He’d already spoken to Mrs. Chapman about acquiring a barrel of local cider for the celebration of their marriage. Even the strictest abstinence advocate in these parts somehow made an exception for that. It was traditional, and although much had fallen by the wayside as the Awakening and its virtue gripped Wales, there were still some vices too good to reject.
Gareth glanced at Annie’s handiwork in the mirror, hardly recognizing himself. His eyes were clear and focused. Annie had even trimmed his hair and had not made a botch of it. He was rather a la mode for a failed Welsh farmer. He doubted the congregants would be impressed, however.
“At least we won’t be subjected to one of Ian’s thundering sermons this morning. He told me it’s the deacon’s turn to lead the congregation today and announce our impending marriage while he inflicts himself on another parish. But he’ll be back next week, and so, I suppose, will we.” Gareth shrugged into his jacket and topcoat and stood patiently while Annie fitted his driving glove onto his hand.
She wore a sober gray dress from her housekeeper’s wardrobe, topping it with an ugly black bonnet that completely obscured the glory of her hair. To make matters even more grim, she donned a coarse brown traveling cloak. Gareth nearly winced at the effort she had made to make herself so plain. Annie looked prim and respectable, quite a contrast from last night when she lay tangled and trembling beneath him, her cheeks flushed and lips swollen from their passion.
Martin had hooked Job to the ancient trap. The sky was milk-white with clouds, but it was neither raining nor snowing. An inch or two of slush coated the dooryard, and the fields rose up as variegated as a quilt, brown earth mixing with white snow and gray-green grass. This winter had not been half so harsh as last, when he was laid up, his body broken and his mind fogged by liquor, left to watch frost fingerprints tapping secret messages on his window. He could not have imagined then that this January he’d be on his way to church with a beautiful, rich young woman at his side.
God truly moved in mysterious ways.
The chapel was set back in a field at the entrance to Llanwyr, looking very much like the small stone barn it once had been. Someone had nailed up a crude cross on one of the roof peaks. A few conveyances and horses were tied to the wooden fence that surrounded the churchyard, but most of the congregation had come on foot and were seated already on the austere wooden benches. The room smelled of damp wool and workman. Someone—nay several someones—had missed their Saturday night bath. A tiny stove along one wall threw out inadequate heat, and Gareth could see his breath even after he shut the door to the elements.
It closed with a thunderclap. If he had intended to enter with Annie in a discreet manner, he had failed miserably. All eyes turned to them, some mouths dropping open. There was a decorous murmur and shifting of bodies. Gareth decided to brave the gauntlet and headed for the empty Ripton-Jones bench at the front of the church. He had not sat there since his father died in May.
Deacon Thomas Morgan—another of Ian’s cousins, but not his—emerged from the vestry and began to read. Annie squeezed his arm.
“What on earth is he saying?” she whispered.
He’d forgotten to tell her that part of the service was conducted in Welsh, which would actually be a whole lot less frightening for her. To have to sit through warnings of lakes of fire and eternal damnation was not always enjoyable, and the less she understood, the better.
“He’s speaking Welsh, love. I’ll have to teach you a few phrases. It’s true everyone speaks English here, but for some reason they’ve kept to the old language on Sundays.” He caught Morgan’s glare and was surprised not to find himself fried to a crisp in his seat. “Hush, now, or we’ll be damned forever.”
Annie hummed along with the hymns. At least the music was familiar to her, and there was a lot of it. The people of Llanwyr loved to sing, and the standing to do so broke up the tedium of the lengthy exhortations and promises of the apocalypse that seemed to go on for hours. She did perk up when she heard the deacon mumble their names. He made rather a hash of Annie’s, but the first of the banns had been read. Now, would the fifty or so congregants congratulate them?
It was tradition for the Ripton-Joneses to follow the minister out the plain wooden door and linger at the step to greet the parishioners, inquiring about their needs. They were the most prominent family, save for the Lewyses, who worshipped in their own Anglican chapel at Lewys Abbey and were much too high in the instep to mix with their lowly Nonconformists neighbors. Gareth’s father had been faithful in what he saw as his duty to his people, even if he had failed his duty to himself. Gareth sometimes wondered if the gambling had not been the result of his father’s desire to continue the charity long expected from the Ripton descendants.
People would be too smart to ask Gareth for help now—everyone knew he was up the River Tick. But he would bet his last shilling they would want to ask Annie questions, which she had assured him she was eager to answer. Deacon Morgan gave them a curt nod once they exited the chapel and moved away from them as far as he dared and still remain in the dooryard. This only made Gareth stand a little closer to Annie, apparently too close for her sense of propriety.
“Give me some space, please. People will think we are married already,” she muttered.
“Ha. Most married couples cannot stand to be in the same room together, you know,” Gareth countered. “More than likely they’ll think we’re already lovers, which we are.”
“We are not!” Annie whispered fiercely.
“Don’t quibble, my love. I’ve seen your tattoo and everything else. Kissed it all, too.”
“Shh! What kind of talk is that for Sunday morning at the church door?”
“It’s Sunday afternoon by now.” Old Morgan had gone on and on, and if Annie hadn’t pinched him every so often, Gareth might have fallen asleep. She had worn him out last night.
“People are coming out. You need to smile. You look very grim, not at all like a happily betrothed man.”
He felt grim. Annie seemed to think that by attending one church service he would convert all the congregation to the belief that he was innocent of Bronwen’s murder. The last strains of the old organ died out and several men pushed through the open door to shake Deacon Morgan’s hand. They glanced over to Gareth but continued on the grassy path to the lych-gate. Even Martin simply dipped his chin in his direction and continued walking toward the village, probably to have a proper Sunday lunch at the inn.
“They have cut you.” Annie’s voice was full of disappointment.
“We’ll have better luck with the women. They’ll want to know all about you. Ah! Here is Mrs. Chapman.”
The Silver Pony’s landlady made a show of hurrying over to them. “So good to see you again, Mrs. Mont,” she announced loudly. “You must come to take tea with me in my private parlor to discuss your wedding plans. I would be delighted to help you in any way I can.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Chapman,” Annie said, beaming.
“Of course, you’ve already had one wedding, so I don’t imagine you’ll want much fuss.”
“On the contrary, Mrs. Chapman,” Gareth broke in smoothly. “Mrs. Mont has grand plans to make an honest man of me. It’s my first wedding, you see, and I want it to be as special as she is. My future wife is a London girl, and we must show her that Llanwyr is up to snuff.”
“We want to invite everyone. The more the merrier.” Annie looked past Mrs. Chapman and smiled at a few ladies who were eavesdropping a few feet away. “I do hope you all will join us at Ripton Hall on our happy day. Major Ripton-Jones has suffered so much, and it’s time his luck turned.”
There was an audible snort from somewhere to his rear, but Gareth ignored it. “No man could have more luck than I, Mrs. Mont. Too much luck. I thank the day you arrived on my doorstep.”
“Better to thank our Lord,” Annie said piously.
“Indeed. I am prepared to thank the heavens and all the world for my fortune, even the good people of Llanw
yr.”
“You’re laying it on a bit thick,” Mrs. Chapman murmured.
“Right you are, Mrs. Chapman.” He leaned in and winked at her. “Just go with it.” He raised his voice. “Dancing is an excellent idea! We can have Burt Fox over there play his fiddle if he’s willing. A few old-fashioned country dances—‘Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing: thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness.’ The Psalms, you know.”
“You’ve been reading the Bible!” Deacon Morgan said in astonishment, unable to keep his distance. Mrs. Chapman suppressed a giggle and shook her head at Annie, implying Gareth would be a trial to her.
“Every night on my knees with Mrs. Mont. She has changed my life.” Gareth was extremely impressed with Annie—she neither clouted him nor rolled her eyes. They would probably both go to Hell for this bit of mendacity, but it seemed to be working. The clot of people grew a few steps closer, and soon Annie was in conversation with two girls who were about her age. Gareth figured that they had five more minutes at most before the cold damp air extinguished curiosity and sent everyone home to their Sunday dinner. He made the best use of the time, repeating the wedding invitation and offering employment in the spring, earning a few raised eyebrows. He hoped the word would get back to bloody Rob Allen that he didn’t need his mother’s jewelry back after all.
Gareth would have liked to give Annie his mother’s betrothal ring, an emerald surrounded by a circle of seed pearls. It would have gone nicely with her eyes and fair skin, but one day he’d buy her something of her own that she could pass down to their children.
Children. He’d like to work on begetting some, perhaps even this afternoon.
“Come, Mrs. Mont. It’s much too cold to linger out here any longer. We must be off.”
“Can we expect you back tonight for Bible study?” Morgan asked.
“Alas, Mr. Morgan,” Annie said, smiling sweetly, “Major Ripton-Jones is expecting a visit from a member of his regiment this afternoon. The poor man will have been riding for days, and we cannot deny him our hospitality. You may rest assured that we shall be reading the Bible in Ripton Hall’s parlor with him as we do every night.”
“It will do old Freddie a world of good, I dare say. He is like to find me much changed and I’ll bore him stiff. No doubt he’ll leave before dawn tomorrow to continue on his wicked way.”
He hustled Annie to the trap, and urged Job on. Once they were out of earshot of the church, they burst into laughter like naughty children.
“We really will go to the devil,” Annie said, wiping her eyes. Her cheeks were pink from cold and mischief, and she was quite the most beautiful sight he’d seen all day.
“What an excellent liar you are!”
“As are you. Who is Freddie?”
“That was the name of my first pony. He used to bite.”
“Then he would fit right in here.”
“Our neighbors are not always so . . . worthy. They do put on a Sunday face to appease the Morgans. What they do when they’re left to their own devices would surprise you.”
Annie brushed a loose tendril of copper hair back under her bonnet. “Nothing surprises me anymore.”
“You are such a cynic for a mere babe, but you’re right. And you’re lucky you didn’t understand the sermon. I have a feeling Tom threw away his notes and tailor-made it just for me. There was quite a bit of the Prodigal Son story.”
“I abhor the hypocrisy of it all—men tricking everybody into thinking they are virtuous but are anything but. Like your cousin Ian, who’s fooled everyone and castigates you for committing the same sin he has. The exact same sin.”
“Yes, well, I’ve committed a few more than he has, I do assure you. I probably should be on my knees every night, Freddie or not.”
“In my experience, prayer is seldom answered.”
There it was again—the hidden hurt she refused to speak about. “That’s an answer in itself, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t fair.”
“No, it is not. In my travels I’ve seen much that makes me question. But much”—he paused, looking at the familiar landscape that was so dear to him, the distant hills, the break in the hedgerows marking his lane, the narrow rutted path home—“of the understated beauty, even the simplest leaf or rock, makes me hold those questions back. I had forgotten how sweet life can be until you came. What I said on the chapel step is perfectly true. You have changed my life.”
He counted the seconds until he felt her sharp little elbow jab him in the ribs. She was as ever unimpressed with his praise of her. He hoped someday she’d believe her own gentle power over him. He was as surprised as anyone to realize this little bit of a girl had such influence.
“Give over, Gareth.”
“Fine. When I wish to compliment you, I’ll just speak the words in Welsh. Then you cannot fault me. Rwyf am wneud wrth eu bodd yn eich.” I want to make love to you. Truer words were never spoken.
She pulled off her bonnet and lifted her face to the breeze as though she didn’t give two figs about what he’d said.
“Duw, rydych yn hardd.” God, you are beautiful. Tendrils of copper and amber hair had loosened from her bun and curled at her nape. If he weren’t so busy keeping Job on the road, he’d touch them. The horse was too spirited to pull the trap with grace and made his displeasure known, and it was all Gareth could do to keep the horse under control.
“Duw is God. I know that much after sitting in chapel for hours, and you’ve said it before. I believe we’ve blasphemed enough today.”
“Perhaps I was praying,” Gareth said with a grin. “Seriously, I want to thank you for coming to chapel with me. I know you must be used to something different.”
“I am. And I was rather hoping I would not have to go to church anymore now that I’ve run away.”
“Scandalous. A gentleman can sometimes get away with not darkening the church doors, but you ladies are required to be present and accounted for, doing good works and arranging flowers and whatnot.” The congregation today had been slightly more feminine than masculine. But there were still plenty of men, God-fearing men who’d given Gareth a wide berth and cast suspicious looks at his bride-to-be.
“I can manage it for two more weeks. And the day of the wedding, of course. After that, I make no promises. I am a heathen, you know.” Days ago, she had said she was not devout, so he’d been surprised when she suggested they go to chapel this morning. She’d been right, of course. They needed to be seen as the banns were read, and Gareth supposed his tarnished soul might be polished up without too much inconvenience.
“There’s something I can’t manage,” Gareth said as the house came into view. “I cannot keep myself from touching you. Let me make love to you. Rwyf am wneud wrth eu bodd yn eich,” he repeated.
Annie opened her mouth, then shut it. A day’s worth of seconds fell between them.
“Please.” Gareth knew he was begging, but couldn’t help it. If she gave herself completely to him, he might be able to convince her to stay, to throw in her lot with him and his tumbledown house, not run off again.
“Say yes, Annie. Ydy—that’s how we say it.”
“Ydy.” She spoke so softly he barely heard the word above the jingle of Job’s harness. But she’d said it, and now it was up to him to make her glad she did.
CHAPTER 19
Anne was not nervous. A kind of odd calm enveloped her as she hung the gray dress on a hook behind her bedroom door. Perhaps it was because of the nights she had already spent in her narrow bed with Gareth, giving him everything but the ultimate gift. She knew the sharp longing, the rise within her to arch up and reach for the forbidden. Even without consummating their betrothal, they had given each other hours of intense pleasure. True to his word, Gareth had always stopped, even when Anne had not wanted him to. He had spilled in her hand, and once, God help her, almost between her lips. She had gloried in it, ignoring his protests as she took control of him with her mouth. Anne had
no idea she could be such a wanton—well, she thought ruefully, she should have known. The writing had been on the wall for some time. She’d taken risks in the past, but never with the promise of such rewards.
She thought she might be falling in love.
And that terrified her.
Gareth had told her days ago he didn’t believe in love. He had reason to be wary, as did she. She’d heard the empty blandishments when suitors were after her fortune the first year she was out, and then the sly innuendos when they thought they would not need to propose to get her into bed the second. None of those men had really cared for her, didn’t even know her. She hadn’t known herself.
She was just the daughter of a rich and powerful earl, a means to an end for someone with political ambitions or pockets to let. Even her own father did not value her in a proper way.
Anne shivered but pulled her shift over her head anyway. Her hair pins had poked into her scalp all morning in her attempt to appear unobjectionable to the strict Methodists, and she pulled them out and lined them up on the dresser with unnecessary precision. Gareth seemed to love her hair, even if he did not love her. In the not so distant past, redheads were accused of witchcraft simply for the bright color of their hair. Anne smiled into the tiny mirror as she brushed out the tangles. Perhaps she could bewitch him.
Did she want him forever? She thought the answer might be ydy.
Now that he was sober, he was full of charm, some of it practiced, to be sure, but amusing nonetheless. Oh, she didn’t fool herself—he had not given up drink entirely. He was imbibing ale at breakfast and sharing a glass of wine with her in the evenings over dinner, which relaxed them both. If he could continue to be responsible, to be moderate, that would be enough for her. It was unrealistic to expect a gentleman to forego all the pleasures of the table. And she was determined he’d have no reason to drown his troubles away, because there would be no troubles.
Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) Page 17