Gayle Buck (15 page)

Once she had composed herself for sleep, she discovered that sleep was eluding her as determinedly as peace.

She rose, shivering in the cool night air, and slipped on a robe over her gown. She crossed the darkened bedroom to her window and parted the muslin curtains. Laying her forehead against the cool glass, she murmured, “Dear Lord, whatever am I to do?”

“La, Mary! There’s practical and then there’s pound foolish.”

Mary glanced about her sharply, even though she knew that the amused voice sounded only in her imagination. “Oh, do be quiet, Tabitha,” she told the mind’s-eye image of her sister. “What know you of it, after all?”

In her imagination, her sister tossed her head, and a familiar gleam lit Tabitha’s eyes. “I married the man I wanted. Why shouldn’t you?”

Mary stared out of the dark window, the question echoing in her mind.

Chapter 14

After a week of vacillating, of weighing the positive aspects against the worst factors, of being borne up by high-winging happiness, then plunged into the chasms of fear and uncertainty, Mary finally decided, somewhat timorously, to accept the viscount’s proposal. She would be staking her future on a rare risk that, as her father’s daughter, she was aware was foolhardy.

Yet she knew in her heart that she would never love another. Her sometimes regrettable levelheadedness assured her of that certainty. Perhaps, given the chance, she could cause the viscount to come to love her as well. As her father had said, many marriages began with less and she at least had the advantage of knowing her own heart.

Mr. Pepperidge was delighted by her decision, and added, “I am confident that you shall have no reason to ever regret it, my dear. I have done as we discussed and looked into his lordship’s private affairs. He is indeed in desperate straits and it will cost me a pretty penny to bring him about, I make no doubt. However, I was encouraged to learn that Lord St. John is apparently not the profligate his parent was before him, having it on excellent authority that he has been making a push to save his birthright, Rosethorn Hall. I gather it is a snug property, greatly neglected in past years and hopelessly mortgaged, of course, but held by his lordship in such esteem that the restricted rents he derives are put straight back into the land. I therefore consider it to be a moderately safe investment on my part to bring his lordship to safe port.”

Mary laughed, shaking her head at her father’s manner of expression. “I know you to be too shrewd to put your money into a foolhardy venture, so I am reassured indeed. Lord St. John will undoubtedly prove to be an excellent husband for me.”

“I hope that he may be that indeed, Mary, for you know that my fondest wish is for your happiness,” said Mr. Pepperidge.

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Indeed, and I do know it. I promise you, Papa, I shall be as happy as I can contrive.”

“Good girl,” he approved. He rubbed his hands together as his thoughts turned to the details that needed to be addressed. “I shall send round to Lord St. John’s man of business—this Mr. Witherspoon—and get down to brass tacks. We shall see what sort of negotiator is this fine gentleman.”

Mary knew that her father was already anticipating the part of business that he most enjoyed. “I shall leave it all to you, Papa. Only do, pray, keep in mind that I wish a few weeks at least to have my bridal clothes done up.”

Mr. Pepperidge nodded as though surprised. “But of course, my dear. I know well what is due you. In fact, I wish you to go down to the warehouse and choose whatever pretty fabrics and laces you desire. Do not think to spare the expense, for I am of a mind to send you off in grand style. This shall be no scrambling affair, you may depend upon that.”

So Mary turned her attention to patterns and fabrics, engaged a fashionable modiste and a team of seamstresses, and set out on a shopping spree that quite eclipsed any that she had ever engaged upon. Bonnets, gloves, reticules, boots, and slippers; corsets, camisoles, and slips; gowns of sheerest lawn; several pairs of silk stockings, and a number of other feminine fripperies, constituted the bulk of her purchases. There were innumerable fittings to be endured, and letters to write to her married sister and her brother and a very few others that she felt able to take into her confidence.

In truth, she was glad to have something to occupy her mind and her hours. She was afraid that if she let herself reflect on the step that she was taking, her courage might fail her. Scarcely a half hour after she told her father that she would wed the viscount, then all of her worst apprehensions assailed her. Hers was an unenviable position, no matter how the connection would be perceived by others.

She was a tradesman’s daughter.

Mary was all too cognizant that she was “marrying up,” as the expression went. While it was true that her education had been of the best, including as it had those accomplishments thought to be the earmarks of a lady, she knew that the bar presented by her undistinguished lineage was one that she could never hope to overcome. On the surface, polite society might accept her because of the title that she would bear, but she doubted that any blueblood would actually offer friendship.

As for her intended husband, she already knew that Lord St. John was a proud man. She had seen it for herself in that one brief meeting, when he had withdrawn behind that cold polite mask. It would undoubtedly rub his lordship’s pride raw to own, even to himself, that his renewed affluence was owed to her. Her only hope of ever attaining the happiness that she desired more than anything in her life was to somehow convince the viscount that she had married him for himself, not for the station in life that he could give to her. Otherwise hers would be a very lonely, friendless existence.

She was so shaken by her realizations that she actually started downstairs to her father’s study to tell him that she had changed her mind. She could not possibly enter into such a cold-blooded contract. She leaned against the balustrade, closing her eyes. Behind her lids she could see that flash of compassion, and something else, in Lord St. John’s expression, before his face had become shuttered. Surely, surely, she had not been mistaken.

“Miss Mary, is there anything that you need?”

Mary opened her eyes and straightened, turning her head to the maid who had addressed her. There was a shade of worry in the woman’s expression. Mary forced herself to smile as naturally as possible. “No, I thank you. I was but woolgathering for a moment. Have you seen the laces that I brought home with me yesterday? I seem to have misplaced them.” With that, she diverted the maid’s attention, and abandoned the impulse born out of fear that had almost led her to cry off from the betrothal.

Mary was aware when the necessary negotiations had been entered into, but she asked no question of her father. She was positive that it would not have added to her tenuous peace to know in exact terms how dearly she would go to the altar. So she buried herself in preparations and tried not to dwell on her apprehensions.

Mr. Pepperidge was soon deep into the convolutions and was immensely enjoying the contest, finding the viscount’s man of business a worthy opponent. Eventually the time came when the settlements were hammered out to the satisfaction of both parties. Mr. Witherspoon apparently enjoyed the full confidence of his employer, for, as he once informed Mr. Pepperidge in an aside, Lord St. John had gone into the country with friends and it was unknown when his lordship would return.

“Very cool, that,” said Mr. Pepperidge as he related events to his daughter. “I will go so far as to say it was a master stroke on Mr. Witherspoon’s part. We were in the midst of discussing a very fine point, and I was momentarily put off my stride by his observation, so he carried the matter. But I soon came about, being made much more alert by such crafty tactics, and not an inch more did I give him. So the thing has been done. It requires only his lordship’s signature of agreement to see you inside the chapel on the date we decided upon.”

Mary did not betray the disappointment she felt upon hearing that the viscount had cared so little about the outcome of the settlements that he had journeyed off with friends. Nor was the calm of her expression marred by the vague trepidation that shivered through her to learn that her future was settled past recall.

‘Thank you, Papa. I know that you have done your best for me,” she said quietly, setting another careful stitch in her embroidery. “Have you seen the post today? William writes that he means to come down to ‘see me riveted,’ as he puts it.”

“William may be a sad scamp, but he is a fond brother. I shall be happy to see him,” said Mr. Pepperidge. He shot a keen glance at his daughter. “I know that you wrote the tidings to Tabitha, as well. Have you heard aught from her?”

At Mary’s shake of the head and tiny frown, he said dryly, “I am not surprised. You have quite put her nose out of joint by landing a nobleman, my dear.”

“I do fear it, indeed,” said Mary, her exasperation overridden by a faint smile of amusement.

“Ah well. Tabitha was never able to hold two thoughts together for long. She will come about,” said Mr. Pepperidge comfortably.

“Oh, of course she shall. I only hope that it is before the wedding, for I should like all my family with me,” said Mary.

As it chanced, however, her sister and her brother-in-law were not present at the wedding. The ceremony took place at ten o’clock on a gray Wednesday morning. There was scarcely a handful in attendance to witness the event, numbering Mr. Pepperidge, two school friends of Mary’s, who had accepted the honor of being her bridesmaids, and her brother, William.

The company included as well the viscount’s friends, Lord Heatherton and Mr. Carey Underwood, who would stand with him, and Captain Hargrove. Lord St. John had given a twisted smile when he had sent off an invitation to Captain Hargrove, who was, after all, the veriest acquaintance; but it afforded him amusement to have present the gentleman in whose company he had first met his future bride.

The wedding took place quietly by license in a small chapel in Islington. The viscount had been indifferent to the location of the ceremony. Since he did not attend any church, he had acquiesced without objection when the site was specifically requested by his betrothed.

Mary had wished to take her vows in familiar surroundings. She had been christened in the chapel and some of her earliest memories were of services in the soft candlelit interior. The memorial service for her mother had been said there, and there, also, Tabitha had been wed. It seemed appropriate that she should embark on her new life accompanied by the comforting reminders of times past.

As Mr. Pepperidge escorted his daughter to the altar, those gathered to witness the exchange of vows turned to watch their progress. Lord St. John, Viscount Weemswood, awaited his bride with an unfathomable expression in his cool gray eyes. His was a commanding presence, set off by an impeccably cut dark blue dress coat with gilt buttons. An intricately tied cravat fastened with a jewelled pin above a white velvet waistcoat, topped the quilted undercoat and frilled shirt. And buff-colored breeches and silk stockings with pumps completed his toilette.

One glance at the viscount’s finery and his remote expression was enough to set Mary’s equilibrium wavering. She knew that she had never appeared to better advantage in the long-sleeved gown of lace over white satin, but it was one thing to judge oneself in a mirror and quite another to brave the unreadable gaze of one’s betrothed. She was very glad of her cottage bonnet with its lace veil, concealing her face from too-penetrating scrutiny. Her courage sank lower at the bridesmen’s expressions; it was as though the gentlemen disapproved of, but yet were resigned to the proceedings. Her trembling spirits were somewhat heartened when Captain Hargrove at least offered a kind smile as she passed him.

It was a brief ceremony. The minister did not give a sermon, instead simply setting forth the duties of husband and wife. The viscount made his vows in a strong, decided tone; Mary repeated the vows in a clear, unwavering voice. Those observing the couple had no inkling of the inner emotions and thoughts that swirled through their beings.

With the exchange of rings and the lifting of the bride’s veil for a chaste kiss, the ceremony was speedily concluded. Entry was made into the register immediately following the service and was duly signed by the minister, the newly wedded couple, and their witnesses. There was not to be a reception—to Mr. Pepperidge’s disappointment, neither the viscount nor Mary having wished for one. There were quiet well-wishes all round as the few in attendance began to take their leave.

Mary was saying good-bye to her old school friends, who were properly impressed and genuinely happy for her that she had done so well for herself. They regarded with sentimental awe the viscount’s splendid figure. “His lordship looks just like a prince,” one commented.

If Lord St. John had been privileged to overhear the extravagant observation, he would have laughed it to contempt. The morning had been a singularly wearing one. It had clouded some hours before dawn and begun to rain on the way to the chapel, an ill omen if one was to believe in such. The wedding ceremony had seemed little but a mockery to him. He had set out to find a means to restore his fortunes and he had succeeded; but in the process he had sold his freedom, signified by the heavy gold band that now encircled his finger. The lady whom he had made his wife also stood in some way as his gaoler. It was not a thought that set well on one of his temperament.

Lord St. John’s lack of equanimity was not improved when his new brother-in-law, young William Pepperidge, seized the opportunity to assure him that he would personally knock his lordship’s teeth down his well-bred throat if he, William, ever got wind that Mary was being made unhappy.

Lord St. John tightened the leash on his ragged temper, biting back the hasty retort that sprang to his lips. Instead, he said coldly, “Rest assured, Mr. Pepperidge. Your sister has nothing to fear from my hands.”