by Jo Beverley
"I'm a dunderhead. I had Ireby pack my valise, but never thought of your situation."
"He could hardly pack something for me."
"There might have been something. Mother's, Marian's...."
She looked away. He'd broken off because he'd realized that nothing of his mother's or sister's would fit her. She'd seen both ladies last Christmas. Lady Beavers, as his sister was now, was slender. Lady Greystoke was more stocky, but not large.
She wished she could promise to reduce her size for him, but if it were possible she would surely have done it already. She'd tried vinegar and potatoes, a diet almost entirely of meat, and a daily draft of such violent effect it had almost killed her.
Some people apparently shrank through unhappiness, but if that would have worked she'd be skeletal. The only pleasant recommendation she'd received was to take long walks. She enjoyed that and felt better for it, but it had failed to make her any smaller.
They ate an indifferent meal at the Trout Inn. The dull food made it easy for Frances to eat little, and she felt she had to prove that she wasn't a glutton. They attempted conversation twice, but if fell flat.
When they resumed their journey Frances read a sermon on sin and penance that seemed in keeping with her situation. Had she truly considered all other options, or had she quickly settled on the one that suited her?
As they passed the first houses of Carlisle, Greystoke leaned out to call to the postilions to halt.
He'd changed his mind?
"I'm known in Carlisle," he said, "so we can't use the fashionable shops. We'll let the coach go on to the King's Head without us."
Frances realized for the first time that she was engaged in a scandal. She didn't know if that excited or terrified her, but she was aware of a strange pleasure in doing something unusual for once.
They descended and he gave the postilions their orders, then they walked along the street, seeking the less fashionable establishments. They found a small jeweler's and were able to purchase a simple band, though Frances longed for slender fingers.
They asked about a place where personal linens could be bought and were directed to a Mrs. Otterburn's. When they arrived at the address, it looked like an ordinary, modest house. Then they saw that the window contained a small sign: Mrs. Otterburn, Haberdasher.
"It seems a small place," Frances said, "so perhaps you should wait here. I will need some money, however."
He smiled politely. "No need to blush over it. I will soon endow you with all my worldly goods."
She thanked him, flustered, and went into the shop, finding herself directly in the front room, which clearly served as a shop. A bell tinkled, and a young woman came smiling from the back of the house. "How can I help you, ma'am?"
She was a girl, really; probably only fourteen or so, and surprisingly well-spoken for her situation. It struck Frances that her simple blue dress was not unlike the one she wore, but what a difference in effect. The girl's showed off a budding figure, a glowing complexion, big blue eyes, and warm golden hair, simply tied back.
Greystoke would be more enthusiastic about having to marry someone like this.
Concern sobered the girl's smile. "Are you all right, ma'am?"
Frances pulled herself together. "Yes, thank you. Just a little tired. And distressed." She was cobbling together a story as she spoke. "I'm traveling north, you see. To Glasgow. But my portmanteau has been lost. I wondered if you had some personal items for sale ready made."
Not possibly in her size, she thought with despair.
The girl said, "I'll ask mama," and disappeared into the back of the house.
Probably to laugh.
She returned shortly with a rather severe-looking woman in widow's black. Presumably Mrs. Otterburn.
"We only keep a few garments ready made, ma'am," she said in more of a Cumberland accent than her daughter. "But we do have some used clothing, if you would consider that. It is all clean and in good repair."
Frances had never worn a second-hand garment in her life, but this place had such an aura of cleanliness and godliness, that she believed the description.
"I would like to see what you have."
Both lady and girl disappeared and soon returned with reassuringly white garments to spread on the table. They were simple, but Frances preferred simple. And just possibly they would fit.
"A lady of our acquaintance died," Mrs. Otterburn said, "and her husband didn't know what to do with her garments."
"I assume there is a nightgown?"
"Oh, yes," the girl said extracting a white garment. When she shook it out, Frances saw that though it was sensibly high-necked and long-sleeved, it was embroidered and ruffled, and lace-trimmed in a way none of hers had ever been.
Until now, Frances hadn't thought in any direct way that tonight would be her wedding night, but if she had to do that, this garment might help.
"There are some gowns as well if you might be interested. Bring them, Nan."
The girl hurried away, but Frances felt irritated at such opportunism. She hadn't asked for dresses and didn't need any. She selected some other items of underwear.
Two girls -- twins, perhaps -- returned with the gowns.
Frances only glanced at them. "I don't wear such colors."
Mrs. Otterburn said, "The poor man couldn't bear the thought of seeing some other woman in his wife's clothes, you see, ma'am, but as you're not from these parts… They're all of excellent quality."
The first girl said, "The red would suit you wonderfully, ma'am."
"It would," Mrs. Otterburn agreed. "Let me hold it in front of you, ma'am."
The three of them chivvied Frances in front of a mirror and the gown was suspended in front of her. She blinked. It did look well.
"I'm too large to wear red."
She hated the words as soon as they escaped, but they were true.
The first girl spoke, bright with enthusiasm. "The lady who owned this dress was considered very pretty, ma'am. Size really has nothing to do with it."
What nonsense.
"You could try it on," the other girl coaxed.
"I suppose you want a great deal for them." Frances had only been thinking of Lord Greystoke money, which he hadn't yet endowed her with, but Mrs. Otterburn's expression told her how ungracious it had sounded. What was wrong with her?
"The money will go to the husband, ma'am, who has three young children to care for. I can't deprive him of a fair price, but I know he'd be happy for you to have them. Perhaps ten guineas for everything?"
Frances colored with shame. She'd paid that for the one dull gown she was wearing and more for some of her others. This could be considered a charitable purchase, as the gowns couldn't be sold to local women.
Frances glanced to where she could see Greystoke through the objects displayed in the window. "My escort."
"Perhaps he could wait at an inn?" Mrs. Otterburn said. "Jane and Nan can escort you there when you're ready."
Frances felt rushed and pushed, but having seen that red dress against herself, she must at least try it.
She went out. "I want to make a number of purchases. An opportunity. A charity!" She cut off her babble. "May I have eight more guineas?"
When his brows rose, she said, "I can repay you. I'm not penniless."
"Except by my impetuous plan. Of course." He gave her the coins.
"And perhaps you can wait at the inn? It's cold out here. The women in the shop say they'll see me safely there."
He studied her, and she recognized that he felt responsible for her safety. How peculiar it felt.
"Tell them instead to send for me," he said. "And don't dally too long. We still have aways to go."
When she returned, the women took her into a back bedchamber and helped her out of her gown. Then they put her in the red. It was a little long, but could be hemmed. It was a little large, which absurdly pleased her.
She covered her chest with her hand. "The neck's too low."
"But pretty with a full bosom, ma'am," Mrs. Otterburn said. "For warmth, you could wear a fichu. Nan, dear, find one."
The girl soon returned to put a triangle of white cotton around Frances's shoulders and tuck it in down the front. "You see, ma'am," she said. "The dress does fit, and it does suit. The gentleman will be pleased."
"Nan," her mother admonished, but indulgently.
In the mirror, Frances saw herself blush, and in the red it didn't look so awkward. And the purchase would be an act of charity.
"Very well," she said, feeling rather as if she'd been swept along by a flood, "I'll take it all. But I'll need a valise for it. Where do I purchase one?"
Mrs. Otterburn gave orders. "Nan, go for the gentleman. His name, ma'am?"
Why hadn't she thought about that? Frances had no option other than to say, "Greystoke." She didn't sense recognition. Perhaps their home area was far enough away that his title didn't spring to mind.
"Stop at Mr. Satler's on the way, dear, and ask for a cloth portmanteau or something similar."
The girl grabbed a shawl and ran off.
"Jane, fold up the garments again."
"Please help me out of the dress first," Frances said.
"You don't want to wear it, ma'am?" Mrs. Otterburn asked, surprised.
The idea terrified Frances. People would laugh to see her dressed so.
"It's too long," she said.
"Only an inch or so."
"But it would trail and be soiled."
The woman accepted that and helped Frances change. The bell jingled, but it wasn't Greystoke, it was a young man with a sturdy cloth valise. "Ten shillings to you, love," he said, winking at Jane, but then sobered when Mrs. Otterburn and Frances appeared. He didn't sober much, though. His eyes still twinkled.
What was it like, Frances wondered, to live among such casual cheer? "Love" meant nothing among these people -- it was simply a cheery greeting -- but it was such a sweet one. And perhaps one day this young man would actually court quiet Jane or lively Nan.
Frances paid him, promising Mrs. Otterburn that Greystoke would pay the extra when he arrived.
When he left, Mrs. Otterburn and her daughter packed Frances's new clothing.
"A shame to have lost yours, ma'am," Mrs. Otterburn said. "I hope it's found and sent on after you."
Truth escaped. "I haven't lost my valise. I'm eloping."
Mother and daughter looked up, the girl's eyes bright, but the mother's frowning. "Are you sure that's wise, dear?"
Frances shrugged. "Wise is hard to pin down. It's the right thing to do, I'm sure. The only thing to do."
The woman nodded. "Then I hope you have a long and blessed marriage."
They closed the bag and Jane went into the back of the house. Frances was tempted to spill out everything to the sober woman, but merely because she was there and she desperately wanted to tell someone. To get some sense of whether she was mad or not.
When Greystoke came in, Frances saw Mrs. Otterburn assess him with new eyes. There was nothing vicious about him, but he was undoubtedly handsome and dashing, which the sober lady would probably see as signs of sin. Moreover, she'd be bound to wonder why such a man was marrying a woman like her. Perhaps she worried that he didn't have marriage in mind at all.
Might she feel driven to alert the authorities?
"You're ready?" he said.
"Yes," Frances said, eager to be gone.
The girl Jane returned and put something into the bag behind her mother's back. Frances wondered, but it could hardly be dangerous so she said nothing.
They hurried back to the inn, only stopping for a toothbrush and powder, and were soon on their way to Gretna.
<<<->>>
Greystoke found his Gretna wedding about as dismal as he'd expected. It was dark when they arrived, with even a few flakes of snow whipping in a wind. The postilions had claimed to know the best inn and though they would probably receive a cut from the innkeeper, he let them take him there. It turned out to be tolerable, and the warmth was welcome.
He hadn't been sure whether Scottish law like English required weddings to take place only within certain hours, but it turned out not to be so. They made their vows before witnesses, who all happily signed for a shilling each, and then they were ushered up to a bedroom, man and wife.
Frances stood in the room, still in her cloak and bonnet. "How extraordinary."
"Yes." He prayed she wasn't going to burst into tears.
"It makes me wonder why people go to such a fuss."
"I suppose they enjoy it."
"I would hope so." Her eyes flickered to the bed for a moment, but settled on the newly-built fire.
"Let me take your cloak."
"It's too cold yet.
She held out her hands to the flames, the left now wearing the gold band. He saw her look at it, frowning.
"What we need is a good dinner," he said, hearing the forced heartiness of his tone, and rang the bell.
The meal came blessedly soon, served in the adjoining parlor. They sat in an awkward silence, but then tucked in heartily. It had been a long and arduous day.
He should make conversation.
"Where did your family come from?" he asked.
"Manchester."
"Did you like the move?"
She looked up from roast pork. "Not particularly. There's more to do in a city."
"You don't like the country?" Fine time to find that out.
"At times. Don't worry, my lord. I will be content enough at Greystoke if I am busy."
"Good. And please do try to call me Will, in private at least."
"I'll try." She put down her knife and fork and drank some wine. "Do you like the country? You're often away."
"I'm often in other parts of the country. The Shires in hunting season. Shooting country. Angling parties. Country house parties. But I enjoy London, too."
"I've never been to London."
He should say she would come with him, and was ashamed of his reluctance. Damn it all, he could hardly park a wife in the country and ignore her nine-tenths of the year. But this marriage business was going to be uncomfortable in ways he hadn't anticipated.
He must remember this was her sister's fault, not hers.
"Would you like to go?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. Balls and such don't interest me, but the theater, lectures and such might."
"A bluestocking, eh?" Not that surprising, and he didn't mind. "You must do just as you wish, my dear."
"I may hold you to that."
He searched the words for mischief, but of course there was none. She resumed steady consumption of her dinner.
Then she asked, "Do you often speak in Parliament."
"Never."
"Never?" That was definitely disapproval.
"I attend to vote when it's important, especially on northern issues. I'm not the speechifying type."
They finished the meal entirely in silence, but that in itself wasn't entirely a bad sign. He'd known some women who thought any chatter was better than silence.
She put down her dessert spoon, drained her wine glass, and looked at him with obviously serious intent. "Midnight nuptials," she said, "isn't to my taste."
He hadn't the slightest idea what that meant. He smiled vaguely as he tried to figure it out. Was it a complaint? Their wedding, as best he remembered, had taken place sometime between six and seven.
Oh Lord. It must be her way of referring to the marital bed! She was bashfully indicating that she didn't want him in her bed tonight.
"Oh, quite," he said cheerily. "Don't worry about that." But then he thought of a problem. "We do need to sleep together, however. There's only one bed, you see, and I think us being together for the night is part of the marriage proof here."
Her brow wrinkled as if she didn't understand.
Perhaps she didn't.
Perhaps she thought merely being in the same bed did the deed.
"That's all it ne
ed be, my dear," he added. "Sleep."
"I'm sure we both need our sleep," she said calmly as she rose. She went into the next room. When he ventured in after a suitably long time, the curtains were drawn around the bed. He undressed, washed, put on his nightshirt, and then slipped in carefully beside her, thankful that she was asleep or pretending to be.
His wife.
He was married.
He was taken unawares by a wave of regret, of grief for the grand love and the beautiful, adored wife me might have known one day.
He had, as they said, made this bed, however, and now lay in it. No point repining now.
Chapter Three
They set off early the next day and thus reached their home area before dark. Frances had found it a most peculiar day, but that was hardly surprising.
Last night, exhaustion had tossed her rapidly into sleep, so she hadn't been aware of him in the bed with her until she awoke. Then she'd stayed still, absorbing sensations -- his warmth, a slight pressure of some part of him against her hip, his particular smell. Strange longings had stirred and she'd gingerly rolled to look at him, relaxed again in sleep. She'd wanted to reach out and touch him. Brush hair from his brow, perhaps, but touch him lower -- his arm, even his leg.
It had still frightened her, the thought of being intimate in the extraordinary way necessary for children, but it would happen, and she wanted it.
She'd slipped out of the curtained bed and rung for hot water, then told the maid to return soon to help her dress. She'd done her hair in its simple knot, wondering if the maid could arrange it in some other way.
She hadn't. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and she knew she'd only look foolish to try. For that reason, she wasn't wearing one of her two new dresses. That and the hemming. Foolish to soil them.
They had talked a little more on the journey home than they had on the way to Gretna, for they'd had practicalities to talk about. They would go first to Greystoke, of course, where he would inform his household of the wedding. Frances hadn't anticipated a simple thing like that and shriveled at the thought. What would they think?