by Jane Ashford
Verity nodded again. She went to the front door and slipped out, leaving it open a crack. As she lurked in the dark street, some of the thrill of the clandestine returned.
“Quinn,” she heard Randolph say.
There was a snort, and a cough. Then, as if picking up a conversation in the middle, the old woman said, “I don’t sleep much these days. I often sit up here. It’s more interesting than lying in the bed, isn’t it?”
“I must go,” Randolph replied. “Come and bolt the door behind me.”
“Late, is it?”
“Very late. Let me help you up.”
Shuffling footsteps approached. Verity moved into deeper darkness. The door opened. Randolph stepped through and turned. “I shall stay until I hear you shoot the bolt,” he said.
“Yes, yes. But you’ll come and see me again and stay longer.”
“Of course I will.” He shut the door. After a moment, the bolt slid audibly across. Randolph waited a moment, then murmured, “Verity?”
His soft whisper of her name shook her. “Here.” She stepped to his side.
“Take my arm.”
She did. It was warm and solid. “How will we get back in the dark?”
“There’s a place to get a cab not far from here. There should be some light around the corner.”
He was right. A short stumbling walk took them to a spot where they could see firelight, and then to a rough hut with one wall open, where a small wiry man served tin mugs of tea to a cluster of cabbies. Randolph engaged one, and they were off.
It was very late when Verity used her key to enter the house where she was staying. She felt Randolph’s eyes on her back as she turned it as quietly as possible and slipped inside. Closing the door quickly—this was no time to linger—she relocked it with a click that sounded loud in the silence.
There was no reaction. Everyone was sleeping.
Verity didn’t chance a candle. She groped her way upstairs to her room, held her breath as she unlocked it, and whisked in. She leaned against the panels and listened; there was no sound.
Moving carefully, Verity found the tinderbox and lit a candle. She wriggled her way out of her clothes, ripping her gown again in the same place. It wouldn’t be the same without serious repairs, which she would think about some other time, she decided. She bundled cloak and dress together and tossed them on top of the wardrobe. Pulling on a nightdress, she got into bed. An engaged woman, she thought as she lay there. A surge of emotion shook her. She hadn’t realized one could be happy and anxious and triumphant and sad all at the same time.
Fifteen
Randolph stood before the door of the house where Verity Sinclair was lodging and raised his hand to knock. It occurred to him that things had been entirely different six years ago when he’d done this. His courtship of Rosalie had been so conventional, while his connection with Verity was peppered with…contradictions and extremes. About to offer for Rosalie, he’d been bursting with impatience. He’d wanted to rush inside, blurt out the words, and seize his prize.
Today he felt… Well, he wasn’t certain exactly what he felt. Not sorry; he was clear on that. Wakeful in the night, he’d had no regrets. He’d thought instead that there were many sorts of happiness. He’d seen couples bound by respect and contentment. Common values, a commitment to service. These things wove strong bonds. Shared interests, like music, cemented a relationship. And physical passion—Randolph’s pulse jumped at the memory of Verity en déshabillé on the daybed last night. They would certainly have that, an area he was exceedingly eager to explore.
No, he had no doubts. On the contrary, he was content with this choice.
He let his knuckles fall on the door panels. A maid answered, took his hat and gloves, and led him up the stairs to the drawing room.
Verity and her mother awaited him there. From the look of things, Verity had prepared her parent. Mrs. Sinclair greeted him with bright eyes and an eager smile. Randolph found he was glad to dispense with chitchat. He was, in fact, nervous, even though all had been settled in advance. Verity had surprised him more than once. What if she’d had second thoughts? What if she refused him now? He found the idea startlingly worrisome. “I’m glad to have caught you at home,” he said. “I’ve come to speak to Miss Sinclair about a very particular matter.”
Verity’s mother sprang to her feet. “Oh yes. Verity said—That is, she surmised you might be—I’ll just let you—” She left the room without completing her sentence.
Randolph took a breath. There was no reason to be anxious. Verity had already accepted him. This was a matter of form. But the steady gaze of her blue-green eyes shook him. Thus, instead of sitting beside her, he sank to one knee for the second time. “I’m even more certain than I was last night that I want you, most desperately, for my wife,” he said. And as the words came out, he realized they were true. He was not as calm as he’d thought. “I hope you feel the same.”
At the worried look on his handsome face, something inside Verity relaxed. She’d tossed and turned through the night, alternating between the certainty that she’d made the right decision and a melancholy sense of narrowing choices. An engagement settled a young lady’s future; there were so many fewer questions to ask and answer after that. For her, it meant that the dream of setting off to the ends of the Earth was finished. But with that lowering thought had come an image of Randolph wielding the saber, as wild-eyed as any intrepid adventurer. He was rather extraordinary. And his family was far from run-of-the-mill. The duchess had suggested that adventures were to be found everywhere. Perhaps that could be true.
Verity had wondered if Randolph would show up this morning with the hangdog air of a man doing his duty, looking trapped. Despite everything, that would have been the end. She looked deep into his blue eyes and saw no hint of resignation, or hesitation. “Yes, I do.” She gave him her hand.
He kissed it and rose to sit beside her. Two people limp with relief, Verity thought. For the same reasons? Or different ones? How could anyone tell?
Silence fell. Verity wasn’t sure what to say in the aftermath of setting their mutual life course. Did one talk immediately of wedding arrangements? That didn’t seem right. If they could just sing together, all would be well, she thought. Which gave her a whole new perspective on opera. She laughed.
“What is it?” Randolph asked with a smile. When she told him, he laughed, too. “There’s a missed opportunity,” he said. “Why didn’t I think of making an offer in song?”
“I’m not sure which one you could use,” she replied.
“I can think of a few candidates. I would have altered the lyrics to fit the case, of course.” His eyes twinkled. “Or written a new one, just for you. If I could come up with some tender rhymes for Verity.”
“Charity, clarity, parity, severity,” she answered. “Not particularly romantic.”
He laughed again. “I see you’ve considered this issue.”
“I tried to compose a personal…dirge when I was fourteen and spent hours lamenting that I wasn’t named Anne.”
“Plan, man, ran, ban,” he replied.
“Exactly. You can see the possibilities.”
“I can indeed.”
“But, alas, I am Verity Louise. The enemy of rhyme.”
“But ever true,” he replied with much more than laughter in his gaze.
It will be all right, Verity thought as they smiled at each other.
Her mother peeked around the edge of the door.
“Lord Randolph and I are engaged, Mama,” Verity said. Beside her, he stood.
“Oh!” Her mother surged forward. “How delightful. I’m so happy for you.” She thrust out her hands. Randolph took them with a cordial bow. Holding on for just the right amount of time, he maneuvered her into a comfortable chair. He was such a lovely combination of kind and polished, Verity thought.
> “Ever since that first duet you sang, I suspected this might happen,” said her mother. “You were the picture of harmony.”
Verity nodded. It was perfectly true. And harmony was a fine thing. Not…pedestrian. How could she think so, when music depended upon it?
“You must be married at Chester Cathedral, of course,” her mother continued. “The bishop will want to preside. He’s very fond of Verity,” she said to Randolph.
“As who would not be?” he replied. Yet he looked suddenly wooden.
“So prettily said.”
Her mother’s eyes filled with tears, and Verity was touched. Mama had been uncomfortable so far from her familiar haunts, and now she was happy.
“I beg your pardon,” the older woman added, taking out her handkerchief. “Silly of me.”
“Not at all,” said Randolph. “I’m glad you’re pleased.” His tone had gone flat. In fact, he sounded like another man altogether. What was wrong?
“Oh, I am! And Papa will be, too, Verity. So happy.”
Verity blinked, stunned by the realization that she’d forgotten her father’s objections to Randolph until this very moment. How was that possible? Yes, there’d been a great deal happening. Including a rapturous interlude on a daybed. And it was true she hadn’t taken Papa’s warning seriously. He did fuss about small things sometimes, and she simply couldn’t believe that Randolph had done anything very bad. An embarrassment wasn’t a crime. Perhaps the Archbishop of Canterbury was very easily embarrassed? But she knew, with a sinking feeling in her midsection, that none of this would explain to Papa how she’d ended up engaged to the one man in London he’d told her to avoid.
Randolph rose. “I must, ah, give my family the news,” he said. With the briefest of goodbyes, he went out, walking rather fast, Verity thought. Like a man running from something? But that was silly. He didn’t have an unreasonable father.
The room seemed a great deal emptier when he was gone. He filled her…consciousness. She wanted very much to marry him, she realized as her mind darted from her father’s letter to wild ideas about what might have prompted it. She had to set Papa straight. Categorically.
“So very polite,” her mother was saying. “And handsome! Oh, Verity, a duke’s son and a churchman. He’s ideal. He has a bit of money, too. Lucy Doran told me so. Though how she knows these things, I can’t imagine. Not a great fortune, but we don’t care for that, do we? You have a bit also, so you’ll be comfortable. And you sing so beautifully together. I know that’s important to you. Of course the chief thing is that you like him.” She fixed Verity with an earnest gaze.
“I do, Mama.” She hadn’t quite understood how much.
“Good. Good.” The older woman let out a satisfied sigh. “I must write to your papa at once.”
“No!”
Her mother started at the snap in Verity’s tone.
“I’ll write to Papa. Myself. I want to do it myself.”
“Well, of course you will. Is something wrong?”
“No. I just want to share my own good news. Don’t mention the engagement until I write him.”
Looking perplexed, her mother said, “Very well.” She brightened. “Better still, why don’t we just go home and tell him? We’d have such a happy, peaceful time together.”
Verity hid a wince. Would Papa try to forbid the match? She was twenty-four years old; he couldn’t actually do that. But she didn’t want to fight with him. She had to fix this. “You promised me a season,” she replied.
“Well, yes, but now that your future is settled, why not go home and begin to plan your wedding? We could reach Chester almost as fast as a letter.”
“I want to stay in London,” Verity replied. Every instinct said to stay near Randolph. So much could go wrong if they were hundreds of miles apart. She had to talk to him, at once. And she wasn’t panicking. No, she was not.
Her mother looked impatient, then resigned. “Very well.”
“I want to become better acquainted with Lord Randolph’s family,” Verity added.
“Ah.” Mama nodded as if this made sense. “Of course. I suppose the duchess will approve of the match?”
The concern in her voice surprised Verity. “We got on very well when we visited her school,” she said.
“I’m sure she’ll be glad then,” was the reply. “Verity, is all well with you? You seem agitated. You are happy with this match? I mean, you’ve always known your own mind, and I don’t suppose you would have—”
“I am.” She nodded emphatically and tried to look like her customary self as her mind intoned, “A plan, a plan, must have a plan.”
Stop dithering, declared that dry inner voice that seemed to be specializing in tardy pronouncements just now. Are you not the woman who was ready to face down charging lions and ford jungle torrents? What is the matter with you?
Verity sat quite still and considered the question. Part of her felt as if she faced a threat as dangerous as those ravening lions, though the comparison was ridiculous. She would simply ask Randolph straight out about the archbishop, she thought. Verity let out a breath she’d been unaware of holding. He’d tell her what had happened. They were going to be married; they could talk about embarrassing matters. Should be able to. Well, they could start right here. She was no fainting flower. And once she had the facts she—they—would figure out what to do. An errant thought suggested that if the situation could be easily remedied, Randolph would have done so. She brushed it aside.
“Verity?” said her mother, looking concerned.
“I’m fine, Mama,” she told both of them.
* * *
Some streets away, the duchess had responded to Randolph’s news with a searching look. “So you’re happy?” she asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“This isn’t the way you talked when you told me about Rosalie.”
“That was years ago,” he said. “The case is different.”
“But Randolph—”
“My future is settled, Mama. Just as I wished it to be. Verity will be a fine wife.”
“Fine isn’t the same as—”
“And I shall endeavor to be an exemplary husband to her,” Randolph interrupted again. Immediately, he regretted his choice of words. He was being stiff and pompous—the opposite of the way he wished to sound. But Mama was making him feel defensive. She didn’t understand the circumstances, and he had no intention of explaining last night. In any case, that wasn’t the point. Somehow, in the heady rush of events, he hadn’t thought of Verity’s connection to the Archbishop of Canterbury. Then her mother had proposed a cathedral wedding, and that uncomfortable fact had come rushing back.
Had he just made his precarious position much worse? Would the archbishop see his engagement as defiance? A metaphorical fist shaken in his face? Ha, take that! Try to keep me down, and watch me marry into your very family. I don’t care a snap of my fingers for your disapproval.
Part of him rather liked the idea. Nothing, and no one, would keep him from his chosen mate this time! But he had more than himself to consider. His prospects for promotion depended on the head of his church. If the archbishop took offense, again, Randolph would never have more to offer Verity than the country parish she despised. Was he honor bound to go back, explain this to her, and offer her a chance to withdraw? His spirits sank further.
“Well, what’s done is done, I suppose.”
Were those tears in his mother’s eyes? That wasn’t like her at all. Randolph examined her face. She looked pale and tired. “Are you well, Mama?”
“I have a touch of something. I’m sure it will be gone tomorrow. But perhaps I’ll lie down for a bit.”
Randolph could count on one hand the number of times his mother had admitted physical weakness. “Shall I ring for Harris?”
“Of course not. Do you imagine me leaning
on my maid’s arm like a doddering invalid?”
This sounded more like his indomitable mother. “I could walk with you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Randolph.” The duchess rose and moved toward the parlor door. “I do wish you very happy, of course. And so will Papa.”
Randolph nodded. He resolved to have a word with his father as soon as he came home. It seemed Mama needed rest. If she required convincing, Papa was the person to do it.
* * *
Verity’s mother flitted about Lady Sefton’s ball that evening, sharing her good news with every acquaintance she came across. She looked happier than at any time since they’d arrived in London, and Verity was touched to see it. Mama really had pushed herself to give Verity the season she’d asked for, so she deserved a little crowing. For herself, Verity had recovered her equilibrium and was ready for action.
In the congratulations that followed, most people claimed to have known how it would be since the famous duets. Some seemed almost smug, as if they’d made the match themselves. She and Lord Randolph were obviously made for each other, these individuals told Verity. “Are you saying it was an inevitability of fate?” she replied to the fifth person who expressed this complacent opinion. “That my marriage has nothing to do with me?”
“Eh?” replied the matron whose name Verity couldn’t immediately recall.
“I’m not simply a pretty voice,” Verity added.
The older woman drew back. “I beg your pardon. I meant no offense.”
“I make my own choices.”
“Do you?” Her companion’s smile grew condescending. “How fortunate you are.” Gathering her air of irony like an enveloping cloak, she turned away.
“And act on them,” Verity said quietly.
“And thereby hangs a tale,” murmured a deep voice in her ear.
Verity turned to find Thomas Rochford passing behind her. “I shan’t linger, for fear of your fierce fiancé,” he added. “I shall say only that the reasons for his bellicosity are clearer now.” With a graceful gesture, he moved on.