The Marriage Mart (16 page)

Yet now she found she waited for another aerial display to pass into memory. Waited for her heart to skip a beat, or dance in celebration of her achievement, or do something other than doggedly beat on. But she could not make Charles wait forever, and her lips shaped the word and she answered, “Yes.”

His hand came over hers, squeezing gently. For a moment, she thought she might shake him off, might cry out “No!”, but the moment passed.

Even though her eyes became softly kissed with the dew of tears, she nodded to herself and knew a kind of gratitude to him, that he had made this offer to keep time, the days of their lives, with her. He would give her that for which she’d desired so long, and she would all she could to serve him well as a good wife.

If the moment was bittersweet, well, what more had she expected where useful calculation had filled the place of unavailable romance?

“We’ll tell the others on the way home.”

“Yes, very well,” she whispered, not aware she flinched every time another firework exploded over her head.

The next morning, Mary walked her horse beside John’s, and on her part she allowed a not completely uncomfortable silence to lie between them.

It was the first truly sunny day they’d had all season long, fulfilling last night’s promise that the unseasonal rain was at last ceasing. Finally the summer clouds had truly rolled away.

There was no possibility that either of them would avoid the rare day’s warming caress, but still Mary had been both elated and then sickened in her heart when John had come to her door and asked her to ride with him.

For, of course, she would have to tell him of the betrothal, and she dreaded that. Not that he would be upset--far from it, of course--but to speak of her betrothal aloud, to him, would then make it beyond doubt real. That the sun shone down on their heads so gaily seemed a cruel joke nature inflicted upon her mangled feelings.

She had come out with him at once, disdaining even to ask Mrs. Pennett to ride with them. In the carriage last night, after Charles had announced the engagement, his sister had crowed with delight, and Mrs. Pennett had beamed. Mary had said some things, heaven knew what, and she was fairly sure the tears she’d called happy ones might have been, in part, somewhat truly so… She
was
betrothed, and that was a great, good thing, surely…

But this morning, Gladys had come to Mary’s room unusually early, just after Mary’s morning tray had been brought up. The companion had inelegantly huffed down on the end of the bed, brows lowered.“You cried all night long,” Gladys had said piercingly.

Tea cup paused halfway to her mouth, Mary had winced, aggrieved to learn her storm of tears had not been well enough muffled. She’d cleared her throat. “It is emotional, becoming betrothed,” she had answered.

Gladys’s face had contorted in several different ways, but finally her shoulders had slumped. “I remember,” she said, making Mary feel unkind for reminding her she’d once been a nervous bride, too.

The dear lady had folded her hands together, a prayer-like gesture. “Is this what you want, my lady? This betrothal?”

“I do,” Mary said, now forcing herself to put down her cup and give Gladys a steady look--even if a smile was not quite possible.

Gladys stared her down for three long beats, gave a grimace that was quickly erased by force of will, and nodded. “I’m certain Lord Bretwyn is a fine man.” She nodded again, stood, gathered her far more usual poise, and dragged a smile to her lips. “Then, of course, I wish you every happiness, my lady.”

So, even though Mrs. Pennett had (almost graciously) given in to the inevitability of this marriage that Mary would also embrace, the latter had not invited her companion along today. Mary was, after all, a betrothed woman now, so she would allow herself this one little bit of leniency--a last time alone with John, completely alone.

Although Mary remained largely quiet as they strolled with reins in hands, John occasionally commented on what manner of bird was singing with gay abandon in a nearby tree, or stooped to see if a flower held any scent, or talked to his horse, assuring the beast he would have another chance to run soon. They’d chosen to ride the streets of London, and when they were outside of Mayfair, they’d elected to give the beasts their heads. It was not done, of course, and that had only made it all the more exhilarating. John had spoken of a quiet place not far from the density of town, and had led her in its direction as they’d allowed their horses to slow to a trot.

Now they’d dismounted to walk, letting the animals regain their wind, or perhaps it was themselves they wished to indulge a little. Mary grew in appreciation for the peacefulness of the day--it proved to be a balm to ruffled emotions and an unsteady mind.

She watched John as she led her horse by the reins, drinking in the sight of her dearest friend as she knew she would seldom, if ever, have the chance to do once she was married. Gladys had helped in that, in calming her, just by being another person who knew the most hidden secret in Mary’s heart. A heart she accepted she must determine, must train, to cherish a man other than this dear, special, beloved one.

She allowed shivers to run up and down her spine, not stifled nor dwelled upon, but merely a fact of life and time such as it was right now, just this minute. Today it was at first John’s hands she noted; they were strong, capable, their movements reflecting the wealth of knowledge and experience behind that well-formed forehead. His natural refinement was even seen in so little a thing as the way he held the reins--was there ever a more graceful man born? Then there was the way his long legs stretched out as he walked, the angle of his head as he listened to the sounds around him, how he lifted an arm to point out some place to her--everything filled her eyes, her ears, her thoughts, until she had to close her eyes and tell herself, yet again, to recall that invisible window between them, a window now well and truly frosted by the agreement she had made with Lord Bretwyn.

They came to a stretch of road flanked by only one house and dozens of large, old trees, and a little clearing on one side. It was plain John wished to stop and linger a while. There was a stone, big enough to sit on. She let him tie her horse to some low branches along with his, meanwhile claiming the stone and spreading her skirts wide, leaving him no room to sit beside her.

“Isn’t it curious to find such greenery here? We’re not even twenty minutes from Mayfair.”

“Indeed,” she said as she also gazed about. It was a lovely spot, the trees lowering their leaves in places so they almost touched the road.

He pointed. “However, if you walk a minute in that direction, you’ll find a pub, and beyond that what looks like a village. Not another minute from there, you’d swear you were back in the heart of London.”

She glanced about again. “That’s a pity. This little almost-park will be built over soon, I imagine.”

“Well, it’s our space for now,” he declared, and crossed to where she sat. He flicked aside a bit of her skirt, and took a seat beside her despite her machinations. She inched over, only to realize she’d run out of room. She stifled a sigh and accepted they were to sit with the lengths of their thighs touching.

A narrow rivulet ran in a depression between them and the road, having formed where only the many days of rain allowed for it. John bent, scooped up pebbles, and absently tossed them to disappear beneath the surface of the swift little current.

“You are quiet this morning,” he said, pausing at his task to look at her fully. The sunlight burnished his hair to copper, and his eyes were the exact same shade as the morning sky above him.

“I have something to tell you.”

“I thought as much. You are not going to tell me you are bored with my simplemindedly wicked ways, are you? I shall try harder to be more deviant, if you should so desire.”

She smiled then, and shook her head gently. It took her a moment to find the words, but at length she said quietly, “Charles has asked me to marry him.”

For a moment he did nothing, not even to take a breath, but then he began throwing pebbles again. “Did you give him an answer?” he asked, staring at the place where the stones disappeared from sight.

“I said yes.”

He nodded a few times, concise little nods. “I must be the first to wish you happy then,” he said, suddenly coming to his feet. He leaned forward, rather stiffly, like a boy made to greet an unpopular aunt, and pressed a kiss upon Mary’s right cheek. “Charles is a lucky man,” he said as he stood up straight. “May you know every joy together, my dear.”

He stepped back, giving one final throw, ridding his hands of the last of the pebbles. She gave him a wavery smile, which faded quickly. Before her throat tightened completely, she managed to get out, “Thank you.”

He took a few steps around the clearing. Suddenly he stopped to say, “Well, this rather changes things, does it not? Bretwyn would not care to have me forever whisking you off to one escapade or another, I feel sure. But not to worry. I shall take myself a wife, and the four of us may arrange to have our paths cross frequently.”

“I should…” She blinked furiously, refusing the tears pricking at her eyes, refusing to admit to herself she had wished for something much different than words of congratulations from him. Silly, of course, to have even pretended, even imagined he might declare his own affection for her ran too deep to allow her to marry another. Oh, yes, it was a foolish dream, one she had rightfully dismissed from the  first moment they’d met, And, yet, bidden or not, a dream that has been extinguished must result in some pain, as if the ashes of her hopes were what caused her eyes to smart so sharply. “I should like that,” she managed to say.

“Well, it’s time we headed back, isn’t it?” he said briskly. He crossed to her horse, and stood at the ready. “Come, I’ll help you mount.”

He cupped his hands, ready for the foot she slid there after shakily rising to her feet. The feel of his hands on her--she could swear she felt them even through her half-boot--was an unexpected agony. She had to close her eyes and not think, and trust he would not throw her over the saddle. Once settled, albeit after a wild thump, she dared to open her eyes, only to find him staring up at her. “Mary? Are you hurt?”

“Jitters,” she said through gritted teeth. “Wedding jitters, ’tis all.”

“I can believe it. When I think of taking my own vows, I nearly faint with-- Mary!” he cried as she suddenly kicked her horse and flipped the reins, causing the animal to surge past him.

“It’s a race. Meet you at Regent Park!” she called over her shoulder. Perhaps, by the time he caught up with her, the fast pace would explain her flushed face and teary eyes.

But when he had nearly ridden abreast of her, suddenly the sight of his precious face, of the habitual amusement in his eyes, of even just the way he lifted a hand to hail her, was more than she could bear. “I must be off. I shall see you later, John,” she called, again spurring her horse forward, away from those earthly eyes of a fallen angel, lightest blue and clever, too clever to deceive for long when tears choked her throat.

When she arrived home, she found her companion waiting for her in her room.

“You’ve been riding with Lord Rothayne?” Mrs. Pennett asked.

Her questioning look was at once replaced by concern when she saw her charge’s lower lip quiver. Mary tried to bluff for a moment, but then the tears slid from her eyes, and she found herself in Gladys’s caring arms. Gladys made some distressed noises over Mary’s bowed and weeping head, and went on to murmur, “Hush now, love. Life is peculiar. Time will soften the hurt. It’ll change your heart. Lord Bretwyn and you shall suit just fine, you’ll see. Hush now.” But there were tears in her eyes as well, tears for Mary’s heartache, and tears of regret that she’d done too little, or perhaps too much, to prevent this day’s anguish.

***

“Sir Edmund. Lady Yardley.” John cast about for something else to say as he entered their home, but in the end was glad when the lady of the house filled the void.

“Oh, quite well, my lord. And all the better for your unexpected visit today,” Sir Edmund said.

One corner of John’s mouth rose in a ghost of a smile. “I am welcome then?” he asked, knowing that if they noted the slight hint of sarcasm in his tone, they would choose to ignore it.

“Of course, of course. Always,’ Lady Yardley answered. “Allow me to let Annalee know you are here. I won’t be but a minute.”

It was, in fact, ten minutes before the lady reappeared, her freshly dressed and coifed daughter in tow. John blinked, keeping his face free of his amazement to see the girl wearing dampened draperies at ten in the morning. Of course it was all the style, but one seldom encountered the look in broad daylight. If he’d had any doubts before, now it was quite clear to him--and indeed anyone in the world who should happen to enter the room--that Miss Annalee Yardley was endowed with sweetly rounded breasts, set high, the posture and position of her dark nipples only half-obscured. Gone was the bit of lace that might have hid her cleavage. Gone was the shawl that might have hinted at but never actually revealed, as now, the bounty beneath the shimmering gauze of her gown. John found himself pressing his lips together, and a glance at Sir Edmund showed him that the fellow took it as a sign of appreciation, rather than the truer act of struggling to suppress a guffaw.

He began to have a sense of how young female lovelies must feel when they were blatantly wooed and pursued by those of his own gender. It was not a comfortable thing, this forwardness of manner, not for the recipient.

That thought sobered him, for he knew full well it was possible that Miss Annalee wanted him for little more than his title and his comely countenance. Was this fetching creature old enough to even desire the comfort and security of a loving relationship? Was she, in fact, old enough to
love?

“I wondered if I might have a stroll about the garden with you again, Miss Yardley?” he asked blatantly.

“Certainly, certainly,” interjected her father as the lady in question took on a glowing look of eagerness. “You wouldn’t care for a brandy first, would you?” Sir Edmund added, obviously hoping to take John aside long enough to grant his blessings.

“It’s a bit too early for me, sir,” John replied drolly, verbally sidestepping the invitation.

The lord and his lady exchanged looks. “I’ll see if I can locate Miss Russell,” Lady Yardley said, referring to the oft absent chaperone. Lady Yardley moved from the room at once.
No doubt to an upstairs window,
John thought to himself, there to watch them walk the lengths of the garden. From such a vantage point, the companion and the mama could determine together whether or not the precious daughter of the house was actually in need of--or handicapped by--the company of her companion.