“And thus a fool. It’s hopeless.” Stating this as fact made it painfully real for Clun, as he stood with his friend in the card room at the Coulthard party.
“Such a gloomy creature,” Seelye drawled. “How futile can it be? She herself revealed your engagement.”
“It’s hopeless because the outcome depends on a female with a whim of steel, Seelye. She requires a romantic idiot of a man and I am not that idiot, I assure you, nor can I ever be.”
“If she’d wanted to cry off, wouldn’t she have done so without making the arrangement public?”
“Oh no, not Elizabeth. She enjoys greater popularity now that she’s unavailable. There’s not a blessed thing I can do about it.” The more he said, the more unhappy Clun made himself.
His friend stared at him for an uncomfortably long time without saying a word. Finally, Seelye broke his silence, “Time for me to fetch my gun.”
“What?”
“When we were in Bath, I distinctly recall your instructing me to shoot you and put you out of your misery if you — and I quote here – ever took such a pratfall.21 If I’m not much mistaken, you’ve fallen, my friend, and you’re miserable.”
Clun scowled at him as Seelye pat-pat-patted him on the back as a child’s nurse might.
“It’s time, Clun. I do so hate to see you suffer.”
Clun shrugged off his friend’s condescending pats. “Go to the devil, Seelye.”
“No doubt I shall but as a feckless bachelor, Clun, mark my words.”
Though the baron looked daggers at his friend, he could not shut the man up. On and on Seelye chirped about Clun being in love with Lady Elizabeth. Had he been wrong, his taunts would have rankled his lordship far less.
* * *
In London’s fashionable shopping districts, frost decorated windows and light snow flurries danced in the air. Bright, gas-lit shop windows illuminated crowds of smiling, laughing passers by. Everyone, it seemed, was caught up in the season’s excitement. Yet despite the atmospherics before Christmas, there was no hiding the impasse between ‘Lord C. and Lady E.’
On Stir-Up Sunday the week before Advent,22 the Damogan cook prepared the Christmas plum pudding as usual. There were no arrangements for a more elaborate celebration, such as a wedding breakfast.
Advent ushered in the customary Christmas decorations at both noble houses, nothing more. Holly and laurel branches decked the halls of No. 1 Damogan Square, with the windows, the staircases and fireplaces properly festooned. At the baron’s residence, Lady Clun saw wreaths and greenery hung inside and out and planned a traditional ‘country’ Christmas Eve frumenty supper for twenty prior to attending parties that evening.
After the Waits,23 itinerate musicians treated revelers returning home late from parties to quiet, lilting lullabies that carried in the still night air. Till dawn, the parish constable chanted verses softly on his rounds, as he rang the hours with his bell. In other words, two weeks before Christmas, the air was filled with joyous sounds day and night except in Damogan Square and North Audley Street. This only underscored the conspicuous silence regarding Lord Clun and Lady Elizabeth Damogan’s nuptials.
Mystified servants at both establishments admitted that no holiday wedding preparations were afoot; no viands were ordered to feed an onslaught of guests, well-wishers and visitors; and the printers had no wedding breakfast invitations to engrave. There was nothing underway except the usual doings.
Society noted and dissected this inactivity and the deafening silence accompanying it and many concluded that the de Sayre-Damogan betrothal was in a ticklish state of limbo. No one quite knew what to make of this, which naturally engendered more fevered speculation.
Lady Clun gleefully gave more impetus to gossip by wanly attempting to quash the tattle. “All will be well, I am sure. Or so I pray. But then, the young have their own odd ways of doing things — and not doing things,” she said to anyone who expressed curiosity. “Nothing is ever certain anymore, is it? Especially if one cherishes loftier ambitions.” As intended, her unsubtle innuendos had their effect.
At home, the baroness reported the cruel rumors she instigated to Clun over breakfast whenever possible.
“How very uncomfortable for you,” she said as if to sympathize with him over his unfortunate choice of wife. “No one speaks of anything else. Word is, the girl refuses to marry you hoping to do better for herself and won’t release you in the meantime. Hard to comprehend how you earned her enmity without even marrying her. Fortunately, the problem is remedied easily enough. I shall speak to the earl myself. Such a bookish man may not appreciate the seriousness of the situation. By tarrying, his daughter insults you and risks being labeled a jilt. Neither the earl nor I could want this sad state of affairs to reflect badly upon our families.”
“You will do and say nothing to anyone, Mother. Is that clear?” Clun kept his voice quiet, knowing the menace in his words sounded louder at low volume.
For the first time ever, Clun’s tone quelled her retort. The baroness watched him closely. She was nothing if not adaptable and so she assumed a conciliatory tone. “Surely, you don’t wish to remain a laughingstock.”
“I will say this only once more. Do nothing. Say nothing. Defy me and you will not enjoy the consequences, Mother.” By the emphasis he gave to the word ‘mother,’ anyone would understand him to mean ‘damn it.’
“Don’t be silly. Of course I’ll do as you wish, Clun. No need for hysterics.” Lady Clun folded her napkin carefully in her lap rather than meet his eyes and risk divulging her own anger. That he dared speak to her in that way might make her heedless so she took great care to remain calm.
The baroness had absolutely no intention of doing nothing. She’d had her fill of his dithering and obduracy. She would not wait helplessly any longer. On the spot, she determined to solve the problem of Lady Elizabeth Damogan without delay.
“Not that I mind in the least that she’ll cry off. It’s a godsend. By the way, have you met the Honorable Horatia Mangold? She’s the daughter of Viscount Presteigne, who has a great deal of property in Herefordshire and Wales. You’ll like her, sensible girl. Ground rents and harvests are all well and good, still, we must diversify. And won’t her father be helpful when we expand our collieries!”
Clun interrupted, “I have no intention of expanding coal production. We mine a sufficiency for the castle, The Graces and the villages nearby.”
“You’ve no head for such things, leave it to me. As I was saying, Miss Mangold is a pretty girl and very blonde. With her, that persistently dark, Norman blood will get a much-needed infusion of Saxon fairness.” Under her breath, she added, “Who, after all, could want another dark, brooding de Sayre for a grandson?” She buttered a sticky bun. “Since your first betrothal was arranged between strangers, it hardly matters whom you marry, does it? No doubt, you’ll wed her, bed her till she’s breeding then leave her behind as your father did me.”
Clun tried to ignore his mother’s chatter, but this last barb stung. “If Elizabeth were my wife,” he said, “I would not leave her.”
“So you claim. And it would be an admirable break with family tradition, I admit, though I am not optimistic. The apple never falls far from the tree. Besides, according to the on dit, your first choice has her doubts about you.”
The baroness did not explain to her irritated son why she brought up the most demeaning gossip incessantly. By doing so, she hoped to dull the luster of Lady Elizabeth in his eyes. If she succeeded, Clun would demand privately that the chit end their betrothal and save her the botheration. For end it must. The last thing the baroness wanted in the family was a clever young lady who was strong willed and, worst of all, over-fond of her son. Such a daughter-in-law would be too difficult to manage.
Besides, she’d already vetted Miss Mangold and knew she would make a biddable daughter-in-law. Her mother, the viscountess, welcomed the match as well. And Viscount Presteigne, who was rich as Croesus from his coalfields, could offer invaluable adv
ice to the baroness on exploiting coal on de Sayre properties in Wales. A fortune lay in thick seams under Clun land ready to be gouged out. And she would have it.
Even though Lady Clun would become the dowager baroness, she nevertheless intended to oversee Carreg Castle, its wealth and resources because someone must secure the barony’s future as well as her own. Her first order of business, therefore, was to extricate her son from one betrothal so that she could arrange another and obtain an heir at last.
In this purposeful frame of mind, the baroness decided to call on Lady Elizabeth on the pretext of becoming better acquainted.
* * *
For his part, Clun did not divulge that his carping parent’s every criticism of Elizabeth made him happier with his choice of bride. True, she would eventually end the betrothal and gratify his mother. In the meantime, she was a burr under the Fury’s saddle. He had only to mention how he admired Elizabeth’s intelligence, countenance or elegance to ruffle maternal feathers and leave a sour, strained look on her face. This made the occasional breakfast together tolerable, even enjoyable.
Had not his lordship been in a bemused mood when he went upstairs after breakfast to fetch a different walking stick, he might’ve chucked Fewings right out the second storey window of his dressing room.
His valet had the unfortunate knack of bringing up unpleasant subjects in a timid, reproachful manner that implied the baron ought to redress them.
Whose valet did that? (Well, Ainsworth’s valet for one, but Smeeth had been the duke’s batman.) In Fewings’ defense, he only remonstrated with him on behalf of others or to point out ‘what ought to be.’. Though shy about most things, he was a lion about his lordship’s tailoring and now, Clun discovered, the treatment of ladies.
He learned from Fewings’ oblique references that Lady Elizabeth was subject to general ton censure for her perceived disregard of the baron, who was now a great favorite among matrons and mamas. At this point, even servants talked freely among themselves about her ladyship’s behavior. Fewings said he knew his lordship would dislike this even more than his simple valet did.
“It’s said, my lord, she dawdles for a better match. That’s not possible, if I may say,” Fewings hemmed and hawed, dangerously close to the window Clun considered for his defenestration.
“No one who knows Lady Elizabeth would credit such talk,” Clun assured him.
“That may be, your lordship. Still, there are many who don’t know her.” This, he said in an especially diffident tone that put Clun’s hackles up because Fewings was risking rebuke and worse to do what he felt was right.
“Lady Elizabeth acts on principle, as she ought, Fewings.”
Not many females Clun knew would do what their hearts demanded regardless of social pressure. Actually, there was not another he could think of who would do so. For that, she deserved admiration not criticism. Despite holding his life hostage in the meantime, he respected her for it. What’s more, he didn’t mind waiting. Silence was preferable to good-bye.
“Be that as it may, it’s said that you avoid her now. In anger,” Fewings almost whispered.
“I am not avoiding the lady. Nor am I angry,” he growled. Memories of kissing her at the opera came up. Again.
“It’s what’s said, my lord,” Fewings murmured apologetically. “Makes the lady look bad, I’d say.”
Clun was allowing Elizabeth the freedom to find whatever, or rather whomever, would make her happy. He couldn’t give her the marriage she demanded, much as he hated to disappoint her. That was reality, much as it stuck in his craw to admit it.
“I just thought your lordship ought to know. That’s the sum of it.”
“Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” Clun exclaimed.
His valet twisted a freshly starched, blanc d’innocence virginale stock in his hands. His man had to be completely overset to do violence to a meticulously pressed neckcloth.
Clun relented. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Fewings. I will stop the tattle.” Fine. His mother hadn’t exaggerated the problem. He would fix it.
Fewings dabbed at his eyes with the crumpled stock, too overcome for a moment to speak. Bobbing his head and blinking, he finally eked out, “I knew you would, my lord. Sorry to overstep.”
Clun held up a hand to silence the valet’s apology. He pointed at his ebony cane with a carved ivory grip. His valet sprang to retrieve it for him along with a pair of gloves and his tall beaver hat.
“Thank you, Fewings.”
After pondering the issue, Clun decided to treat Elizabeth very publicly to a flavored ice at Gunter’s. It would have been a better, more public treat in the hot months of summer, but he couldn’t do anything about that. The ton liked Gunter’s year round so it would serve his purpose. For proper chaperonage, he invited the only tolerable matron of his acquaintance, Prudence, Duchess of Ainsworth, and the Duke.
One did not play the ducal card casually, so that alone would go far to stifle nasty chatter.
The duchess accepted Clun’s invitation on the couple’s behalf in the afternoon post, forewarning him in an addendum that His Grace was becoming ‘overly-protective’ as she increased. For instance, he might fear Gunter’s ices could give her a chill and make the nonsensical demand that hers be warmed to room temperature before she consumed it. This was not (here, Her Grace underscored the word ‘not’ several times) under any circumstances (‘any’ also underscored) an opportunity for your lordship to mock him or otherwise make light of his caution. He would find it un-amusing in his present state. With that caveat, they would be delighted to accompany him and Lady Elizabeth to Gunter’s the following day. In closing, she requested Clun provide the carriage, as His Grace might take too long deciding which of his own vehicles was safest and which horses most placid, thereby delaying the outing by hours.
The baron called on Elizabeth briefly at the mansion on Damogan Square and she accepted his invitation.
While he enjoyed Gunter’s now and then, Clun looked forward to the outing with much more enthusiasm than a lemon ice in December warranted.
The following afternoon at the fashionable hour, Clun had his well-appointed carriage brought around to fetch the duke and duchess before driving to Damogan Square for Elizabeth. The duke situated his petite wife with tender care on the seat facing forward before he settled opposite her, wedging his wide shoulders up against Clun’s. Elizabeth appeared promptly when the carriage arrived and sat beside Her Grace.
The duchess was in fine fettle, relaxed and lively, while her husband was drawn taut as a bowstring every time she leaned over or twisted in her seat to point out something funny to Elizabeth on their way to No. 7-8 Berkeley Square. The two women got on famously. Before they reached their destination, the duchess had insisted they use given names.
“She’s not going to jump out of the carriage, Ainsworth. Relax,” Clun said softly.
“She doesn’t intend to,” the duke muttered back, “but she may do so on the spur of the moment.”
“I’ll be careful, Jem, I promise,” Her Grace interjected.
“You say that, Prudence, and then become distracted by a street urchin in need of a plaster or a lamplighter with a limp and fling yourself from the vehicle to render aid. I applaud the sentiment, wife, but you’re carving years off my bloo-er, blessed lifespan,” the duke said, catching himself before he uttered profanity in Lady Elizabeth’s presence. He glared emphatically at his pregnant wife.
“I’ll try to remember not to leap to my death from the moving vehicle, Your Grace.”
“That, Clun,” the duke said sourly, “is my wife humoring me.”
Prudence smiled at Elizabeth before addressing herself to the baron. “I’m so glad to be going to Gunter’s. There are so many treats in London I’ve yet to sample. And now with a child on the way—” she touched her swelling belly unconsciously. “In not too many more months I’ll be forced into seclusion for my confinement.”
<
br /> “‘Confinement’ is an awful word,” Elizabeth mused. “It describes imprisonment not a miraculous event.”
Prudence shifted in her seat to look directly at Elizabeth, “You are absolutely right. I detest the term and I hate even more the idea that I’ll be bundled off to Greyfriars Abbey until I deliver up whomever will come. I don’t think I need confinement at all.”
“Oh, but I do,” the duke groaned.
“Dangerous, giving birth,” Clun agreed under his breath to his friend. “Can’t be too careful, I say.”
“Precisely my point,” Ainsworth agreed sotto voce. “Small woman, large baby— ”
“Even a large female with a large baby,” Clun replied.
With that, the two men frowned at the two women endorsing each other’s scandalous, if not to say, dangerous freethinking on the topic of an expectant mother’s need for freedom of movement.
Ignoring her grouchy husband muttering to his friend, Prudence concluded, “Elizabeth, we are of one mind!”
“Bloody hell, Clun,” the duke grumbled to the baron, “you’d better hope not.”
They arrived at Gunter’s and carefully disembarked from Clun’s carriage. The duke dismissed the footman who approached, much preferring to assist Her Grace himself. Clun followed suit with Elizabeth and they fell behind the duke and duchess to enter the sweet shop. Their entrance caused a ripple of whispers immediately.
It was not as crowded as it would have been in warm weather. Nevertheless, there were a number of ladies and gentlemen enjoying Gunter’s famous confections and hot cocoa. The duke seated his wife and Clun helped Elizabeth to her chair. Soon, they had before them brightly colored, brightly flavored shaved ices. Contrary to Prudence’s wry conjecture, the duke made no ridiculous demands to safeguard her health and the baron’s guests enjoyed themselves and their lively conversation.
This fact was duly noted and analyzed by the others present. Far more noteworthy to the watchful matrons was the baron’s unmistakable affection for his fiancée Lady Elizabeth Damogan, which the lady just as obviously reciprocated. This, more than anything else, contradicted unflattering gossip about Lady Elizabeth’s alleged fickleness and started a groundswell of goodwill toward the couple.
The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) Page 22