He also stifled a growing loneliness. He was unaccustomed to solitude, having spent his entire life in company with others. Thoughts of Alicia tormented him, reminding him at frequent intervals of the dreams he had entertained of what marriage would be like. It wasn’t fair that he should be locked forever into so imperfect a union. What had he done to deserve so miserable a fate? The punishment surpassed even the worst of his crimes.
* * * *
“We leave for London on Friday,” Thomas announced at dinner one night.
“All right, sir,” Caroline agreed, stifling irritation at his high-handed manner. When had this plan been made? “Where will we stay and for how long?”
“Marchgate House on Berkeley Square, and I do not know. Father demands our presence. Mother has recovered from her illness.” He paused to drain his wineglass. “We will not remain long as I cannot neglect the stables. You must purchase some clothes when we arrive. I cannot have you shaming me in town.” The cold voice conveyed nothing but boredom.
“Yes, sir,” she managed, hiding her pain and anger. She knew her limited wardrobe was far from fashionable, and would be the first to admit she had nothing suitable for London, but his icy condemnation hurt. Perilously close to tears, she dared not voice any of her myriad questions. Would the Marchgates disapprove of her as strongly as he so obviously did? What about the rest of the
ton?
How was she to fill her days with no household to oversee and no friends or even acquaintances available? The thought filled her with terror. It required two hours of vigorous walking before she slept that night.
Nor did she learn any further details. Thomas gave no thought to her predicament, instead concentrating on arranging his absence. When he thought of London, it was with a surge of excitement. Alicia was in town while Darnley consulted his physicians.
But when he joined Caroline at breakfast early Friday morning, an intimidating frown darkened his eyes until they appeared nearly black.
“Jacobs fell and broke his leg last night,” he announced baldly.
“How is he?”
“He will recover, but cannot work in the meantime. I will have to find a replacement before leaving for town.”
“We can send a message to your parents. They will understand the delay.”
“No.” His eyes glared as he instantly rejected her suggestion. “You must go as planned. I will join you as soon as possible.”
“Very well.” Anger suffused her at his words. And trepidation. She was now condemned to meeting a house full of strangers without even an introduction from her husband.
Dear Lord, please don’t let me make a cake of myself.
Her spirits tumbled further as Larkin turned the carriage down the drive. Thomas loosed a stream of blasphemy just before they moved out of earshot, and she knew his temper had little to do with Jacobs. He was angry because Alicia was in town.
Chapter 8
Caroline arrived in London at dusk. Never having seen a town larger than Banbury, her eyes widened at each new sight – the skyline, dotted with a forest of church spires, including the impressive bulk of Westminster Abbey and the dome of St. Paul’s; carriages, curricles, carts, and wagons of every description jostling together through jammed city thoroughfares; enormous buildings, most five and six stories high, crowding the streets and dwarfing the throngs of pedestrians; street sweepers, peddlers hawking their wares, liveried footmen racing to deliver messages, and linkboys, their torches held high, lighting the way for elegant town coaches; lamplighters igniting the new gas lamps recently installed along several Mayfair streets; and top-of-the-trees dandies escorting fashionable ladies into magnificent town mansions aglow with myriad candles and lamps.
Restraining the urge to stare, she resolutely firmed her backbone. Really, there was nothing to fear. She belonged to Mayfair as surely as did Thomas. It was her destiny. She was granddaughter to one earl and daughter-in-law to another, to say nothing of her uncle, Baron Cummings. She repeated the litany endlessly, but without conviction. Nor could it dissipate her nervousness.
Terror mushroomed when the coach pulled up before an imposing four-story house in Berkeley Square. Larkin let down the steps. Torches flared on either side of a door held open by a formidable footman in blue and gold livery and powdered wig. A very proper butler showed her into an elegant Chinese drawing room redolent with lacquer, jade, and priceless ceramics. Dragons writhed on dark red walls, separated by panels depicting bamboo forests populated by peacocks and other exotic animals. Table legs had been carved to resemble bamboo. Silk brocade hung at the windows.
Please, God,
she prayed silently,
help me survive this meeting without shaming Thomas or giving his family a disgust of me.
She pasted a smile to her chilled lips, determined to appear calm despite shaky knees, fluttering stomach, and an enervating trepidation that swirled fog before her eyes. Never would Thomas have cause to rue her conduct. She would die first.
“Welcome, Caroline. I am Lady Marchgate.”
The cool greeting did nothing to assuage her nerves, but she glided forward to curtsy demurely before the lady seated near the fire. As though she were the Queen – Caroline had to stifle a giggle at this inopportune surfacing of her irreverent wit. She would have known the lady anywhere. Thomas’s green eyes glowed below still-black hair in a feminine version of his face.
“My lady.”
“But is Thomas not with you?” Disappointment warmed her hauteur. Was he a favorite son?
“I fear not, my lady,” she explained, accepting a seat opposite her mother-in-law. She carefully kept her back firm and her posture erect. “Jacobs broke a leg last night. Thomas must locate a qualified assistant before he can leave Crawley.”
“I trust Jacobs will recover without incident. Thomas’s groom, is he not?” Her voice was again coolly detached.
“He was, though Thomas recently promoted him to head trainer. He should recover but cannot ride for some time.”
The butler entered with a tea tray, which he set at Caroline’s elbow on signal from the countess.
“You will pour,” she commanded.
Caroline nodded and automatically set about the task, fully aware that it was a test of her training or lack thereof.
“You are related to Lord Waite?” It sounded more like an accusation than a question.
“Yes, my lady. The seventh earl was my grandfather though he disowned my mother.” She kept strict control over her voice, achieving – though she was unaware of it – the same cool tone as the countess.
“And why was that?”
“He did not approve of my father.”
“A vicar is beneath the touch of an earl’s daughter.”
The sideways jibe at her own background angered her. “That was not his objection. Father is a baron’s son, but he had no fortune, and Waite had his eye on a wealthy suitor.”
“So they eloped.” Contempt permeated the words.
“Not at all. Mother was of age. They wed in her own church with several relatives in attendance. Most of the family approved the match.”
“So how does she like life as a penniless vicar’s wife?”
“She has no complaints. We have always been a happy family.”
“And how many are you?” Her voice remained cool but was no longer icy.
Caroline again described her home and family, politely answering questions about her education and training. Resentful of the examination, yet she conceded Lady Marchgate’s concerns. It was not usual for one of society’s sons to wed a complete unknown. If their positions were reversed, she would wish forewarning of potential pitfalls. Many of the countess’s queries undoubtedly parroted those posed by her friends.
Rapid footsteps approached and an excited young lady burst into the drawing room with unladylike abandon.
“Eleanor, dear.” Lady Marchgate frowned at her daughter. “Decorum at all times. May I present Thomas’s wife, Caroline? My youngest daughter, Eleanor, who makes her bows this Season.”
“I am thrilled to meet you at last,” enthused Eleanor, patently ignoring her mother’s critical stare. “Imagine Thomas whisking you off to Crawley without even letting us see you first!” She was quite unlike her mother in appearance, her brown hair arranged in ringlets around a narrow face glowing with impish mischief. Gray-green eyes sparkled above a
retroussé
nose and pouting mouth.
“Eleanor, you know I was ill all winter,” admonished the countess.
“We needed the time at Crawley in any case,” added Caroline lightly. “Conditions were positively gothic when we arrived. At least the house is livable now.”
“You must be tired after your journey,” noted Lady Marchgate, her voice clearly indicating dismissal. Had she interpreted Caroline’s remarks as criticism of Thomas’s stewardship? Her tone conveyed neither warmth nor acceptance.
Caroline quelled a spurt of anger at her husband. The least he should have done was introduce her to his family. Or should he?
No.
Her back straightened. She was building her own life, was she not? For the first time his absence seemed a godsend.
This is a battle I will win on my own,
she vowed silently.
“Eleanor, please show Caroline to her room. Her luggage will be there by now.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Caroline curtsied properly to her hostess and departed.
“You need not be so formal,” protested the irrepressible Eleanor as she led the way upstairs. “Mama can appear starchy, but you are family after all.”
“That is for Lady Marchgate to decide,” reminded Caroline. “I can hardly be described as either a suitable or a welcome match. She will wish to become better acquainted before adopting a more relaxed form of address.”
“What precipitated such a hasty wedding?” demanded Eleanor. “I have been immured at the Abbey for over a year. No one ever explained.” Her eyes glowed with speculation, undoubtedly the result of an overindulgence in gothic novels.
“Thomas needed his inheritance to restore Crawley,” declared Caroline, anxious to erase any hint of romantic attachment when she noted that starry-eyed expression. “An accident designated me as the bride,” and she repeated the tale they had told her parents.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Eleanor in a burst of artless candor. “No wonder Mama sounded so formal. She can be odiously high in the instep.”
“So I understand. I could hardly expect otherwise.” She cast a rueful glance over her gown. “Particularly as I am far from fashionable. What can you tell me of London modistes? My wardrobe needs immediate attention.”
“I am sure Madame Suzette can help. Mama is most impressed with her. Why not accompany me for my fitting tomorrow? Mama will not have to rise so early if you chaperone me.”
“We will ask what she thinks of the idea.” She refused to promise, unsure whether such an action might contravene London convention. Nor did she believe the countess would entrust either her daughter’s care or reputation to an unknown stranger.
“This room is yours. It has always been one of my favorites,” babbled Eleanor, pushing open a door. Without waiting for a response, she continued. “I hope you ride. There is no one to accompany me but a groom. Don’t you just hate grooms? They never allow one to gallop or jump challenging fences or anything. Of course, neither did Emily before she got married. She was as much an old stick as Mama and Papa.” She giggled. “Oh, I do hope to attract some handsome beaux this Season – exciting, romantic suitors who will shower me with poetry and flowers, waltz with me at Almack’s, and steal kisses in the garden.”
A servant interrupted this chatter, arriving with a can of warm water.
“I would love to get better acquainted” —Caroline smiled at Eleanor— “but I must change for dinner. Will you excuse me?”
“Of course. How thoughtless of me.” She whirled out of the room as rapidly as she had entered. Caroline shook her head. Eleanor reminded her very much of Eppie, the squire’s youngest daughter and an empty-headed hoyden. But her silliness was never annoying because it was always accompanied by loving charm.
Caroline’s room was beautifully decorated in blue and silver with heavy velvet draperies, silk wallcoverings, and a thick Aubusson carpet. A welcoming vase of violets rested on the dressing table and a fire, obviously lit long before, burned merrily on the hearth. A connecting door stood open to a green and silver room. She could see Cramer busily unpacking Thomas’s luggage.
Refusing to dwell on Lady Marchgate’s catechism, she set about the daunting task of composing her nerves for her upcoming introduction to the earl. Which gown would prove least inappropriate? She scanned her meager wardrobe in despair. There really was little choice. It would have to be the primrose, despite knowing that the color made her face appear sallow. But her only other evening gown showed distinct signs of wear. Shrugging off what could not be changed, she washed and recoiled her hair.
Excepting Marchgate, the family was already gathered in the drawing room when she descended. Thomas’s older brother and married sister had joined them for the evening. Eleanor introduced her brother, then drifted over to converse with Emily and the countess, leaving the two alone.
Viscount Hartford was quite outside Caroline’s previous experience. Slender and of medium height, he had light brown hair, pale blue eyes, and a long face, but few observers noted those details, for he was undoubtedly the pinkest of the pinks. Pushing the bounds of even foppish attire, he appeared in a silver-blue tailcoat with lapels extending well beyond his excessively padded shoulders, and with buttons as large as his palm.
Nor could she visualize how he had squeezed into it, so tight was the fit. Rose satin breeches clung to padded thighs. His waistcoat was heavily embroidered with pink, blue, and yellow butterflies. A matching posy of hothouse flowers covered one lapel below shirt points so high and a foot-tall cravat so stiff he could turn his head not at all. A plethora of fobs and seals in assorted shapes dangled from his slender waist. His face rippled in a faint shudder as he quizzed her with his glass.