A Most Unsuitable Bride

by Jane Toombs

  "Your father? I have never heard either you or Phoebe speak of him."

  "He passed away when I was only four so I hardly remember him. When I hear his name—Phillip Langdon—I picture a tall bearded man who smelled of tobacco. Before mother married your father, his portrait was over the fireplace in the library, but now Phoebe has it hanging in her room. Phoebe, of course, was always father's great favorite."

  "My mother died of the fever when I was very small,” Deirdre said, “so I know how difficult it is to be left with only one parent. Fortunately, I had my grandmother to care for me."

  "Our father died of consumption,” Alcida said, shaking her head sadly, “when he was only twenty-six. Can you imagine, in a few years Phoebe and I will be as old as he was? Since everyone in the family remarks on how alike he and Phoebe were, I sometimes suspect she wonders if they might be alike not only in manner but in susceptibility to disease as well. She may be afraid she will die young just as Father did."

  "What a strange and terrible fear for her to have."

  "To my mind, there are no grounds for her fears,” Alcida said, “since neither Dr. Taylor, our family physician, nor Vincent have detected any tendency toward a weakness in her lungs.” With a shake of her head, Alcida dismissed her own notion. “No, Phoebe behaves as she does not from fear but because she enjoys flirtatious adventures, perhaps overmuch. Not only that, but she also prefers to have two strings for her bow. While holding Clive in a state of limbo she dangles for Edward, hoping against hope to become mistress of Harmon Hall."

  "I suspect the likelihood of her landing Edward is extremely remote,” Deirdre said, recalling Edward's expressed lack of enthusiasm for Phoebe. If, she warned herself, he had told her the truth.

  "Perhaps, perhaps not, one can never be certain of the outcome of affairs of the heart. Edward does seem to be taken with her beauty, at least to some extent. And, of course, since Clive is in Brighton, Phoebe feels at liberty to do as she pleases."

  "I was surprised when Clive left town last week to visit his brother, departing so suddenly and with hardly a word of explanation to anyone."

  "You must tell absolutely no one this,” Alcida said in a whisper. “But his going to Brighton was not entirely his own doing. The visit was recommended and encouraged by Vincent."

  Deirdre frowned. “For what possible purpose?"

  "To allow Clive a time away from the perturbations of life in London. I suspect something is bothering Clive, perhaps his migraines have returned, but Vincent refuses to give me the slightest hint."

  Deirdre bit her lip to stop herself from crying out in alarm. She had never suspected that Clive's trip was anything other than a visit to one of his two older brothers. All along she had thought he was on the path to recovery from the malaise brought on by his lack of memory, a lack making him fear that he had shown cowardice during the Battle of Vittoria.

  Leaning down to look over Deirdre's shoulder into the glass above the dressing table, Alcida said anxiously, “Do you notice any difference? Any at all?"

  Deirdre considered her sister's image in the glass, wanting to be reassuring but uncertain what difference Alcida expected her to remark on.

  "My face,” Alcida said helpfully. “Do you see a change? I applied cucumber lotion three times a day for the last fortnight. Are the scars any less noticeable?"

  "There may be some improvement,” Deirdre told her uncertainly.

  "I think not,” Alcida said, turning away from the glass with a discouraged sigh. “How very fortunate you and Phoebe are."

  Yes, Deirdre told herself, they were fortunate in many ways, both of them, and both of them were so often selfish, thinking only of themselves. She, at least, should be counting her blessings rather than bemoaning the minor trials and tribulations that came her way in the course of a day. No matter what Clive may or may not have done.

  In the same way that Deirdre's thoughts returned again and again to Clive Chadbourne, Alcida's returned to Dr. Leicester. “All Vincent speaks of these days is the great good fortune of his inheritance and his forthcoming voyage to the West Indies. If he mentions how overjoyed he is to be leaving England even once more, I shall take this book"—she held up Pride And Prejudice—"and hurl it at him."

  Deirdre wanted to point out that this was yet another instance of Vincent's lack of sensibility, but managed to hold her tongue. As she went on brushing her hair, her thoughts reverted to Clive. What was troubling him now? If only she could help him!

  After Alcida left, proclaiming that she intended to read herself to sleep, Deirdre lay in her four-poster bed listening to the moaning of the December wind under the eaves as it sought entry to the house. As she longed for an end to the protracted sleep of winter and for the reawakening heralded by the coming of spring, her night-thoughts returned to a day in her childhood, one of the first warm days in March during her second month in East Sussex.

  "Today,” her grandmother told her, “we shall walk into the forest to look for wildflowers.” She went on to tell Deirdre how she often went into the woods with a trowel and a pail, returning with rich black earth to spread on her garden.

  Together they climbed the long hill to the heath and followed the dirt road past the quarry. As they neared the turn just before reaching the bridge over the brook, they heard the thud of hooves and looked up to see a horseman trot around the bend in the road, a horseman who turned out to be not a man at all but a boy.

  "This is Master Chadbourne,” her grandmother told Deirdre when the boy reined in his sorrel gelding.

  "Clive Chadbourne of Chadbourne Hall,” the boy said, nodding stiffly at Deirdre. How arrogant he was, and how very handsome.

  Her grandmother smiled—she had a lovely smile—and introduced Deirdre. “This is such a delightful day we decided to search the forest for wildflowers. Pray join us, Clive."

  The boy glanced from the older woman to Deirdre, who hurriedly looked away, then pursed his lips as though to show his disdain for such a feminine activity as looking for wildflowers. Deirdre, expecting him to rein his horse away from them and ride off without a word, was surprised and secretly pleased when he hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, and swung down from the saddle.

  Deirdre smiled as she drifted off to sleep, picturing herself walking along the brook at her grandmother's side while intensely aware of Clive a short way behind them scuffling his feet and kicking small stones so they skittered along the path toward her.

  She was on her knees picking May flowers, small white fragrant blooms growing on a knoll near the brook. When she'd gathered a small bouquet, she rose, intending to turn and hand them to Clive. He was nowhere to be seen. She was alone.

  "Clive,” she called, but there was no answer. Where could he be? London? The word sprang into her mind, puzzling her. How could he be in London, when only a moment before he was with?

  Unable to find Clive, she walked along the path beside the brook on her way back to her grandmother's house. A cold gust of wind tugged at her bonnet and she shivered. Crossing her arms against the chill. Leaves drifted down around her, and she looked up and saw the trees had turned from green to an autumn palette of reds, yellows, and golds. The flowers in her hand had inexplicably withered. With a sigh, she let them fall from her fingers, one by one. A lone ash, a tree she'd seen many times before, rose in front of her, tall and dark, with only a few yellow leaves fluttering in the window its uppermost branches. One of the ash limbs seemed to point to her right, and so she turned in that direction, following a narrow path that crossed a field and entered a dark woods. Ahead of her she saw a small house on the far side of a glade, a deserted woodman's cottage with a gaping black window and holes in the roof thatch. She glimpsed a face peering from the window. Was it Clive? The face disappeared before she could be certain. Perhaps he was playing a game.

  She headed for the cottage, her long gown tangling her legs, slowing her, making step an effort, but she struggled on, coming to the cottage door. Thinking she heard mocking la
ughter behind her, she whirled and spotted a man lurking among the trees. Edward! He raised the sword he held, pointing it at her, a ray of sunlight glinting from the steel blade. She stopped, afraid. And then he was gone, the woods now seemingly deserted, the only sign of life a large black bird—a buzzard?—slowly circling above the trees.

  Apprehensive, she pushed open the door and stepped into the cottage. The single room was empty, the walls rough-hewn wood, the floor packed dirt. On the opposite side of the room a fire burned fitfully in a stone fireplace.

  "Clive?” she called uncertainly. As if in answer, the fire sprang higher, crackling, the flames curling around the stones and licking up the bare wood walls. How terribly hot it was! She choked on the roiling smoke, the walls all ablaze. Fire surrounded her, the flames reaching hungry arms to embrace her. Heart pounding, she turned and ran toward the door, but found no exit. Then the cottage, flames and all, vanished. She stood alone in the cold silence of the night, lost.

  "Deirdre.” A voice called her name from a great distance. Instead of answering, she held her breath, listening. “Deirdre.” Though the sound was still faint, she recognized Clive's voice. He was calling her. He needed her. She hurried toward where she thought the voice had come from, heard the steady rush of water ahead of her, ran faster, the sound louder and louder, the sound of water louder and louder until it became the roar of a falls...

  * * * *

  The following afternoon Agnes was helping Deirdre finish packing when Alcida tapped on the open door and came into the bed chamber.

  "So you decided to go to East Sussex to your grandmother after all,” Alcida said.

  "To be with her for Christmas.” Deirdre hesitated, then said, “Because of a frightening dream I had last night. The actual meaning of the dream eludes me, perhaps it has none at all, but I awoke knowing I must go to—” She paused. “Go to visit my grandmother,” she finished after a moment.

  Agnes closed the portmanteau, fastened the straps and stood up. Deirdre thanked her and her maid curtsied and left the room.

  "All of us will miss you,” Alcida said, “but especially me."

  "Alcida,” Deirdre said suddenly, “you must spend the holiday with me in the country. Grandmother would enjoy having you."

  Alcida brightened, but then shook her head. “Vincent has only a few more weeks before he sets sail for the West Indies. I could never bear to leave him now when I may never see him again."

  Deirdre regarded her with exasperation softened by sympathy. “And what do you expect Vincent to do during these last few weeks of his in England? I believe I already know—he intends to continue to discuss his prospects in the West Indies. Discuss them at great length.” She clasped Alcida's hand. “Listen to me, Alcida, you must come with me to the country if only to give Vincent a foretaste of what it will be like not to have you to talk at or, if you prefer, to talk to."

  Alcida frowned and then shook her head. “This will be my last chance to be with him before—"

  "He intends to leave you for good and you find yourself unable to leave him even for a fortnight? If he cares for you in the slightest, I warrant Vincent will follow you to the country."

  "And if he stays in London?"

  Deirdre said nothing, letting the meaningful silence stretch on interminably.

  "If he stays in London,” Alcida said, raising her chin defiantly even as Deirdre thought she detected the glisten of tears in her eyes, “then I will be happy to have discovered the extreme shallowness of his affections. Yes, I shall speak to Mother at once; you and I, Deirdre, shall have a delightful time in the country."

  CHAPTER 16

  "I look forward to our walk into the forest,” Alcida said to Deirdre as they finished breakfast the next morning. “After hearing you talk so often of your rambles in the woods with your grandmother and Clive, I believe I could find my way by myself."

  "Be sure you both dress warmly,” Deirdre's grandmother advised them. “The north wind is cold today and these twinges in my arms and legs tell me to expect rain more than likely followed by snow before the sun sets."

  Bundled in their cloaks and woolen scarves, Deirdre and Alcida set off shortly after noon to climb to the top of the long hill at the edge of the heath.

  "I have to be up and doing,” Alcida said, “to keep my thoughts from constantly straying to London and to Vincent. What do you suppose he said when he discovered me gone? What will he do, if anything, when my mother tells him I journeyed to the country with you to visit your grandmother?"

  Deirdre, forced to wrench her own thoughts from Clive and how she might go about discovering if he was indeed at Chadbourne Hall, as she suspected, belatedly gave her attention to Alcida's problem. “I expect Vincent will ask my father for directions to my grandmother's house,” she said after a moment. “He will then delay his departure from London for at least a day or two, not wanting to give the appearance of over-eagerness, before coming here for an unannounced visit."

  "Do you really think he will? I hope so, I truly do. A day or perhaps two—will he really wait that long before he comes?” Alcida sighed. “I wonder if he'll come at all."

  Deirdre, feeling a drop of rain strike her forehead, looked up at the threatening sky. “I find that both gentlemen and the weather are impossible to predict, but at this moment, the weather less so than men. Our best course is to turn back and save the heath and the forest for another day."

  "We must at least climb to the top of this hill,” Alcida insisted.

  The fresh country air must agree with Alcida, Deirdre thought as she watched her sister hurry ahead, she seemed more lively than usual and her cheeks, naturally pale, had a rosy glow.

  Alcida, reaching the barren hilltop before Deirdre, twirled around in a great circle with her arms raised above her head. “This is all so lovely,” she exclaimed breathlessly, “the heath with its gorse and heather, the hillsides dotted with pines, the copses black and misty, and the storm clouds scudding in the distance with the rain slanting down."

  "I agree, the view is quite spectacular. Some even claim, my grandmother for one, that on a clear and windless day you can see the smoke hovering like a great cloud over London, more than sixty miles away.” Hearing the rustle of rain on the dry leaves of the shrubs, she added, “We must hurry home."

  Alcida looked slowly around her, almost, a puzzled Deirdre told herself, as if she never expected to see this vista of hills and heath again and so meant to commit the rural scene to memory. At last Alcida nodded and together they started down the hill. As the cold rain swept over them, Alcida grasped Deirdre's hand and, breathless, they ran hand-in-hand to the house.

  "You both must have a hot bath,” Deirdre's grandmother told them, shaking her head in dismay at the sight of their drenched clothes. “If not, you may well catch your death of cold."

  Later, wrapped in warm robes, they sat in front of the fire in the parlor sipping hot cocoa. “Probably,” Alcida said with a sigh, “this cocoa comes from the West Indies, perhaps from Jamaica, perhaps even from Vincent's own plantation."

  Deirdre turned to her grandmother, wanting a change of subject to keep Alcida from dwelling overmuch on Vincent and, more importantly, anxious to discover whether Clive was at the Hall, as her dream had hinted he was. “We should call at Chadbourne Hall during our visit here,” she said.

  Her grandmother gave her a knowing look before shaking her head. “It would be all for naught, a wasted trip. The Hall is closed for the winter with only Mr. Albright and his wife, the Chadbourne caretakers, left to look after the house. Lord Moulton always spends the season in town. As you must be aware by now, Deirdre."

  "I thought William might have come from Brighton or George from town to spend Christmas in the country.” She hesitated. “Or even Clive."

  "But Clive is in Brighton,” Alcida protested. “Surely you were—” She paused and hurriedly brought a lace handkerchief to her mouth, suppressed a sneeze and repeated, “Surely you were—” and then did sneeze in a
most inelegant manner.

  "Chauncey was in the village only yesterday,” Deirdre's grandmother said, “and happened to speak to Mr. Albright. The Hall is closed."

  Could I be mistaken? Deirdre wondered. After her dream of being in Ashdown Forest with Clive, she had been certain that she would find him here. Perhaps, she told herself hopefully, he was presently at Brighton but would pay a visit to the Hall on his way back to London. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would go to the Hall if only the rain, now lashing the windows, stopped by then.

  The rain did stop. The weather turned colder in the night, the rain gave way to a snowfall that ended in the early hours of the morning and, when Deirdre wakened, she saw sunshine slanting into her bed chamber. Going to her window, she drew aside the curtain to look out at a world of white, the wet snow clinging to the bare branches of the trees and blanketing the lawn and drive, turning a dark December into an enchanted world.

  Alcida did not come downstairs that morning, sending her maid to tell them she had a slight cold in the head and would breakfast in bed.

  "The cold air and the damp weather,” Deirdre's grandmother said as they climbed the stairs to look in on Alcida. “Unfortunately, colds are often the precursors of much more serious illnesses, fevers, pneumonia, and even consumption."

  "A day in bed will cure me,” Alcida assured them in a hoarse voice. “I intend to spend my time reading Pride And Prejudice."

  Deirdre's grandmother placed her palm on Alcida's brow and frowned. “You shall have a good dose of salts at once,” she said in a tone that brooked no protest, “several draughts of warm herb tea during the day and, tonight, a mixture of milk, black pepper and butter. If that fails to set you on the way to recovery, I have a goodly supply of goose grease saved to rub on your chest."

  "I expect to be up and about by tomorrow morning,” Alcida told them. “And ready for our walk into the forest on the day after,” she said to Deirdre.