The Marquis Takes a Bride (2 page)

He also enjoyed Jennie’s uncritical adoration and in return brought her presents, told her there was no one in London to match her beauty and also tried to instill into her young brain his own peculiar moral code. Jennie, now on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, believed that one could do almost anything one liked provided one was not found out. Being found out, Guy would say, was a heinous crime. Marriage, Jennie learned, was the best future for a woman—not because she should fall in love and wish to have children, but because she would be free from the restrictions imposed on a single girl and be immediately able to set up a flirt. Women who were faithful to their husbands, Guy had told her, were the women who were too plain to catch the eye of anyone else.

And Jennie would drink in all this and believe every word. Having a lover, in Jennie’s mind, was simply having someone to flirt and intrigue with, as she flirted and intrigued with Guy.

She was walking in the gardens of the Manor, hoping Guy would arrive in time for her birthday as he had promised, when she heard her grandfather’s peremptory bark echoing through the open windows of the Blue Saloon, “Jennie, fetch your grandmother and bring her here. We want to talk to you.”

Jennie looked startled. Her grandparents hardly ever wanted to see her about anything—anything, that is, that would involve the presence of both of them.

Her grandmother, she knew, would be in the still room and so she made her way there, secretly beginning to hope that her grandparents had actually, for once, bought her a birthday present.

Lady Priscilla was weaving around the still room with a vague sweet smile on her face. She had been making ice by putting equal parts of ether and water in a metal jug and then applying an air pump to the mixture. As usual, she had forgotten to open the little window in the still room and had knocked herself silly with the ether fumes.

With the ease of long practice, Jennie tugged open the window, placed a cover over the jug, stoppered the ether and supported her grandmother from the room.

Once they had reached the great hall, Lady Priscilla had recovered enough to straighten her cap and ask Jennie in an impatient voice what it was she wanted.

“Grandfather wants me to bring you to the Blue Saloon,” said Jennie.

“Oh… yes… that,” said Lady Priscilla, banging the side of her head with her hand to bring her weak eyes back into focus. “Most important, my dear. Follow me.”

Jennie meekly followed her grandmother into the Blue Saloon, a great room which looked out onto the shaggy lawns at the front of the house. A few threadbare rugs holding stands of spindly tables and chairs were dotted like islands here and there on the expanse of sanded floor. The Bemyss ancestors stared down from their blackened canvases and dingy gold frames.
Several clocks ticked away busily, set at every hour but the right one, and at least six dogs snored and wheezed and whooped as they chased rabbits in their sleep.

Lord Charles looked up as they came into the room.

He was a heavily built man with a florid face and rather protruding pale blue eyes. He was wearing a powdered wig, slightly askew, and was dressed like a farmer with his stocky, muscular legs encased in gaiters.

Lady Priscilla, by contrast, was pale and wispy and always seemed to have things trailing from her body—a thin, wispy gauze stole, a long limp glove held in one hand, limp streamers hanging from her unstarched cap or simply loose threads trailing from the hem of her gown.

“Sit down, Jennie,” barked his lordship. All the comfortable chairs were occupied by dogs so Jennie took a hard camel-back chair near the window where the sweet, cool air of the evening blew in and banished the smell of dog—from that little area of the room at least.

“You’re eighteen years old tomorrow, ain’t you?” demanded his lordship, reluctantly putting down the latest edition of the
Sporting Magazine
(“Of the Transactions of the Turf, the Chase, and every other Diversion Interesting to the Man of Pleasure and Enterprise”) and fixing his pale blue eyes on his granddaughter.

Jennie nodded and sat demurely on the edge of her chair with her hands in her lap. What present would they give her? Jewelry perhaps!

Then Lord Charles dropped his bombshell.

“You’re to be betrothed tomorrow, Jennie. You’re a lucky girl. He’s a fine young man.”

A delicate pink suffused Jennie’s face.

“Guy,” she breathed. “Oh, Grandpapa. I shall remember this birthday until the day I die.”

“What’s that?” barked his lordship. “Guy? Don’t be silly, girl. As if I would let you marry your first cousin. Country’s going to rack and ruin and d’ye know why? Damned inbreeding, that’s what it is. You’re not marrying any first cousin, my girl, and producing a lot of totty-headed inbred brats. You’re to marry Lord Cyril Chelmsford Branwell, fourth Marquis of Charrington. He’s coming here tomorrow and we’re signing the marriage settlements. So make sure you take a bath and put on some clean linen,” added Lord Charles, who hardly ever did either himself.

“And if I refuse?” said Jennie in a dangerously quiet voice.

“What’s that? Refuse? Nonsense. No question of it. Was all fixed by your dear Ma and Papa when you was in your cradle. You can’t do nothing about it.”

“I won’t. I won’t.
I won’t
,” said Jennie, her voice rising to a scream and her little heels beginning to drum against the floor.

“Grandmama!” she stormed at that lady, “you cannot allow this to happen.”

“But it has, my dear… or is… or will be,” said Lady Priscilla vaguely. Her stomach gave a sudden violent rumble and she stared down at it in surprise.

“Did we eat dinner, my dear?” she inquired plaintively of her lord. “I cannot remember.”

“We ate at four o’clock, you idiot,” said Lord Charles. “I remember it quite distinctly. It was a French stew of green peas and bacon.”

“You’re quite right, my dear,” said his wife. “It was a very good pot beef with tomata catsup.”

“Fool! French stew!”

“Oh, no, my love,” replied his wife with maddening patience. “I remember now perfectly, don’t I Caesar?” Caesar, a large wolfhound, gave a hiccup and a snore. “Dear doggie,” cried Lady Priscilla. “Caesar says it was pot beef.”

“Tcha! You’ve got windmills in your head.”

“Enough!
Stop!
” cried Jennie desperately. “This is ridiculous.”

“Quite right!” said Lord Charles in surprise. “Not often you agree with me, Jennie. As if that damned dog could remember anything. He can’t remember
me
. Bit me the other day.”

“You sat on him,” pointed out his wife.

“I mean,” shouted Jennie, “that I am
not
going to marry this Marquis. I am
not!
”

Lord Charles picked up his magazine.

“If you do not promise me that you will immediately cancel these absurd marriage plans, I… I shall
kill
myself,” shouted Jennie.

“I have a very, very special bone for you, my love,” murmured Lady Priscilla, patting Caesar’s shaggy head.

Jennie threw up her hands in despair. “I shall hold my breath!” she yelled as a last resort.

There was a short silence while Jennie held her breath and Lady Priscilla murmured sweet nothings to the dog and Lord Charles read his magazine.

Suddenly Lord Charles put down his
Sporting Magazine
and looked across at his granddaughter, who was slowly turning purple.

“You know,” he said in a kindly voice. “I ain’t paid you much attention, Jennie. But you’re a fine looking girl. Like to see a girl with a bit of color in her cheeks.”

“Ooooh!”
said Miss Jennie Bemyss, letting out her breath in a hiss of rage. “You do not care what becomes of me.”

“I care,” said a light voice from the doorway.

“Guy!” cried Jennie, throwing herself into his arms and gazing up at his tanned, handsome face. “I am so glad to see you. I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Oh Guy they are going to marry me off to some Marquis!”

“Easy now,” said Mr. Guy Chalmers, gently taking Jennie’s clutching hands from his lapels. “Come and walk with me in the garden and tell me all about it.”

“Good evening, sir,” he said to Lord Charles. “I’m just going for a walk in the garden with Jennie.”

“Oh, it’s you, is it,” said his lordship, ungraciously, and then his ears almost seemed to prick up as Guy rustled a paper in his pocket.

“I say,” said Lord Charles, with rare enthusiasm, “you haven’t, have you?”

“Yes, I have,” grinned Guy, drawing a paper twist of chocolate drops from his pocket. He gave them to Lord Charles, who immediately began to munch happily, and then Guy tucked Jennie’s hand in his arm and led her out to the garden.

Jennie had begun to sob quietly so he put an arm around her shoulders and walked her a little way from the house, waiting until she should recover enough to tell him her news.

The evening was very still. The dark layers of the cedars stood out against a pale primrose sky and the reed-choked waters of the once ornamental lake reflected a pale crescent of moon.

“Now, what is it?” asked Guy, “or are you going to cry all night? You look like a little rabbit when you cry, all pink nose and red eyes.”

That had at least the effect of drying Jennie’s tears and she proceeded to pour out the story of her betrothal into Guy’s astonished ears.

When she had finished, he whistled silently. “The Marquis of Charrington,” he said. “You could have done a lot worse, Jennie. He’s as rich as Golden Ball and no end of a dandy.”

“You-you t-told me that all d-dandies were effete,” said Jennie, beginning to sob again.

“Yes, yes, forget that,” said Guy impatiently. “But only think of the clothes and the jewels you’ll have, Jennie. And you’ll be in London and be able to see me an awful lot.”

“But I thought… I mean… but I want to marry you!” she blurted out.

“It wouldn’t answer,” said Guy, smiling down at her and giving her a reassuring hug. “My pockets are to let. Besides, I’m your first cousin. But, think of the freedom you’ll have as a married woman.”

Jennie only gave a pathetic little sob.

“Listen,” urged Guy in rallying tones. “You can have me as your first flirt and we’ll cut a dash. Smartest couple in town.”

A note of real fear crept into her voice as she whispered, “But how will I be able to face living with a man I do not know? What of the intimate side of marriage?”

“That’s easy,” laughed Guy. “Chemmy Charrington—Chemmy’s his nickname—has the reputation of being the sleepiest and most amiable man about town. Cares for nothing but his clothes. He probably don’t want this marriage any more than you do. So you tell him it’s a marriage of convenience and that you won’t interfere with his pursuits. He’ll agree to it, I’m sure.”

“Oh, do you think so, Guy?” breathed Jennie with relief. “What does he look like?”

“He’s quite old,” said Guy. “About thirty-five. A great quiz of a fellow. All tricked out in foppish finery. He can’t care much for the ladies or he’d have been married a long time ago instead of keeping to this odd betrothal.
Now
do you feel better?”

“Oh,
yes
. Oh, Guy, I do love you so,” said Jennie, gazing worshipfully up into his face.

“Silly puss,” he said in a teasing voice. He drew her into his arms and kissed her.

Guy had often kissed Jennie before but this time it was different. Her emotions overset by the shock of her betrothal, Jennie kissed Guy back with all the passion of a young woman.

When he finally drew away, he looked down at her in surprise. “Why little Jennie, how you’ve grown!” he said in a husky voice.

Then with a smile, he took her hand and began to lead her back to the house.

“All will be well,” he told Jennie, “fashionable marriages have great advantages.”

He gave a great cackle of laughter and stopped and looked down at her. “Believe me, my darling, there will be nothing like it!”

Chemmy, fourth Marquis of Charrington, descended cautiously from his high perch phaeton, and stood looking thoughtfully at the ivy-covered front of Runbury Manor.

“Bad drains, John,” he said to his groom. “Or perhaps they do not have any.”

“Don’t think so, my lord,” grinned his groom with the easy familiarity of an old servant. “Folks say Lord Charles won’t spend a penny on repairs so it stands to reason he won’t have done much about the plumbing.”

The Marquis took out a scented lace handkerchief and held it to his nose. “Perhaps there is no one at home,” he said hopefully. “Our arrival does not seem to be expected. Ring the bell, John.”

“Ain’t got one,” said the groom, banging on the knocker.

The door was cautiously opened to reveal one of the oldest footmen the Marquis had ever seen. He was stooped and wrinkled and dressed in the livery he must have worn as a young man.

Chemmy presented his card which the footman stared at for what seemed a very long time.

“This way, my lord,” he finally said.

He led the way across a large, bare, dark hall, flung open the double doors and ushered Chemmy into the Blue Saloon.

It was, thought the Marquis, rather like entering Madame Tussaud’s waxworks museum. Lord Charles and Lady Priscilla sat side by side on hard upright chairs facing the doors. Like their footman, their clothes seemed to date from the late eighteenth century. Lord Charles wore a brocade coat, a full-bottomed wig and knee breeches. His lady was attired in a faded gold
sac
dress with long filmy threads drifting from it and on her head she wore a high, powdered wig, reminiscent of Madame Pompadour.

A very pretty young girl sat a little way from them on another hard chair. She at least was dressed in the current mode, wearing a sprigged muslin dress tied under her bosom with long pink ribbons. There was a tapestry frame in front of her and she sat very still, staring at the Marquis with her needle poised. A young man dressed in the Corinthian fashion stood rigidly at attention beside the fireplace.

The only comfortable chairs in the room were occupied by several somnolent dogs.

Four pairs of eyes stared fixedly at the Marquis.

The Marquis of Charrington was a very tall, powerfully built man and despite his great height he moved with easy, rather languid grace. He was dressed in correct formal attire, blue swallowtail coat with large steel buttons, worn open to reveal an embroidered cambric shirt, rose-colored waistcoat and intricate cravat. His legs were encased in skin-tight biscuit pantaloons and his hessian boots shone in the dusty sunlight permeating through the dingy windows. He carried his cane and curly brimmed beaver in one hand and a scented lace handkerchief in the other. His face was handsome but without much animation, his vivid blue eyes betraying only an expression of sleepy amiability. He had a high-bridged autocratic nose and his thick fair hair was cut in a fashionable Brutus crop.