The Kidnapped Bride

by Amanda Scott

  But the very thought brought with it a shudder and a rather tremulous choke of laughter, as her ever-fertile imagination provided her with a swift vision of his probable response to any such overture from her married self. Sir Nicholas would not approve. Although she could not doubt that he had had vast experience with females, his own sternly voiced notions of propriety precluded any imagining that that experience had come from dalliance with respectably married ladies. And even if it had, she thought shrewdly, he would undoubtedly refuse to countenance such an illicit relationship for her with himself or, for that matter, with anyone else.

  The valet entered as she formed that last rather disappointing thought, and she looked up with a nearly guilty fear that he might somehow read her mind. He was carrying a standish, which he set down upon the dressing table, having first made room for it by removing the chocolate tray. “I have brought the materials, miss, as his lordship requested. I am to remain whilst you write your letter.”

  His attitude was such that, in spite of her decision to cooperate, Sarah despised herself for lacking the courage to order him out of the room, to indulge herself in last-minute defiance. But she could do neither of these things. For the moment at least, Darcy had won. She must marry him. Consequently, she handed the valet her chocolate cup and stepped quickly but with her usual easy grace to sit in the dressing chair.

  Beck made no attempt to hide a smirk of satisfaction as he placed the cup next to the chocolate pot and moved to set the tray outside the door. He jerked his head expressively in the general direction of the ground floor. “His lordship’s waiting below for it, miss, so you’d best make it snappy. He’s not wishful to be patient.”

  How she would have liked to give Beck to Aunt Aurelia for training! She would make short work of his smirks and his insolence. But Sarah gritted her teeth, swallowing the angry words she wanted to say to him, knowing instinctively that it could do her no good to make an enemy of the man. Instead, she picked up the pen, spread a sheet of writing paper on the table, and dipping her pen into the ink, began to write. The point was not as sharp as she would have liked, but she would make do rather than ask Beck to sharpen it for her.

  The letter ran to Darcy’s outline as nearly as she could remember it. She explained to her uncle that she had run away with the Earl of Moreland because she had feared that Lord and Lady Hartley would somehow contrive to separate them forever. Such an excellent notion, too, she thought to herself as she continued. It was a shame she had not been more obedient to their will. Reluctantly, she outlined Darcy’s wish for a waiver and a special license, added that she would not return to London until Lord Hartley consented to her marriage, then made ready to sign her name; but Beck, who had been quite rudely reading over her shoulder, stopped her and suggested that she add the threat of Gretna as well as a hint that the state of her virtue had been altered. Since he put the second part of his suggestion with crude insolence, Sarah was shocked enough to protest vehemently.

  “I will write no such thing! How dare you propose that!”

  “His lordship wants it in, miss,” Beck replied stubbornly.

  Battle royal might have been joined between the two of them, had not Darcy chosen that moment to enter, wondering anxiously why it was taking Sarah so long to write a simple letter. Beck explained the matter with what Sarah could only view as righteous indignation beyond his station, but to her great relief, Darcy took her side of it.

  “Don’t be daft, man,” he said with an oddly jollifying note in his voice. “Chit can’t write that rubbish. She’d never write anything so improper off her own bat, so don’t go making a mull of things by forcing her to say such stuff. Her uncle would be bound to suspect it had been written under duress. Here, Sarah,” he went on in a more natural tone, “I’ll tell you what to write. Let me look at what you’ve got.” He scooped up the sheet from the table and perused it rapidly. “That’s good,” he said, laying it down in front of her again. “Now, you just add this bit. Put it in your own words, but tell his lordship that, matters being what they are, you are certain he will agree you cannot marry anyone but me and that you would prefer marriage by special license to an elopement to Gretna. Use that phrase, ‘matters being what they are,’ but put the rest any way you like. We’ll let the old gentleman use his imagination. Can always hint him in the right direction if he don’t look to be getting there by himself, can’t I?” He paused, lifting an inquiring eyebrow at the valet while gesturing for Sarah to begin writing.

  She didn’t like his wording much better than Beck’s, but with the two men both standing over her as they were, she simply couldn’t find the courage to protest further. Beck’s expression was even a trifle alarming. He had shrugged non-committally in response to his master’s glance, but when his gaze shifted to herself, she noted a glitter in his eyes that certainly didn’t encourage her to trust the man. Servant or no servant, he was a villainous piece of work and no mistake. He seemed to exert some sort of influence over his master, too, and she wondered how Darcy could abide having the man around him all the time. But she certainly couldn’t ask him about it now. Cheeks flushed red at the thought of how even such vague phrasing might be construed, she turned back to her task, and having written what was wanted, she added a brief apology for disappointing her aunt and uncle and signed it. She did not look up again when Darcy took the letter and patted her approvingly on the shoulder. He went out immediately, followed by Beck. Once again, the key turned in the lock.

  Relieved that they had gone at last, Sarah went back to the window seat, and less than an hour had passed before she heard noises from the drive. Looking out, she saw the shabby coach draw up before the front entrance. Beck was driving. Soon Darcy appeared, hurried down the steps, and jumped up into the coach, slamming the door shut as Beck whipped up the horses.

  They were gone two full days, during which time Sarah made the acquaintance of both Matty and her husband, Tom. Matty appeared a short time after Darcy’s departure bearing Sarah’s luncheon on a tray. It was the only time she saw Matty during Darcy’s absence and she was just as glad, for the woman reeked of spirits. Her gray hair was tangled, her dress was dirty, and her skin looked unhealthy. She looked a perfect slattern, Sarah thought.

  She saw more of Tom, for it was he who brought her other meals, saying that Matty had declined to tramp up two flights of stairs every time Sarah had the urge to eat. Sarah kindly suggested that she would be happy to come downstairs to take her meals properly in the dining parlor, but the offer was declined, Tom explaining briefly that Beck, supposedly relaying his lordship’s orders, had threatened to murder them both if they led Sarah out of her bedchamber for any reason whatever. As though she would attempt to escape again, she thought bitterly. Not that she wouldn’t have tried, had there been any point to it. But it would be pointless now. The sooner she was married, the better.

  Tom also took care of her other needs, too, emptying the slops jar and bringing her, when she requested them, several books from which to choose. Since they included Pilgrim’s Progress and a copy of the Canterbury Tales, she was well enough pleased, although they weren’t by any means among her favorites. She would have much preferred a tale by Fanny Burney or Mrs. Radcliffe or that author who wrote so wittily about such ordinary people. Sarah and Miss Penistone had greatly enjoyed both Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice before Penny had had to leave, and Sarah herself had obtained and chuckled her way through Mansfield Park.

  Rumor, emanating from the Prince Regent himself, had it that the author was a young gentlewoman, Miss Jane Austen. Supposedly, Prinny had had that titbit from his librarian, the Reverend J. S. Clarke, who had it from his physician, Mr. Haden, who had it from the young woman’s very own brother, Henry Austen. Mr. Austen had told Mr. Haden that his sister intended to dedicate her latest work, a novel called Emma, to his Royal Highness. Rumor also had it that Miss Austen was not best pleased to know that her closely guarded secret had leaked out, but the Prince, having enjoyed her
earlier works quite as much as Sarah had, had kindly sent his permission for the dedication, though Miss Austen had never actually solicited the favor. Sarah, as well as most of her friends, had subscribed for a copy of Emma, and it was no doubt sitting now in the chest under her shawls, exactly where she had left it.

  It was rather annoying to think that she had scarcely had a chance to read more than the first chapter or so, since she imagined that she had quite a lot in common with the independent and fascinatingly self-willed heroine, Miss Emma Woodhouse. Of course, Sarah had not been saddled with a hypochondriac for a father, but she rather thought that she and her dearest Penny were quite a lot like Miss Woodhouse and her Miss Taylor. Certainly, Emma’s father would have preferred Penny to Miss Taylor, for Penny showed no inclination toward the state of matrimony, a state vocally and most amusingly deplored by the irascible Mr. Woodhouse. On the other hand, Miss Taylor seemed likely to remain near her erstwhile charge, while Penny had dashed off two weeks to the day after her dismissal to a sister’s house in faraway Cornwall. But it was no use to think of that, Sarah told herself firmly. And, however entertaining it would be to be able to finish what had begun as a completely delightful tale, she must make do with what she had. Deciding to renew her acquaintance with Christian, she tried staunchly to convince herself that his adventures were amusing and not simply dry and moralistic. When Tom brought her a light supper, she asked if Erebus might not come up to keep her company.

  Shrugging, the old man allowed as how there could be little harm in it, and a half hour or so later, he reappeared to take her tray away, followed by the huge black dog. Erebus greeted her enthusiastically, and having been sternly forbidden to indulge in the habits of a lap dog, collapsed with a thud at her feet where he snoozed quite comfortably until Tom came to put him out for the night. He spent much of the following day with her as well, and Sarah enjoyed his companionship. She soon began to talk to him quite as though he were another person. His intelligent eyes would brighten at such attention, and he would cock his mammoth head with a flattering air of interest in all she chose to say to him. For Erebus, at least, the time did not pass slowly.

  IV

  DARCY AND BECK RETURNED Monday afternoon, and hearing the noise of their arrival, Sarah looked out to see that this time they had come in Darcy’s own phaeton. He jumped down at the front, handing the reins to Beck, who then drove oh around the house. She expected his lordship to come to her immediately, but he did not. Instead, after a long wait, Tom came with a small trunk.

  “My lord says as ’ow yer t’ dine with ’im in an hour, miss. ’E sent these.” He dumped the trunk onto the floor and left, taking the dog with him. No key turned in the lock. Sarah stared after them, torn between wanting to find Darcy and hear what had happened and wanting to see what was in the trunk. The trunk won.

  She opened it and sat back on her heels with a smile. It was filled with her own things. There were several gowns, a night dress, her riding habit and boots, two lace chemises, and her silver hairbrush. Right on top sat the reticule she had left in the carriage. There were also various ribbons and two pairs of sandals, some scented French soap, a string of varicolored beads, and a pair of white silk mittens. Clearly, except for the reticule, Lizzie had packed the trunk and had tried to include things her mistress might need immediately. She had not thought to send a shawl, so she had not discovered Emma, but one of the gowns was for evening wear. Sarah shook it out.

  It was a simple dress of white muslin, the type most solidly approved by Aunt Aurelia for young ladies in their first Season. High waisted, it would be worn with a long pink sash, the colored beads, and her pink satin sandals. Maybe she could even contrive to weave a ribbon through her hair. Oh, if he had to bring her a surprise, why had Darcy not thought to bring Lizzie!

  The thought had simply never crossed his mind. And, of course, it would never have occurred to her uncle that she might have need of a maidservant. At dinner, Darcy seemed actually apologetic about the oversight but explained that his plan had otherwise gone without a hitch. Lord Hartley had reacted precisely to form. “Furious, of course. Couldn’t expect him to be otherwise. ’Fraid you must prepare yourself for a scold, m’dear. That is, if he ever speaks to you again,” he observed amiably.

  “What did he say about the wedding?” Sarah asked. A scold from her uncle was not something she need worry about. A blistering reprimand from her aunt was much more likely, though it was even more probable that neither of them would want to see her again. She gazed now across the table at Darcy. He was dressed in a coat of black superfine, and his well-starched neckcloth was intricately tied and adorned with a pearl stick pin. He might complain of poverty, but he always dressed well, and the phaeton she had seen was a well-made vehicle pulled by a team of highbred, matched bays. His voice interrupted her train of thought.

  “Signed the waiver and helped me himself to arrange for the special license. S’pose it was a sense of mischief inspired me to suggest St. George’s.” He paused with a reminiscent gleam in his eye. “’Fraid his lordship nearly went into strong convulsions. Turned red as a turkey cock and gobbled something about the Regent and Lady Jersey, though I had thought that affair long ended.”

  Sarah frowned. “You know perfectly well what he meant, sir. The Prince will be displeased as it is not to be invited to my wedding, but to be asked to lend his countenance to a ceremony with this sort of scandal attached to it—well, he wouldn’t, and you know it. As for Lady Jersey, she is forever unsettling Aunt Aurelia’s sensibilities with her long tongue.”

  He nodded. “Discovered that m’self. Suggested that your absence from Town might be hushed up or at least that an excuse might be found for it, so as to wrap things up nicely after we’re safely riveted, but that don’t appear possible now. Seems one of the shopkeepers noticed a pretty young lady climb into a shabby hackney coach, and your precious Lizzie burst in upon Lady Hartley bewailing your disappearance and putting forth the notion that you had been abducted by God knows what sort of wild ruffians.” He paused for effect. “You’ll never guess who was paying a morning call at that auspicious moment!”

  “Not Lady Jersey!”

  “The same,” he assured her in tones of strong amusement. “Silence herself. Puts the cat among the pigeons, don’t it?”

  “Oh, no!” Sarah stared at him. How could he think it at all amusing that the very worst gossip in London should know of all this? All London would be talking about her by now, wondering what had happened and speculating the worst. She had not truly realized what shame she would feel until the knowledge that the tattlers were probably discussing her situation in lurid detail was so clearly brought home to her. It didn’t really matter now whether they thought she had eloped or been abducted. Marriage might expiate her shame to some small degree, but it would be a good, long while before she would dare show her face in Town.

  Darcy watched her dismay change to resignation. “I stopped in East End on the way back, Sarah. You will no doubt be pleased to know that Mr. Stanley, the parson there, will perform the ceremony tomorrow. Tried to fob me off until Saturday, but when I explained that you are already staying in my house unchaperoned, he put forth the date with alacrity. A prior commitment that he could not break was all that prevented his coming this evening.”

  “So I shall not be permitted to take that first step back toward respectability until tomorrow, my lord,” Sarah retorted, her suddenly trembling voice laced with scorn. “How long do you suppose it will be before time mitigates the damage you have done me?” She was astonished to feel tears rising to the surface and looked away, lest he see them. He would be sure to make some sort of apology, and such a comment at this point was likely to cast her into strong hysterics! He did begin to mutter something, but she rallied her spirits enough to glare him to sullen silence.

  Their conversation was limited after that, though Darcy did mention meekly that’ the rest of her belongings should arrive sometime after the first of the week by freigh
t wagon. Frigidly, Sarah excused herself when Beck brought in his master’s port, but then she nearly smiled in spite of herself at Darcy’s undisguised sigh of relief. She went straight upstairs to her bedchamber, not surprised that someone soon came to lock her in. Despite his airs and apologies, Darcy would not chance her escaping before the ceremony could take place.

  Sarah read for a while, until the evening light faded. Then she lit every candle she could find and proceeded to put her things away. It was not a task to occupy much of her time, so it was still early when she changed to her night dress and crept between the sheets. She had put her book on the night-stand and picked it up now with a guilty glance at the numerous flickering candles. They ought to be extinguished. Eight sconces! How wasteful. Aunt Aurelia would not approve. Sarah grinned. Aunt Aurelia was not here, and if Darcy meant to have her money, the least she could do was prove to be an expensive wife. Let the blasted candles gutter! She turned back to her book and eventually dropped off to sleep.

  Her dreams seemed to be filled with somewhat garish marriage ceremonies. She was always the bride, but the groom changed most oddly from moment to moment and dream to dream. First there was Darcy, of course, but he changed almost immediately to a frog who wanted to kiss her, then to a rabbit, then to a clown with a painted face. At one point, she awoke with a vague memory that a camel had been carrying the minister into a tent filled with bullrushes and acorns, but then she dropped off into another dream where the minister was a child and the groom a snake in the grass. It was all very disturbing.

  Nevertheless, the next morning dawned bright with sunshine, which made a nice change after several overcast days in a row, and Darcy was in excellent spirits when he came to visit her over her morning chocolate. He was fully dressed in buff breeches, a coat of blue superfine, and a gold Florentine waistcoat. His cravat was well-starched and tied in the intricate Mathematical style that he favored, and his topboots shone like polished obsidian and sported immaculate white uppers. Sarah suddenly had the thought that, though Beck was insolent, obnoxious, and generally impossible, he did seem to know his job. The Earl of Moreland was precise to a pin. He looked at her appraisingly.