Behind her Emma said gently, “Miss Ginevra, it’s time to dress.”
Reluctantly the girl rose from her perch at the window and went to the maid, who was removing the gown reverently from its wrappings. When she raised her arms to help Emma slip the dress over her head, the slide of cool silk against her bare skin made Ginevra feel as if she were donning a mantle of ice. While Emma fastened the row of tiny buttons up the back, Ginevra regarded her reflection dispassionately in the long mirror. It was a beautiful dress, she admitted, certainly no one could deny that. Her father, giddy with relief that his financial worries were over at last, had sent to a fashionable London dressmaker, demanding that she spare no expense in providing his daughter with a bridal outfit that would “rival that of Princess Charlotte herself.” The couturiere responded admirably, not so much because of Sir Charles’s orders as because she realized the advantages inherent in dressing the future Marchioness of Chadwick, and the resultant gown was a miracle of restrained elegance, rich without overwhelming the young bride it adorned. It was made of white silk patent net over an underslip of ivory mousse une de soie, with a very high waist and a low square-cut neckline that revealed the soft swell of her breasts. The bodice and hem were heavily embroidered with ivory silk and seed pearls, and the pattern was repeated more lightly on the short puffed sleeves. “C’est un petit reve d’une robe,” Madame Annette—nee Annie Brodie of Ipswich—declared, and Ginevra agreed: it was a dream of a dress—for a nightmare.
Emma’s skillful fingers had shaped Ginevra’s dark gold curls into a heavy coiled chignon at her nape, and her bare throat seemed very pale and defenseless, its vulnerability emphasized by the ivory miniature of her mother that she wore on a white velvet ribbon, her only ornament except for the Chadwick ring. Silently Ginevra watched in the cheval glass as Emma stood behind her and pinned an ankle-length veil of Brussels lace onto her hair with a fragrant coronet of orange blossoms and white roses. When she drew the veil down over her eyes, her vision became obscured by the tiny flowers powdering the lace. It’s like looking through snowflakes. Ginevra shivered. A snowstorm in June. No wonder I feel so cold.
Emma handed Ginevra her long white gloves and her prayerbook, and Ginevra noticed that tucked inside the front leaf of the book was a spring of rosemary. She regarded it quizzically. Emma said, “Cook sent that up for you, Miss Ginevra. It’s for luck. She said we mustn’t neglect the old ways.”
Ginevra smiled then, her first real smile in days. “That was kind of Cook. I’ll have to go down and thank her.”
Emma shook her head. ‘There isn’t time now. But we’ll all be there at the church. She’ll see it then.”
“Of course.” Ginevra turned away. At the door she halted suddenly and stammered, “Emma, I ... I don’t think I can...”
Even through the veil the other woman could see that Ginevra’s honey-colored eyes were shimmering. Swiftly she gathered the girl to her bosom. “Hush, Ginnie, hush,” she crooned as she searched her mind frantically for words that would still, the trembling of the slim body in her arms. “Everything will be well, you’ll see. Think ... think how proud your dear mother would be, to see her daughter looking so beautiful and about to be married to a fine lord.”
For a moment Emma wondered if she had said the wrong thing, but then Ginevra pulled away from her and said stiltedly, “Of course, you’re quite right This is what she longed for.” She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin with a defiant, almost regal air—an effect she promptly spoiled by sniffing inelegantly. Her eyes widened and she squealed in distress, “Oh, Emma, quickly, where is my handkerchief? My nose is ... is going to...” Clumsy seconds ensued while Emma tried to breach the barrier of the long veil to pass Ginevra a scrap of embroidered linen. By the time disaster was narrowly averted, both women were giggling mirthfully, and Emma offered up a silent prayer of thanks that Ginevra’s lachrymose mood had passed. With an encouraging smile she ushered the girl out of the room to meet her waiting father.
The village church was small and undistinguished, but its squat exterior of weathered native limestone was softened and given dignity by the magnificent twin willow trees that grew on either side of the entrance. As Ginevra’s father handed her down from the carriage, she surveyed the mossy facade with affection. Although in recent years she had had little time to attend services, she loved the old church. Her mother was buried in the churchyard alongside the almost forgotten baby brother who had lived just long enough to be christened, and Ginevra knew that she would miss the comforting presence of those graves when she worshiped in London. She supposed that she and Lord Chadwick would occasionally go to church in Town, probably some grand cathedral like St. Paul’s. He did say that religion was currently fashionable among the aristocracy.
Ginevra was touched to note that the yard was full of people of all ages, decked out in varying degrees of “Sunday best,” and most of them sported white flowers in their buttonholes, bridal favors in her honor. They were the villagers, many of them her father’s tenants, and she had been their mistress since she was twelve years old. She had played with their children when she was little, and later while still only a child she had taken over her ailing mother’s duties of nurturing and caring for them in time of sickness or want. At least one of the toddlers skipping among the-gravestones was a baby Ginevra had helped deliver when the midwife was ill. Now they had come to pay tribute to their Miss Ginevra as she made a great marriage to a rich and powerful lord, and they shook their heads in wonder to think that the little girl with yellow pigtails who had once had the run of their cottages was now about to become a marchioness, next best thing to a duchess.
When Ginevra and her father reached the door of the church, the congregation was already assembled. The sexton gave a signal, and the vicar’s wife began pumping out the processional hymn on the wheezy reed organ whose dissonance had been the bane of the parish for decades. As Ginevra lingered in the vestibule, anticipating the moment when she and her father would start down the aisle, she wondered suddenly what Lord Chadwick’s first wedding had been like. She knew so little about him, about his life before he disrupted her own. Probably then a great choir had sung anthems by Bach or Handel, and his lady had come to him preceded by a dozen bridesmaids. Ginevra had no attendants. Her closest friend was Emma, but she was sensible that the older woman would have been mortified by any suggestion that she be maid of honor. So Emma stood at the back of the church with the other servants, smiling tenderly, while Ginevra clung to her father’s arm and slowly made her way to the altar and the stranger who waited there for her.
White patterns of lace floated before her eyes, shimmering as she walked, blurring her vision and imparting a fantastic aura to the scene. Two men loomed before her: the vicar in his snowy surplice, and Lord Chadwick, dark and impeccable in a grey tailcoat, a single perfect ruby ornamenting his intricately tied cravat. Ginevra thought dazedly: This isn’t happening, it’s a dream, a chimera. Soon Emma will waken me, and I’ll be in my own room again, all these apparitions will vanish ...
But the familiar voice of the vicar cut through the comforting mist, and Ginevra’s father mumbled something and slipped away from her, patting her arm awkwardly as he retreated. Lean, strong fingers grasped her hand and guided her forward to kneel at the altar. She would not look up at him. As they settled onto the worn cushions that had served generations of parish couples, she kept her eyes trained on his hands, the long and powerful digits that curled firmly around her small ones, directing her movements as easily as he would control those of a skittish filly. Somewhere over her head she heard his deep voice respond clearly to the vicar’s exhortations. In turn she murmured her own replies softly, tonelessly, and when the time came, she slipped the white glove from her left hand and let him take her pale, work-roughened fingers in his brown ones again. “With this ring...” she heard Lord Chadwick say, and he touched the tip of her thumb with a wide gold band that was warm with his body heat. “In the name of the Father.
..” He moved it to her index finger. “... and of the Son...” Middle finger ... and of the Holy Ghost.” Now he was slipping the band down over the knuckle of her ring finger, to the place where it would remain forever. “Amen,” he said, and his hand tightened possessively over hers.
He rose from his knees in one lithe movement, drawing her up after him. She still kept her eyes resolutely downcast until she heard him mutter in a commanding undertone, “Look at me, Ginevra.” Slowly, shyly, she peeked up through her lashes, and as she did he lifted the lace veil away from her face, and she could see him clearly for the first time. The sheltering mist vanished from her mind as if burned away by the fire leaping in his eyes, and their gazes locked, jewel-bright, blue and gold. She stood mesmerized, unconscious of anything but the man towering over her, until one corner of his stern mouth twitched and he murmured, “Well, little Ginnie?” And sliding his large hands around her slender neck so that his fingertips caressed her nape and his thumbs traced the delicate line of her jaw, he bent to kiss her.
To her surprise his mouth was firm yet gentle, urging rather than demanding her response, and as her lips began to move under his in this, her first kiss, she quivered, stunned by the unsuspected sensations he was arousing in her. By the time he raised his head she was breathless, her face flushed with wonder, and, oddly reluctant to break contact, quite involuntarily she reached up her hand to stroke the hard line of his mouth. Someone in the congregation suddenly sobbed with pent-up emotion. Chadwick, wryly aware of the enrapt eyes concentrated on them, caught Ginevra’s fingertips in his own and kissed them lightly before tucking her arm under his. “Later, my love,” he whispered as the reedy organ gasped out the opening chord of the recessional, and Ginevra’s astonished delight at the endearment was tempered by the knowledge that his voice sounded amused and somehow triumphant.
When the Chadwick coach finally climbed out of the lambent Kennet Valley and crossed southward into the shady forests of Hampshire, Ginevra gratefully pulled back the russet leather curtain from the window to allow the cool breeze to fill the interior of the carriage and play over her flushed cheeks. She peered out the window behind to see if she could catch a glimpse of the baggage coach that followed with Emma, the marquess’s valet, and the luggage. When she did not see it, she settled against the cushion with a sigh, and beside her her husband asked solicitously, “Are you weary, my dear?”
She turned to smile from beneath the stiff brim of her hat. “I am a little tired, my lord, but mostly I am overwarm.”
“Of course you are,” he agreed, although he seemed personally unaffected by the heat. “This afternoon is exceptionally sultry. Why don’t you remove that very fetching bonnet and rest awhile? We still have two or more hours to travel before we reach Queenshaven.” Even as he spoke he began loosening the jaunty yellow bow tied just under Ginevra’s left ear, and with a moue of relief she massaged her nape and smoothed the damp honey-toned tendrils that had escaped from her heavy chignon. Before he set it on the seat opposite them, Lord Chadwick perused the bonnet, a confection of lacy woven straw and sun-colored ribbons. “My compliments to your milliner,” he said with the air of a connoisseur. “Is this French? Never tell me it was crafted by some village seamstress!”
Ginevra shrugged. “No, of course not. It came from London. Papa contracted with a woman called Madame Annette to provide my wedding dress and trousseau. I don’t know anything about her, but Papa says her designs are quite the thing among the ton.”
“Papa has extravagant tastes,” Chadwick muttered under his breath, thinking of the sizable accounts he himself had settled with Annette over the years. Her establishment in the Burlington Arcade was a favored shopping place for certain fashionable ladies who had come under his protection in the past. Ah, well, the couturiere was a shrewd businesswoman who realized she was valued as much for her discretion as for her style. He continued aloud, “Your father chose your dressmaker well, Ginevra. You looked ... quite breathtaking in your gown this morning.” He watched a hint of pink wash her cheekbones, like the blush on a cream-colored rose petal. “I hope your wedding was everything you desired.”
Acutely aware of his gaze, Ginevra schooled her expressive features with an effort and answered too quickly, “Of course it was, my lord.” She twisted around on the seat and peered through the window at a flock of freshly shorn sheep browsing in a clearing beside the road. Curly lambs frolicked among the older animals, who looked naked and defenseless deprived of their heavy winter coats. One fat ewe lifted her head and stared stupidly at the passing coach.
“Ginevra,” the marquess said, and reluctantly she turned to him. “I detect a certain reserve in your enthusiasm,” he chided, his blue eyes probing her face. “Tell me, my dear, for I do sincerely want this day to be all you ever dreamed of.”
Ginevra lowered her lashes and frowned down at her rings, toying with them as if to ease the unaccustomed weight. She pondered her reply. “I was not ... disappointed with the wedding ceremony,” she said at last, deliberately overlooking the fact that throughout most of the service she had felt like a puppet, a lay figure acting out a part for someone else. Only the kiss had been real. “And ... and I did enjoy the breakfast afterward. Cook quite surpassed herself, I’ve never seen such a feast before. But...” Her voice died away, and she bit the soft underside of her lip.
“But what?”
She heard the steel in his words, and with a deep breath she continued, “My lord, while I appreciate that you must prefer the comforts of Queenshaven to the lesser facilities available to you at Bryant House, I should have liked very much to delay a day or so before beginning the journey to Surrey. I ... I always looked forward to celebrating my bridal in the country style, with dancing and games and a charivari that would continue until dawn.” She halted abruptly as she saw a pained expression flicker across his dark features. Lud, she thought, what a pea goose I am! Her new husband was far too sophisticated a man to find pleasure in the old customs she loved, heritage of her rural upbringing. If he danced, it would be a waltz at Almack’s, never a romp on the green, and God help anyone who suggested that he allow the wedding party to lead him to her chamber and fling their stockings across the bed. “Forgive me,” she murmured stiffly, “I spoke without thinking. I should have realized that to a person of your exalted station, such rustic amusements would seem unbearably tedious.”
As Chadwick listened to her snappish words, the kindly light faded from his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was cold and heavy with sarcasm. “I do not like being called a snob,” he said disdainfully, “and I collect I must remind you—my lady—that for these past four hours your station has been quite as exalted as my own.”
Ginevra flushed again. “Forgive me, I ... I...”
Chadwick waved away her stammered apologies impatiently. “Leave it, and try to rest. We accomplish nothing by talking while you are tired and fretful.”
Ginevra shrank back into her corner and closed her eyes, not so much to rest as to hide the teardrops trembling on her lashes. What had come over her? He had been so kind, for a moment they had been conversing almost as ... as friends, and then she ruined everything with her outrageous remarks. Of course he was angry. To accuse a man of Lord Chadwick’s stature and accomplishments of anything so petty as snobbery was not only unjust, it was stupid and offensive. He’d probably never speak to her again.
Thus she was surprised when she heard the marquess say quietly, “My dear, I’m sorry that your wedding day has not been as festive as you wished. I know when one is very young, there is a certain appeal to all the traditional trappings and celebration, the noise and the bawdy jokes. But I beg you to remember, I am not quite so young as you—and I have had all that before.”
Ginevra’s eyes flicked open. She asked carefully, “Is that why you had no friends, no family, at the wedding? I was greatly surprised when not even your son was there.”
Chadwick shrugged. “Although I did inform Bysshe that I was remarrying, I prefe
rred him to remain at Harrow until the end of the term. He missed several weeks of study in March when his brother ... At any rate, I have arranged special tutoring for him, and it will be another month or more before he leaves school for Queenshaven. If you wish, he may join us briefly in town in the fall.”
Ginevra protested, distressed by the cavalier manner in which her husband dismissed the presence of his younger son, his only son now. “But, my lord—”
He said, “The subject is not for discussion.”
“Yes, my lord.”
After a moment Chadwick noted, “I did invite my mother to the wedding, but she felt the journey would overtax her. However, I have strict orders to present you to her as soon as we reach London.” He observed the expression on Ginevra’s face. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you know I had a mother?”
She shook her head. “No one ever mentioned her. I suppose I assumed she was dead.”
“Oh, no, she’s very much alive, although her health is not as robust as it once was. Probably the reason you have not heard her mentioned is that until two years ago she was resident in France, under house arrest, as it were, like the other British subjects unfortunate enough to be caught in France when the First Consul decided he had had enough of the Treaty of Amiens. She was in enforced exile for over twelve years.”
“How awful!” Ginevra cried.
“Not really. She was quite comfortable. She lived in the chateau of some distant cousins of hers, members of the ancien regime who were ... adaptable enough to keep their heads during the Terror. At first I had some wild, half-formed notion of journeying to France clandestinely to ‘rescue’ her, but before I could work out my plans, she wrote to advise me that she had married her jailer.”
The Chadwick Ring Page 5