The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne

by Jayne Fresina

  “My dear sisters”—she spun away from the mirror and smiled warmly at the two fussing women—“there is absolutely nothing for you to worry about. Now come, kiss me good-bye. It could be your last chance, in case I am mugged and left for dead on the road. Or I decide to run off to Gretna Green with some lecherous, unsuitable young man. I shall understand, of course, that my scandalous marriage will require you to cut me off. Should I need to resort to highway robbery, just to keep a crust on the table and buy shoes for my little ones, I trust you will remember your once-beloved older sister and stand witness at my hanging.”

  Her sisters looked at her as if she was absolutely capable of such an end.

  ***

  The frowning maid at Twenty-One Willard Street folded her plump arms and wedged herself in the door frame. “Miss Vyne has gone out.”

  He might have known. For a marriage of convenience, this was already damned inconvenient. Not to mention costly.

  Another chilling thought occurred—had she run off with the count and his thousand pounds? Perhaps she sent him that single diamond as some sort of jest. It would be just like her, naturally, to think all this most amusing. Yet again she got away with her mischief—or so she imagined.

  One of her sisters appeared in the shadows of the hall, evidently come to see what the noise was about. She peered over the maid’s enormous shoulder and blinked a pair of wide brown eyes. “Sakes, Mr. Hartley. Have you come for Ellie?”

  “I have, madam,” he replied, spitting his words out in anger. “I am told she has gone. Is this true?”

  “My sister left on the mail coach to stay with our aunt in the country, Mr. Hartley. She did not expect you, surely,” her sister exclaimed, still hiding behind the maid. “She said nothing to us about—”

  Not waiting to hear what she hadn’t said, or what lies she had told, James turned on his booted heel, leapt down the steps and into his carriage.

  ***

  At last the busy crowds of London were left behind. The ceaseless clatter of hooves, wheels, and wooden pattens across paved roads gave way to the softer thud of hardened dirt under the post horses. Streets emptied of rumbling wagons, and the shouts of tradesmen faded as the coach turned into narrow, rutted lanes bordered with bare trees that sometimes scraped brittle limbs along the sides of the vehicle.

  Ellie, pressed into a corner, tried to ignore the cramp already burning in her left hip and kept her gaze on the view through the small window. She carefully avoided eye contact with her fellow travelers and clung to happy thoughts of her destination.

  Tomorrow evening she would be with her aunt in Sydney Dovedale, a quiet little village where she’d spent several blissfully unfettered summers as a young girl. Whenever her stepfather had felt his patience pushed to the limit by three growing daughters, he sent them to their aunt Lizzie, his only sister and closest female relative. Since Lizzie had no children of her own, he considered her little cottage in the country a perfect place to send his motherless girls, out of harm’s way for long periods while he was away at sea.

  Sadly, in Ellie’s case, “out of harm’s way” had only put her into mischief’s way. A girl with a vivid imagination and a penchant for trouble had so much more scope for both in the country, out of her stepfather’s sight.

  During one such summer she saw James Hartley for the first time. Then a young man of twenty, he rode at reckless speed down the country lanes in a jaunty curricle. He was always very tidy, too elegantly attired for the country, and that just made young Ellie Vyne—who couldn’t be tidy if she wanted to—feel the intense desire to make him dirty. It was surely her responsibility to do so, because no young man should be so concerned with his clothes. He was obviously vain and conceited. Three times that summer he’d ridden by her in his curricle and muddied her pinafore by racing through a puddle, not seeing the little girl there on the verge.

  James had begun courting her friend Sophia Valentine at that time, for she was five years older than Ellie. Everyone said his grandmother was against the match because the Valentines had fallen on hard times, and Ellie rather thought this was why Hartley ran after Sophia in the first place. She knew something about defiance. Even at a young age she was already an observer of other people and their habits. She educated herself with books she was forbidden to read and eavesdropped on a great many conversations she should never have heard.

  Aunt Lizzie warned her to stay well away from the young man, reminding her that Vynes and Hartleys had absolutely nothing to do with one another. That was, of course, the very worst thing anyone could have said, for no child of ten should be warned not to do something, because then she is most certainly obliged to do that very thing.

  When she found James Hartley, one lazy, sunny afternoon, napping under an oak tree, apparently having emptied a jug of cider and eaten the contents of a small picnic basket all by himself, what else could she do but draw on his face? She just happened to have her ink pot in hand. After she’d run back to her aunt’s cottage to fetch it.

  Oh the trouble that got her in! But it was worth it for the laughs. As she’d said to her aunt at the time, “If everyone was virtuous and always good, would not the value of being so rapidly decline?”

  No one had any answer to that.

  She caught herself smiling at her blurry reflection in the coach window. Better stop that at once, or the other passengers might think her a little odd. After all, there was nothing worth smiling at in her reflection. Her stepfather once told her she had her mother’s eyes, but that brought little comfort, since he also said his American wife was a nagging scold.

  Ellie remembered her mother frequently chiding the admiral for his foolishness in buying Lark Hollow. A modest woman of simple tastes, always anxious to be seen as respectable and never to draw undue notice to herself, Ellie’s mother longed for a smaller, more practical home, easier and cheaper to maintain. In the admiral’s words she had “no vision.”

  According to him, it was her fault that he sired only daughters, when he wanted strong, seafaring sons to follow in his wake. That was possibly Catherine Vyne’s most unforgivable sin. That, and dying nineteen years ago, leaving him alone to struggle with three mystifying little girls. But he did keep his wife’s portrait in a small oval frame in his study, so he must have loved her a little.

  Men, honestly! They were never able to admit the truth about themselves but preferred to keep up a silly front, either pretending they cared when they didn’t or pretending they didn’t care when they did. She, of course, would never do such a thing.

  The path of her thoughts traced back to Hartley. Was he up yet? Probably not. He may not even be in his own bed. Who knew what the blackguard got up to after she left the party last night with her sisters?

  Suddenly a very smart coach, drawn by four black horses, raced by her window, stones flinging up at the side of the lurching vessel as it almost hurled the mail coach over into the ditch. Passengers cried out in alarm as they plummeted from side to side for ten breathtaking seconds and hung on to hats and one another, disregarding propriety in that moment of near death.

  Somehow the coach driver regained control. They bumped, rattled, and bounced over deep ruts, and then were back on the road, all groaning but mostly intact.

  Ellie adjusted her aching seat as best she could in the narrow space she was allotted by the spreading thighs of the very large person beside her, and stared out again through the tiny, smeared window.

  If she ever got to Sydney Dovedale in one piece, the first thing she wanted was a nice cup of tea and to warm her toes by the fire. Yes, concentrate on that, she thought, closing her eyes tight, drawing the pleasant, welcoming picture in her mind, shutting out the overly ripe body odor and the rough, damp feel of the worn upholstery that reeked of alcohol. She closed her mind to the jolts that rocked the carriage constantly and shut her ears to the angry scraping of branches against varnish and wheel spokes. She tried not to notice how the lane narrowed until it was a twisty deathtrap, overhung
with hooked tree limbs that might as well be witches fingers poised to drag them all to their grisly end in a flooded ditch.

  ***

  James swung open the door, flung off his damp coat, and marched to the fire. The rowdy noise of the tavern below rumbled up through the floor joists and the soles of his boots. “Any sign, Grieves?” he bellowed at the valet, who was by the window, watching the inn’s galleried yard.

  “Not yet, sir. The mail coach is late. You made inquiries below?”

  “Yes.” He grabbed a tankard of ale that sat waiting for him by a tray of roast pheasant and baked potatoes. “No one here by the name of Vyne.”

  “We are certain she heads in this direction, sir?”

  “Of course. The only aunt she has lives in Sydney Dovedale. Eliza Cawley is her stepfather’s sister.” He sipped his ale and glared at the fire. “She could, of course, be traveling incognito.”

  Grieves turned in surprise. “Why would she do that, sir?”

  He growled into his ale, “To hide from me.”

  “Hide from you, sir? I understood the lady had agreed to marry you.”

  “Not exactly.” But I spent one thousand pounds on her already, he thought churlishly. Not that he could tell Grieves about that. Explaining the blank space in his ledger beside the expenditure must wait until Mr. Dillworthy’s next visit. “After what happened last night,” James continued briskly, “she won’t get away from me. That creature simply cannot continue blundering through her life, never listening to good advice. She’s a woman prone to desperate impulses.” He paused. “Why the face, Grieves?”

  “Face, sir? I fear this is my usual one.”

  “No it isn’t. You’ve something to say. Out with it.”

  The valet released a shallow sigh. “What exactly, if you don’t mind my asking, sir, did happen last night at Lady Clegg-Foster’s party? I heard several differing reports of it myself. Although I never listen to gossip, of course.”

  James paced before the fire, tankard clutched in his hand. “I asked her to marry me and explained the advantages to such an arrangement. She resisted naturally, being stubborn and contrary, but since she lured me into chasing her, I can only conclude she’s come to her senses.”

  “One wonders, sir, why the lady did not remain in London to accept your proposal. Why she thought it preferable to have you chase her about the country in this dreadful weather.”

  “She’s a woman, Grieves. They like to complicate matters. She does it better than anyone.” She’d been complicating things for the last six months, since she kissed him in that maze and then ran off.

  “I must say I am relieved, sir,” Grieves ventured, “that you found your Marie-Antoinette from Brighton. Although I am not sure how Lady Hartley will take the news.”

  “Probably with a large dose of smelling salts.”

  “Aha,” Grieves exclaimed, still looking through the window. “I see things are about to get even more tangled, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “Two things, sir. One—the mail coach has just arrived.”

  James strode across the room to watch over the other man’s gray head. The bulky, dark vessel trundled into the yard, hooves clattering over the cobbles, boxes and people hanging on seemingly by willpower alone. Although the yard was lit by rush torches, it was still too dark to identify faces, and as heavy rain began to fall, even the torch flame dimmed until it was little more than a smoky, sullen flicker. The noise of disembarking passengers and shouting grooms now combined with the rattle of rain across the slate roof overhead and the general noise from below. James watched the passengers dashing about, rescuing their luggage from puddles.

  “Why on earth travel in such company?”

  Grieves remarked somberly that some people had no choice in the manner of their transport. “Most lives, sir, are decidedly less comfortable than your own. As I’m sure you’ve observed.”

  “If she’d waited for me this morning, I could have brought her in my carriage.”

  “Perhaps it did not occur to the lady, sir. Some folk learn to make do with the little they have.”

  “This is not another sly request for a raise in salary, is it by chance?”

  “Indeed not, sir. I merely point out that some of us go about our business with little fuss. We just get on with it, sir. No matter how hard.”

  “Your life is so hard, Grieves?”

  The other man’s reflection in the crooked windowpanes was slightly smug, masquerading as grave. “I do think, sir, that if you ever had the chance to walk a day in my shoes, you might be surprised.”

  “You don’t think I could handle the life of a valet?”

  Grieves stared out at the grim evening and changed the subject. “I daresay it will rain all night, sir. Abysmal weather.”

  James shook his head. Not at the weather, but at Ellie Vyne having disregard for her own safety. Anything could happen to a young woman traveling alone with the mail coach.

  “Do you wish to know what the second thing is, sir? The second thing that has occurred to cause you trouble of a most inconvenient kind?”

  He was almost afraid to ask. “What?”

  “Lady Ophelia Southwold just exited a small equipage and entered the tavern below in some haste.”

  “Oh, good Lord, Grieves. You’ll have to get rid of her somehow.”

  “Do we have a sack and some heavy stones, sir?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Go down and waylay her. I don’t care how you do it. Then see if Miss Vyne has arrived, Grieves. Ask discreetly. She won’t know you, and I don’t want her to see me yet.”

  “Very good, sir.” Grieves disappeared at once on his mission, and James stood a while, watching the weary, bedraggled folk in the yard. He’d never traveled with the mail coach in his life, as the valet pointed out. The sole heir to a large export and import business begun by his great-grandfather, James had known only luxury from his earliest years. Because of the Hartley wealth, he was always treated with deference by others and accustomed to getting material things when he wanted them. Only true love was beyond his means. He was not the loveable type, it seemed. He vaguely remembered once trying to embrace his grandmother for a kiss as he left for boarding school at the end of a holiday.

  “For pity’s sake, James!” She’d pushed him away with cold, bony hands. “We’re not on the opera house stage.”

  So he’d sought what he needed in the arms of a parade of pretty women. It was an empty sort of affection. They loved being seen on his arm and lavished with presents.

  Icy drops spattered the old leaded window, and some of the torches below were extinguished altogether, but nothing dampened the new determination burning inside him. If anyone lived their life like an opera, it was Ellie Vyne. She liked drama and mischief. Teasing him, making him chase her.

  This time, he’d play a prank on her.

  Chapter 9

  Apparently there was only one room left at the inn. The landlord handed her a lit candle in a small brass holder. “Up the stairs. Turn right. Door at the very end of the passage. I’ll have my lad bring your trunk.”

  Ellie had no great hopes for it, considering this was the last empty chamber. She made her way up the narrow stairs, dripping rainwater and mud, so tired and aching from being squeezed into the overcrowded vehicle that her bones were almost unable to hold her upright. A thumping ache still vibrated in her temple just above her eyes, where it felt as if her head had hit the road that day as often as the hooves of the coach horses. Her mouth was dry, her stomach miserably clenched in a knot, and she could not get the stench of the mail coach out of her nostrils. It had taken hold of her airway and her lungs like invasive mold, but there was another day of it still to come. It was unthinkable, yet it must be faced, for she had no other form of transportation.

  Expecting little more than a cupboard in which to wait out the night, she lifted the door latch and discovered instead, much to her pleasant surprise, a good-sized paneled room, with a cheery fire b
urning in the hearth and thick curtains drawn across the windows to keep out drafts. Ellie pinched herself, afraid she’d fallen asleep in the rocking mail coach and this was all a pleasant figment of her imagination.

  No. It was real. She could smell the coal in the hearth and the mouth-watering aroma of roasted pheasant, tainted only by a slightly stale waft of beer that must soon cling to everything in her possession. A low rumble of laughter trembled up through the floor, and when she touched the wall, it was solid under her fingertips. Reassured, Ellie explored the room with a renewed burst of vitality, shaking off her weariness. Beside the door a fearsome suit of armor stood guard, proudly holding a medieval pikestaff. Something to add a sense of grandeur to the place, she mused, giving his hollow chest a friendly tap.

  “Keep an eye on me, Sir Lancelot,” she whispered. “You never know what I might do next.”

  Across the room a small, round table, lit with candles, held a supper fit for a queen. Or, at least, for one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. The hungry creature in her belly reacted with a needy cheer, but she was temporarily distracted from that supper by the equally enticing sight of a large Tudor-style bed. Her head begged for sleep, and now a battle raged between that and her stomach.

  Ellie had just set her candle down and begun warming her hands by the fire, when a tap at the door announced the arrival of her trunk. She rushed across the room to let the boy in. He was not alone; a short, bright-eyed gentleman also waited there, smiling benevolently.

  “Good evening, Miss Vyne. I hope you find the room satisfactory?”

  “Yes, indeed. Thank you. Mr…?”

  “I am Grieves, Miss Vyne.” He bowed stiffly. “I am the gentleman who gave up the room for you. I trust you’re comfortable and have everything you require?” He was an older man with a kindly face, his gestures polite, reserved, and somber.