Marriage Made in Hope

by Sophia James

  ‘I am just having a hot drink. Perhaps you might join me?’

  He seemed perplexed and for a fleeting second Sephora thought he might refuse, but then his reserve softened and he nodded his head. In the midst of her chamber he was hard, large and masculine and she was glad for the chairs before the fireplace to direct him to.

  Pouring tea, she watched him take up the dainty china cup and smiled, for she could smell a stronger libation on his breath. Brandy, perhaps, or whisky.

  ‘This room used to be my sister’s,’ he said after a moment and the shock of the information had her placing her own cup down.

  ‘I thought there was just you in your family?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I had a sister, too, who was six years older than me. Her name was Sarah. She was in London at her school on the day our parents died.’

  ‘And you. Where were you?’

  ‘I had been sick for a number of months with a chest infection and was recuperating at Colmeade House. After that I was never ill again. Not with that particular malady anyway.’

  ‘Who came to tell you about what had happened?’

  His eyes skirted away from her, but not before she had seen the pain in them.

  ‘No one. They did not return that night or the next one. Finally a friend of my father’s arrived to let us know.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘The servants and me. The family lawyer came down the next day and I was quickly returned to school.’

  ‘Just like that?’ She was horrified and furious and she could hear the anger in her voice. ‘To just send off a small grieving child like a parcel and expect him to be all right? It is archaic and dreadful and if I ever have a baby I should hope that—’ She stopped when she realised what she was saying and thumbed through the pages of the journal with shaking fingers.

  ‘It was my sister’s, but she died shortly after my parents did. It’s embossed with her initials, but as they are now the same as your own I thought you might like it.’

  S. St C. Sarah. Sarah St Cartmail. Francis and Sarah St Cartmail.

  All the little pieces of the Earl of Douglas were beginning to get filled in. Like a puzzle, this bit explaining that one and the tragedy of his past overshadowing everything.

  What was it Amethyst Wylde had said today? ‘Francis has been alone and I always hoped that marriage would be his saving grace.’

  He’d lost so many people and was still losing them. No wonder he had tried so hard to make sure Anna was safe when she was snatched in the street. Even his kindness to the homeless mangy dog began to have an explanation for he’d probably felt like that, too, as a child. Nowhere to go. No one to love him. She wondered how his sister had died, but did not like to ask.

  ‘If I began to write stories again, could I read some to you?’

  He looked up at that and smiled ‘You’d want to?’

  ‘Only if you did not laugh at them or tell me to stop writing.’

  ‘Seth Greenwood used to pen tales about gold and the fever of it. He even had one published in the Hutton’s Landing newspaper. He got a Draped Bust Dime for his efforts and had it mounted in a piece of old polished swamp wood with the eagle side up. I brought it home for his mother.’

  ‘What was he like? Adam Stevenage’s cousin?’

  ‘Larger than life and full of it. I met him in New York when I first arrived in the Americas. He was working in steel, but had always dreamed of the gold and so with the last of my money and a tip he’d had from a dying priest, we headed south. We hired a wagon to make it easier for his wife and children and went down the Fall Line Road between Fredericksburg and Augusta. Three weeks later we were ready to pan on the banks of the Flint in Georgia. The same river he died in.’

  Sephora was intrigued by the world described, and she was reminded of her uncle’s dream of seeing foreign lands and different oceans.

  ‘Not too many weeks ago a man on his deathbed told me that the biggest lesson in life was to find passion. It seems like at least Seth found his.’

  Francis nodded and stood, the scar on his cheek caught in the light of the lamp above his head, but his eyes were soft. ‘The money from the gold allowed me to invest in manufacturing and save the Douglas properties, but I’d give it all away to have Seth and his family back.’

  Without thought Sephora touched him, laying her hand across his and feeling the warmth.

  ‘I want to leave London for Colmeade House the day after tomorrow. It’s time I took you home.’

  * * *

  The next day Sephora received a note from her mother asking her to come and see her in the afternoon, but when she walked into the blue salon of her parents’ town house her heart fell.

  Richard Allerly was sitting talking with Elizabeth and when he saw Sephora he got up, a smile upon his face. Her mother had also risen and was speaking quickly.

  ‘I thought that the time had come to put all our cards on the table so to speak, my dear, and facilitate some sort of dialogue in order to clear things up between you two.’

  ‘Clear things up?’ Sephora could not quite understand what she meant, but Richard was quick to jump into the fray.

  ‘I realise that I was rather remiss in allowing our relationship to falter and I have been hearing a number of unsettling things about your new husband which, to be honest, I could no longer keep to myself. Your mother is as worried about you as I am.’

  When she did not speak he carried on.

  ‘Douglas may have been a war hero in Spain, but he certainly seems to have made a mess of his time in the Americas. Not only was he tried in a court of law there for killing one man, but he was also rumoured to have hunted and shot another. He is a dangerous reprobate and there is no telling what he might indeed do to you, should he be inclined to.’

  ‘Who told you of this?’ She tried to keep her voice steady, but was so furious she wondered how she could even form the question.

  ‘It is common knowledge all across London. People are looking at you with pity in their eyes—the duped bride who has no idea of the monster to whom she is now married.’

  ‘I see. Where is Papa?’

  ‘He has gone to see his sister and will not be back till the day after tomorrow.’ Her mother answered this question, her voice tight.

  ‘And Maria?’

  Now Elizabeth looked less certain. ‘She is in Kew Gardens with Mr Stevenage and Aunt Susan.’

  ‘Then it is a shame that they are not here, Mama, because I would have liked them all to hear what I have to tell you next.’

  As she took in a shaky breath Richard crossed the room and threaded his arm through her own. ‘Come, my angel. I think you need to sit down for you look flustered, pale and upset and I realise that this is all a shock, but...’

  The same feeling she had had for so many years came upon her just at his words. He generated a weakness in her, a worry and a fear that was so familiar she almost felt sick. The woman she had been might well have sat and been fussed over, all her insecurities rising like butterflies off a summer tree. But she had changed and the new her was nowhere near as accommodating to perceived failings.

  ‘Please do not touch me.’ She waited until he had taken a step back before she went on.

  ‘I shall not be commenting on the stories about the Earl of Douglas, Richard, but I will say that I know the circumstances surrounding them because my husband himself has told me.

  ‘I will also say that for years now I have been unhappy and frightened, of you and me, of us together. You make me less, Richard, whereas all Francis St Cartmail does is make me more. I can think with him and converse. I can offer opinions and argument and ideas that are far different from his own and expect no redress or criticism. The passion for life which you said I had none of has returned and I thank you for that because without your honesty I may have never realised that my own was so lost. There is nothing you could say, Richard, ever, that would tempt me to be the girl again who I was with you. That girl has gone. She has grown
up and become this woman and I like her strength so very much more.’

  Her mother had simply sat down on the sofa and Richard looked as if he might strike out, but Sephora smiled through the undercurrents and held herself together.

  ‘I am leaving London for Colmeade House in Kent tomorrow, Mama, and I have no idea when I shall be back, but I hope we will be gone for a while. Maria, no doubt, shall be down to visit and you and Papa are welcome when you can understand that the Earl of Douglas is the man I have willingly chosen to be my husband forever and I have absolutely no regrets about my decision.’

  With that she simply turned around and took her leave, a few strides to the front door where she collected her cloak and hat and then down the steps and into the waiting Douglas carriage.

  Once there she took in a breath and brought her shaking hands up in front of her, her marriage ring glinting in the light.

  She had done it, she was free, the cloying possessiveness of Richard Allerly behind her once and for all. Every word she had uttered held a truth that was astonishing and illuminating and wonderful. Francis gave her strength and power and the ability to be herself.

  Dragging her journal from her bag, she found a pencil and began to write of how it felt to be alive and young and free. To know the passions that her uncle had spoken of on his deathbed, the gifts of life and hope and happiness.

  ‘I’ll live life for you, too, Sarah,’ she promised, the pad of her finger tracing the embossed initials in the leather of the cover as the whole of her world opened up into new possibility.

  Chapter Twelve

  Colmeade House came into view finally. She knew Francis had found the journey uncomfortable for she could see a sheen of sweat across his upper lip, although he only smiled at her when she mentioned her concern. Anna on her other side had been turning and squirming for the whole trip just to catch a glance of the carriage behind theirs, the one that was carrying Mrs Billinghurst, her son, Timothy, and the dog.

  ‘Hopeful does not like travelling. He was sick the other day when Timothy took him across London and Mrs Billinghurst said that it is his stomach and that some dogs are born that way.’

  ‘Well, he has another minute or two to last at the most for here is the estate now.’ They all looked out of the window at this, the vista of a Palladian-style home greeting them, the stone tinged almost pink in the afternoon sun.

  ‘But it’s so beautiful,’ Sephora found herself saying, the edge of slight ruin taking nothing from its grandeur.

  ‘My great-grandfather built it, but ever since it’s been left to stand against the elements and with the help of passing time and little capital invested in it this is the result. My own father hardly touched it.’

  ‘There is plenty of room for Hopeful to run around in it anyway,’ Anna said quietly as the carriage came to a halt. ‘Will it be safe for him?’

  ‘It is safe for the dog and safe for you, too, Anna. There is nobody and nothing here to hurt you, I promise it.’ Francis said this in a tone that did not brook argument and when Anna smiled at him Sephora could see a softness there that made her look beautiful. Breathing in, she looked away and swallowed back the tears.

  The park went as far as the eye could see, falling to a lake in the foreground and a round loggia of sorts far in the distance, the tall trees that bordered the open spaces planted with the idea of creating a pattern of space and grandeur. The heritage of the Douglases was as unexpected as it was beautiful. She’d imagined a smaller estate and one in better condition. This would need much in the way of time and energy to see it functioning properly.

  She remembered then what the earl had told her about his not coming home as a child because it was too much of a nuisance to open the house for one small boy. The boy who would inherit everything. The child who had been an orphan just as Anna was one. What must this place have represented to a son who had just lost his parents? The missing tiles on the roof, the aged patina in the stone, the flaking paint on every window sill observable? Beautiful, but beaten somehow, rich in its lines of architecture, but poor in its maintenance.

  Timothy had joined them now with the dog and his mother, Mrs Billinghurst, behind them. Some of the Douglas servants from town had come down to Kent two days prior to get everything ready. Sephora was glad Francis had hired a number of men to make certain the property was secure.

  In front of the wide stairwell those serving the house had lined up, the aprons the women all wore white and shining in the sun.

  ‘Come, I will introduce you, Sephora. Many of these people have served my family for generations. Mrs Billinghurst will take the children inside for luncheon.’

  She wished she might have simply followed them up the wide steps into the house, but came behind Francis to meet his staff. The earl was charming to each of them though she could see the distance he also maintained. A smile here and a question there and then they, too, were on the way up the steps and into the house proper.

  He took her into a salon to his immediate left and shut the door behind him, leaning against it and closing his eyes. It had been weeks since the attack in the streets of London and each day he had got better and better, but the long trip had exhausted him. She could see it in the grey tinge on his skin.

  Crossing to a cabinet she opened the door and pulled out two glasses and the first bottle that came to hand. ‘Drink this. You look as if you need some fortifying.’

  Francis smiled when he tasted the tipple. He was sitting now on a wide sofa near the door. ‘Whisky?’ he asked. ‘Seems appropriate somehow. At least if I get drunk you won’t have to take me home and as we are already married Winbury will no longer be a problem.’

  Their glances met across the small distance and something inside her moved. The wound had stopped him coming to her room in London as he had tried to recuperate, but here...already she could see an expression on his face akin to intimacy.

  ‘I do wish for this marriage of ours to be a proper one, Sephora.’

  ‘Proper, my lord?’ She used the words carefully.

  ‘I would want you to sleep with me, every night. It won’t be a sham.’ He glanced up at her then without any hint of question and she swallowed because suddenly Richard’s words were back in her ears echoing around the chambers creating uncertainty.

  ‘You are cold and unfeeling in this way, Sephora. You always have been.’

  Was he right? Already her heart was beating faster in worry and she stared at him mutely, unable to formulate any answer at all to explain it away.

  * * *

  The colour had gone from her face, Francis thought, simply drained like water in a sink at his words. She looked horrified and frightened, not the normal worry of a wife who went to her marital bed for the first time but something else.

  ‘Did Richard Allerly ever...?’ He stopped there because she was shaking her head madly. Placing his drink on a table he stood as she answered his question.

  ‘No. He was not like that and I was glad for it.’

  ‘Not like what?’ Lord, this conversation was getting away from him and why would she be glad?

  ‘Did he kiss you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you liked it?’

  ‘No.’ Now her eyes were like wide saucers of pure shock.

  ‘But you loved him?’

  ‘At first I did. A long time ago. After that I was trapped. Everyone just expected us to be together. Like you expect seasons to change or Christmas to come or the organ to be playing in a church on Sundays. No thought in it really just...’

  ‘Presumptions?’

  ‘Exactly. And at the end I hated him.’

  This was said so softly he could barely hear her.

  ‘He said... Richard said...I was cold and passionless and had always been that way and I think it is the truth.’ Her fingers were clamped into shaking fists, every knuckle stretched into white. ‘Once I overheard Papa saying the same thing to my mother. Perhaps it is the sort of weakness that runs through a family a
nd blights it, a fatal flaw like Hamlet with his prevarications or Achilles with his ego. And if so then I am not...’

  He reached out for her, simply taking her lips, hard and honest and without hesitation; and if he felt her tremble he ignored it, opening her mouth under his and coming within. To plunder, to taste, to know what it was that lay between them in the shock of their contact, to feel the red hot want of lust and roiling waves of desire that raced inside. To show his unusual new wife that she was not frigid or damaged at all.

  And then he broke away.

  ‘Passionless? I do not think you are that.’

  But she stood there dazed, with her mouth open and her breasts heaving and when he registered the voices of Anna and Timothy coming down to them along the hallway he leaned forward and whispered.

  ‘Tonight, Sephora, tonight I promise to show you just what burning feels like.’

  * * *

  It was happening all over again just as it did at the river; one action that changed her perception of the world, one kiss that had made everything different.

  And his promise of tonight? The loosening of something inside her made her light-headed and light-hearted and transformed her from the woman she was before to the one she was now. She had felt everything the stories talked of when he had kissed her, the breathlessness, the possibilities, the wonder. The wooden Sephora Connaught had simply melted into a living flame, wanting him, wanting more, and understanding so terribly all that she had missed with a man who had only ever made her feel less.

  The dog brushed up against her, his wet nose leaving a trail of darkness on the silk of her skirt. Francis was laughing at something Anna had said and Timothy was chatting to him as if the Earl of Douglas were the masculine embodiment of everything wonderful.

  This was a whole full life given to her when she had least expected it and risen from the ruin of her mistakes. She decided that she would drink whisky with her husband for the rest of her years and smiled. She was glad that he had given her the time to recover by distracting the others though when his gaze came across hers she remembered again his heated promise.