The Marriage Act (3 page)

“It worried me a great deal,” she admitted, a little of the archness going out of her manner, “but I lived very quietly there, and Papa never has cause to travel to Surrey.”

“Hmm.” He wasn’t sure what
lived very quietly
meant, but he had to admit he’d never heard a breath of scandal about her. If nothing else, she knew how to be discreet. He was thankful for that small mercy. “Does Ronnie know about this deception?”

“He knows I’d prefer my father to think I was with you in Vienna, so as not to worry him. He’s been tactful enough not to ask why you left me behind in the first place. I think he believes it was a purely practical arrangement, so I could look after your interests while you were out of the country. But then Ronnie always insists on thinking the best of you.”

Good old Ronnie. It amazed John that his young half brother had wound up so good-natured and loyal when Ronnie’s mother had done her utmost to sow discord between them. But then, John had always been fond of Ronnie. He could remember leaning over his cradle when Ronnie was only a few months old, making faces until Ronnie laughed. He’d got it down to a science, knowing exactly which faces were sure to draw a happy gurgle. One of the worst things about being sent away at the age of thirteen had been knowing that by the time he came back, Ronnie would probably have forgotten him.

“How did your father write to you if he thought you were in Vienna, and how did you write to him?”

“I instructed him to send his letters to your solicitor—well,
a
solicitor, a Mr. Chadwick—and pretended Mr. Chadwick arranged to include them with the diplomatic dispatches. I told Papa the letters would reach me more quickly and more safely that way. And I pretended my letters to him traveled in much the same fashion, entering England with the diplomatic pouch and then passing to your solicitor, who was also your man of business and handled all of your personal correspondence in your absence.”

John was torn between disapproval and admiration. He’d known she was devious, but engaging a solicitor for the sole purpose of cozening her father? It was hard to credit she was really the daughter of a bishop and not the offspring of a criminal mastermind. He half expected her to pull out a pistol at some point on their journey, clap it to his temple and threaten,
Your money or your life.

“The difficulty was what to do about your frank,” she went on. “It made sense you would’ve franked the letters before adding them to the dispatches, rather than leaving your solicitor to supply the postage—”

He sat forward in alarm. “Tell me you didn’t forge my frank.”

“Do give me some credit,” she said with a pinched expression. “I know it’s a crime.”

“A very serious crime. A
capital
crime.”

“I’ve already said I didn’t do it.”

He sat back and let out a slow breath. “Good.”

“I wrote that you were a high stickler and didn’t believe in using your frank for anything except government business. I played it off as one of your endearing little quirks, that you should be so strict about such things even with your own wife, but the more I thought about it the more it seemed like something you
would
do.”

In other words, he was rigid and uncompromising. “I suppose some of us are more generous with our favors than others.”

She was silent a moment, then replied frostily, “And some of us are so ungallant as to stoop to insult.”

She had him there. It
had
been rather uncalled-for, given that they’d gone a full five minutes in civil conversation. “I’m sorry,” he said with no little reluctance. “I should have kept that thought to myself.”

They sat in strained silence for the next eight miles, over Maida Hill and through Kilburn Wells, until they reached Edgware and stopped to rest and water the horses.

Chapter Four

There is
,
indeed
,
nothing that so much seduces reason from vigilance
,
as the thought of passing life with an amiable woman.

—Samuel Johnson

The yard at The White Hart was busy, with two wagons, a gig and a stagecoach present, and a handful of travelers going in and out of the inn. Welford planned to stop for only a quarter of an hour, so after a brief turn about the inn yard to stretch her legs Caro returned to the carriage. She had to admit, if only to herself, that Welford had been right to prefer the Edgware Road. They were making excellent progress and would likely reach St. Albans before they would need to change horses.

Two more days, and she should be with her father at her uncle’s house in Kegworth. What would she find waiting for her there? She was afraid to imagine the possibilities—that Papa might be bedridden, gasping for breath, gray-complexioned. She would have to put on a brave face for his sake, but how would she bear seeing him that way? She’d let more than five good years slip by, never visiting him once.

She could never excuse such a lapse, not when she had the best and dearest papa any girl could ask for, one as good and wise as he was kind. Many children had parents they admired, but her father was beloved by everyone he met. He’d taken on no end of good causes—establishing a visiting society to relieve the poor in Essex, raising money to build the new hospital for the unfortunate inmates of Bedlam, championing the efforts of the Ladies’ Association for the Reformation of the Female Prisoners in Newgate to establish a school for inmates’ children, raising a public subscription for the widows of shipwrecked sailors, opening a shelter for the poor in winter...The list went on and on.

She’d always been proud and a little awed to see him dressed in his imposing clerical robes—the rochet with its voluminous white lawn sleeves, and over it the black silk chimere and white Geneva bands. At the time of his consecration, he’d been the youngest bishop in the Church. He might even have become Archbishop of Canterbury by now, if he hadn’t divided his time so carefully between his devotion to his calling and his devotion to his family. How many times as a little girl had she sat in his lap, playing with his pocket watch or falling asleep in his arms as he worked on a sermon or wrote a letter to one of his clergy? He’d been both mother and father to her after her mother died.

Papa had never openly played favorites, but Caro knew just the same that she held that place in his heart—the youngest of four children, and the only girl. He sometimes called her “
cara mia
,” a play on her name that meant
my beloved
in Italian. He’d liked to take her with him when he traveled, pride shining in his eyes whenever he introduced her to his friends and colleagues.

“Have you met my lovely daughter?” he would say. “That I should be the father of such a beauty is surely proof that miracles are possible.”

She would blush and protest “Oh, Papa!” but she loved every word.

And he’d never once forgotten her birthday—even in the years since her wedding, he’d sent her a gift every June, always something personal like a piece of jewelry or a book selected just for her. The first wretched year of her marriage, only two weeks after Welford had left her for Vienna, one of the first things the solicitor had intercepted had been her birthday present—a brilliant green parrot that hopped gaily about its cage and whistled “Au Clair de la Lune,” almost as if her father had guessed how desperately she craved company.

He’d done so much for her and loved her so faithfully. She wanted to be the kind of daughter he deserved, but she hadn’t tried nearly hard enough.

Not that it was easy, measuring up to the affection of the beloved Bishop of Essex. He’d sometimes chided her for being too impulsive, but if he only knew all the many ways she’d fallen short, all her failings great and small—the fibs, the times she’d nodded off in church, the irritability, the occasional rudeness—how disappointed in her he would be. And if he knew the worst of it, that she’d conceived a grand passion for a fickle young militia officer and ruined her marriage over it...She shuddered.

As much as she hated to admit it, she owed Welford her thanks for the way he’d caught up to her on their wedding night, stopping her before she could board the stagecoach that would have taken her to Lawrence Howe. There were days when she hated him for having dragged her out of that inn, but then there were days like today, when she was grateful she hadn’t entirely burned her bridges. As unhappy as her marriage was, at least she hadn’t made herself into a social pariah. She could still see her father and, as long as Welford kept his word, pretend that all was well.

The horses must be almost ready, reinvigorated with water and a wisp of hay. Caro peered out the carriage window, checking on the gentlemen. Welford was talking with his valet, who’d actually made him
laugh
about something. Strange how he looked almost like a different man when he laughed—quite a handsome man, really, and one who’d definitely caught the eye of the young lady who’d arrived in the gig, though Welford didn’t appear to have noticed.

At loose ends, Ronnie had picked up three horse chestnuts from beneath a tree and was attempting to juggle them. He dropped them more often than he caught them, but at last he succeeded in keeping all three in the air for several protracted seconds. His eyes on his task, he moved backward with his efforts to keep the chestnuts aloft. One step, two, three—

Not looking where he was going, Ronnie backed into the path of a middle-aged woman as she emerged from the inn, bumping into her and causing her to drop the basket she was carrying.

“Young sir!” she cried angrily. “Watch where you’re going. You’ve made me lose my pie and cider!”

“Have I?” Ronnie said with a look of dismay, tossing the horse chestnuts to the ground. “Oh, dash it, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you—”

Welford moved in, picking up the woman’s basket for her. “Go back to Argos, Ronnie,” he said firmly. “And if you plan on attempting to juggle again, do keep away from axes and flaming torches.” He turned his attention to the outraged woman. “Allow me to make recompense for my half brother’s carelessness. Would half a crown suffice?”

“Half a crown?” At the sum, the two spots of angry color on the woman’s cheeks faded. “Bless you, sir, it didn’t cost half that much.”

Welford reached into his waistcoat pocket. “Please. I insist.”

Her round face splitting into a smile, she accepted the silver coin with a deep curtsy. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure your brother didn’t mean any harm.”

“Half brother,” he corrected her. “And I’m grateful for your kind forbearance.” He touched his beaver hat to her before turning back to the carriage.

“I’m sorry,” Ronnie said, dogging Welford’s steps in an attempt to issue an apology. “I didn’t mean to crash into her that way.”

“You never mean to do anything,” Welford said evenly. “I thought I told you to go back to Argos. You’ve caused quite enough damage for one day, and we’re only on our first stop.”

“Yes, but I—”

“That’s enough, Ronnie. You’re not a child anymore. Try to remember that.”

Caro watched, angry for Ronnie’s sake. Welford might have been more patient with him, and more careful not to embarrass him in public.

Soon they were all back in their places and on their way again. Caro sat stone-faced, fuming.

Welford studied her from his side of the carriage. They hadn’t gone far before he asked, “Is something on your mind?”

She glared at him. “You were horrid to Ronnie back there.”

“I was hardly horrid to him. I scolded him, and not very severely.”

“You embarrassed him.”

“I would say he embarrassed himself, walking backward into that woman.”

“And you insisted on pointing out he’s not your brother but your half brother. Why? Are you so ashamed of him?”

“Ashamed of him?” Welford’s dark brows rose in evident surprise. “Certainly not.”

“Then why do you deny him that way?”

“Deny him...” Welford echoed as if the words were foreign to him. His forehead furrowed. “Is that how it sounds to you?”

“That’s how it sounds to
everyone
. Ronnie most of all, I’ve no doubt. He never complains, since Ronnie would sooner cut out his tongue than say a word against you, but it has to hurt him.”

Welford looked dumbfounded. “That can’t be true.”

“Of course it’s true. You make quite a point of correcting people when they call him your brother.”

“Yes, but...” Welford frowned. “If I point out that Ronnie is my half brother, it has nothing to do with my opinion of Ronnie.”

“Well then, why do it?”

“Because...”

“Because?” she demanded.

Welford hesitated a moment before saying with evident reluctance, “Because of my mother.”

“What do you mean?”

At her tenacity, he sighed and answered, “When my mother died, I was all the family she had left to mourn her. My father remarried within three months—he had an eleven-year-old son to raise, he liked to point out, as if I’d left him with no other choice. And my stepmother was...less than fond of me.” He crossed his arms. “My father never spoke of my mother, he never wrote of her, he even took down her portrait at Halewick. So when I point out that Ronnie is my half brother, it’s not because I wish to slight Ronnie. It’s because I had a mother of my own, one I prefer to remember.”

“And because you wished to annoy your stepmama as well?” Caro said, wondering what
less than fond
meant and why Welford’s face had looked so stormy when he said it. His quarrelsome relationship with his stepmother had been an open secret, but as far as Caro could tell, Lady Welford had been guilty of little more than spending too freely. “She’s been dead two years. Have you never thought how it must sound to Ronnie?”

“He was still in his cradle when I began referring to him that way. I never imagined it signified.”

“Of course it signifies. And given that there was so little love lost between you and his mother, I daresay he must wonder how you feel about him.”

Welford looked vaguely shocked. “My stepmother’s manner toward me was hardly Ronnie’s doing.”

“I’m relieved you feel that way. I’ve wondered myself whether you might dislike him.”

“Dislike him?” Welford echoed, frowning. “I disapprove of his conduct at times. There’s a difference.”

“You disapprove of his conduct a great deal.”

He gave her an annoyed look. “If I seem hard on him, it’s because I want him to make something of himself. His mother petted and cosseted him when she was alive, but he can’t go through life expecting to have everything handed to him.”

Petted and cosseted?
Of course Welford would say that. He had no understanding of normal human affection.

Poor Ronnie, not only losing his mama, but forced now to live under the thumb of an autocratic brother. Even if Welford hadn’t intended to embarrass Ronnie, he was far from being a fond and indulgent sibling. Instead he was forever making unreasonable demands and imposing arbitrary punishments—nothing like her own brothers, who’d been jolly and affectionate and more apt to save her from her own folly than to criticize her for it. Just because Welford was older and had had the good fortune to inherit didn’t make him Ronnie’s jailer. “Is it really necessary to be so strict?”

“I don’t believe I am, unless by
strict
you mean holding him accountable for his actions. Has it escaped your notice he was rusticated for failing what amounts to a relatively simple examination?”

“Obviously it hasn’t escaped yours.”

“And you think I should merely laugh the matter off?” Welford shook his head. “People can’t live without rules or limits. I’ve seen the kind of chaos that creates. Ronnie is in my charge, and I won’t have him heading down the wrong path, throwing away his opportunities.”

“He’s young,” she insisted. “Did you never do anything foolish when you were young?”

Welford stared out the carriage window. “I did something exceedingly foolish. I asked the wrong woman to marry me.”

Well, she’d walked into that trap. Now he could add carelessness to her myriad faults. “I don’t believe you were ever truly young. I think you were born middle-aged. That’s why I couldn’t conceive of staying with you.”

Welford was silent, his only reaction the flicker of a muscle in his jaw.

Why did she bother trying to reason with him? This was the punishment she’d brought on herself, standing up in church and marrying a man she didn’t love. He would never give her a divorce—God forbid they should drag his family name through the courts—and he looked fit to live another sixty years. There was nothing to look forward to with him except a lifetime of cold, obstinate resentment.

But, strangely enough, when they stopped to rest the horses again in Medburn, Welford was considerably kinder to Ronnie, asking his opinion of the pace they’d set and even telling him he’d become a fine rider.

* * *

After negotiating the sharp turn and the hill into St. Albans, they reached the Holyhead Road just after noon. They stopped at The Peahen to hire a new team and take some refreshment. Paying the ostler as they prepared to leave, John came across a creased and singed piece of paper tucked amid his banknotes.

There was no point in taking it out and reading it, since he already knew what it said. It was the letter Caroline had left for him on their wedding night.

Dear Lord Welford John Welford,

I realize this will cause a Terrible Scandal and I am sorry for it, but I am leaving you. I should never have agreed to marry you, since I am in love with Lieutenant Lawrence Howe of the Essex Militia. I only said Yes to make him wish he had asked me instead.

I know it is Horridly Shocking and Expensive to obtain a Divorce but if you do I shall not mind the Disgrace.

Your regretful &c,

Caro Fleetwood

P.S. I am taking Half of the money (£2.11s.2d.) that was in your coat pocket. I will repay you if I can.

He had no idea why he’d kept the letter all this time, still less why he should be carrying it around with him. Whenever he came across it he asked himself why he was holding on to her note as if it were some precious memento instead of the single most galling missive he’d ever received. But he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away, and the one time he’d tossed it on the fire he’d immediately reconsidered and plucked it from the flames, burning his fingers in the process.