The Spinster Bride

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The Spinster Bride Page 16

by Jane Goodger


  Marjorie and George were more than happy to leave their mother alone. When they reached the second story landing, Marjorie touched George’s hand.

  “I was very proud of you.”

  He ducked his head, his cheeks growing ruddy. “They gave us their blessing,” he said, just in case Marjorie needed convincing.

  “I know they did and I’m glad. Lilianne loves you very much, as she should. You are a wonderful man and will make a wonderful husband.”

  George turned toward his room, then hesitated. “Do you think she can stop it?” he asked, sounding very young.

  “No, George, she cannot. You are of age and head of this household. You are the Earl of Summerfield and can marry whomever you choose.”

  He smiled and relaxed, heading to his room to change for the May Ball, but as Marjorie turned to go to her room, she frowned. She prayed Dorothea would do nothing to keep the couple apart. But what could she do, after all?

  Chapter 12

  Thirty years earlier

  Ten years after Ascot, Dorothea Stockbridge bore little resemblance to the young woman she’d been that day. Though she’d traveled home to see her family on occasion, she made her home with Aunt Frances, who continued to thrive at age eighty-five. With both parents now in their graves, Dorothea rarely had the opportunity to leave. Twice a year she would travel to visit her brother and sisters, but the visits were always brief and she sensed her siblings were relieved when she waved good-bye. This past year, she hadn’t visited at all, nor had she been invited. So Dorothea spent endless days with Aunt Frances, knowing that someday, should the old lady ever die, she would be at the mercy of her relatives. She felt fairly safe, as Aunt Frances was as hale and hearty as she was mean and miserable. Dorothea often thought it was the devil keeping her alive simply to torment her.

  Having nowhere else to go, Dorothea remained in Ipswich in Stonebridge Hall, a drafty old place on the River Orwell, and was reminded nearly every day that she had few other options. She no longer wore the latest fashions and hadn’t bought a new hat in nearly eight years. The last was for a garden party, which she’d allowed herself to look forward to, only to be told by her aunt that she looked ridiculous, as if she were a wren trying to be a peacock.

  Her hair, which had long ago turned coarse and gray, was constantly pulled back into a serviceable bun. Her dresses came in three colors: gray, brown, and black. She wore the uniform of the overlooked and the expression of a woman whose life was filled with days of duty and monotony. And when she went for walks, as she did each day, she wore a man’s coat.

  Dorothea loved her daily walks. They were one of the few things her aunt approved of. Exercise, she would often say, kept one alive, and her aunt lamented the fact her painful knees would no longer allow it. Those walks were Dorothea’s escape, the only time she could be alone with her thoughts. The only time she could hold a piece of Lord Smythe against her, his coat that she had “forgotten” to return to him. Before she’d made the move to Ipswich, she’d placed it guiltily in the bottom of her trunk and after she’d left home, she’d pulled it out frequently. Too frequently at first. Now it was simply a serviceable coat to wear on a brisk walk.

  He’d married Lady Matilda of course, the vacant-headed, kind girl he’d been with that day. She’d read the Times issue that described their wedding and would on occasion see mention of them—or their children.

  That was, perhaps, the worst of her life. She’d realized after moving to Ipswich that she wanted children far more than she’d wanted a husband. The sight of a woman walking with a small brood always made her a bit sad. It would never happen for her. Time was running out. She was thirty-six years old. Many of her old friends’ children were already married or at university.

  Dorothea sighed heavily as she crossed the stone bridge to the house’s garden. She stood for a moment staring at the old place, hating it, hating what lay inside. Why couldn’t she find contentment with her life? She knew women had far worse lives than she did. What was inside her that made her feel as if some great trick had been played and she was living the life someone far less vibrant was supposed to have lived?

  With a sense of resignation, she crossed the last few feet of yard and opened a side door. Pulling off her coat and placing it on a wooden peg, she spied a servant hurrying with a tray.

  “Sally, where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “Oh, mum, Lord Summerfield’s here and in the parlor.” She bobbed a quick curtsy and went on her way as Dorothea leaned against the wall in utter defeat. With a quick look of longing at the door she’d just entered, Dorothea began walking toward the parlor where Aunt Frances always entertained guests. Of all the guests that infrequently stopped by, Lord Summerfield was her least favorite.

  He was a pompous man in his late fifties whose superior attitude grated on Dorothea’s nerves. It wasn’t so much what he said, but rather the way in which he said it. He could tell her she looked beautiful (which he never had) and Dorothea would somehow understand he meant the opposite. When he’d first made an appearance, Dorothea had feared that he was visiting with the intention of courting her. His wife was long dead and he had no children, no heir to his great title. Over the years, she’d been relieved to realize that Lord Summerfield seemed content to let his younger brother or nephew inherit his title.

  Dorothea had felt foolish to think his visits had initially been precipitated by her. Now she finally understood she had little to offer a man except a dowry, no doubt collecting dust in her father’s coffers. She’d come to realize over the years that no man would want her. Not even an onerous, ugly old man like Summerfield. It was a rather sobering thought.

  Dorothea entered the parlor, not bothering to even glance in the mirror to be certain she was presentable. From the look both her aunt and Summerfield gave her, she knew she was not.

  “Here she is,” Lord Summerfield said, standing, his sleepy eyes regarding her. Over the years, his upper eyelids had continued to descend, so it was impossible for the man to open his eyes fully. His nose, looking much like a small tomato balancing above his too-thick lips, was constantly dripping. Dorothea on more than one occasion had had to look away. He held a kerchief in his left hand at all times and would dab at the moisture incessantly but many times to no avail.

  “Here I am,” Dorothea said with forced pleasantness, and sat down next to her aunt.

  “Lord Summerfield, shall I leave?” her aunt asked, and Dorothea felt a shiver of unease.

  “No, no.” He waved his hand, then turned to Dorothea. “As you may know, Miss Stockbridge, I have been searching for a wife for some time now.”

  Dorothea hadn’t known any such thing, but nodded.

  “And I’ve chosen you.”

  “Me?”

  “I know you are not young, but neither am I. And I’m quite running out of options.”

  Dorothea looked to her aunt for help, knowing she would get little.

  “It’s wonderful, Dorothea, though I will miss you, dear. And the timing couldn’t be more propitious. I’m going to live with Christina for a time.” Aunt Frances thumped her cane to punctuate her decision. “My daughter wrote to me just last week, asking me to come,” she said to Summerfield, leaving Dorothea stunned. Her aunt had known she was leaving for a week and hadn’t said a word. With her mother and father both dead, she had nowhere to go.

  Dorothea’s brain had quite stopped.

  Summerfield sniffed.

  “Of course, I wholeheartedly approve of the match,” Aunt Frances went on. “Everything has been agreed to.”

  “But I haven’t agreed to anything.”

  A heavy silence filled the room.

  “Would you please excuse us, madam? I fear I do need to speak to your niece alone, after all.”

  Dorothea watched in disbelief as her aunt hoisted herself up and made her way slowly to the door, her cane thumping softly on the carpet.

  “I do apologize, my lord, but you’ve never given any indication
that you even liked me, never mind wanted to marry me.”

  He stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment, as if reassessing his offer. “How old are you?”

  Dorothea felt her cheeks flush. “Thirty-six.”

  He raised one eyebrow and tilted his head as if pitying her. “And how many men have asked for your hand?”

  Her cheeks grew impossibly hotter. “None, sir.”

  “And how many have courted you?”

  “None.”

  “Held your hand? Kissed you? Even admired you?”

  Dorothea’s throat began to burn.

  “Answer me. How many?” He said the words gently, but with an arrogance that was humiliating.

  “None.”

  “None. Not one. And yet you think to refuse me? I am giving you the greatest of compliments. I am telling you that you are worthy of me and the Summerfield title. And you think to refuse me?”

  A terrible feeling of inevitability fell over her. “I have not refused you, sir. Only questioned why you asked.”

  He seemed to calm at her words. “I have asked because I pray you are young enough to produce my heir. You still have your flow?”

  Could she possibly bear such humiliation? “Yes.”

  He clapped his hands together so loudly, Dorothea flinched. “Well, then, it’s settled. I’ll make the announcement and have the bans read. I think a small affair is appropriate, do you not? Write to your brother and sisters, my dear. Perhaps they can be of assistance in planning the wedding.”

  He left soon after, full of accomplishment. Before he departed, he took her hand in his and kissed it. She tried to smile, but cringed at the feeling of wetness that remained after he’d withdrawn his hand. When he turned his back, she wiped her hand furiously on her skirt.

  Oh, God, what had she just agreed to?

  Chapter 13

  The May Ball, held each year at the Ashton Estate twenty minutes outside of London, was one of the premier events of the season. To be invited to the May Ball was akin to being invited to a royal ball. The Cavendishes, alas, were not invited, so George refused to go. Marjorie was a bit proud of his stance, but Dorothea seemed, if anything, relieved. She was always on edge that George would do or say something that would cause her embarrassment. And to be fair, Marjorie admitted to herself, he almost always did. As much as she loved and understood her brother, she also understood and loved her mother—even if she didn’t agree with her.

  Castle Ashton rivaled Marlborough’s Blenheim Palace in size and grandeur. As a girl, Marjorie had been bitterly disappointed to learn Castle Ashton wasn’t a castle at all, but rather a grand house, much like their own in Ipswich. The Baroque building, designed with painful symmetry, was a favorite of Marjorie because it held such happy memories. House parties there were always lavish and long, and she’d spent many summer days there exploring the expansive grounds. Because of its proximity to London, most people who attended did not stay overnight for the May Ball, and so Lord and Lady Ashton always invited a huge crush of people. Queen Victoria often attended the ball, but this year she was unable to, much to the great disappointment of everyone attending. Still, it was a grand event, one that every high-born young lady in England yearned to attend. It was Marjorie’s fifth.

  Charles, along with his brother, father, and sister, were invited, though he was the only one who attended. His sister’s husband would not leave the side of his ailing mother—a mother who had been suspiciously ailing for the past twelve years. His brother, never one to enjoy society’s gatherings, was more than happy to send this younger brother as proxy. Charles didn’t mind in the least.

  The night air held a hint of rain to come as Marjorie grasped the hand of an Ashton footman and stepped down to the meticulously groomed stone drive. No doubt she would meet many old friends, some she hadn’t seen in months. It seemed as if her little group had scattered to the four corners of England. One of her dearest friends, Lenore, had married an American and now lived in Philadelphia. She remembered their tearful good-bye, their promises to see each other at least once a year. She hadn’t even received a letter from Lenore in six months.

  She wore her best and newest Worth gown—as she always did for the May Ball. The gown was a pale peach with lacy cap sleeves that hugged her shoulders, with a bodice that dipped low enough to reveal the tops of her breasts. Lace that edged the neckline could be fluffed up a bit to provide more coverage, but when Marjorie presented the more modest version of her gown, Dorothea clicked her tongue and pushed the lace down.

  “Lord Shannock will be there this evening,” she said with a smile. “We want you to look your best.”

  Marjorie had looked down at herself, clearly seeing her breasts displayed, and grimaced. “Really, Mother, surely he can use his imagination.”

  “Mr. Worth designed this dress specifically for you to show off your best assets.”

  “These are my best assets? I rather thought my wit and cleverness were.”

  Dorothea adjusted the lace a bit more to create the desired effect. “Those may very well be your best assets, but I’m quite certain Lord Shannock will care more for these,” she said pragmatically, giving the lace one final tuck.

  As she walked up the steps to Castle Ashton, Marjorie released her train, letting it fall artistically behind her. It was a lovely dress, and Mr. Worth had been quite proud of it. Its bustle was modern, a natural shape that didn’t call for the sometimes painful cages that his earlier designs had required. Instead of a bell-shaped skirt, the front hugged her legs rather closely. When she’d tried the dress on, Dorothea’s eyes had widened with appreciation and Mr. Worth had given her a small bow. Marjorie might not be the youngest debutante at the ball, but she would most certainly be the best dressed.

  Marjorie suspected he would mourn the loss of his best customer should she marry this year as her mother wished. Five seasons meant five years of the most beautiful and costly gowns money could buy, and she had no doubt that Mr. Worth would be a bit sad to see her married. She’d still be a customer, but her need for so many new gowns each year would surely be diminished.

  Once they were in the grand foyer, Marjorie gathered up her train, looping the satin band, decorated with lace and tiny pearls, around her right wrist. No matter how many balls she attended, this part of any evening was always Marjorie’s favorite. It was the part where she would spy old friends, collect her dance card, and feel the tiny thrill of anticipation that this night would be different from all the rest. In her first season, she’d been so excited at the prospect of a ball, her stomach had been aflutter with the possibilities. She had been acutely aware of the attention she drew and had reveled in it.

  Now, there was far less excitement, but she still felt a pleasure in being part of something special. Even as Marjorie looked around trying to spot friends, she knew that by the end of the evening, a new and strange hollowness would set in. It was like looking forward to a wonderful birthday only to realize that the only thing that had come of it was being one year closer to dying. Marjorie furrowed her brow. It would do no good to think such maudlin thoughts at one of the season’s premier events. Goodness!

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Marjorie turned to see Katherine standing next to her. “Oh, Katherine, you don’t want to know.” When her friend’s eyes widened, she remembered their last conversation and quickly said, “I was thinking that balls are becoming rather tedious.”

  “I always thought they were,” Katherine said. “This one, thankfully, will be our last until next year. We leave the day after tomorrow. Graham is champing at the bit to get back to Avonleigh. We have so many plans.”

  Katherine looped her arm around Marjorie’s and pulled her toward the grand ballroom. Outside, the single ladies were standing in line for their dance cards and the two women joined the line. “He’s here, you know.”

  “Who?”

  Katherine gave her a small look of exasperation. “Mr. Norris. He’s here. He and Graham have al
ready made it to the billiard room.”

  Marjorie was still stinging from her last encounter with Mr. Norris and wasn’t certain she wanted to see the man at all. “Mr. Norris can go to perdition,” she said in a low voice.

  “You don’t mean that,” Katherine said lightly.

  Oh, but she did mean it. At least she wanted to mean it.

  Marjorie gathered her card and the two friends entered the ballroom, giving a collective gasp. It was beyond stunning, with hanging baskets of ivy and delicate lobelia, and sparkling crystals that gleamed in the gaslight, making the large room look as if a fairy had decorated the place.

  “Oh, it’s lovely,” Katherine said. “I think I shall have to borrow this idea when we have our first ball at Avonleigh.”

  “And when will that be?” Marjorie asked.

  “Not for at least a year, I would think. Our first priority is to get the mill operating, and then Graham has plans to build a brewery to give the hops farmers a local place to sell their crop.”

  Marjorie smiled at her friend’s enthusiasm, and noted her use of the words “our first priority.” She wondered if she’d ever feel such enthusiasm over Lord Shannock’s interests. Oh, speak of the devil, she thought, seeing the man looking about the room. She swallowed thickly, having forgotten just how unattractive he was. And how jittery. His movements were sharp and distinct, like a lizard darting about for prey. She realized with a start that she was the prey when he caught her eye and started toward her.

  “Save me,” she whispered into Katherine’s ear. “Do you see that thin man coming toward us?” Katherine nodded. “Mother wants me to marry him.”

  Katherine turned and gave her a sharp look. “But he’s ancient.”

  “He’s titled and our neighbor. He was my father’s friend, and ever since I came out he’s been hinting about a match. My mother put him off because she thought I’d do better, but now . . . Oh, hello, Lord Shannock,” she said a bit over-enthusiastically. “May I introduce you to my dear friend, Katherine Spencer, Countess Avonleigh.”

 

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