by Sandra Heath
When the mist lifted, Bryony had gone up on to the deck to watch the beautiful tree-clad shore slip slowly by. She was watching for the estuary of the Helford River, knowing that Polwithiel Abbey overlooked this magnificent stretch of water where the trees swept right down to the water’s edge.
As the schooner crossed the wide mouth of the river, however, she saw nothing of the great Gothic house which was to be her home for the coming weeks. She felt apprehensive as she gazed at the Cornish shore, for although she had received letters from Sebastian and although she had looked again and again at his portrait, she still did not know anything about him.
His letters gave nothing away—they were polite and formal, just as were her letters to him. But she had agreed to the match and as the schooner at last neared the busy port of Falmouth, she was determined to make the very best she could of her marriage. She would not allow it to be merely a marriage of convenience; she would try to make it into something more. She had always promised herself that she would marry only for love, but now that was not to be; maybe she would not be in love with Sebastian Sheringham when she married him, but she would try to love him afterward.
It was a beautiful summer evening when the schooner at last passed between the guardian castles of Pendennis and St. Mawes and entered the wide natural harbor known as Carrick Roads. In reality the estuary of the River Fal, the Roads offered one of the finest anchorages in the world, and Falmouth had prospered on account of it.
The port was one of the most important in England, for it was from here that the packets sailed for America and the Indies, and as the Molly K dropped anchor she joined a company of at least twenty other ships. Standing on the deck, Bryony saw flags from America, the Netherlands, Norway, and Portugal, and she heard Russian voices from a nearby sloop.
The tide was high and a light breeze rippled the surface of the water. Seagulls wheeled in the clear sky above, their cries echoing over the wooded shores. The Fal estuary stretched inland, branching into narrow, deep, tree-lined creeks which carried the sea right into the heart of Cornwall.
Falmouth, nestling in the lee of Pendennis Castle, seemed to grow right out of the water, the foundations of some of the buildings being washed by the high tide. Gazing through the forest of masts and rigging between the Molly K and the shore, Bryony saw the land beyond the town rise toward furze-clad moors. The bright golden shrubs looked vivid against the rich tones of the evening sky, while on the lower slopes closer to the town there were the mauve and pink of wild rhododendrons and the alien foliage of plants and trees usually found in much warmer climes, but flourishing here in this mild southern corner of England.
A boat was made ready to carry the passengers ashore, and within minutes Bryony and Kathleen were being helped down into the rocking craft. The air was cool now and the breeze toyed with the hem of Bryony’s honey-colored linen cloak, lifting it now and then to reveal the sky blue of the muslin dress beneath. The ribbons of her gypsy hat fluttered as the boat slid from the shelter of the schooner, the sailors rowing strongly toward the nearest quay, where the cobbles were littered with nets, upturned boats, oars, crab pots, and baskets.
Kathleen sat gingerly beside her mistress, her hazel eyes wide in her freckled face and her tangled brown hair ruffled by the breeze as she gazed all around. The excitement of being so far away from Liskillen for the first time in her twenty-two years did not, however, prevent her from comparing Cornwall unfavorably with County Down. It was a pretty enough place, she supposed, but it did not hold a candle to any part of Ireland.
As the boat nudged the damp steps, they were helped up to the top of the quay. The air was noisy with the rattle of carts and the ring of heavy sea boots upon the cobbles. There was a great deal of activity close to the busy customhouse, and a little farther on, by the gangplank of an ancient ketch, a very noisy argument was in progress, the participants shouting in various different languages and attracting a large crowd of interested onlookers.
The steward from Polwithiel Abbey was to have reserved rooms for them at the Black Boar, a low, rambling inn which was built directly on the water’s edge and which was approached along one of the many very narrow alleys which seemed to abound in Falmouth. It was a busy coaching establishment and did not look very appealing from the outside, but inside it was neat and clean. The huge landlord sported the largest whiskers Bryony had ever seen, and his starched apron crackled like paper. He informed them that their rooms had been made ready and a carriage would call for them from Polwithiel the following morning.
Eager to please guests with such important connections, he conducted them in person to the little suite which had been reserved for them. It consisted of a drawing room and two bedrooms. The drawing room sported a very fine Tudor fireplace and dark wooden paneling. Its chairs were old and heavy, but were well upholstered, and its table was so enormous that Bryony marveled it could ever have been brought through the door. The mullioned window gave onto the narrow alley along which they had walked, and they swiftly realized how busy a coaching inn it was, for there seemed to be a constant to-ing and fro-ing of carriages, each one passing very slowly and carefully because of the confined space.
The smaller of the two bedrooms looked out over the harbor, while the larger, which Bryony was to occupy, overlooked the noisy courtyard, although thankfully not the galleried part, so she would be spared the prospect of people walking by throughout the night.
Bryony dined alone in the crowded dining room, while Kathleen ate a solitary supper in their rooms. As Bryony sat among all those strangers, however, she wished that she was with the maid, for she felt very lonely listening to all the conversation going on around her. Talk turned mostly upon the amazing feats of Bonaparte’s French armies, which had crossed the Alps in an astonishingly short time and then won a famous victory over the Austrians at a place called Marengo in northern Italy. The brilliance of the Corsican was disturbing to some, exciting to others, and there were several heated discussions as to the effect he would eventually have upon Britain.
At last it was time to retire, and Bryony sat at her dressing table as Kathleen carefully brushed her light brown hair one hundred times and then tied on her lace-trimmed night bonnet. It was good to climb into the cool, lavender-scented bed with its faded blue hangings. Outside it was quite dark now, but the noise from the courtyard was as brisk as ever as another stagecoach made its cautious way out into the alley. Ostlers hurried to and fro and coachmen shouted, and all the time someone was playing the same repetitive tune on an old fiddle.
She was tired, but she was not relaxed enough to go to sleep, especially with all the noise. Her reticule lay with her book upon the table by the bed, and she opened it to take out the miniature of Sebastian. She gazed thoughtfully at the painted face. If the artist had truly captured his subject, then the man she was to marry was very handsome and dashing. He was evidently a man of great style, both in appearance and, she suspected, in manner, and there was something about his blue eyes which told of a lively sense of humor and an agile mind.
At least, that was how he appeared to her in the portrait, and she hoped the appraisal was accurate, for if it was, then she knew that she could like him, and that would be something upon which to build. But if she was wrong ... She didn’t want to think about that possibility, and to take her mind off those dark thoughts, she picked up her book and began to read.
It was Mrs. Radcliffe’s Gothic story The Romance of the Forest, and absorbed her sufficiently to while away another hour. The courtyard was quieter now, the fiddler had thankfully gone away, and as she replaced the book upon the table and extinguished the candle, she knew that she would soon be asleep. Her eyes closed almost immediately as she curled up in the darkness.
She had been asleep for some time, but then something awoke her with a start. The room was still completely dark, with only a thin line of pale moonlight finding its way between the curtains. Why had she awoken? She lay there for a moment, the vestiges of deep sleep st
ill clinging to her, drawing her back toward oblivion, but then she heard a soft, stealthy sound coming from the drawing room. Her heart began to beat more swiftly. Someone was out there. Could it be Kathleen? No, it couldn’t be, for the maid would use a candle and there was no light shining beneath the door.
A cold fear began to settle over Bryony as she slowly sat up, turning the bedclothes back and slipping her bare feet out onto the cold floor. Her pulse was racing as she crept to the door, pressing her ear against it and listening again. She heard another small sound, as if someone had touched the window catch. Screwing up her courage and taking a sudden deep breath, she flung the door open.
A figure in a hooded cloak was poised halfway over the windowsill above the alley. For a frozen second it remained shocked and motionless, its face in shadow, but then it had gone, dropping lightly down to the narrow way below. With a cry of alarm Bryony ran to the window, where a ladder had been propped against the wall of the inn to allow the intruder to enter. She saw the cloaked figure running away up the alley toward the quays, and then it had gone from sight, vanishing into the maze of little lanes she had noticed the evening before.
Behind her, Kathleen’s door opened and the maid looked anxiously out. Seeing Bryony by the window, she hurried across to her, her curling papers bobbing and her voluminous nightgown flapping around her ankles. Even as she asked what had happened, Bryony heard voices in the passage, for her cry had aroused some of the other guests.
There was a loud hammering at the door and then the landlord came to see what was going on. Kathleen hurried to admit him, and he entered cautiously, carrying a lighted candle in one large fist and brandishing a club in the other. He was relieved to find both women safe and well, but dismayed to learn that his inn had been broken into by a hooded thief. The other guests were alarmed at this information, and he hastened to soothe them, at the same time lighting as many candles as he could find, having long since learned that people’s unease could be swiftly reduced by making things as bright and comforting as possible.
He told Kathleen to see if anything had been stolen, and the maid hurried to obey. They all watched anxiously as she went methodically through everything and had to report that everything seemed to be there. The landlord was gratified to learn this, for at least his hostelry would not be spoken of as a place where guests’ valuables could go missing, and he promised Bryony that the correct authorities would be informed as quickly as possible.
He reassured her that all would be well for the rest of the night and that he would ensure no further intrusion by having a man put on guard in the alley. He was very mindful of her lofty connections at Polwithiel Abbey, and was very civil indeed, refraining from mentioning the fact that in order to be allowed entry the thief had been helped by a window being left off the latch.
When he had gone and the other guests had been persuaded to return to their rooms, Bryony and Kathleen prepared to go to bed again, although both were very disquieted. Not wanting to lie in the dark, they each took lighted candles and placed them beside their beds, but as Bryony lay back in the semidarkness, something was puzzling her. Nothing had been taken, and yet when she saw the hooded figure it had been on the point of leaving. Why leave empty-handed? The thought disturbed her and she sat up again, glancing around the candlelit room as if she would see something Kathleen had not noticed.
Her glance fell upon the reticule, lying where she had left it on the table. There was something different about it, although she could not have said what it was. She picked it up, opened it, and shook out the contents on the bed. Out fell Sebastian’s miniature, her mother-of-pearl box containing needle and thread, her silver scent bottle, her ivory comb, and her lace-edged handkerchief; and out fell something else, a letter which did not belong to her and which had no place in her bag. It lay there on the bed, the name and address quite plain to see. Sir Sebastian Sheringham, Berkeley Square, London.
She felt cold suddenly. So the intruder had not come to steal, but to leave something. Hesitantly she picked it up, swiftly realizing that it was a copy of a letter Sebastian had been sent; the paper was too smooth and new to have passed through the post office’s hands, and besides, no postage marks were in evidence. She opened it and read the address at the top. The Countess of Lowndes, Tremont Park, near Polwithiel, Cornwall. She began to read.
Chapter Four
My dearest Sebastian,
It seems from your letter that word of your impending betrothal has indeed leaked out quickly over Town, but then, it is hardly surprising when the bride is so unlikely a creature. I can well imagine that they are all wondering why you’ve chosen a nonentity from an Irish bog when you could have had a society wife with wealth, breeding, and beauty. I wondered the very same, if you remember, and I cried a great deal when you refused to tell me your true reason.
You had been so very reticent about so many things, your mood was withdrawn to say the least, and I began to fear that I was losing you. You could have spared me so much pain, my darling, if you had but told me that you were faced with the problem of having to hurriedly acquire a wife if you wished to meet the terms of your distant kinsman’s will. A fortune such as his cannot be lightly ignored, I understand that, and I also understand that although you do not wish to take a wife, you feel you must do so now.
I know that you love me, for we were meant for each other, and you have told me many times that as I cannot be your wife, you will remain unmarried. Circumstances change, and I accept that now you must marry. I also accept that a lady of rank would not serve your purpose, for you do not want a wife who will expect to share your life, you need someone dull and spiritless who will give you no trouble and who will not have the backbone to object when you shortly dispatch her to some outlying property to molder away and be conveniently forgotten.
For us nothing will be changed by your marriage. I will still be your mistress and I will still have your heart; I will continue to be your wife in everything but name.
You may rest assured that society will not learn the truth from me; as far as everyone else is concerned, you are marrying in order to honor your father’s pledge. But what a piquant situation it will be when you join me at Tremont and your horrid little intended is at Polwithiel. You will lie in my arms, and then ride over there to murmur the usual words to her!
I promise you, though, that my mirth will be at all times discreet, and when I call upon her I will be the epitome of neighborly warmth, kindness, and friendship; indeed the prospective Lady Sheringham will swiftly believe me to be a veritable angel! But I promise you this, my darling: if I think her to be too much beyond the pale, I will feel very much obliged to urge you against her, kinsman’s fortune or no kinsman’s fortune. It is one thing to cause a stir by doing something as outrageous as this; it is quite another to make oneself a laughingstock on account of it. I will never let you do that to yourself, my dearest, for I love you too much. So be warned, I will work tirelessly against the match if I think it necessary.
Do not delay in Town long, my darling, for I have been too long without you.
My love forever, Petra
Bryony felt suddenly cold. The letter slipped from her numb fingers and tears pricked her eyes. Oh, how wrong she had been about him, for the truth was evident in every unkind line of his mistress’s letter. He was damned by his precious Petra. It had not been humor she had seen shining in his portrait’s blue eyes, it had been arrogance, hard cynicism, and supreme selfishness. He was not the man of honor her father believed him to be, nor was he the sort of man she could even begin to like.
Her cheeks were wet, for in spite of this odious letter and the awfulness of the marriage she now knew lay ahead, she knew that she still placed Liskillen and her father above her own happiness. She wiped the tears away, trying to compose herself. Of what use were tears? She had to go on with this match; morally she had no choice. And maybe she was too quick to condemn Sebastian, for if his reasons were purely mercenary, then were not her own e
qually so? It was to save Liskillen that she was marrying him, not because she was abiding by the pledge.
Slowly she pushed the letter and her other things back into the reticule and placed it on the table. The letter had been a cruel shock, just as it was intended to be, but she was not fool enough to think that a man like Sebastian had hitherto lived the life of a monk. He was bound to have made love to many women and he was bound to have a mistress—it was his bride’s misfortune that that mistress was the spiteful, jealous Petra, Countess of Lowndes, whose estate lay so close to Polwithiel, who intended to stop the match if she could, and who had already set out upon that course by seeing that a copy of her letter to Sebastian was hidden where his future wife would be bound to find it.
She lay back, watching the slow candle shadows on the ceiling. At least the letter had served one useful purpose, for now she was under no illusions about what the future had in store: it was to be a marriage of convenience of the worst kind, with Sebastian intending no kindness whatsoever toward his unfortunate bride. But he was mistaken if he believed that she would meekly “molder away” on some distant estate. Bryony St. Charles might be provincial and inexperienced compared with the society ladies he was used to, but she certainly wasn’t lacking in spirit, as both he and his clever, vindictive mistress would find out.
She drew an almost defiant strength from this last thought, but as she lay there watching the first fingers of dawn lighten the sky outside, the unhappiness deep inside was so great that it was like a dull ache.
She was very quiet the following morning, glad to let Kathleen chatter on in her usual easy way. As she dressed, the descriptions in Petra’s letter echoed in her head; ... so unlikely a creature ... a nonentity from an Irish bog ... someone dull and spiritless who will give you no trouble ... She stared at her reflection in the cheval glass.