by Jane Ashford
“Sebastian said she knows everything about the family,” Verity remembered.
Flora nodded. “So I’m just dropping a friendly word in your ear. Take care to manage your own wedding day. Especially as Randolph is a churchman. You wouldn’t want the bishop, or whoever officiates, to come upon him naked and draped in flowers on the altar, or something.”
Verity choked on shocked laughter. The image was all too vivid, and tempting. But her father’s friend the Bishop of Chester would not be amused. As for the embarrassed Archbishop of Canterbury, it didn’t bear thinking of. “They’d never do that.”
“I’ve learned not to try to predict what they will or won’t do. It’s easier to limit their scope.”
Verity tried to picture her wedding to Randolph. The intimacy they’d shared on the daybed seemed so long ago. They had been alone together here, but the duchess’s illness had loomed more starkly than any chaperone. And now there was, or wasn’t, Rosalie. The future seemed uncertain.
At the other end of the table, an argument erupted over some other past contest. The brothers turned to the duke to referee, and he seemed to enjoy it. The Gresham family wasn’t just suitable and eminent, Verity thought. They were fun. Any woman would be glad to join them.
“I shall go home tomorrow,” Nathaniel said when the dispute died down. “Thank God I have good news for Violet. She’s been so worried.” He looked concerned, and Verity remembered that their first child was due soon. “I’m sorry Mama won’t be able to come and be with her,” he added.
“She will be very sorry, too,” the duke said. “But she won’t be strong enough.” His tone brooked no argument.
“I know.”
Violet’s own mother wasn’t mentioned; Verity didn’t know why, though the others seemed to. A new family was an undiscovered country.
“I’ll ride with you partway,” Alan said.
She’d have to go soon as well, Verity thought. The critical need for music was past. She’d find an opportunity to corner Randolph first, however, and thrash everything out.
A footman came in. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. There’s a gentleman who insists—”
Before he could finish, a shorter figure walked in on his heels. “Yes, I beg your pardon,” the man said. “I’m sorry to interrupt your meal. But I’ve come to fetch my daughter.”
“Papa,” said Verity, rising from her chair.
Randolph stood quickly. The newcomer resembled Verity in the shape of his face and the color of his eyes and hair, though the bright hue of the latter was muted by gray. Mr. Sinclair was a bit pudgy. Randolph and his brothers towered over him, but he had a strong presence nonetheless.
“Get your hat,” he said to Verity. “We must go.”
“Is something wrong?” she replied.
“Several things. We will discuss them elsewhere.”
He looked stern, Randolph thought, and not particularly happy to be here.
“Is Mama all right?” said Verity worriedly.
“Quite all right.”
“Won’t you have a glass of wine with us?” asked the duke. “Or perhaps, have you eaten?”
“I require nothing, thank you.”
Recovering from the surprise of his entry, Randolph stepped forward to greet Verity’s father. His response was perfunctory, and the look he gave Randolph was depressingly familiar. The higher up in the church a man was, the more common the censorious gaze.
Verity moved to his side. “Lord Randolph and I are engaged, Papa.”
“So I have heard. From a number of people. Though not from my wife and daughter, for some reason.” His tone implied that he knew the reason, and deplored it.
“I meant to write to you, but then the duchess fell ill.”
“So I was also informed. I was very sorry to hear it.”
“She’s better,” said Randolph. “She’s turned the corner.” He would never tire of saying it.
“Splendid,” the visitor replied. “You’ve no further need for Verity’s…services then.”
He made her help sound wrong, or inappropriate at the least.
“She’s been wonderful,” the duke said. “A real blessing to our family.”
The phrase was not one his father usually employed. He was trying to turn Mr. Sinclair up sweet, Randolph thought. A touching but probably futile attempt. But to his surprise, it appeared to have an effect. Mr. Sinclair smiled and said, “As she is to ours.”
“Won’t you join us in a celebratory glass?” the duke repeated.
He didn’t specify the celebration. He’d have the fellow toasting their match in a moment, Randolph thought. But he once again was mistaken.
“I’m afraid we must go. Verity.”
“Why?” she asked, her chin high.
Mr. Sinclair sighed. “I’d rather speak of this later, at home.”
“Chester? I’m not going to Chester.”
“Verity. I made my position clear in my letter to you. We must step back and consider your future carefully.”
Even as his heart sank, Randolph felt his family gather itself around him. Robert and Alan moved to stand just behind him. On the other side of the table, Sebastian braced as if for a charge. Nathaniel and his father stepped closer to their visitor, the epitome of dignity and power. “We’ve watched over Verity very carefully,” said Flora. Randolph hadn’t realized that she could sound as high-nosed and imposing as her ferocious mother.
“My future is settled,” Verity declared. “As far as my engagement goes, that is.”
“Is there some problem?” asked Randolph’s father.
Mr. Sinclair sighed again. But he didn’t look cowed. “I protest at being forced to speak in this way. But I do not approve of the match.”
Surprise showed in expressions around the room.
“You have an objection to my son?” Randolph’s father asked, every inch a duke all at once.
“Not personally, exactly,” Mr. Sinclair answered. “I’m sure he’s a pleasant enough young man. But his judgment appears to be flawed. I will say no more on that score. Except that I won’t wed my daughter to a man who has spoiled his prospects and is doomed to a meaningless position on the sidelines of his profession.”
“Papa!”
“Randolph?” exclaimed Sebastian at the same moment. “Are you sure you have the right man? Haven’t mistaken him for someone else?”
“Surely this is an exaggeration of the circumstances?” the duke said.
His temper rising, Randolph watched his brothers try to puzzle out the situation. No one looked surprised at their father’s superior knowledge. Papa generally knew what was what.
Mr. Sinclair was shaking his head. “With respect, Your Grace, you aren’t privy to the inner workings of the church.”
“He ought to have changed out of the white,” Randolph said. “If he hadn’t been hurrying to go, he’d have—”
“Weak men blame others for their failings,” the older man interrupted, as if stating an invariable truth. Randolph suppressed a paradoxical desire to shake some charity into him. “Come, Verity. We’re going now,” Mr. Sinclair added.
“What if I won’t? You can’t make me.”
Randolph had never heard his intended sound so rebellious, or so young. Her expression warmed his heart.
“You intend to make your home here?” was the dry reply.
“You would be welcome to stay with us,” said Flora.
“I’m sure the gossips will find that curious.”
He wasn’t threatening, Randolph acknowledged. Spreading tales was obviously beneath Mr. Sinclair. The tittle-tattle would happen on its own.
Verity stood very straight, her hands in fists at her sides, her magnificent bosom rising and falling rapidly. She looked like Boudica facing down the Roman invaders. “Very well, I’ll go with you,�
� she said finally. “I have a good deal to say to you. I won’t change my mind, however.” She marched from the room.
Her father followed. The duke went with him. He meant to give Mr. Sinclair the most ceremonious of farewells, Randolph realized. He doubted it would matter.
“What was that about?” asked Sebastian. “I didn’t quite get it.”
“You are not alone,” answered Robert. “Randolph?”
All his brothers looked at him.
“I wish Georgina was here,” Sebastian said. “She’d explain it.”
“I’m not sure even she could do so,” replied Nathaniel. “Shall I postpone my departure for a few days, Randolph?”
“There’s no need for that. Please don’t.” If—when—he told his brothers the story of the archbishop and the ram, they’d fall about laughing, Randolph thought. Even Nathaniel. At first. And he wouldn’t blame them. At this moment, however, it was hard to see the humor in his situation.
Eighteen
Seething, Verity endured the short ride back to her lodgings. Protests wanted to burst out of her, but she wouldn’t begin in a hack. She intended to prevail, and that meant no useless rants.
Up until now, Verity’s rebellions had been silent and secret. Her longing for adventure and a life far different from her parents’ steady round had manifested through books and quiet practice and her plan for London. She hadn’t indulged in fruitless complaints or grand pronouncements. But she was done with discretion now. She was going to fight for what she wanted, and she wanted Randolph.
How gratifying it would be, she thought, to snatch up a sword, as he’d done at Rochford’s, and slash her way through obstacles. Such violent physical activity must be a great relief to the feelings. Not that she’d actually wound anyone. But to astonish and terrify—that would be splendid. As soon as matters were set straight, she’d ask Randolph to teach her fencing. The idea took fire in her mind. His lessons would be delightful in so many ways.
Verity remembered the duchess’s remark about finding adventures all around her. Fencing with Randolph should qualify. And other activities—with Randolph. Squashing her father’s objections was another example, she supposed, though far less appealing.
“You know, Verity, your welfare is always my foremost consideration,” said her father.
She knew that he thought so. And she had contrary arguments. Which he would hear when she was ready. He gave her an uneasy sidelong glance. Good!
The cab pulled up before the house. Verity got out and knocked as her father paid the driver. The landlady’s maid admitted them, and they walked up the stairs side by side. But not together, Verity thought.
Their set of rooms seemed quiet and unpopulated after her stay at Langford House. Mama had made their London dwelling as much like her quiet spot in Chester as she could. However, the version of her mother waiting for them was not that bookish lady. “So!” she said, standing as they walked in. Her eyes snapped with anger. “Here is my dear family, who conspired to keep me in the dark.”
“There was no conspiracy,” said Verity’s father.
Not a good tack to take, Verity thought.
Mama pointed at him, a vulgar gesture that was unlike her. “You had concerns that you chose to keep from me when we came down to London.” She swiveled to point at Verity. “You were told of them and said nothing.” She turned back. “As to why Verity was informed and I was not, that is a mystery.”
“I trusted her to behave properly, and I saw no reason—”
“No reason!”
Papa really was botching this, Verity thought. Had he never noticed how that slightly pompous tone always irritated Mama? Didn’t he see how her lips had tightened? Verity left him to it. Her task might be easier if they were at odds. Perhaps she could play them off against each other. That was a calculation she’d never made before. The Sinclair household avoided disputes. Indeed, any displays of strong emotion were characterized as vulgar and lower class. Verity realized she was glad to see her parents aflame.
“No reason to tell me, or consult me,” her mother continued. “Thank you very much.”
“The story isn’t fit for female ears,” her father attempted. He didn’t whine, Verity thought. It was more of an aggrieved grumble.
“Bosh!”
“Molly!”
She couldn’t be distracted by this new version of her parents, fascinating as it was. She had things to accomplish. “Enough!” said Verity. “Just tell me, now, what Randolph did to the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“He didn’t do it himself,” replied her father, looking shocked.
“Whoever did it, whatever it was, I will know. At once.”
“It’s improper,” he murmured.
“Stephen!” said her mother.
Verity pulled off her bonnet and threw it on a side table. It bounced and fell off the other side. The gesture was a mild relief. She did the same with her pelisse, purposely crumpling it before she threw. “Embarrassing, improper, scandalous… I don’t care. Tell me or I’ll go up to Canterbury and ask the archbishop myself.” She’d rather like to do that, she realized. She longed for action.
“What has that man done to you, Verity?” replied her father. “You were so sweet and mild before you became embroiled with him.”
“I was silent, Papa. That’s not the same as sweet. And those days are over.” Did her mother look approving? Did she have an ally? “Tell us the story,” Verity finished.
Her father gave a low grumble, like an angry bear. He paced, then sat on the sofa. “It happened up North.”
“In Randolph’s parish in Northumberland?” Verity asked when it seemed her father wouldn’t go on.
“Right. At a Christmas pageant.”
“The archbishop attended?” Verity prompted. It was odd for the chief prelate to be so far from home at that time of year, but she wasn’t going to distract her father with questions.
“He was in the area. Some favor for a noble family, I believe.”
“And so, at the pageant.”
Her father spoke in a rush. “Some irreverent jokester had put a ram in the manger instead of a lamb. And the creature assaulted the archbishop.”
“That’s it?” Verity had imagined so much worse—quite wild scandals in fact. She was actually disappointed.
“Knocked him down?” said her mother, as if she was thinking something similar.
“No.” Papa sighed, looking resigned. “The ram mistook His Grace’s white vestments for a ewe. He was bent over, speaking to a child, I believe. And the ram…addressed himself to the archbishop’s…hindquarters.” Under the stares of his wife and daughter, he added, “There. I’ve told you. Let us not speak of it again.”
Verity’s mother choked. On a laugh? Verity wasn’t sure. She’d figure it out, as soon as she could stop thinking of rams she’d seen among the flocks near Chester. And the high-nosed archbishop. “So, well, of course they pulled the ram off.”
“Eventually,” said her father. “But the incident was not only deeply humiliating, it was dangerous.”
“And not Randolph’s fault,” Verity said. “He didn’t bring in the ram. I’m sure he knew nothing about it. It’s unfair to blame him for the stupid prank of a parishioner.”
“When he learned the archbishop would be attending, he should have checked every element of the arrangements,” her father said. “I would have. And discovered the ram, too. And gotten rid of it well ahead of time.” There was no doubt in his voice.
“Even when you were in your first parish?”
“At any time.”
Silently, Verity admitted that he was probably right. Papa was a stickler for detail. “It was just a silly accident,” she tried.
“Which became a scurrilous jest. You don’t know what it’s like to stand before a congregation and preach to them, Verity. If a churc
hman is to help people, he must be listened to and heeded. And for that, he requires respect. Not sniggering whispers behind dirty hands.”
Verity could see how fervently Papa believed this. The archbishop must feel it far more keenly. She might have argued that a hearty laugh over the ram, even telling the story on himself, could have dissipated the effect. But she didn’t think the point would weigh with Papa. Anyway, it was too late for that. “This was years ago, wasn’t it? What about forgiveness?”
“I’m sure the archbishop has forgiven Lord Randolph.”
“But not forgotten, eh?” said Verity’s mother.
“I would say, rather, that His Grace formed a judgment of Lord Randolph’s character and feels that he’s not a person to trust with heavy responsibilities.”
“You mean he’ll never allow Randolph to advance in the church,” Verity said. Having lived in a cathedral close for much of her youth, she knew that the church hierarchy encompassed all the emotions seen among the laity. There were politics. Revenge was not unknown, despite the scriptures.
Papa acknowledged her point with a nod. “So you see why he isn’t the husband for you.”
Verity had so much to say about this that words crowded her tongue and stopped it.
And then her father startled her by adding, “I’m well aware that you don’t want to spend your life in a country parish, Verity, or even a provincial deanery.”
“You are?”
“My dear girl, what demure miss spends all her free time buried in Cook’s voyages, or throwing kitchen knives at a defenseless log?”
“I didn’t think you noticed.”
“When we had to call on the knife sharpener every month?” Her mother looked amused. “But Stephen, has anyone tried to fix this? Lord Randolph is the son of a duke.”
“I’m sure he’s done what he can. And failed, demonstrably.”
But had he? Verity wondered. She needed to find out.
“Couldn’t you speak to the archbishop?” her mother added. “You have a respected position.”
“I have it because I know when to intervene and when to keep out of a matter.”