Amanda Scott
Authors: The Bawdy Bride
Amanda Scott
To Georgia Bockoven
Who provided the title before there was a story.
Thanks, Birthday Sister, you’re a peach!
Prologue
October 1799, Derbyshire, England
S
O THIS WAS HELL
. The once noisy din of chatter and laughter from the next room that had gone on unceasingly despite her screams, was muted now, growing distant, as if she heard it through earmuffs in a roaring winter windstorm. But it was not winter, and Hell was no place for earmuffs.
“Her eyes are open.”
The voice floated over her, far away and fading, his words nonsense. Had her eyes been open, she would have seen him.
He said, “You oughtn’t to have used such a heavy whip, your lordship. She’s a small wench.”
“I intended that she should fully comprehend the wisdom of remaining silent, now and forevermore.”
Even here and now, coming to her through airless, ever-thickening darkness, that low, purring second voice chilled and terrified her, but she would never keep silent. She had already spoken up once, and if God were in the mood to produce a miracle and snatch her to safety, she would tell the entire world what she knew about his bloody lordship. Not that God would do any such thing. He would not produce even a small miracle for such a great sinner as herself. Surely, Mary Magdalene had received not only her own share of such wonders but any share that might have come, centuries later, to a sister in sin. Unless she could manage somehow to escape on her own to tell the truth about him, the wicked man would go right on taking advantage of his lofty position to make others miserable.
Odd that with hellfire flaming through her body, threatening to consume her, she could still hear the crackling of the fire on the hearth, could still feel rough carpet beneath her cheek and the movement of the river tide below—and odder still that she felt cold. She had never known such pain, not even the many times her father had beaten her, determined to drive the devil out of her. He had warned her, so many times, that she would go to Hell. How pleased he would be now, to know he had been right.
She could not see the room anymore, though she knew its oppressive crimson elegance only too well. She could not see the fire either, for all they had said her eyes were open. Instead, in her mind’s eye, like a dream, she saw a tiny golden-haired child laughing in church and being soundly switched then and there for her blasphemy, and an older child striving to memorize lines from a Bible she could not read and being beaten for forgetting. She saw a girl, free at last, going into service, wanting only to prove her worth, and the same girl learning her precise worth, learning that her father had been right all along.
A dizzy, spinning sensation threatened to overcome her, the same one she had felt when for no reason she had understood at the time, she had been turned off without a character. She knew the reason now, only too well. Like others before her, she had been doomed for failing to yield, and condemned to the
Folly.
“She’s stopped breathing, damn you!” It was the one who had so absurdly said her eyes were open.
“Mind your tongue, fool. Do you so quickly forget how to address your betters?”
Again the chill of that purring voice filtered through the heavy, dark cloud enveloping her, but how ridiculous to say she was not breathing. If that were so, she would be dead, unable to hear them at all. She could see a glimmer of light now in the tunnel of darkness ahead of her. It widened, beckoning her nearer. Surely, there was sunlight ahead, and warmth, and love.
“Beg pardon, your lordship, I’m sure, if I’ve offended you,” the first man said, but his voice was far away and fading now. She barely sensed the irony in his words, barely heard him at all when he added, “Still and all, I tell you, the chit is dead.”
“A pity, but she is no great loss, after all. There are plenty more where she …”
Thursday, April 17, 1800
D
EAR JAMES,
I am to be married today. I stood in front of the glass this morning and introduced myself to my reflection as Lady Michael St. Ledgers but saw only Anne Davies, as always, looking too much like a child to be a bride. That one can still look so at the ancient age of twenty seems most peculiar, but since my hair is too fair and too fine to yield easily to fashion’s dictates, and my body too waiflike to stir a man’s desires (or so Beth tells me, and she should know), I can do nothing to alter the matter.
I thought, once I had met Lord Michael, I would feel differently about marriage, but I do not. He is large and, I suppose, very handsome, but his demeanor is stern and his manner unyielding. I have seen him smile only once, and that was at Beth, who was flirting as usual. Tony does not seem to mind such antics, so their marriage lopes along peacefully enough, and, of course, Catherine’s marriage is amiable, for she adores her grand position. I do hope my marriage will be as untroubled as theirs seem to be, James, for I mean to be a good wife. I know my duty, of course, and thanks to Grandmama’s precepts and my experience here at Rendlesham, I am well trained for the position; however, since I have grown weary of constantly seeking compromise, and since I doubt that marriage can require less of that increasingly tiresome occupation than the single state requires, I must admit to certain qualms …
Lady Anne Davies paused, nibbling the end of her pen and absently stroking the small black cat curled in her lap as she tried to organize those qualms into words she could set to paper. Before she had done more than dip the nib into her inkwell again, however, the door to her bedchamber opened without ceremony and her maid, Maisie Bray, bustled in with Anne’s wedding dress draped carefully over one plump rosy arm.
Looking critically at her mistress, she said, “Beg pardon, my lady, I’m sure, but this be no time to be scribbling in that journal of yours. His lordship—which is to say your papa, not Lord Michael—wants to see you in his bookroom as soon as you be dressed. It won’t do to be agitating him, not today.”
“I try never to agitate Papa, Maisie,” Anne said calmly, “and if I do not write now, I don’t know when I shall find the opportunity to write again.” But she slipped the page obediently into the portfolio she kept for the purpose and, still holding the small cat, arose to put the portfolio into the carpetbag she would carry with her later in the carriage. Then she stepped to the window to take one last look out at her beloved gardens, just now beginning to show touches of springtime color.
The kitten purred, and Anne stroked it while she gazed at her garden and the sloping sweep of velvet green lawn beyond. Puffy white clouds drifted overhead, but the sun still shone invitingly on the white pebbled walks and tidy hedged borders. Behind her, Maisie said gently, “You’d best make haste, Miss Anne.”
With a sigh, Anne put small black Juliette down on a favored pillow on the high, pale-blue-silk-draped bed, slipped out of her dressing gown, and stood in chemise and corset while Maisie flung the white muslin dress over her head. Maisie was careful not to disarrange Anne’s hair, and once the gown was in place, while the maid fastened the golden ties at each shoulder, Anne gazed solemnly at her reflection in the dressing glass.
The gown was lovely, but she wished she might have had silver-embroidered borders instead of gold. She had suggested that, with her gray eyes and pale flaxen hair, silver would be more becoming to her but her mother had scorned such a notion.
“You are an earl’s daughter, Anne, not a commoner,” Lady Rendlesham had said tartly. “You are entitled to wear cloth of gold, just as your sister Catherine did; and indeed, had Lord Michael’s family not still been in half-mourning for the late duke, I would have insisted that you display your rank properly. But for such a paltry affair as this wedding will be, gold-embroidered muslin will suffice.” She sighed, adding, “Why, when Catherine was married, we had guests for three weeks beforehand, and though Beth’s was not so grand as that, it was by no means an inferior occasion. ’Tis the greatest pity the duke had to die, for we might have enjoyed a truly splendid wedding.”
Anne resisted the temptation to point out that had the sixth Duke of Upminster not died, the notion of marriage might not have occurred to his younger brother for some time yet to come. She said only, “There is still a Duke of Upminster, ma’am.”
“A mere boy, and still in mourning at that. He will not even be present at your wedding, for goodness’ sake. But others will, my girl, and you will not appear in silver trimming.”
And so it was that the gown’s sleeves and hemline were heavily bordered with gold. Its close-fitting, high-waisted, deep blue velvet bodice snugged her plump breasts, under which a gold, corded sash had been tied. A loose robe of gold-spotted white gauze, trimmed with a border and fringe of gold, lay waiting to be worn over the whole.
Wisps of Anne’s fine hair had escaped the carefully arranged coiffure over which Maisie had labored earlier; so, commanding her to sit again, the maid tucked them into place before affixing a small blue velvet cap to Anne’s head. When she had finished, Anne stood, slipped her feet into blue velvet slippers, and waited patiently while Maisie draped the gauze robe over her shoulders and pinned the matching gauze veil in place at the back of the blue velvet cap. Then she drew on her long white, delicately perfumed gloves, smiled her thanks, and turned to leave the room.
“One moment, my lady,” Maisie said. “Bless me, if you haven’t forgotten Lord Michael’s necklace!”
The necklace, too, was gold, an exquisite chain with a pendant molded to resemble a rose and bearing a small diamond in its center. Anne liked it, and both Catherine and Beth had assured her it was a perfect wedding gift.
Having managed to fasten the necklace without disarranging her veil, Maisie moved to take one last look at the full effect, and Anne was surprised to see tears sparkling in her eyes.
“What is it, Maisie? Is something amiss?”
“No, Miss Anne, it just makes me sad to think you are all grown up and will be going away to a brand new home.”
“Don’t be a goose. You are going with me, after all. Indeed, were it not for that, I think I would be paralyzed with fear, for I scarcely know Lord Michael and have never met a single member of his family. That he expects me to play mother to his deceased brother’s two children is especially unnerving, I think, for the poor things are bound to resent me fiercely.”
“They will not,” Maisie said stoutly. “For all that one’s a duke before his time, they’ll learn to love you like we all do.”
“We will see,” Anne said, smiling vaguely. “I must go now. Papa will be displeased if I tarry longer.”
She left on the words, and hurried downstairs to the bookroom, grateful not to encounter any of her siblings on the way. Four of her five remaining brothers and sisters were present at Rendlesham for the wedding. Only James, the eldest and her favorite, and Stephen, the youngest, were absent, for Stephen was away at school, and James was long dead. He had died when she was nine, but she kept him alive in her memory by writing her journal as a series of letters to him. She had never told anyone about the journal, though Maisie knew she kept one, and no one else had ever read it. Even Maisie, much as she loved Anne, did not know how very much alive James remained to her.
