The doors were flung open as the carriage drew to a halt, and his aunt and uncle stepped out to greet them. They were standing stiffly and dressed more formally than usual. Uncle Antoine was wearing a black frock coat with tan trousers and waistcoat and a stickpin in his black tie. Much the same thing that he was wearing himself, Lucien thought, with a self-conscious glance down. And Tante Marie was wearing a silk dress in a bright magenta, nothing like her usual subdued appearance, with a lacy cap on her gray hair.
His cousins were nowhere in sight.
Once they were all out of the carriage and approaching each other, he realized that he was not the only one who was on edge. Everyone seemed to be not so much worried as wary. Lucien performed the introductions—“Baron de Marbot and his wife…the Marquess of Penworth and his wife…my fiancée, Lady Emily Tremaine”—and everyone made the appropriate responses, bows and curtsies. Everyone was very polite. Excruciatingly polite.
As the women were led to their rooms by Tante Marie, Lucien and Emily exchanged glances of, of what? Worry? Uncertainty? Despair? Some mixture of all these emotions? He did not know anymore. Then she ducked her head docilely and hurried up the stairs. Docile? What was wrong with her? He watched her disappear into the corridor at the top of the stairs, and when he turned around, his uncle and Lord Penworth had disappeared as well.
Muttering assorted imprecations, he pulled off his coat, tossing it on a chair in the hall, and strode out the door, loosening his cravat as he went. Maybe a long walk would calm him down.
What the others were feeling, he did not know. How they would deal with each other was out of his hands. What he himself was feeling was frustration at the uncertainty, at the endless waiting.
He wanted Emily. He wanted her in every way—in his arms, in his bed, walking beside him. He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to talk with her. But all the time, she was kept just out of his reach, surrounded by other people. Even if all went well, there was still a week to wait before there would be a wedding.
He was going to run mad.
*
By the time he returned, there had been an invasion. The world was overrun by strangers and the noise was enough to drown a man. Young girls were shrieking, young men were shouting, and everyone was laughing. Pandemonium.
After a moment—and a few deep breaths—he realized that not all of these vociferous creatures were strangers. Half of them were his cousins, a few years older and proportionally louder than he had last seen them.
The others? Ah, from the way they were dancing around Emily, they must be her brothers and sisters. He narrowed his eyes. Yes, there was a resemblance among them all. Off to the side, Tante Marie and Lady Penworth were standing arm in arm, smiling at the melee. One couple stood beside them, a man whose stiffness reminded him of David and a lovely blonde woman who was animated enough for both of them.
Lady Penworth saw Lucien and beckoned him over to introduce him to her son Phillip, Lord Rycote, and his wife, Lissandra. She then returned to her conversation with Tante Marie. They seemed to be sharing tales of the trials and tribulations of motherhood. This was not a conversation for him.
Turning away from them, he found himself face to face with Rycote, who was regarding Lucien with some distrust. For his part, Lucien thought that Rycote looked far too pompous to be Emily’s brother. Also, he disliked the fact that Rycote was several inches taller than he.
“This is all a bit hasty, isn’t it?” Rycote drawled.
Lucien stiffened. “I do not find it so.”
Lady Rycote sighed and batted her husband on the arm with her fan. “Do not be an old man, Pip,” she said in delightful Italian accent. “It took me only a few days to know we would be married, even if you did not realize it so quickly.”
Pip? This pompous fellow is called Pip? Lucien grinned at them, but said nothing. There was no need. He could see Rycote’s stiffness melting away in the warmth of his wife’s smile.
“I suppose I should welcome you to the family.” Rycote stuck out a hand. “Or warn you about it. It’s chaos out there.”
Lucien took the hand and they shook with equal firmness. “A stranger would find it difficult to tell your family from mine, when it comes to chaos.” There was no need to mention his father’s family.
“This is the easy part,” said Rycote darkly. “Doncaster and my sister Elinor are still in Avignon, examining the fellow his sister Julia married.”
“David Oliphant? A truly good man, most honorable. And my friend.”
“That won’t stop Elinor. She and Doncaster are very protective of his sisters.”
“As a man should be.”
Rycote grinned then. “Just a warning. They’ll be arriving tomorrow, and then Elinor will start on you.”
He was not truly worried about that, but even if he had been, the worry evaporated when Emily appeared at his side. She took his arm, and all was well.
*
Two days later, a cricket game was in progress. It was France versus England. The English visitors had attempted to explain the game, but the French hosts had had waved away the need for any but the most basic description of the game. To be precise, Lucien’s cousin Henri had done the waving. An athletic but swaggering young man of about twenty, Henri assumed that he could play—and win—any game. Lucien himself was not so certain.
Henri was also highly amused to discover that the English allowed the girls to play.
“They’d have our heads on a platter if we tried to stop them,” muttered Rycote.
With a laugh, Henri agreed that his sisters should play as well, but he stationed them well away from the pitch to field. “If they must play, at least they can do no harm there.”
Emily seemed to be about to speak, but her older sister, the one married to Doncaster—Elinor, that was her name—shook her head and stepped up to bat.
“I will throw you a gentle one, yes?”
Elinor smiled. Lucien shook his head. If Henri hoped to survive to old age, he would learn to be very careful around smiles like that.
Henri ran up and tossed the ball, just as Rycote had demonstrated. His form was excellent.
Elinor stepped forward and hit the ball in a screaming drive that just missed taking off Henri’s head and eventually disappeared among the trees at the edge of the field.
Two of Henri’s sisters were hugging each other and squealing with delight. Henri was staring at Elinor in disbelief. Elinor’s smile had turned decidedly smug.
“Only four runs,” called her husband. “It bounced before it went out.”
She shrugged nonchalantly and lifted the bat to await the next pitch.
Henri narrowed his eyes and nodded. The game began its descent into chaos and laughter. The French girls began trying to prove they were as good as the boys, and the English girls were more interested in helping them do so than in winning. Emily turned out to be a most unusual bowler. She could get the male batters out with no difficulty, but the women, especially the youngest ones, scored run after run.
Lucien could feel the joy bubble up in him. It was all so idyllic.
What would his life have been like, he wondered, if he had grown up here, with his mother’s ebullient family, instead of in the gloom of La Boulaye?
He had not even met the Marbot family until after he walked out, leaving his grandfather and his grandfather’s plans behind him. He had come here angry and uncertain, knowing nothing of this half of his family except that his grandfather despised them, and being half-afraid that they would despise him in turn.
Instead, they had welcomed him, and spoken endlessly of his mother and her joyous, loving nature. How had she been able to bear it, going from this life of laughter to the cold pride that shadowed everything in his grandfather’s chateau?
Was it the sunshine that made the difference? He considered that. No. Emily’s family were all as full of joy as his cousins, and England was hardly known for its warmth and sun. It was not the place. It
was the people. It was his grandfather who had drained the joy from La Boulaye. He could not allow that to happen to Emily. They would stay well away from the comte.
But this, they could have this, could they not? They could make a home where children laughed and played, unafraid, unintimidated. Emily would know how to do this. She had grown up in a family where happiness was permitted, where laughter was not frowned upon.
As they all walked back to the house after the game had ended, with a score as chaotic and uncertain as the play had been, Lucien managed to draw Emily off the path and into the trees. A moment later she had her arms around his neck and was kissing him enthusiastically. Naturally, as a gentleman, he had to respond in kind.
When they eventually stopped to breathe, only slightly more disheveled than they had been from the cricket match, Lucien rested against a tree and Emily rested against him. He breathed in the scent of her, slightly sweaty, still sweet.
“This is what I want,” he said.
“Me?”
He huffed a laugh into her hair. “Always you. But I meant a home like this, where people laugh.”
She tilted her head back to look up at him. Her smile showed him that she understood precisely what he meant. “Of course. And our children will run and shout and drive you mad with the noise they make. We will be happy.” She gave him her promise with that smile.
She was his happiness. She was what he had been seeking all this time.
Thirty
Shortly after breakfast, three wagons arrived from the station in Avignon. Each carried four large boxes and at least a dozen smaller ones. Madame de Marbot took one look at the labels on the boxes, smiled, and told her husband to take the gentlemen out shooting or riding or something. Anything that would keep them occupied and out of the way for the day.
Lady Penworth heaved a sigh of relief as the servants carried everything upstairs. “I did not think Mr. Worth would fail us, but one never knows.”
Worth? The magical name captured the attention of all the women from the oldest to the youngest. It sent the men scurrying from the room to obey Madame’s orders.
“Since Mr. Worth had your measurements from our visit at the start of our trip, I sent a telegram asking him to make a wedding dress for you,” Lady Penworth told her daughter as she led her into the dressing room. “And I ordered a few other gowns as well, all to be sent here. And, of course, the little things you would need for your trousseau—undergarments, shoes, hats.” She waved a hand at the tidal wave of tissue paper, silk, lace, feathers, and flowers that was spilling out of the boxes in a floral-scented torrent as eager hands uncovered the treasures.
Emily stared at it all, feeling overwhelmed. Panicked. She was going to drown in silk. It was enough to make her wish she were back on that dreadful raft on the Tigris. At least when she had been trying to steer it, she had felt some control over her life. Now, it was her own family that was sweeping her along, just as Lucien’s family was sweeping him along. Always keeping him out of reach. And now she was expected to go into spasms of delight over clothes?
“Emily.” Lady Penworth took her daughter’s chin and turned her to face her. “I know you do not share Elinor’s fascination with fashion, or even mine and Julia’s. However, you are about to marry the grandson of a French nobleman. You will have to face not only his family but also his peers, those in Burgundy and those in Paris, and you will have to face the French court, which is, thanks to Empress Eugénie, exceedingly fashionable. You will have only one chance to make a first impression, and it must be a good one.”
Emily opened her mouth to speak, but her mother ignored her and continued. “How good an impression you make will also affect the way Lucien is treated, so resign yourself to it. For the next few months, you will be an elegant and fashionable lady. Eugénie also patronizes Mr. Worth, so when you are invited to visit the court, she will recognize and approve your choices.”
Emily wanted to either run away or dig in her heels. Instead, she was being dragged along by her mother. “What makes you think we will ever go to court? Lucien has not said anything about wanting to do that.”
Lady Penworth looked at her daughter with a mixture of pity and exasperation. “Child, I repeat. You are marrying a member of the French nobility. In addition, you are the daughter of an important English peer. Of course the emperor will invite you to court. He would be delighted to win the support of the heir of the Comte de la Boulaye, especially since he cannot hope for the support of the grandfather. I am sure that your father and M. de Marbot have been giving Lucien advice on how to avoid committing himself without giving offense.”
“But…” This was not what Emily wanted her life to be like, and she was quite sure it was not what Lucien wanted either.
Her mother smiled sympathetically. “Don’t look so appalled. In all probability, it will only have to be done once. All you will need to do is admire the empress. That is not difficult—she is quite charming and attractive—but it is important. She craves admiration. As for the emperor, try to keep away from him if you do not have Lucien by your side. Louis-Napoléon fancies himself a ladies’ man and can be rather a nuisance.”
“The prospect is not at all attractive.” Emily pressed her lips together to keep from saying precisely how unattractive she found it.
Her mother ignored her. “After that, you can go to Varennes and never worry about the court again, if that is what you wish. But that first visit must be made, and these garments”—she waved her hand at the rainbow of silks and satins, muslins and velvets—“are your armaments.”
A bit of ribbed red silk caught Emily’s eye, and she reached over to pull it out for a better look. It was a Zouave jacket, trimmed with black embroidery, and was paired with a red dress of heavy silk, trimmed with the same embroidery. It was really quite, well, quite dashing. She couldn’t restrain a smile. Much more dashing than her clothes usually were.
Her sister Elinor lifted out a white tulle ball gown, trimmed with blue flounces, with a long duchesse sash. “You will look absolutely beautiful in this,” she said with a delighted gasp.
“Tomorrow, for the ball, you must wear it,” said Mme. de Marbot, clasping her hands in pleasure.
Emily looked at it dubiously. It was lovely, but looked so innocent. Not at all dashing, like the red silk dress.
“The red dress is for after you are married,” said Lady Penworth dryly. “The white tulle before.”
After I am married. She looked down at the red silk and loosened the fingers holding it so that she wouldn’t crush it. Oh yes. The white dress for the old Emily, the red dress for the new.
*
The day of the wedding dawned bright and clear. Emily could not help feeling pleased, considering it an auspicious omen, even though every day for the past two months had dawned bright and clear. But one never knew.
As usual, she awakened before her sister and crept as silently as she could over to the window to watch the sunrise. Susan, her younger sister, was sharing the room with her now that the Marbot estate had been inundated with guests—de Marbot relatives of all ages. It was ludicrous, really, that Lucien could have said that he had no family. He just hadn’t met them all, or perhaps even known about them.
She pushed the casement open, allowing the sweet-spicy scent of wisteria to flood into the room. Clusters of the pale purple blossoms dangled above her head. It must be a truly ancient vine to have spread over the entire wall of this wing of the house. Reaching over to the side, she pulled off one of the foot-long panicles and turned to look at the sleeper.
Her whole family had come for her wedding. Even the Doncaster family that Elinor had married into, such as it was. She had not realized how much it would matter to her to have them all here as she set off on the next stage of her life. Would she ever be able to tell them all how much she loved them? How important to her they were and always would be?
She carried the wisteria over to tickle Susan on the cheek. Her sister wrinkled her nose and
batted her hand at the annoyance for a good minute before finally opening her eyes and sputtering a few words.
“You aren’t supposed to know words like that,” said Emily. “Now wake up thoroughly, slugabed. It’s my wedding day, and I can’t enjoy it properly if I have to tiptoe around to avoid waking you up.”
Susan’s scowl eased into a smile. “I love you too.”
From then on, the day passed in a blur for Emily. She discovered that she could not actually swallow any of the breakfast that was brought to her room, though she did manage a few sips of coffee—milky French café au lait, not the inky Turkish brew. After that, she was taken in hand by her mother and Elinor.
It began with the new undergarments that had arrived with the gowns from Mr. Worth—a chemise and drawers in linen so fine it felt like silk and trimmed with lace so beautiful it seemed almost criminal to cover it up. Even the corset was pretty, embroidered with small pink roses. She sat down at the dressing table while Mme. de Marbot’s maid went to work on her hair. It seemed to take hours while braids and ringlets were arranged in a concoction that was topped with a wreath of orange blossoms and the antique lace veil that Elinor had worn at her own wedding.
“So that you will be as happy in your marriage as I am in mine,” said Elinor softly.
The sisters looked at each other tremulously.
“No tears,” commanded Lady Penworth. “Not yet.” She brought out the gown Mr. Worth had created.
Not even Emily could look at it without a sigh of pleasure. Of cream-colored satin, the bodice was trimmed with a deep fall of lace that continued around to form the sleeves. An overskirt edged with more lace was pulled back by a pair of satin bows and four more bows formed a line down the front of the skirt.
It was a beautiful dress, but when she looked at herself in the long cheval mirror, she seemed to be looking from a long distance off. It was as if the girl in the mirror were someone she had known a long time ago. Someone she remembered but no longer knew well. She had become someone else over the past months, and she was only masquerading as this sheltered innocent in the cream satin gown.
Lady Emily's Exotic Journey Page 26