The Bride Says No

by Cathy Maxwell

  Dedication

  For my friend Deborah Barnhart

  What a joy it is to be in the company of writers.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  By Cathy Maxwell

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Annefield

  The Tay Valley

  Scotland

  February 8, 1807

  Why are you leaving me?”

  Startled by both the question and the pain in her sister’s voice, Lady Aileen Davidson turned from her bedroom mirror, where she’d been striving to set her velvet-lined bonnet at just the right, jaunty angle.

  Her twelve-year-old sister, Tara, stood inside the door, her shoulders tense, her arms crossed tightly against her chest as if she needed to hold herself together. Her nose was red and her expression pinched, a sign that she had been crying.

  Those words, that question had been torn from her.

  Aileen already wore her coat and gloves. She was ready to go, to make the most of this opportunity to finally launch herself into the world.

  Beyond the bedroom door came the sound of footsteps running down the hall. Echoes of the butler’s irritation that his orders weren’t being following quickly enough drifted up the staircase while Mrs. Watson, the housekeeper, expressed concerns that Aileen’s trunk wasn’t lashed tightly enough to the roof of the waiting coach.

  But in this moment, in this space, came silence.

  For the first time since their father had reappeared into their lives unannounced and declared that the time had come for his oldest daughter to be presented to society, Aileen considered what her leaving would mean to Tara . . . and her heart divided with the desire, the need, to seek the world beyond Annefield and her love for this half sister whom she had nurtured and cherished since the day Tara was born.

  There was seven years difference in age between them. Tara was a wee thing with thin arms and legs and a mop of impossibly thick red-gold hair that could never be tamed. Her almond-shaped blue eyes seemed to take up her whole face and offered a hint of the blossoming beauty she would someday become.

  In contrast, and in homage to their different mothers, Aileen’s hair was the color of the darkest honey and her eyes light gray. Her looks were pleasant but unremarkable when compared to Tara’s vivid coloring.

  What was important was what they did share: Davidson pride and a strong sense of independence. Aileen understood all too well what asking such a question cost Tara.

  “I am not leaving forever,” Aileen said quietly.

  “Yes, you are,” Tara returned, the words tumbling out of her. “Mrs. Watson says you will take in no time. An Englishman will snap you up and I’ll never see you again—just like we never see Father. You will live with them”—her emphasis on the word an indication she meant the English as a whole—“in London. You’ll forget me.”

  “Little bug, I could never forget you,” Aileen protested, coming over to the door. She put her arms around her sister. “I won’t forget you.”

  Tara resisted Aileen’s promise, keeping her arms crossed. “But things will change,” she whispered into Aileen’s shoulder.

  Aileen would not deny the truth of Tara’s prediction, or her own anticipation in the future. “Yes, things will change, but they must. It is the way of the world.”

  “No,” Tara protested, pushing away. “It doesn’t have to be.”

  Conscious that they stood in the doorway where anyone could hear them, Aileen pulled her sister into the room and closed the door. Facing Tara, she admitted, “I want to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to marry.”

  Tara made the dismissive sound of an annoyed child. “Why is it so important to marry?”

  “Because it is what we do,” Aileen answered. “What we were born to do. Marriage is our duty and what we owe to our ancestors and our family name.”

  “I do not believe that sounds pleasant at all,” Tara stated baldly.

  Her frankness startled a laugh out of Aileen.

  Tara frowned. “I am not being amusing. Father has been married several times and he does not seem happy. Nor does he want to marry again. He told me so.”

  “When was that?” Aileen asked in surprise. Tara and the earl kept a bit of distance between them. Aileen understood why. Their father was not the doting sort. Aileen remembered a parent’s love. Her mother had died of smallpox when Aileen had been old enough to have a memory of her. But Tara’s mother had died in childbirth, so Aileen’s care and concern was all she knew. The earl had walked out of his wee babe’s life the day after the funeral, only to visit sporadically over the years.

  “The last time he came home,” Tara said. “When he brought the horses.”

  That had been over two years ago. The earl had won some money and, feeling flush, had invested in turning Annefield’s run-down stables into a breeding farm. His gambler’s instinct, which had failed him numerous times, had thought it a gentleman’s way of bringing in money, and perhaps it would someday.

  Aileen had been hopeful that the endeavor would encourage him to stay home, but London’s lure was strong. The earl preferred English society to Scottish country life, a source of some bitterness amongst his neighbors and in his family.

  “You know Father does as he pleases,” she murmured to Tara.

  “I do. What makes you believe he will pay any more attention to you in London than he does here?” Tara said, proving once again that, in spite of her age, she had a keen ability to see to the heart of matters.

  “He will ignore me unless it suits his purpose,” Aileen answered. “Fortunately, Aunt Lucille will be my sponsor.”

  Tara pulled a face. “I can’t abide her.”

  “She does smell of camphor, but she knows the right people.” Lucille, the dowager duchess of Benningham, was Aileen’s mother’s aunt. She did not approve of the Scottish or her niece’s marriage to the profligate earl of Tay. However, she had informed the earl that the least she owed her niece’s memory was to see to the proper presentation of her one and only child. The dowager was a haughty, rigid woman who refused to acknowledge Tara existed. Aileen had protected Tara from the slights in letters and gifts as best she could. However, the one time Lucille and her sister had met, the dowager had been so rude that Tara had never forgotten.

  “I can’t imagine her with any friends,” Tara muttered. “And she would never open her door to me.”

  “You won’t ever have to worry about her,” Aileen replied. “When your time comes to be presented, my husband and I will see you are presented, and I shall be your sponsor.” My husband. The words filled Aileen with anticipation.

  “I don’t want to be presented. I don’t want to leave Annefield.”

  “Someday you will,” Aileen predicted gently. “The day will come when you begin to wonder if there isn’t something more than what you have in the valley.”

  More. The word haunted Aileen, contributing to a restless energy that had dogged her days, and nights, for the past several months.

  “Can’t
you marry someone here? Someone like the Reverend Kinnion?”

  “He is a very nice gentleman,” Aileen hedged.

  “And he admires you. He is always disappointed when he calls and I must tell him you are indisposed. You never spend time with him, and he adores you, Leenie,” Tara said, using the pet name she’d developed in her earliest childhood, when saying “Aileen” had been too difficult. “Everyone remarks upon it. He stares at you during his sermons as if speaking only to you.” Tara aped Reverend Kinnion’s most earnest proselytizing manner, widening her eyes and fixing them on Aileen with intensity.

  Aileen laughed because the mimicry was so accurate. “And life would be easier if I returned his admiration,” she admitted, “but that is not the case.” She reached over and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Tara’s ear, suddenly overwhelmed with her love and affection for this sister. “Furthermore, if something happens to the earl, we shall need a home. Reverend Kinnion does not earn the sort of living necessary to care for two earl’s daughters. I can only find a man with the means to support us in London.”

  “Uncle Richard will not turn us out,” Tara said with a shrug, referring to the uncle who was their father’s heir, “although I shall have to tolerate cousin Sabrina’s constant disapproval. I might prefer living in the woods.”

  “It will not come to that. Not if all goes according to what I pray will happen.”

  “Which is?”

  For a second, Aileen hesitated. She’d not spoken aloud of her hopes, of her dream. But this was her sister, the one person who would understand. She lowered her voice and confided, “I want to marry for love.”

  “Love?” Tara repeated the word as if it had been foreign to her thinking . . . and perhaps it was. Love, marital love, was not a quality either of them had witnessed in their lives. The earl married for money. He’d married each of their mothers for that reason.

  No wonder marriage didn’t sound attractive to Tara.

  “Yes, love . . . like what Cleopatra felt for Antony,” Aileen confirmed, referring to Shakespeare’s play. To entertain themselves, especially in winter, the sisters had often read Shakespeare’s works aloud and had even tried some of their own theatrics with Ingold, Mrs. Watson, and the other servants as an audience. “A consuming love. A desire above all others.”

  “Cleopatra does not come to a good end,” Tara pointed out. She should know. She was the one who’d enjoyed acting out Cleopatra’s death by asp bite.

  “I shall fare better,” Aileen promised.

  “Nor did Juliet.”

  “I will avoid warring families.”

  “And I know you believe Katharina was happy with Petruchio, but I can’t agree,” Tara continued. “He was so overbearing. I would prefer Reverend Kinnion to him.”

  This was a long-standing argument between them, tied in with Tara’s championing the humble minister. Aileen made an impatient sound. “I believe Kate found happiness. The text does not say she was unhappy. Indeed, we are to believe her content.”

  Tara cocked her head as if seeing Aileen’s situation in a new light. “Would you want to be merely content?”

  “You can be such a challenge. I didn’t say I wanted to be ‘merely content.’ I said I want to fall in love, embracing the full meaning of that word.”

  “And what sort of man will you love?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Aileen said happily. “That is the adventure of it. I know he won’t be like Father. I don’t want a gambler or someone selfish.”

  Tara nodded her head in agreement.

  “But I know he will love me as completely and passionately as I love him.”

  “Will he be handsome?” Tara would put forth such a question. The shiniest bauble always caught her eye.

  “Handsome to me. He will also be noble and brave, and very well respected.” Aileen had thought long and hard about this man of her dreams. She knew what she wanted.

  “How will you be able to tell amongst the men you meet if you have found the right one or not?”

  “Oh, I’ll recognize him,” Aileen answered. “A voice in my head will say, He’s the one, and he shall be.”

  “The one,” Tara repeated, as if beginning to understand.

  “And then I’ll bring my husband to Annefield and we shall take care of you,” Aileen continued with a touch of pride. “There is so much to life we are missing, Tara. But now the door is opening. For both of us.”

  “But I shall miss you,” Tara said, the sadness returning.

  “You needn’t fear not seeing me. I’ll return soon. You will see. All will be well. We are sisters. Our bond is forged in blood.”

  Before Tara could reply, a footstep sounded at the door, followed by a hurried knock. “Lady Aileen,” Mrs. Watson said through the door, “Lord Tay says if I don’t bring you down immediately, he shall leave without you.”

  “I will be right there,” Aileen said. She looked to Tara. “I will return. Soon,” she promised.

  Tara nodded. Tears were welling in her eyes again, but the fear was gone. “Go, Leenie. I’ll think about you every day. I know you will find love.”

  “And someday you will as well,” Aileen said.

  Tara shook her head, but Aileen wasn’t going to let her dodge her future. “It may seem overwhelming now, but one day, you will want to do what I’m doing. Even if it means leaving people you care about.” She hugged her sister close. “Please look after Folly for me.”

  “I’ll ride that silly mare every day.”

  “Thank you. And, Tara, we shall see each other soon.” With those words, Aileen gave her a squeeze, then released her hold and rushed from the room. She knew too well the earl didn’t make idle threats. He would leave without her.

  Moments later, with the crack of a driver’s whip and the turn of the coach’s wheels, Aileen was on her way. Tara stood on Annefield’s step, waving as hard as she could. The tears were gone.

  Aileen would sometimes remember this moment of departure as the happiest of her life. She’d been full of anticipation. Her intentions were good, her expectations great.

  Only later would she realize how naive she’d been that day. How simple.

  She had thought all would be wonderful.

  Instead, she lost it all.

  Chapter One

  Annefield

  August 26, 1816

  I once believed time was linear, that one event followed another. One action; one consequence. However, now, I sometimes, no, almost always have the sense that everything, all that I know, believe and experience happens in a great swoop of chaotic activity like the tumbling of dice in a cup.

  For example, I am here at Annefield, but all too often, my thoughts return to London, to moments best forgotten and, hopefully, forgiven, if it is at all possible.

  I can literally see myself sitting in this chair at my desk in the library, marking my journal, but I also sense myself stepping out of the coach for the first time onto Mayfair’s hallowed streets or attending the Countess of Churnley’s ball and being introduced to Geoffrey Hamilton. Dancing with him and feeling my father’s greedy eyes upon us. Ah, yes, it is the past because I realize the portent of such moments now.

  When they happened, I was blessedly oblivious.

  I experience other occasions as well. They come to me in dreams, in my imaginings, in any unguarded thoughts. I see my mistakes and am powerless to call them back, and yet the question of why I should destroy myself remains. I cannot explain my own actions, because I do not fully understand them.

  No, that is a lie. I know too well why I made the decisions I have. I’ve faced my demons. I let them believe I betrayed my vows because I needed to survive. Peter saved my life, for his attention to me spurred Geoff to divorce.

  Such maudlin thoughts! Encouraged, no doubt, by the knowledge that Tara marries in three days’ time. I shall not be there. My appearance at the wedding breakfast would be decidedly uncomfortable. A divorced woman is not included in polite society, not to say that
any society in London is polite.

  In truth, it is not terrible to live beyond their approval. I am content in a fashion. I accept.

  I wish Tara well. I hope she is happy. I worry as a sister who knows too well the danger of expectations.

  And I pray that at some time in my life, I shall find peace in all that has happened and that I can stop dodging the shadows of my past. Or, at the least, time returns to its proper form when there is the here and now and nothing matters beyond this very moment.

  Aileen jabbed the pen back into its place on the inkstand and stared at the words she’d written.

  She sounded like a lunatic. If anyone read her journal, they would believe her ready to be locked up, and sometimes she agreed.

  Oh, yes, too often she feared she was losing her mind.

  She closed the journal and shoved it into the desk drawer. She kept this drawer locked. It contained Annefield’s ledger of household accounts and the precious diary she’d started writing upon her return almost three years ago. She’d arrived and, in the same day, Tara had been swept away by their father to try her own hand at the London Marriage Mart. He’d undoubtedly wished to keep his youngest away from Aileen’s poisonous presence, or at least that was the impression he’d given.

  For Aileen, however, life wasn’t terrible in the valley. There were those who ostracized her, but the majority accepted her. London was a good distance away, and what did loyal Scots care for English opinion?

  However, the Scots did take pride in Tara’s spectacular success on the Marriage Mart. She was about to wed Blake Stephens, the catch of the season and the duke of Penevey’s illegitimate son. They called him the Bastard, a simple, direct title—although everyone knew that the powerful duke favored this son over his legitimate ones, presumably because the Bastard was rich. Stephens was said to be very clever when it came to investments and had become extremely popular in the way only wealthy, handsome men could be.

  “I pray she is happy,” Aileen murmured, closing her eyes. “Please, God, save her from the hell I endured.”