The Spring Bride (4 page)

Only when Jane had gone around the corner, it was The Man—and he was waiting for her. He'd thrown a bag over her head and would have stolen her away, only she'd screamed and the other children—Mama called them street urchins, but they were Jane's friends—had rushed up in a group and attacked The Man, and he'd dropped Jane and she'd escaped and run home to Mama, and safety.

But Mama was dead now, and Jane was alone.

The knock on the door came again, softer this time, and Mr. Morrison said, trying to sound friendly but she could tell he was cross, “Now don't be foolish, girl. You know me. Nobody's going to hurt you.”

A key scraped in the lock and the handle turned. Shivering, Jane watched it like a snake. Last month Mama had made Abby put a bolt on the door. Mr. Morrison didn't know about the bolt. But was it strong enough to keep out him and The Man?

The door rattled, but stayed shut. Mr. Morrison swore.

The Man had come here once when Mama was alive. Mama had been expecting Mr. Morrison, come about the rent, and had told her to hide in the wardrobe like a little mouse and to keep the door closed and not to move or come out—no matter what she heard—until Mama called her.

It was Mr. Morrison, but he'd brought The Man with him. Jane had seen him through a crack in the wardrobe door. She'd listened as he told Mama he could give Jane a good job and a good home and plenty of food and he'd pay Mama ten pounds for her—ten pounds! But Mama got angry and started coughing and telling The Man to get out and that he wasn't to lay a finger on either of her daughters, but The Man had said he didn't want the other one, only Jane.

He told Mama she wasn't long for this world anyway, and that sooner or later he'd get Jane. And if not him, that someone else would get her, that Jane was worth good money in the right hands, and if Mama sold her to him now, she could buy medicine for herself and food for her other daughter.

Mama had called him a filthy procu-something, and told him to get out! Get out! And to stay away from her daughters! The more angry and upset Mama got, the more she coughed, and the man had laughed because in the end she could hardly talk for coughing.

He'd stopped laughing when Mama had coughed blood on him. He'd sworn and backed away.

People got frightened when Mama coughed blood. Jane and Abby were used to it. After the man had gone, Jane fetched the cloth and the bowl of water and gave Mama some drops from the little blue bottle and soon Mama was quiet again.

That was when Jane had asked Mama why The Man wanted Jane and not Abby. Abby was stronger and quicker and much cleverer than Jane. Abby was twelve and could read and write and do everything. She even had a job already, at the bakery. Jane was only six and not very good at anything much.

“So why, Mama?” she'd asked. “Why did he want me, and not Abby?”

Mama had cupped Jane's cheek with her thin, white hand and said in such a sad voice, “Because you're beautiful, my darling. Because you're beautiful.”

She'd told Jane then that The Man was a very bad man, a wicked man. And that she must watch out for him and stay away from him, that when Mama was gone, Jane must stay with Abby at all times and not wander off.

Mama had died last week but Jane wasn't allowed to go to work with her sister. Abby's boss said he wouldn't allow a child
of Jane's age in the bakery, that she would be a nuisance and get underfoot—no matter that Abby promised him Jane would not. So while Abby was at work, Jane had to stay here, alone, in the small room that was their home. Abby said it was safer here than playing in the streets.

Jane didn't feel safe at all. At least in the street there were the other children.

The door rattled again. “Open this door at once!” Mr. Morrison yelled.

“Oh, fer Gawd's sake, just break it down,” she heard The Man say. “I'll pay for the damage.”

Jane looked frantically around the room. There wasn't any place to hide. They'd be sure to look in the wardrobe. There was no way out except the door. Even the window was boarded over from when it had been broken so long ago.

The window! In the summer, Abby had loosened some of the nails so they could get some fresh air into the room.
Crash
! The door trembled. A crack appeared down the middle.

Jane flew to the window. With fingers that were shaking and clumsy, she worked the loose nail out. One of the boards swung down, leaving a narrow gap. She could see outside, to daylight.

Crash
! It was the sound of splitting timber but Jane didn't wait to see. In a flash she was wriggling through the gap between the boards. It was a very tight squeeze.

Behind her she heard the door splinter. She heard a shout and footsteps.

She squirmed frantically, heard something rip, felt someone grab her foot, but she kicked back and fell to the pavement in a heap, one shoe missing.

“Come back 'ere, ya little bitch!” Mr. Morrison shouted, but Jane didn't wait.

She picked herself up and ran and ran and ran, not stopping for breath, not caring that she had only one shoe, not caring that there was a stitch in her side, not stopping until she reached the bakery and ran around the back and there was Abby in an apron too big for her and covered in flour. She hurled herself at her big sister. “Oh, Abby, Abby, Abby!”

And Abby's arms came around her. “What's happened, Janey? What are you doing here? And where's your shoe?”

Shaking, and gasping for breath, she managed, “He came,
Abby—The Man—with Mr. Morrison and I didn't open the door to them just like you said, but he banged so loudly and, and then The Man said to break the door down and, and—” She broke off, sobbing.

“Hush, love, you're all right,” Abby soothed. “You're here with me now, you're safe.”

“I got out of the window.” She looked down at her one remaining shoe and shivered. “Someone grabbed my foot as I was climbing out. He got my shoe, Abby. The Man got my shoe.”

“Yes, but he didn't get you,” Abby said firmly. “And that's all that matters.”

“We can't go back there, Abby. He paid Mr. Morrison to let him in.”

“What's that child doing here?” a deep voice boomed. “I told you, no children!” It was the baker, fat and red-faced with a big beard.

“Wait here.” Abby sat Jane down on an upturned bucket and hurried away to speak to the baker. Jane couldn't hear what they said, but several times the baker turned to look at her. He was frowning.

The minute Abby came back, Jane said, “I won't go back, Abby. He'll—”

“Hush. I'll go when I've finished work, but only to collect our things.”

“What about me?” Jane sent a nervous glance at the baker.

“He said you can stay in the yard during the day,” Abby said.

“You told me there were rats in the yard.” Jane was scared of rats. She'd been bitten by a rat when she was little. She still had the scar.

“There are two cats and a little dog to keep the rats away,” Abby told her. “You'll like that, won't you?”

Jane nodded. She loved animals, except for rats.

“Are you hungry?”

Jane nodded. She was always hungry.

“I'll bring you a nice warm bun to eat.” Abby fetched the bun and gave it to Jane. It was the best thing about working in a bakery; there was always stale bread for Abby to bring home. Most days it was all they ate.

“Abby, where will we live now?”

There was a short silence. Abby glanced at the baker, who was pulling trays of bread from a fiery oven.

“He said we can sleep in the shed for a night or two, on the flour sacks, just until we find somewhere else. Don't worry, we'll work something out. I'll write some letters. We can't go on like this,” Abby said.

“Letters like Mama used to write?” Mama wrote letters but she never got any answers.

Abby sighed. “I know. But what else can we do?”

*   *   *

J
ane lay curled up in bed, thinking about the past.

Don't do anything rash
, Abby had said.

But Abby's idea of rash wasn't Jane's. Abby thought it would be rash for Jane to accept a man of good reputation, good family and good fortune, just because she didn't know him very well. Didn't love him.

But Abby had been twelve when Mama and Papa had died. Abby had memories of when they'd been happy. Abby trusted in love. And she'd been lucky.

Jane had only a few memories of those days. She mainly remembered hunger, and being cold and uncomfortable. And frightened. For most of her life she'd been alone, without family.

Trust in love? Hope to be lucky in love?

Mama and Papa had—and look where that had ended; Papa in his desperation shot as a highwayman, Mama coughing her lungs out with consumption and their children left destitute and alone, aged twelve and six.

It was only by the purest luck that she and Abby weren't living in poverty still.

Luck, and Daisy . . . And Lady Beatrice . . . And a chain of random lucky events . . . But you couldn't rely on luck forever.

The pinkish light of dawn edged through the gap in the curtains. Jane huddled the warm bedclothes around her. No, she wouldn't do anything rash.

Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than marry without affection.

—JANE AUSTEN,
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

L
ord Cambury arrived at exactly three o'clock.

Punctuality was good, Jane thought. It showed that politeness was important to him, and that, in small ways at least, he kept his word. While he was greeting her and Lady Beatrice, and being seated in the drawing room, Jane examined him carefully.

He was rather tubby around the waist, only a few inches taller than she, and physically unthreatening. He was neatly and stylishly dressed in immaculate fawn breeches and gleaming black boots, his neckcloth was elegantly arranged, but not overly elaborate, and the cut of his coat showed the hand of a master tailor. His hair was carefully styled to disguise his bald pate, and pomaded into place.
Lord Comb-it-up.
Jane tried not to think about Daisy's comment. His encroaching baldness wasn't his fault, poor man.

After a short exchange of polite commonplaces, and his refusal of any refreshment, Lady Beatrice left Jane alone with him. She sat, smoothing her skirt over her knees, trying to appear calmer than she felt.

“Y'look lovely today,” Lord Cambury told her with an approving smile. “All my years in society, don't think I've ever
seen a more beautiful young lady—and believe me, I've looked.” He held up his hands, making a frame of her face with his fingers, then altering it. “Perfect proportions, no matter what angle you take.”

Jane blushed and thanked him. She never felt comfortable when people talked about her beauty. “I believe you walk your aunt's dogs on occasion.”

“Yes, fond of dogs.”

“So am I. And are you fond of cats too?”

“Don't mind 'em, though I don't keep 'em. Make me sneeze.”

“Ah.”

There was a short pause, then Lord Cambury said, “Went to your literary society last week. Heard you read.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Don't generally read much. Boring.”

“Oh.”

“Pretty voice, though. Don't mind listening.”

“Thank you.” There was a short silence. She couldn't think of a thing to say. It was hard to pretend this was an ordinary morning call, when she knew the real purpose of his visit. She was absurdly nervous.

“Your guardian inform you as to the purpose of my visit?”

So there was to be no beating about the bush, no attempt at flirtation, no pretense that this was to be anything but a straightforward arrangement. Jane relaxed a little. “Yes, she did.” Lady Beatrice wasn't her guardian, not in any formal sense, but that didn't matter.

And then he launched into the speech she'd overheard most of the day before on the stairs. She listened politely as he outlined his desire for a beautiful wife to add to all the other beautiful things he had collected in his lifetime, adding delicately that he hoped she would give him beautiful children, eventually—he needed an heir, of course.

He explained his eligibility, though not in the detail he had to Lady Beatrice the day before. He did describe all three of his houses and their contents in great detail, as if she were marrying his houses as well.

There was some truth in the notion, she decided. She was, after all, marrying him to get a home.

It was all a little strange, but Jane didn't feel at all uncomfortable with him. He did stare at her, but not in
that
way, the way so many men did that usually made her uncomfortable. It was almost as if she were a painting or a statue, rather than a person.

He finished his speech, hesitated, then carefully lowered himself onto one knee and said, “Miss Chance, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Jane took a deep breath. This was the moment. With a simple “yes,” she could secure her future. And that of any children she might have. But she respected that he hadn't tried to flummery her with false declarations of love, and she owed him the same honesty.

It seemed she was going to do something rash after all.

“Please sit down, Lord Cambury,” she found herself saying. “There are one or two things I need to clarify before I answer your very flattering question.”

He frowned, rose with only a slight degree of difficulty, brushed off his breeches and sat down again.

“Thank you for your offer,” she told him. “I am deeply honored by it.”

“But?”

“But you need to know something about me before you ask me again.” His frown deepened, but she continued, her voice shaking a little. “You asked Miss Chance to be your wife. I am . . . I am not Miss Chance.
Chance
is a name we made up—my sisters and I—when we were in trouble and fleeing from an evil man who intended us harm. My real name is Jane Chantry.”

His expression didn't change. “Of the Hertfordshire Chantrys.”

She couldn't tell if it was a question or not, but she decided to treat it as one. “I believe so, though my sister Abby and I have never had any contact with my father's family.” The Hertfordshire Chantrys had never acknowledged Jane and Abby's existence, not when they were born and Papa wrote to his parents, not when Papa was killed and Mama wrote to them, nor when Mama died and twelve-year-old Abby wrote to tell them she and her little sister were now orphaned, destitute and alone. The Hertfordshire Chantrys had offered no help, shown no interest.

“We've never had any contact with our mother's family, the Dalrymples, either. Our parents died when I was six, and Abby and I went into an orphan asylum.”

“Orphan asylum?”

Jane raised her chin. “Yes, the Pillbury Home for the Daughters of Distressed Gentlewomen. I lived there for twelve years.”

His sandy brows rose. “And what about the
Marchese di Chancelotto
?”

She swallowed. “I'm afraid he is a figment of Lady Beatrice's imagination that somehow caught the
ton
's attention and became accepted as fact. We cannot publicly deny it without embarrassing Lady Beatrice, so we don't. We owe her everything, and would not for the world cause her any distress.” Though it was doubtful whether anything could embarrass Lady Beatrice.

The old lady had made up the outrageous story one night at a dinner party, out of a mischievous desire to annoy her nephew, Max. None of them had dreamed anyone would take it seriously, but the story had spread and become established as truth, much to the old lady's delight.

He frowned. “And Lady Beatrice is . . .”

“A dear and beloved friend. But no blood relation.”

“Yet your sister married her nephew. He know about this?”

“Yes.”

Lord Cambury sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “I see. Your other sisters?”

“Equally dear and beloved, but no relation to Abby and me. Nevertheless, we are committed to each other as sisters of the heart, and nothing would ever prevail on me to deny them,” Jane said firmly.

“I see.”

No, he didn't. There was worse to come. She took a deep breath and smoothed her hands over the fabric of her skirt again. They trembled a little. This was going to be the hard part. “I need to tell you how we met, but first, I want your word as a gentleman that you will repeat this to no one, for the secrets I must reveal are not mine alone.”

He gave her a narrow look, pursed his lips, then nodded briskly and gave his word.

In a quiet voice, and not looking at him as she spoke, she explained how on the very day she'd left the Pill, she'd been drugged and kidnapped, how she'd woken up in a brothel, and how Damaris, who'd also been newly kidnapped, had helped save
her from the virgin auction by brewing a potion of herbs that had made Jane too ill to be sold.

She told him how Daisy, who'd worked in the brothel as a maidservant, had smuggled them out with Abby's help, and how they'd inadvertently caused Abby to lose her position as a governess. She told him how the four girls had vowed to band together as sisters and to take care of each other, and she finished by telling him how they'd come—at Lady Beatrice's invitation—to live with her as her nieces.

She finished, and Lord Cambury said nothing for a long time. Jane waited anxiously, having no clue what he was thinking—his face was quite hard to read—and when he finally spoke, it was to ask for a cognac.

Jane rang for Featherby, and after he'd brought his lordship a cognac, she said, “Would you rather I left you alone for a while, Lord Cambury? I know I've given you quite a lot to take in.”

He drained the glass, set it down carefully and fixed her with a stare. “Still a virgin?”

She was a little taken aback by the bluntness of the question, but said calmly, “Yes. Neither Damaris nor I were touched in the brothel.” Her face heated and she forced herself to add, “And though I was displayed almost naked, I don't believe they were looking at my face.”

“Hmm.” He poured himself another cognac, a smaller one this time, and sipped, looking at her, pondering the tale she'd told him. “Even blushing, you're beautiful.”

Jane blinked. Was that all he had to say? “So I presume you will wish to withdraw your offer.”

“Hmm, what's that? No, admire your honesty, as a matter of fact. Didn't expect you to confess.”

“Confess?”

“Knew most of it already—the Italian
marchese
, for a start.” He saw her surprise and explained, “Had you investigated. Knew it for a lie. Knew too you were no relation to Lady Beatrice and your so-called sisters. Knew about the Chantrys and the Dalrymples too.” He frowned. “Didn't know about the brothel, though. Comes as a nasty shock, to be frank.”

“It was a nasty shock to me too,” she said thinly.

There was a long silence while he thought it over. “Still a virgin, no harm done. And beautiful. And you come of good
stock—wouldn't have offered for you, otherwise—the Chantrys and the Dalrymples are well-respected families.”

Not by her, Jane thought. Anyone who could abandon two small orphaned girls to their fate, just because their parents had eloped, was not deserving of her respect, or even to be called a family. But she didn't argue.

“Are you saying your offer still stands?” she asked cautiously.

“Reason I decided on you is your good bloodlines and perfect face. That hasn't altered. Have to confess your frankness pleases me too—never expected honesty from a beautiful woman. Pleasant surprise.” He finished his cognac and set the glass down with a snap. “So yes, the offer still stands.”

From his pocket he produced a small box containing a ring. It was a diamond, large and more ornate than Jane would have chosen. He slipped it on her finger and she thanked him prettily. It felt very heavy on her hand.

Because she wasn't yet used to it, she told herself.

*   *   *

J
ane broke the news to Lady Beatrice after Lord Cambury had left. The old lady frowned. “You've accepted him already? Curses! I meant to tell you to send for me before he left. I wanted to talk to him about settlements. Drat the man!”

“I did mention settlements,” Jane said. Settlements were vital to her future security; they concerned the financial and other arrangements made for her and her children if she were left widowed. Without settlements, they could be left with nothing.

Lady Beatrice brightened. “You did?” Then her face fell. “And I suppose he told you not to worry your pretty head about such things. Men will persist in thinking we females are brainless ninnies.”

Jane smiled. She'd expected him to say something of the sort, but she'd thought it all out beforehand. “I told him my agreement was conditional on him working out a satisfactory settlement with Max—I hope that's all right. Max is my brother-in-law, after all.”

“And an absolute shark in business.” Lady Beatrice beamed at her. “Clever girl. You handled it brilliantly. Max will be delighted to take it in hand, and he'll ensure you're well provided for, you can be sure of that. I must confess, I am surprised to find you so . . .”

“Mercenary?”

“Not at all,” the old lady said indignantly. “
Practical
was the word I was looking for. It's not mercenary to want to secure your future and that of any children. A great many gels only think of love, and never consider their future.”

“I know. My mother and father did exactly that.”

There was a short silence, then Lady Beatrice patted her hand. “So they did, my love, so they did. I understand now.” She brightened. “So when do we announce it?”

“I agreed to let Lord Cambury announce it as soon as the settlements have been signed. He wishes us to marry at the end of the season.”

“A spring bride?” Lady Beatrice's delicately plucked eyebrows shot up. “Good heavens. The man must be besotted.”

“No, I don't think he is,” Jane said. The whole affair had been remarkably calm and straightforward. Businesslike. Somehow that had reassured her more than anything.