British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

  “No, I did not. I promise you that. But you know Father. He has always wanted us to marry to his advantage—and to ours.”

  Melodia let go of her sister. She clutched her hands together and paced in front of Felice’s vanity. “I did not think he would be so cruel.”

  “Cruel? No, I think he is a generous man who wants the best for our family and our future heirs.”

  Melodia groaned. “Only you, his favorite daughter, could make such a proclamation.”

  “But my dear, fathers everywhere betroth their daughters to the best and brightest men available. It is our custom. Surely you are not such a babe in the woods that you are ignorant to our ways.”

  Melodia stopped pacing long enough to face her sister and to set her lips into a tight line. “I have no taste for your sarcasm.”

  “And I am sure Father had no taste for the argument you undoubtedly presented to him.” Felice leaned her chin against her palm.

  “Yes, you do know me too well.”

  “And knowing Father, he won.”

  Melodia lifted her forefinger. “He only thinks he was victorious.”

  “Oh, I suspect he won handily. And I venture you will be married by this time next week. So who is the lucky bridegroom?”

  Melodia stopped her useless pacing. “Sir Rolf Tims.”

  The smile disappeared from Felice’s face as she took in a breath. “Father betrothed you to Sir Rolf? The very Sir Rolf I met in Normandy?”

  Melodia shrugged. “I do believe Father mentioned that in passing.” Suspicion mingled with curiosity. “What do you know about Sir Rolf?”

  “Not much. Not much at all.” Felice turned back around and motioned for the maid to resume brushing her hair. She stared at her reflection. “But what about your desire to serve the Lord? Does Father not care about your heart?”

  “He believes I can serve God as a wife and mother.”

  “That is what he said?”

  The maid set a piece of hair against her palm and smoothed honeyed strands with her brush.

  “Not exactly. But I am sure that is what he thinks.”

  “And you acquiesced.”

  “I did try to get him to listen to reason, as you guessed. But in the end, how could I not submit? I am his daughter. Even if I were not bound to obey him according to the Ten Commandments, I am duty bound by law to do as he wishes.”

  “That will be all, Cassie.”

  Cassie stopped brushing, nodded, and curtsied. “Yes, milady.”

  As Cassie made a silent exit, Felice folded her arms and pouted, then looked into the mirror and addressed Melodia’s reflection. “I am not so sure I would. Perhaps I would run away and find my own destiny.”

  “Perhaps your high-spirited nature would permit you to take such a course,” Melodia speculated. “We shall see when Father announces your fate. Since we are so close in age, I have no doubt that will happen soon after my own nuptials. In fact, if you have a gentleman in mind who has caught your eye, you might implore him to speak to Father now with thoughts of your future. Otherwise, he might saddle you with someone with whom you would not care to share breakfast the remainder of your days.”

  “I—I am sure Father will consider my feelings.” Felice rubbed her hands together. “Then you might mention Lord Farnsworth. I notice he looks your way wistfully whenever you are near.”

  “That old pig?” She scrunched her nose.

  “That ‘old pig,’ as you call him, is not so displeasing to look upon, is he?”

  “Not if you like a rotund frame and sanguine cheeks.”

  “Bespeaking of enough food to eat and a jolly disposition—both aspects not to be taken lightly in a marriage,” Melodia pointed out. “And he is a church deacon with a significant title and fortune.”

  “You sound like Father.”

  “Be prepared, for you will have to face Father regarding your feelings. Only I wish you more success than I encountered.”

  “Do you really think Sir Rolf is so bad?”

  “You know I have never met him. I am hoping since you became acquainted with him in Normandy that you can tell me more.”

  Felice reached for a bottle of powder scented with the pungent but sweet scent of lily of the valley and dabbed it on what little flesh on her wrists her gown exposed. “Yes. I met him.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “I should think a spiritual person such as yourself would care not a whit what he looks like. Especially since you recommend a match for me with a so-called jolly fellow.”

  Melodia ignored the snide portion of her sister’s observation. “I cannot help but wonder since I will be staring into his countenance for the rest of my days.”

  Felice shrugged. “I suppose he appears well enough. I do not remember so much about him. A vague image comes to mind of a tall person with fair hair and an indistinguishable face.”

  “And his ability to converse?”

  “As well as the next man, I suppose. He said nothing memorable to me.”

  “Oh. Well then, you should be grateful that Father did not pursue my suggestion that he betroth you to Sir Rolf instead of me.”

  “You suggested such?”

  “Yes, but he said he has someone else in mind for you.”

  “I wonder who?”

  “I know not. Perhaps I should have made more of an effort to find out for your sake, dear sister, but I confess I was too involved in considering my own fate—and composing arguments opposed to it—to ask.”

  “Do not let your omission vex you, Melodia. I will learn of his plans soon enough.”

  “And there is no one you desire for yourself, no one you can bring to Father’s mind? I dare not venture another suggestion.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “No. No one. So when are your nuptials?”

  “February 1. Father has arranged for us to marry the day after Sir Rolf arrives.”

  “So soon?”

  Melodia winced. “I suppose he is in hopes that Sir Rolf will not have time to change his mind once he sees me.”

  Felice didn’t offer the comforting assurances Melodia sought. Nevertheless, Melodia pressed on with her next request. “Felice, will you be my maid of honor?”

  Felice pounced on the offer, which didn’t surprise Melodia since Felice loved the idea of romance. “Of course. I shall wear a lovely shade of sapphire, with ivory lace at the neck, cuffs, waist, and hem.”

  Melodia laughed. “Sapphire blue?”

  “Is that not one of your favorite colors?”

  “Yes. That and pink.”

  Felice leaned against the back of her chair. “Well, which should I wear? Blue or pink?”

  “I do not think we can afford to be too particular. We need to consult the seamstress to see what fabric is available.”

  “True.” She peeked at her reflection. “Which color do you think flatters me more?”

  “You will look beautiful in either.”

  “Well,” Felice responded. “We shall have to decide as soon as we can. With the nuptials upon us, my bridesmaid’s dress must be sewn.”

  The night for her to meet Sir Rolf had arrived. Melodia was packed and ready to leave the only home she had ever known to embark on a journey halfway across England to live out the rest of her days. Why her father wanted to claim lineage to a family living so far away was beyond her, but he had his reasons. He always did. Or at least, so he said.

  As her lady’s maid, Rachel, styled her hair, Melodia attempted no conversation. She was in no mood for idle chatter. At least Father had agreed to allow Rachel to accompany Melodia to her new home. Becoming acclimated to a new home and husband as well as a staff of servants would prove troublesome enough. She didn’t need to be stranded without her well-loved maid.

  “Are you pleased with the way I have styled your hair, Miss Melodia?” the young girl asked.

  Melodia concentrated on her reflection and noted meticulous rows of curls set around her face. “Yes. This will do.”

&nb
sp; “Will Miss Melodia be wearing silver or gold earrings tonight?”

  “Neither. The pearls. And I want my pearl necklace.”

  Rachel took the jewels out of the unlocked silver box on Melodia’s dresser. Melodia caught a glimpse of silk, a mask decorated with feathers and pearls given to her twenty years before by Madame Justine Girardeau, a beautiful and elegant French woman, when Melodia was but five. With the help of Father, madame and her husband had escaped Paris before the Reign of Terror and now lived far away in Canada.

  Justine and Melodia exchanged letters from time to time. She enjoyed the contact even though news was months old by the time a letter arrived from Canada. Melodia had learned that Justine and Émile had been blessed with a large family. The orphan they adopted, Luc, had recently married. Melodia smiled to herself as she recalled holding a scrawny infant whose large voice defied his diminutive size.

  Rachel shut the box with a snap, taking Melodia’s thoughts away from her friends living across the sea. “An excellent choice, Miss Melodia. These pearls will look well against your fair skin and contrast agreeably with the green dress we have chosen.” She handed the earrings to her mistress and then hooked the necklace around Melodia’s neck.

  “Thank you, Rachel.”

  “Shall I have tea brought up? And perhaps some biscuits?”

  “No. I am not hungry. Thank you.”

  “I don’t blame you for feeling a bit nervous. I’d be, if I were meeting my future husband for the first time.”

  “I wish you had not reminded me.” She tightened her hands together.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Melodia.”

  “No. I am sorry. I did not mean to be irritable.” She thought about the little necklace with a gold cross that remained in her jewel box. “I wish I could wear my favorite piece, but Father told me not to wear any religious items. Apparently he doesn’t want me to scare off my suitor.”

  Rachel shrugged. “Your future husband might be well advised to find out about our faith now as later. Surely Sir Cuthbert has not betrothed you to someone who doesn’t profess to being a Christian.”

  “No, I think he would make sure he is a professing Christian.” A pang of doubt shot through her chest. She could only hope. “But his faith is not as important to Father as his family name, I am sorry to say. Father’s most ardent desire for the evening is for all to go well, and for this marriage to take place. After that, no doubt I am on my own.”

  Chapter 2

  Rolf waited in the drawing room and studied green velvet draperies framing large windows that revealed the wealth of the occupants of the Stuart estate. Larger-than-life oil paintings—one of a man and the other of a woman—graced each side of the fireplace. Rolf surmised the portraits of the couple, dressed in the fussy style of finery his parents wore when they were young, depicted his future bride’s parents when they were in the bloom of newly wedded youth.

  Aside from the portraits, a large piano crafted from wood polished to a deep hue dominated the room. Rolf judged from such accoutrements that his heirs would be moneyed indeed. Still, he wished for the hundredth time that he hadn’t agreed to such folly. Yet Father, battling illness in his London apartment to such extent that he could not travel to witness the nuptials, had spoken to Rolf of honor and duty. Apparently both, considered the highest of virtues, were enough to convince Rolf to promise his father that he would marry a woman he had never met. His sister, Martha, had married and was in her time of confinement as she awaited the arrival of a child. But that was not enough for the elder Tims. By agreeing to the marriage, Rolf was most of all fulfilling the desire to make his dying father happy in the knowledge that through his son, a new generation of heirs would carry forth the family name.

  A picture of Melodia playing a tune by Mozart on the piano entered his head unbeckoned. Surely a woman granted such a name was gifted with a talent for music. He would enjoy watching her long fingers move along the ivory keys with deftness and grace. Perhaps he might be moved to join her, strumming his lyre in accompaniment. He took in a breath as the image faded.

  Heavenly Father, was I a fool to fall in love with Melodia based on a small portrait?

  He contemplated the thought, not for the first time.

  Perhaps. But her father assured me his elder daughter prays to Thee with fervor each night, that she blesses each meal, and does not have to be prodded from bed to rise for worship each Sabbath. Otherwise, Thou knowest I never would have acquiesced to such an arrangement. And yet, Father, I pray for Thy strength and guidance, that I am not making a mistake.

  Rolf wondered how Melodia could be devout when her sister seemed anything but. He remembered what Felice had been like during her visit to Normandy. According to his memory, she was attractive enough—gathering single men around her with a bat of an eyelash—but too coquettish and flighty for his tastes. When Rolf’s own father had first mentioned him being matched to a Stuart, Rolf was afraid that Felice was the one he had in mind. So when Father uttered Melodia’s name, Rolf had felt relieved. Yet what if Sir Cuthbert Stuart had exaggerated her love for the Lord? What if she proved to be just as capricious as her sister?

  Cuthbert’s voice cut into his thoughts. “So sorry for my delay, my boy. It couldn’t be helped, I assure you.” He extended his hand, and Rolf accepted the gesture.

  “Not at all, sir. I have been quite comfortable by the fire.”

  “Good.” Cuthbert eyed the tea table. “I see my servants are also tardy this evening. I had requested that refreshment be brought in to you.”

  As if on cue, a maid entered carrying a tray filled with biscuits and tea.

  “I do not appreciate your tardiness,” Cuthbert reprimanded her.

  The young girl made haste to set the tray on the low-lying tea table. She turned to them, quaking, and managed a curtsy. “I beg your gracious pardon, milord, but Cook accidentally let the fire go out and we had to restart it.”

  He harrumphed. “See that does not happen again.”

  “Yes, milord. May I pour tea, or will you be waiting for Miss Melodia to join you?”

  “We shall not wait. Our guest no doubt would welcome a cup of tea to warm his body and spirit after his journey.” He motioned for Rolf to sit on a diminutive sofa across from the plush chair he took for himself. Rolf obeyed.

  “My elder daughter should be presenting herself momentarily. I trust you are not too nervous, my boy?”

  “No.” He wasn’t sure if he was nervous or not. He hadn’t learned enough about Melodia to discern if he should be.

  Cuthbert took a sip of his drink. Studying him, Rolf noticed he seemed more like the nervous bridegroom. What was wrong with Melodia? He remembered the portrait and a realization struck him. Melodia had been too ill to go to Normandy with her father and sister. Was she a sickly little thing, unlikely to produce the heir Rolf’s father so wanted? Or perhaps she limped. Or was her face pockmarked? Such a detail was guaranteed to be omitted by any artist. Could it be that her ability to speak well had been impaired in some fashion? In a flash, he wondered if he discovered that his future bride bore any of these afflictions, could he get out of his promise?

  Just as quickly, shame filled him. How could he be so shallow?

  Heavenly Father, I do not ask Thee for the woman with the most stunning outward appearance but for one of healthy body and mind. A woman who loves Thee, a woman who will teach our children to love Thee. I do not ask for happiness. I have been granted too much privilege and too many blessings in this life Thou hast given me to ask for everything. Prepare me to meet with whatever circumstance Thou thinkest fit for me to endure. May I be the meet and right husband for this woman.

  “You seem contemplative,” Cuthbert said. “I hope you are not thinking of changing your mind.” He slathered clear red jelly on a plain scone.

  Glad he wasn’t prone to blushing, Rolf stirred one lump of sugar into his hot tea with more vigilance than required. The pressure he applied to the handle of the spoon caused the silver
filigree pattern to dent his fingertip. “Indeed not. Why would you contemplate such a thing?”

  Cuthbert laughed, but his mirth didn’t seem sincere.

  Melodia entered. When introductions were made, Rolf stopped himself from taking in a breath as he took in her face. The portrait had been accurate. Her eyes were bright, and a thin, pointed nose gave her face a dimension lacking in the countenances of other women he knew. Dark brown ringlets fell against smooth skin. He found her tall, lean frame appealing as well.

  “I hope you are not too disappointed.” The edge in Cuthbert’s voice superseded the playful tone.

  “I am not.” Rolf found no difficulty in keeping his voice strong and steady since he spoke the truth.

  “Good.” Was it relief he saw on Cuthbert’s face? “Then we may proceed with the nuptials.”

  Rolf had not even spoken to Melodia, but based on her beauty, he was ready to acquiesce. He swallowed.

  Lord, I pray I will not regret this leap I am about to take. May our marriage be in accordance with Your divine will, despite its less than auspicious beginning.

  Guilt visited Rolf like a vulture circling a dying beast. He had agreed to the marriage to please his father. The bargain was a desperate attempt to merge the Stuart fortune with the Tims expertise in business affairs. Without the influx of Stuart money to give the business a boost, the Tims family fortunes overseas—in France and Germany in particular—could well become as extinct as a woman wearing a powdered wig on the street.

  Melodia gave him a charming curtsy. “I am pleased to meet you, Sir Rolf.” Her voice matched her name—melodious.

  “And I am enchanted.”

  Was that a blush he saw on her cheeks? Surely in this ribald day and age, he hadn’t happened upon an innocent. But the way she refused to let her gaze meet his, the shy way she held herself, indicated she was no worldly woman. Perhaps she was a prize.

  Though he wanted to talk more to her that evening, Melodia’s father kept him otherwise occupied. Cuthbert seemed afraid, somehow, that Rolf would back out of his promise. He wondered why.