Unclaimed (38 page)

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mark growled. “You’re a very pretty girl, I’m sure, but you’re too young for me, and besides, I’m in love with your sister.”

Miss Ellen’s eyes widened. “Charlotte? But she’s
married.
”

“Not Charlotte. Jessica.”

The color washed from her face. All that haughty indifference fell away. “Jessica?” Each syllable wavered, as if she spoke an impossibility. Her hands fell to her sides, and then she darted across the room, kneeling before him and grabbing for his hand. “You know of Jessica? I’m not to speak of her, not to say her name, never again. But—is she well? How do you know her? Can I see her? I shall do anything you ask, if you just—”

“Ellen!” The sharp tenor sounded like a whip crack from across the room. “What do you
mean
by such forward behavior? Sir Mark—I’m dreadfully sorry for my daughter’s conduct.”

Mark realized how the scene must look. Ellen Carlisle was on her knees before him, her eyes glittering with tears. Ellen glanced once at her father and bit her lip.

Mr. Carlisle, after all, was the one who had declared Jessica dead. He was the one to whom she addressed the letters she sent—the ones that had gone unanswered. He had banished her and lied about her.

And yet the man in front of him didn’t seem like a monster. He had graying hair, a narrow face—and an expression that was exasperated and embarrassed, but not stern. He had Jessica’s lips. Surely, that lift of her chin had come from him.

Mark strode forward and offered his hand. “Sir Mark Turner.”

The man shook it. “Alton Carlisle. At your service, sir. Your book—it’s been a pleasure to be able to quote from it in my services. An even greater honor to have you in my home. You’ll stay to dinner? There will be no repeat of that foolishness.”

“You’ll have to excuse Miss Ellen,” Mark said quietly. “She’s merely overcome. You see, I have decided to marry your daughter, and Miss Ellen has just discovered it.”

“Marry my daughter.” Mr. Carlisle stood, his face going slack. Mark could tell precisely when he began to think again—when the advantages presented themselves. The connection to a duke, a son-in-law who had the favor of the Queen. There followed a small, proud smile as he realized that somehow,
his
offspring had landed the most desired bachelor in five counties.

It took only a few seconds before the man was nodding. His breath rushed out. “My permission—of course. You have it.”

“I’ve already settled five thousand pounds on her,” Mark said conversationally. “For her separate use, and for our children, should we have any.”

“Yes. Of course.” Mr. Carlisle shook his head. “Pardon my stupidity—but I am convinced this must be a dream. I had not even known that you were acquainted with my daughter. Certainly, you and I have never been introduced.” He scrubbed his hand through his thinning hair. “Next, you will tell me that you wish to marry her by special license, in a grand ceremony held in St. Paul’s. This…this can’t be happening.”

“There your dream ends,” Mark said. “I don’t want to marry by special license. I want you to call the banns in your church. I want you to tell your entire parish that your daughter is marrying me. I want you to acknowledge her by name.”

At Mark’s feet, Ellen began to cry softly.

“Of course, of course. It will all be as you wish. Precisely as you wish.”

“One last thing,” Mark said.

“Whatever you say.”

“From now on, when she writes you letters, I want you to answer them. And when she arrives on your doorstep, which she should do in, oh…” Mark peered over his shoulder at the watch on the table. “In two minutes, then I want you to welcome her inside.”

Mr. Carlisle swallowed hard. He looked at Mark. He looked at Ellen, where she’d curled her legs about her on the floor. He looked back at Mark.

“You surmise correctly,” Mark said. “This is no dream. I’d never met Miss Ellen before today. I mean to marry your eldest daughter, Jessica.”

Mr. Carlisle pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. “I can’t announce banns for Jessica. Every one thinks she died.”

“Everyone will have to be disillusioned. How you go about it is, quite frankly, not my problem to solve.”

“I had to think of my other daughters. They—they wouldn’t have been allowed anywhere if it had come out that their sister had been so ruined. I—”

“I do understand,” Mark said. “You were frightened. You had to think of your position, your reputation. But as for Miss Ellen’s prospects—we rather thought the Duchess of Parford might sponsor her Season. I don’t think you understand what I am offering you. I am going to marry your daughter. My brother is going to welcome her into the family with open arms. If you think that the two of us cannot counteract any scandal you can imagine, you are greatly mistaken.”

“Sir Mark, perhaps you don’t understand—”

“
You
don’t understand. I did not come to ask permission to make your daughter my wife. I am asking if you would like to make my wife your daughter once again.”

“Yes.” He stood up, his voice breaking. “Yes. Yes. You have to ask? You think I didn’t read her every letter and hope that I could find a way? Do you think that a single night passed in which I didn’t regret what had happened? I didn’t know what else to do. And by the time I’d acted, it was too late. Too irrevocable.”

For a moment, Mark thought of reminding the man that he’d had seven years to act. That he’d let it all slip away, knowing what his daughter had faced out there. But now was the time for reunion.

“It’s not too late now. She’s waiting at the door. Come on, now. She’s missed you.” He glanced at Ellen and gave her a smile. “She’s missed
all
of you.”

Three weeks later.

THERE WAS NOTHING Jessica could do to calm her nerves on the morning of her wedding.

She tried pacing in the nave. She tried braiding her hair. Her sisters distracted her by fussing with her gown, pinning flowers to the hem of her skirt…and just by being present. It was lovely having sisters again. She’d spent the past weeks with them. At the first service, her father had introduced her to the congregation and announced that he’d told a lie when he said she had passed away, and that he was deeply ashamed—but then he’d said nothing further, not one word against her. When he’d called the banns, everyone had forgotten everything else. And for the remainder of the time, she and her sisters had been free to take calls and talk to one another.

Then there had been Mark. He’d gone on walks with Jessica and her sisters. He’d held her hand chastely through three weeks’ worth of afternoon rambles through country lanes. She had dined with his brothers; he had engaged her father in a philosophical conversation that ended up with the two of them arguing over texts for hours. And after dinner last night, she’d scarcely had any time to see him alone. Still, he’d pressed her against the back wall of the garden in the few minutes they’d found and he’d kissed her—soft and sweet, but with the force of three weeks of pent-up longing. He’d kissed her until they were both dizzy with anticipation, until she could scarcely stand for wanting him. And then, when he’d finally pulled away, he’d whispered in her ear: “Tomorrow. Finally.”

She didn’t think that anyone had noticed their disappearance, but when Jessica had returned to the rest of the company, her sister had come up beside her and gently pulled an errant twig from her hair. “How lucky for you,” Ellen had said, with a sly, sideways look. “It seems that Sir Mark has no interest in being
practical
about chastity.”

It would almost hurt to leave her sisters again. They hummed about her now, Ellen patting the bows on her dress into place. It was tomorrow, finally, and a mass of butterflies seemed to attack her from inside. Charlotte went to join her husband in the front pew, and Ellen departed to take her place as maid of honor. Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes. For this small space of time, Jessica was utterly alone once more.

And then: “Hello?” A short man popped his head through the door of the vestry where she waited.

“Mr. Parret. What are you
doing
here?”

“You invited me.” He smiled cheerily. “Also, I wanted to give you this.”

He handed her a newspaper. Jessica unfolded it—and gasped.

Sir Mark: Married at last!
proclaimed the headline.

“By the time the church bells have rung,” the man said gleefully, “all the other papers will have copied the details from me.”

This morning,
she read,
Sir Mark Turner wed Miss Jessica Carlisle, the daughter of Reverend Alton Carlisle of Watford. Our readers will be interested to note that she is the woman whose account appeared first in these pages. Our investigation has uncovered the details of her past, which we hereby recount.

Her fall, according to the article, was that she’d taken up reporting for a London scandal sheet at a young age and had been cast out by her family as a result. Nothing more. It made her sound…youthfully ambitious. In comparison to the truth, she sounded almost respectable.

“Mr. Parret,” Jessica said, shaking her head, “this is a pack of lies.”

He shook his head. “Nonsense. You
were
a re porteress—and quite young for one. Fully twenty years younger than me.”

“I suppose you couldn’t resist the money,” she teased.

A faint smile touched the man’s face. “This one, I’m distributing for free. Your…your brother-in-law-to-be came by the other day, and told me what you’d done. Mr. Turner—not the duke.”

“What did Mr. Smite Turner claim that I did?” she asked, puzzled.

“He told me that you’d insisted upon settling money on my Belinda.” Parret’s voice cracked. “Enough for her to have a Season. A dowry. For that, I would even tell lies for a reporteress.”

“He said that, did he?” Jessica hid a smile. She could already imagine how Smite would have done it—just a little cold in his delivery, and so distant. But Jessica had made no such settlement. Smite must have done it himself.

“You know—” she began.

“There’s no time to argue now.” Parret reached up and touched her veil, sliding a ribbon into place. “It’s already printed, and here comes your father. Even if you don’t mind keeping Sir Mark tapping his toes, you shouldn’t keep Her Majesty waiting.”

“Her Majesty!”

“Oh, yes.” Parret set one hand on her shoulder and turned her toward the door. “I had nothing to do with that—but a certain duke that we both know made sure she received an early copy. After she read what I had written, she insisted on attending. You know that she admires a happy marriage. Not one person in all of London will dare look down on you after this.”

They hadn’t planned on living in London. They probably still wouldn’t. But…it was nice to know the possibility was not entirely closed to them.

Mr. Parret suddenly looked down. “You gave my daughter a dowry,” he muttered. “The least I can do is give you one, too.” His eyes looked suspiciously red. But he gave her a gentle shove toward the door.

She walked out in a daze, let herself be guided to the aisle. The organ music seemed to swell around her. Light played through stained-glass windows, casting patterns on the gray stones that marched up to the front. Fabric swished as guests rose to greet her—a sea of faces, new and terrifying mixed with old and familiar. His brothers. Her mother. Old friends from childhood, who had long thought her dead; new acquaintances whose names even now slipped from her mind.

Her sisters.

And, yes. Her Royal Highness.

Panic struck, blinding. She
couldn’t
walk down there, not in front of all these people. She
couldn’t.

Jessica forced her breath to slow, and she looked even farther up the aisle.

Mark stood in front of the church, wearing a white-and-silver dress coat. He smiled at her; she could feel it clear through to her toes. Dukes and queens and all her fears disappeared.

There was nothing in front of her but her future. And she walked toward it with open arms.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

SHEPTON M ALLET
is a real town, but the people I describe in it are entirely the product of my imagination.

In order to write a story with actual conflict and obstacles to overcome, I had to create some town residents who were less than perfect. My apologies in particular to the rectors of Shepton Mallet, who have absolutely nothing in common with the fictional Mr. Lewis.

Luckily for me, the reality of Shepton Mallet was much, much friendlier. From the Shepton Mallet Tourist Information and Heritage Centre, to the workers at Dungeon Farm who helped me find my way, the people I met were universally kind and helpful. (The only exception to the “kind and friendly” label was a herd of cows who apparently hadn’t been informed that they were supposed to be herbivores and attempted to eat me. Bad cows.)

Even though the bones of this story are fiction, it’s woven around bits of historical fact. For instance, there was no MCB (as if you couldn’t guess that part), but Queen Victoria really did get the silk for her wedding dress from Shepton Mallet. Mark’s father never really exploited anyone, but the workers in Shepton Mallet burned factories years in advance of the Luddite movement. The Shambles are, in fact, called Shambles, and the ones that were in the market square in 1841 dated from medieval times. The market is still held around the Market Cross on Friday, and the cheese is delicious. I confess that I exaggerated the potency of the apple brandy, although it was fun to try it in the name of research.