A Date at the Altar

by Cathy Maxwell

  They came to the end of the play.

  Gavin had managed fairly well, if he said so himself. There had been a misspoken sentence here and there, a forgotten line or two, but Sarah had easily covered his mistakes.

  He was also aware that in spite of the acting, there was a tension about her. He’d hurt her that deeply when he’d spoken of his duty to marry Leonie Charnock.

  She might not ever forgive him for the hurt. It was more than being proud. To those who didn’t know her well, Sarah seemed a strong woman. But Gavin had learned the other side of her. When she loved, she gave all . . . and she loved him.

  The moment came when Goodwell was to drop to one knee and profess his undying love for the Widow.

  Suddenly Gavin knew this might be his only chance to plead his case. Once they left this stage, Sarah would be gone from him.

  But right now, he had her, and he did not want to lose her.

  So, when the moment came, Gavin didn’t speak as Jonathan Goodwell.

  He took Sarah’s hand and instead of saying, “Dear Peregrine, will you do the honor of marrying me,” he said, “Sarah Pettijohn, will you be my wife? Will you be my duchess?”

  She blinked, startled.

  The audience was equally confused, but then he felt them understand, and listen close with interest.

  Sarah frowned and then did what Gavin had anticipated she would do. She hid behind her character. “Thank you, Mr. Goodwell. You do me great honor—”

  “Sarah, I am not acting. I know that once you walk off this stage, then we will be done and I cannot let you do that, not without telling you what I truly feel. I’m no poet. I have no flowery speech. I’m not gifted with words the way you are. I’ve never spoken of love to any other woman before you. In truth, I believed love was a myth. It was for other people, not dukes. You have taught me different. Now, I am not embarrassed to say I need you. I don’t want my days to go on without you. Please, Sarah, I am on bended knee,” he said, kneeling in front of her. “I love you and am offering all I have to you. Please, marry me.”

  The theater was dead quiet.

  Everyone, including Gavin, waited for her answer.

  She looked down at him and he could read the struggle in her eyes. She did love him. He knew that.

  But instead of giving him the answer he wanted, she whispered, “I can’t marry you, Gavin. Don’t you understand? I mustn’t.”

  Nothing had been more wrenching to her soul than to turn Gavin down.

  He was the noblest, most gallant of men. He’d protected her from Rovington and his henchmen . . . and he’d taught her to trust again. He’d made her believe this thing called love did exist and it was grander than her imagination could ever have pictured.

  And now, she must refuse him.

  Not just Gavin but everyone in the theater, even the actors in the wings, had wanted her to say yes. He wanted her, the bastard daughter of a fallen woman. Gavin’s love had lifted her to heights she could not have anticipated and she knew she loved him too much to accept.

  “I can’t give you children,” she said, explaining not just to him but to all who listened. “I love you too much to deny you something you want, something you need.” She pulled her hand from his. “I’m not worthy of you.”

  She would have run then. She took a step but he was upon her, his arms around her. Tears burned her eyes.

  She struggled against him. She dared not look at him, but he held her close and whispered in her ear, “Children mean nothing to me if I can’t have you.”

  Sarah ceased resisting.

  “Do you hear me, love?” he said, the sound of his voice humming through her body. “You are the one I choose. I was meant to love you, Sarah.”

  Tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t stop them. “You could discover you are wrong, that children are more important,” she said, praying he meant what he said.

  “Sarah, there are no guarantees that if I married someone else that I’d have sons with her or even a son. It is one of the risks of life. However, I do know, with complete certainty, that I love you. You make my life interesting. In truth I was a bit of a bore until I met you. Staid and tedious. I don’t want to go back to being that man. Save me, Sarah. Marry me.”

  How could she resist?

  He was right, he did need her.

  And she wanted him. He’d won past her defenses. He’d claimed her heart and there would be no other.

  Her answer was to throw her arms around his neck. “Yes,” she said. “Yes and yes, and yes.”

  He lifted her up, swung her around—and the audience came to its feet with approving applause. Gavin kissed her then, right there on the stage—and the cheers grew louder.

  Sarah knew that no one in the theater tonight would forget this performance. She never would.

  His arm around her, Gavin waved at the crowd and both he and Sarah basked in the goodwill.

  “Even my mother and great-aunt are clapping,” Gavin said in Sarah’s ear.

  “We shall see how they feel in the morning,” she said.

  He laughed and then promised, “It doesn’t matter how they will feel. I love you now, I will love you on the morrow, I will love you forever.”

  And then, to the audience’s cheers, he kissed her again before the curtain closed.

  And so . . .

  Gavin’s mother and Dame Imogen surprised him—they approved of his marrying Sarah.

  “Your proposal on stage was the most romantic thing I have ever witnessed,” the dowager told him. “And Sarah’s willingness to sacrifice her happiness for you, well, it robbed me of breath.”

  “I’ve also done a bit of investigation into Mrs. Pettijohn’s heritage,” Dame Imogen said. The three of them were in Menheim’s sitting room, the day after Gavin’s theater debut. “She may be from the wrong side of the blanket but her bloodlines are impeccable.”

  “Really?” Gavin asked.

  His great-aunt looked down her nose at him. “Am I ever wrong?”

  “Never,” he admitted, and did not add how thankful he was for her approval.

  “Her father, Lord Twyndale, is descended from the Conqueror himself. Through him, she is related to the most noble houses in Britain. Furthermore, we’ve been needing what she will bring to us. There are holes in our ancestry.”

  “And she will be a graceful duchess,” his mother noted. “Her coloring is quite dramatic.”

  “She is beautiful,” Gavin said.

  “Yes,” Dame Imogen concluded, “she will make a fine appearance next to you in your portraits. Besides, she has lovely manners.”

  Gavin knew there could be no higher praise.

  “But what of children?” his mother asked. “I like her, my son. I know your mind is set, still, I must mourn a bit.”

  “Well, now that we know Ben and Elin are having twins, there will be heirs,” Gavin said. “If not Ben, then a child of his.”

  “You are not a little sad?” the dowager said.

  Gavin laughed. “I will have Sarah for my wife and I need nothing else.”

  And so, with the blessing of his family, Gavin Whitridge, 5th Duke of Baynton married Mrs. Sarah Pettijohn on a lovely October day in London. The wedding breakfast was the most coveted invitation of the year.

  Afterward, Gavin took his bride to Trenton, his family estate. The Fitful Widow was a grand success; however, with all the gossip about that fateful night at the theater, Gavin wanted his wife to himself and she was happy to comply.

  Ben and Elin were already there. She was huge with child and everyone, including her father Fyclan Morris who lived on the property next to Trenton, was anxious for the arrival of the babies.

  Gavin discovered each day of his married life was better than the last. Sarah had set aside her doubts. “I’ve found my place in the world,” she told Gavin.

  “And it is in Trenton?” he asked.

  “No, it is by your side.”

  He was the most fortunate of men.

  On
a stormy day in early November, Elin went into labor and Henry Morris Whitridge and Jennifer Anne Marie Whitridge made their entrances to the world.

  Gavin paced the floor with Ben and Fyclan. The sound of the babies’ crying was sweeter than the herald of angels. He was as elated as the other men.

  Sarah was the first out of the birthing room. She was misty-eyed. “Ben, Elin is asking for you.”

  He hurried inside.

  “You as well, Fyclan,” Sarah said.

  Gavin had never seen his old mentor look so proud.

  “Your gran’s prophecy has come true,” Gavin said. “Furthermore, Henry will someday be a duke.”

  “If it is God’s wish.” Fyclan took a step to the door and paused. “I’m just proud to have another Jenny in my life. A different one but I pray she has her grandmother’s spirit.”

  “I’m certain she will,” Gavin answered and Fyclan went into the birthing room to pay his respects to his grandchildren.

  Sarah looked to Gavin and said, “Their births were the most incredible thing to witness. True miracles they are. And I’m so happy I could be present for it.”

  He took her in his arms, knowing what she did not say. For a long moment they held each other. “I want to be enough for you,” she whispered.

  “You are. Am I all that you want?”

  “Yes, a thousand times yes,” she told him . . . but they both knew that however much they meant to each other, they recognized what they could not have.

  Around Christmas Day, a letter arrived from Charlene and Jack. What with the American war, it was hard to receive letters. They sounded well and Charlene shared that come the spring, Sarah would be a great-aunt. If Charlene and Jack had received Sarah’s letter about her marriage to Gavin, it was not mentioned.

  “Another child,” Sarah said.

  “It is all good,” Gavin answered.

  She reached for his hand. “Yes, very good. I could not love anyone more than I do you.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers. “My duchess.”

  She smiled, but there was a wistfulness in her expression, one he wished he could dispel.

  Gavin had thought to stay in Trenton until January but Sarah seemed so happy there, he extended their stay. She still wrote, but she hadn’t said anything about staging another play. It was as if her dream had been realized. Gavin knew she now longed for what she could not have.

  Sarah was very active in helping Elin take care of the babies. In fact, everyone in the family wondered what they’d done before for entertainment since most of their evenings were spent watching Henry and Jenny develop into interesting little people.

  Of course, Gavin was often called to London. He did manage to see the Money Bill through and the prime minister was pleased. Eventually, he knew he and Sarah would have to return to Menheim. His wife was embraced by London society, even by the sticklers. Dame Imogen’s approval had ensured if not their acceptance then their tolerance.

  Yes, life could not be better, or so Gavin thought until one day when he was making his return to Trenton from London.

  He had stopped at a small inn for the night. It was out of the way and one he used often when he traveled. The establishment was run by a cheery family by the name of Lodenberry.

  Gavin was so accustomed to their goodwill and friendly greeting, he noticed that Mrs. Lodenberry was not her usual self when he arrived. Her eyes were red and her face pinched as if she’d been crying.

  “Is something the matter, Mrs. Lodenberry?”

  She gave him a piteous look and apologized, “I’m sorry, Your Grace, we’ve had sad news here. A young man and his wife died last week. They left three children orphaned and without relatives. Six, five, and a wee newborn. The parson is taking them to the foundling home today. Mr. Lodenberry and I offered to take the boys but they will not leave their baby sister. I can’t take on a baby. I can’t. I have my hands full with my own brood and this inn. But who knows what will become of those poor motherless children? Who knows?” She started to weep again.

  An idea formed in Gavin’s head. “Where is the parson?”

  He followed her directions and was in short order introduced to two charming boys who were both grieving the loss of their parents and wise enough to be fearful for their own futures. They gathered protectively around their sister, a ginger-haired baby.

  It was the red hair that settled the matter for Gavin.

  Since there was no one to take charge of Andrew, Wills, and their sister Merriam, Gavin did.

  He practically flew home and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to place Merriam in his wife’s arms. A sense of contentment spread across Sarah’s face, especially when Merriam, who had to be the happiest baby Gavin had ever met, smiled up at her.

  “She’s precious,” Sarah said. She looked to the boys. “Come and sit here,” she invited. “Tell me about yourselves.”

  The boys were happy to do so . . . and that is how Sarah and Gavin created the family they both had longed for. Nor did they stop with their initial three. Over the years, they adopted a total of nine children.

  Children of their heart—that’s how Gavin and Sarah referred to their brood. No, the boys could not inherit a title, but they received educations and love and isn’t that all any child needed?

  Better yet, Gavin’s days were filled with the right sort of priorities. Yes, he still wielded power but he gave time to his own life as well.

  And his favorite nights with his family?

  Those were the evenings, when his children staged a play. He and Sarah were the audience and there was a curtain made of a blanket and costumes scavenged from family trunks in the attic and, of course, wooden swords.

  Author’s Note

  Dear Readers,

  Lest you accuse me of imitating a Shakespearean play where everything turns out for the best in defiance of convention, and sometimes common sense, let me assure you that many an actress has married a lord, even during the Regency. Bold and talented women have always attracted men. Conversely, many a man has landed one of those women because he had a title before his name and/or a good deal of money in his pocket. Of course, Sarah would never be so crass. Her love for Baynton is as genuine as his devotion to her. It is just her good fortune he is not a ditch digger.

  Names in history that come to mind are Miss Anastasia Robinson, an opera singer, who secretly married the 3rd Earl of Peterborough in the early 1700s. Everyone assumed she was his mistress and for ten years they kept their marriage a secret until right before his death.

  Then there was Miss Harriet Mellon who starred on Drury Lane’s stage and captured the hearts of two powerful men. The first was the wealthy banker Thomas Coutts who left his entire fortune to her upon his death. The second was the 9th Duke of St. Albans who was twenty-three years her junior. Frankly, I wouldn’t know what to say to a man that much younger than myself. She was fifty years old when they married and he was practically a lamb chop. However, please note, this may have been a case where her money was the attraction, although Harriet was a renowned beauty.

  Another I will tell you about is Louisa Brunton. She was quite successful on the Regency stage and came from a family of actors. She married the 1st Earl of Craven in 1807 and her days treading the stage were done.

  Finally, let me share a bit about female playwrights. Women have been scribblers since time began—we just haven’t received much credit for it.

  In the 1600s and 1700s, it was not unusual for female playwrights to be titled women whose work was produced because of their husbands’ largesse. In 1812, Sarah is fortunate that Baynton would finance her theatric endeavors because then, like now, who you know is everything.

  Known female playwrights during the Regency, include Marie-Thérèse De Camp who had married into the Kemble family. The Kembles were one of the leading stage families of the day. Marie-Thérèse’s plays and light farces were relatively successful. Wherever the family managed a theater—Drury L
ane or Covent Garden—that is where her plays were staged.

  Another successful playwright of the day was the Scot Joanna Baillie who is noted as a protégé of Sir Walter Scott. She was considered, even back in the 1800s, the leading Scottish playwright of any gender.

  Sir Walter helped produce her play The Family Legend. Staged in 1810 at the Theatre Royal in Edinburgh and then Drury Lane in London in 1815, it is a tale of clan rivalry, deceit, revenge, lost loves, a secret baby . . . and, unfortunately, is a tragedy.

  If only she’d added a little romance and that happily-ever-after . . . then maybe we’d be making movies of her work as we do Austen’s.

  Happy reading, my friends,

  Cathy Maxwell

  April 12, 2015

  About the Author

  CATHY MAXWELL spends hours in front of her computer pondering the question, “Why do people fall in love?” It remains for her the great mystery of life and the secret to happiness. She lives in beautiful Virginia with children, horses, dogs, and cats. Fans can contact Cathy at www.cathymaxwell.com or PO Box 1135, Powhatan, VA 23139.

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  By Cathy Maxwell

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  A Date at the Altar

  The Fairest of Them All

  The Match of the Century

  The Brides of Wishmore

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  The Bride Says Maybe

  The Bride Says No

  The Chattan Curse

  The Devil’s Heart

  The Scottish Witch

  Lyon’s Bride

  The Seduction of Scandal

  His Christmas Pleasure

  The Marriage Ring

  The Earl Claims His Wife

  A Seduction at Christmas

  In the Highlander’s Bed

  Bedding the Heiress