by M C Beaton
“I was discussing the matter with George, and he thinks it would be a good idea if you married his junior partner, Fred Binks.”
“What!” screamed Sally. “Oh, Emily. He’s got a receding chin and spots.”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” said Emily predictably. “He’s a fine man. Be sensible, Sally. We can’t really supply you with much of a dowry, and you’re not exactly beautiful or anything.” Beauty to Emily was a woman built along her own massive lines.
I was once, thought Sally dismally. For one evening, I was beautiful.
She closed her eyes briefly, remembering the snow and the feel of his lips against hers.
“Not that I don’t notice a good-looking chap myself,” Emily was droning on. “Now, take that fellow coming along the beach. Really splendid he looks. But you have to settle for what you can get, Sally.”
Sally looked idly in the direction in which Emily had pointed. And then she slowly got to her feet while Emily stared up at her sister in amazement.
The Marquess of Seudenham came slowly along the beach, the sunlight gilding his black curls, his blue eyes vivid and intense in his tanned, handsome face.
Now, the marquess had planned all sorts of things to say to Sally when he found her—nasty things, wounding things, anything that might make her hurt as much as she had hurt him. But when he looked down at her thin, white, tired face and at the delicate lavender smudges under her eyes, he simply took her hands in his and said, “We’re going to get married—as soon as possible.”
He put an arm around her waist, and Sally rested her head on his shoulder.
She smiled up at him with her heart in her eyes. “Yes, Paul,” was all she said.
He led her away along the beach, away from the screaming children, away from the startled eyes of Emily, his arm around Sally’s waist and her head still lying on his shoulder.
“’Scuse me, mum,” said a red-faced man suddenly blocking Emily’s view of the disappearing pair. “This ’ere your nipper?” He was holding a dripping wet and wailing Joseph in his arms. “Nearly drownded, ’e did. I rescued ’im.”
“Then put him down,” said Emily vaguely. “Oh, George!” she cried as her husband loomed over her. “Whatever shall we do? Sally’s up and offed with a fancy man.”
“What’s his name?” demanded her husband. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” said Emily. “He’s very, very handsome. He said he was going to marry her, but they all say that before they ship them off to some terrible place like Turkey. Should I call the police?”
“That sister of yours is absolutely useless,” snapped George. “Keeping her savings from me. She can go to Timbuktu for all I care!”
But Sally didn’t.
She ended up being married with full ceremony at St. George’s, Hanover Square, and society marveled over the bride’s choice of bridesmaids as two elderly spinsters followed Sally down the aisle.
The Marquess of Seudenham entered his wife’s bedroom on his wedding night and contemplated the vision that was Sally. She was sitting up in bed—reading.
“Darling!” he said. “How unromantic. What on earth are you reading? Birth control! Really, Sally, of all the books… Throw the damn thing away.”
“But, Paul,” wailed Sally, “think of the children we might have. Think of the jammy, sticky, kicking, screaming, demanding, children.”
He gathered her in his arms and began to kiss her so passionately that the book dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers.
But fighting against her swimming senses, Sally freed her mouth from his and said, “But, children! Think, Paul!”
“Ours will be different,” he said firmly, pulling her back into his arms and silencing her effectively with his kisses.
Ah, well… as Emily would have pointed out… we all think that.