Authors: Love Is in the Heir
“Quite right, my lord.” Pinkerton gave the earl an obligatory bow, no doubt, Hannah decided, to hide the rolling of eyes, then walked back up the gentle slope to the table.
Hannah waved her arm as Cupid made a low run over the lake’s muddy shore, then cut her hand through the air like a knife through butter as he neared the earl.
Cupid let out a screech, and as he passed by the earl, dropped the bonnet into the water not a yard from shore.
“There it is!” Lady Letitia called out to the earl. “Please, retrieve it, my dear, before it is ruined!”
“Yes, my sweet!” The earl high-stepped into the cold water and snatched up the bonnet, yelping his displeasure as his boots sank deep into the mud.
The earl stomped his feet as he emerged from the lake, splattering mud in wide-reaching sprays. When he reached the table, he offered Lady Letitia a gallant, sweeping bow as he bequeathed the hollyhock-topped confection. “Here you are, Lady Letitia . . . your bonnet.”
Lady Letitia took the hat from the earl and gave him a quick peck on the cheek in appreciation.
“It will dry in no time at all, Letitia,” Lady Viola told her sister. “Perhaps we ought to lay it on the blanket to catch the sun.”
Her sister agreed, but when she turned the hat in her hands, she saw the spatter of mud on its lining. “’Tis . . . ruined. Do you see the mud, Viola? ’Tis ruined!”
The earl’s eyes riveted on the brown speckles of mud inside the hat. Dark circles of red burst upon his puffed cheeks. “I shall buy you a new bonnet, dear. A better one. You’ll see.”
“Thank you, my lord. You are too kind.” Lady Letitia slipped him a placating smile. “Though you ought to remove those sodden boots and stockings before you catch your”—her eyes rounded as she realized her next word—“before you catch
yourself
a sniffle.”
The earl appeared startled. She did not need to say the word. He knew the truth of it. His wet feet could earn him an early demise!
Throwing himself into Lady Letitia’s empty chair, he yanked off his boots and stockings and toweled his sopping feet with a linen serviette. “Pinkerton, bring me some dry stockings, and boots. Hurry now. My health is at risk!”
“Yes, my lord. At once!” Pinkerton ran off in the direction of the carriages.
Mrs. Hopshire made her way slowly beside the earl and picked up his discarded boots and stockings. But instead of taking them and packing them in the remaining carriage, she just held them in her wrinkled hands and stared at the earl’s left foot. Her eyes grew as round as the supper plates.
Hannah followed the housekeeper’s gaze and saw she was looking at a guinea-sized plum-colored birthmark on the earl’s bare ankle.
Hannah laid her hand on the housekeeper’s shoulder. “Mrs. Hopshire, what is it? Is something amiss?”
“I was just remembering the day the twins were born.” The old woman looked up at Hannah. “It was something their mother said before she died.”
Garnet and Griffin walked up and stood on either side of Mrs. Hopshire.
“What did she say?” Garnet asked softly.
The housekeeper peered up him and moisture welled in her eyes. “She said we’d always know which of the boys was older, because of the mark on his ankle.”
The earl stood up slowly. His eyes were wild as he charged forward, reaching Garnet first and knocking him to the ground.
“What are you doing?” Garnet cried out, as the earl slapped away the younger man’s flailing hands and tugged off Garnet’s right boot and stocking. He grabbed Garnet’s foot and held it before his eyes and examined. Then, evidently not finding what he was searching for, he tore off the remaining boot and stocking. He held his breath as he raised the foot level with his eyes and turned it.
A collective gasp rose up from everyone present. There was no denying what they saw.
There, on Garnet’s ankle, was dark, wine-hued mark.
G
reat arches of sunlight beamed through the soaring windows of Bath Abbey, illuminating the floor inside with almost blinding light. The abbey was already filled to near-breathless capacity, with every member of upper Society, as well as representatives of the bridal party’s serving staff, standing shoulder to shoulder in the nave.
As the minute hand neared the hour of nine, the groomsmen collected in the south choir aisle, waiting for the grand wedding to commence with the ladies’ entrance.
“Are you certain this was where the ladies truly wished to be married—or was it simply the most convenient?” The earl edged along the wall so as not to step upon the final resting place of Beau Nash, who, like many other Bath luminaries, had been buried beneath the abbey floor.
“It is, my lord,” Mr. Edgar replied. “The ladies have spoken of little else since the eve of their betrothals.”
Garnet nodded in agreement. “It is the grandest house of worship in all of Bath. No other site would suffice.”
“I do not know if I agree with you, brother.” Griffin settled his gloved hand on Garnet’s shoulder. “The view from Beechen Cliff is glorious, and there is no point in the region closer to heaven.”
The earl raised his bulbous nose and sniffed. Then sniffed again. “W-what is that scent in the air?” He pulled a handkerchief out from inside his coat and held it over his nose. “’Tis the putrid scent of rotting bodies, isn’t it? Good heavens, it is!”
“Ah, no, my lord,” Pinkerton told him. “’Tis the lavender bouquets securing the swatches.” He gestured with his chin to the flowers secured to a nearby column.
The earl glanced at swatches of lavender stretching from column to column and cringed at the garish effect. “Yes, yes, I smell the lavender now, but I detect something else as well in the air—burial candles, I think.”
Griffin gestured to the candles burning brightly before the sanctuary.
“Oh, I see,” the earl murmured. “Still, ’tis rather like being married in a great mausoleum, is it not? And for goodness’ sake, a wedding is supposed to mark the beginning of life together—not the end of life!”
The earl screwed up his nose and tiptoed past Nash’s grave, suddenly noticing the wall tablets and memorial plaques partially obscured by the lavender silk ringing every column.
Pinkerton suddenly grabbed the earl’s coatsleeve. His black eyes rounded with excitement.
“Pinkerton!” the earl snarled. “What are you doing? You shall wrinkle my coat and have to return to the house to press it again.”
“My lord—
’tis your solution.
” He tapped his boot on the floor.
“Solution? What do you go on about? Stop making nonsense, can you not see that I am a bundle of split nerves?”
“The solution to our capacity problem in the Devonsfield mausoleum.” Pinkerton waited for the earl to think about what he was saying and understand his meaning. “
The floor
. . . instead of expanding outward, which is an impossibility at this moment anyway, given the Anatole family’s reluctance to unearth and move their family for you. We simply—”
“Lay me into the mausoleum floor!” The earl’s whole demeanor seemed to brighten, and he rubbed his hands together eagerly. “I am ever so thankful the wedding is here at Bath Abbey, else I might never have come up with such a grand idea.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Pinkerton rolled his eyes.
Inspired, the earl glanced up at an ornate memorial on the wall. “Why, my epitaph would not be limited to a square set into the wall, as the rest of Devonsfields’ were—no, the entire floor could be used if I so desired . . . and I think I do. I think I
do
desire it.”
“Shall we begin, my lord, sirs?” The vicar, already resplendently robed, already held the Book of Common Prayer in his hands. He gestured toward the sanctuary, and the four gentlemen followed him.
The earl gave a nod to Pinkerton, who in response walked to the west front of the abbey and opened the doors for the four ladies.
When Hannah entered the abbey, walking next to Miss Howard and behind the two Featherton sisters, her stomach fluttered as if Cupid had swooped down her throat and settled in her belly.
As the women began to pass through the aisleway left for them through the nave, the abbey choir rose up in song. The choir had been Lady Letitia’s idea completely, and Hannah thought the old woman might burst from pride when their song rose up clear to the heights of the fan-vaulted ceiling.
Even from behind, the two Featherton ladies were a sight to behold. They wore identical gowns of yards of lavender silk over hoops, with bounteous flounces edged with rows of blond lace. A half dozen ostrich plumes, dyed deepest amethyst, were stuffed into each of their mountainous white coiffures. Had Hannah not known better, she would think they were headed off to St. James’s Palace for presentation.
As Hannah and Miss Howard proceeded slowly up the aisle, she saw the other woman’s eyes were fixed on Garnet’s. Unlike Hannah, Miss Howard was the picture of serenity. She wore a high-waisted pale rose gown that brought out the color of her cheeks and lips, with short capped sleeves trimmed with tiny pink and gray water pearls.
In her excitement to reach the sanctuary, Hannah walked too quickly, and the sweep of her short train slipped around in front of her, causing her to stumble. Lord above, how could everyone else be so calm, when she herself doubted even her ability to cross from the west end of the abbey to the east! She didn’t dare look forward and meet Griffin’s gaze. She would fall for certain and be forever known as the woman who made a cake of herself on her wedding day. And so, she focused on her slippers, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.
“Miss Chillton,” came a whisper from the crowd.
Hannah looked up and her gaze met with Mr. Hercule Lestrange. She could not guess at why he would interupt her wedding, but as she neared, she heard the little man whisper again.
“Your secret is safe.”
“My s-secret?”
Mr. Lestrange nodded and redirected his gaze toward the front of the abbey.
She started forward again, scanning the sea of faces, until her eyes met with her brother’s.
“Arthur.”
Hannah stopped. She did not care if the other ladies proceeded without her, for standing beside Arthur was . . . her mother.
Tears welled in Hannah’s eyes. “Mother? How . . . ?” She looked to Arthur for an answer, for this could not be possible.
Arthur looked at their mother and whispered softly to her. “This is Hannah, Mother. Your daughter.”
Her mother looked blankly at Arthur, then turned her eyes to study Hannah. She gazed upon her for several moments, then smiled warmly at her, the same smile Hannah remembered from her childhood—before everything changed.
It was only for the briefest of seconds, but in that time, Hannah thought her mother might have known her. A tear of happiness rolled down Hannah’s cheek.
“She cannot stay for long, Hannah.” Arthur gave her a sad smile. “But when I visited her last eve, she was having a good day, so I brought her with me . . . to see her daughter on the happiest day of her life.”
Hannah leaned close and softly kissed her brother’s cheek. “Thank you, dear brother. You cannot know what this means to me.”
Arthur reached out and, taking her shoulder into his grasp, turned Hannah forward and gave her a slight nudge back down the aisle. “Go now, little sister. Your betrothed awaits.”
Hannah nodded. Happiness like she’d never known filled her every fiber as she proceeded, alone, through the aisle between the choir boxes and to the sanctuary.
She turned and looked up at Griffin then and smiled at him.
“I love you, Hannah,” he said so softly that she was sure only she could hear him.
“I love you, too.”
True to form, the Feathertons had carried off a grand, glittering carnival of a wedding, to which there had been no equal.
Everyone agreed. To wit, Mr. Hercule Lestrange’s
on dit
column in the very next release of the
Bath Herald
touted the group wedding as a “majestic spectacle eclipsing even the passing of the Bath Comet and indeed, the explosion of a fireball in Prior Park.”
Hannah, though, was much relieved that the wedding was in her past . . . and wedded bliss was the only future she saw before her.
She was a bride of two full days now. Only two. So short an amount of time, but at this moment, somehow, she felt as though she’d known Griffin, at least in her heart, forever.
She smiled across the tea table in the parlor of Griffin’s Queen Square house at the handsome, brilliant gentleman sitting across from her—her husband.
Husband!
Oh, it tickled her so to even think the word.
“What are you grinning about, my love?” Griffin reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Could it be that my brother is leaving this evening for Devonsfield with his new wife—and the earl . . . and the countess.”
“
And
Pinkerton. I should be most disappointed if they should leave the poor man here.”
Griffin laughed. “No doubt. But by this eve, we shall be alone—except for Mrs. Hopshire, of course.”
Hannah grimaced. “Yes, Mrs. Hopshire . . . how dear Garnet was to agree to leave her here to see to our needs. He always was so considerate.”
“Still, for the most part, we will be alone. Whatever will we do to occupy ourselves?”
Hannah cocked her head to the side and slid Griffin a mischievous grin. “A walk might be in order. Yes, I think a stroll would be lovely, don’t you? In fact, the sky is so clear—and ought to remain so this eve, do you agree?—that perhaps we should venture to Beechen Cliff . . . to view the stars. Mayhap we will see your comet, hmm?”
The earl stalked into the room and plopped down at the table. “I, for one, have had my fill of comets. Comets, comets . . . why, I am positively exhausted from comets—the Bath Comet in particular. Why is everyone so agog over a bit of light in the night sky? Why must it be celebrated with soirees, routs, balls, and viewing parties? I for one hope that I never have the misfortune of seeing a comet again!” He lifted the lid from the teapot and grimaced. “The tea is cold. Mrs. Hopshire, do see to your business and ensure that a fresh pot of hot tea is served at once.”