The Marriage Act

by Alyssa Everett

  Soon they were all back in their places and on their way again. Caro sat stone-faced, fuming.

  Welford studied her from his side of the carriage. They hadn’t gone far before he asked, “Is something on your mind?”

  She glared at him. “You were horrid to Ronnie back there.”

  “I was hardly horrid to him. I scolded him, and not very severely.”

  “You embarrassed him.”

  “I would say he embarrassed himself, walking backward into that woman.”

  “And you insisted on pointing out he’s not your brother but your half brother. Why? Are you so ashamed of him?”

  “Ashamed of him?” Welford’s dark brows rose in evident surprise. “Certainly not.”

  “Then why do you deny him that way?”

  “Deny him...” Welford echoed as if the words were foreign to him. His forehead furrowed. “Is that how it sounds to you?”

  “That’s how it sounds to everyone. Ronnie most of all, I’ve no doubt. He never complains, since Ronnie would sooner cut out his tongue than say a word against you, but it has to hurt him.”

  Welford looked dumbfounded. “That can’t be true.”

  “Of course it’s true. You make quite a point of correcting people when they call him your brother.”

  “Yes, but...” Welford frowned. “If I point out that Ronnie is my half brother, it has nothing to do with my opinion of Ronnie.”

  “Well then, why do it?”

  “Because...”

  “Because?” she demanded.

  Welford hesitated a moment before saying with evident reluctance, “Because of my mother.”

  “What do you mean?”

  At her tenacity, he sighed and answered, “When my mother died, I was all the family she had left to mourn her. My father remarried within three months—he had an eleven-year-old son to raise, he liked to point out, as if I’d left him with no other choice. And my stepmother was...less than fond of me.” He crossed his arms. “My father never spoke of my mother, he never wrote of her, he even took down her portrait at Halewick. So when I point out that Ronnie is my half brother, it’s not because I wish to slight Ronnie. It’s because I had a mother of my own, one I prefer to remember.”

  “And because you wished to annoy your stepmama as well?” Caro said, wondering what less than fond meant and why Welford’s face had looked so stormy when he said it. His quarrelsome relationship with his stepmother had been an open secret, but as far as Caro could tell, Lady Welford had been guilty of little more than spending too freely. “She’s been dead two years. Have you never thought how it must sound to Ronnie?”

  “He was still in his cradle when I began referring to him that way. I never imagined it signified.”

  “Of course it signifies. And given that there was so little love lost between you and his mother, I daresay he must wonder how you feel about him.”

  Welford looked vaguely shocked. “My stepmother’s manner toward me was hardly Ronnie’s doing.”

  “I’m relieved you feel that way. I’ve wondered myself whether you might dislike him.”

  “Dislike him?” Welford echoed, frowning. “I disapprove of his conduct at times. There’s a difference.”

  “You disapprove of his conduct a great deal.”

  He gave her an annoyed look. “If I seem hard on him, it’s because I want him to make something of himself. His mother petted and cosseted him when she was alive, but he can’t go through life expecting to have everything handed to him.”

  Petted and cosseted? Of course Welford would say that. He had no understanding of normal human affection.

  Poor Ronnie, not only losing his mama, but forced now to live under the thumb of an autocratic brother. Even if Welford hadn’t intended to embarrass Ronnie, he was far from being a fond and indulgent sibling. Instead he was forever making unreasonable demands and imposing arbitrary punishments—nothing like her own brothers, who’d been jolly and affectionate and more apt to save her from her own folly than to criticize her for it. Just because Welford was older and had had the good fortune to inherit didn’t make him Ronnie’s jailer. “Is it really necessary to be so strict?”

  “I don’t believe I am, unless by strict you mean holding him accountable for his actions. Has it escaped your notice he was rusticated for failing what amounts to a relatively simple examination?”

  “Obviously it hasn’t escaped yours.”

  “And you think I should merely laugh the matter off?” Welford shook his head. “People can’t live without rules or limits. I’ve seen the kind of chaos that creates. Ronnie is in my charge, and I won’t have him heading down the wrong path, throwing away his opportunities.”

  “He’s young,” she insisted. “Did you never do anything foolish when you were young?”

  Welford stared out the carriage window. “I did something exceedingly foolish. I asked the wrong woman to marry me.”

  Well, she’d walked into that trap. Now he could add carelessness to her myriad faults. “I don’t believe you were ever truly young. I think you were born middle-aged. That’s why I couldn’t conceive of staying with you.”

  Welford was silent, his only reaction the flicker of a muscle in his jaw.

  Why did she bother trying to reason with him? This was the punishment she’d brought on herself, standing up in church and marrying a man she didn’t love. He would never give her a divorce—God forbid they should drag his family name through the courts—and he looked fit to live another sixty years. There was nothing to look forward to with him except a lifetime of cold, obstinate resentment.

  But, strangely enough, when they stopped to rest the horses again in Medburn, Welford was considerably kinder to Ronnie, asking his opinion of the pace they’d set and even telling him he’d become a fine rider.

  * * *

  After negotiating the sharp turn and the hill into St. Albans, they reached the Holyhead Road just after noon. They stopped at The Peahen to hire a new team and take some refreshment. Paying the ostler as they prepared to leave, John came across a creased and singed piece of paper tucked amid his banknotes.

  There was no point in taking it out and reading it, since he already knew what it said. It was the letter Caroline had left for him on their wedding night.

  Dear Lord Welford John Welford,

  I realize this will cause a Terrible Scandal and I am sorry for it, but I am leaving you. I should never have agreed to marry you, since I am in love with Lieutenant Lawrence Howe of the Essex Militia. I only said Yes to make him wish he had asked me instead.

  I know it is Horridly Shocking and Expensive to obtain a Divorce but if you do I shall not mind the Disgrace.

  Your regretful &c,

  Caro Fleetwood

  P.S. I am taking Half of the money (£2.11s.2d.) that was in your coat pocket. I will repay you if I can.

  He had no idea why he’d kept the letter all this time, still less why he should be carrying it around with him. Whenever he came across it he asked himself why he was holding on to her note as if it were some precious memento instead of the single most galling missive he’d ever received. But he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away, and the one time he’d tossed it on the fire he’d immediately reconsidered and plucked it from the flames, burning his fingers in the process.

  Good Lord, she’d even picked his pocket that night.

  He must have been mad to propose marriage to a girl he scarcely knew. Even when he’d asked her father’s permission to pay his addresses and he and Bishop Fleetwood had talked for more than an hour, the conversation had been about him—his qualifications, his sentiments, his hopes and plans for the future. He’d asked not a single question about Caroline’s character and temperament. Instead, he’d made the mistake of choosing a wife based on looks.

  E
xcept—except, it hadn’t just been her looks. Oh, her extraordinary beauty had been the first thing he’d noticed about her, the attribute that had made him admire her from afar for months and the temptation that had finally made him ask on Easter Sunday if he might walk her home from church. But in that first stroll together he thought he’d seen much more, good humor and sweetness and a warm, loving heart.

  “You look like a breath of spring in that new bonnet, Miss Fleetwood,” he’d told her as they headed west from St. George’s. “Is it sacrilegious to say my favorite aspect of Easter may be the young ladies in new bonnets?”

  “I hope not, since the bonnets are my favorite aspect of Easter, as well. Bonnets, and hot cross buns on Good Friday.”

  “And you the daughter of a bishop...!” he said in mock horror. “I was sure it must be something more sacred—the Resurrection, perhaps, or the promise of eternal life.”

  “Oh, dear.” Her forehead puckered, as if the prospect of having given the wrong answer genuinely troubled her. “Should I have said one of those?”

  He laughed. “No, I was only teasing. It’s just that hot cross buns seem so very ordinary.”

  At his assurance, she relaxed and glanced across at him. “You mustn’t speak ill of hot cross buns. They have magical properties, you know.”

  “Ah, yes, it’s said they never turn moldy.”

  “More than that.” Her smile was brilliant, sunny and full of cheer. “If two people share one together and repeat ‘Half for you and half for me, between us two goodwill shall be,’ they’ll be fast friends. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Wonderful indeed, if baked goods can guarantee true friendship.”

  “I like to believe they can. And my old nurse told me that if a girl saves a hot cross bun from one Good Friday to the next, she’ll marry within the next year.”

  “Do you mean to try it?”

  She blushed, and the color in her cheeks only made her lovelier. “To be honest, I tried it when I was fifteen.”

  “Then unless you’re rather young to be out, it appears the magic didn’t work.”

  “No,” she admitted with a laugh. “Those old folk charms never work for me, though I can’t resist trying them, just in case. Papa likes to chide me for it, saying they’re more pagan than Christian—though if anyone spills the salt, he’s always the first to throw a pinch over his shoulder.”

  And so they’d gone on, talking nonsense together. She spoke fondly of her new nephew, her oldest brother’s baby, and expressed interest when John mentioned his hopes for a diplomatic career. She shared his opinion that big families were more felicitous than small ones, and that intimate dinner parties were more enjoyable than crowded balls. She enjoyed gardening and adored hedgehogs.

  All too soon, they reached her father’s house in Hertford Street.

  At the close of the church service on the following Sunday, he practically leaped from his pew at the last words of the blessing, banging his shin in his haste to reach her side and offer his escort. She accepted, and all the way from St. George’s to her front door, he was dazzled by her unaffected manner and ready smile. The crowning moment came when they encountered her neighbor, Sir Francis Culverhouse, walking in their direction on Charles Street, holding his little girl’s hand.

  “Poor Sir Francis,” Caroline whispered to John. “He lost his wife to childbed fever last month. And poor Miss Culverhouse! Only three years old and already motherless.”

  She greeted Sir Francis with a kind word and stooped to speak to the little girl at her eye level. “How good to see you out with your papa, Miss Culverhouse!” Caroline said warmly, reaching out to press the child’s free hand. “You must ask your nurse to bring you to Bishop Fleetwood’s house one afternoon, for we always keep marzipan about at this time of year. I would so love to have you come to call.”

  There was something so sweet and natural about the gesture, so giving, that John ended that second walk even more smitten than before. He was determined that the next time they met, he would ask Miss Fleetwood whether he might take her for a drive.

  Then he’d received the news he’d obtained an appointment as First Attaché to His Majesty’s embassy in Austria, and the rest had been one rash decision after another.

  Chapter Five

  It is more from carelessness about truth than from intentionally lying that there is so much falsehood in the world.

  —Samuel Johnson

  By the end of the day they’d reached their goal, The George in the village of Little Brickhill. Caro would have preferred a bedchamber to herself, but there was no chance of that. Not only did The George have only a single suitable room left—Ronnie and Welford’s valet were forced to take more modest accommodation at a neighboring establishment, The White Lion—but Welford refused to consider allowing her to sleep alone and unprotected in a public inn, without so much as a maid in attendance. No, they would be sharing a room.

  She and Welford dined in the inn’s sole private dining parlor. Not that it was really all that private, or even much of a dining parlor. It was a mere alcove off the taproom, with a wooden screen drawn across the open end to shield them from prying eyes—and that also left something to be desired, for there was a gap of several feet on one side where the serving boy passed in and out. As Caro sat picking at her food, she had to ignore the gaze of a blond gentleman in the taproom who sat ogling her through the gap.

  Though the food was tasty enough, she was more tired than hungry. Even so, she was in no hurry to retire. If sharing a carriage with Welford had been unpleasant, it would be nothing to the tension of sharing a room with him all night. So far they’d done little except quarrel, and at times he’d been downright insulting.

  The serving boy bustled in, bearing wine and a tray of cheese. He had brown curls and ruddy cheeks, and looked several years younger than Ronnie. “Here we are, my lord, my lady. Good Gloucester cheese.”

  “Oh, excellent,” Caro said. “There’s no cheese like Gloucester cheese.”

  “Do you come from Gloucestershire, my lady?” the boy asked with interest. “I was born in Lechlade myself.”

  “Were you? Yes, I’m from Ch—Cheltenham.”

  “I went to Cheltenham once, to see a horse race. I do swear, half the world must have been there.” He swept an invisible crumb from the tablecloth. “Is there anything else you wish for, then?”

  “I’m tempted to say ‘justice and peace in the world,’” Welford answered, “but I take it you mean from the kitchen, so the answer is no, thank you.”

  Caro beamed at the boy, and he withdrew.

  Welford studied her as she sipped her wine. “Why did you tell him you were from Cheltenham? You grew up in Chelmsford.”

  “Yes, I know, but it was easier to agree, and now he thinks we have something in common. It obviously gave him pleasure to think we were from the same corner of the world. Setting him straight would only erase that small sense of connection, so why take the trouble?”

  “Because you’re not from Cheltenham. And while his thinking he’s met a neighbor may earn us a better breakfast in the morning or even keep us from being cheated in the reckoning, you know perfectly well it isn’t true.”

  Did he have to find fault with everything she did? The boy had been happier for her little fib, and it wasn’t as if she’d robbed him of his life’s savings. “I didn’t say it to avoid being cheated in the reckoning. I was only being friendly.”

  “And dishonest.”

  She was tired of trying to justify herself when they might both be eating their dinner in peace. “What difference does it make? After tonight, I doubt I’ll ever see that boy again.”

  Welford gave her a skeptical look.

  Nothing she did ever seemed to please him, and no amount of time or good behavior was ever going to erase her mistakes. What she m
eant as friendliness and amiability, he saw only as deceitfulness. If by some miracle she could walk on water as the Gospels said Jesus had done, Welford would only point out she was sure to ruin her slippers.

  Picking at her food, she stole a glance at him—handsome, cold and always maddeningly superior. He might find little to approve in her, but other gentlemen weren’t half so critical. The blond gentleman in the taproom, for instance, was still ogling her openly through the gap in the screen.

  A perverse impulse seized her. She waited until she was sure Welford was glancing in her direction, then looked out into the taproom and caught the blond gentleman’s eye. Caro smiled, and the gentleman grinned back wolfishly before she looked away.

  There. Flush with a mingled sense of victory and defiance, Caro went back to eating her dinner, pretending she had no notion Welford had witnessed the exchange. Perhaps now he would realize she wasn’t a mere encumbrance to be slighted and criticized, but a lady worthy of other men’s admiration.

  They finished their meal in silence. Caro stood. “I believe I’ve had enough. If you’ll excuse me...”

  As she made her way out to the necessary, she was still basking in the disproportionate pleasure she’d taken in provoking Welford, catching the blond gentleman’s eye. It had been a small act of rebellion, but she rarely had occasion to feel so daring or so admired. Not since before her wedding—probably not since she’d fallen in love with Lawrence. In fact, the way Lawrence could bring out that daring feeling in her had been a large part of his charm.

  She’d met him after a performance at Astley’s Circus she’d attended as part of her young friend Lady Jane Mainsforth’s party. They’d seen a menagerie and a strong man and a clown and even a ropewalker who...oh, she couldn’t remember what the man had done exactly, but at the time it had all seemed quite thrilling.

  Leaving the amphitheater afterward, laughing and excited, their party encountered Lieutenant Howe. Jane’s brother Lord Cliburne knew him, and he made the introductions.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Lawrence said with an exaggerated bow, smiling first at Jane and then at Caro, his gaze refusing to move on to Jane’s younger sister. He had honey-blond hair, and eyes of such a light blue they were almost silver.