As the vicar turned to her, Christine forced her mind back to clarity in time to hear, …holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?
From what she’d seen of the new Earl of Bainbridge in the eleven days since they’d met in the Wetherell’s drawing room, he was a cool, upright gentleman who seldom smiled, a man to whom three young English ladies were somewhat more of a challenge than facing raging rapids, a roomful of angry men or possibly even cannibals. But he had rescued them, brought them home to Ashford Park, and she would live up to her part of the bargain. Into a silence that was becoming noticeable Christine intoned, “I will.”
“With this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow…”
Christine’s eyes narrowed. The Earl of Bainbridge was endowing her with Papa’s properties, with the grandeur she had lived with all her life!
Of course he was. She was female. Ashford Park was never destined to be hers. But the irony hurt.
Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.
For better or for worse, it was done. Bainbridge guided her to the Registry, where they signed their names, making their marriage official.
The few witnesses—Daphne, Belinda, Miss Applegate, Sally, servants who had known her all her life—gathered around, smiling, offering their best wishes. “You looked like a giant raven up there,” Linny cried. “I told you, you should have worn color.”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “Rag-mannered, Linny! But she’s right, Chrissie. How you can be so stubborn I’ll never understand.”
“A most inappropriate moment for squabbling, ladies.” Miss Emma Applegate whisked her charges away.
Christine could feel the earl’s wrath as he guided her toward the door. He had already made it clear he would stand no nonsense from either of her sisters, and why they couldn’t keep their tongues in their heads on this day of all days…
She was married. In addition to responsibility for her two sisters, and regaining the position of chatelaine of the Ashford family estates, she must now add the earl to her list. She strongly suspected he was going to be the most challenging responsibility of all.
The Earl of Bainbridge regarded his bride with some trepidation. He had done his best to avoid her on the journey from Yorkshire and over the eight days required for the local bishop’s license to be valid. After settling the young ladies at Ashford Park he had made a quick trip to London to confer with Sir Oliver Tynsdale, his new solicitor. And taken advantage of the opportunity to order a new wardrobe from Weston and take proper leave from Lord Bathurst. His scant time at Ashford Park had been spent roaming the estate by day and making sure Miss Applegate and Lady Daphne joined them at table and in the drawing room at night.
He told himself he was meticulously observing the rules of propriety by avoiding any private moments with his betrothed but, truth was, he would be more comfortable attempting to converse with an aboriginal in Rupert’s Land or a hot-headed fur trader bent on murder.
She was an earl’s daughter, accustomed to all the privileges of rank and wealth, polished by two Seasons in the ton and he was…inadequate. A man who lived on the fringes of society, earning his daily bread in a world so far from English civility that he might as well be the man in the moon.
And to top it all, his alleged concern for protecting Lady Christine’s reputation seemed not to have been taken in the spirit it was intended. The atmosphere had grown chillier each day since his return, particularly when he had avoided her efforts to speak with him in private. And today she gave every appearance of a reluctant and stoic bride who had married him solely as a last resort. A bride going to her own funeral, instead of her wedding. Wearing black! Harlan’s cool, diplomatic façade had nearly shattered when he saw her. Little wretch.
“Lady Christine, if you would join me in the bookroom.” He waved a hand, indicating she should lead the way.
When they were settled in matching wingchairs before a crackling fire, Harlan took a deep breath and offered, “I had hoped that while I was in town you would become more accustomed to the idea of marrying me.”
Her eyes widened, as if he had said something quite startling. “I was under the impression it was you who found the concept repugnant.”
Repugnant! Stunned, Harlan could only stare at her. Once again the consummate diplomat floored by a chit not yet of age.
“It is an odd situation, I admit,” Lady Christine continued. “In most cases a bride must leave everything she has ever known and begin married life in a new home, surrounded by strangers. Yet with us matters are in reverse. I am at home while to you everything is new. Which is why,” she added a shade more tartly, “I had thought you wished my help adjusting to life at Ashford Park.”
“I did. I do,” Harlan choked out. “I was merely trying to observe every propriety in the days before our marriage.”
“You gave the impression you had taken me in dislike.”
“No!” Harlan ran a hand through his hair, came close to groaning out loud. He had asked to speak to her privately with a specific purpose in mind and now, no matter how carefully he phrased it, he was going to be in the suds. A cold, unfeeling villain instead of the ultimate gentleman.
“Lady Christine…” Devil a bit, how could he find the right words? “Lady Christine, I assure you, you are mistaken. I could not ask for a lovelier bride.” Though not in black! “But we are strangers…our only private conversation the one in Yorkshire.”
“Which might have been remedied any time these past few days if you had made the effort.”
“Indeed.” Harlan settled himself deeper into the wingchair. He wasn’t squirming, absolutely not. “I apologize for my ignorance of the female mind. I fear I have spent most of my adult life in the sole company of men.”
“The New World has no females?”
She was laughing at him, the little devil. Mocking him. “Believe me,” he said with considerable sincerity, “none like you.”
Her lips twitched. “Why, Lord Bainbridge, can it be you are afraid of me?”
Was he? Shocking thought. Yet he was the intruder here, the one not raised to excessive wealth and privilege. And somehow he could not bring himself to reject the suspicion that, despite his self-assurances that he was acting the grand gentleman, it was cowardice that had sent him fleeing to London.
Impossible! Not Harlan Ashford, adventurer extraordinaire. Lady Christine was merely a new kind of challenge, one that was going to need more studying before…
Devil a bit! She was no longer Lady Christine. She was his wife, Lady Bainbridge. Which very likely sounded as shocking to her as it did to him. Obviously neither of them was prepared for marriage. Idiot that he was, he did not even know how to address his wife. “Lady Bainbridge” gave him the shivers, and he could only imagine her shock if he called her by her Christian name.
Everything he had ever discovered about women over the years, and everything he had ever heard—whether over a pint in a tavern or brandy in a club—indicated that no matter how long and diligently he studied, he was never, ever going to understand women; most particularly, his wife. Perhaps discretion was indeed the better part of valor. What harm in retaining her former title?
“Lady Christine,” he said, suddenly aware he had been silent for far too long, “I beg you not to misconstrue my words but, of necessity, we have married during your period of mourning. And I believe it would not be proper for me to intrude any further into your life at this time.” He rushed ahead as he saw comprehension dawning on her pale face, swiftly followed by shock. “For the sake of appearances I have had your belongings transferred to the bedchamber of the lady of the house but I will not…ah, claim my husbandly rights until such time as we both agree the moment is right.”
To his astonishment, instead of thanking him for his sensitivity, she shot
to her feet and dashed out of the room as if the devil were on her heels, leaving him to stare after her. What had he done? Was she angry, upset, perhaps embarrassed by even a hint of the marriage bed?
What did she expect? They were strangers. Didn’t the silly chit realize he was trying to be kind? And besides, how could he possibly…? He’d wager a monkey even her nightwear was black!
Chin propped up by one hand, Harlan glared at the flames dancing in the fireplace. How could the blasted fire appear so cheery?
Devil a bit, he was married…and still alone.
Christine ran straight to the bedchamber that had been hers for all of her life, darted across the room and threw herself on the bed. But almost before the tears began to flow she felt the emptiness…the wrongness of it. She gulped back her tears, slowly raised her head and looked around.
Her eyes widened, her stomach clenched. Her beloved dressing table, a gift from her mother, was gone, and with it her brush, comb, hand mirror, perfume bottles…her jewel case! She bounced off the bed and ran to her wardrobe. Empty. Not a single gown, chemise, bonnet or pelisse. Blindly she walked back to the serpentine chest of drawers, even though she realized that too would be empty. And all in the time it had taken to drive to the church, make her vows and return home.
Her life as Lady Christine Ashford was over. This would never be her room again.
Her belongings were now in her mother’s room. Her mother’s room. Dear Lord, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t known this would happen. She had simply avoided thinking about it. And knowing this was a crisis young men had to face when they assumed their father’s bedchamber along with his title was little help. She had charged forward, doing what had to be done to save her sisters and herself, heedless of the realities that went with marriage.
Well, not quite. She had fully expected to “do her duty”. Christine had, in fact, spent considerable hours contemplating the mysteries of marriage over the past eleven days. She was not completely inexperienced—Jeremy had become rather bold one dark night in the Parameters’ gardens—but naturally the thought of the intimacies of married life with a perfect stranger were quite repugnant.
Yet she had not expected him to reject her.
Reject Lady Christine Ashford. How dare he?
“My lady.” Christine, motionless in the middle of the bedchamber, looked up to find Sally at the door. “His lordship bids you come down for the wedding breakfast, my lady.” Eyes anxious, the maid moved forward. “Here, my lady, let me tidy you up a bit.”
But there was little Sally could do. Christine suddenly saw herself as others did. A cold, dour wraith in unadorned black silk, casting gloom in every direction. Descending to the dining room not as a bride but as a ghost at the feast.
No wonder Bainbridge didn’t want her.
Chapter Seven
“Here you are!” Lady Daphne declared as she strode into a sunny morning room in the far east corner of the house, bringing the crisp scent of autumn air with her. “Such a stick-in-the-mud you’ve become, Chrissie. The West Ride was glorious today. You have no idea what you missed.”
Lady Christine, seated at a small marquetry desk, put aside the menus she had been working on and managed a somewhat wan smile. “I daresay I have seen the West Ride in every weather, including rain and snow, so you will forgive me if I do not envy you. Particularly since I spent hours in the saddle this morning before you were even out of bed.”
Daphne paused in the act of drawing off her riding gloves, eyes wide. “Whatever for?” she demanded.
“I believe I told you I agreed to acquaint Bainbridge with the estate—meeting our tenants, understanding what crops are planted where and why, where timber may be logged, what weirs must be constantly watched—”
“Spare me!” A hand held dramatically to her forehead, Daphne threw herself down on a scrollback settee. “Can you not leave all that to Barnswell? It’s men’s work, Chrissie. Outré for a female, particularly a lady.”
“Mr. Barnswell is a fine steward,” Christine offered quietly, “but Papa liked to have someone in the family to talk to, someone to whom he could pass down his knowledge.”
“When he knew quite well it would never do you a jot of good.”
“But he has been proven farseeing, has he not?”
The words hung between them, unanswerable. Christine’s unique knowledge of the estate, plus the earl’s sense of obligation to the three orphans, had won them a home. Even Linny was old enough to understand the bargain between her sister and the earl.
Christine broke the strained atmosphere with an abrupt change of topic. “Did you go into the village?”
“No,” Daphne responded shortly before a sudden sly look lit her eyes. “But I met someone you know. An ardent admirer, in fact. He assured me he was devastated to hear of your marriage.”
“Rafe.” Christine’s lips turned up in a smile of nostalgia. The Ashford sisters had known Ralph Sinclair, the squire’s son, all their lives. A young man only a few months older than Christine, his father’s property marched with Ashford Park.
“He has grown quite handsome,” Daphne declared. “And now that you are married, I believe I shall practice my flirting on him.”
“Daphne!”
“Well, you did. The poor boy was quite besotted as I recall. But he seems to have recovered nicely,” she added with a secret little smile that sent a shiver up Christine’s spine.
“Daphne…you did not ride out alone, I trust.”
“Of course I did. I have been riding our land since I was old enough to sit a pony.”
After a small sigh, Christine stiffened her back and clasped her hands in her lap, saying with careful deliberation, “But you are a young lady now. You cannot go charging about on your own.”
“You did, you know you did!”
Christine’s shoulders slumped as Daphne’s point hit home, but she and her sister were as different as chalk from cheese. She drew a deep breath. “Nonetheless—”
“No!” Daphne cried, jumping to her feet. “I’ll ask Bainbridge. He’s been everywhere, so how can he deny me the home woods?” She stalked from the room.
Christine shut her eyes and sat very still. She had been eldest-sister-turned-mother for many years now, and Papa had always supported her decisions. But the new earl…her husband…who knew what he would do?
“Chrissie?”
At the sound of her younger sister’s voice, Christine pasted an indulgent smile on her face. “Have you escaped Miss Applegate?” she whispered.
But Lady Belinda did not return her smile. The nine-year-old walked toward her, eyes anxious, lips quivering. “I thought…” Linny gulped back tears. “I thought when you were married everything would be better. Like we used to be. But it’s not.” She burst into tears.
Christine clasped her tight, tears leaping into her own eyes. “Oh, Linny, I’m sorry you heard us quarreling but it was just a little spat, something that happens between sisters, between members of a family. Sometimes we get angry over the rules we have to live by and we blame a person, when the only culprit is the ways of the world. Or Fate…something over which we have no control.”
“But no one smiles or laughs anymore!” Linny wailed. “It’s as bad as Yorkshire. And I hate black,” she added on a sob.
“Oh my dear,” Christine choked out. It was her fault, all her fault. As chatelaine of Ashford Park it was her duty to see that the household, and the people in it, ran smoothly. At maximum efficiency but with at least some pleasure in their daily lives.
She had failed. Ashford Park might be a house of mourning but the chill politeness, the careful good manners between Bainbridge and herself had surely contributed to the gloom that had them all in its grip. And wearing black didn’t help. She was fulfilling the letter of her agreement with the earl but the spirit was sorely lacking.
Christine sat, eyes squeezed shut, her arms around her little sister, her mind spinning in circles. The last six months had brought one ugly surpri
se after another. Papa’s death, Jeremy’s defection, being forced out of the only home she and her sisters had ever known, the Wetherells’ sly reception of the Ashford orphans. Alymer. Christine winced. If Bainbridge had done nothing else, he had saved her from her cousin, she must remember that.
Bainbridge’s offer of marriage. A stunning surprise.
As was his insulting rejection of her person.
No wonder she had crawled inside a suit of armor, allowing no one in, allowing no one to see what she was feeling.
Excuses, girl, nothing but excuses. Ashfords are stronger than that. Her father’s voice echoed so sharply in her mind he might have been looking over her shoulder. Perhaps he was. And, always a man of great good sense, he could not be best pleased to find all three daughters plunged into melancholy.
“Come, Linny,” Christine said, giving her sister an extra little hug, “let us look at your gowns and see if there are any you have not outgrown in the last six months.”
Lady Belinda’s head came up, eyes shining. “Do you mean it, truly mean it? I may wear colors again?”
“You and Daphne both,” Christine told her with a rather watery smile. “I shall call in the dressmaker and go into half-mourning but I know Papa would not mind the two of you leaving off your blacks.”
Linny gave a little bounce, tugging Christine’s hand. “Let us go this very minute. Oh!” She paused, brown eyes huge. “May I have a new dress too? Please say yes!”
Christine laughed. “The way you’ve been growing I expect you will acquire more new gowns that I.”
And how long had it been, Christine wondered as they left the room, since she had laughed? Linny was right. The three of them, Bainbridge—in truth, the whole household—needed a great deal more refurbishment than a switch to clothes that were not black. And somehow she must manage it, though at the moment the task seemed insurmountable, for she had neither the will nor the way.
“You truly believe it is not proper for your sister to ride unattended about the estate?” Harlan asked. Once again he and Lady Christine were seated in the matching wingchairs in the bookroom.
The Last Surprise Page 4