A Murderous Marriage

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Julia pressed her face close to Amelia’s and said in a voice she never used with her youngest sister, “Don’t you dare ever say that again, to anyone. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The door opened again, and this time Grams called out to them. “What are you lot doing huddled by the window? Come along. The motorcars are here. It’s time to go. Amelia, are you crying? My dear, sweet child, I know you’re overjoyed for your sister, but you don’t wish to arrive at the church all blotchy-faced.”

  Phoebe and her sisters grabbed their wraps and filed from the room. Eva leveled a look of sympathetic support on Phoebe and touched her arm as she passed by. The waitress, still standing by the sofa table, also watched them go. Good heavens, Phoebe had forgotten about her, while the woman had simply stood there eavesdropping and enjoying a good bit of family drama. Well, no matter. She could gossip with her fellow servants all she liked. The Renshaws would never see her again.

  Outside, she, Julia, and Amelia accepted a footman’s help and slid carefully into the backseat of Grampapa’s Rolls-Royce. Her grandparents were driven to the church in Gil’s Mercedes-Knight tourer. The short ride along the Esplanade and up the hill to Holy Trinity Church seemed to take forever but was over all too soon.

  * * *

  Eva caught Phoebe’s surprise as her gaze lit on the waitress. Eva had passed the waitress minutes earlier on the stairs, and the tray she had been carrying now sat on the sofa table. Had she been here all this time? When Eva herself had returned only moments ago, the looks on her ladies’ faces had told her all had not been well in her absence. Words had been spoken, and wills tested. Obviously, Phoebe had felt compelled to try one last time . . . and obviously, she must not have realized they had an audience. Or perhaps Julia, in defending her decision to marry the viscount, would not be silenced.

  The waitress, about Phoebe’s or Julia’s age, wouldn’t return Eva’s gaze but leaned over to retrieve the tray. On the far side of the room, where two screens had provided privacy for the sisters to change into their wedding finery, Hetta hummed a vague tune as she gathered up their discarded clothing.

  Eva’s stride swallowed the distance between her and the waitress. “What are you doing?”

  The woman assumed a moue of false innocence. “I brought the family tea and cakes, not that they made time for them.”

  “Yes, I see the tray. And I know when you delivered it, as I had to make way for you on the stairs. My question is, Why are you still here?”

  “Oh, I . . . I remained to see if I could be of service.”

  Eva sized her up, from the top of her linen cap to her starched apron and the tips of her sturdy black boots. The woman’s brown eyes darted nervously, and her hands tightened on the handles of the tray. “I think not,” Eva concluded. “Heed me well. If you value your position here or anywhere, you’ll not go telling tales. Whatever you might have heard here today is none of your business. Understand me? None.”

  Indeed not, and one might argue it was none of Eva’s business, either. But her ladies, her girls, mattered more to her than anything else—more than her own affairs, at least for the present. They needed her, even Julia, the eldest. Sometimes especially Julia. And Eva needed them . . . to be happy.

  “Remember,” she whispered fiercely, “if the slightest breath of scandal arises in this town, I’ll know where it originated, and I will not hesitate to speak to your employer.”

  The woman eyed Eva up and down in return, obviously perplexed by her warning and confused by her appearance. In her “Sunday best,” Eva looked neither like one of the family nor one of their servants. In the end, the woman curtsied and scurried away with her burden of unconsumed tea and cakes.

  Hetta, her arms draped with various items of clothing, came to stand beside Eva and watched as the waitress disappeared into the hallway. “A problem, ja?”

  “Nothing we can’t handle. Are you coming to the church?”

  Hetta grinned and shrugged, reminding Eva of her limited command of English. Quickly, they packed away the clothing, and then the two of them made their way downstairs and outside through a service door. Arm in arm—for, despite their inability to communicate, Eva quite liked Hetta, and she believed Hetta returned her regard—they made the short climb up the hill and across Queen’s Road to Holy Trinity Church, to arrive before the bridal party began their walk down the aisle.

  Eva regarded Holy Trinity’s tall Gothic windows, pinnacled buttresses, and crenellated tower. The buff coloring of the stonework reminded her of home, of the creamy Cotswold stone visible everywhere in the village of Little Barlow and the surrounding region. Had she not been so troubled by the event about to take place, she would have been amused at how taken aback Lady Julia had been at the idea of arriving to her wedding on foot. The trek from the Royal Yacht Squadron took no more than a few minutes, although admittedly, the blustery winds trundling off the Solent would have ruined her ladies’ hair and possibly snatched Lady Julia’s veil away.

  Like the Royal Yacht Squadron clubhouse, the church overlooked the Solent, but from a higher vantage point, from where the New Forest on the mainland was often visible. Not today, though. Heavy, lumbering clouds afforded only a limited view of the harbor. Lord Annondale’s Georgiana rocked sullenly on the waves, while smaller moored vessels, and even a few hearty souls willing to risk sailing through the currents, tipped and bobbed.

  The church door stood open, and Eva and Hetta slipped into the very last pew. A relatively small number of guests filled the first several pews in the front. This soon after the war, a large and elaborate wedding would have been frowned upon. Millions of lives had been lost; millions more were still displaced, struggling and rebuilding. England hadn’t fully healed, might never fully heal.

  Besides, the groom had wanted a small wedding. Actually, according to Lady Julia, he had wished to elope, but her grandmother, the Countess of Wroxly, wouldn’t hear of it. Eva had gotten the distinct impression Lady Julia hadn’t wanted anything extravagant, either. She had seemed, these past weeks of her engagement, intent on getting on with it as simply and efficiently as possible. The normally demanding young woman had been all too complacent with her grandmother’s wishes, from the guest list to the menu and everything in between. As if this wedding weren’t really Lady Julia’s, as if she were only an observer, and an indifferent one at that.

  Eva studied the pale flowers festooning the altar and the chancel railing, and the netted ivory bunting strewn from pew to pew down both sides of the center aisle. Though these colors were meant to complement Lady Julia’s wedding gown, Eva found them washed out, devoid of life. Her heart ached. A year from now, would Lady Julia resemble those faded blossoms?

  The sounds of arriving motorcars set the church in motion. The vicar strolled out to his place on the altar, while, through a door opposite, an elderly man hobbled with the use of a cane, his right leg dragging with a telltale squeak from the prosthetic he wore. A dove-gray morning coat and black trousers spoke of a once-trim figure gone slack. Indeed, the Viscount Annondale’s features still showed traces of a once-square chin, a strong nose, and a broad brow, but they had faded beneath age lines and sagging skin.

  Julia, beautiful, young, vibrant Julia, would soon be this man’s wife, would spend untold years in his bleak shadow. Oh, Eva knew people married for many reasons, and physical appearance, even physical condition, shouldn’t matter . . . but...

  This was her Julia, and it hurt to consider the future she faced.

  Behind the viscount came another gentleman of a similar age and similarly dressed, but who walked without aid and with a still-youthful bounce in his step. A man of considerable height, especially beside his friend, he sported a tightly trimmed goatee and a clean-shaven head, which gleamed in the candlelight of the altar. She knew him to be Sir Hugh Fitzallen, the viscount’s closest friend and best man. Once he took up his position beside his friend, they exchanged a few words. Viscount Annondale tapped his cane against the
flagstones, as if impatient to get on with it.

  Several chords were struck upon the organ, and a small commotion could be heard from the vestibule. Eva turned her head as young Fox entered with Lady Wroxly on his arm. Despite having turned fifteen not long ago, he stood a few inches shorter than she, though not with as marked a difference in height as a year ago.

  The organ swelled in volume, and Eva’s heart swelled in kind. Her throat throbbed and her eyes stung so badly, she only vaguely acknowledged the small procession coming down the aisle. That was, until Julia, on her grandfather’s arm, stopped as though she had suddenly come up against a barrier. Her head turned, and she stared. Eva followed her gaze to the back of a dark head about halfway down the nave. The gentleman sat alone, having the entire pew to himself. He did not return Julia’s glance, though by the stiffening of his shoulders, Eva believed he was very much aware of her.

  No more than a second or two passed. Had the others noticed? Perhaps not, or perhaps they thought Julia’s hem had caught beneath her shoe. But Eva didn’t have to be told why she had stopped or at whom she had stared. Theo Leighton, the new Marquess of Allerton, had apparently decided to attend the wedding.

  When the ceremony ended and the Renshaws and the Townsends formed their receiving line outside the church, Eva remained inside to say a little prayer for the couple’s future. Soon Hetta stood to squeeze past her in the pew, holding her hands up in front of her face and saying, “Snap-snap.”

  “Oh, yes. The photographs.”

  She and Hetta hurried outside through a side door in the vestibule in time to watch the photographer herd the bridal party beneath a cherry tree’s pale green leaves and pink blossoms. A hawthorn hedge was also in bloom and spread its branches behind them. A camera sat mounted on a tripod, ready to capture the images. Eva nodded in appreciation; the soft colors would make a beautiful backdrop for the photographs. A pity the sun showed no signs of making an appearance.

  Hetta went to work straightening Lady Julia’s gown and train and making sure her veil flowed just so over her shoulders. Eva patted curls into place and straightened sashes for Ladies Phoebe and Amelia, while Lady Wroxly’s maid, the often dour-faced Miss Shea, applied a bit of powder to the countess’s nose.

  “All right, ladies, that’s quite enough. Let’s get on with it.” Viscount Annondale thumped his cane against the grass. When the countess shot him a reproving look, he softened his stance with a grin and jokingly appealed to Lord Wroxly. “I say, Archibald, they’re already as lovely as any four women have a right to be. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Er . . . yes, quite right. Quite right indeed.” Lord Wroxly’s hesitation was not because he disagreed with the viscount’s assessment; Eva was quite sure he concurred wholeheartedly.

  His lordship had lost weight in recent months. More than that, he had shed pounds like rainwater off a peaked roof. Someone meeting him for the first time might think him fit and trim, if only the transformation had been accompanied by a robust complexion and energy to match. His heart had caused him grief last summer, and despite the countess ensuring he followed his doctor’s orders to the letter, he had not been quite the same since. And now this wedding. He had yet to smile fully today, and his eyes were filled with worry and weariness.

  The photographer, a good-looking young man with curly black hair who towered above the others in his ill-fitting suit, stepped up to his Seneca Competitor folding camera and peered through the viewfinder. He made several adjustments to the lens. Then he glanced up, frowning, and studied the group gathered beneath the hanging cherry blossoms. He walked to them and gently nudged some to the right and others to the left of Julia and her new husband. He took extra time positioning Julia at just the right angle, briefly touching her shoulder, her waist, her chin, to capture, he said, the right light.

  He took several group shots, rearranging the party several times. Then he took only Julia, her sisters, and the countess. Each time, Eva noted, he took his time positioning Julia just so, experimenting with the shadows cast by the branches. Finally, after a few pictures of Julia and Gil alone, the photographer shooed everyone away, except for Julia herself.

  He took photos of her with her bouquet and without, with her left hand raised to show off the platinum wedding ring with its large solitaire surrounded by diamond-studded filigree. He tilted her face to the right and to the left, raised her chin and then lowered it, snapped pictures of her smiling and then looking pensive. Each time, to achieve the pose he sought, he consulted with her in low tones and positioned her with the lightest touch of his fingertips. Lady Julia cooperated fully, warming to each direction with the ease of a Paris fashion model. Even so, Eva finally found herself looking away, as if she had been spying on an encounter of the most intimate sort.

  She shook her head at the scandalous notion. The man merely wished to do the best job possible. Apparently, however, not everyone appreciated his efforts. Once again, the viscount thudded his cane against the ground, tugged his watch from his vest pocket, consulted the time, and shoved it back in. He sighed and coughed and let out a groan. None of this, however, had the least effect in hurrying the photographer along. It wasn’t until Julia yawned and touched a hand to her forehead that the young man declared an end to the session. He would take more pictures once they reached the Georgiana.

  * * *

  “Well, it’s done.” The gusts shuddering off the water raised goose bumps on Phoebe’s arms and legs, but inside, she felt even colder. Bleaker. She, her family, and about half the guests were being shuttled to Gil Townsend’s steamer for the wedding reception. The motor launch would return for the rest in short order. Gil had rejected a wedding breakfast as terribly old-fashioned, and Julia hadn’t cared one way or the other, so a shipboard, midday affair it was to be. Secretly, Phoebe suspected Gil hadn’t wanted a wedding that reminded him in any way of his first one, or his first wife, for whom the yacht had been named. Though they never had children, word had it they had loved each other deeply, something that had not been required of aristocratic weddings a generation ago.

  Apparently, it was not a requirement of modern weddings, either. A pang struck her conscience. Perhaps Gil did love Julia. Perhaps Julia would learn to love him in return.

  Beside her on the built-in seat along the starboard rail, Owen Seabright nodded solemnly. “I hope they’ll prove us wrong. I hope they’ll be happy.”

  A longtime friend of the Renshaw family, the former major and decorated war hero had become so much more to them in the past year, and for Phoebe, he held a place infinitely more important than mere friend. She huddled against his side as much as was proper, seeking warmth. Silk organza presented no match for the early spring breezes racing across the Solent. Thank goodness Grams had settled on cashmere wraps for her and Amelia, though a coat would have been a great deal more practical. She and Owen might have joined her family and most of the rest of the guests who had crowded into the launch’s cabin, crowded being the operative word. And stuffy to the point of making her a smidgen queasy. No, she’d rather be out suffering the cold beneath a dreary sky than crammed inside and unable to draw a fresh breath. As for Owen, he seemed impervious to the cold and other discomforts. She supposed war did that to a man.

  The launch hit a rolling swell, and the stout woman just now picking her way from stern to bow stumbled. Gil’s sister, Veronica Townsend, reached out to catch her balance on the outer wall of the cabin and—to Phoebe’s astonishment—swore like a sailor. Owen chuckled silently, evidenced by the rise and fall of his shoulder against hers. The woman caught Phoebe staring at her, rather wide-eyed, she must admit, and changed course to join them on the bench seat.

  “It’s positively stifling inside that cabin.” Tugging at her coat collar, she settled heavily onto the oiled canvas cushion on Phoebe’s other side. Despite her complaint about the heat inside the cabin, she shivered beneath her velvet, fox-trimmed coat. Her next words proved that, like Phoebe, it wasn’t so much the cold that produced
her quiver, but the circumstances. “I cannot for the life of me understand why my brother ever entertained the foolish notion to ship us all out to that ridiculous yacht of his.”

  Phoebe’s gaze drifted to the Georgiana, still some several hundred yards away. Ridiculous was hardly the term she’d use to describe it. Commissioned by the Royal Navy during the war, the yacht had seen service—and damage—patrolling the channel and the southern coastline. She had since been refitted and now boasted the most modern of conveniences, along with a gleaming hull and highly polished woodwork. Had this been summertime, the vessel would have presented a splendid prospect for a wedding reception, followed by a honeymoon voyage. But Phoebe did wonder, as did her grandparents, why the bride and groom would choose the inconvenience of having to ferry food and drink and guests out into the middle of a harbor weeks before the warm weather arrived.

  “Why didn’t your sister object? I certainly would have.” Miss Townsend turned to face front and mumbled, “Not that I’ve ever been a bride. Or ever will be, for that matter.”

  Phoebe heard the resentment, plain as day. About the wedding? Or the fact that she’d never had one of her own? She glanced at Owen, who returned her gaze with raised eyebrows that said, Don’t ask me.

  “It was Gil’s idea, from what I understand,” she replied diplomatically, “and I suppose Julia didn’t like to begin their marriage with a disagreement.”

  “Bah. She’ll need to learn how to handle my brother if she’s to have a moment’s peace.”

  At somewhere around fifty-five years of age, Miss Townsend was indeed what most people would term a spinster. With a bulge around her middle, along with obdurate features in a square face that blended into her neck with barely a contour, her prospects at this point would be considered extremely slim, at least in society’s view.