by Jane Feather
“It’s a little difficult to ignore,” Phoebe pointed out. “But even if it was over, my father would still be trying to save money. He just wouldn’t have the same excuse.”
She frowned at her reflection, muttering, “You know, I think I’d rather wear one of my old gowns.” She turned sideways and pressed the material to her body. “I’m so fat,” she wailed.
“Oh, now don’t you be silly, Lady Phoebe.” The seamstress bustled over. “A lovely little figure you’ve got. Round in all the right places. Men like a bit of body to get ahold of.”
“Do they?” Phoebe asked hopefully. Would Cato like a bit of body to get hold of? The man who’d once been married to Diana? Highly unlikely.
She cupped her full breasts just above the girdle. The neckline was lower than most of her gowns, but it had a wide lace collar falling over her shoulders and concealing the upper swell of her bosom. She thought her shoulders looked fat and her breasts pushing against the ivory damask were as shapeless as pouter pigeons.
“Don’t you go an’ complain at what the good Lord gave you,” the seamstress said severely. “Now, let me fix this hem, then you can take it off.”
“Don’t you think I’d be better off in one of my old gowns, Olivia?” Phoebe pressed.
Olivia frowned as she looked up from her book. “They’re all so shabby, and they don’t fit you,” she pointed out with devastating candor. “At least that’s a pretty c-color.”
“But it doesn’t suit me. It suited Diana. It doesn’t suit me.”
Olivia considered and was forced to agree. “It’s not as if you’re in the least like Diana. Not in any way! Thank heavens.” She examined Phoebe with a speculative air. “Actually, I think you should wear darker c-colors. Something that would accentuate your eyes and make the most of your hair.”
Phoebe looked a little surprised. Olivia in general evinced very little interest in clothes herself. “Well, much chance of that,” she said with a sigh. “Hurry up and take it off, Ellen.”
Tutting, the seamstress edged the gown over Phoebe’s hair and hurried away with it, leaving Phoebe still in her shift.
“Perhaps if you told my father that you hated the gown, he would ask your father to b-buy you another one,” Olivia suggested.
“If I had money,” Phoebe stated, “I could buy my own gowns.” She sat down on a three-legged stool and stretched her legs in their woolen stockings to the fender. Absently she wriggled her big toe that was sticking out of a rather large hole. “The devil of it is, I do have money. From my mother’s jointure. But you think anyone’s going to give it to me?” She shook her head vigorously.
“I suppose it’s part of your dowry,” Olivia said sympathetically.
“To be managed by my husband, because what could a woman . . . a mere wife . . . know of such complicated matters?” Phoebe gave a snort of disgust.
“Maybe you should show my father some of your poetry,” Olivia suggested. “That would show him how c-clever you are.
“Men aren’t interested in poetry,” Phoebe said glumly.
“But most poets are men,” Olivia pointed out.
“Well, soldiers aren’t interested in poetry.”
“But you won’t stop writing, just b-because you’re married!”
“No, of course not. It’s my life,” Phoebe stated. “I don’t intend to stop doing any of the things I do now. I shall go on helping out in the village, and learning to be a herbalist with Meg, and I shall go on writing my poetry.”
“Then you’ll hardly feel married at all,” Olivia said. “It’ll almost be as if you’re not.”
Phoebe gave her a quick glance. How could she tell Olivia that that outcome was the last one she wanted? It was impossible to explain this stupid dilemma. On the one hand she wanted more than anything to feel married to Cato, to be married to Cato, and all that her lusting imagination told her that could mean. But because she couldn’t see how it could ever become what she wished for with such desperate passion, she could hardly bear the prospect of going through the motions.
“Well,” Olivia said, with uncanny intuition, “perhaps not exactly as if you’re not.”
“No,” Phoebe agreed. “Not exactly.”
• • •
Phoebe awoke on her wedding morning as exhausted as if she hadn’t slept a wink. Her head had been full of dreams . . . dreams bordering on nightmares. Twisted strands of excitement, of hope, of a dread certainty of disappointment. And she opened her eyes onto a torrential rain, slashing against the windowpanes, sending gusts of drops down the chimney to sizzle on the embers of the fire.
“What a horrible day!” Olivia declared in disgust. “Horrible weather for a horrible day. They’ll have to hold the wedding feast for the tenants in the b-barn.”
“It’ll be warmer than in the courtyard, anyway,” Phoebe said. The weather, as Olivia said, seemed entirely appropriate. She could have predicted it herself. “I shall get very wet going to the church,” she added with a certain grim relish. “It’ll ruin my gown . . . or rather, Diana’s gown.”
It was to be a small wedding, a far cry from the grand affair that had been Cato’s marriage to Diana on the day when Parliament had executed the king’s favorite, the earl of Strafford, on Tower Hill, and civil war had become inevitable. On that occasion divisive political opinions had still been in their infancy, and there had been nothing to disturb the harmony of celebration. But now many of those who had celebrated with the marquis of Granville would sooner meet him on the battlefield than break bread with him. And many another had fallen in the great pitched battles that had been fought before the strife became as it was now, mostly one of sieges and attrition.
The wedding was to be a small affair, an economical affair. Phoebe’s father, Lord Carlton, was not one to waste his money. Phoebe was not her sister—a diamond of the first water. She was making a convenient alliance for her father, but there was no need to go overboard in the middle of a war.
In these unusual times it had seemed practical to both Lord Granville and his father-in-law for Phoebe to be married from the house where she’d been living for the last two years. But the marquis had graciously stepped aside in his own house and allowed the bride’s father to make all the arrangements.
“My father won’t let you get wet,” Olivia stated.
“He can’t stop the rain with a wave of his hand,” Phoebe pointed out with much the same gloomy satisfaction.
Olivia’s confidence was not misplaced. At dawn Cato took one look at the leaden sky and the sopping ground and decided that no one was going to walk to the church as had originally been intended. Within an hour bevies of soldiers from his militia were laying straw thickly the length of the drive between the front door of the house and the little village church just outside the gates, so that the iron wheels of a carriage wouldn’t sink into the mud.
The guests would be transported to the church in groups by carriage, and the bride and her father, with Olivia in attendance, would follow last. As a final touch, a makeshift awning of tent canvas was constructed over the path from the lych-gate to the church door.
Cato inspected the arrangements himself, ignoring the rain that drenched his cloak and dripped from his soaked hair down the back of his neck. He returned to the house for breakfast, shaking water off himself like a dog who’d been swimming.
Phoebe and Olivia were breakfasting in a square room at the rear of the house, generally known as the young ladies’ parlor. Or rather, Olivia was eating in her usual absentminded manner, her eyes glued to the book she was reading. Phoebe for once had no appetite. She crumbled bread on her plate, sipped from the cup of small beer, and wandered back and forth between the window and the table, as if hoping that the rain would have stopped between one circuit and another.
Cato rapped once on the door and entered on the knock.Olivia jumped up from the table. Phoebe, already on her feet, stared at him in startlement and mortification.
She was wearing an old nightrobe th
at was too small for her, straining across her bosom in the most unflattering fashion and reaching only to mid-calf. She knew the short length made her exposed calves and ankles look thick and lumpy. To make matters worse, it had lost half its buttons, the fur trimming was now mangy, and there were some intractable stains down the front.
Cato had seen her looking scruffy before, but somehow on her wedding morning it seemed worse than usual.
“My lord, it’s unlucky for a man to see his bride before the wedding,” she said, the words tumbling forth. “Please go away.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale, Phoebe,” Cato said impatiently. “I came only to put your mind at rest about the weather.”
“But it’s still raining,” she pointed out.
“Yes, it’s still raining,” he agreed, striving for patience. “But since you will travel to the church by carriage, you won’t get wet.”
“Oh . . . Thank you, my lord. But would you please go away now.”
Cato hesitated, frowning, then with a brief headshake he left the parlor.
“I look such a mess,” Phoebe groaned. “Why did he have to come in and see me like this? Today of all days.”
Olivia regarded Phoebe in surprise. “You always look like that in the morning. Why should it matter?” Then, when that didn’t appear to have the intended reassurance, she added comfortingly, “I expect he’ll be up and out of the house long before you most mornings . . . if it really c-concerns you.”
“I’m a bundle of nerves,” Phoebe said in faint explanation. “Of course it doesn’t really matter what I look like.”
“Well, you’d better go and get ready now anyway,” Olivia stated. “It’s close to nine o’clock and you have to b-bathe and wash your hair.”
In reinforcement, another knock on the door brought the housekeeper, Mistress Bisset. “Lord, Lady Phoebe, are you still in your nightrobe? Come along now. The bath is all ready for you.” Tutting in reproof, she swept Phoebe down the passage to the bedchamber where her maid was adding dried lavender and rose petals to the steaming tub before the fire.
Phoebe gave herself up to the ministrations of maid and housekeeper and seamstress. She followed instructions without conscious thought, barely hearing their stream of charter bubbling around her. Her entire body was tingling, her skin sensitized as if someone had scraped over every inch with an oyster shell.
As she watched the maid curl her thick brown hair and roll it over soft pads on top of her head, hope warred with despair. Maybe her dread of disappointment was unfounded. Maybe everything would be all right. Maybe this night she would discover what she knew was there to be discovered. Maybe this night Cato would discover what was there to be discovered in his bride.
And then again, probably not.
“There now, Lady Phoebe, take a look at yourself.” The housekeeper stepped back after fastening at Phoebe’s throat the string of pearls that had belonged to Phoebe’s mother, then to Diana, and now to Phoebe. She gestured to the mirror.
Phoebe cast only a cursory glance at her reflection. Close study would only add to her already raging anxiety. She moved to the door. “I’m ready. Is it time to go downstairs? Olivia, where are you?” A note of panic edged into her voice.
“I’m here,” Olivia said calmly, stepping away from the bedcurtains. “Where I’ve been all along.”
“Oh, I wish you could stay with me the whole time.” Phoebe grabbed Olivia’s hand in a convulsive gesture. “If only I didn’t have to have the aunts to attend me at the end. If you were there, I wouldn’t feel so much like a sacrifice.”
Olivia squeezed Phoebe’s hand. “It’s a horrible ritual,” she said feelingly. “But it’ll be over quickly . . . once you g-get out of the hall.”
“I suppose so.” Phoebe gripped Olivia’s hand so tightly the other girl winced, but did not complain.
Lord Carlton was waiting for his daughter in the hall, pacing impatiently. The bridegroom had left before the first group of guests had been ferried to the church, and the earl was tired of his own company.
“Ah, there you are.” He came to the foot of the stairs as Phoebe came down. “Such a long time as you’ve been . . . but then, I suppose the bride’s entitled to take her time,” he added with an attempt at a bluff smile. “Very well you look, m’dear,” he said, but he sounded slightly doubtful. “Strange, when Diana wore . . . But come, we must be going.”
Phoebe curtsied, but could find no words. She laid her hand on her father’s arm, aware that her face seemed suddenly numb, as if frozen.
“I think it’s stopped raining,” Olivia announced from the front door that was held open by a servant. “That’s a good omen, Phoebe.” She looked anxiously at her friend. Phoebe didn’t even look like herself, and it wasn’t just the elaborate hairstyle and the stiff formality of her unsuitable gown.
“Yes,” Phoebe said with a fixed smile. She climbed into the waiting carriage, managing only with Olivia’s swift intervention to keep the full folds of ivory damask from dragging in the straw. Throughout the short journey she stared straight ahead, feeling like someone else. Someone she didn’t know at all.
Cato was talking casually with a knot of guests at the front of the church when the bustle at the back told them that the bride had arrived. He moved without haste to the altar rail and turned to look at his bride as she came down the aisle. It was his fourth such ceremony and held neither terrors nor surprises for him, but he noticed that Phoebe was moving as awkwardly as a marionette with an unskilled manipulator.
He had a flash of compassion for her. Her best features were her eyes, her rich, luxuriant hair, and the delicate peach of her complexion, but somehow they were not shown to advantage. Diana had looked so wonderful in that gown, but it did nothing for her sister.
The poor girl didn’t have her sister’s taste any more than she had her style and beauty, he reflected. But she would do.
Phoebe took in a swirl of emerald green. He had shed his usual black in favor of this brilliant velvet doublet over white silk. And he was magnificent. And he was about to become her husband.
When he took her hand, her eyes were riveted on the square emerald signet ring, and then on the strong, lean fingers and the clean, pared, filbert nails. He’d never held her hand before.
She raised her eyes to his face. His expression as he spoke his responses was cool, courteous, and totally without sentiment.
3
Phoebe couldn’t eat at the wedding feast. Not even the gilded marchpane cakes or the sugarplums and almonds could tempt her. She regarded the silver platters as they passed before her down the long table with complete indifference, mildly astonished that her usual sweet tooth had deserted her so completely.
Minstrels played in the long gallery above the great hall, and as the afternoon turned to evening, myriad wax candles cast a softening golden glow over the crimson-hued faces of the revelers.
Cato sat beside Phoebe in the center of the high table. He showed no inclination to drink deep, his chalice was only rarely refilled, and he struck Phoebe as distanced from the joviality, although he was attentive to his guests, keeping a close eye on the servants as they circled the long tables with flagons of wine and great platters of smoking meat. When his two youngest daughters, Diana’s children, showed drooping heads and eyelids, he caught it immediately and signaled for a nursemaid to take them back to the nursery.
Despite this, Phoebe had the dismal impression that he would rather be anywhere than at this table, hosting a wedding party. He barely seemed aware of her sitting beside him, and her own father, Lord Carlton, was sinking ever deeper into the plentiful burgundy. The bride seemed an irrelevancy for all the notice anyone but Olivia took of her.
Olivia was sitting opposite Phoebe, too far away for any intimate conversation, but her dark gaze rarely left her friend’s strained countenance. Olivia thought of the night to come. The wedding night. Was that why Phoebe was looking so taut? Was she thinking of the coming hours? Of that moment when sh
e’d cease to belong to herself? Olivia’s fine mouth set hard. That would not happen to her. She was determined.
Phoebe with desultory hand waved away a basket of comfits, and Cato glanced sideways at his bride as he realized that she’d been ignoring all the succulent offerings that had passed before her.
“Not hungry?” he asked in some surprise. Phoebe’s healthy appetite was a household fact.
“I don’t seem to be,” Phoebe responded, dragging her eyes away from their studious contemplation of the emerald on his signet finger and looking up at him for the first time since they’d left the church.
She was aware of his closeness over every inch of her skin. They sat side by side in state upon a high velvet-padded double chair, and she could feel Cato’s thigh against hers; his arm brushed hers whenever he moved it. The sheer physical sense of him made her head spin. His dark eyes filled her vision as she gazed up at him. She could see her reflection in the irises, and it seemed as if she were drowning there. Her tongue was unaccountably stuck to the roof of her mouth, and she couldn’t begin to form a sensible sentence.
And she was behaving like a mooncalf . . . a village simpleton touched by the full moon, she thought crossly, reaching for her goblet of wine. Her arm jerked and the goblet flew from her fingers, splashing crimson over the snow-white linen.
“Oh, I’m so clumsy!” she exclaimed in mortification, dabbing at the spill with her napkin.
Her frantic dabbing served to spread the mess perilously close to Cato’s white silk-clad arm, resting on the table. Just in time he seized her mopping hand. “Phoebe, don’t do that! Can’t you see you’re making it worse? Leave it to the servants.”
With a swift movement he twitched the sodden napkin from her hand just as she was about to return it to her lap. “No! If you put this on your dress now, you’ll stain your skirt!”