The Forgotten Marriage

by Ellen Fitzgerald

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes, Wilmot?” Timothy called.

  But it was not the elderly manservant that entered but Lucian Morley, his eyes alight with happiness. He had a nod and a brief greeting for Timothy, but on turning to Alicia, he exclaimed, “Oh, my dearest love, I have missed you.”

  She laughed up at him. “You speak as if it had been days rather than hours since we parted.”

  “And has it not been?” he demanded.

  Feeling himself de trop, Timothy, muttering an excuse, left hastily. Immediately upon his departure, Lucian swept Alicia into his arms, kissing her passionately. Upon releasing her, he said, “Why cannot we be wed immediately, my angel?”

  “I—I wish we might be,” she replied breathlessly.

  “Then, why do we not—” he began eagerly.

  “No, no, no.” She moved away from him. “We cannot. Old Mr. de Jong, the vicar, would never, never forgive me.” He gave her a fond but exasperated look. “Are we marrying to please the vicar?”

  “Oh, Lucian,” she chided gently. “Our wedding is all arranged. Mr. de Jong has spoken to me about decorations for the church. He is a friend of the family, you know, and any change would upset him dreadfully. Papa would not like it, either, nor Timothy—and my bridal garments are not finished. “I would marry you in your shift.”

  “That would start a new fashion,” she teased. “And,” she added, “Lady Octavia is to be my bridesmaid. You know her. ”

  “Do I?” Lucian looked blank.

  “You do!” Alicia exclaimed. “You met her last Tuesday.”

  “I am afraid that no one makes an impression on me anymore, not when you are in the same room.” Lucian kissed her again.

  “Oh, you!” Alicia laughed. “Well, Octavia is my very best friend and she is remaining here in Brussels just for the wedding. She was due to go back to London three days ago, but you certainly know all the reasons why we must wait until June eleventh.”

  “Of course, I do,” Lucian relented. “And it will be as you wish, my angel. But afterward, we will spend our whole life together.”

  There was a flourish of trumpets outside.

  Alicia winced but said steadily, “Of course we will, my Lucian.”

  2

  Lady Alicia Morley, sitting at her dressing table, put on her earrings with fingers that trembled slightly. Behind her, Effie, her abigail, said admiringly, "You do look lovely, Miss Alicia . . She reddened. "I mean milady!”

  "Do I?” Alicia asked anxiously.

  “Won’t be another at that ball’ll be ’alf so beautiful,” Effie said, opening her round blue eyes wider as if to give added emphasis to her statement. “Not ’er Grace of Richmond, either.”

  "How you do go on, Effie.” Alicia managed a smile. “I’ll warrant you’ve not seen her Grace.”

  "I ’aven’t, but I know ’er girl wot works for 'er an’ she says as ’ow she needs a good two hours afore she be fit to be seen in public.”

  "Oh,” Alicia laughed, but added, "that is unkind, Effie.” She put her hand to her heart as Lucian, in his' scarlet uniform, suddenly entered. He was looking spectacularly handsome, she thought. The bright hue was flattering to his dark coloring. He had told her that he had often been taken for a Spaniard while he was on the Peninsula and she could believe it. In addition to his blue-black hair, his skin had an olive cast, all of which he attributed to one Dona Dolores, who had married his great-great-grandfather on the occasion of that gentleman’s visit to Madrid in the train of Charles I, who had been seeking to wed the Infanta Maria, daughter of Philip III. He had said whimsically, “Charles was not successful in his wooing, but my great-great-great-grandfather was wed within a month of meeting her.”

  “You must have your grandfather’s eyes,” she had said, loving the contrast of his silvery gray eyes under his ink-black eyebrows.

  “No,” he had demurred. “I inherited those from my late mother. I wish you might have known her, but you will meet my father after we have trounced Napoleon and sent him back to Elba or, I hope, some less felicitous spot.”

  She regretted that memory. She did not like to dwell upon the imminent conflict. Rumors were rife, however, but no one really knew anything. She could only hope that it would not take place for another month ... she would have preferred forever. With an effort, she dismissed these thoughts and smiled up at him. “I am ready, my Lord,” she said.

  His eyes widened. “My angel. I’ve not seen that gown. Is it new?”

  “Yes.” She rose. “Do you like it?” She whirled about so that he might get the full effect of blue crepe over white satin, edged with white lace and crepe rosettes. It was cut low across her bosom and the sleeves were puffed.

  “It is lovely and you are exquisite,” he said warmly. “But must you wear that turban?”

  “It is de rigueur with this ensemble. So insists Madame Van Slyke, the mantua maker.”

  “She cannot appreciate the full glory of your golden hair, my angel. And I charge you, you must dance every dance with me!”

  “Can you imagine that I would not, my husband?” she demanded, savoring the word and wishing suddenly that he had not been honored by an invitation from her Grace of Richmond. The lady would wonder why she was there, since, in common with the rest of the ton, she did not even know that Alicia Delacre was alive! Possibly her attitude would have been different if their marriage had been announced. However, she did not blame Lucian for wanting to keep it secret. They would have been feted by his friends, many of whom had brought their wives with them. In common with Lucian, she wished they might have been able to take a wedding trip—only she longed for one that would bring them as far from Brussels as China!

  Once more, thoughts of the emperor arose in her mind. His strength had been miraculously restored. One might compare him to those giants who had only to step on earth to regain their power, and Napoleon, escaping from Elba, had put his small feet on French soil—but he was no giant! He was a little man whose dreams of glory had proved deadly for the last two decades. Resentment flared in her mind as she gazed on the handsome young man in the becoming scarlet and gold uniform, every thread of which she hated. If only Lucian had resisted the call to arms! If only he, like Timothy, had been unable to afford a commission or, again like Timothy, thought a pen mightier than a sword—but then, of course, they would never have met. It was the war that had brought them together, and would it . . . But she refused to entertain that fear.

  “A sixpence for your thoughts, my love?”

  She started and, finding her husband staring at her quizzically, answered lightly, “They are not worth so much as a groat.”

  He said reassuringly, “You must not worry, my dear. I am known to possess a charmed life, something that has been demonstrated many times, as I think I have already told you.”

  “But I am sure of that,” she said quickly, wishing that he had not guessed what she was thinking and remembering ruefully that Timothy had often commented that her face mirrored her mind.

  “Then, let us go, that we may return soon,” Lucian said ardently, and dropped a kiss on the little hollow at the base of her throat. “Oh, my dearest,” he added with a sudden urgency, and then stepped back. “No, I will not keep you here. I want everyone to see you. And when this action is over, I will give a reception and introduce you. Do you mind being a secret for the nonce?”

  “Of course, I do not mind. ’Tis what I want, also,” she murmured. Her pulses were stirred and a need she had not known existed before her marriage moved her, but since she could not, out of shyness, tell that she would have preferred to have stayed away from the ball, she started to gather up her cloak—but was forestalled by his lingering kiss.

  The Duke of Richmond’s house lay down the hill, a walk, not a carriage ride away from their own dwelling. They would be arriving late, and hopefully, they would manage the early departure Lucian had mentioned, Alicia prayed. As they neared the great mansion, they found it ablaze wi
th light.

  “I am glad we were able to come here on foot,” Lucian commented. “We would have been hard put to get through that mass of vehicles in a post-chaise.”

  “Indeed, we would,” she agreed, staring at the many elegant equipages that lined the street. As they came nearer, they were nearly deafened by the sounds of horses neighing, the rattling of wheels, the metallic clash of harnesses, the din of coachmen blowing horns or yelling imprecations as they vainly tried to find a place to discharge their passengers. The passengers themselves added their voices to this cacophonous . medley, and Alicia was thankful when Lucian, expertly skirting the crowds, managed to escort her into the house. Yet, as they entered, she was conscious that her throat had become dry and that her heart appeared to have risen to throb in that same area. She had no explanation for her qualms. It was only that there were so many young men in uniform milling about her, but she had seen uniformed gallants on the streets of Brussels for months and years! Consequently, she could not understand why she was so disturbed by their presence in the hallway. Perhaps it was only those rumors that had been circulating about town that caused fear to march foot-by-foot with love. She did not want it to be anything more. She did not want it to be one of her very occasional but frightening hunches concerning the future. She could only think of one or two of these incidents, but both had carried with them the sense of impending doom that she was experiencing now. Perhaps it was only her imagination! She forced a smile as she looked up at Lucian. ‘‘It will be a gala evening,” she commented.

  “Any evening where you are present is gala,” he said lovingly.

  Her worries were, for the moment, dispelled. It was wonderful to have him as much in love with her as she was with him. It was also unusual. Octavia had told her that. Out of her superior wisdom where men were concerned and fresh from a recent disappointment, she had said, “Lucian does not mind expressing his love—even before me. Usually gentlemen are much more reticent.”

  Taxed with criticizing him, Octavia had indignantly refuted that accusation. “I could wish only that more of the men I have known were like him. ‘Tis certainly preferable than to be eternally trying to divine their thinking and, generally, to be completely wrong!”

  Remembering that conversation, Alicia had a moment of feeling sorry for Octavia and wishing the worst for Sir Ivan Rutherford, who had hurt her. He was the reason for her abrupt departure for England. She could not dwell on Octavia’s disillusionment now—not when she was so very happy.

  “Captain Morley and Miss Alicia Delacre,” bawled the majordomo as Lucian and Alicia came toward the receiving line in the immense ballroom. Subsequently, Alicia exchanged greetings with her Grace of Richmond, who hardly noticed her, and then they were inside. There was music and lights and the floor crowded with dancers, many of whom were in uniform, a plethora of uniforms, a mass of color—green, black, white, scarlet, light and dark blue—and there were the

  Scottish officers in their plaid kilts, and the Austrian grenadiers in white with bright gold sashes, and the Brunswickers in black. The women with them were in pastels—white, or pink, or blue like her own ensemble—but occasionally there were flashes of scarlet satin, or yellow crepe, or black . . . Did that signify mourning? No, ’twas not possible. Widows did not dance. She wished she had not thought of widows.

  Glancing about her, Alicia noted that the chairs that ranged along the sides of the ballroom were empty. No languishing, ill-favored young girls sat there yearning for partners and looking enviously or wistfully at the gay company. Tonight everyone was on the floor and the musicians were playing a waltz—so much more satisfying than a country dance, since it enabled one to remain with a preferred partner. Her thoughts ceased as her husband took her in his arms and whirled her onto the floor. One dance followed the next, and in the middle of one of these she was aware of a distant sound—a booming.

  Lucian had heard it, too; he halted midstep, frowning.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It sounds like gunfire,” he muttered.

  “Oh, no,” she breathed. She paused, straining to hear more, but the sound in the ballroom, the laughter and the music, drowned out that distant ominous boom.

  “We will be able to go home soon, my love,” Lucian said then.

  “Now, please.” she whispered.

  “Not yet,” he sighed. “Sir Hartley Manners, my commanding officer, has insisted we join his table.”

  Dutifully they took their places and dined on cold chicken and drank champagne. Though the food was delicious, she wished they could leave. She glanced at Sir Hartley Manners and was surprised and a little indignant to find he was no longer in his chair. He had left early, then. She turned back to Lucian and stiffened as she saw that Sir Hartley was standing behind him. Her tension increased as she noted the gravity of his expression and, out of the comer of her eye, noticed other men in uniform rising. She put her hand on Lucian’s arm, silently mouthing the words that stuck in her throat—“No, please ...—for she dared not utter such a protest out loud. She was a soldier’s wife, a position she had occupied only seven days, but it was enough to force a smile to her lips as Lucian turned a grim face in her direction.

  “My own darling,” he began, and swallowed.

  She caught his hand. “You must go?” she said steadily. “Yes ... we have been summoned.”

  “I will walk with you to the door.”

  He bent to kiss her on the cheek. “No, I am allowed to accompany you back to the house. I have explained that ’tis only a step away. Come.”

  “I am glad,” she told him, and not trusting herself to say anything more, she rose swiftly and, taking his arm, moved from the dining room. They walked across a ballroom that was emptying out even though the orchestra had not yet stopped playing. Then they were into the hall and down the stairs. Emerging into the warm June night, she heard a rumble and tensed.

  “Thunder,” Lucian said reassuringly. “There will be rain soon. Can you not smell it in the air?”

  “Yes,” she said, looking about her in surprise and wondering how she had come there.

  Some ten minutes later, Alicia stood watching as Lucian walked quickly down the street. There was the sound of trumpets and drums in her ears now—and also in her ears was his smiling assurance: “I would have you remember, my love, that I am known to possess a charmed life, and when this is over, I shall come back to you, never doubt it.”

  What had she said in response? Words of agreement of course, though, again, she could not remember what they had been. He was gone now, he had waved and turned the comer and she had waved back, had she not? She stood there another moment and then went inside and was met by her father. He looked at her face and then put his arms around her and held her against him for a long moment. Moving away from her, he closed the door, and waiting until she had gained the stairs, he extinguished all the candles.

  3

  On a warm day in early September, the Honorable Barbara Barrington and her mother were seated in the cozy back parlor of their London house, a place to which they generally repaired when not entertaining guests.

  Barbara, looking her Incomparable best in a round gown of nile-green washing silk, put down a letter she had just finished reading out loud to her mother, who, as usual, was wearing the half-mourning she had donned for her husband’s death some six years earlier. Though she could easily be out of mourning by now, she found the color, a soft violet, very much to her liking, as well as flattering. Her countenance, generally wistful in repose, reflected surprise and a fugitive hope as her daughter said, “But it is entirely incredible . . . and after two months of believing him dead!”

  “Entirely, my love,” Lady Barrington affirmed. “His memory, though . . . poor lad.”

  “And his leg,” the Honorable Barbara said. “I am glad ’twas not amputated. Surgeons in those field hospitals are often so careless.”

  “They are,” her mother agreed. “I am indeed thankful that they discovered
’twas only a break. He was fortunate. A loss of memory is certainly not as bad as the loss of a limb Those artificial legs cannot suffice. Will you go to see him, my dear?”

  “How could I not, Mama?” Barbara said reasonably. “This Mr. Gerald Jenkins, physician, who penned the letter, says that Lucian is calling for me.”

  “That is certainly proof that he cannot remember,” her mother said dryly.

  “Indeed, he cannot, since he seems to believe that we are yet plighted.”

  Lady Barrington visited a long look on her daughter. “And what do you intend to tell him when you see him?”

  She received an equally long look from the Honorable Barbara. “I would not like to cause him unnecessary pain at such a time, especially since there is now nothing standing in the way of our betrothal and”—her voice hardened—“his Grace of Pryde has returned to his country seat outside of Richmond to stay with his mama.” Her sigh was duplicated by her mother. “And,” Barbara continued, “since the shock of his being missing and presumed dead felled his father, Lucian is now the Viscount of Dome.”

  “Very true, my love, but what if this loss of memory proves to be of a temporary nature, which can happen, you know.” Lady Barrington regarded Barbara quizzically.

  “I pray you will not borrow trouble, Mama. I will deal with that when and if the problem arises. Meanwhile, he has asked for me. Certainly, as one of his oldest and, I need not add, dearest friends, I could not refuse such a request.”