by Anne Greene
“And Mums, you look splendid. That lavender silk is absolutely perfect.”
Above her mother’s low-cut bodice, a heavy diamond necklace twinkled against her ivory skin. Diamonds sparkled in her ears and in her shimmering blonde hair that barely showed strands of gray.
“Thank you, dearest.” Mums’s soft, gloved hand felt warm under Cailin’s chin. “You positively glow. His Grace cannot help but be pleased.”
Warmth banished some of the butterflies flitting inside her stomach. “Oh, Mums!” She slid her arm around mother’s narrow waist. “Thank you.”
The clatter of feet on the polished parquet floor shifted her attention to the athletic, debonair man approaching like a royal ship with all flags flying.
Insignificant, less colorful vessels followed the duke’s wake.
Was His Grace always surrounded by so many attendants?
A splash of contentment washed over her. How lovely to be an important part of her new husband’s dazzling entourage.
“Your Grace.” A shy flutter ran through her heart. She dropped a curtsy to the duke.
Beside her Lady MacMurry dipped even lower.
“Oh, the both of you, do address me as Avondale.” Her new husband awarded her a stiff smile. “After all, we no longer need stand on formality.”
Perhaps he was nervous.
“Thank you, Avondale.” She leaned closer to the elegant duke and gazed into his eyes, but found his attention focused on the stringed quartet. Moths swooped into her stomach.
Was the flesh and blood man she had pledged herself to somewhere inside this handsome façade? Or was this stranger playing the role of the real man? Who was this person to whom she was bound for life?
“I say, Cailin. These Scottish tunes please me not. Don’t your musicians know any good English melodies?”
“Why, yes…Avondale. Mums, would you see to it?”
Of course, her groom must think of his English guests before he could concentrate on his bride. The thought returned the smile to her heart, but didn’t banish all the alarm peeking around the edges.
With the Highlanders defeated just two days past at Culloden, even Lowland Scottish tunes seemed no longer in vogue, though their Lowlanders, unlike the Highlanders, remained ever faithful to England and King George. Thank God, they’d taken no part in The Rising.
Mums nodded. “Certainly, dear. I’ll make my way over to the musicians presently.” She strolled off in a swirl of lavender silk, leaving her flowery scent behind.
Cailin slipped her arm through her husband’s and couldn’t keep her gaze off the muscular sword-wielder wrist that emerged from the lace edging his jacket sleeve.
Today she would not let thoughts of wounded and dead Highlanders intrude on her happiness. She would celebrate her Wedding Week in the best English tradition. With God’s help, she would see this arranged marriage overturn the norm. No matter what she had to do, she would make Avondale happy and pray God he would return the blessing.
As they continued their circuit of the room, her new husband pulled away. So she stepped closer and rested her hand lightly on Avondale’s arm. He bowed and spoke pleasant words to each person he encountered.
Apprehension curled like wisps of fog through her heart. Avondale’s manner towards her seemed so very…remote. As if she were only another member of the fawning company surrounding him. Barely noticing her, he seemed intent on making each person he met adore him. Where had the affirmation gone that she’d seen in his eyes as they pledged themselves to each other?
To gain his attention, she squeezed his satin-encased arm. A trill rippled up her spine. Avondale’s bicep felt tight with muscle. What other surprises had he in store for her?
Rather than turning his attention to her, he sniffed with apparent dissatisfaction the new smoke, called a cigar, which he’d plucked from his gold satin vest and rolled beneath his patrician nose. He slid the offending brown oblong into the breast pocket of the portly groomsman who hovered over him. “Get rid of this.”
“Avondale,” a high-pitched voice called from the entry.
Her husband instantly pivoted to face the front-hall, bronze eyes twinkling above a wide smile. “Ah, finally appears my royal mother.” He raised his cultured voice. “Over here.”
A hush settled over the room, leaving the music sounding loud.
Tightness gripped her throat, but she would not pant for breath.
Last evening when the duchess arrived, Cailin had a momentary meeting with the intimidating woman. The encounter had not gone well. The woman had barely acknowledged her.
Cailin blinked rapidly and raised her chin. With time, she would surely grow to love Avondale’s mother. How could she not when the lady looked a petite, though much older image of her aristocratic son?
“My mother’s pleasure is of utmost importance.” Avondale’s gaze was flinty and compelling. “You must make her happiness a priority.”
Her heart twisted. “Yes, of course,” she murmured.
But not because the duchess’s good graces had been ordered, but because her own duty as a wife included bringing harmony to the House of Avondale. She gave the approaching duchess her most heart-felt smile.
The dowager stopped a few feet away and gazed at her with lifted brows and narrowed eyes. The tiny woman’s cool expression made Cailin feel as if she was interviewing for a position as lady-in-waiting rather than being welcomed as a daughter-in-law.
Unable to keep her smile from wavering, she bit her lip. Would the dowager accept her love? She tightened her hand around Avondale’s bicep. Regardless, she would strive to be an obedient, dutiful daughter-in-law.
The duchess thumped a ribbon-decorated rosewood cane on the floor. The hard tap of her folded fan stung Cailin’s arm. “I’m sure you’ll be a great asset to my son.” The plump, long-widowed dowager’s low-cut gown of black silk with silver stripes accented her fair skin and elaborately coiffed white hair. She held herself stiffly straight and made flabby arms and a ponderous bosom appear high-fashion.
Duchess Avondale’s retinue of dandified aides and sparkling ladies crowded around the short woman like soldiers around their commander. All eyes dissected Cailin.
Her cheeks grew hot. Heat spread from her face through her body. Perspiration made her bouquet almost slip from her hand. She dropped her gaze from the aloof hazel eyes to the woman’s neck, and then clamped her lips to keep her mouth from falling open.
A necklace of large matched pearls hung around the wrinkled neck. The perfectly round, luminous pearls were so exquisite they had to be the famed Heritage Jewels given to the First Duchess of Avondale by Queen Mary in 1699.
Shaking off her awe, Cailin stepped forward and embraced Her Grace, the Dowager Fourth Duchess of Avondale. “I’m so pleased to become your daughter.”
The woman smiled distantly, her expression cool as the snow atop Ben Nevis, and backed from Cailin’s embrace without returning the hug. She slipped her hand through Avondale’s offered arm.
Cailin pressed her hand over the smarting ache in her chest.
“That Scottish music is quite too awful.” Duchess Avondale’s shrill voice echoed through the crowded room. She thrust her gold filigreed fan over her jeweled ear as if the Lowland Scottish air, causing many a foot to tap, gave her an earache.
Every nearby Lowland face registered consternation. Behind their pearl-handled fans, the Scottish women whispered. Fashionably dressed men shifted their feet and ducked their heads.
But the English, dotted among the crowd, nodded, and their condescending expressions echoed the dowager duchess’s sentiments.
Cailin glanced across the room and caught Mums finally speaking to the musicians. The music squeaked to a halt.
“Oh dear, the duchess doesn’t know the difference between Lowland and Highland tunes.” The sudden silence caught the sotto-voiced whisper.
From long experience, Cailin knew that in seconds each Lowland Scot would cover his discomfort with whatever tact
ic he normally used to cope with English arrogance.
As the notes of an English minuet tinkled to a weak start, each returned to the festivities, pretending the English duchess had not insulted their music.
She peeked at Avondale, expecting him to explain the dowager’s rude snobbishness.
Instead, his breath warm against her cheek, he murmured in her ear, “I say, where does your father hide his good cigars?”
Concealing her hurt at his callousness behind her fan, she smiled. “Why, in his study.”
He raised a dark brow, but tucked her hand inside his unoccupied arm. “I see.”
With the dowager clinging like a rudder to Avondale’s right arm, she lightly held his left, smiled, made small talk, and accepted toasts and applause. Soon her good sense overcame her hurt.
The duchess had probably not heard her speak of her happiness in joining the family. Surely, her new mother-in-law had not meant to snub. And, of course, Avondale would not scold his mother. A man must honor his parent.
Despite the dowager’s haughty attitude, every invited guest pressed forward, seeming eager to meet a bona fide duke and duchess and say something witty so the two would remember them.
Other than Avondale’s unexpectedly distant behavior, Cailin discovered her first taste of being titular-almost-royalty exhilarating. After all, she was Avondale’s wife, and, as such, she would be the person closest to him in all the world. His mother and aides would soon return to court, and she would have her husband to herself.
She smiled brilliantly, but her wedding bouquet trembled in her cold hand. Unaccustomed to English court life, the crowd’s adulation began to unnerve her. The three of them plowing through the massed guests grew unwieldy.
Somehow, as Avondale, his royal mother, and she circulated through the ballroom, the swirl of people bestowing good wishes separated her from the charismatic man she’d married. She found herself deserted, a small island in the sea of celebrating people.
Standing on tiptoes and gazing over the heads of her guests, she watched Avondale, with the dowager duchess clinging to his arm, stalk to the center of the ballroom.
Obsequious English earls and marquises, followed by Lowland Scottish lords, trailed her husband and mother-in-law as if tied to the polished couple by invisible strings.
A sick feeling invaded her stomach, and she silently chided herself for not staying with Avondale.
Then Papa slogged through the crowd to her side. “Congratulations, my dear.” He gathered her into a dress-wrinkling hug.
She buried her face into his chunky neck. Smelling his tweedy everything-is-all-right-in-my-world scent soothed her stomach.
Though he dropped his arms, she clung to Papa’s hug. Somehow, at all costs, she would do her duty to the daunting, aloof dowager. With God’s help, she’d close the distance between the English duchess and herself.
Hiding the sick feeling churning her stomach, she tugged Papa along as she embraced friends, kissed babies, laughed at precocious children, sampled goodies offered by loving hands, and performed all of the niceties expected of her. After all, she was the obedient daughter, so God would surely bless this marriage. He rewarded those who obeyed Him.
Occasionally she glimpsed Avondale inside his circle, his mother still clamped to his arm. A dagger of discontent snagged the common sense she worked so hard to hang onto. Her smile slipped.
Avondale really might pay a bit more attention to her. She fisted her hands. Should she make a scene and insist? No, she must trust God that her husband’s negligence would change. Given time, she would love him into change.
When her husband arrived in their chamber to claim her, even her new mother-in-law could not invade her bridal bed. And she would be alone with her husband. Like a kitten snuggling into a cozy chair, happiness slowly settled into her heart.
But Megan’s last words as she leaned out the carriage window to wave good-bye nagged her thoughts. Cailin, you are too trusting. Where there are rumors, there must be a basis. I’m not sure Papa has your best interests in mind wedding you to the duke, but he certainly has his own.
Cailin rubbed gentle circles on her throbbing temples. If only Megan had said nothing.
Feet, aching inside her satin slippers, and candles, three-quarters burnt in the hanging candelabra, proclaimed the evening celebration would soon end.
Presently she’d have Avondale to herself. Beneath the expensive handmade lace, her neck and chest heated, yet her hands remained icy.
No matter how diligently she tried to cheer herself, she’d never felt so alone.
2
A trumpet signaled.
Cailin glided to the center of the rose-scented ballroom. Her seven bridesmaids fluttered from various parts of the crowd to surround her. The beauty of their pastel gowns in the different hues of the rainbow, reflected in the full-length mirrors that paneled all sides of the ballroom.
She glimpsed herself as the white-satin center of the pastel maypole of laughing ladies. Each carried red, yellow and pink English roses. Her group of bridesmaids presented an enchanting picture.
She smiled. Of course her loving God would not allow her to wed an unworthy man. How could she have thought differently?
She shook her head. Her fears were just that. Unfounded misgivings based upon rumors. How could this wedding not be happily-ever-after? She pulled in a deep, calming breath.
“Your Papa’s given you the biggest prize of all.” Lady Lorna Stewart’s voice held more than a trace of envy. “Your groom is the best match any titled lady could make. You are so fortunate, Cailin. How did your Papa pull it off?”
“Yes, Avondale’s unbelievable isn’t he?” Cailin tucked an errant golden curl behind her veil. “Papa’s always been an astute businessman.”
“He’s outdone himself this time.”
“And yet, do you not think Avondale seems a bit distant?”
“Heavens no! Everyone loves him.” Lorna winked.
Cailin smiled. “I think he seems a bit stiff. He no doubt has wedding nerves.” She squeezed Lorna’s hand. “I know I do.” She glanced over her attendants’ heads at Mums, who nodded. “Now it’s time for my final wedding ritual.”
“Good.” Lorna’s almond eyes lit her elfish face, and her lavender gown flounced as she did a pirouette and turned her face to the double doors. “This is the part I’ve been waiting for.”
Gently shoved by her chattering bridesmaids, Cailin wended her way to the doors and the stairway beyond. Most guests paused from their festivities and turned to watch. She strolled through the open hand-carved mahogany double doors and glanced over her lace-covered shoulder at the smiling faces of friends and relatives and the more austere faces of the English gentry.
As the music from the ballroom died, her bridesmaids clapped gloved hands, creating a muffled crescendo and raising the scent of lavender and rose water. The flowers wreathing their long curls trembled, raising another flowery scent.
Every sense heightened, she climbed to the landing at the curve of the staircase and rested her hand on the smooth satin entwined around the banister. Drawing in a deep breath, she prayed in her heart as she spoke. “It’s been an almost perfect day. I’ve had a perfect wedding. And I’m wife to an ideal man.” She suppressed a sigh. If only her words could vanquish her contrary ups and downs of happiness and anxiety. She was too level-headed to believe that wishing Avondale to be a good husband would make him so. A favorite verse slipped into her mind.
And the LORD, He doth go before thee; He will be with thee, He will not fail thee, neither forsake thee: fear not, neither be dismayed.
She gripped the banister. She would believe this verse.
Aunty Moira, her navy satin contrasting with the gay colors of the other guests, pressed through the chattering crowd of ladies and joined the younger single lasses gathered at the bottom of the stairs.
Cailin motioned to her favorite aunty and her best friend, Lorna, to join her on the second landing, and then whis
pered, “What do you think of Avondale?”
A frown skimmed across Aunty Moira’s face. “He’s a tall, handsome, personable man.” She shook her head so her abundant chestnut curls danced. “We’ll trust in God, that he’s a good one.” She tugged Cailin’s slightly tangled train, and the brilliant satin fell gracefully into place so that it eddied to the bottom of the wide marble steps. “You knew that once your papa made up his mind, there was no changing him.” Aunty Moira’s feather-soft kiss tickled Cailin’s cheek. “God will honor your decision to obey your parents.”
Cailin bit her lip. Even Aunty Moira’s words didn’t keep her from walking a scary, though exciting path.
Lorna grabbed her hand. “I just now heard a story of Avondale’s strange—”
“Shush!” Aunty Moira pressed a finger against Lorna’s lips. “Never mind that prattle. God’s in control, Cailin.” Her favorite Aunty turned and scampered down the stairs like a lass.
The love Aunty left behind slipped genuine cheer into Cailin’s tight chest. She smiled at the sparkling crowd of ladies massed below her, each face gazing up with expectant eyes and laughing lips. Her friends. How dear they all were.
But where was Avondale? Surely he wouldn’t miss this final ritual.
She leaned over the banister, searched the crowded entry hall, and glimpsed her new husband’s mahogany hair, his blue satin jacket clinging to his muscular back as he retreated into the study with Papa and a few other men.
A sliver pierced her heart. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Avondale didn’t stay to watch.” She fought an elusive sense of things between Avondale and herself not being…quite right.
“Nobody’s perfect.” Lorna fluttered her lashes. “But believe me, he’s still the grand prize. I’ve never seen a groom look so royal. You’re so fortunate, Cailin. Count your blessings.”
Beneath her billowing lavender gown, Lorna tapped her foot creating an inviting sound. “I can’t wait to dance the night away.” She winked. “But tonight you’ll be spending the evening alone with Avondale.”
Cailin’s pulse fluttered faster than the allegro tempo of the music. She backed against the railing to steady her shaking knees. She and Avondale…alone for the first time. She hid her hot face inside her fragrant flowers.