by Rose Lerner
“What-ever?” Thirkell asked.
Nev couldn’t look at his round, hurt face. Instead he thought about Miss Brown, clutching her list. “I’m sorry, Thirkell, but I’ve got responsibilities now. I’m going to-I’m going to have a wife. I can’t live like a bachelor anymore.”
Percy folded his arms. “So you’re going to give us up just like you’ve given up claret?”
“I don’t want to. But I can. What I can’t do is keep you and still do what I have to do.”
“ Nev -” Thirkell sounded bewildered.
“I’m not Nev anymore, Thirkell,” Nev snapped. “I’m Lord Bedlow now.”
Percy’s eyes flashed. “And shall we call you ‘my lord’ now? We’ve been calling you Nev your whole life! For God’s sake-”
“I’m sorry,” Nev said again, knowing it wasn’t enough. “But I’ve got to be respectable now, and I can’t do that with you two.”
“Fine. If we’re not good enough to associate with the Earl of Bedlow, we’ll take ourselves off.” Percy turned to go, but Thirkell just stood there, looking like a kicked puppy. “Come along, Thirkell,” Percy said gently. Thirkell hesitated, but Percy nodded his head at the door, and he went. Percy gave Nev a deep, ironical bow and slammed the door behind them.
Nev fell into a chair and stared longingly at the decanter.
“Here, put a forget-me-not there, just above her ear.” Mrs. Brown pointed.
“Mama, I’m already wearing about fifty forget-me-nots.”
“And you look lovely! Lord Bedlow won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
“Yes, because he will be staring at all the forget-me-nots in horrified fascination.”
Mrs. Brown laughed. “I don’t think so. Blue is a good color for you.”
Penelope smiled at her mother. “Oh, you think everything is a good color for me.”
“That’s because everything is,” Mrs. Brown said. Penelope felt tears pricking at her eyes, but she forced them back.
As the wedding had neared over the last three weeks, she had become more and more certain she was making a terrible mistake; she couldn’t have explained what streak of stubborn perversity kept her clinging to her bad decision. She’d even started again with the nervous fits she’d thought were left behind in the schoolroom: as the wedding approached, she woke each day with her stomach tangled and sick, and spent breakfast fighting not to vomit in the eggs.
It had been bad enough her first year at Miss Mardling’s, when Penelope had no idea what was wrong with her and feared an exotic illness. Her roommates, of course, had suspected her of a shocking illicit pregnancy, and spread the rumor all over the school. The sick feeling had faded after a few weeks, and only when it had started up again the first day of every term, regular as clockwork, had she realized it was nerves.
It was worse now. Now she had to hide it from her mother’s watchful eye, or the wedding might still be canceled.
“Let us hope Lord Bedlow agrees with you.”
Mrs. Brown tweaked one of Penelope’s silk forget-me-nots. “He will. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
Penelope knew what her mother must mean, but she wanted to ask anyway, so she would know that at least one person thought she hadn’t been imagining those looks, the few times she’d seen her betrothed since that dinner with her parents-the looks that said there was hope, that he didn’t just think of her as the strip of brown paper that held together a stack of freshly minted banknotes.
Mrs. Brown placed one last flower in Penelope’s hair and stepped back with a satisfied air. “Perfect. Let me fetch my pearl earrings.” She bustled out the door.
A minute later, one of the footmen poked his head in. “This came for you, miss. We’ve opened it, but where do you want it?” He pushed the door open wider and Penelope could see the crate in his arms. On the side it read DUPRÈS ET FILS. Below, in smaller letters, was GRAVURES, AQUARELLES, DESSEINS, LITHOGRAPHIES, &C. 22 RUE DE RIVOLI, PARIS.
Paris. Her heart began to pound. Edward had sent one letter after he got the news, pleading with her to change her mind, reminding her of all their plans. Her reply had been too short-she didn’t know how to explain herself, or what to say but no, she would not be changing her mind. He hadn’t written again. “Just set it on the floor by the bed.”
The second he was out the door she was kneeling by the crate-but carefully. She didn’t want to rip her dress, even though Molly, her lady’s maid, had said it would be good luck. With hands that shook a little, she took out one of the flat packages, ripping away the careful wrapping to reveal the expected picture frame. She turned it over, saw the engraving-and froze.
It was Plate 2 of Wm. Hogarth’s Marriage à la Mode series.
Penelope opened the other five packages, but she knew already what they would contain. Plate 1, of course-“The Marriage Settlement”-showed Lord Squanderfield displaying his mortgages and his ancient family tree to the stooped, myopic merchant while their two bored children sat in the corner, the young nobleman preening in the mirror and the merchant’s daughter flirting with another man. The next three plates showed in lovingly gruesome detail the young couple’s idle, unchaste life, chiefly spent apart from each other.
In the fifth plate the bride knelt beside her dying husband as her lover escaped out the window, leaving his bloody sword behind him. In Plate 6-Penelope felt sick-in Plate 6 the widow, back in her father’s house, had taken an overdose of laudanum on hearing of her lover’s execution. A nurse held her syphilitic child as the merchant himself slipped the gold ring off his dying daughter’s finger with an appraising eye.
Penelope picked up the neatly written note in the bottom of the crate and read it. Lady Bedlow-I hope you will accept this small token of my esteem on the occasion of your marriage. I saw them and thought of you at once. I hope you will be very happy as a countess. Fondest regards, Edward Macaulay.
The door opened, and Penelope crumpled the paper in her fist.
“Penny, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Brown asked in dismay.
Penelope straightened. “It’s nothing, Mama.” Her voice quavered. “Only a tasteless joke. A wedding present, you see.”
Mrs. Brown came closer. “Hogarth!” Then she saw which engravings they were. Her smile faded. “Who sent those to you?”
“I don’t know,” Penelope lied. “There was no note.”
“What kind of devil would do such a thing? It’s bad luck! And on your wedding day too.”
“Don’t be superstitious, Mama.”
Mrs. Brown knotted her fingers together. “But-but who could hate you so much?”
Penelope would not cry. “It’s just someone’s idea of a joke,” she repeated mechanically.
Mrs. Brown’s gaze lingered on the crate, clearly marked PARIS. Her eyes narrowed, but she made no comment. “Here, come help me choose my pelisse. I bought some new ones.”
“Won’t we be late?”
Mrs. Brown looked at the clock. “We have time. Come on. After today, there will be no one to laugh and tell me they become me abominably.”
Penelope smiled around the lump in her throat. “All right, Mama. You go on. I’ll be there in a moment.”
The minister’s voice droned on and on. Nev looked at his bride. She looked adorable-her shining brown hair was braided and curled and adorned with about fifty silk forget-me-nots that fluttered and bobbed with every movement of her head. Her light-blue muslin dress was embroidered with more of the small flowers. Yes, she looked adorable-but she had been crying. Nev was sure of it. He had not the faintest idea what to do.
This was not how he had imagined his wedding. Not that he sat around dreaming of it like a girl; but yes, he’d thought of it once or twice, and he’d always planned a last glorious night of bachelor debauchery, a bride with an indistinct but joyful countenance, and-and Percy or Thirkell at his side, or the two of them grinning at him from the front row and miming toasts and the key turning in a leg shackle.
Instead, he had spent his
last night of freedom sitting in his rooms, sober as a judge, gazing at the empty decanter and thinking about Amy. He had gone to bed early. Now, his friends weren’t in the church at all, his mother was sobbing brokenheartedly, and his sister was sitting furiously straight and refusing to look at him. And his bride had been crying.
He couldn’t blame her. Tomorrow night they would be at Loweston. Loweston doesn’t look quite the same anymore.
Trapped in the country on a run-down estate. Far away from London and the comfortable life she knew. Without her friends. About to bed a stranger. Nev gulped.
Poor Miss Brown must be terrified.
“Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now or forever hold his peace,” the minister finally intoned. Nev felt a flash of panic. He glanced suspiciously at his mother, but she showed no signs of emerging from her handkerchief with an impediment.
Nev was so relieved that when the minister said “forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her,” he winked at Miss Brown. No mistresses, he mouthed. Preoccupied with the sudden blossoming of a smile on her face, he almost missed his cue to say, “I will.”
“Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Miss Brown turned to look at him, her smile still in her eyes. Her clear voice reached effortlessly to the far corners of the church. “I will.”
Nev couldn’t explain why he suddenly felt a thousand times better. He just did.
But when it came time for the ring, the unthinkable happened. He took it carefully from his pocket. It wasn’t the Ambrey ring-his mother had refused to take that off-but it was another of the entailed family heirlooms. In fact, the ring he was giving Miss Brown was bigger than the Ambrey ring, because he knew that would annoy his mother, and besides, he had always liked women in heavy jewelry. It was a square agate intaglio face, ringed with-well, he was fairly sure the large clear stones were paste, but they were pretty. The thick band was gold, at any rate. It had been cleaned and fitted to Miss Brown’s finger the week before.
She had made no demur when he showed it to her, but he was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he had never seen her wear anything but a tiny gold locket or, once, an amber cross on a chain. Was she eying the ring with distaste?
He took her hand and began, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow-”
Someone, somewhere in the church, laughed. “Rather the other way round, isn’t it?”
Nev dropped the ring.
Six
It hit the stone floor with a heavy thunk. Mrs. Brown’s shocked gasp was probably audible all over the church. She muttered something in which the words “bad luck” were clearly discernible.
Frozen in horror, Nev stared at Miss Brown. The girl gave a minatory glance to the congregation, then knelt and retrieved the ring. “I don’t believe in bad luck.” She smiled encouragingly and handed it back to him.
This time he got it on.
It was done, then. By her own hand and with her own voice Penelope had given herself to Lord Bedlow, to obey and serve him, as long as they both should live.
For the rest of her life was a long time.
Her father drew her aside. “Penny-I wish you very happy, but I want you to know-your mother and I discussed this, and if he’s not good to you, we’ll get you a divorce. Never mind the scandal.”
Penelope laughed. So much for as long as you both shall live. “Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
Mr. Brown scowled. “Never mind that. For twelve thousand pounds Parliament will sunder you well enough. We want our little ha’penny to be happy.”
Penelope felt tears pricking again. Her Nonconformist father was strictly opposed to divorce. “I won’t need a divorce, Papa,” she said, and kissed him.
Six hours later, a divorce sounded pretty tempting. Her new husband did nothing but fidget, stare out the window, and complain about how slowly they traveled. “Loweston is only a day’s journey from London by post,” he said for perhaps the twentieth time.
“How much extra is it to hire post-horses? Surely we might have afforded it.”
Lord Bedlow waved a hand airily. “Oh, post-horses are no good. My father used to keep our own horses at every coaching inn on the Norwich Road…” He trailed off.
“What does an extra day matter?” Penelope asked gently, although a moment before she had felt like snapping at him. After all, she would have liked to lessen their journey too. She was tired and jostled, the relentless rhythm of hoofbeats and carriage wheels was giving her a headache, and Lord Bedlow had already eaten most of the food her mother had packed for them-but she wasn’t complaining.
He slumped back against the seat cushions. “It doesn’t, I suppose.”
“Are you very eager to be home?”
It was painfully easy to tell when Lord Bedlow was being evasive. He fidgeted like a guilty schoolboy.
She hid a smile. “Not very eager, then?”
He shook his head. “I-I suppose I ought to warn you. I haven’t been there in over a year. I don’t quite know what to expect. My father’s solicitor assured me it could be put to rights with a little money.”
“But you’re worried?”
“My sister told me it wouldn’t look like I remembered. She didn’t think the harvests had been very good.” He looked at her. “But-it couldn’t have got too bad, could it? In a few years?”
Penelope had no idea how bad it could have got. She had never been out of the city for more than a few days before. “I don’t know anything about farming.”
Lord Bedlow sighed and resumed staring moodily out the window. She wanted to ask more, to ask if he trusted his father’s solicitor and what kind of accounting system the steward used and if he’d looked at the books. But she doubted he would have useful answers to any of her questions, and she didn’t want to make him feel worse.
She wondered what it would have been like to make her wedding journey with Edward. There would have been no uncomfortable silences, of that she was sure.
She watched her husband surreptitiously. It was getting dark. In a few hours they would have to stop and take rooms for the night.
Would Lord Bedlow find it tiresome to have to tutor a virgin? Would he expect her to know things she didn’t? What if she turned out to be a poor study?
And yet, he had seemed happy with her response, the one time he had kissed her. She closed her eyes and replayed the moment for the thousandth time-his lips descending on hers, his body warm and close. Again, that uncomfortably tantalizing ache started in her-well, down there-and moved throughout her body. His hand on her breast had burned through her dress, her corset, and her shift. What would it feel like on her skin?
It was getting too dark for Nev to see much out the window. He turned his gaze to Miss Brown, who was leaning back in her seat with her eyes closed. Since she couldn’t see him, he let himself ogle the swell of her bosom above the black muslin of her gown. He remembered the feel of her breast in his hand. Soon Miss Brown wouldn’t be obliged to wrench herself away when he touched her.
He recalled abruptly that she wasn’t Miss Brown any longer; she was Lady Bedlow now. That sounded deuced odd. Lady Bedlow was his mother. “Can I call you Penelope?”
Her eyes flew open. She flushed and shifted in her seat. Was there something improper about his request? “Um-yes, of course.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course,” she repeated quickly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Nev could think of only too many reasons.
“What shall I call you? Bedlow?”
“I suppose so.” He grimaced. “I haven’t got used to it yet.”
“Your
friend called you Nev at Lady Ambersleigh’s.”
“You remember that?”
She smiled. “It isn’t every day the heir to an earldom offers to choose my hors d’oeuvres,” she teased.
“Really? Even with a hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds?”
Her face fell.
“Oh, Lord, how tactless of me! I didn’t find out about your dowry until later, truly.”
She shrugged. “It’s quite all right. It is irrational to object to the truth. I should rather thank you for not feeding me Spanish coin.”
She really had a way of making him feel small. “I never feed anyone Spanish coin. I’m not clever enough.”
One of her brows arched in delicate skepticism, but she smiled. “I don’t know quite how these titles work. Would it be improper for me to call you Nev, still?”
Nev had been determined to leave every scrap of his old life behind and start anew, but-his nickname sounded so right on her lips. It sounded comfortable, and intimate. “I don’t see why. No one new will be Lord Nevinstoke until-until we have a son.”
“ Nev it is, then.” She sighed. “I’m ashamed of being so frivolous, but-there is something about a title, isn’t there?”
He felt faintly self-conscious. “In my experience, girls prefer a scarlet coat.”
Her eyes narrowed. “It would put you in your place if I agreed with you.”
Nev smiled. “It would, but I suspect you would rather die than be suspected of being officer-mad.”
“I hope I am not so immoderate. However, I have always felt that choosing a pleasing form, easy address, or an attractive costume over sense and character is unpardonably foolish.”
“But can’t one choose both?”
“Surely a good, sensible man must always be pleasing.”
Nev was opening his mouth to scoff when he realized he could not do so without sounding like the worst kind of cad. The full extent of her innocence crashed down on him. It really had never occurred to her that there might be a good and sensible man whom she did not wish to take to her bed. Apparently she never thought of taking men to her bed at all.