Miss Billings Treads The Boards

by Carla Kelly

He was mud from head to foot. Only the whites of his eyes gleamed bright in his face. He was not smiling. Not taking his eyes from her, he took another swallow of the rum. When he spoke, his tone was almost conversational, but not quite.

  “Kate, I rode over to Leeds this morning—no, yesterday morning now—to deliver my daily letter in person this time. Who should approach me but Ivy all a-twitter, lathering something about Gerald and Phoebe eloping to the border with you and Will.”

  “Oh, but—” she began and stopped when he held up his hand.

  “We simply can’t have that, my dearest wife,” he murmured, lulled finally by the rum. “You would be committing bigamy. Well, almost. I couldn’t have my wife in jail. How would it look, Kate? I ask you.”

  It was her turn to stare. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Wearily he motioned to her to join him at a table. She sat and clasped her hands in her lap, scarcely daring to breathe.

  “I could pull out my daily letter, except that it is probably as muddy as I am.” He took her hand, mud and all, running his long fingers over the delicate bones in her fingers. “Kate, I’ve been trying to tell you …”

  He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I’m trying to tell you that we’ve been leg-shackled—at least partly—ever since that first performance of Well Married.”

  It was so quiet that even the rain seemed to have stopped to eavesdrop. Kate stared at the marquess. Without a word she pulled the rum from his grasp and took a deep swallow. It burned a trail down her throat that would probably be there for days, but when it glowed in her stomach, she took another swig before pushing it back.

  “I think you had better explain yourself, Lord Grayson.”

  He sighed and swiped a muddy hand across his face. “Call me Hal, for heaven’s sake!” He reached in his pocket and pulled out an oilskin packet. “I had every intention of giving this to you in person this morning—or is it yesterday morning now?—along with the daily letter, when I went back to Leeds.” He pushed it across the table toward her and went back to the rum.

  Mystified, Kate opened the pouch and took out a close-worded document. Her mouth opened as she read quickly through it and then stared at the two signatures at the bottom. “Heavens, Hal, is this what I think it is?”

  He nodded. “I am afraid so.” He looked at the others who had gathered close to the table, their own trials abandoned for the moment. “I know you were all wondering why it took me so long to sign my name to the marriage document during that first performance of Well Married.”

  Kate nodded, remembering. “There I was, swooning in Malcolm’s arms, waiting for that next cue.”

  “My dear, have you ever tried to write ‘Henry William Augustus Edward George Tewksbury-Hampton, Fifth Marquess of Grayson’ in a hurry?” He touched her shoulder and gave her a little shake. “Kate, that document you signed on stage was a special license, a real one.”

  She shut her mouth and looked deep into his eyes, which glowed with something besides irritation now. “And Mr. Meacheam is a vicar, isn’t he?” she asked, her voice filled with wonder as she remembered that afternoon when she wandered into St. Philemon to light a candle and found the little man there.

  “He thought it would be fun to tread the boards. I am sure he had no idea what I was up to.”

  She looked at the document again. “My lord, it is not dated, and there are no witness signatures, so it cannot possibly be legal.”

  He took it back from her. “Yes, well, so much for my brilliant idea.” He took her hand then, edging his chair closer. “I had planned, after the final curtain, to show it to you and ask Mr. Meacheam to read the lines all over again, speaking our real names out loud, so they could be witnessed properly. Then I would have registered this document in the parish of St. Philemon, and everything would have been right and tight. Don’t ask me what made me think this would be just the trick to push you over the edge into matrimony.”

  He released her hand, sat back, and just looked at her. She waited for him to speak, and when he did not, it was her turn to lean forward. “Why didn’t you show it to me then, Hal?”

  “Once I had done it, I was struck with the stupidity of such a stunt, and how angry you would be at me for pulling your strings like that. How on earth could I ever explain this much audacity?” He shook his head. “And then it was too late.” He handed the document back to her. “Keep it, or bum it, or rip it up and throw it at me. I don’t mean to stand in the way of any marriage you may wish to contract with Will. Personally I had thought Maria partial to you, Will, but Lord knows I’ve made such a muddle of this summer. I could easily be wrong.”

  “Kate, I suggest that we put this man out of his misery at once. Maria and I are engaged, not Kate and I, although I certainly am fond of her,” Will said quietly. “Hal, I think Ivy committed serious prevarication to get you to pursue us to the border.”

  Hal smiled then for the first time. “And she looked so innocent!”

  “She is, after all, an actress,” Maria chimed in, her hand in Will’s.

  “So she is,” Hal murmured. He rose. “Well, I wanted you to know, Kate. Keep it for a souvenir of this summer.” He squared his shoulders and turned toward the tavern keep, who had remained transfixed during this entire recital. “I’d like a room, keep. I’m too tired to go back tonight. And have them put a bath in it.”

  “Yes, and make sure the bed is not too narrow,” Kate said quietly, rising to stand beside the marquess. “And I like a fluffy pillow.” She took hold of the marquess’s hand. “When the others leave in the morning, we would rather not be disturbed.”

  Hal looked at her, and a smile spread slowly across his face. Without another word he gathered her in his muddy arms and kissed her. She clung to him as the others applauded.

  “Is that your answer?” he asked, breathless.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, reaching up to flick some of the mud out of his hair. “Obviously you are so deranged that I daren’t send you home unmarried.” She glanced around Hal to the innkeep. “Sir, is there a church in this town? Can you give us direction? Darling, do you think this special license is still valid?”

  “Yes. We should have the lines read again, with our proper names this time, and then dated. Once it is witnessed—Gerald? Will?—we can register it here in the Postlethwaite parish. Are you sure, Katherine?”

  “Oh, Katherine, is it now?” she asked. “I have never been so sure of anything. I love you most amazingly.”

  Unable to hide his grin, the tavern keep directed them to St. Stephen the Martyr and begged to accompany the midnight wedding party. “I disremember when anything this entertaining has ever happened in Postlethwaite,” he said as he threw on his cloak and held open the door.

  It was no easy matter to wake up the vicar, but required any number of pebbles thrown at his window on the second story of the vicarage. And when Hal explained the nature of the visit and showed him the special license, it took that worthy a moment to rub the sleep from his eyes and determine that it was truly a marquess requesting his services.

  He examined the special license. “It’s already signed,” he protested.

  “Ah, but not dated and not witnessed,” Hal replied, holding Kate’s hand tight.

  “Monsieur, you are dealing with one of England’s greatest eccentrics,” Gerald stated when the vicar appeared to hesitate.

  “And he will make a generous donation to your parish poor-house when you’ve done the deed,” Will added.

  “You are so free with my resources,” Hal murmured to the runner.

  “Just payment for a summer’s aggravation, Hal,” Will said.

  “How generous?” the vicar asked, his voice warming considerably.

  “Five hundred pounds,” the marquess said, tugging at his riding cape as the rain started down his back.

  “Then step inside, my lord!”

  It was a quick wedding inside the dim church, with no more light than a candle or two that the vic
ar lit. They murmured their responses, Hal slid a ring on her finger, and they were married. After they signed again at the vicar’s insistence, writing over their names written on stage in act five of Well Married, the document was duly registered.

  “I love weddings,” Maria sighed. “If only Mama could have been here.”

  “You’ll have one of your own soon enough,” Kate said, her hand firmly clasped by her lord. “And you, Phoebe.”

  “In a few years, Kate. We can wait.”

  They sloshed back to the inn, where the tavern keep, who had hurried ahead, presented mulled wine for a toast to the happy couple.

  Will raised his cup. “Long life and many children, and may none of them have aspirations for the stage.”

  “Especially that!” said Hal. “From now on, the Tewksbury-Hamptons will confine their thespian agility to aisle seats, halfway up the house.” He set down his cup and took Kate’s hand again. “And that is the end of our public performance,” he said. “Phoebe, you and Maria find a room together. I’ll pay everyone’s shot, but you had better all be out of here tomorrow morning and on your virtuous way back to Leeds.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Phoebe said meekly.

  “Tell Malcolm we will name our firstborn after him.”

  “Pray God it is a boy!” Will exclaimed.

  Hal laughed and kissed Kate again. “I don’t know about that. I suspect that the daughters in our family will be smarter than the sons.”

  “Oh, one moment!” Will exclaimed.

  “Sir, we have delayed our wedding night three and a half weeks already, and neither of us, I might add, is getting any younger. Ow! Kate, you are a dreadful minx.”

  Will approached the stairwell. “It is merely this, Hal. Have you any idea who hired me to watch you?”

  With a twinkle in his eyes Hal motioned for Kate to sit on the stairs. “Rest yourself, my dear; it’s going to be a long night.” He turned back to Will. “You will never believe it. My wretched valet, the one who shot me in the first place, felt so remorseful that he spent his entire severance fee to make sure that I was located and in good hands.”

  “Your valet?” Will repeated.

  “The very same. About a week ago I received quite a contrite letter from him, apologizing yet again and begging his pardon for creasing my already thinning hair.” He helped Kate to her feet. “He wrote me the letter from the safety of a Russian spa, so I do not think I need fear another attempt, as long as I stay safely in Kent and avoid actors, valets, and bats. If he does molest me again, I will set Kate on him. Now good night, sir.”

  Kate laughed and allowed Hal to tug her toward the stairs. “You really have a place in Kent?” she asked, her voice surprisingly alert for one o’clock in the morning.

  “Yes, a lovely one. And I am richer than you can imagine. What a catch I am, Lady Grayson!”

  “Rich enough for me to deed over the Banner Street Theatre to Malcolm?” she asked.

  “What a capital idea, wife. Kate, I love you.”

  The room was low ceilinged and snug, with the invitation of bed covers turned back and the pillows fluffed. The maid was pouring the last bucket of hot water into a tin tub by the fire. She giggled and hurried from the room.

  “Maria has my nightgown in her bandbox,” Kate exclaimed.

  “You won’t need it,” Hal assured her and grinned at her embarrassment. “I’ll even let you bathe first. Once I get in, the water will look like the last eighty miles of road. It will look better in the tub than on you.”

  “Really, Hal,” she murmured, “my blushes.”

  He winked at her and took off his jacket, sighing with pleasure as she undid his neckcloth, threw it down, and started on his buttons.

  She stopped then, her hands pressed on his chest. “I need to know something,” she said.

  “Say on, lovely one,” he replied, gathering her close, “but make it brief.”

  “It is only this, my love. You could have solved my money woes at any time, couldn’t you? Surely it was quite possible for you to arrange a draft on a Leeds banking firm. I mean, all those contortions I went through to raise money for that writ of guarantee, including hair loss …”

  His hands went to her hair, and he kissed the top of her head. “Why should I be the only one suffering hair loss?”

  “Do be serious! I mean it. Why were you so determined that I should struggle through this by myself?”

  “That’s easy. You may outlive me. I’d like to know that if something ever happened to me, you would not fold with the first blast of cold air. I’ve seen it happen, and I never wanted that in a wife. You’re a strong woman, Lady Grayson, and I will never fear for my children or their inheritance.”

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and he stooped obligingly. “That compliment fair takes my breath away,” she whispered, her arms tight about his neck. “Now, set me down so I can get on with your buttons.”

  He did as she said, pulling out his shirttails as she redoubled her efforts on the buttons. It was then that she noticed the ring she had received in the dim church and stopped, her eyes lighting up with even more pleasure.

  It was the wedding band from the pawn shop, the one with flowers etched in the gold. She turned it around on her finger, and then rested her forehead against Hal’s bare chest. “You wonderful man. I thought it was gone. I looked and looked when I went to redeem Ivy’s brooch.”

  “Well, I beat you to it,” he said. “Turn around now and let me see how small your pesky buttons are.” He unbuttoned her dress, pausing every button to kiss her along the spine. “Mercy,” he breathed. “What a lot of buttons.” He undid the last button and turned her around as she pulled down her dress. His sigh of appreciation went all the way down to his boots. With an effort he tore his gaze back to her eyes. “You know, I could get you a finer ring, at least one that didn’t come from a pawn shop, but something tells me you have formed an unnatural attachment to this paltry little thing.”

  “You know me so well,” she marveled.

  “I wager I will know you much better by breakfast time, wife.”

  * * * *

  About the Author

  A well-known veteran of the romance writing field, Carla Kelly is the author of twenty-six novels and three non-fiction works, as well as numerous short stories and articles for various publications. She is the recipient of two RITA Awards from Romance Writers of America for Best Regency of the Year; two Spur Awards from Western Writers of America; a Whitney Award for Best Romance Fiction, 2011; and a Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times. Carla’s interest in historical fiction is a byproduct of her lifelong interest in history. She has a BA in Latin American History from Brigham Young University and an MA in Indian Wars History from University of Louisiana-Monroe. She’s held a variety of jobs, including public relations work for major hospitals and hospices, feature writer and columnist for a North Dakota daily newspaper, and ranger in the National Park Service (her favorite job) at Fort Laramie National Historic Site and Fort Union Trading Post National Historic Site. She has worked for the North Dakota Historical Society as a contract researcher. Interest in the Napoleonic Wars at sea led to a recent series of novels about the British Channel Fleet during that conflict. Of late, Carla has written two novels set in southeast Wyoming in 1910 that focus on her Mormon background and her interest in ranching. You can find Carla on the Web at:

  www.CarlaKellyAuthor.com.