by Bianca Bloom
The Bride who Vanished
A Romance of Convenience Regency Romance
Bianca Bloom
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Also by Bianca Bloom
Afterword
Sneak Peek
1
March 1st, 1809
I had hardly arrived at Woodshire, the finest mansion in all of Kent, before I was told that I was “pretty enough to be a fine lord’s plaything, but too pretty to be his wife.”
The elderly head of the family said this to me as he drooled into the pieces of chicken still left on his plate. His eyes were focused on my bosom, and I wished that I’d picked a dull dress instead of wearing my only formal gown. Apparently the gap between my two breasts was such a great chasm that this lech was at risk of falling in.
He continued. “A man will have anything when he is young, any ugly woman. And it will all be over quick. But after a man has married, he wants a nice little tart. Someone to tuck into when the wife is cold, eh, Eugene?”
There was nobody named Eugene at the table. Just four wincing women, one dignified young man named Luke, and the old coot himself. The very man who had just told me that my fate as a rich man’s little doll was all but assured.
The old man’s daughter-in-law, Mrs. Barlow, trembled as she spoke to one of the footmen. “Bring the pudding. He won’t talk so much if he’s eating his pudding. Quickly!”
The dining room was vast, but even with the curtains open and a fortune worth of candles burning, it seemed dark to me. I was used to eating a hasty servants’ repast, not a long and awkward meal with the family. Indeed, it appeared that nobody was enjoying the fine food before us. Mrs. Barlow sat on one side of the old man, her face sour as a lemon, and her son Mr. Luke Barlow sat to the other side, looking carefully at the napkin in his lap.
I was seated next Mrs. Barlow’s daughter Lillian, a young girl of fourteen who was supposed to need my services as a governess. We had seen each other for only half an hour before the meal, but it had been long enough for me to ascertain that Miss Barlow was a delicate and shy sort of girl. The sort of girl who would not be able to stand up to a wretched old man like her grandfather.
On my right was a Miss Courtenay, a sour-faced young woman engaged to the young Mr. Barlow. She did not seem too put out by the old man, only sorry that she no longer drew the notice of everyone in the room. Best that they admire her for her looks, perhaps, but she would have been content with any sort of notice. After all, she’d spent half the meal going on about her skills in floral arrangements, which were apparently quite superior.
Now, the whole table was silent. It was young Mr. Barlow who finally had the courage to speak.
“Granddad,” he said, “We are nearly ready for our wedding. I hope that you will attend, and that we will have your blessing. It would mean a great deal to us.”
“Granddad” peered at the younger Mr. Barlow. I wondered if the reason for the candles wasn’t only to show off the family’s wealth, but also to cater to the old man’s failing eyesight.
And, apparently, his failing mind.
“You’re going to be married, then, Eugene?” he said to Mr. Barlow.
“Eugene was my father’s name,” Lillian Barlow muttered, so low that only I could hear her clearly. “Granddad doesn’t recall any of our names, but he says Eugene for my brother and calls mum Winifred. None of us are quite sure why.”
“Indeed, I shall be married,” said Mr. Barlow, smiling at his grandfather. “We hope to marry before the week is out.”
The old man coughed. “I won’t let you marry yet, crafty boy. Who would you have as a bride?” he asked, his eyes lingering rather too long both on Lillian and on me.
When I first sat down at the table, I had wondered why Lillian insisted on draping herself in an unsightly old shawl and wearing her hair in a frumpy style that would have done very well for an old dowager. It seemed odd that a young girl, almost ready to be out in society, would not wear the fine clothes and fashions that her wealthy family could undoubtedly afford. Now I began to understand. The ugly clothes, the rough hair, it was all part of what little armor the poor girl had against the old lech.
“Miss Courtenay is my bride, granddad,” said Mr. Barlow, taking Miss Courtenay’s hand and giving his grandfather a grand smile. “I told you that we were to marry soon.”
This did not seem to satisfy the old man.
“You ought to pick the pretty one,” he drawled to his grandson, who was beginning to blush.
And as if the table required more of a scene, the old man jabbed in my direction with one of his shriveled old fingers. “If you don’t get a pretty one, like that wench there, all of the babies will be ugly as sin. Eugene, you are a weak boy, but not ugly. Ha!”
This was, perhaps, his only accurate observation. Even through my discomfort I had noted immediately that Mr. Luke Barlow was one of the handsomest men I had ever seen. He was not uncommonly tall, but he carried himself beautifully. His features were dark, but unlike his family, he did not have the pallor one might expect of a Woodshire resident. Perhaps Mrs. Barlow had once been beautiful, but with her face pale and wrought with tension, it was hard to imagine her as a young woman. If Eugene, Luke Barlow’s father, had been blessed with good looks, perhaps that explained how he came to have such a devilishly handsome son.
I noted Mr. Barlow’s good looks with some resentment, of course, after my initial admiration had worn off. He was smart, he was rich, and he was about to be married. It did not follow that he also deserved to look just statuesque. I reasoned that it must be a result of prized wives, acquired by the men of the family like so many pieces of fine china. It went to reason that every single woman who married into the family must be beautiful, and many of them were sure to be rich.
The old Mr. Barlow, having run out of outrageous remarks, got up and began walking about the room. The pudding had arrived, and those still present at the table tucked in.
“Well,” said Mrs. Barlow, setting down her spoon. “I do think that the having this pudding tonight is just the thing. It is rather drafty.”
“The rooms here are always drafty,” said Miss Courtenay, looking with disdain at t
he tall windows. A little too late, she smiled. “Because it is a castle, that is. That’s how things go with large, handsome houses.”
Before I could make any answer, I could sense Grandfather Barlow behind me. And when he lunged at the chair, I was not fast enough to keep his hand from latching onto my bosom.
2
I was, however, fast enough with my fists after that. After all, there is nothing like a childhood spent in a rough neighborhood to teach one how to defend oneself.
I slapped the man’s hand, and when he did not let go at first, I lowered my face onto his wrist and bit it.
He hobbled out of the room yelling words so foul that Miss Courtenay fairly attacked her pudding and all of the Barlows present blushed with shame.
I was rather too angry to feel sympathy for any of them at that moment. At the very least, one of them could have apologized for the old man, or gone after him to insist that he apologize himself. Instead, everyone was attacking the dessert fiercely, pretending that nothing in the world was wrong.
Miss Courtenay even had the nerve to demonstrate her ill-breeding by boasting of herself. “I know that you would love to hear my singing again, Mr. Barlow,” she said, smiling brazenly across the table. “Indeed, I was feeling quite dull today, so I have learnt a whole new aria.”
Mrs. Barlow stood up much too quickly.
“Shall we go to the drawing room, ladies?” she asked. “Perhaps, after we give my son a moment, we might all listen to the aria.”
All of us filed out the door after her. I hoped that the aria were of the quality that one might expect from the most elegant opera houses in Europe, for I knew it would take a great deal for me to forgive what I had just seen and felt at the table.
In the passageway, I was the last, following bitterly on the heels of the little party. The younger Mr. Barlow stopped me and looked as if he meant to take my hand, but didn’t quite dare.
“Are you all right, miss?”
“Miss Quinton,” I told him. The fine cut of his clothing only made me angrier. If he were going to have the gall to defend his grandfather to me, at least let him address me by my name.
“Miss Quinton, I’m sorry. Are you well?”
“No,” I spat at him. “I’ve just had to use my teeth to fend off an old goat at the table. I would say that this is not one of the most delightful spring evenings I’ve ever witnessed.”
I saw him wince when I said “goat” but I could not regret my choice of words. In fact, “goat” was probably generous compared to the words I could have chosen.
“I’m sorry, Miss Quinton,” he said. “Truly I am. But none of us can control granddad, so we all try not to listen to him.”
“You can control plenty,” I snapped. “None of you said a word against him, in spite of his pretty little display.”
“But Miss Quinton,” he pleaded. “Granddad’s mind is going. He is like a baby. He says what he thinks, and if he doesn’t get something that he wants, he makes a terrible fuss.”
“And if one of you had smacked his fingers each time he leered at a young lady, the way you might do with a lad of three, he could have learned years ago that he ought not to do it. If nothing else, his knuckles would remember.”
He laughed at this, and I softened a little bit to see that he had at least understood my humor. “I hope you do not smack my sister’s fingers, then? I didn’t think you were that sort of governess.”
I waved my hand, knowing that I should not speak ill of my employer but little able to help myself. “Your sister doesn’t need discipline, and she doesn’t need me. She will be a queen of London society as soon as she comes out.”
“But she is timid,” he said. “Like her brother, in that respect.”
This made me laugh. “She is handsome and rich. What, you think Londoners are fond of intelligent conversation? She will not be required to open her mouth, you may trust me.”
He stepped back. “Then you do think she is not learned enough. Forgive me, Miss Quinton, but I superintended much of Lillian’s study and am disposed to think it was quite extensive.”
I was nearly ready to smack his fingers. “It’s not that. She is clever enough, and she knows more than most London girls. But find me a man who’ll be interested in her mind. They’re as rare as hen’s teeth.”
“You make London society sound very punishing indeed.”
“Well, society does not exist to make things easy for people, only to oppress them. I imagine that society in London is hardly worse than society elsewhere, though the extravagance may be a little less controlled.”
Mr. Barlow frowned. “I can hardly pretend that we control it here. Perhaps it’s because we never manage to travel. Mama always wants the latest furniture, the latest fashions, and she goes to great lengths to get them. Well, metaphorically, since we never go beyond the borders of the village.”
I waved a hand. “Why bother going to town, then? At least you are spared some of the hypocrisy.”
Mr. Barlow started. “I must say, Miss Quinton, that nobody who has visited here has ever been quite so critical of our capitol city. Do you really have no desire to go back?”
I thought of it. In fact, a great part of me longed to return to London, where my mother worked as a charwoman for a very wealthy family. But the Barlows had made such a generous offer that I would surely earn less were I to move back home.
And now I understood just why the Barlow salary was generous. Perhaps, considering the old git I was to put up with, I was being paid exactly what I deserved.
“Luke,” said Mrs. Barlow, hurrying over. “Do not keep Miss Quinton from our drawing room. It is highly improper, and I wished her to her Lillian’s performance on the pianoforte. Do go and get your grandfather to bed.”
“But mama,” he said. “If I do that, he will only — ”
“Go on,” she said, “And be quick about it.”
3
Miss Barlow’s performance on the pianoforte was technically excellent, but in keeping with her overall demeanor, it was timid. This halting quality meant that mistakes that a more confidant performer could easily have glossed over were magnified, and I raised my eyebrows as each hesitant error made itself known.
It couldn’t have helped that she was likely still recovering from her grandfather’s very ugly display of her true character. No matter how accustomed to the family secret the young Miss Barlow may have grown, having it exposed in front of a relative stranger must have been horrifying.
Indeed, it was still horrifying to me. As I applauded for the girl, I longed to touch my breasts. It felt as if they had been burned, contaminated by the old man’s lecherous grasping.
“Mama,” Miss Barlow murmured, “Please let me be finished.”
Mrs. Barlow assented. “We had really better be off to bed, all of us,” she said, looking about nervously. “Perhaps we could all go upstairs as a group. I want to be sure you know your way, Miss Quinton.”
We all watched Miss Courtenay walk over to the instrument and sit down, settling herself in front of the keys as if she had not heard a single one of Mrs. Barlow’s words.
“Miss Courtenay?” I said. “Are you not ready to turn in?”
She turned as far as her rather tight stays must have allowed. “Not without singing!” she insisted, sounding rather scandalized. “After all, Miss Barlow loves to hear me play.”
Lillian Barlow looked like the most exhausted person in the room, and she looked down at her knees after hearing this. It seemed that she would be more than ready to pass up the “treat” of the other young lady’s music. But Miss Courtenay forged ahead anyway. I was fairly convinced that she would not have been able to hear a single objection.
And, surprisingly, there were few who could object to her performance. Her playing was skilled, though not extraordinary. Her voice, though, was golden and sweet, rising above the tinkling of the keys like some bird of paradise. I waited for the moment when nerves or chance would cause her to slip up, pe
rhaps making a flat a little too flat or missing a grace note. Nothing of the sort happened, and I found myself applauding at the end of each aria just as sincerely as Mrs. and Miss Barlow.
She stood after she finished playing, and though I was too proud to offer additional compliments, she smiled down at me.
“I am glad I was able to play for you, Miss Quinton. Would you like a turn yourself?”
“No,” I said. “Indeed, I could hardly compare to either of the ladies who has gone before me.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Barlow, with some feeling, but Miss Courtenay cut her off.
“We had the best governesses,” she said, giving me a meaningful glance. “After all, the musical taste of a governess is a mark of her overall quality, would you not agree, Miss Quinton?”
Not having grown up with easy access to an instrument, I knew little of singing and almost nothing of playing. All I could definitely say was that I loathed Handel’s arias, now that I had been forced to listen to the perfect little voice of another woman making them whole.
“I think that music is part of a complete education,” I told the woman. “But, since all sorts of playing and singing goes on in houses of ill repute, we need hardly pretend as if nothing more is required.”