of Mattie and Mr. Smythe and her other loyal friends, she felt good about herself—strong, loveable, normal.
But one minute in the company of her parents was enough to resurrect that voice, no matter how deeply Elizabeth thought she had buried it. One minute with them was sufficient to undo years of trying to convince herself that she was a person worthy of respect. She sighed deeply.
“They appear to have upset you more than usual, Miss Liza,” Mattie said, a frown accentuating the wrinkles on her brow. “What happened?”
“They told me I am to be married,” Elizabeth replied woodenly.
Mattie dropped the hairbrush, its bone handle clattering against the floor before it skidded unheeded under the dressing table. “Surely you misunderstood, Miss Liza. They would not arrange a marriage for you when they think you are daft.”
“They already have. I am to be married three days from now.”
“God as my witness.” Mattie’s breath appeared to catch in her throat as she stared, wide-eyed, at Elizabeth’s reflection in the mirror. “I would not have believed it of them. Who are you to marry?”
“The Marquess of Kenrick,” Elizabeth said, jumping to her feet quickly enough to send the dressing table bench skidding to one side. She hurried to the window and stood staring for long seconds into the leaves of the massive elm growing just outside.
Mattie immediately followed Elizabeth to the window and looked searchingly into her face for several seconds. “You know this marquess already,” she guessed. “You must have met him in London when the squire’s wife took you with her last year.”
Elizabeth shook her head, trying to dispel memories of how her silly heart had leapt on the two occasions she had caught a glimpse of the marquess’s brooding countenance. “I never met him,” she said. “Mrs. Wilson does not move in the Marquess of Kenrick’s circle. But he was pointed out to me in his box at the theater one evening and another time while driving his curricle in the park. He is very popular with the ladies of the ton who, I understand, are especially enamored with his dark good looks. He is also very wealthy. Mrs. Wilson said that any unmarried female in the upper ten thousand would love to attract the marquess.”
“Well, why hasn’t he married one of them?”
“I am not certain,” Elizabeth said. “However, I suspect it has something to do with his first wife. Apparently he married her when he was very young, and their union was less than blissful. That is all I know. Mrs. Wilson and her friends frequently discussed the marquess, but whenever I approached, they invariably changed the subject.”
Mattie pursed her lips. “Gossiping they were, and on a subject unfit for innocent ears. This marquess don’t sound like a fit husband for you, Miss Liza, but even if he was, I still don’t understand why he would marry somebody he don’t know when he could choose from all of them ladies in London.”
“Papa explained that the marquess must marry before his thirtieth birthday in order to secure a piece of property that would otherwise be willed away from him, and he wants a wife who will be content to live in seclusion in the country. He considers me perfect for the role.”
Mattie snorted. “I suppose I can guess where he got that idea.”
“I am sure you can,” Elizabeth agreed, aware that she sounded bitter but unable to moderate her tone, even for Mattie’s sake. “Father assured the marquess that as his wife, I would make no demands on his time because I am simpleminded.”
“Then you must explain to this marquess that your father was wrong. You must tell him that you’re not simple at all.”
“I agree, Mattie. But I am not sure I will meet him before the wedding, and even if I do, how can I explain that my father has misjudged me? Will the marquess not think it is proof of my inability to reason if I start claiming to be more intelligent than my parents say I am?”
“If the man has any sense at all, he can tell by talking to you, Miss Liza.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Elizabeth said, sighing. “But I cannot help wondering—if I convince him I am not simpleminded, will he become angry because he lacks the time needed to find another bride before he turns thirty? Perhaps, Mattie…” Elizabeth tucked her lower lip between her teeth and turned back to gaze dreamily out the window.
“Perhaps what, Miss Liza?” Mattie asked, suspicion clear in her tone.
“Perhaps I should hide from him the fact that I am not simpleminded, even after the wedding. The marquess would have achieved his goals, and I would have a secure future.”
“No,” Mattie replied in the tone she had used when Elizabeth was three and about to pull a pot of boiling broth from the stove. “You can’t do that. You must tell the marquess straight out that you are not dimwitted.”
“But just think, Mattie,” Elizabeth said, her eyes sparkling. “I would have a home of my own and perhaps enough money to buy myself some dresses. Do not scowl so, my dear! You know I appreciate Mrs. Wilson’s generosity. I am sure she sometimes has gowns especially made up for me and only claims they are Amelia’s cast-offs. But still, I would love just once to choose my own fabric and pattern. Is that so terrible?”
“Now, Miss Liza—”
“Do not interrupt me just yet, Mattie. You see, I have already informed Mama and Papa that you must go with me. You know I would never leave you behind. You shall have a bedroom with a chimney that draws properly and perhaps we can visit Mrs. Wilson and the vicar occasionally and—”
“Now, Miss Liza. You must put them temptations out of your mind right this minute. You know you can’t marry a man under false pretenses.”
“I suppose not,” Elizabeth conceded. When she turned to face Mattie, her dreamy expression had been replaced by one of indignation. “Yet, in a way he would be getting his just desserts—this man who would marry a simpleton merely to ensure that he receives a piece of property he does not need. The Marquess of Kenrick has estates scattered the width and breadth of Britain. I heard about them when I was in London last year—his principal seat in Surrey, the thirty-room hunting box in Leicestershire, the castle in Scotland, the mansion in Kent. I doubt he remembers where all of them are. Still, he is willing to marry a simpleton merely to retain ownership of one more estate.”
Mattie sniffed. “Apparently the man is guilty of the sin of greed, but, as I’ve always told you, Lady Elizabeth, two wrongs don’t make a right.”
Elizabeth suddenly smiled, her indignation fading into chagrin. “Now I have earned your disapproval, but please do not call me ‘Lady Elizabeth’ again, dear. I promise that, if at all possible, I shall explain to the Marquess of Kenrick that I am not daft.”
Mattie’s lips tilted slightly. “I know you will, Miss Liza. I’ve raised ye right, and even if I hadn’t, you have a good heart. You’ll do what’s right and proper.”
Elizabeth’s smile faded. “I shall try, Mattie,” she said, biting on her lower lip. “That is all I can promise. I shall try.”
&nbs
p; Chapter Three
The Marquess of Kenrick could not remember ever having been so furious. He had been irritated hundreds of times in his life, angry dozens of times, but never had he felt such an overwhelming surge of pure fury. It was like a cancer eating into his very soul, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to assuage the pain because the man responsible for that devastating wrath was already dead.
“How very like you, my dear father,” Kenrick grumbled into the wind as he rode too fast toward the Earl of Ravingate’s country estate. “Not content with a lifetime of creating misery for your family, you arrange to reach back from the grave to decimate us. I salute you, sir. You planned it well.”
Kenrick had not been aware that he was voicing his thoughts aloud, let alone that he was nearly shouting, until his gaze fell on a farmer who had been plowing his fields near the road and was now staring with incredulous eyes at the raving rider on a pure black stallion. The unnerved farmer was in no way reassured when demonic-like laughter floated back from the direction of the galloping horseman.
“Just think, Solomon,” Kenrick said to his horse after they rounded a bend in the road, leaving the gaping farmer behind. “A demented man on his way to marry a simpleminded woman. Is there some divine justice here? No, more likely just the hand of the devil’s disciple himself—my unlamented father. Even in death he will not leave me to live happily and singly for the rest of my days. Damn him! Damn him!”
Angry as he was, Kenrick soon realized that his fury was gradually abating. In spite of the horrors of his errand, he was finding that solace was inherent in the English countryside. A cool breeze caressed his face, encouraging him to slow his pace to admire the soft green sprouts of crops and hedgerows. Even the very fragrance of the air, filled with the promise of new life, conspired to sooth his lacerated spirits.
“Ah, Solomon,” he said to his mount, a proud thoroughbred who had obviously grown accustomed over the years to being the silent recipient of his rider’s thoughts. “I wonder now why I ever agreed to the Earl of Ravingate’s plan. Obviously there is a reason he is known as the Eccentric Earl, and—had I not been so angry—I would have remembered that. Besides, I thoroughly dislike both Ravingate and his wife. Never have I seen two people so set up in their own conceit, but for all their book-learning, neither possesses a grain of common sense. Having a simpleminded child must have come as quite a shock to the two of— Damnation!”
A Simple Lady Page 2