The Lies of Lord John (Bonnie Brides Book 5)

by Fiona Monroe

  Abruptly, making the table clatter and the cutlery rattle, Obidiah stood up. His cheeks were so red that they looked painted against the paleness of his clammy features. Margaret thought she had never seen such an ill-favoured youth. He seemed to be struggling to get a single syllable out through his rubbery lips and through a huge Adam's apple dancing up and down in his throat. After what felt to the listeners like an age—during which time, Mr. Carluke senior's expression darkened like a thunderstorm and Mr. Eliphaz's grin widened—a stuttering staccato of words issued from the unfortunate young gentleman.

  "F-f-f'r—bout-to-receive—may—L-l-l-ord—t'ly th-th-thank'l—amen!"

  He sat down as suddenly as he had stood up, with a thud that scraped the chair's legs against the wooden floor.

  Margaret actually had to put her hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle. Charity, as well she might, looked mortified. The elder young Mr. Carluke shook his head, still grinning, and Margaret knew that he had noticed her own amusement.

  Immediately, she felt ashamed of herself. The father continued to look thunderous while Uncle Cochrane said mildly, "Thank you, Mr. Carluke," and lifted his hand to signal the waiting footmen to come forward with the first course.

  The father had no need to look so angry and offended, Margaret thought. He must have known that his younger son's affliction would make the saying of Grace at a strange dinner table a trial for him. He was himself to blame, in her own estimation. It had been cruel.

  Under cover of the gentle clinking of cutlery and china, the conversation broke into separate groups. Obidiah was staring miserably into his soup bowl, his cheeks still aflame, and Charity, Margaret observed, was doing her best to engage him in talk. Her voice was soft, and she could not hear what she was saying, but Margaret was suddenly rather admiring of her step-cousin's kindness. It did not seem to be having much of an effect on the young gentleman, who was silently dabbling at his soup with his spoon, but Charity was at least making an effort.

  "A sad display," said the other young Mr. Carluke, in Margaret's ear. "Why my father allowed him to go into the Kirk, I will never understand. For sport, perhaps. It is funny."

  Margaret scarcely knew what to say to this. She was trying to formulate a reply that was not impolite, but Mr. Eliphaz did not seem to require the encouragement of reciprocal conversation.

  He swept on. "It was his own idea, would you believe? He has had a fixed idea since he was fourteen or fifteen, some such. Since we were boys anyway. He has always been very pious. I think he took to it to win my father's favour. My father is a Kirk elder; I believe he mentioned it? But Obidiah will make a fool of himself in the pulpit, as you can see, and I do believe my father thinks he does it on purpose to mock."

  "I am sure, sir, that—"

  "Not that he does, my brother has not the wit for that. His sermons will be funny, though. I think we should have him to marry us. Would you be willing to wait until June or so? It would be excellent sport."

  It was Margaret's turn to blush. A thrill of horror ran through her, and she felt the shock in her stomach as strong as nausea. A moment ago, she had been congratulating herself on her wisdom in waiting until she met Mr. Carluke before committing even in principle to agreeing to a marriage proposal, because now that she had seen the brothers, nothing on Earth would persuade her to marry either of them. Now the elder Mr. Carluke was talking to her, whom he had met an hour ago, as if they were already engaged.

  "Sir?" she said, not sure she could really have understood him properly. And perhaps it had been a jest.

  "Obidiah does not receive his orders until next month, and then there will be preparations to be made, contracts to be drawn up and such. But hang it, my uncle is a minister, so he would do as well if you are in a hurry."

  "I am in no hurry, sir." She was going to have to correct this misapprehension as soon as possible, but while the servants were leaning over them to take away the soup bowls was probably not the best moment.

  "I am glad to hear it, for there's still shooting at Rosslyn. Coming to town for the wedding would cut my sport short. June will be soon enough, and we may have the advantage then of Obidiah's sermonising. Did your uncle shoot these birds?"

  He was referring to the pheasants that were being put on the centre of the table, Margaret supposed.

  "No," she said. "They were sent from Leuchers, but I imagine the gamekeeper there shot them. My uncle does not hunt. We spend most of the year in town now."

  "Leuchers, that is your uncle's estate? Your uncle has no son, does he? Who does the estate go to?"

  "It is entailed to a cousin, another Mr. Cochrane."

  "But you get twenty thousand?"

  Margaret acknowledged the size of her fortune with a dignified silence.

  "Just as well, for there's a deal to do at Rosslyn." Mr. Eliphaz speared a whole roasted pheasant to his plate and began to dissect it with energy. "My good father is wild on philanthropic ventures, but he does not consider the woods—the health of the pheasants, the supply of foxes—and there are old crofts that need clearing and land that needs to be enclosed. The whole estate needs modernising, and there is a pretty parcel of land to the east I may be able to purchase if I had the means. We could have deer, too. Yes, there is a lot to do, and a good injection of capital is just what Rosslyn needs. That, and a firm hand on the till."

  "I see."

  "Oh, don't think that the house itself is inadequate. It could do with updating and improving, but you will be quite comfortable there. Maybe after the income from the estate has increased, we could look at adding to the conveniences of the house, but you should have nothing to complain of."

  "I am delighted to hear it."

  "Good, good." He took a second pheasant. "That is settled, then."

  "Excuse me?"

  "My father said—said to us both, though I doubt poor Obidiah will make anything of it—he said, the two young ladies, their friends have agreed to the match. So, if you like the look of them, they can be yours. And I do like the look of you, Miss Bell, so all is happily settled."

  He lifted his wine glass as if to toast her.

  Margaret glanced along the table, in desperation, to catch her uncle's attention. Her uncle was, however, in earnest conversation with Mr. Carluke senior and seemed determined not to look in her direction.

  She looked aside at her aunt, but she was applying herself with great concentration to the food on her plate and would not catch her eye, either. It seemed to Margaret, however, that she must have heard what Mr. Eliphaz Carluke had said.

  Margaret moistened her lips and said with careful courtesy, "Mr. Carluke, I do not think this is a subject for jest."

  "Jest? I don't jest. Be assured, Miss Bell, you have captivated me. All is well."

  "All is… Mr. Carluke, holy matrimony is a very serious subject and should not be spoken of lightly."

  "Do I speak of it lightly? Mrs. Cochrane!"

  To Margaret's horror, he appealed across her to her aunt.

  "Please believe me, madam," he said to her, "when I spoke of marriage to your niece, I was not in any way jesting. My father informed me that I had your consent and approval to address her. Please reassure Miss Bell of that, if you would. I would not have her think I mock either matrimony, or herself."

  "Margaret," said her aunt, "do not be impudent to Mr. Cochrane."

  "Madam, I assure you, I was not—"

  "And do not contradict me, unless you want another dose of the physic I was obliged to administer the other night. Miss Bell is a well-behaved young lady on the whole, Mr. Carluke, but she requires some guidance."

  "I understand," said Mr. Carluke with a grin. "Ah! A spirited filly? I like them the better, and I know how to deal with them."

  Margaret was rendered almost breathless with mortification and indignation. She could hardly choke down another morsel of food, for all that she wanted to show herself contemptuously unaffected by Mr. Carluke's presumption.

  She had as little fu
rther conversation with him as she possibly could, and after dessert, she rose hurriedly to follow her aunt and Miss Rankine to the drawing room. The release would only be temporary, because the gentlemen would follow before long, but she felt that she could breathe again for a few minutes.

  And it was urgently necessary that she speak to her aunt, whatever the potential consequences, and make her feelings on the matter clear.

  "Well!" said her aunt, once the servant had laid the coffee-things and departed. "I confess, I am disappointed in the younger Mr. Carluke. That was a sad exhibition. I hope he did not do it in mockery."

  "Oh! No, Mamma," said Charity. "Could you not see how nervous he was?"

  "I could see that he will make a very poor minister unless he puts in more effort. However, the elder Mr. Carluke is an admirable young gentleman, and I meant what I said at the table, Margaret."

  "Madam—"

  "You are very lucky to have a proposal of marriage from such a suitable and respectable quarter, and I tell you right now, young lady, there will be none of this abominable independence in attempting to turn down the proposal. I know that your uncle allowed you the use of your own judgement on three previous occasions, and here you are at three and twenty, still unmarried. I will be frank and tell you that, in my opinion, it is only because Mr. Carluke senior spends the majority of his days on his estate—which is a proper thing for a laird to do—that he has not heard tell of your gallivanting around town and is prepared to consider you for his son. We need to conclude the match as soon as possible; it would not do for him to hear anything to your disadvantage and change his mind."

  "Aunt! Dear Mrs. Cochrane—please do listen—I do not mean to be impudent, or disobedient, or ungrateful, but I cannot marry Mr. Eliphaz Carluke!"

  Her aunt's face tightened. "Another word of defiance, Margaret Bell, and you will go to your room, and I will see you there later."

  Tears of frustration and fright sprang behind her eyes. She almost blurted out another protest, but a faint after-twinge from her nether regions as she shifted on the hard, wooden edge of the sofa stopped her in time. She could not bear to feel the hairbrush, or worse, again, and she had the impression that if she provoked another hiding so soon, it would be harder, longer, and even more painful than before. She would do almost anything to avoid it, in fact; but could that anything really mean pledging herself in marriage to a man she had, in one short hour, come to loathe?

  Her uncle would not allow her to be compelled to marry anyone against her will and certainly not by the threat of physical punishment. She admitted that she had deserved her chastisement the night before, but her good uncle would not allow her aunt to beat her unjustly.

  There seemed no choice but to hold her tongue for now, however.

  Charity had taken up her sampler and looked glum, as well she might. She was under similar compulsion to marry a man who was not only a stuttering idiot, but ugly with it. For the first time in their enforced cousinhood, Margaret felt something akin to sisterly sympathy for her.

  A strained silence ensued, until—all too soon—the gentlemen advanced. Margaret had made the mistake of sitting on a sofa, which meant that Mr. Eliphaz Carluke was able to join her there.

  He kept up a one-sided discussion of the delights and drawbacks of his home, the house and the estate, including his stable of hunting horses and his collection of guns. Margaret squirmed with boredom, all the while conscious of Mrs. Cochrane's sharp eyes on her. She was careful to maintain a neutral, mild expression, and fortunately, she was not required to contribute to the conversation. To her relief, he said nothing more about their supposed marriage.

  Charity, under a similar stricture to comply with her mother's wishes to behave graciously to the other young Carluke, continued her heroic efforts to converse with him. Margaret was too far from them to ascertain what was being said, but she seemed to be having a little more success in getting the younger gentleman to talk. His colour had returned to normal, and he was smiling again—not necessarily an improvement, as he must be giving Charity a fine view of his ravaged teeth.

  An evening party had never seemed so long to Margaret, although, as always, with her aunt's hours, it ended before ten o'clock. It seemed forever before the Carlukes were saying farewell to them in the hallway.

  Mr. Eliphaz took the liberty of kissing her hand, pressing her fingers to his lips with more than necessary fervour. Margaret shuddered and was thankful that she was wearing gloves. The very thought of this man touching her bare skin, even her hands, repulsed her. She thought of the intimacies of marriage and felt physically ill.

  Mr. Obidiah stared at Charity's outstretched hand, made a swipe at it, fumbled, and stepped back. Charity lowered her hand again and bent her head in farewell.

  As the carriage rattled away, Mrs. Cochrane said, "Well, Mr. Cochrane, that must be a weight off your mind."

  Margaret said a hasty goodnight and fled to her room.

  Margaret tore off her evening-gown, flung it in a heap in the corner, and peeled off her gloves. In the basin of cold water on the wash stand, she stood in her petticoat and scrubbed at her hands until she felt that the impression of Eliphaz Carluke's fingers and lips were removed.

  A tread on the stairs and landing made her tremble, but when there was a knock on her door, she knew it could not be her aunt. "Who is it?"

  The door was pushed open slightly, and Charity's head peered around.

  Margaret felt less disinclined to talk to Charity than she ever had before. After all, she had nobody else now.

  "You are not yet in bed, cousin?" said Charity.

  "No, not yet. Are you—would you like to stay to talk, for a while?"

  Charity slipped the rest of herself into the room and closed the door. She was still fully dressed in her modest evening finery, and her otherwise pale cheeks were pink. "Oh, I must not stay long—to be truthful, my mother—well, my mother does not really approve of my spending time alone with you." She cast a fearful glance back at the door, as if her mother might spring in at that moment.

  "Indeed!" Margaret stared at her, dismayed. Just as she had formed a new resolution of cultivating her cousin's friendship and rather congratulating herself on her generosity of spirit.

  "She thinks I may be influenced by your ideas. But I think that she does not do me justice. I am not so easily influenced, and I am quite capable of seeing folly for myself and resisting it." She wrung her hands a while, sat on the bed, then stood up. Her agitation was apparent.

  "Go, if I am so baleful a companion," said Margaret crossly.

  Charity ignored this and continued to pace. "But I wanted to speak with you. I am very distressed—I do need advice."

  "I know," said Margaret, softening. "Charity—cousin—sit down. Sit by me, and we will talk. I know how you feel; I know your dilemma. I feel the same."

  "You don't. You cannot!" Her eyes widened and filled with tears. "You have your uncle, you can appeal to his kindness, you have ties of nature to him that I cannot. My mother, it pains me to say it, and I know I am a bad daughter, but my mother has never been very kind."

  "I imagine not!"

  "Very virtuous, very upright, strong in the faith, everything a mother ought to be—but not kind. I feel ungrateful saying so, but it is true. And you know my history."

  "With the libertine."

  "Oh! I was so foolish, so very ridiculous. I brought my own punishment on myself, and it could have been so very much worse. I might have lost everything. Sometimes I wake up at night and weep over my escape. And I told you, I knew I could not rely on the judgement of my own heart and that I would submit myself to my parents' wishes for me in this matter."

  "Yes. I know. But Charity, while these are admirable sentiments in theory, in reality—your life is your own to live. You must live with the consequences of your decisions when your mother, too, has returned to the dust, and you cannot think of entering into matrimony with a man who repels you. Think, just think of what marriage me
ans! It is more than gaining a household of your own. It means, it must mean, the most intimate of congress…" She trailed off, her face blazing. It was very hard to talk about such things with Charity, whose purity and ignorance was an impenetrable shield. Virginal as, of course, Margaret was, she had spent some years in close friendship with a widow, and she had learned many things by report.

  Did Charity even know the full extent of what happened between a man and a woman in their marriage bed? Margaret thought she had only a vague and fuzzy idea.

  Charity scarcely seemed to be listening to her. She was gazing into the distance, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap. "I know that I cannot trust my own heart," she said, varying her hand-wringing by pressing them to her bosom. "But I want to, so much. Cousin, do you think I might?"

  "I think you must! We cannot be made to marry the Carlukes, Charity. I promise you, I will enlist my uncle's help. You are right; he is kind, and though he respects your mother very much, he will not, I am sure, let her override him in a matter such as this. Don't worry; I shall go to him right this moment and settle this tonight! I will make him promise to write to Mr. Carluke senior, telling him that we cannot undertake to marry either of his sons. If we act together and stand strong, they cannot ignore our wishes." She leapt to her feet.

  "But, Margaret, I think you have misunderstood me!"

  Margaret stopped in her eagerness, halfway to the door.

  Charity was looking up at her with large, blinking eyes. "I do want to marry Mr. Obidiah Carluke."

  "You, what? I'm sorry?"

  "I liked him very much indeed. I am only afraid that because my mother expressed disappointment in him, she may change her mind and stand in the way of the match."

  All the air seemed to deflate from Margaret's lungs. She trailed back to the bed, sat down, and stared at her step-cousin.

  "She did not positively say so, and I was afraid to say very much," Charity said, "but I know she thought that he made an exhibition of himself when he said Grace. I felt such pity for him! Afterward—after dinner, I mean—he spoke of it a little, and he said he is always much more nervous when his father is watching him and expecting him to do badly. When he was younger, he used to stammer badly, but now he hardly ever does, he says, when he is with friends." A glow spread over her face. "He said he hoped very much we could be friends. Oh, I know he was too shy to speak to me directly of the proposed match, so I need my mother and stepfather and his father to act on our behalf. If my mother has taken against him, perhaps she will not. Oh. Perhaps his father was displeased with me. Did you notice how Mr. Carluke senior looked at me? I think—at least—I think that Mr. Obidiah Carluke liked me. Do you think he did?"