Lord Buckingham’s Bride

by Sandra Heath

  Mr Clearwell lowered his eyes regretfully, for many marriages survived and succeeded on far less than existed between these two.

  When he had changed into his court attire, Francis studied himself in the mirror in his dressing room. He disliked the popinjay garb that was de rigueur for all formal royal occasions. Why was it necessary to parade in fashions that were twenty years or more out of date? He loathed the leaf-green brocade coat with its abundance of silver embroidery, for not only did it offend his taste for all that was discreetly stylish, but it also reminded him of an evening reticule once owned by his least favorite aunt. However, protocol demanded antiquated, glittering garb, and so here he was, done out in all that was required and about to set off for the meeting that until a few hours ago he had despaired of ever achieving. If it hadn’t been for Alison … Alison. Turning, he snatched up his plumed hat and left the room, but instead of walking toward the staircase, he went the other way, toward Alison’s room.

  He knocked softly on the door. ‘Alison?’

  There was no reply.

  Quietly he opened the door and went inside. She lay asleep in the capacious bed, and there was no sign of Katya. He halted by the bedside, gazing down at her. Her silver-blond hair spilled over the pillows like the most costly of silk, and she didn’t stir as he put his fingertips softly to her cheek. How pale she was, like a beautiful slender ghost. So different from Pamela, whose cheeks were always flushed with becoming color and whose dark loveliness was all that was fascinating and vivacious.

  ‘As unlike Pamela as it is possible to be,’ he murmured, bending suddenly to kiss her on the forehead. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

  As his footsteps died away, Alison opened her eyes. His words echoed painfully through her. She could never compare with the woman he loved, and if there had been any lingering doubt about what she must do, that doubt was now completely extinguished. She had to go back to England, to make Pamela understand the truth and to make her realize that she was the one who must become Lord Buckingham’s bride, not Alison Clearwell.

  Several minutes later she heard the carriage arrive for him, and then the whip cracked and the carriage drove away again, conveying Francis to the Winter Palace and out of Alison’s life. The moment he had gone, she got out of bed and called for Katya, who came immediately.

  The maid was excited at the prospect of going to England, so much so that in spite of her mistress’s sad mood, she couldn’t help chattering. Strangely, the maid’s bubbling excitement was a comfort, for it was a distraction. Alison had already decided upon which things she intended to take with her, and the necessary valises were soon packed. Katya’s few belongings took up another valise, and it wasn’t long before they were both ready to go to Vassily Island and the Duchess of Clarence.

  A boatman had been engaged and was waiting at the jetty as Alison bade a tearful farewell to her uncle and step-aunt. Natalia was in tears as well and begged her at the eleventh hour to change her mind and stay. Natalia was quite convinced that Francis loved her, and she kept saying so, but Alison knew the truth, and knew that she was doing the right thing.

  As she and Katya left, accompanied by two footmen with their luggage, a carriage drew up at the curb outside the house and a familiar figure in vermilion stepped down. Alison didn’t halt or look back, but hastened on across the street toward the steps leading down to the jetty.

  Mrs Fairfax-Gunn stared after her, her brown eyes alight with the scent of still more scandal as she noticed the luggage the footmen were carrying. Without further ado she hurried to the house, where Mr Clearwell and Natalia were still watching Alison.

  ‘My dear sir,’ said the gossip eagerly, ‘is it possible that Miss Clearwell is suddenly leaving us?’

  Natalia turned on her. ‘Oh, go away, you horrid trouble-maker, and take your clacking, spiteful tongue with you.’

  Mrs Fairfax-Gunn took an involuntary step backward, almost toppling back down the steps; indeed, she would have done had not Mr Clearwell managed to seize her arm in time to save her. She was all of a fluster, for Natalia’s attack had taken her quite by surprise. ‘Oh, dear! Oh, dear,’ she squeaked breathlessly, overcome with righteous indignation that anyone should presume to speak so cruelly to her.

  Natalia gave her a glance of utter contempt and then turned and stalked into the house.

  Mrs Fairfax-Gunn gaped after her, for Natalia had always seemed so meek and kindly. But then the gossip’s insect antennae began to quiver, for there was obviously yet another delicious scandal in the offing. Feigning an imminent attack of the vapors, she leaned heavily on Mr Clearwell’s arm. ‘Oh, I feel quite faint and fear I must sit down.’ Her brown eyes moved toward the invitingly open door of the house.

  Mr Clearwell was having none of it. ‘Then allow me to conduct you to your carriage, madam,’ he murmured, propelling her determinedly down the steps.

  ‘Oh, but—’

  ‘Your carriage is most comfortable, Mrs Fairfax-Gunn.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll understand if I leave you, madam, but my wife is very distressed at the moment.’

  Mrs Fairfax-Gunn drew herself up furiously. ‘Sir, I am much distressed at the moment as well,’ she breathed, her bosom heaving like a vermilion sea.

  ‘Madam, I would not be concerned about you if you suddenly exploded,’ he replied, ushering her into the carriage and then closing the door firmly behind her. He nodded at the astonished coachman. ‘Drive on, off the end of the quay, if you wish. Just go away from here.’

  As the carriage drove smartly away, Mrs Fairfax-Gunn’s face was flushed with fury. They wouldn’t get away with this! She would see to it that every shocking detail of their niece’s conduct with Lord Buckingham was broadcast over England with a bell. Alison Clearwell and her wretched family would rue the day they decided to snub Arabella Fairfax-Gunn. Oh, wouldn’t they just!

  As Francis was ushered into the presence of Alexander, fourteenth Romanov Czar of All the Russias, the Duchess of Clarence left her mooring at Vassily Island, moving downstream out of St Petersburg toward the Gulf of Finland. When his lengthy audience was over, he departed from the Winter Palace with the czar’s praises and gratitude ringing in his ears, with Leon Razumov assured of the estate at Novgorod, and with the promise that the thoroughbred colt from the imperial stables would shortly be shipped to England. By this time, the Duchess of Clarence, a strong easterly breeze speeding her along, was already within sight of Kronstadt.

  But Francis wasn’t yet able to return to English Quay, for he was summoned to another meeting, this time with Countess Irina, who wished not only to give him a pearl necklace for Alison, but also to advise him that in her opinion he would be very foolish indeed to allow Alison to slip through his fingers.

  Francis stared at her. ‘Slip through my fingers? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘My lord, she doesn’t intend to marry you, even though she loves you very much.’

  He was very still. ‘There must be some misunderstanding.’

  ‘Oh, yes, my lord, there most certainly is, and you are the one who is doing it. She loves you, but she fears that you still love another, and she will therefore not wear your ring. Because of her, the czar I love is now safe and will continue to come to my arms; I would like to think that because of me, you will go to her arms. Forget that other woman, my lord, and make certain that Miss Clearwell becomes your countess, for you will never find another like her.

  He looked into her lovely green eyes. ‘Are you quite sure she means not to marry me?’

  ‘Quite sure, my lord, for she told me herself.’

  ‘If you will forgive me, Countess, I believe I should return to English Quay without delay.’

  ‘I wish you well, my lord,’ replied Irina, extending her hand and smiling at him.

  But the Duchess of Clarence had long gone when at last Francis arrived back at the Clearwell residence, and as he entered the house and saw Mr Clearwell coming
down the staircase to meet him, he knew that he was already too late, for there was an atmosphere that told him Alison was no longer there.

  He faced her uncle. ‘Where is she?’

  Mr Clearwell saw that somehow he knew. ‘She sailed on the Duchess of Clarence just after you left for the palace.’

  Francis’ blue eyes were bitter and reproachful. ‘Why in God’s name didn’t you say anything to me? Didn’t I at least deserve that much?’

  ‘My boy, it isn’t what I wanted, but Alison begged me to give my word. She feels she must return to England to try to put things right for you with Lady Pamela, and once she had decided that that is what she must do, there was no changing her mind. She loves you, but it isn’t a selfish love; it’s the sort of love that will always place your happiness first.’

  ‘My happiness?’ cried Francis, turning away and running his fingers through his hair. ‘I must go after her.’

  ‘And what of Lady Pamela?’

  Francis’ eyes swung back toward him. ‘Sir, if I am not mistaken, that lady is to be your daughter-in-law, for I did not lie when I said that she still had a tendre for your son William. Alison chose not to believe me. She thought I’d have said anything at that time in order to bring my mission here to a successful conclusion. It’s true that I love Pamela, but there are degrees of love, are there not? Pamela isn’t the one I wish to marry. I want Alison as my bride.’

  ‘Then you must persuade her, my boy.’

  ‘I intend to. I’ll follow her on the first available ship.’

  21

  It was humid and thundery on the evening the Duchess of Clarence arrived in the Pool of London, just upstream of the Tower. Yellow-gray clouds hung low over the city, and the air was stifling. The Thames was as still as a mill pool, with reflections barely moving on its mirrorlike surface, and every sound seemed to travel a long way. England’s capital sweltered in an unaccustomed haze of oppressive early-summer heat, and after the crispness of St Petersburg it was almost claustrophobic.

  Alison said farewell to Captain Merryvale, and then she and Katya were rowed toward the northern shore of the Thames and the steps between the Customs House and Billingsgate fish market. Escorted by one of the ship’s crew, they were taken to the Moor’s Head Inn in nearby Lower Thames Street. The inn was one of the finest posting houses in the city and was Alison’s deliberate choice, for she had no intention as yet of adjourning to William’s residence in Berkeley Street, Mayfair, but meant to go direct to Marchington House, which was by the Thames at Hammersmith, farther inland.

  Within half an hour of leaving the Duchess of Clarence, she and Katya were seated in a post chaise that conveyed them at speed across the capital. It was the custom of such vehicles to drive like the wind – indeed, the yellow-jacketed postboys were known as ‘yellow bounders,’ and were far from popular with other road users – but they were nevertheless the best form of transport if one did not possess a carriage of one’s own.

  Katya gazed out excitedly, for London was so very different from St Petersburg, and there was so much to look at. The maid sat on the edge of the carriage seat, her eyes shining. She wore a straw bonnet and a blue linen chemise gown, with a plain white shawl resting lightly around her shoulders; she had left Russia wearing a cloak to keep out the chill of the northern wind.

  Alison wore a primrose three-quarter-length pelisse over a white muslin gown, and a little brimless primrose silk hat adorned with a flouncy ostrich plume that curled down to her right shoulder. Her hair was swept up beneath the hat, except for a frame of soft curls around her face, and her only jewelry was a dainty pearl brooch. Her gloved hands clasped and unclasped nervously in her lap, not only because she would soon be face to face with Pamela, but also because she knew that a violent thunderstorm was in the offing. The last thing she wished was to be out on the open road when the storm broke, but she was still determined to tell Pamela the whole truth without delay and to make her accept that she was the one Francis loved.

  The church clocks were striking half-past-eight as the chaise dashed along Piccadilly. Every evening at this time there was a crowd gathered outside the Gloucester Coffee House to watch the spectacle of the West Country mail coaches, which set off in colorful convoy as the final chime was struck. Horns blowing and hooves clattering, the six gleaming maroon-and-black coaches drove off immediately in front of the chaise, which was forced to check its speed and follow them. The postboy cursed as he reined in the lead horse he was riding, but there was nothing he could do but bring up the rear of the dashing cavalcade.

  Katya stared out in amazement at the coaches, for each one carried outside passengers and never before had she seen people traveling in this precarious and seemingly dangerous fashion. Surely they would be thrown off when the coach turned a corner. Or they would be catapulted into the air if there was a bump in the road.

  The convoy of coaches sped past Hyde Park Corner and on toward the Knightsbridge turnpike gate, but still the outside passengers were secure in their places. As they swept through the open gate, for his majesty’s mail passed freely along the highways, it was plain that traveling outside wasn’t quite as hazardous as the maid had thought, and she gazed admiringly after them as the chaise was forced to halt to pay the toll.

  Alison glanced up at the lowering skies, where the clouds seemed to be pressing down over the city. The air was heavy and so humid that she felt she couldn’t draw breath. It was unpleasantly close, and she knew it wouldn’t freshen until the storm had broken and run its course. She was afraid, staring ahead along the busy highway as the postboy urged his team on once more.

  A low growl of thunder rolled across the heavens and a warm breath of wind blew across the dusty road, whipping up small clouds as the chaise dashed on its way. The trees whispered, shaking their leaves, and the air was strangely clear, as if everything was much nearer than it really was. Alison’s heart had begun to beat more swiftly the moment she heard that ominous roll of thunder, and she had to clasp her hands tightly in her lap to try to maintain her composure. She mustn’t give into her terror of thunder, not now …

  The chaise drove through open countryside toward Hammersmith. The hedgerows were heavy with hawthorn blossom and honeysuckle, and lacy white cow parsley nodded at the wayside. As the wind increased, petals were dislodged, fluttering through the air like warm snow. A vivid flash of lightning lit the heavens as the village of Hammersmith appeared ahead, and the first heavy drops of rain struck the coach windows. The postboy turned up his collar and urged his team to greater effort, but he knew that he wouldn’t reach his destination without getting a terrible soaking.

  An earspliting crash of thunder reverberated directly overhead as the chaise drove wildly through the village, passing the famous sixteenth-century Red Cow Inn, which was the first stage out of London on the much-used road to the west. The storm intensified with each minute now, and rain sluiced down the windows as more flashes of lightning were followed by thunder that seemed to roll endlessly across the sky. Puddles formed and the chaise splashed through them, sending muddy spray over the trembling cow parsley. They had left the main highway now and were driving along the country lane that led to Marchington House and its beautiful park on the bank of the Thames.

  The gates of the estate were open, the lodgekeeper having left them when he had dashed inside as the storm began, and another roll of thunder disguised the rattle of the carriage as it drove through into the park. The drive curved between rhododendrons that were in full bloom, the heavy crimson, purple, white, and pink flowers standing out against the shining dark-green leaves. Gusts of wind blustered through the trees, sometimes blowing so strongly that branches bent to and fro as if trying to break free from the trunks. Leaves spun through the wild air, and lightning stabbed brilliantly through the gloom, each bright flash followed almost immediately by another thunderclap.

  Alison’s heart was pounding in her breast now, and despite her determination to remain calm, the past had begun to move a
round her. She could hear those other hooves, driving along that Wiltshire lane, and she could see her mother’s face smiling at her in the window glass. Tears were wet on her cheeks and she turned her face away so that Katya wouldn’t see. The maid was unaffected by the storm; indeed, she appeared to find it as exciting as she had everything else since setting out on this first great journey of her life. Nothing had alarmed her and nothing had tired her; she was carried along by the sheer exhilaration of seeing and experiencing things she had never dreamed she would ever know. She didn’t glance at Alison and so didn’t know that her mistress was now close to breaking point, driven there by a storm that was the final straw after everything else that had borne down upon her in recent weeks.

  The postboy urged his team on along the gravel drive as it wound between the trees of the park. The house was nowhere in sight yet, for the rhododendron drive was deliberately long so that its magnificence could be enjoyed to the full. By now the rain was so heavy that it washed rapidly down the carriage windows, distorting the view into a blur of bending, twisting shapes. Alison didn’t see the park, but instead saw the Wiltshire countryside during a long-gone storm, and she heard her mother’s gentle voice trying to soothe her. But she couldn’t be soothed; she was too frightened. She stared at the rain on the glass, her breath catching as yet another jagged line of forked lightning split the sky outside. This time it didn’t drain harmlessly into the ground, but struck an oak tree that hung directly over the drive a little way ahead. The tree shattered as if riven by a gigantic axe, and with a splintering groan it crashed across the way, barely giving the postboy time to rein his terrified horses in.

  A wild uncontrollable hysteria surged through Alison. As the chaise drew to a sharp standstill, the horses tossing their heads within a few feet of the still-trembling branches that blocked their path, she flung the door open and alighted. She felt the wind tugging at her hem and the lash of the rain against her face. The smell of wet earth mingled with the sweet fragrant balsam trees, and torn leaves whirled away on the storm as another thunderclap split the sky overhead. The earth seemed to shudder and the rain fell even more heavily as the clouds burst.