by Jane Feather
“He’ll do what’s necessary. He knows there is no choice.”
“So what do we do now?” she asked. “I won’t leave Pickering Place until Abigail is out of the general’s way.”
Sebastian sighed. He hadn’t really expected anything else, although he had half hoped. “As I said, I have a special license—”
“You were very confident, weren’t you?” she interrupted, and then gave a little squeal as he reached for her, hauling her towards him across the bed. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She laughed up at him as she lay with her head on his lap.
For answer, he placed a finger firmly on her lips. “Keep quiet and listen. We will be married as soon as possible, wherever you wish. And afterwards, you may return to Pickering Place just until Abigail is out of the way. And believe me, Serena, that’s not going to be very long. If something goes wrong with the Wedgwood proposal, then I will tell Sutton the whole truth and get him to whisk his daughter back to the safety of Stoke-on-Trent. And that, my love, is a promise.”
There was no way she was going to allow that to happen, but Serena kept that to herself. “Very well,” she said amenably.
Sebastian looked suspiciously down at her upturned face. “I do mean it, Serena.”
“Yes, my dear, I know you do.” She touched his mouth with her fingertip. “No need to look so stern.”
He gave up. “So when d’you wish to be married, and where?”
Serena considered. “There seems little point in waiting,” she mused. “Tomorrow, or rather today … is that too soon?”
“Oh, no,” Sebastian murmured. “Not too soon at all. Where shall it be?”
Serena’s eyes lit up. “In that little church in Knightsbridge. No one will know us there.”
“Tomorrow in Knightsbridge it shall be.” He lifted her so that she was sitting on his knee, her face level with his. “Will you mind if I bring my brothers as witnesses?”
She shook her head. “No, of course not. Besides, I’d like to meet the Earl of Blackwater and his countess. I’m interested to see if she truly does resemble me.”
“Oh, trust me, you two will get on like a house on fire.”
Jonas Wedgwood was banging the doorknocker of the house in Bruton Street five minutes before eight that morning. Morrison didn’t seem in the least surprised to see this very early visitor.
“Mr. Sutton is at breakfast, sir. If you’d come this way.” He escorted Jonas to a small room at the back of the house, where William was consuming his first breakfast; the second and less serious took place when the ladies eventually made an appearance.
He looked up from his veal cutlets as Jonas was announced. “Come in … come in … take a seat. What’ll you have? These cutlets are very fine, but I can vouch for the deviled kidneys, unless you’ve a hankering for the black pudding and the oat cakes. Can’t get those in London, but m’cook knows exactly how I like ’em. Try ’em, dear boy.”
“Thank you, sir. I haven’t had an oat cake for two months.” Jonas helped himself liberally from the sideboard. “And blood pudding, too. Wonderful.”
William nodded his approval. “These southern folk don’t know good food … all this namby-pamby fricassee and coddled eggs. How’s a man supposed to do a day’s work on that?”
“How indeed, sir.” Jonas sat at the table with a laden plate and nodded his thanks when a full tankard of ale was pushed towards him.
“So.” William buttered a hunk of bread. “What was it you wished to talk about?”
Jonas choked on his oat cake. In the joys of such a familiar breakfast, he’d actually forgotten for a moment what had brought him there. He recovered quickly, took a swallow of ale, and stated, “I wish to offer for your daughter, sir.”
William nodded. “Always did like a man who didn’t beat about the bush,” he said. “What does Abigail think of this?”
Jonas looked a little shocked. “I haven’t approached her directly, sir. It wouldn’t be proper before I spoke with you.”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense. If a man likes a maid, he makes it clear, and if she likes him, she makes it clear back.”
“I do think Miss Sutton … Abigail … returns my regard,” Jonas said with some difficulty. “Nothing has been said exactly, but …”
William laughed and refilled his tankard. “Yes … yes. I think you’re right. Well, you have my blessing, my friend. Whether you’ll have Mrs. Sutton’s is another matter. She’s her heart set on a magnificent marriage for Abigail.” He shrugged. “I’d have no objection if I thought the child wanted that, too, but I’m not so sure about that. I think she’ll be more comfortable among her own kind.”
“Oh, yes, sir, so do I,” Jonas said with so much enthusiasm he blushed brick red. “I can give her everything, sir. Every comfort, her own carriage, a fine house, a harp—”
“Don’t, I beg you.” William lifted an arresting hand. “You’ll regret a harp to your dying day. A pianoforte, maybe.”
Jonas dropped his eyes to his plate, trying to conceal his amused agreement with his love’s fond papa. “Whatever you say, sir.”
“Well, I’ll talk to Abigail and then to Mrs. Sutton, and we must hope for the best in that quarter.” William returned his attention to his breakfast and his newspaper.
Jonas knew better than to renew a conversation that was clearly over. He finished his breakfast with enjoyment, rose, thanked his host, and made for the door.
“Come back this evening, Jonas. Take your pot luck with us,” William instructed as the young man opened the door. “If you’re going courting, best to start right.”
“Yes, sir.” Beaming, Jonas went into the hall and out into the chill but sunny morning, feeling as if all was right with the world.
William completed his own breakfast and went into the library to start on the day’s business. At ten o’clock, he heard his wife’s voice from the hall telling Morrison to serve breakfast, and a few minutes later, Abigail’s light step sounded on the stairs a moment before she put her shining head around the library door.
“Good morning, Papa.”
“Good morning, m’dear.” He beamed at her. “Fresh as a daisy, pretty as a picture, as always.”
Her blue eyes sparkled. “Mama said to tell you breakfast is served.”
“I’ll be along in a minute.”
Abigail closed the door and went into the dining parlor, where Marianne was already seated in front of the teapot. “Is your father coming, Abigail?”
“In a minute.” Abigail took her seat at the table and smiled her thanks as a maid set a plate of eggs in front of her. She glanced covertly at her mother, trying to gauge her mood. Marianne had said nothing to her daughter last night, apart from bidding her good night as usual, and Abigail was curious to know what her mother had thought of the evening.
“The dinner party went well, don’t you think, Mama?” she ventured after a moment.
Marianne sipped her tea and buttered a finger of toast before saying, “On the whole, yes, I think I did.”
Abigail knew her mother too well to let this stand. “But?” she said.
Marianne dipped her toast into her tea. “I’m sorry your father insisted on young Mr. Wedgwood’s being invited. I felt quite sorry for the poor young man … a fish out of water. You could see how uncomfortable he felt among such Society folk.”
“Oh, I didn’t think he was uncomfortable at all, Mama.” Abigail’s eyes flashed a little. “He seemed to have plenty to talk about with the other guests, particularly hunting. They all seemed to pay him most particular attention, I thought.”
“Hunting is not a suitable subject for a dinner table,” Marianne declared, closing her lips tightly.
Abigail’s eyes opened wide. “But Mama, ’twas Lady Serena who introduced the subject.”
Her mother contented herself by attacking her toast with the butter knife, rather as if it were vermin that required extermination. Abigail continued with her eggs in silence until William
’s entrance broke the tension.
“Ah, good morning … good morning, my dears. You slept well, I trust, Mrs. Sutton.”
“Not particularly well, Mr. Sutton,” Marianne responded with a sniff.
William helped himself to bacon and tomatoes from the covered dish on the sideboard. “I’m sorry to hear that, my dear.” He sat down and twinkled at Abigail. “So, puss, how would you like to be Lady Heyward, eh?”
Abigail paled. Her mother dropped the finger of toast she was dipping into her teacup.
“Yes, it seems that our little Abigail has caught herself a good husband quicker than we expected,” her husband continued with a bland smile, forking bacon into his mouth. “Doesn’t surprise me, though. Such a pretty, clever puss as she is. What d’you say to that, then, Mrs. Sutton?”
Marianne wiped her mouth delicately with a laceedged napkin. “Has the general spoken to you, then, Mr. Sutton?”
“Yesterday. Asked my permission to address the girl.” William glanced at Abigail with a sly smile. “I told him it was up to Abigail. So, how would you have me answer the general, puss?”
Abigail pushed aside her half-eaten plate of eggs. “I do not wish to marry General Heyward, Papa.” Her eyes darted to her mother, who was beginning to turn an alarming shade of puce. “Forgive me, Mama, but I cannot like him. He’s so … so old.”
“Nonsense,” Marianne declared. “I daresay he’s not above five and forty. A man in his prime, vigorous, successful, a respectable member of Society.”
“Now, don’t badger the child, Mrs. Sutton. If she’ll not have him, she’ll not have him.”
“She will have him.” Marianne fixed her daughter with a gimlet eye. “You can’t expect a chit of a girl to know what’s best for her, Mr. Sutton. I tell you, she will have him.”
“I will not.” Abigail threw her napkin to the table, pushed back her chair, and ran from the room.
“Now, see what you’ve done, Mrs. Sutton,” William said, not without a degree of satisfaction. His daughter’s reaction had been all he had hoped.
“You would see our precious child waste away an old maid,” Marianne cried. “Just because the child has taken a notion into her head that Sir George is too old for her, she’ll wither on the vine … wither on the vine.” She burst into noisy tears.
William sighed and continued placidly with his breakfast until the storm had abated somewhat. “Now … now, my dear. Nothing so dire is going to happen to Abigail. I already have another, most suitable offer in hand for her.”
His wife’s tears dried miraculously as a wonderful thought occurred to her. “Another … oh, could it be … oh, do not keep me in suspense, sir.”
“I fancy you have a pretty good notion already, my dear.”
Marianne could think of only one possibility. “Our daughter marrying into the family of an earl … oh, Mr. Sutton, what a wonderful thing!”
“Eh?” He blinked. “An earl, you say. Oh, I doubt Mr. Wedgwood has any earls in his family, ma’am.”
“Mr. Wedgwood?” His wife stared at him. “That … that tradesman’s son?”
“You seem to be forgetting, my dear, that your daughter is a tradesman’s daughter,” William pointed out drily. “If she’s good enough for him, then I daresay he’s good enough for her.”
“Oh, but Mr. Sutton … William … you know my hopes. We came to London to give Abigail a Season, to give her the chance to make a fine match. She could have married Jonas Wedgwood in Stoke-on-Trent.”
“And I daresay that’s exactly where she will marry him, if she wishes.” William sighed. “Come now, my dear. Look at the bright side. You’ll have your daughter well married before she’s eighteen. I daresay your friends will be green with envy. They don’t have a daughter among them who can hold a candle to our little Abigail.”
“But that’s exactly the point,” wailed Marianne. “Abigail is so lovely, she could make a stunning match, but you would throw her away on a Wedgwood.”
“They are a fine family, ma’am. I’ll not hear them traduced.”
William’s tone of voice was one his wife had heard rarely during their marriage, but it was one she understood. She subsided into her handkerchief.
“Well, we’ll hear what Abigail has to say about it,” William said, his tone now soothing. “She may dislike the idea, for all I know.”
“I hope she has a better appreciation of her own merits than to agree to such a match. I have the headache. I shall go and lie on my bed.” Marianne rose and swept from the room.
William drained his ale tankard and followed her. “Morrison, ask Miss Abigail to come to the library immediately.” He wanted to tell his daughter himself, before Marianne could get her oar in.
Abigail had locked herself in her chamber and was pacing restlessly, tearing at her cambric handkerchief, when Morrison knocked on her door. “Your father wishes to see you in the library, Miss Sutton. Immediately, he said.”
Abigail hesitated, but she didn’t have the courage to disobey a summons from her father. He was a doting parent, always inclined to indulge his daughter, but there was no question about his being the master of the house. She unlocked the door and hurried past Morrison, glancing once at the closed door to her mother’s chamber.
William was awaiting her in the library and smiled cheerfully as she came in. “There, now, puss, let’s have no more tears. What a to-do about nothing.”
“’Tis not nothing, Papa, when you would force me into a loathsome marriage.” She scrumpled the handkerchief tightly in her balled fist.
He shook his head. “Such a drama, child. No one will force you into anything. But I do have another offer for you to consider.”
Abigail’s heart jumped.
“Young Jonas Wedgwood called upon me this morning and asked me for permission to address you. What d’you say to that, puss?”
His daughter’s expression told him all he needed to know, and he smiled with satisfaction.
“Oh, yes … yes, please, Papa,” Abigail managed to say at last, clapping her hands like an excited child. “I do like him so very much.”
“Good. Then that’s settled.”
Abigail looked suddenly doubtful. “But Mama …” she began hesitantly.
“Oh, you leave your mother to me, m’dear. She would never stand in the way of your happiness, Abigail, once she sees that’s where it lies.” He patted her shoulder, then kissed her brow. “Jonas is coming to take his pot luck with us this evening, so you go and buy yourself some new frippery. Look your best for him, and I’ll persuade your mama to leave you two alone for a few minutes so that the young man can make his declaration to you himself.”
“Yes, Papa.” Abigail flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. “You are the best father anyone could ever wish for.” She ran off, and he heard her calling to Morrison, “Have the barouche brought around in an hour, please, and tell Matty I will need her to accompany me shopping this morning.”
William resumed his business, knowing it would be best to leave quiet reflection to do its work on his wife. His peace was short-lived, however. Half an hour later, Morrison announced General Sir George Heyward.
William grimaced, but he was never one to shirk an unpleasant duty. “Show him in, Morrison, and bring some of that sherry wine these London folk seem to like.” He could at least offer the man a drink to soften the blow.
Heyward came in, rubbing his hands, beaming broadly, with every appearance of bonhomie. “Good morning, Sutton. And ’tis a fine bright one.” He extended his hand with a little military bow.
William shook hands and bowed in turn. “Have a seat, sir.” He gestured to a fireside chair. “Oh, here’s Morrison. A glass of sherry, General?”
“With pleasure, Sutton.” Still with his jovial smile, Heyward received the glass from the butler and settled back into his chair. He waited until Morrison had left before broaching the subject of his visit. “So, Sutton, have you discussed my offer with your dear lady and little Abigail?�
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“I have.” William looked pensively into his own glass. “Fact is, General, the child don’t much fancy the idea.”
Heyward’s expression changed, lost all sign of conviviality. His eyes darkened, his jaw clenched. “Why’s that, sir?”
“Got the odd notion you’re too old for her,” William said, still somewhat pensive.
“Nonsense … utter nonsense,” his visitor blustered. “A man in his prime … I daresay I could beat any of these young bloods at whatever sport he might choose. Oh, I grant you, I’ve a deal more worldly experience than these youngsters who think the world belongs to them, but experience is no bad thing in a husband, Sutton.”
William gave a light shrug. “Well, that’s as may be, General. But the girl won’t have you. Simple, but there it is.”
The general’s complexion became a dark, angry red, and his small eyes filled with fury. “If she were mine, she’d know better than to disobey her father.”
“Oh, Abigail’s biddable enough,” William said mildly. “But I’m disinclined to compel her in such a matter. ’Tis her life, after all, and if her heart lies elsewhere, then that’s the way it is.”
“She has accepted another offer?” Heyward’s voice was now very quiet, little more than a hiss.
“In a word, sir, yes.” William stood up as his visitor sprang from his chair like a jack-in-the-box.
“You led me to believe there was no competition for the girl,” the general accused, pointing a finger at his host.
William shook his head. “No, sir, I did not. At the time, I said I would put it to my daughter. Her answer you now know. I believe that closes the matter.” He was angry himself now. In his opinion, the general was behaving like a cad. Any gentleman worthy of the title would have mastered his disappointment and gone on his way without a further word.
Heyward stood, red-faced and glaring, for a long moment, then spun on his heel and marched out. The front door slammed in his wake, making the house shake.
“Good riddance,” William muttered, wondering what Marianne would say if she’d witnessed that display. Abigail was well out of it.