Rushed to the Altar

by Jane Feather

  Nan made her decision. She left her study and climbed the stairs to the attic. She knocked once sharply on the door to Clarissa’s chamber and entered on the knock. “Ah, good, you’re here.” She closed the door and regarded the startled Clarissa with an assessing eye. “How old are you, my dear?”

  Clarissa had jumped to her feet at the sound of the knock. Startled, she stared at her visitor. “I have twenty summers, ma’am, but what is that to do with anything?”

  “Quite a lot,” Nan stated. “It means you’re no child, for all your countrified innocence.”

  Clarissa flushed with mingled embarrassment and annoyance. “I may be innocent in some things, ma’am, but I can have a care for myself, believe me.”

  “Well, we shall see.” Nan went briskly to the dilapidated armoire in the corner of the room. “Do you have another gown, something a little less plain?”

  Clarissa stiffened. “No, but what if I had? Why does that interest you, ma’am?”

  “You have a visitor, my dear. A very important visitor who is most anxious to have speech with you. I believe you met him in the Piazza this afternoon.”

  Clarissa swallowed, drawing herself up to her full height. “I met a gentleman certainly, or at least he appeared to be a gentleman; his behavior indicated otherwise.”

  “The Earl of Blackwater is a gentleman in every respect.” Her landlady contradicted her briskly as she riffled through the scant collection of garments in the armoire. “And he is downstairs waiting to speak to you about a proposition he would make you.”

  “But I stuck an oyster fork in his hand,” Clarissa exclaimed. “Why would he want to talk to me now?”

  “You did what?” Nan, who was rarely surprised by anything, could not hide her astonishment. She spun around to stare in disbelief at Clarissa.

  “Well, he insulted me,” Clarissa stated, trying not to sound apologetic. She had nothing to apologize for. “It was instinctive . . . I didn’t think. Is he here to haul me off to the justice of the peace for assault?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s what his lordship has in mind.” Nan chuckled, turning back to her examination of the contents of the armoire. “Vindictive he is not. But perhaps, to make amends, you should listen to his proposition. No one will compel you to accept it.” This last was said into the contents of the armoire and Clarissa barely heard it.

  “This is a mite prettier than that dull old thing you’re wearing.” Nan brought out a simple gown of bronze muslin. “Change into this, dear, and then run along downstairs and talk to him. You owe him an apology at the very least.”

  “Maybe I do, but I don’t need to change my dress for that,” Clarissa declared. “And neither do I need to listen to any proposition. But I will, in courtesy, apologize for hurting him.” Even if it’s just to prove that I am more mannerly than an earl. But that she kept to herself, adding instead, “He owes me an apology too for being so insulting. And so I shall tell him.” She sat on the cot to put her shoes on again. “Where is he, ma’am?”

  “In the small parlor to the left of the front door.” Nan wisely gave up any further attempt to work on her lodger, sensing that it would be useless at best and put up her defenses at worst. She followed Clarissa out of the chamber and downstairs.

  Clarissa ran lightly down the two flights of stairs, in a hurry to be done with this awkward business. She had no desire to be always looking over her shoulder for a vengeful earl at her heels, so a quick apology for the injury, and it would be over and done with. She tried to ignore the flicker of curiosity about the proposition. What did a man in the earl’s position offer a harlot? It would be interesting to know in a general kind of way. But then, ruefully remembering the old adage about curiosity and cats, she reflected that her curiosity had always been a besetting sin and had led her into more trouble than she cared to revisit.

  She laid a hand on the latch of the door, telling herself that she was safe enough here, much less vulnerable in the house than on the open street, and there was a certain sense of security, whether false or not, imparted by the presence of Mistress Griffiths and the steward, standing sentinel in the hall behind her.

  Jasper stood up as she entered. His first thought was that her hair, no longer hidden by the kerchief, was every bit as magnificent as he’d expected. It swept from a widow’s peak above her broad forehead in a glistening red-gold cascade to her shoulders, and his fingers itched to run themselves through the luxuriant silken mass. She stood with her back to the door, and her green eyes, fixed upon his countenance, held a distinctly militant spark. Her mouth was set in a firm line and a frown creased her forehead between fair, delicately arched eyebrows.

  “I understand you have something to say to me, sir.” Her voice was cold, and there was nothing about her posture that indicated she accepted any differences in their social status, nothing that indicated she was the seller and he was the buyer, she the commoner and he the aristocrat. Jasper was intrigued. He had never before come across a Covent Garden denizen who behaved as if she was anything else.

  “You left me somewhat abruptly earlier.” He moved a chair forward for her. “I would like to renew our conversation. May I offer you a glass of Madeira?”

  She shook her head and remained standing by the door. “No, thank you. If I didn’t feel guilty about hurting your hand, I wouldn’t be here at all. So, as a form of apology I will hear you out, but please don’t take long about it.”

  Jasper rubbed his hand reflectively, contemplating her in silence for a minute before asking, “What did I say that upset you so?”

  She shrugged impatiently. “It matters little now. Could you please say what you came to say and then go?” A thought suddenly struck her and she wondered irritably why she hadn’t thought to ask as soon as she walked into the room. “How did you find me here?”

  “I followed you.” He smiled, and again it was as if a lamp had been lit behind his eyes, it so transformed his expression. He extended his hands palm-up in a gesture of surrender. “My dear girl, could we cry truce? I beg your pardon for insulting you earlier, although I have to confess I don’t quite understand how I did. I was merely drawing an assumption from the obvious.” He moved an expressive hand around the room. “You’ll have to forgive me if I point out the obvious, but you do live here, under the protection of Nan Griffiths.”

  And the sooner she moved out the better, Clarissa thought grimly. Without revealing her true circumstances, and she couldn’t possibly do that, she had no choice but to leave him with his assumptions. “Can we conclude this conversation now? I have things to do.”

  “You still haven’t heard my proposition,” he pointed out. “Would you please take a seat?” There was a touch of impatience in his tone now and his eyes had lost their earlier warmth. He indicated the chair he had brought forward for her, and Clarissa, after a moment’s hesitation, sat down.

  “Now, we will drink a glass of Madeira together and begin afresh.” He handed her a glass and resumed his seat in the corner of the sofa again. “To come straight to the point, I need you to marry me.”

  Clarissa choked on her wine. She just managed to set down the glass before it spilled everywhere, then succumbed to a violently spluttering fit of coughing. She fumbled in vain for a handkerchief in the wide lace-edged sleeve of her gown.

  “Take this.” An elegant square of Mechlin lace was dropped in her lap and she mopped at her streaming eyes.

  “Thank you.” She dabbed her mouth with the handkerchief and then crumpled it into a ball in her hand as she raised her pink face and stared at him with damp and reddened eyes. “I must have misheard you.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’m sure you heard me correctly, but if you promise not to choke again I’ll repeat it if you wish.”

  She held out a hand as if to ward him off. “No, don’t do that, I beg you. What an absurd thing to say.”

  He seemed to consider the matter before saying, “I can see how you might thin
k that. But you haven’t heard all the details as yet.”

  “Spare me the details.” Clarissa began to get up. “I don’t see why you should wish to make game of me, but now you’ve amused yourself so thoroughly at my expense I will take my leave.”

  “Sit down, Clarissa.”

  The peremptory tone was so unexpected she dropped back into her chair and stared at him again. “I don’t understand.”

  “No, of course you don’t. But if you’d give me a chance to explain I hope to enlighten you.”

  Clarissa continued to regard him with all the fascination of a paralyzed rabbit with a fox. She remained in her seat, unsure which of them was mad but certain one of them was.

  “I wish you to play a part for a few months. It will enrich you beyond your wildest dreams if you can play it convincingly enough, and I can safely promise you that you will never have to earn your living in places such as this again.”

  “But I d—” Clarissa closed her lips firmly on the denial. Some devil prompted her to hear the full insanity of this scheme. She clasped her hands over his handkerchief, then let them lie easily in her lap and tilted her head in a composed invitation for him to continue.

  Jasper chuckled. “Oh, I can see you playing the part to perfection,” he murmured. “I had the feeling from the first moment of our meeting that you were rather more than you appeared.” He leaned forward. “Listen carefully.”

  Clarissa listened in incredulous silence. In order to claim a fortune for himself the earl needed a harlot who would pretend to be in love with him, give up her evil ways, and embrace a life of strict convention and morality in order to marry him. In return, after the wedding the earl would settle upon her a munificent sum that would enable her to live her life exactly as she chose.

  “It would probably be better if you chose to live abroad, at least for a time, after the formalities are concluded,” Jasper finished. “As I said, you will have an easy competence that will enable you to go anywhere you choose.”

  “Is this marriage to be legally binding?” Clarissa was so fascinated by this rigmarole that she found herself responding as if it was a proposition to be seriously considered.

  “It will have to be.” Jasper spoke briskly. “But after a certain length of time we will have the marriage annulled.”

  “On what grounds? It is to be a Catholic ceremony, as I understand it. There are no acceptable grounds.”

  “Non-consummation,” he informed her drily. “That is generally sufficient.”

  Clarissa felt herself blush a little, much to her annoyance. “Just how would you go about this charade?”

  “Quite simply.” Jasper rose and brought over the decanter. He filled Clarissa’s glass and she was too absorbed in the wild tangle of her thoughts to stop him. He filled his own and sat down again. “We will begin in the usual way. I will become one of your clients, and will request of Mistress Griffiths your exclusive services. This will involve a contract to which all three of us will append our signatures.”

  She ought to interrupt, to tell him he was laboring under a terrible misunderstanding, but somehow the words would not come to her lips. She looked down at her clasped hands in her lap and let the earl’s plan take shape around her.

  “And then I will set you up in a house of your own and you will become my public mistress. We will be seen at the theatre, dining in the most select venues, and eventually you will be introduced to society. Once society has accepted you, then the marriage can take place and the conditions of my uncle’s will satisfied.”

  He leaned back and regarded her with a questioningly raised eyebrow. “So, what do you say, Mistress Clarissa?”

  “Is society likely to accept a known harlot as one of its own?”

  “It’s been done before. Courtesans have become the acknowledged mistresses of princes of the blood and on occasion the wives of aristocrats. You have the requisite beauty, and I will provide the necessary training in the courtly arts to ensure that your previous existence will cease to be relevant.”

  Oh, will you? Clarissa lowered her eyes so that he wouldn’t see their flash of scornful indignation. What right had he to assume she lacked such an education? But then she had to admit that her present circumstances probably gave him, if not the right, at least the excuse to assume so. Whereas in fact she had had a rigorous education in all such matters at the hands of a mother who based her own station in life on her position as the third daughter of an earl, whose marriage to a country squire, albeit a wealthy one, had been something of a comedown. It had been a love match, and remained so throughout her mother’s life, but Lady Lavinia Astley had decided that her daughter should form a union that reflected her maternal lineage and had educated her accordingly.

  Lady Lavinia would be turning in her grave if she could see her only daughter now, discussing such a proposition in the parlor of a Covent Garden brothel. Or would she? The proposition would make a countess of her daughter. Suddenly the absurdity of the paradox was too much. Clarissa began to laugh and once she’d begun she couldn’t stop.

  Jasper stared at her, wondering if he had a hysterical woman on his hands. He was about to summon Nan with smelling salts and water when the paroxysms ceased and she leaned back in her chair, his handkerchief pressed to her eyes.

  “I fail to see what’s so amusing.” He took a sip of wine, unable to disguise his annoyance and what he had to admit was chagrin. “I offer you an opportunity any other woman in your position would give her right hand for, and it sends you into whoops of laughter.”

  “I do beg your pardon,” she managed to gasp after a moment. “It was most unmannerly of me. But I happened to think of something and it just set me off.”

  “Enlighten me, pray.”

  She glanced across and saw that she had seriously offended him. Short of putting him right as to her position there was little she could do about it. “Something you said made me remember something from long ago, something I’d forgotten all about. I’m truly sorry. It was very discourteous.”

  Jasper frowned at her. Once again he had the unmistakable impression that all was not what it seemed with this Titian-haired, dewy-eyed beauty. “Well, do you have an answer for me?” he demanded.

  Clarissa realized that she did have an answer. Somewhere during this extraordinary hour or so she had come to half a conclusion, and it was by no means one she’d expected to reach. “I would ask for a little time to consider, my lord.” She rose from her chair. “Will you grant me that?”

  “If I must.” He rose with her. “I will return at noon tomorrow . . . oh, no, that will be too early for you, of course. You’ll be unlikely to seek your bed before dawn.”

  “No . . . no, that will be a fine time. I do not anticipate a busy night,” she said with a smile, amazed at herself. “I’m expecting no regular clients tonight.” It was true, she told herself firmly.

  “Then at noon tomorrow.” He bowed as she moved to the door. “I bid you farewell, Mistress Clarissa.”

  “And I you, my lord.” She curtsied and slipped from the room.

  Nan Griffiths materialized in the hall the minute Clarissa had closed the door behind her. “Well, my dear. What was his lordship’s proposition?” Her shrewd eyes scrutinized the girl’s countenance looking for clues.

  “Perhaps he should explain that to you himself, ma’am.” Clarissa moved to the stairs.

  “And did you accept it?” Her voice sharpened.

  “Not as yet. I asked for time to consider. His lordship will come for his answer at noon tomorrow.”

  “I see.” Nan looked thoughtful. “Is there anything you need this evening, my dear, to help you make your decision?”

  Clarissa didn’t stop to think. It was almost evening already and she’d eaten two oysters since her dawn breakfast. “I own I am very hungry, ma’am, and thirsty. I have much to think of and would prefer not to go out to find my supper.”

  “I shall have supper brought up to you, my dear. And maybe you’d care for
a bit of fire in the grate . . . the evenings are drawing in.”

  “That would be lovely, ma’am. I’m most grateful.”

  “Oh, don’t give it another thought. Go along upstairs and it’ll be taken care of immediately.”

  Clarissa ran up the stairs, astonished at herself. She seemed to be becoming someone she didn’t know at all. In the quiet of her own chamber she closed the door and went to the window. As dusk fell over the city the night sounds of Covent Garden grew ever livelier as the hummums in the Little Piazza opened their doors and music and laughter poured forth from the taverns and bawdy houses of the Great Piazza.

  She was filled with a strange energy, almost a vibration of the senses, as if she stood on the brink of some life-altering experience. A knock at the door startled her from her intense reverie.

  A manservant came in with a laden tray followed by a girl, little more than a child, struggling with a scuttle of coal. The child laid the fire and produced flint and tinder from her apron pocket, while the manservant set the tray on the dresser.

  “That be all, miss?” The man looked sourly at her, obviously unaccustomed to waiting upon young women in the servants’ garret.

  “Thank you.” Clarissa smiled warmly, turning to the girl. “And thank you, too, my dear. The fire is doing well.”

  They left her and she examined the contents of the tray. Roast chicken with a compote of mushrooms, crusty bread, cheese, and an almond tart would certainly compensate for her missed venison pie, and the flagon of burgundy would go some way to compensate for the loss of the fine burgundy in the Angel.

  She filled a goblet from the flagon, then took that and her platter to the small chair beside the now cheerful glow of the fire. She ate with relish and, finally replete, put her platter on the floor, took up the goblet, and stretched her feet to the fire. Now it was time to think as clearly as she had ever thought in her life.

  Chapter Three

  It had been a glorious May day when Clarissa’s father died. He had been sick since the beginning of the year, but in his usual stalwart fashion had refused to acknowledge it. His old friend, the village doctor, had given him physics that he’d refused to take, had advised rest that he’d refused to take, had forbidden riding to hounds, to no avail. For as long as the ground was soft enough, the hounds eager, and his hunters champing at the bit, Squire Astley would not miss a day’s hunting across the glorious Kent countryside.