Marry in Haste

by Anne Gracie

  Emm blinked. “I am?”

  Lavinia nodded vigorously. “You were so cold that day toward Lord Ashendon—almost rude, really—and now you’re going to marry him!”

  * * *

  When Cal told Galbraith, his friend let out a harsh crack of laughter. “Both of us donning the shackles of respectability! How the mighty have fallen. And of course I’ll be your best man.”

  Cal had returned to Bath the previous day. It was a little late to be asking someone to play best man, but he knew Galbraith would be here and available. “So it’s all going ahead?”

  Galbraith nodded. “Grandfather is in high gig—he and the girl’s father have been wrangling happily over the settlements all week. Soon as they’re settled, the deed will be done. And at Bath Abbey, no less.” He grimaced. “You inspired that idea, you swine. I was hoping for something small and private, but no, they’re thrilled at the idea of a wedding conducted by a bishop”

  “Sorry. The bishop was a friend of my aunt’s.” As Aunt Agatha had pointed out in a scathing response to his letter informing her of his intended marriage, If you must marry a nobody in a hasty skimble-skamble wedding, doing the deed in the abbey might—and I say only might—limit the gossip.

  “Can’t you tell them you’d prefer a small, quiet wedding?”

  Galbraith shrugged. “In truth, I don’t much care. Weddings are women’s business.”

  True enough, Cal thought. Between them, Miss Westwood, Aunt Dottie, Miss Mallard and the girls had managed the whole thing. Cal was very grateful to be spared the bother. All he had to do was turn up.

  * * *

  The morning of Emm’s wedding day dawned clear, with the promise of sunshine.

  All morning—all week, really—the school had been a hive of excitement with the entire school preparing to attend. The girls, all dressed in their best white dresses, had just left, walking down the hill to the abbey in an orderly but excited crocodile, escorted by Miss Johnstone, Miss Thwaites, Miss Clegg and Miss Theale.

  Miss Mallard was having a last-minute consultation with Cook and the servants, putting the finishing touches to the wedding breakfast.

  Emm waited in the hall. She’d assumed that she would walk to the abbey with the rest of the school, but Lord Ashendon had sent a note the previous day to say his carriage would collect her. The ceremony was set for eleven. It was quarter to eleven, so any minute now.

  Emm paced back and forth. She would rather have walked with the girls. At least it was something to do.

  Her footsteps echoed. The school had never been so quiet. For the hundredth time, she glanced at her reflection in the looking glass. She didn’t look like herself at all. She looked younger. Prettier. Her skin, framed in cream silk velvet, seemed to glow. And her hair . . . Who’d have thought hair could make such a difference?

  Earlier in the week, Miss Mallard had arranged for the most fashionable hairstylist in Bath to attend Emm—all things were possible for a future countess, it seemed. Monsieur Phillipe was an elegantly dressed, flamboyant “Frenchman” whose accent came and went, revealing a hint of Liverpool between the Gallic exclamations.

  He’d spent some time draping Emm’s hair in various ways, examining her from all angles, all the time muttering to himself. Then he’d seized his scissors and shocked Emm by snipping off several locks at the front.

  “Tst!” he exclaimed when she objected. “You have all zis beautiful ’air and you scrape all of it back in one ugly knot. It does nothing for you. Tst!” And he snipped on regardless.

  Only when he’d finished did he allow Emm to look in the mirror.

  Emm had examined her reflection, turning her head this way and that. Her hair was naturally curly—Papa had called it “perpetually untidy”—and she’d always kept it long so she could keep it in a neat bun. Monsieur Phillipe had left it long at the back, but all around her face tiny soft curls clustered.

  Papa would have hated it, but Emm was almost breathless. Who knew she could look so . . . ? She was almost pretty.

  Seeing her reaction, the hairdresser clucked with satisfaction. “See, Monsieur Phillipe always know what will suit a lady—better than the lady, n’est-ce pas? I soften ze face and emphasize ze vairy fine cheekbones for you, mademoiselle. And with no need of ze curling irons.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” Emm murmured.

  “Now I suggest you have your maid gather it up like so, perhaps with two leetle braids, like so, and then—”

  “I don’t have a maid,” Emm told him. “I will be doing my hair myself.”

  Monsieur Phillipe staggered back in theatrical Gallic shock. “Oh, non non non! It cannot be! I do not expend my artistry on a lady, only to have her do it herself!”

  “But I’m perfectly capable. I’ve been doing my own hair all my life.”

  He dismissed that argument with a “Tsst!” and a scornful wave. He sent for Miss Mallard and after she’d been directed to admire his genius, he declared, “But ze lady has no maid of her own, and It Will Not Do!”

  “Good heavens, you are quite right, Monsieur. I should have thought of it earlier. I will contact the employment agency at once. They will send some up lady’s maids for interview—”

  “That’s not necessary,” Emm said.

  “But you must have your own personal maid,” Miss Mallard insisted. “You have a position to maintain.” Monsieur Phillipe nodded vigorously. “If you enter Lord Ashendon’s home without your own maid,” Miss Mallard continued, “all the servants will look down on you.”

  Emm lifted her chin. “I don’t care.” She wouldn’t allow anyone to look down on her, servants or not.

  “Perhaps not, but Lord Ashendon will.”

  It was Miss Mallard’s second favorite saying, a clincher to every argument—Lord Ashendon will expect—and the devil of it was, Emm had no basis to argue back. She barely knew Lord Ashendon, let alone what he expected or wanted. As far as she knew, “no trouble” best summed up what she knew of his wants. Would arriving without a maid be classed as trouble or not? What did she know of what earls expected?

  “Very well, if I must have a maid, I will take Milly with me.”

  Miss Mallard snorted. “Milly? My housemaid? Nonsense, that girl isn’t trained to be a lady’s maid.”

  “Vairy true.” Monsieur Phillipe nodded wisely. “You must have a girl who knows how to care for ze hair and clothes.”

  “Then she will learn. Will you be so kind as to show her how to do my hair, Monsieur?” Emm asked. “Because I will take Milly or no one.”

  Milly was kind and clever and at Miss Mallard’s she scrubbed and cleaned from dawn to midnight—and still thought to put a hot brick—unasked—into Emm’s bed. The counterarguments flew around the room, but Emm stayed firm. It would be Milly or no one—as long as Milly agreed. Emm thought she’d jump at the chance.

  Milly, summoned, had arrived at the door, pale and worried-looking and smoothing her dress with nervous hands. It took her a moment to comprehend what Emm was saying, and when she did, her whole face lit up. “Oh, miss, you mean I’m to come with you and be your lady’s maid? In London? Truly?”

  Smiling, Emm nodded. “If you’d like to.”

  “Would I like to? I’ll say I would!” Milly glanced at Miss Mallard’s pinched expression and added tactfully, “Of course I’ll be sad to leave Miss Mallard’s, but if you think I could be of help, Miss Westwood, I’d be glad to work for you.” Her eyes were shining.

  “Then that’s settled,” Emm said. She was spending more of Lord Ashendon’s money, but if a maid was something he’d expect her to have, she had no option.

  Monsieur Phillipe pursed his lips and then snapped his fingers. “Come here then, girl, and let me see what you can do.” Under his critical supervision Milly arranged Emm’s hair.

  Eventually he sniffed and said, “It will do. Now, remember what I
said, start simple and practice at every opportunity. I will, of course, style Miss Westwood’s ’air for ze wedding, but after that you will be on your own. There are schoolgirls here—practice on them.” He arched a brow at Miss Mallard, who gave a grudging nod. “Come to my parlor and I will provide you with all the implements you will need for ze lady’s hair. I will also give you some cream for your hands. Your skin is rough, like a scrubbing girl’s. A lady’s maid must have hands like silk, understand me, girl?”

  “Yes, sir.” Milly curtseyed.

  “Send the bill to Lord Ashendon,” Miss Mallard said crisply. Which was, Emm knew, Miss Mallard’s new favorite saying.

  And now the wedding day had arrived, cold, but bright with sunshine.

  Milly, after helping Emm to dress, had gone ahead to the church with the girls. Miss Mallard had wanted her to help Cook, but since she’d already engaged extra staff for the event, Emm had insisted. Milly worked for her now, and she wanted her at the wedding.

  Oh, where was that carriage? The waiting was unbearable. She wanted this wedding over and done with.

  * * *

  The ancient medieval abbey was chilly. The interior smelled of beeswax, incense, ancient stone and Christmas, Cal thought as he entered, though Christmas was long past. He soon saw the reason: Clusters of pine and other evergreens bound with long white ribbons were attached to the end of every pew, with some kind of white and pink flower at the center of each cluster. On closer examination he saw that the flowers were made of wax and varied greatly in form and elegance. Odd, but he supposed flowers were hard to come by at this season.

  Though someone had managed: Huge sprays of larkspur and lilies and Queen Anne’s lace graced carved oak pedestals on either side of the nave.

  Cal ran a finger around his collar. It felt unaccountably tight.

  Ned Galbraith eyed him. “Uniform don’t fit anymore?”

  “It fits.” He might be on temporary leave, but he was still a soldier on His Majesty’s service, and dress uniform was the appropriate garb for his wedding.

  “Nerves, then.”

  “Not particularly,” Cal lied. He was, in fact, ridiculously nervous. Galbraith, on the other hand, seemed unaccountably hearty. “What’s put the smile back on your face?” he asked his friend. “Dutch courage?”

  “Haven’t touched a drop. No need,” Galbraith said. “The wedding’s off.”

  “Off?” Cal’s blood froze for a minute. “Oh, you mean your wedding. What happened?”

  “Grandfather and the girl’s father had a falling-out. No, what am I saying? It was the Falling-Out of the Century. Couldn’t agree over the settlements. Then they started to shred each other’s characters, dredging up incidents from the dim dark ages—did I mention they’d known each other practically their whole lives?—so there was plenty to dredge. And then the girl clinched the matter by saying she thought I’d make a terrible husband, that I was a rake and a libertine, cold-hearted, irreligious, unprincipled and irredeemable!”

  Cal frowned. “That’s a bit strong.”

  “Lord, no, it’s all perfectly true. I don’t give a damn what she thinks of me—I was only doing it for the old man.”

  “And how has he taken it?”

  Galbraith gave wry grin. “The canny old bastard’s gone home in high dudgeon—no sign of him being at death’s door anymore, in fact he left here wonderfully refreshed—by the fight, in my opinion, though he claims it’s those disgusting Bath waters. At any rate, whatever the cause, for the moment at least, I’m free as a bird.” People started filing into the church. “Here they come, it’s starting. Last chance to cut and run, Rutherford.”

  “No chance of that.” Cal straightened his shoulders. His stomach hollowed a little more. It was a straightforward practical arrangement, he reminded himself. A marriage of convenience.

  A susurration of excited murmurs drew his attention, and he turned to see an apparently endless line of young girls, all dressed in white, filing into the church. Under the supervision of a couple of elderly ladies they seated themselves on the bride’s side, whispering and giggling.

  One of the young girls caught Cal’s eye and waved enthusiastically. Lavinia Thingummy-Whatsit of the Shropshire Thingummy-Whatsits. He lifted a hand in acknowledgment, which caused a surge in the giggles and excited exchanges, followed by a flurry of teacherly shushes.

  It looked as though the whole school had come to see Miss Westwood married. Good. He was glad she had someone.

  The organ started playing, and his pulse leapt—was the ceremony about to start?—but it was only some bland piece, no doubt intended to reinforce an atmosphere of holy contemplation—and drown the schoolgirls’ steadily rising chatter and their teachers’ hushing.

  The pews continued filling, and it was soon seen that the bride’s side was very respectably occupied, while the groom’s was lamentably sparse. It seemed Miss Westwood had a great many friends and acquaintances come to wish her well on her wedding day.

  On Cal’s side, it seemed mostly made up of the curious—Aunt Dottie’s friends and acquaintances and those who’d tried to snare him for their granddaughters. He spotted “the poodle” and his grandmother, looking quite . . . poodle-y.

  The organ stopped. Silence hung for a moment in the ancient abbey, then the music swelled. Purcell. Cal straightened. This was it, then. He turned to face his convenient bride, and his mouth dried.

  She paused a moment at the head of the aisle, straight and slender and . . . exquisite, in cream silk and lace, dark hair clustering in tiny curls around her face, a lace veil pinned over her hair, spilling down over her shoulders, framing her alabaster countenance in mystery without quite covering it.

  “You didn’t tell me she was a beauty,” Galbraith murmured in Cal’s ear.

  Cal didn’t reply. He didn’t know. He hadn’t realized.

  Her face was pale and set, as if prepared for an ordeal. She glanced at him and her gaze passed on, as if she were looking for someone else. Then she frowned slightly. Her gaze returned to him and her eyes widened.

  For a long moment she didn’t move. They stood there staring at each other while the music surged and swelled all around them, and the congregation watched.

  He wondered for a second if she was about to turn and run but then, with a little jerk, she moved forward and began to walk toward him.

  Chapter Twelve

  HAIL sun-beams in the east are spread;

  Leave, leave, fair bride, your solitary bed;

  No more shall you return to it alone.

  —JOHN DONNE, “EPITHALAMION AT LINCOLN’S INN”

  If it hadn’t been for Rose, Emm might have forgotten to move at all. She almost hadn’t recognized him.

  She’d always thought him a handsome man, but now, seeing him waiting at the altar—waiting for her—stern and severe-looking in his uniform, with its tight-fitting, heavily braided scarlet coat, white breeches and gleaming high boots, he was . . . magnificent.

  The sight of him quite took her breath away. And for a few moments had robbed her of all intelligent thought.

  Thank goodness Rose still had her wits about her. She’d given Emm a discreet shove in the small of her back and hissed, “Go on, Miss Westwood.”

  And Emm had recollected herself and started the long walk down the aisle. To marry this magnificent man, this stranger that she hardly knew.

  The church smelled of pine and when she noticed the little posies with the white wax flowers tied to the end of each pew, she realized the reason for the flurry of wax flower making that had occupied the girls at the school in the last week. Each flower made with love for her wedding.

  And there they were, all her girls, smiling, nodding, a few waving, all misty eyed. Some already weeping.

  Her eyes blurred. She blinked hard to chase the tears away and tried to smile. She would not cry, she would not. This
was not the romantic wedding they were all dreaming of. It was a convenient arrangement, nothing more.

  She reached the altar and placed her hand, cold and nerveless, in his.

  “Dearly beloved . . .”

  The ceremony passed in a blur.

  “. . . ordained for the procreation of children . . .”

  Yes, children. She fastened on the thought. She ached for a child of her own.

  “. . . if any man can show any just cause . . .”

  She waited, tense, as if somehow, ridiculously, there would be a line of people ready to come forward shouting, “Stop the wedding.” But of course, nobody made a sound.

  “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

  There was a small stir of surprise in the congregation when Miss Mallard stepped forward to give Emm away. It was unconventional but not illegal. Emm glanced at Lord Ashendon, but he made no sign of either approval or the opposite. He looked straight ahead, his face stern and unchanging.

  “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband . . .”

  She heard her voice repeating the vows, sounding admirably calm and collected, as if someone else were making the responses for her. She didn’t feel at all calm. Serpents writhed in the pit of her stomach.

  “With this ring I thee wed . . .”

  She felt the gold ring slide onto her finger, and it was warm, not cold, from being held in someone’s hand. His hand.

  “. . . with my body I thee worship . . .”

  She tried to swallow, and couldn’t.

  “. . . I pronounce that they be man and wife . . .”

  Man and wife. It was done.

  There followed prayers and a sermon and psalms and communion and the signing of the register, and she went through them all in a daze, making all the right responses but all the time one thought ringing in her brain: I am married. I am Lord Ashendon’s wife.