Convenient Marriage

by Ling, Maria

  She barged into the kitchen with such force that Mary started.

  "Is everything well, madam?"

  "Fine." Eliza set the tray down and leaned against the table. "My parents have arrived. I'd forgotten they were coming. So I'm afraid there will be two more of us for dinner."

  "Not to worry," Mary said in a comforting tone. "I've made pie enough for a dozen. And one of the hens has been slow to lay this past week. I could kill and pluck her for supper, if you like."

  "Please," Eliza said. Her composure returned. She was the lady of her own domain, small and squalid as it was, and she could offer her parents as good a table as they were used to. No tea or chocolate, to be sure - Edward frowned on such town luxuries - but there was fresh bread and golden cheese, and meat that had been hung in a clean outbuilding and not some dingy butcher's yard.

  She stood up straight and held her head high.

  "Chicken for supper would be delightful," she said. "Please see to it, Mary." She stalked off into the parlour, and only then remembered she still wore an apron. With brisk movements she tore it off, crumpled it up and hid it behind a chair.

  A bustle at the front door warned of her mother's approach.

  "But that's impossible - " her mother said in a shrill voice. "Eliza sounded so contented in her letters." She broke off as she entered the parlour. "My dear girl!"

  "I'm sorry I'm not dressed to receive you," Eliza said. "I had mistaken the date." She strode over to her mother and hugged her.

  "Well!" Mrs Swann leaned back and studied Eliza's face. "You look happy enough."

  "I am happy."

  "Is Edward kind to you?"

  "Very."

  "Then I see no reason for your father to charge about the house like a raging bull. He's threatening to horsewhip Edward, you know."

  The thought of her portly middle-aged father matched against Edward's broad shoulders and strong arms made Eliza smirk.

  "He could try," Eliza said. "But I think it would be unwise, and not in the best interests of his health."

  "He is in excellent health," her mother objected.

  "At present, yes."

  Mrs Swann almost managed to stifle a laugh.

  "Come and see Mrs Dean," Eliza suggested. "She'll be delighted. We hardly ever get visitors."

  They had pacified Mr Swann enough to take a seat in the parlour when Edward arrived. He walked into the room with a jaunty air, untroubled by suspicion. When he spotted the assembled company, he froze.

  "You!" Mr Swann did not trouble with courtesies. "Outside, if you please, sir."

  "Good morning," Mrs Swann amended. "There appears to have been a little confusion about the dates. I trust our visit will not inconvenience you."

  "A pleasure," Edward muttered. He stared at Mr Swann, who strutted towards him like a cockerel set to fight off an intruder. "Are you dyspeptic, sir?"

  Eliza snorted with suppressed laughter. Mr Swann, however, remained unamused.

  "This is not the home you promised my daughter," Mr Swann said. "It is not the life you promised her. You deceived her, and me as well."

  "I did," Edward said. "To my deep regret. But the harm is done now. We are married. Nothing can change that."

  "True," Mr Swann conceded. "But if you think for one moment that I will permit Eliza to remain in this - in this - " His lips worked to form some ghastly word. Edward's jaw tensed.

  "House." Eliza stood up. "And of course I will remain. This is my home now. And Edward is my husband." She walked over to stand beside him. "I cannot condone his past behaviour, but the present satisfies me, and I hope and believe that the future will. Thank you for your concern, Father - " Eliza shot him as tender a smile as she could, though fear gripped her. She could not bear to choose between loyalty to Edward and her father's love. "But I am happy here. Truly I am. Please believe me, and for my sake try to forgive."

  Mr Swann settled. He placed one hand on each of her shoulders.

  "Tell me the truth," he said. "Are you indeed content with this?"

  Eliza swallowed. She must not cry now, or he never would believe her.

  "I am."

  Her father embraced her. Then he let her go, and swung around to face Edward.

  "You signed a contract," Mr Swann said. "Marriage articles. You undertook to provide Eliza with an annuity of sixty pounds a year during your lifetime, and a hundred pounds a year after your death. Are you good for that?"

  "I am," Edward said. Eliza bit her lip. She knew he couldn't do that and keep the farm: she had seen the accounts. But Father must not suspect it.

  "I thought it miserly at the time," Father said. "But I allowed myself to be taken in by your appearance and assurances. That was my mistake, and I shall blame myself for it for the rest of my life."

  "But it worked out for the best," Eliza urged. "If you had known, you would have forbidden the marriage. If I had known, I would not have agreed. But here we are, and I for one am happy."

  "Be careful," Mrs Swann said from her position on an aged chair. "You are dangerously close to excusing a lie."

  "I do not," Eliza said. "I never would. But I can still be thankful that things have turned out well."

  The door swung open. Mary's cheerful face poked into the room.

  "Dinner is served, madam."

  Eliza fought embarrassment as they took their seats in the dark room across the hall. She wished she could show her parents into one as airy and fresh as their own dining room in town. But the food on the table surpassed theirs in flavour, and her heart glittered with pride as she handed the butter around.

  "Jersey," she said. "From my own cow." She omitted to tell them she had milked and churned it herself.

  "It's excellent," her mother exclaimed.

  Mr Swann spread a thin layer on his slice of bread and bit off a piece. His suspicious expression cleared.

  "It is," he said. "I have never tasted finer."

  Eliza glowed.

  A bustle at the door drew her notice. Mrs Dean hobbled in, supported by Mary.

  "I had to come and dine with you all," Mrs Dean said. "It's been so long since I was even downstairs."

  Edward shot from his seat and helped his mother into her own.

  "Is it not too great an exertion?" Mrs Swann asked, her eyes shaded by concern.

  "No, no," Mrs Dean insisted. "Not for my dear Eliza. She is like a daughter here already. You should see what good care she takes of me."

  "Mary does it all," Eliza protested. "Please don't make me out to be more useful than I am."

  "But you read so beautifully," Mrs Dean insisted. She turned back to Mrs Swann. "And she tells me such marvellous stories about life in town - I wouldn't credit them if I didn't know her for a truthful girl. It helps, you know. One can't stare at the sewing all day."

  The talk descended into minutiae of mending and embroidery. Eliza listened with half an ear. She had some skill at both, but little interest.

  "Tell me about your herd," Mr Swann instructed Edward. "I am sorry to say I know almost nothing about such matters."

  Within moments, the two men were equally lost in the details of butter production. Eliza sat back with a sense of amazement. The afternoon that had started so badly had turned into an animated engagement between the families.

  She gave herself leisure to sample her own butter. It tasted like cream and sunshine, happiness and health.

  The gloom eased. Light streamed through the windows. Outside, clouds parted to reveal a vivid blue sky. The old dining room no longer looked dingy and worn. Instead it held the ripe expression of maturity.

  Edward turned towards her. Sunlight warmed his eyes.

  "Are you happy?" he asked.

  Eliza smiled at him. She wished they were alone, so that she could tell him all the thoughts that burst through her mind. How she loved this old place now, and loved his family, and loved living here as his wife.

  "I am," she said. Her eyes spoke for her - must have done - for he caught her fingers an
d carried them to his lips.

  "Then I am happy, too," he said.

  ***

  The carriage picked up Mr and Mrs Swann after supper, and they drove away amid a cloud of mutual well-wishes. Mrs Dean settled into bed, attended by Mary. Eliza lingered in the yard with Edward. Together they savoured the mild evening air and watched the sky tinge with gold.

  At length they sauntered upstairs. He drew the curtains while she removed her outer clothes and rinsed the dirt of a good day's work from her face and hands. Eliza debated whether to change into a clean shift, but could not bear to do so with Edward present. In time, she might. She tucked herself up in bed and waited for him.

  "Well," Edward said. He rinsed his own face and hands, then dried them on the sheet she had left out for him. "I appear to have married a woman who can spin straw into gold. How much Jersey butter did you undertake to provide for your father?"

  Eliza smiled at him. "We did not fix an amount. I know I still have a lot to learn. But he told me to send him a good sample weight for the butter market in York. He said it will cause a sensation there."

  Edward shrugged off his shirt. The muscles of his back moved under skin gilded by the evening light. Eliza reached out and touched him with tentative fingers. He paused for a moment, then turned to look at her.

  "I haven't asked," he said.

  "I know you haven't." She had seen him with the Jersey, firm gentle hands and endless patience, constant care. "But I would like you to know that, if you should wish to do so - " she swallowed, tried to stop the heat that spread in her body - "then I am not, or no longer, disinclined."

  Edward slipped his arms around her waist. He bent to kiss her, lips resting firm and warm against her own.

  "Good," he whispered.

  Passion surged through her. This was not the dainty delicate dish she had imagined, not the flutter of feeling that grew between the leaves of a book. This held a strength like the roots of mighty trees bursting through rich earth. Such power brought life into the world. And this was life, here and now, pulsing within her.

  She had wanted something grand. She had found it.

  ***

  About the Author:

  Maria Ling is the romance pen name of fantasy author M P Ericson. She lives on the edge of a moor in Yorkshire, England, surrounded by ruined abbeys and haunted caves. Visit her Smashwords author page for more stories.