For the first time, Aurora was moved. His story of his search for a bride had been as commonplace as his appearance was plain. But that he was suffering from an illness that always ended in an agonizing death was truly tragic.
“Perhaps,” he went on, “you have been given a clue by my appearance. I am thin and pale, I know. I live in Islington for the fresh air, but I cannot follow country pursuits. Nor do I attend social functions. I have a large library, and still play the violin when I have sufficient energy.”
Aurora’s spirits sank. First the demand that her wedding be unacknowledged by society, now the news that if she married Edward Francis no hunting parties, no balls, no visitors and no outings awaited her. “So am I to take it that a clandestine wedding is necessitated by … a shortage of time?”
He did not look at her. She saw his throat work as he swallowed repeatedly. He must have planned his answer to this inevitable question, but he was uncomfortable nonetheless. Some time passed while he considered.
Aurora waited. The sunrays had travelled while they had been talking and now fell upon Edward Francis’s shoulders, making the green of his coat greener. At last his eyes, so black they seemed neither to absorb nor reflect light, turned their flat gaze towards her. He spoke softly.
“You are quite correct. I do not have much time left on this earth. I cannot wait for the banns to be read and the period required by the law to expire. Furthermore, in view of your family circumstances, we shall not be delayed by the drawing-up of a financial contract. If you are willing, we can be married next week.”
Aurora contemplated him steadily. She could not warm to the man, but she was impressed by his candour. And although his declaration of love had not moved her, without doubt it had flattered her.
“After my death,” he continued, “my lands and fortune will be bequeathed to you and, if we are so blessed, my son or daughter. I am my parents’ only child, Miss Eversedge. I long for an heir.”
Into Aurora’s brain floated the often-imagined picture of herself and a tall, strong man kneeling at the altar of St Margaret’s, beneath a radiant east window. She sat silently, her hands in her lap, contemplating the pale face of the man before her. A man old before his time, weighed down by illness and strain.
“Mr Francis,” she said at last. “I know I am free to refuse you. If I do, may I have your word that no part of what has passed between us today will ever escape your lips?”
He nodded, keeping his eyes on her face. “Upon my honour, you do, madam.”
“The choice is mine?”
He nodded again. Aurora felt the colour come again into her cheeks, but she kept her expression calm. “Then may I ask, sir, on what basis your choice of me as the woman you wish to marry is based? Apart from physical attraction, that is?”
He had not expected this. His countenance clouded; he cast his glance downwards, and was silent for a few moments, preparing his words. Then he raised his eyes, which regarded her with an apologetic, almost sheepish expression. “Miss Eversedge, you have just given me confirmation, if any were needed, of the prudence and intelligence I suspected you possess. You will commit yourself to nothing until you are satisfied that I am not intent upon villainy, and quite right.” He gave a shallow sigh. “I confess, I have not been entirely truthful. I did not address you in my letter by your name, but the fact is, I already knew it.”
His eyes continued to hold her gaze. He was embarrassed, but not, as far as Aurora could discern, humbled by his confession.
“Why did you not use it, then, sir?” she asked.
“I considered it. But I decided you would be more likely to hear me out if I met you first and explained my circumstances in person, before allowing you to know that my selection was not as random as I have implied.”
Aurora digested this. It sounded plausible. If the letter had begun “Dear Miss Eversedge”, her first thought would have been that Edward Francis had vaulted several social barriers in one leap, not only following her home but addressing her by name when they had not been introduced. It was true, she would have thought the less of him, and his manners.
“I understand, sir,” she told him warily. “But pray tell me, how did you know who I am?”
He was still looking at her steadily, but now his eyes took on a sharper look. “Because I knew your late father, William Eversedge.”
Aurora’s surprise must have shown on her face, because Edward Francis smiled sympathetically. “I am sorry to astonish you so, but the truth is, both my own late father and myself were associates of him and his friends, and share his…” He paused, searching Aurora’s face for recognition of what he was about to say.
She gave it without hesitation. “His loyalties?”
“Indeed. I too am loyal to King William, and I am persuaded you are also.”
“I am, sir,” Aurora assured him. “The King may be the Defender of the Protestant Faith, Mr Francis, but be in no doubt that I am equally unshakeable in my defence of it. King James shall never again sit upon the throne of England!”
He smiled. “You are your father’s daughter, I see.” His tone was mild, but there was conviction in it. “When I saw your mother, whom I recognized as William Eversedge’s widow, can you blame me for taking special notice of her eldest daughter? Quite apart from your obvious charms, I knew you would share the convictions my father passed to me. And so would any heir you and I might be fortunate enough to have.”
Aurora considered. Sincere-sounding though this speech was, she was not seduced by it. She had been given the explanation she had asked for, and now all that remained was for her to make her decision. Nothing had changed in the last few minutes; her choice was still a stark one: between marriage to a man she did not know, and certainly did not love, and the rejection of money, status and family connections she may never have another chance to obtain.
She surveyed him carefully as he sat in the chair. His green suit, his pale countenance, his over-decorated cuffs, his pedagogic air – nothing about him attracted her. Was she about to agree to marry this stranger because she would be a fool not to? She had never considered herself mercenary, and had often been uneasy at the casual dismissal of love in favour of fortune that marriage seemed to demand. But now she had been given the opportunity to make a stand against the prevailing attitude, would she do so, or not?
Yesterday, her future had seemed certain, lying before her as plain as a map. She would continue to live in the amiable but restrictive household at Dacre Street, under her mother’s command. She and her sisters would do what they could to secure the attentions of, perhaps, an under-clerk, a hatter, or, if one of them were extremely fortunate, a young clergyman hopeful of employment as soon as a living became available.
If Aurora had been a man, she would have been able to express her interest in the daily turmoil of London life, from the activities of Parliament and the court to the latest satirical play. She would have been able to frequent coffee houses, immersing herself in political gossip, being amused by the fearlessness of young plotters and agitators, discussing the contents of pamphlets and journals with other like-minded supporters of the king.
But because she had been born female, she could do none of these things. Certainly, she had read every one of her father’s books, many of them more than once, and she read the news; she knew what was happening in the world. But Mrs Eversedge’s social circle did not include educated people who brought their intellect to bear on the questions of the day. Aurora was forced to accompany her on calls, sitting for hours in cramped parlours, stifled by both the lack of air and the banality of the conversation. And dreaming of escape from the world of women.
But today, her future was no longer certain. Freedom beckoned. Though it might come at a price Aurora could not predict, the powder keg was ready for her to ignite the fuse. She would have the freedom to be mistress of her own house, to wear fine clothes, and speak of politics with concerned men who were prepared to hear her opinions. And then, later, to b
e a rich widow, perhaps the mother of a son or daughter, and to be able to choose her second husband from a stream of suitors. What an extraordinary luxury for the daughter of a mantua-maker!
Her heart thudded. Ignoring the whispering of her conscience, she extended her hand. “I thank you for your offer, Mr Francis,” she said, endeavouring to keep her voice steady, “and I have made my decision. I will marry you. I accept your condition of a clandestine marriage, and I will do my best to be a good wife.”
“My dear Miss Eversedge. Aurora…” He rose, bowed and kissed her fingers lightly. “You have made me the happiest of men.”
Aurora did not wish to contemplate her own conduct. She stood up, no longer looking at him. “Since I am but seventeen years old, sir, you must ask permission of my mother. If you will excuse me, I will fetch her now.”
He nodded. “Will you not shake my hand?”
The shadows beneath his eyes were deep, but Aurora no longer felt pity. He had secured the potential means of obtaining an heir before it was too late, and she had secured her escape from Dacre Street. “Yes, I will shake your hand,” she said. “We have made a bargain, after all.”
He took her outstretched fingers. His hand was scarcely bigger then Aurora’s own, with narrow fingers and well-tended nails. “Indeed we have, Miss Eversedge,” he replied without animation. “Indeed we have.”
A Garter on His Hat
Aurora plunged her nose into the scented handkerchief in her left hand. Her right hand held a bouquet, which would have served equally well to mask the stink of the river. But she did not want to use it as a nosegay. It was her wedding bouquet.
“For all that this river is called the Fleet, it is not very fleet,” observed Flora. “It hardly runs at all.”
“And it smells to heaven!” added Eleanora. “You had better hurry and get married, Aurora, so that we may escape from this unholy stench.”
“I cannot marry until my groom arrives,” replied Aurora.
“What will you do if he does not come?”
“He will come,” insisted her mother. “And by God’s grace, you and Flora too will come to be married in this place soon enough, stink or no stink.”
Eleanora pouted and looked with disapproval at the inn sign above their heads. “I shall not be married here!” she declared. “My husband will stand beside me at the altar of Westminster Abbey itself!”
“You wish to marry the bishop, then?” suggested Flora, with a sideways look at Aurora.
“Not at all, you simpleton…” Eleanora caught the look. “Do not tease me!”
Aurora too might have wished to be married in the sight of God, rather than in a plainly furnished room behind an inn, the ceremony presided over by a parson long since disgraced. She would rather have had the luxury of the time afforded by the reading of the banns in which to choose a length of fashionable material and have her mother make a beautiful wedding dress. But however much she had considered the situation during the seven days and nights that had passed since Mr Francis’s proposal, she could find nothing actually illogical in his request for a hasty wedding. They must marry now, and Aurora must be satisfied with only one item of new finery – a wide-brimmed hat, lavishly trimmed with flowers by the excited fingers of Flora and Eleanora. Apart from that, her blue dress and best gloves would suffice until such time as she could employ her own dressmaker and milliner, and visit the glover, hosier and shoemaker whenever she wished. In short, when she was Mrs Edward Francis, a woman of means.
She knew she should be happy that such a rich man wished to marry her, under any circumstances. But she did not feel happy. She felt perplexed, unsettled and disappointed.
“Something is happening over there,” declared Flora, craning her neck. “Could that be Mr Francis and his groomsman?”
A carriage had been prevented from coming nearer than the end of the street by the narrowness of the space between the jutting upper storeys. Two men emerged from its door, one tall and fair-faced, the other smaller and stooping.
“Aye, that is my would-be husband,” observed Aurora without enthusiasm. “And the man he was with in the park.”
Flora bounced a little on her toes. “The tall one is—”
“I know, the better-looking,” said Aurora. “You will have to set your cap at him, Flora. I am sure you know how.”
The gloom of the street was too great for Aurora to see Mr Francis’s features distinctly, but his wiry frame and round shoulders were unmistakeable. He was wearing another highly decorated jacket, dark red this time, and a long wig. His sword hung at his left side, but, unlike his companion, he did not rest his hand upon it as he approached. His right hand held a walking-stick, which he leaned on with every step.
Aurora’s heart contracted with pity. If his condition had so weakened him within a single week, how many weeks could she expect to pass before she became a widow? Silently, she prayed. If it please you, God, allow Mr Francis to live long enough for me to bear him an heir, and give his father happiness beyond the grave. This I ask you from my heart. Amen.
“My deepest and most humble apologies for keeping you waiting,” Mr Francis said to the ladies with a bow, “but I found myself indisposed this morning and had to take a little time to recover.” His friend went to his side, ready to support him if he staggered, but Mr Francis waved him away. His eyes beneath the curled wig alighted upon Aurora. “I am quite well now,” he said softly, “and happier than I have ever been.”
Aurora knew she had turned pink. She curtseyed. “I am honoured, Mr Francis.”
“Please, you must call me Edward. And so must all your family.”
The other ladies curtseyed, Flora and Eleanora unable to resist a giggling glance at one another. “Thank you, Edward,” said Mrs Eversedge.
“And this is my good friend and groomsman, Richard Allcott. Richard, allow me to introduce Mrs Catherine Eversedge and her daughters Miss Aurora, Miss Flora and Miss Eleanora Eversedge.”
They curtseyed; Mr Allcott bowed, ignoring the quizzical look thrown at him by Flora. “Delighted,” he said and, with a glance at Edward, he opened the door of the inn and offered his arm to Mrs Eversedge. “Madam, shall we enter?”
The innkeeper ushered them into a low-ceilinged room with a small window and a bare floor. Behind an oak table was a carved chair, and before it stood two plain chairs with shabby worked cushions. Aurora wondered how many hopeful, or apprehensive, or relieved, or possibly happy men and women had sat on those cushions.
An elderly man in the black garb of a clergyman appeared through a doorway behind the table. He indicated the assortment of benches arranged around the room, then patted the cushion on the left-hand chair. “The bride is to sit here, and the groom on the other chair, if you please.”
They sat down. Edward reached into his pocket and laid some coins upon the Prayer Book on the table, and the ceremony began. Before many minutes had passed, Aurora and Edward had each made their responses, and Edward had placed a gold ring upon Aurora’s finger. Within another few minutes the clergyman had presented certificates for them to sign, and in less than a minute after that, they were pronounced married.
“Your names shall be entered in the parish register without delay,” the clergyman informed them. And with that, he opened the door behind the table and disappeared.
Aurora was trembling. It was too late to go back now. She had done it. She was married. Her ears buzzed. All she could hear was her mother sniffling into a handkerchief.
She felt Edward take her arm. “The wedding breakfast awaits us at Hartford House,” he announced to the company. “Come, my wife and I will lead the way.”
Aurora got to her feet, and the little wedding party walked out of the mean room, through the inn and into the street. All around them strangers noticed their smart clothes and Aurora’s bouquet, and called out good wishes.
The carriage was still at the end of the street. Edward’s coachman, who looked no older than Aurora herself, handed the ladies to t
heir seats. Then he took Edward’s stick, settled him comfortably and placed a rug around his knees. “Thank you, Burns,” said his master.
The carriage swayed as Burns and Richard Allcott climbed up to the box. Aurora heard a shouted command to the horses, then the creaking of the wheels. Their progress over the cobbles was slow and jolting. She looked out of the window, wondering how long it would be before she saw London streets again.
She shifted her gaze. Her husband, who sat opposite, was watching her, smiling. There it was, the thin-lipped smile that barely creased the corners of his mouth, studied and self-conscious. Aurora did not return it.
The wedding breakfast continued into the late afternoon. In a dining room from which long windows opened on to a pretty garden, Aurora’s sisters had fallen upon a table spread with cold beef, pies, sweetmeats, cheese, fruit and the kind of wine jellies they had last seen before their father died, and then only at Christmas. But Aurora had not allowed herself to feel embarrassed. It was clear that Edward Francis had no intention of displaying anything but generosity towards her relations; she had resolved to let his behaviour be the guide of hers.
As dusk spread over the garden, she watched a man-servant lighting the wall candles. Fatigue, wine and rich food had rendered her very sleepy. She put her elbows on the table, supported her chin on her hands and endeavoured to keep her eyes from closing.
“Aurora!” Flora, her round face pink with excitement, seized both her sister’s hands and tried to draw her to her feet. “Come on, the dancing is beginning! And you know what the gentlemen must do! Mother, you tell her!”
Mrs Eversedge regarded her eldest daughter with affection. “You are tired, my dear, I know, but tradition must play its part.”
Aurora rose unsteadily. A group of musicians waited in the corner of the room while the man-servant and the young coachman moved the table nearer the wall to make space for dancing. Feeling foolish, she curtseyed to Edward, and he bowed. Both he and Richard Allcott, who was bowing to Flora, were smiling, though Edward’s unease was obvious.
Vice and Virtue Page 2