The Bride Insists (17 page)

They took a room at the same inn and walked about the town looking into the shops. As the afternoon waned, Clare decided to visit the offices of her banker, and they parted ways. Selina dropped in at the draper's to see if he had any new stock on hand. There was a length of drapery material that drew her, and for a while she indulged in a pleasant daydream about how she would make the vicarage an even more inviting home.

When Selina returned to the inn, she found Clare pacing their room like a caged leopard. “Jamie has been corresponding with
my
banker,” she declared, the skirts of her gown swishing like a big cat's tail. “He authorized a draft for a sum much larger than the one we agreed upon for repairs to the estate.”

Her pale green eyes flashed. Selina had never seen her so angry.

“He also informed them that he would be taking over administration of the account as soon as ‘some details were settled.' And of course the banker accepted this, because everyone knows that husbands control their wives' money. When I told him that was not the case with us, he… he acted as if I were a simpleton!” The pompous little man had been sickeningly patronizing. She'd nearly throttled him. “He practically patted me on the head and told me to run along.”

Selina didn't know what to say.

“If Jamie had shown me what was needed, I would have agreed to the larger expenditure,” Clare almost wailed. “It was no great matter. Except it
is
. He went behind my back. He broke his promise to me!”

The emotion vibrating in her voice shook Selina. She didn't know how to deal with such intensity. “Perhaps he was aware that you would agree and simply didn't want to bother…”

Clare was too furious to listen and too frightened to think. “Any man I speak to will see it just the same way,” she said, half to herself. “I can claim whatever I wish about my special situation; they will simply not hear me. Because they will think Jamie must be right. That is the way things are.” She had to do something. She remembered this desperate feeling all too well; it was the same that had swept her when her brother died and her family disintegrated. “I need to speak to Mr. Billingsley. We will go up to London.”

“But, Clare…” It was a long, hard journey, for which they were completely unprepared, and this was not a time when Selina wished to undertake it.

“I must see what else can be done. I can't go about waving documents in people's faces and insisting on my rights. They'll think me mad.”

Selina thought her worrisomely overwrought right now. “Clare, what has happened between you and your husband? Please tell me. You didn't know about this correspondence until we came here?”

“Of course I didn't!” She would have… Clare didn't know what she would have done. Broken something?

“So it wasn't the cause of your dispute the other night?”

“No.” She bit off the word.

Selina waited. One thing she'd learned very well in her years as a lady's companion was not to put herself in the middle of family disputes. It helped no one and brought all parties down upon your head when the conflicts were resolved. It got you dismissed, if bad enough. Not that she had to worry about that any longer.

“He never meant it,” Clare said finally. “When he signed the documents before our marriage. All along, he expected… he expects that I will change my mind and hand over all financial decisions to him.”

“Oh.” It was the way of society. Actually, Selina could see how he might make that assumption.

The single-word response didn't satisfy Clare. “He promised me! He gave his word without meaning it. How can I ever trust him again?”

Though Selina had had some doubts about the marriage at first, she'd thought it was going well. She'd even come to like young Lord Trehearth. “Clare, do you really think your husband would oppress you, do things with your money that you don't like?”

“Are you siding with him?” Clare felt beleaguered. “I can't believe you would do that!”

“I'm not. Definitely not. I simply mean that you don't have to fear him as a… a domestic tyrant.”

“I don't! Because I'm not giving up control of my fortune. I shall see Mr. Billingsley in London and put further guarantees in place.”

“It's such a long journey. Perhaps a letter would do?”

Clare's jaw hardened. “I'm going. Will you come with me, or shall I go alone?”

Selina subsided. She did not wish to go. But it was not the act of a friend to send Clare off alone in her current state. Or to use her own good news to cry off. “I'll come with you.” Once she said it, Selina realized how impossible it would have been to return to Trehearth on her own and face the swarm of questions that would ensue.

“Good. That's settled then.” Clare stifled doubts. “You never planned to live in Cornwall forever. I'm sure you'll enjoy being back in London. The season is beginning. I never had a season. We could go out to… the theater.”

With Clare so distraught, almost babbling, Selina merely nodded.

“We can see all the latest fashions,” Clare went on. “You'll like that.” She tried to find some enthusiasm in herself for the trip, and discovered only desolation.

Selina was a little tempted. She could dazzle Edward in a new gown at her wedding. “Very true. A short visit then.”

“I'll ask about hiring a post chaise.” Clare started toward the door.

“But… do you mean to just leave right now? With no warning?” Despite all that had transpired in the last few months, she was not yet inured to sudden changes, Selina acknowledged.

“I shall send a note.” She didn't want to face Jamie. It was cowardice, Clare admitted, and told herself she didn't care.

“But we have no luggage…”

“We will buy new gowns in London, and whatever else we need. I have the authority to do that! I only wish we didn't have to stay at a hotel.” But hiring a house was a step further than Clare wished to go.

Clare was immune to argument just now, Selina saw. She would make this ill-advised trip no matter what anyone said. Selina frowned and tried to gather her own scattered thoughts. She had said she would go; she should try to help. “Ah, my last employer's niece offered me a place to stay in town whenever I liked. We became good friends as I cared for her aunt.”

“Would she have me as well, do you think?” Clare was feeling ruthless. She would impose on a stranger. She would do whatever she had to do.

“She'll be happy to have the company,” Selina replied, certain it was true, though still full of conflicting feelings. “She's a widow with no children, and I think a bit lonely.” Martha Howland might have sensible advice for Clare, Selina thought. No one was better attuned to the ins and outs of society. She might even know of other cases like Clare's and what was best to be done. The idea of another woman's support in these circumstances was appealing. “She goes about in society a good deal. She often urged me to join her at an evening party.”

Aching to do something, to take control, Clare opened the door. “We'll leave tomorrow morning,” she said, and strode out.

Selina sat on, wondering if she'd made the right decision. Clare appeared absolutely determined to make this journey. And however Selina framed matters, she could not see sending the younger woman off alone in her current emotional state. They would set off, and Clare would calm down, and surely the visit would not be long. With a sigh, Selina rose and went to find paper and pen to write a letter to Edward Carew.

***

When Jamie received his wife's brief note the following afternoon, he sat staring at the scribbled lines for several stunned moments. She had set off to London without even consulting him? This was not a year when they could go up to town for the season. There was far too much work to do. Another time, it might be possible, but… She was taking her revenge for his perfectly rational rebukes, he realized. Just as he'd said, she was behaving like a child—running away from home, showing him she could use their money however she liked. It was like one of the twins sticking out her tongue at him, daring him to react.

Well, he wouldn't. No doubt she expected him to come pelting after her and beg her to return. In short, to grovel. He might just be able to catch a post chaise if he rode hard, but he didn't intend to enact such a scene on a public road. He had important things to do here, work that couldn't wait. If his wife chose to abandon her responsibilities—let her! He would not. And when she found that she got no reaction whatsoever from him, she would change her tune. Jamie crushed the sheet of notepaper in his fist and threw it into the fire.

“Where is Clare?” asked Tamsyn at breakfast the next morning.

“Why has she not come back?” wondered Tegan.

“What is she buying in Penzance to take so long?”

“Do you think it's a carriage?” Tegan suggested. “The wheel fell off the old one.”

“Or something for the new bath?”

“It must be a surprise.”

“Do you think it's for
us
?” Tamsyn said.

They both turned to Jamie, speaking in unison. “When will she be back?”

“Can you be quiet!” Silence fell at once. His feelings too lacerated to be careful, Jamie told them the bare truth. “She's gone to London. I don't know how long she intends to stay there.” This statement, or perhaps the clenched teeth through which he made it, stopped his sisters' flow of conversation dead. They gazed at him with wide dark eyes, and it seemed to Jamie that he saw blame there.

“Oh,” said Tamsyn finally.

“She won't come back,” said Tegan.

“Or only to visit.”

“Everyone likes London better.”

Their glum assessment infuriated him further. “If you are referring to the governesses you chased away with your pranks, this is an entirely different case.” Two woeful little faces stared back at him. “And I cannot conceive why you did chase them away, if you wanted them to stay.”

“We don't mean
governesses
,” said Tegan. They gave him the “you don't understand” look that he'd been familiar with for several years now.

“If you're referring to me, I always came back, didn't I? And, I might point out, I'm here now.”

They surveyed him with the large solemn eyes of martyrs. “Now,” said Tamsyn.

“For what that's worth,” muttered her sister.

“I beg your pardon? Where did you even learn that expression?” Jamie held on to his self-control by a thread. “It's quite impertinent, you know.”

The twins nodded in unison, which was always a bit unsettling.

Jamie rose to leave the table. “We will be perfectly fine until Clare returns.”

“She won't—” began Tegan.

“As she most certainly will, quite soon.” Of course she would, he assured himself. “I know Clare and Mrs. Newton set a course of study for you. Go on to your books.”

“But who will correct our work?” Tamsyn wondered.

“I shall,” answered Jamie, and realized that his jaw was clenched again.

“You?”

Their surprise was insulting, and then, blessedly, amusing. “I went to school, you know. Quite a good school. I can even parse Latin, and a bit of Greek. Or I could, once upon a time.”

“You're not going to make us learn Greek?”

He had to smile at their obvious horror. “Not if you behave yourselves.”

His sisters headed for the dining room door. Then Tegan turned back. “Do we get to keep our ponies?”

“Of course, why wouldn't you?”

“
She
got them for us.”

Oddly hurt that they seemed to think more of Clare than their own brother, Jamie said, “As a matter of fact, I found them and purchased them.”

“But they're ours now?” Tamsyn asked.

“Forever?” Tegan added.

“Yes.” It came out curt. And then the twins were gone, and Jamie was left alone with his cooling cup of tea. The room felt curiously forlorn. He shoved back his chair and headed out to the stables. He had important projects to oversee, workmen to advise. He couldn't waste any more time on domestic upheavals. Jamie was mounted and ready to go when he hesitated, then went back inside to fill his silver flask with brandy from the bottle in the estate office.

The trip between Cornwall and London was not much easier in April than it had been in January. The air was warmer, and they had less need of hot bricks and layers of blankets, but the road was deeper in mud. Several times the coach bogged down and had to be heaved out by the driver, postilions, and helpers they fetched from a nearby farmstead. Tiring days in the carriage were followed by restless nights in posting houses, and Clare's dark mood made conversation sporadic and stilted. Both women reached the metropolis very ready to be still and sleep. They took rooms in Mivart's Hotel, where Clare had stayed before, then Selina went to call on her former employer's niece, Martha Howland. Weary as she was, Clare sat down at once to write a letter to the twins. She'd promised herself, when she made the decision to leave, that she would send them frequent reassurances. Then she made her way to Everett Billingsley's offices.

He looked just the same and greeted her very cordially. “This is a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I didn't realize you were coming up to town.” She looked vastly better, he thought. Her figure had filled out and rounded; her cheeks had bloomed. Despite some tension in her expression, she seemed quite a different person from the wan, self-effacing governess he'd encountered a few months ago.

“Yes, Selina and I have come.”

“Lord Trehearth is not with you?” That was a bit odd.

“No. It was a… a spur-of-the-moment journey. There are some things I wished to take care of.”

“Yes?” He looked alertly ready to help.

Now that she was here, Clare wasn't sure just how to put her case. What if Billingsley agreed with Jamie? The man of business had known him far longer than he'd been acquainted with Clare. They might have plotted the whole thing between them. Billingsley's earnest gaze and expression said otherwise, but… she remembered that he had urged her to hire her own representative during their negotiations. Surely he would not have suggested that if he was plotting against her? “Most people expect that my husband has control of my fortune,” she began slowly, “because that is the usual way of it.” Billingsley nodded, and Clare suppressed a tremor of unease. “So, if they are told that is the case, they see no reason to doubt the assertion. Why would they?”

“Ah?” He said it more cautiously. Clearly, something was wrong.

“I can tell them the true situation, but some… many may find me unconvincing.”

“Has some problem arisen, Lady Trehearth?”

“I wondered… what is my recourse in that event?”

Billingsley frowned, uncertain what she meant. “If someone refuses to believe you, you mean?” He shrugged. “Well, you cannot compel belief.”

“But if they refuse to act as I wish? About some financial matter.”

He frowned. “I know the truth, and your bankers. So you could apply to us, and anything you want done should be easily accomp—”

Clare's heart was in her throat. “What if Jamie, Lord Trehearth, came to you and said that I'd changed my mind? That I had settled down to be a proper wife and wished to leave all the financial decisions to him? What would you do?”

Billingsley heard the tension in her voice; she was vibrating with it. “I would verify the change with you, and then alter the papers, before asking you both to sign new marriage settlements.”

“You wouldn't just take his word, because that is the way things ought to be? And you have always thought so.”

“No, I would not,” said Billingsley firmly. “And even if I did, it would not alter the legal arrangement set forth in the documents. That cannot be changed without your signature. Please tell me what's wrong. Have you encountered a problem that I can help you with?”

It was what she'd come for. Clare found herself reluctant to reveal the cracks in her marriage, but she needed an ally. “Jamie told the banker's representative in Penzance that control would pass to him as soon as some ‘details' were settled. Which is quite untrue, as you know. The man accepted this assertion without question and gave him a sizable draft on the account, without my knowledge.”

“Ah.” Billingsley's heart sank. He'd thought the match he'd promoted was such a splendid solution for both parties.

“When I expressed surprise that he had done so, and pointed out that he was required to consult me, this banker treated me like a willful child, or a simpleton, as if monetary questions were quite above my head.” Clare grew furious all over again when she remembered the man's patronizing manner.

“Perhaps it was a misunderstanding? Lord Trehearth—”

“Has told me that he expects I will soon turn into a proper wife and hand the reins over to him. He always expected that, even when he was signing the documents you prepared. He said so.” Clare gazed at the older man. She didn't precisely blame him. On the other hand, Jamie had been his suggestion. Clare had trusted his judgment, along with her own. She'd been wrong, but Billingsley had known Jamie far longer.

Billingsley felt the full weight of her regard. “I'm surprised at that.”

“Are you?”

“I am indeed.” His young client had seemed satisfied with the arrangement. And Billingsley knew him as a man of his word.

“What if it was your wife and her money?” Clare was moved to ask.

“I beg your pardon?” His wife had no money to speak of. He supported his family.

“If she had a fortune and asked of you what I required of Jamie?” She had to test him, had to know if he was really on her side.

Billingsley simply couldn't imagine such a circumstance. His placid Emily speaking with bankers and choosing investments? It was inconceivable. Why, she wouldn't have the first idea how to conduct such a conversation. But this was beside the point. “If I sign a document, I keep to the letter and the spirit of the agreement. I do not sign papers that I mean to circumvent or ignore.” It distressed him that young Lord Trehearth might have done so. Perhaps Lady Trehearth had misunderstood?

This was the crux of it, Clare thought. Jamie had broken his word. Worse, he'd never meant to keep it. He'd signed the documents deceptively, like a child crossing his fingers behind his back. Clare couldn't change the law or the opinions of the majority of men, but she'd thought she found someone who could be trusted. She hadn't. The fact went through her like a knife.

“Perhaps you are mistaken,” the man of business tried. “Might you have misinterpreted some casual remark…?”

“Jamie was quite clear. He assumed I would change, and that made our… arrangement all right for him.”

Billingsley looked at the papers on his desk. He'd seen families wreck themselves over money, and it was always dreadful. “I can write this bank representative a letter correcting his misapprehension,” he said heavily. He hated the thought of getting between husband and wife. It had been a mistake, representing them both. His first impulse had been right. He ought to have refused to act until Clare found her own advocate.

Clare nodded. “But if Jamie speaks to others in the same way, what can I do? What actions can I take to prevent him?”

“I… I suppose I can give you a general letter, setting out the circumstances…”

“So I am reduced to proving my case over and over? Pulling out documents like a demented petitioner? Waving them under people's noses as they back away from me?”

“That is an exaggeration…”

It wasn't much of one, Clare thought. The world saw what it wanted to see, and a married woman in charge of her own fortune was not among the accepted versions of reality. “And if it doesn't work? If I am still treated like a child? Is there no way to make him stop?” Some part of Clare was aware that one small incident had been blown all out of proportion in her mind. But she couldn't seem to let it go.

“You could take Lord Trehearth to law,” Billingsley said with great reluctance.

“Go to court?”

He nodded. “But it would take a long time and be very expensive. Fortunes have been exhausted in the toils of the chancery court. And…”

“I might lose,” Clare finished, reading his expression.

“Court cases are chancy things. And, I must say, you have as yet no real cause for complaint. You have not been materially harmed. One reported conversation…”

She waved this aside. She had no intention of exposing her personal life to strangers in a courtroom. As she'd expected, she would have to find a way to solve this herself. She had gotten what she came for, confirmation that Billingsley remained reliable. “You will verify the arrangement to anyone I send to you?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Splendid.” Clare rose to go. “That is all I need at present.”

The desolate look on her face made Billingsley wonder if he should write to Lord Trehearth. But what would he say?

***

Selina was having a more pleasant visit at Martha Howland's London mansion. Martha had always been cordial while Selina was living with her aged aunt, treating Selina more like a friend than an employee. She was even more so at this social call. Stout, rouged, and dressed in the height of fashion, Martha had a round face creased more by smiles than any other expression. Her gray hair was crimped
à la mode
and covered with a wisp of lace. She made up for a lack of family with a keen interest in the doings of her friends. “You are in town with a new employer?” she asked Selina.

“No, with a young friend. I have… come into a competence and have no need for employment any longer.” At Trehearth, this change in her circumstances hadn't really sunk in. Now that she was in London again, Selina felt the full force of her financial freedom. She could order that gown to dazzle Edward. She could procure tickets to a play without an agony of careful calculation and the guilty sense that she should add the amount to her savings rather than squandering it on a night's entertainment.

“Congratulations, my dear. That's wonderful.”

“My friend, Lady Trehearth, is… ah… making a short stay in town. She had some business here, and she's… umm… interested in experiencing a bit of the season. Without taking the trouble of renting a place and setting up a household, you know.”

Martha's expression showed that she got the unspoken implication immediately. Selina was dangling for an invitation to stay. “Trehearth? I don't know the name. A respectable family, of course?”

“A fine estate in Cornwall.” It would be, Selina told herself, with all the repairs made. “Quite an ancient barony, I believe. And a comfortable fortune.”

“The husband?” Martha's arched brows rose.

“Occupied with improving his land.”

“One of those new agriculturists, I suppose.” Martha Howland grimaced. “What they can find to interest them in mud and turnips, I cannot conceive. Poor dear. Bring her to stay with me.”

“I admit I was hoping…”

“I know.” Martha gave her a sly smile. “It's a capital idea. I have nothing but empty bedchambers in this old pile.”

Her “old pile” was a large house near Grosvenor Square. Since she'd inherited her aunt's fortune, Martha Howland must be richer than ever. Selina suspected she was one of the richest women in the
haut
ton
. “Thank you. You're very kind.”

Her hostess waved this aside. “It will be a favor to me. The season is always much more interesting with a newcomer to introduce. I've had too many seasons myself. Gotten old and jaded.” She loosed one of her rolling laughs. “Where is your friend now? You should have brought her to call.”

“She had an appointment.”

“Well, bring her by tomorrow. In fact, go ahead and have your things sent over. Where are you staying?”

“Mivart's Hotel. Surely you wish to meet her first?”

“I trust your judgment completely, my dear Selina. Consider the matter settled.” Martha Howland leaned back in her comfortable armchair and settled in for a good gossip. “Tell me all about her.”

This was a game that Selina knew well. She'd observed it a thousand times, as she attended a series of old women and watched them chat with their callers. A vast, and vastly efficient, network of gossip underlay society, and much of it was informative rather than malicious. It allowed shortcuts, and wordless alignments of rivals and coalitions. It offered opportunities, like the one she now had to describe Clare and establish her friend's history as she wanted it to be known. Much as she liked Martha, Selina never forgot that she was speaking for public consumption, to position Clare in an intricate hierarchy of alliances. “Clare, Lady Trehearth, was married in January and has been down in Cornwall since then.”

“Oh my, no wonder she wants a bit of gaiety.”

Selina let this idea stand. “As I said, Lord Trehearth has a great deal to do on the estate. It had fallen somewhat into disrepair, you see…”

“And the gel had money,” finished Martha shrewdly.

Selina nodded.

“I wonder I haven't heard of her. Heiresses always create a stir. What was her name before she married?”

“Clare Greenough. She received an unexpected legacy from a great-uncle. She'd been working as a governess for several years before that.” There was no sense trying to hide this. Clare had been working in London, and someone would winkle it out. Better to tell the story herself and remove any whiff of secrecy or hint of shame.

“Greenough,” Martha mused. “Lincolnshire family?”

“I believe so.”

“Hah. I've heard the name. And this Trehearth fellow snatched her up before anyone else got a chance at her fortune? How'd he manage that?”

“Ah… they were introduced by a mutual friend.” Selina had heard Clare put it that way.

“A friend indeed. Unhappy match?” Martha was looking at her with uncomfortably canny blue eyes.

“No, it seems to be going well.” And so it had, right up to the last day or so. “But he is deeply involved in setting his estate to rights.”