by Jo Beverley
But he didn’t love Jane Otterburn.
What a time to realize that he had a romantic view of marriage. That he’d been waiting for some blinding attraction to one special person, for the delirious love of the poets.
And could Jane fit into his world? She certainly wasn’t of it.
Isaiah’s parents had worked their way up from farm laborers to shopkeepers. They’d had their children taught trades—a carpenter, a butcher, and a seamstress. Martha Otterburn had done very well for herself in marrying a schoolmaster, and her daughter had been raised a lady, but when widowed, Martha had had to keep a small haberdasher’s shop to support her family.
He’d be marrying a shopkeeper’s daughter.
He looked at the dying man again and saw a slit of filmy eye. Isaiah was doing his best to command him. With an internal shrug Simon surrendered. At least this would save him from the parade of suitable young ladies who apparently waited for him back home. His mother wrote of a new one in every letter.
You must remember Alicia Pugh-Mattingly, dearest. Such a pretty girl she’s become, and with the sweetest nature. Plays the harp beautifully. With twenty thousand as her portion, too. If you come home quickly . . .
What would his mother make of penniless, Puritan Jane Otterburn?
He looked around the room and approached the first man he recognized. “Could I bother you to find Reverend Strachan, Mason?”
The plump man nodded and hurried out.
Norton entered and came over.
“How do things stand?” Simon asked him.
“McArthur blustered, but his friends persuaded him to act like a gentleman. He’ll want a rematch.”
“He shall have it. You are in time for my wedding.”
“Wedding?”
For Jane’s sake he must express his doubts to no one. “Miss Otterburn and I have been planning to wed, and Trewitt wishes to see it done before he dies. It’ll be irregular but things often are here.”
Norton’s brows twitched. Was he, too, thinking what a mismatch this was? He came from a cadet branch of the aristocratic Peel family, and his brother had been at Harrow School with Simon.
Simon drained the brandied tea, trying to pull his mind into order, make decisions, make plans. It was like trying to catch water. He looked at Jane and was struck again by the stunning beauty of her wavy red-gold hair.
Then he recognized hair recently unplaited.
As the only other person in the main house, she would have been the one to hear the shot, probably as she was loosing her hair from a nighttime plait. She must have found Isaiah, poor girl. Probably some of the dark spots on her gown were blood. By rights she should be lying down with female attendants and a soothing draft.
As if feeling his gaze on her, she looked at him, eyes glistening with tears. Freckles stood boldly on her cheeks because her naturally pale skin was as white as the linen ruffle at her neck.
His protective instincts took over. And really, they had no choice. If he didn’t go through with the marriage now, it would be seen as a rejection of her and thus confirmation of McArthur’s slander. Then there was his impulsive lie about a prior arrangement. He’d meant well, but that cut off escape.
If it must be done, it should be done well. He went to her. “We need to talk, my love.”
He raised her and led her from the room. Again people parted, but avidly, as if sucking up every detail. That was another problem. York was as bad about gossip as any small English town. Worse, in fact. The isolation here magnified everything, and the magnified gossip traveled.
York was less than thirty years old, so everyone had ties elsewhere. Many, military and civilian alike, were recently come from Britain. Letters home might take months, but they left weekly. By the time Simon arrived back in England with his bride, everything that happened here today would be there to greet them.
He took her into the parlor at the back of the house but was instantly frozen by the familiar smell of snuff, tobacco, and leather. In this comfortable, worn room Isaiah had delighted to host his friends, drinking claret, port, and brandy, playing cards, backgammon, or sometimes his favorite old game, dominoes.
Simon had come here to talk over their situation, but however it happened he and Jane moved into each other’s arms, silently comforting and being comforted. Her hair flowed over and under his hands, and she smelled of blood and herbs. She must use herbs in her soap or creams as well as in potpourri and polish. How did that fit with her sober clothes and reserved manner? Marriage should provide answers, and he wouldn’t object to a sweet-smelling house—or a sweet-smelling wife.
Or a soft, warm, sweetly curved one. He held her a little closer.
She tensed and then eased apart. “Simon, we can’t do this.”
“I see no choice.”
“Uncle Isaiah can’t last long—” She covered her mouth with a hand. “I don’t mean it that way. But it’s not fair to trap you into this!”
“I don’t mind.” How inadequate. He sought better words. “It’s time I wed, Jane. I’m twenty-five and my mother nags me in every letter.”
“Of course she wants you to marry, but to marry someone suitable! Not”—she seemed to have to gather herself to say the words—“not a girl who served in a shop.”
“Hardly that.”
“Exactly that. My mother kept a shop and I helped there.”
He hadn’t known that she’d actually worked in the shop. He tried to tell himself that he minded only because his family and circle would mind, but it bothered him, too.
“Your father belonged to a good family.”
“Minor Scottish gentry with very little money attached. And the Trewitts were farm laborers before they became shopkeepers.”
She was throwing these things like missiles to drive him off and they might have worked if they had any choice. Gads, his mother would have a fit.
“Isaiah isn’t ashamed of his background. He’s proud of what he’s made of himself and so should you be.”
“Made?” She stared at him. “What do you mean? I’ve made nothing of myself.”
She was distraught and it wasn’t surprising. He was an idiot for attempting rational conversation, but then he was distraught, too. Or numb. Yes, that was it. Somehow he’d erected a wall between himself and reality, but it was a wall of sand, already crumbling under the pressure of grief behind it.
“Unless you’re willing to refuse Isaiah,” he said, “we must marry. I promise to be a good husband and I have no doubt that you will be a good wife.”
She looked up at him, those blue eyes huge and stark. “What does that mean? Good.”
Why the devil press him on a word? “I will be kind, dependable, and faithful. You may define your goodness as you wish.”
She flinched at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry. You’re being kind, dependable, and faithful now. Faithful to Uncle Isaiah. But is it really worth shackling yourself in this way to satisfy his whim before he dies?”
A good question, but Simon meant it when he said, “Yes.”
“And if he’s dead already?”
“Still yes.” To persuade her, he’d have to sully her with the truth. “Perhaps you don’t know the cause of the duel.”
She became wary. Strangely, he saw the instincts of a wild thing, fearful of predators. It had to be a figment of his scattered mind.
“At the end the duel was over McArthur’s abuse of funds intended for the Indians. However, the initial cause was comments he made to imply that you are not what you seem.”
She went deathly white.
He hurried on. “That you are—I’m sorry—Isaiah’s mistress. That you live together here in that relationship.”
Red flooded white. “What? The swine!”
“Quite. But . . .” He couldn’t think how to say the next part. “He’s not the only one to speculate. I’m sure no one else thinks the worst, but people wonder why you act as you do. They wonder why you have turned down all invitations—”
“Even a lady in mourning could attend a concert or go on a boating expedition. Especially nine months after the event.”
“And if I simply didn’t choose to? There’s a rule about it here, is there?”
He’d snapped and she’d snapped back.
“People simply wonder,” he said as calmly as he could. “And some will always move from wondering to a scandalous explanation. You have to know that healthy single women are in short supply here, yet you’ve ignored all suitors. Why?”
“Do I have to answer that?” She looked and sounded like a prisoner in the dock.
He rubbed his hand down his face. “No. I’m sorry. It was rhetorical. I simply mean that you’d have been better off to flirt with dozens.”
She bit her lip, rubbing her hands together anxiously. “I could leave. Go somewhere else.”
“Where, young and penniless?” They had no time for this. “Come, we must do this thing. We can talk about the future later.”
She ignored his offered hand. “I won’t be penniless. Uncle Isaiah made me his heiress.”
Of course, he must have. Was there enough to make her independent? If so, perhaps he shouldn’t compel her to this marriage. Surely even a dying friend’s wish shouldn’t have that power.
“Do you know how much?” he asked bluntly.
A shift in her expression showed her reluctance to answer. “Enough to get by on. And I can work. As a seamstress. Or open a shop. I know that business.”
“Am I truly such a bitter pill to swallow?”
She looked stricken. “No. Oh, no! But I don’t know what to do for the best.”
Her hands went over her mouth again. He pulled them down and held them. “This is for the best. Consider Isaiah’s reputation. It as well as yours will always be under a cloud unless we marry.”
She swayed and he took her into his arms again, where she lay limp against his chest, held up only by his strength. He didn’t want to bludgeon her, but he must.
“Consider, Jane. Unless we straighten out everything now, you will be in a sorry state. People will say I refused to marry you because the stories were true. Doesn’t even a shopkeeper need a sound reputation? And really, you are too young for business yet.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Simon gently disengaged and went to answer it.
Reverend Strachan stood there. The stocky, dark-haired man wore his stole around his neck and had his prayer book in hand. “If you wish to fulfill Trewitt’s wishes while he is still alive, St. Bride, it must be soon.”
Simon turned to Jane. “It’s in your hands, my dear.”
Her set face spoke of how much she didn’t want to do this, but she straightened her shoulders and walked with him out of the room.
Isaiah lay as before, but bloodlessly pale, sunken cheeked, and visibly sliding toward death. Baldwin looked up with a clear message.
Simon said, “We’re ready.”
Isaiah’s eyes opened a little and might even have filled with tears of joy. Or relief. It didn’t matter which. It was enough.
The reverend read the marriage service at a fast clip, an eye on the patient, so that they hurtled to the vows with no time for second thoughts. Simon spoke his part quickly. Jane started more slowly, but then she finished in a breathy rush.
They needed a ring. Simon took off his signet. It was too big, but it served for the ceremony.
“I now pronounce you man and wife.”
And thus, Simon thought, feeling as if a hurricane had suddenly stilled, it was done.
Isaiah even smiled a little, nodded a little, and Simon knew they had done the right thing. He and Jane went to kneel by him, one on either side.
“Thank you.” It was hardly more than a whisper. “Be good to her,” Isaiah said, each word seeming to need a breath. “And you, Jane, be a good wife. . . .”
He hadn’t the strength to turn his head toward her, but she took his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll to do everything in my power to make him happy, Uncle. Everything.”
“I know. Good girl. Proud. Take care of her, Simon. Take good care. . . .”
A second later, Isaiah Trewitt was dead.
Simon felt almost as if the breath left his own body. This day had been as wild as a battle. The battle was over now, leaving its dead and its wounded and the future to be faced.
Had Isaiah known that Simon might not be able to obey that final order? He wouldn’t be able to take care of Jane if McArthur killed him, and there was no one here he trusted enough to do it for him.
Chapter Three
Baldwin closed his bag. The friends and neighbors began to leave, murmuring condolences. Simon and Jane signed the marriage register that Reverend Strachan had brought with him. Baldwin and Norton signed as witnesses.
The marriage was definitely official now.
Jane returned to kneel at her uncle’s side. Simon saw her fingers curled to keep his ring on and wondered where the devil one bought a wedding ring in York. There were other necessities—coffin, burial, mourning bands. How was all this managed here? His head felt empty. Someone cleared his throat, and Simon realized that Baldwin was still in the room.
“I was Trewitt’s solicitor.” Simon remembered that the doctor served both functions. “His will should be in his desk, but I have a copy.”
“I understand he left everything to Jane.”
“Apart from a few bequests, yes. But it won’t amount to much by St. Bride standards.”
“I didn’t marry her for her money.” Color touched Baldwin’s cheeks and Simon quickly added, “I’m sorry. Of course you didn’t imply that.”
“No one could suspect a St. Bride of being a fortune hunter. His affairs have to be tidied up, however.” Baldwin rubbed his nose. “The thing is, you’re his executor.”
Simon swallowed a curse.
“You can refuse the responsibility.”
“If what’s left is Jane’s property, then I should deal with it. Can it be done quickly? I have passage booked at the end of October.”
“It’ll mostly be a matter of paying his debts and tidying up business ventures. There are people who—”
Simon had reached the end of his endurance. “This can all wait. Thank you for your care of him, Baldwin.”
Baldwin nodded and left. Simon simply breathed and tried to think. Jane still knelt beside the body, tears leaking steadily to fall onto a gray bosom already dark with them. No one could doubt her grief. She had truly loved Isaiah, and she had lost so many in her life—father, mother, cousin, now uncle.
She had no one except him and was now his to take care of. It seemed that everything was his to take care of. Where to start? He heard a footstep and turned, ready to drive the intruder away.
A brown-haired man in a dark suit stood in the doorway. Simon recognized John Ross, York’s undertaker, come like a crow to the feast. That was unfair, but he even hated that Ross must know how he felt. The damned understanding in his eyes was intolerable.
As if respecting even that, Ross looked down as he bowed. “Mr. Trewitt’s death is a great loss for us all, sir. It will be my honor to take care of him.”
“Thank you. I have no idea . . .”
“You may leave everything in my hands, sir. If we could just settle a few details. . . .” He opened a leather-bound record book and began gentle questions.
They agreed on a coffin, that the body would rest overnight in the home—“The dining room, sir?”—as was the custom, and that the ceremony would also take place here before the coffin was carried to the churchyard.
“Some people choose to be buried on their own property. . . .”
“No. The churchyard.”
Part of Simon raged at these details, but another part realized that working through them was soothing.
Ross closed his book. “Now, sir, may I suggest that the lady would be better elsewhere for a little while?”
Simon went to Jane and raised her to her fee
t. “Come away. Mr. Ross is here to take care of your uncle.”
She looked at the undertaker with the same flash of resentment Simon had felt but then let Simon draw her from the room. His wife. Trusting him, leaning on his strength.
Which felt almost nonexistent.
“Do you want someone to sit with you?” he asked. “One of the maids?”
For I have no idea what to do for you.
She shook her head, leaving him at a loss. But then he saw wizened little Mrs. Gunn, cheeks sunken farther with sorrow, waiting in the hall.
“Best you both come to the kitchens and get some food in you,” the cook said. “Come along.”
Following an order was a relief, so Simon steered Jane that way. He had no appetite, but he’d not eaten before the duel and it was going to be a long day. If Isaiah’s accident had happened as Jane was getting dressed, she might not have breakfasted, either.
As soon as they left the house and entered the open-sided walkway, Simon felt better, perhaps just from the cold, crisp air. Jane must have felt the same, for she eased out from under his arm.
At the kitchen door she held out his ring. “You should take this back.”
“No—”
“I’ll only lose it.”
He took it. “I’ll find you a better.” He guided her through the doorway.
Sal and Izzy, twelve and thirteen, and both stick thin, were sitting at the deal table, eyes huge.
“Aye,” Mrs. Gunn said, “the master’s dead, but life goes on. Now we’ve breakfast to make, and then plenty of work to get ready for the rites.” She said to Simon and Jane, “I’d better bring in my granddaughters. There’s cleaning and funeral cakes.”
Jane straightened and reached for an apron hanging on the wall. “Of course. I’ll help, too. But first we must provide breakfast for Mr. St. Bride.”
Simon need food, but he couldn’t abide this bizarre female bustle. He retreated. “I have things to do.”
“Don’t be foolish.” Jane uncovered a loaf and cut two slices. She buttered them and added thick pieces of cheese and then wrapped it all in a white cloth and put it into his hands.