by Holly Newman
Freddy spread his hands helplessly, his fair complexion flushed with embarrassment. He slid a worried glance in Elizabeth’s direction.
Elizabeth found herself exceedingly thankful for the veil she wore for she discovered to her dismay that her eyes were stinging with tears threatening to overflow. She drew every inch of her tiny frame erect and bit her lip to maintain her composure. Around her she heard whisperings, the snap of fans, and the rustle of material as the guests turned to one another. The whisperings increased in volume with each passing moment of the Viscount’s absence. The whisperings became louder until they seemed to shout and reverberate in her head.
“Perhaps—” her father coughed, running his hand nervously through his hair. “Perhaps, Elizabeth, we should return to Rasthough House.”
Elizabeth snapped her head around.
“Or-or mayhap retire to our carriage and await Viscount St. Ryne’s arrival there,” he finished quickly.
Mutely, Elizabeth shook her head, her pride not allowing her to make such a telling move. Her eyes were now so blurred that she could scarcely see, but she refused to raise the handkerchief she clutched in her nerveless hand to her eyes to blot away the tears.
It was nearly one hour after the appointed time for the ceremony when the first party of guests rose to leave. Elizabeth grimaced at the pitying glances cast in her direction but held her ground. Her tears had long since dried, to be replaced with a simmering anger bearing a stiffness of posture and high color to her cheeks. Suddenly there was an uproar at the great door leading into the narthex and the guests who had been on the verge of departing milled un-certainly. A young boy burst into the church, his sides heaving as he panted to catch his breath. He bent over, hands on his knees, as he gulped air.
“He’s coming!” he gasped out. “His lordship’s coming!” the child cried when at last he recovered his voice.
Lord Monweithe pushed through the crowd to grab the boy by a thin shoulder, spinning him around to face him. “What’s that you say? Speak up, lad,” he said, giving the child a slight shake. “You’ve seen the Viscount St. Ryne? Make no mistake about this. Where is he?”
“He’s coming, sir, down the road.” The boy trembled at the ferocious expression on the Earl's face. “I saw him riding his horse this way,” he explained, throwing up a bony arm to shield himself from the backhanded blow he expected.
Lord Monweithe, however, had no thought of punishment or reward for the lad. Stunned, he walked into the narthex, wishing to see for himself if St. Ryne approached. Uncertainty kept him staring at the closed doors.
Sir James Branstoke approached the fidgety and frightened boy, quietly placed a coin in his palm and pushed him toward a side entrance. Clenching the coin tightly in his fist, the lad muttered his thanks and ducked out the door.
Suddenly the great carved doors burst open letting in a whoosh of air and bright light, silhouetting the Viscount against the sky.
St. Ryne was indeed in riding attire and as he stepped into the church it became obvious to all that the Viscount had come to his wedding in all his dirt. An uproar rippled through the church. His top boots were thick with dust and his buckskin breeches sported a dark stain on one thigh. His jacket, while admirably fitting his form, showed signs of sweat and dust while his Inexpressibles bore a distinct gray cast. About his neck, in a very casual manner, was knotted a kerchief.
Elizabeth felt sure she would feint from mortification. She forced herself to stand calm, as if it were no concern of hers.
St. Ryne glanced about the church, a bland smile on his face, before focusing on those guests standing by the entrance. He raised an eyebrow.
“Have you all not found seats yet? Freddy, be a good, chap and assist them, please.”
Freddy, who stood transfixed and gawking at St. Ryne’s appearance, roused himself. “Certainly—ah, right you are. This way.”
With a soft murmur of voices, guests scurried to resume their seats. One affronted gentleman moved to leave altogether only to be stopped and remonstrated by his lively mate that they would do no such thing for she vowed this was better than a play. Hearing the woman’s comment, Elizabeth ground her teeth in vexation.
“You should have trod the boards. Beware. The lady is of uncertain temper,” Sir James Branstoke advised St. Ryne. “Moreover, she is a lady,” he warned.
St. Ryne smiled. “Rest easy,” he said, clapping Branstoke on the shoulder good-naturedly though a quizzical light shone in his eyes.
Branstoke turned to look past him, and St. Ryne followed his gaze to where Elizabeth stood in the shadows. His smile faded as he bowed slightly in her direction. He turned back to Branstoke.
“All will be well. I do not strive to hurt, only to tame.”
“And can you do one without the other?” Branstoke asked in flat tones.
“Why not?”
“I wonder— But here is Freddy, his chore completed.”
“Ah, yes indeed. Now I shall assume my place and await my gentle bride.” So saying, St. Ryne walked up the side aisle, followed by Freddy, and took his place before the altar. Once there, he turned to look back in expectation of seeing his bride approach, a set smile upon his face.
It was the smile that set the cap upon her rage. Staring steadily at St. Ryne, she threw down her bouquet in unspoken challenge then turned to march out of the church.
She had reckoned without her father.
Though the Viscount had made them the butt of jokes, he was here and apparently still of a mind to marry his daughter. Perhaps they were suited to one another. Regardless, he’d had enough skiff skaff for one day and would see the two of them wed. He grabbed Elizabeth’s arm, jerking her off balance so she fell heavily against him.
“I told you, will ye, nil ye, I would see you wed,” he said in her ear.
Elizabeth looked up at him in surprise. “I refuse to believe you’re serious. That man has just humiliated us in front of all of London and you would still countenance this wedding—this farce?”
“Countenance it? It is an event to be desired. Has it not occurred to you that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander?”
“You’re mad!”
“Perhaps. I am your father, however, and as you so crudely stated earlier, you have been signed and sealed for. What remains is the delivery. Come.”
Panicked, Elizabeth started to pull away. Her eyes looked out into the church as she did so and what she saw caused her to freeze. Every head was turned her way. Bitterly she realized this wedding was better than a play, affording society with a scandal that would provide grist for the gossip mill until the next season. She glared at her father. Well, she would not make her father an object of sympathy and pity—she would not give him that luxury. She would be the martyr, and let her father and the Viscount take the hisses. She threw up her head and casually smoothed the creases in her gown.
“Bravo!” whispered Sir James Branstoke as he handed her the discarded bouquet.
Elizabeth looked at him in surprise. He was the oddest creature. There seemed to be a depth in him that was lacking in her sister’s other suitors. She bowed her head in silent thanks, then resolutely turned toward the altar and walked steadily down the long aisle. She felt all eyes following her progress. Let them stare. Though the marriage mart was full of simpering beauties, only she would be the Viscountess St. Ryne and albeit thrust upon her, she intended to make the most of the position.
She repeated her vows in a clear but clipped voice, bringing a genuine smile to St. Ryne’s face. When the priest declared them man and wife, Elizabeth’s new husband gently lifted her veil.
“Isn’t it better, my lady,” he murmured softly, “to be angry for legitimate slights than merely perceived slights?” Astonished, Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest only to have the Viscount swoop down to capture her lips in a kiss. Pulling her tightly to him, his kiss caressed and teased, bringing an unfamiliar tingling up through her body making her feel weak and giddy. She grasped
his shoulders for strength. Then as suddenly as it had begun, the kiss ended and he put her away from him. Dimly Elizabeth was aware of a few titters of laughter. Color rushed to her cheek. Angry with the Viscount and herself, she stepped hastily backward, catching the heel of her shoe on the altar step. Suddenly she was slipping backward. Her arms went out in a crude attempt to balance herself but to-no avail. She continued to fall backward, landing smartly on her posterior.
Hearty laughter erupted from the wedding guests, and tears burst into Elizabeth’s eyes. St. Ryne bent down to help her rise and he felt a twinge of remorse for his behavior.
“Come, Bess,” he said softly. “If you laugh, they will be laughing with you, not at you.”
Thankful for his sudden understanding, she smiled ruefully up at him. “It is hard to laugh when a portion of one’s anatomy hurts.”
“That is indeed true; however, it also aids in forgetting the pain.” He pulled her upright.
“Do you think, my lord—”
“Justin.”
She laughed. “Do you think, Justin, we might depart from this church with a modicum of decorum?”
“I doubt I would place a bet in the book at White’s; however—”
“However, we will try,” Elizabeth said firmly.
St. Ryne held out his arm. Smiling, Elizabeth took it and together they walked down the aisle. Seeing them together, smiling, caused several who observed to wonder once again at the root of this marriage.
Elizabeth’s good humor lasted until they entered the carriage that would take them back to Rasthough House where a breakfast for the wedding party was waiting. She did not understand St. Ryne’s strange humors. One moment he could be insulting, the next understanding. She was uncertain as to how to act with him. She found herself wondering about the marriage bed. Would he be rough with her or patient with her ineptness? She blushed furiously at her thoughts, turning her head away so St. Ryne would not note her embarrassment, for how could she explain?
Delighted with her good spirits as they left the altar, St. Ryne was dismayed to see it fade when they were alone. He consoled himself with the belief he had managed to place a chink in her armor. It angered him, however, to see her turn away from him in the carriage, as if she could no longer stand his presence. Any thoughts he had of not continuing the course he’d laid out for them were swiftly laid to rest. His Kate was not yet tamed.
At Rasthough House, St. Ryne’s countenance was inexpressive as he handed his bride down from the carriage. For her part, Elizabeth kept her eyes downcast until her family claimed her attention. St. Ryne followed them into the house, nodding pleasantly to those arriving guests who’d been invited to partake of the wedding breakfast.
After the last guest arrived, St. Ryne began the play anew: “My lady, it is time we left. Go change into your riding attire so we may be on our way.”
“What!” exclaimed Elizabeth.
“Now see here, St. Ryne!” expostulated Lord Monweithe.
St. Ryne raised a hand for silence. “Hurry now, and change. We must be on our way.”
“Are you mad? We have got to stay for the breakfast!”
“Are you begging me, my sweet Bess?” St. Ryne asked.
Elizabeth swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Then for sure we cannot stay. I will not tolerate a begging wife.”
“Well then, you can go and I will stay!” Elizabeth said angrily, whirling around to face those of the guests who stood in the hall with them, all agog with curiosity yet embarrassed to be where they were. “Come,” she invited, “let us go in to breakfast.”
“Yes, go all of you to make merry and celebrate this day. My Bess cannot be with you for she goes with me. She is my everything, and I shall protect her with my last breath,” he said loudly, then turned to speak softly to Elizabeth. “Now, do I have to undress and dress you myself or will you go get into your habit and bid your man saddle your horse? Pack only what is needful in a small portmanteau. The rest will be sent to follow. Our honeymoon tryst should be our secret.”
Too embarrassed to argue publicly with him after the events of the morning, Elizabeth flounced up the stairs to change. She was piqued at his manner yet also intrigued. Slowly she gathered items for her portmanteau, stowing them carefully away as she considered St. Ryne’s behavior. She did not know his game and was not sure she wanted to play. Refusing to change, she sat down on her bed, deciding to stall as she had done that morning with her father.
His patience exceeded her father’s by ten minutes. When he stormed into her room some thirty minutes later, Elizabeth scrambled to her feet. Belatedly she realized she erred greatly in flaunting his order.
Taking in the situation at a glance, St. Ryne strode determinedly toward Elizabeth.
“So, you prefer to ride before me on horseback. Why didn’t you tell me sooner, my love? We could have been off by now. Well come, it is time to go.”
“No! Wait! I’ll change.”
St. Ryne smiled. “It is too late now, my love,” he said softly. “Now, will you walk down the stairs before me or do you wish me to carry you?”
“You wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t what? You should know by now there is a great deal I will dare.”
Elizabeth shuddered slightly. Without a word she walked numbly past him and down the stairs. She listened in a daze as he ordered a warm hooded cloak for her and almost docilely followed him outside to where a groom held his horse. He threw her up onto the front of the saddle then mounted behind her. The Earl of Rasthough stood in the doorway and silently watched his son-in-law, wondering for the first time in his life what would become of his daughter, Elizabeth.
By this reck’ning he is more shrew than she.
—Act III, Scene 3
Gray fog, like wet wool, cloaked the roads and valleys, bearing with it a biting chill, a harkening of winter’s approach. For several miles, and what seemed like eons, Elizabeth held herself erect and silent, paying little heed to St. Ryne’s inane observations concerning the countryside and crops or his body’s offering of warmth and shelter. Her attempts to ascertain their destination, or even their direction, were foiled for St. Ryne assiduously avoided the main roads, taking a circular route that soon had Elizabeth lost. Time hung as heavy as the fog surrounding them.
Eventually even St. Ryne grew silent as they plodded across fields and along old cart trails. They rode for three hours—time enough for the ache in her back to become an agony then return to a dull throb. At some point she slipped closer to St. Ryne, feeling the warmth of his body on her back. She ceased to care, for such was the stuff of pride that she would exchange full measure for the warmth and dryness of a comfortable chair by a blazing fire. It was thus that their approach to Larchside went unnoticed, until the tired horse responded to his master’s pull on the reins before the steps of a feebly lit manor house.
Dazedly, Elizabeth raised her head to look about her, scarcely noting when St. Ryne encircled her slim waist to lift her down. She rested her hands on his shoulders for balance and briefly closed her eyes in relief, grateful they had reached their destination.
St. Ryne felt a surge of compassion for his beleaguered bride. She looked so frail and exhausted. He glanced up at the rundown manor and a twinge of conscience swept over him for bringing her to Larchside. Gently he set her down before him.
“Ah-h!” Cold water shocked Elizabeth to her senses. She glanced down at the icy puddle in which St. Ryne had set her. “Fool!” she gasped. Her skirts, like a candlewick to oil, were quickly drenched with water, her thin shoes soaked. Shivering, she carefully picked a path to the steps.
St. Ryne closed his eyes briefly and ground his teeth in vexation. Why was it that whenever she was complacent and he felt remorse for his actions, some incident would occur to rekindle her temper?
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I caught pneumonia from this jaunt of yours,” she said through clenched teeth. “Where are we? What is this place?” She looked u
p at the unpretentious building.
“Larchside,” St. Ryne said as he splashed toward her.
“Larchside?”
“Yes. Your settlement.” He stooped to pick her up.
“Justin! What are you doing? Put me down!”
“Never, for we progress,” St. Ryne replied, carrying her up the steps. “That is the second time you have called me by name. Henceforth I shall live for the day it comes trippingly off your tongue,” he said.
The front door of Larchside creaked open, and any scathing comments Elizabeth would have returned died. She tightly compressed her lips and turned her head away from St. Ryne’s mocking countenance.
“Thank you, Atheridge,” St. Ryne said as he carried Elizabeth into the hall, setting her down gently. “This is my wife,” he said with a curious smile on his face. “The Viscountess St. Ryne.” He removed the sodden cloak from around her shoulders, handing it to Atheridge.
“My lady,” Atheridge returned dutifully, bowing before her.
Stunned, Elizabeth scarcely paid heed, her mind reeling from the scene before her. There was dirt and dust everywhere. She took a hesitant step into the hall, running a shaking finger over a side table, its surface sticky with grime. She wrinkled her nose at the close, musty smell of the house and the acrid odor of the cheap candles sputtering in their sockets and leaving soot streaks on the wall. At her feet, the colors of what was once a magnificent Aubusson carpet were indistinguishable. A look of horror and disgust captured her features.
St. Ryne noted her reaction with satisfaction. He relaxed, leaning back on his heels. He glanced at the waiting butler. “Is there a fire laid in the library? Good,” he said as Atheridge nodded. “We shall repair to that room for the moment. Be so good as to have Mrs. Atheridge step up here please.”
“Yes, my lord,” Atheridge replied, his thin nose fairly twitching as he backed quickly away. Hurrying toward the kitchen, he scratched his head at the strange homecoming of the Viscount, wondering if Tunning could make any sense of it.