by Lara Archer
“We thought we’d stay up here awhile, and have ourselves a proper wedding trip,” said Mrs. Bassett, and with an innkeeper’s nimble fingers, she whisked the pouch of gold back toward herself. “With your kind generosity, of course.”
“Penrith?” John repeated. That was maybe two hours to the south. Back in England, where no one could marry as hastily as here. Thank God. He still had time.
He might even be able to eat half a meal before he left, perhaps sleep for a short spell so he wouldn’t drop right off his horse on the way.
“You’d best hurry,” said Mr. Bassett suddenly. “I think maybe the vicar had some notion Miss Wilkins might...well, find a match with his friend. Mr. Chatsworth, that was his name.”
John fled back out the door.
An hour and a half later, he was pounding against the door of yet another vicarage, his head reeling from lack of food and sleep and from being shaken so many hours on horseback.
By the time the door opened—revealing a rather stunted older gentleman with enormous ears and a nose like a small cabbage, and a dinner napkin tucked into his collar—he had no mental energy left for manners.
“You can’t marry her,” he declared flatly.
The gentleman blinked at him, then, surprisingly enough, offered a kindly smile. “Marry whom?”
“Mary.”
“That’s what I was asking. Marry whom?”
Impatience made John’s head ache. “You are Mr. Chatsworth, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And Mary Wilkins came here to you, didn’t she?”
“Ah, yes, Mary,” said the old man. “Of course, of course. Wonderful girl!”
“Well, then. You must forget all about her. You’re can’t—you’re not—you’ve got...you’ve got the wrong sort of ears.” Muzzily, John realized he was going about this all the wrong way. “And anyhow, I love her.”
The man regarded him as though he had quite lost his wits. Which, quite possibly, he had.
And then a terrible thought occurred to him—the Wilkinses hadn’t come down here, then driven Mr. Chatsworth and Mary back up across the border to be married, had they? His exhausted mind could scarcely do the math, but surely they would have had just enough time to make the round trip, then deliver the couple back to Penrith again.
He stared at the old man in horror. “Are you—are you already married?”
Mr. Chatsworth chuckled. “Well, yes. Since you ask, as a matter of fact I am. Most delightfully and happily so.”
John staggered, putting his fist to the doorframe so he wouldn’t topple over. “Happy. Of course, you are happy.” All the blood seemed to have drained from his body. “You are the most fortunate of men.”
“Exceptionally fortunate, indeed, sir.”
John felt as if he would just sink straight through the dirt at his feet, and never come up again.
Mary was lost to him, after all.
And married to such a man!
And all because he had not waited until they were firmly married themselves before he’d made love to her in the woods. What an utter fool he’d been!
Before his legs truly gave out beneath him, though, an extremely rotund, extremely florid-faced woman of middle years came trundling up from behind the old gentleman, untying a gravy-spattered apron from around her belly. She smiled, looking like nothing so much as an amiable turnip. “Mr. Chatsworth, what is it?”
“A visitor,” said the old man, touching a hand to the woman’s back and drawing her forward. “And this, good sir, is my lady wife, Mrs. Chatsworth.”
This was Mrs. Chatsworth? Oh. Strength bore John up again. “Your wife? This is your wife?” All of a sudden, he wanted to kick up his heels and dance a jig. “You were not a bachelor, then. Thank God!”
“I thank God myself for that fact every day,” said Mr. Chatsworth. “And have for twenty years. But I would ask why it’s such a cause for celebration for you, sir.”
“Oh, Lord! There’s no time to explain!” said John. “Where have they gone? The Wilkinses? Thomas and Mary. I don’t see my carriage. I beg you, tell me where I can find them.”
An expression of understanding dawned on the old man’s face, and a new intelligence. “Ah, yes. I believe I understand all this now. You are the viscount, I suppose?”
Another pulse of shame. The sensation was becoming all too familiar. “They told you about me.”
Now Mrs. Chatsworth’s amiable face soured. “Oh, the viscount, are you?” Her voice went tight with disdain. “You have not done well, sir, I must say. Not well at all, by that sweet girl.”
But Mr. Chatsworth looked him carefully and consideringly up and down. “You do look dreadful, if I may say so, my lord. Haven’t slept, perhaps? Haven’t eaten?”
“No, sir. I’ve—I’ve been trying to catch up to Mary. To beg her to marry me. To beg her again.” He gave a sheepish smile. “I have actually been trying.”
Just as with the Bassetts, the declaration that he wanted to marry the woman he’d ruined performed a marvelous transformation in the attitude of the Chatsworths.
“Come in, come in, lad,” said the woman warmly, laying a motherly hand on his arm and urging him towards the dining room. “Have a bit of good supper with us, while one of our boys sees to your horse. You’ll be with your Mary soon enough.”
“But where is she?”
“Oh,” said Mr. Chatsworth, looking suddenly alarmed. “She and her brother took the carriage home to Birchford. Tomorrow’s Sunday, you know. Mr. Wilkins must be there in time for church. He’s got to call the banns, sir—for your marriage to Miss Lawton.”
Chapter Fifteen
It was pouring rain as Mary sat in her usual spot in her family’s pew in church. After the warmth of the past few days, today was almost wintery, the glory of spring vanished like a mist. And just as well. She could scarcely bear to face the day ahead as it was, and sunlight and balmy breezes would have mocked her past the point of tolerance.
Thomas had offered to delay the saying of the banns—he would find some excuse—but Mary told him he must go forward with them. And she must be there to hear them with the rest of her neighbors, her spine straight, showing Lord Parkhurst that she knew full well now of his perfidy, and that she would never again let him demean her.
She would get through this. She would hold her chin high, however pale and sickly her face might look.
Sam Brickley, in his kindness, sat beside her. He’d stayed by her for days, like a loyal guard dog. “Just if you need me for anything, Mary,” he’d said, by which she knew he meant he’d fight the viscount bare-knuckled if the man dared approach her again. He knew everything that had passed, and, bless his good heart, did not judge her for it. And he’d offered marriage, several times, quite earnestly, though she’d repeatedly told him no.
But where was John?
She’d been fortifying herself to see him—forcing herself again and again to imagine him sitting in the Parkhurst pew just ahead of where the Lawtons sat, or perhaps sharing a pew with his soon-to-be bride’s family in acknowledgement of their coming union.
At the moment, the Lawtons were in their customary seats, showing every sign of complacency. But the viscount was conspicuously absent.
Too ashamed to show his face before the vicar, whose sister he’d debauched?
She hardly heard the service going on around her, and stayed uncharacteristically mute through the prayers and the hymns, staring blankly at her hymnal, which might as well have been written in ancient Greek.
Her ears picked up, though, when Thomas began to speak the words she dreaded: “I publish the banns of marriage between John Robert Spenser Hereford Hollings, Viscount Parkhurst, of Parkhurst Hall, Birchford, in the parish of Selby, Yorkshire, and Annabel Elizabeth Lawton, of Lawton Grange, Middlethorpe on the Wolds, in the parish of Selby, Yorkshire. This is the first time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matri
mony, you are to declare it.”
Thomas paused. Silence in the church.
Thomas’s voice rose again. “Your are to declare it,” he repeated. “Now.”
Mary’s lungs constricted. Of course no one was going to speak. Everyone around her was delighted their lord was taking a lovely, elegant wife. No one but Thomas and Sam had any idea what had happened between her and the viscount, or how much she was suffering.
Thomas sighed loudly from the pulpit, and she heard the rustle of his prayer book as he prepared to move on to the next part of the liturgy, the first of the banns having properly been said.
At that moment, the church’s red doors banged open.
Everyone turned, and in limped a man made half of mud—hatless, his clothing torn and damp, one hand pressed to his ribs as he made his way up the aisle. His cheek was bleeding and his hair was plastered to his skull, soaking wet. Only slowly did he become recognizable as Lord Parkhurst.
As wretched as his body looked, his expression looked like thunder.
“Stop! Stop the service!” he said, in a voice that rang with command, despite a hitch that suggested considerable physical pain.
Mary’s heart leapt. She’d spent the last few days trying to hate him, trying to drive any tender feelings from her mind, but now seeing him before her—battered and covered in ooze—she wanted to rush to him. Only Sam Brickley’s big form blocked her from leaping out into the aisle.
“Steady, Mary,” Sam whispered gruffly. “Let’s hear what the man has to say.”
The viscount stopped three-quarters of the way down the aisle, leaning heavily against the side of a pew. “Forgive me...everyone,” he panted, seeming to struggle now to catch his breath. “I’m afraid I fell off my horse coming here. Several times.”
Good Lord—his eyes looked half-sunken in his head, great bruise-like dark circles underneath them. Where on earth had he been this morning? And what had he been doing?
“The last fall,” he said ruefully, “sent me down the banks of the River Ouse. And a short way downstream.”
The entire congregation gaped at their lord.
No one moved for long, confused moments. But then Lord Lawton rose to his feet and clapped his hands together as though a bleeding, limping viscount were a cheerful sight, and said, “Oh, there is Annabel’s betrothed. And not a moment too soon, my lad. Of course you were rushing to get back for the reading of the banns. I should have told all our friends Parkhurst had urgent family business in York—gone to retrieve a necklace that belonged to his grandmother, is that not correct, Lord Parkhurst? To give my Annabel as an engagement gift—and clearly overwrought himself in his hurry to return to her side.”
John glared at the man, holding up his own hand as if to block Lawton’s speech. He took another step forward, but stopped, wincing. “I’ll ask you not to speak for me ever again, Lord Lawton,” he said.
His gaze then swung from Lord Lawton to Mary herself. His eyes were full of painful emotion, though she could not be sure how to interpret it.
She felt dizzy, overwhelmed, and was grateful for the strength of Sam’s hand beneath her elbow.
At the pulpit, Thomas cleared his throat loudly. “You may wish to know, Lord Parkhurst, that I’ve just finished saying the first of the banns. For you and for Miss Lawton. I was asking if anyone knew of any cause or impediment,” he said, with a definite note of suggestion in his voice, “why the two of you should not be joined in Holy Matrimony.”
John drew breath to speak.
Before he could say a word, though, Annabel Lawton leapt to her feet. “Wait!” she cried. “I know a cause!”
Every head swiveled to her in disbelief.
“What cause?” asked Thomas.
Annabel blinked several times nervously and licked her lips. “Well—the cause that...I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to marry him.”
Her father and her erstwhile fiancé both looked at her with almost identical expressions of astonishment.
She continued on blithely. “A lady can do that, can’t she? Call it off? Throw a man over? It is her prerogative, is it not?”
“That’s true,” volunteered Sam, giving Mary’s elbow a squeeze. “A lady can do that. And no one would blame her.”
“In that case,” said Annabel, “I wish to change my mind. Lord Parkhurst and I, we simply do not suit. He is too...he is too....” She waved her hand at the viscount uncertainly, looking him up and down with her brow slightly furrowed, as though she were seeking a suitable flaw.
What on earth was she doing? Annabel Lawton had been working for months to bring the viscount to heel and make her his viscountess. And now she wanted to reject him?
When Annabel’s pause went on too long, her sister Rosamund popped up beside her. “He is too unconscious of fashion!” she declared, her chin lifting rebelliously. “Anyone can see that.”
“Yes,” echoed Annabel instantly, nodding her head as though her sister had just uttered the wisdom of Socrates. “Unconscious of fashion.”
John stretched out his arms, making a show of his ruined garments.
“And muddy!” added the youngest Lawton girl, Vanessa.
John helpfully lifted one foot to display his earth-clotted boots.
Something more was going on here than the surface words implied, but Mary could not for the life of her decipher what it was. Annabel surely could not be rejecting John for his dress. The viscount might not be in the first stare of London fashion, but—with the exception of this morning—his clothes were always tasteful and excellently cared for. Not to mention that they fitted his body superbly.
Lord Lawton’s face had heated to boiling. “Are you all mad? What sort of reason is that for rejecting a marriage? Lord Parkhurst is a fine young man—the leading peer of this county! The best match any young woman could reasonably hope for.” He turned his wrath directly on Annabel, stabbing a finger at her. “And you, young lady, will do exactly as you are told!”
Annabel’s jaw jutted out. “No, sir. I will not.”
“You will,” commanded Lord Lawton. And then to John, with look of lightning in his eyes, he said, “Young man, go change your clothing, and appear before us as a gentleman! And then you will, by God, get down on one knee and beg Annabel’s forgiveness for your...your crimes of fashion.”
John lifted a challenging eyebrow. “I have no wish to change, sir,” he said. “No wish at all to change.”
“You see!” said Annabel. “I certainly can’t bind my life and soul and fortunes to a man who thinks like that.” Her eyes looked earnest, but her mouth was twitching slightly, as though she were having some difficulty keeping a straight face.
Rosamund, for that matter, seemed to need to keep scratching at her nose, and Vanessa was staring down at her feet, her shoulders shaking as if she were either crying or laughing.
John gave a shrug. “I’m afraid, Lord Lawton, that my flaws cut too deep in any case. And the greatest flaw of all: I know I do not have the power to make your daughter truly happy.”
At that, Lawton puffed up like an outraged peacock, and turned his fury on his eldest daughter once more. “Listen well, young lady. If you persist in this absurdity and do not marry Lord Parkhurst, you may rest assured that you will never have a dowry from me! See if you like marrying a more...fashionable man if he hasn’t sufficient blunt in the bank!”
Rosamund’s eyes flashed, and she said, “If you cut off Annie’s dowry, you shall have to cut off mine as well! I won’t accept a penny of it!”
“And mine!” shouted little Vanessa. “I won’t take a shilling!”
The remaining daughter, Lucinda, quiet until now, gawked at the rest of them like they’d all gone stark mad, but when Rosamund elbowed her, she squawked out, “Mine too!”
“There!” said Rosamund in triumph. “Then we’ll go off and marry colliers or...or highwaymen, and all your grandchildren will grow up in rags, or worse, and won’t that be a fine credit to the Lawton name!”
&nb
sp; “Indeed!” said Annabel. “And it will be your own fault! I know the law—well, Rosie knows it. She’s been studying up. I’m far too old for you to command me to marry anyone. At my age, my signature must be on the marriage documents, or they’re not valid in the slightest.”
Lord Lawton was opening and closing his mouth like a fish. At last he blustered, “Enough of this balderdash! Before you throw your life away, Annabel, tell me one flaw—one genuine flaw—that could keep Lord Parkhurst from being an excellent husband to you!”
Annabel heaved out a great breath, a sort of tremor passed across her face. “For heaven’s sake, Papa. Lord Parkhurst would be a terrible husband for me.” She seemed to be struggling with something inside herself, something she didn’t want to say. “Can’t you see the truth? He’s—he’s never truly wanted me.”
Mary looked to John. The expression on his face was still hard to read. He watched Annabel with as much surprise as any of the other dumbfounded parishioners, but he was clearly making no protest.
“What are you talking about?” replied Lord Lawton. “The man is mad in love! Why when he came to declare his intentions to me, the passion he expressed—”
“Did he?” snapped Annabel. “Did he express passion, truly? I find that rather hard to believe. From everything I’ve seen, the man has never enjoyed a single minute he’s spent in my company. And, quite frankly, I found every one of those minutes utterly exhausting. Trying like a foolish little prancing spaniel to please him any way I could, when it’s clear every word from my mouth gave him the headache.” Her eyes were suddenly shining with unshed tears. “There’s no hope he’ll ever even like me.”
“Poppycock!” said her father. “You are the most attractive young lady in the county!”
All at once, Annabel’s cheeks went dusky red and the tears began to roll down her lovely cheeks, as though she’d been holding in great pain for a very long time. Her arms were visibly shaking. “Apparently I am not the most attractive lady! If Lord Parkhurst found me so attractive, then why—” she paused dramatically and turned towards the front of the church.