They had reached a walled rose garden. Cecilia led the way through the ornate iron gate. “Sir, you may feel I am lacking in modesty, but I must ask what has brought about so great a change in your own attitude to our marriage that you wish to make it public?”
“I feel it might suit us both,” Ormiston responded hesitantly, gathering speed as he gathered conviction. “It was clearly the dearest wish of our fathers that this match should be made, but that is no reason to disavow it. I have returned from my travels with no taste for the âmarriage mart,' as I have heard it described. I must provide an heir, you would find it easier to manage your responsibilities to your brother and sister with a husband, and I am willing to assist you in those responsibilities. In short, it would certainly benefit me and may well benefit you to consider making our union public.”
“Did Reggie or Amelia put you up to this?” Cecilia frowned in perplexity. “I know they have quite fallen under your spell in the shortest possible time. I find your reasoning extraordinary, I must say, unless it is that you have been bewitched by the children. I know that people do marry for convenience or by arrangement, but we were married because of a wager, a drunken impulse, and both your father and mine have done nothing but assure me ever since that it was their dearest wish to separate us as soon as we were both in the same place at the same time because they understood that their behavior was abominable and the outcome unenforceable.” She swung away from him, and he once again was following her like an importunate suitor. It occurred to Ormiston that he
was
an importunate suitor. He tried to trump her.
“What do you mean, with all this talk of spells and bewitching? Reggie and Amelia are fine children who need a firm hand. A masculine hand.”
“Let me assure you, Lord Ormiston, that should my brother and sister require discipline, they have a firm enough hand in my feminine one to ensure that they behave in a manner which is wholly exemplary. As for masculine influence, I may trust to my Uncle Ketley, who as an admiral has more than enough experience of applying a âfirm hand' where necessary, not to mention a plethora of godfathers, including your esteemed parent, Lord Dacre. There is no need for you to concern yourself with their upbringing.”
Ormiston's exasperation could no longer be concealed. “Well, you did not have to agree to the match. If you had refused, they would not have made us go through with it.”
“I was fourteen,” spat Cecilia. “A child, with no understanding of the world and its ways, and a great deal of love for a father who was acutely embarrassed. I had no notion of refusing and sullying his honor. In any case, if I could have refused, so could you.”
“I was told very firmly that it was a choice of you and Europe or no marriage, no travel. What should I have done?” They were now standing beneath a pergola, hidden from all eyes by the mature vines twined above to form a green roof.
“This is folly. Neither of us was in a position to make any sensible decision at the time. But that does not mean we must be trapped by a mockery of the matrimonial state.”
“We must be trapped sooner or later.” Ormiston folded his arms and leant back against one of the wooden posts supporting the vines.
“I do not see it as entrapment. I prefer to see it as an opportunity to spend my life with a person who has realized that I am essential to his happiness, and whom I find equally indispensable.” Cecilia did not glance his way as she spoke. Her hands were clasped so tight her knuckles shone white.
“After a few evenings of country dances and a couple of glasses of champagne? How is any man supposed to know whether a woman is indispensable to his happiness? The whole notion is preposterous.”
“There you are. That is why we must arrange an annulment as soon as we can. I could not possibly marry a man with so dismal an opinion of the married state.” To Ormiston's ears her voice was preternaturally calm. He had done his best to provoke, but she sidestepped him at every turn.
“You have married exactly that man. But let me tell you, nine out of every ten of us holds the same beliefs as I do, and the tenth is a mutton-headed fool such as no woman in her right mind would wish to marry.” As he heard his own words, Ormiston wished them unspoken. They were the product of frustration and uncertainty coupled with a certain bitterness about his disappointment with Giugliana. But Cecilia was not to know that.
“Then how is it that there are happy marriages? For I have seen them. And I will not accept anything less. Where you are concerned, Lord Ormiston, now that we have renewed our acquaintance, I can safely say that there is nothing you could do or say that could alter my view that remaining married to you would be utterly intolerable.” Her composure was tinged with scorn as she turned on her heel and swung away from the viscount. He watched her stride briskly back to the house. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, only now realizing that he had been holding it. Then he followed her. The reading of the will was due to start within the half hour. He would not miss it. He would not allow her to dismiss him, however woefully he had handled this unfortunate encounter.
Eight
In the servants' hall, a bell rang with prolonged energy. A footman looked up from the silver he was polishing at the array of brass and raised his eyebrows in surprise as he called out: “Dorcas, it's coming from Miss Cecilia's room.”
A flustered girl jumped up from a table where she had a pile of mending before her and brushed her skirts off before bustling away through the baize door and up the back stairs. In all the weeks that Miss Cecilia had been back from France, she had never rung her bell in so agitated a fashion. When she finally reached the young lady's apartment, Dorcas found her mistress pacing the floor, her jaw set firm, her eyes flashing.
“Good, you're here, Dorcas. Help me with my hair, please.” Cecilia took a seat at her dressing table and waited while the maid gently extracted the pins holding her veil in place. Dorcas then reached for the silver-backed brush Miss Cecilia held out and worked her way through the mass of dark curls. She could sense the tension draining from her mistress's shoulders and neck as she rhythmically stroked the bristles through her hair. At last, it had been tamed into a sleek rope which Dorcas twisted and plaited and pinned. Cecilia sighed and thanked the girl, who bid fair to become a worthy successor to Sukey.
It had been some years since Sukey had caught the eye of a tenant farmer at Sawards, but it was only on Ceci's return from Paris that she had asked to be released from her duties. In fact, it was Sukey who had identified Dorcas as a possible replacement. She was young, but very able, and under the fierce tuition of Marston was promising to become a most competent personal maid. The girl finally arranged a small confection of black ribbons on the crown of Cecilia's scalp, brushed down her skirt, and stood back to examine her handiwork.
“You do suit black, miss, and it's not all of us can carry it off.”
“Thank you, Dorcas. You've done splendidly.”
They did not know one another well enough for Dorcas to venture any query as to her mistress's state of mind, but she noted that Miss Cecilia now appeared calm and composed, more her normal self.
“It's nearly time for the reading of the will.” Cecilia drew a deep breath, as if fortifying herself for the ordeal. Many of the household would be attending, as well as tenants and local notables, since Marchmont had left numerous bequests to the people who had served him so faithfully despite the difficult times. Afterwards, refreshments would be served, and she would have to speak with a multitude of persons wishing to condole and comfort. Dorcas watched as Miss Cecilia visibly stiffened once more, ready to go forward and demonstrate her resolution to continue her father's good work.
“Please tell Lady Ketley I shall be down directly.” Thus dismissed, Dorcas left Miss Cecilia to compose herself.
Lady Ketley had taken in hand the management of the event, to Cecilia's relief, since she did feel peculiarly unwell. The sickness had by no means passed off, but if she continued to lie abed, it would undoubtedly occasion comment now that Marchmont's death was receding into the past. It was ten weeks since the fateful masked ball, and while Cecilia knew that sickness was a concomitant of her interesting condition, she had no notion as to the duration and intensity of this malaise. If she continued to take to her bed, however, Lady Ketley would summon a doctor and her secret would be out.
Since she had completed her calculations, she had turned over in her mind various alternatives. She could confide in Lady Ketley. She could seek out a certain woman in the village reputed to have a particular knowledge of certain herbs. She could speak with Dacre.
Finally, she had concluded that she must confess all to her husband. After all, she had her costume, his ring, his address ready to present as proof of her role in the encounter. Yet, some small, still voice had whispered in her dreams that he would, on seeing her, recognize that she and Alice were one and the same, that he would take her and hold her and reveal that he had been combing the streets of Paris until summoned here by his father, that he wanted her and her alone. Instead there had been a humiliating interview in which he had made it abundantly clear that marriage was a state he despised and love an emotion he ridiculed. He had not recognized her, but she had recognized the flare of desire in his eyes as he took in her face, her figure, her physical charms, making a mockery of his passionate protestations to Alice. How many other women had he seduced in the interim? He had told Alice that he would wait for her, that he could not bear to release her, and yet, weeks later, he was gazing with cool lust on what he thought was another woman, a virtual stranger.
A chill detachment, exacerbated by the cruel dissipation of her fantasy, coursed through Cecilia. The childish anger she had felt at his distaste for the marriage five years before was as nothing compared to this sensation which did not boil, but rather made her want to torture him for long years. One moment, she wished the baby away; the next, she rejoiced, for it would enrage him and make him believe he had been cuckolded. Then she wished it away again, so that she could lead him on and on, never releasing him from his vows and never giving way to his importunities. But now, it was time to face the lawyers and the myriad folk gathered to hear where Marchmont had made his bequests. Slowly, implacably, Cecilia went down to the drawing room.
Waiting for her were Dacre, Ormiston, and Lady Ketley. Together, they entered the grand ballroom, which was full of familiar faces, all of whom turned to gaze upon Cecilia, appearing in public for virtually the first time since her return from France. Dacre guided her to a seat and took the chair beside her. The lawyers looked at the marquis, who nodded in response, and the will reading began. It was most efficiently done, for no bequests were to be given that day, but rather collected from the lawyers' offices on the next market day in Tonbridge. Recipients of legacies were ushered gradually into the dining room, where Lavauden, flanked by the younger Marchmonts, had stationed herself.
Finally, Battersby, the head of the solicitors' office, announced that the will reading was complete, bar one codicil which concerned immediate family only. The few remaining guests were ushered toward the funeral baked meats, leaving the solicitor to suggest that Dacre, Cecilia, Lady Ketley, and Ormiston withdraw to a more private location.
“We may be interrupted here and I think it best that this delicate matter be dealt with promptly and with the utmost discretion.”
Cecilia was not sure whether she appeared nervous, but a great pit seemed to have opened up below her diaphragm. She stood and led the way to the music room, which was in a wing separate from the great formal rooms at Sawards. She sat on the piano stool, leaving the more comfortable seats for the others. Dacre and Lady Ketley sat together on a loveseat while Battersby settled in the chair Marchmont had used when playing the cello. Ormiston stood near the fireplace, his hands behind his back, his head bowed as he seemed to examine the toes of his extremely shiny shoes.
“This codicil,” began Battersby, “concerns the portion allotted to Miss Marchmont. You have already heard how Master Reggie and Miss Amelia are situated. Miss Marchmont's affairs are somewhat more complicated.
“Two years ago, Mr. Marchmont asked me to make some inquiries on this matter of securing an annulment. He chose at that time to take me fully into his confidence regarding the match between Miss Marchmont and your son, Lord Dacre. My task was to investigate the cost and full legal procedure of such a course.
“I have to say that my findings were most disappointing. It would take several years and a great deal of money for the marriage to be dissolved, not to mention both parties having to participate in what I can only consider to be rather humiliating and public medical, spiritual, and legal examinations. I reported my findings to Mr. Marchmont.
“While he accepted my view of the rigmarole, he felt that he owed it to his child to ensure that she might release herself from her marriage if that was her earnest wish.”
The lawyer looked carefully at each person in the room, as a schoolmaster might inspect the understanding of his rather dimwitted charges. He then continued.
“May I say that if the parties are prepared to let the marriage stand, it will be much the happiest outcome. Otherwise, all England will come to know the business of both your families, your names will be as common bywords in the tattiest of news-sheets, and all your past and future laid bare the length and breadth of the country.”
Cecilia and Ormiston looked at each other, then swiftly glanced away. The solicitor's orotund voice seemed to echo around the music room.
“My piece is said. It only remains for me to reveal Mr. Marchmont's instructions.” Slowly, he unfolded the parchment and read aloud:
“To my daughter, Cecilia, I leave the sum of two hundred thousand pounds. This sum must be raised through the sale and mortgage of certain properties which are not entailed to the Sawards estate, listed in full below. If the annulment proceeds, Cecilia will need all these funds to finance the business. If the marriage to Ormiston stands, title to the properties will remain in the Marchmont name, with the income serving as her marriage portion and the estates to pass in the first instance to any children of the union. Should the union prove unfruitful, the title will revert to her sister Amelia. A decision must be lodged with the offices of Battersby, Battersby, and Pattinson within six months of my death.”
“
There follows a list of six properties which came to Mr. Marchmont from his mother's family. The choice, Miss Marchmont, lies with you and your husband.”
There was silence. Then Cecilia stood, holding the piano, her knuckles white against its ebony.
“Tell me more of the conditions of the annulment, Mr. Battersby.”
“First, my lady, we must lay a suit before the Archbishop of Canterbury. Provided he accepts that the suit is sufficiently substantial, he will approve it. Then there must be solid proof, medical proof, that the marriage is unconsummated. Once this is secured, a reason for the nonconsummation must be identified, usually the inability of one of the parties to fulfill the normal obligations of the marriage contract. You must understand that whichever party admits to this inability has little or no future chance ofâ” Battersby broke off as Cecilia buckled at the knees and slowly crumpled to the floor in a dead faint. Ormiston started forward. Lady Ketley kept her head.
“Battersby, fetch Groves at once. I know he is presentâhe was one of the last named in the will and he is forever hanging on Lavauden's arm. He will be in the dining hall.”
By this time, Ormiston had swung Cecilia's limp form into his arms. He carried her over to a chaise longue underneath the window and laid her down. He pulled away and gazed down at her. It was, he realized, his first real opportunity to examine his bride since he had arrived at Sawards. She was unquestionably a beautiful girl. Once she attained womanhood, Ormiston knew she would appear stupendous. But this was not the appropriate time to assess the charms of his unquestionably unwell wife. He stepped back and took a deep breath. In came the doctor. Groves looked around and raised his eyebrows at Lady Ketley. She jumped a little and hustled the three men from the room.
Cecilia was already coming around when she felt a damp cloth on her forehead.
“Miss Marchmont?” Her eyelids fluttered open. She looked up at Dr. Groves, then sighed. He left the handkerchief on her brow as he took her wrist and discovered the steadiness of her heartbeat. He then checked the glands about her throat and neck, asked her to stick out her tongue and say “ahh”.
“Any stomach ailments? Any disorders or irregularities?”
Cecilia nodded.
“With the bowels or with the menses?”
“Dr. Groves, I think I know why I fainted.” The doctor looked at her expectantly. “It is a feminine problem. Well, it is a condition which affects women rather than men.”
“You are in the family way?” He sounded curious, with no trace of censure. This gave Cecilia the courage to nod her assent.
“Ah. Is the young man aware of your condition?”
“By no means. I met him in France.”
“So you will be some months advanced. Is there no prospect of marriage?”
“It is all very complicated. But the father of my child is my husband. Heâweâit has not been made public.” Cecilia sat up gingerly. “You have done do much for us Marchmonts recently. Now I add to our debt with a secret I must ask you to keep.”
Doctor Groves looked almost offended. “Miss Cecilia, I've known you since the day you first took breath. If you cannot trust me by this time, I do not know how I can do more.”
“I did not mean to offend, Dr. Groves. Forgive me.” She held out her hand to the old man.
“Of course. My advice to you is to confide in the marquis. He will see that all is settled between you and your husband.”
Ormiston was surprised to find himself summoned by a hesitant Dorcas to attend Miss Cecilia in her private parlor a half-hour after the doctor had left her. He went into the room to find his wife silhouetted against a window, a slender column draped in black.