The Invisible Husband

Copyright 2008
Cari Hislop

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The Invisible
Husband

Eve jostled
against cold leather as the sound of the carriage wheels squelching
through cold November mud almost drowned out her parents’ snores.
Of course they could sleep, they weren’t the one being married off
to an unknown man they wouldn’t meet until after the wedding.
Shivering, she clutched her thin pink silk cape tighter around her
arms. There was no passing countryside to watch. The occasional
tree and cottage beyond the carriage lamps were merely black jagged
shapes. Four outriders were delivering her to a country church at
three-thirty in the morning where she was to become the property of
a stranger. After weeks of being starved into submission, the
thought of marrying an unknown man on an empty stomach had inspired
obedience. That morning she’d put on the clothes her mother had
chosen and prayed she wouldn’t end up in the clutches of a
fiend.

Reins jingled
in time with the hooves of the four black horses pulling the
carriage and the four heavily armed outriders draped in black
hooded cloaks. The whole situation was ridiculous. She was being
treated like some sort of beautiful princess, but she was merely
pretty without even an illegitimate royal connection to sweeten the
deal. All she knew about her prospective husband was that he wasn’t
poor. He’d paid her parents ten-thousand pounds for her hand and
once she became his wife, in the event of his death, she’d have a
two-thousand pound annuity purchased out of his own purse. If he
died before she could produce an heir she wouldn’t have to return
to live with her parents, but the annuity wouldn’t be of any use if
she died in childbed.

Her every
thought seemed to lead back to the subject of beds. The thought of
sharing a bed with a stranger made her feel like she was being sent
blindfolded to her execution. Her only consolation was that she’d
never have to see her parents again. Snuggled into a corner of the
seat she turned her head to see one of the black caped outriders
outlined by the carriage lamps galloping along side; his large hood
pulled forward. She was living a nightmare. Who was this man who
wanted her so badly he’d paid her parents ten thousand pounds and
why did he want her?

Twenty minutes
later the carriage started to slow. Craning her neck she could see
torches lighting up the ancient arch of an old church door. Her
impending groom was proving melodramatic. The torchlit scene set
her imagination on fire; no doubt he’d chain her to his dungeon
wall in her chemise until she swore she’d be an obedient bedfellow.
The thought made her scowl. If her infernal husband thought he was
acquiring a biddable wife he’d be unpleasantly surprised. As the
carriage jerked to a stop the four riders dismounted and took up
sentry outside the carriage.

The carriage
steps lowered and the door opened, one of the outriders stretched
out a black leather glove to help her down. She took hold of the
strong hand and stepped onto the pebbled walkway. Taking a deep
breath she straightened her pink bonnet and clutched her thin cape
around her shoulders as she hurried up the path towards the church.
The old wooden door creaked open like the mouth of hell ready to
swallow her whole. Stepping through the stone archway she stiffened
with apprehension. Chills tingled up her spine and over her scalp;
she’d felt the odd sensation too many times in the last six months
to dismiss it as a product of her imagination. She abruptly stopped
and turned around to find the four outriders swiftly halting two by
two behind her, their hoods bowing. Were they men or bashful
demons? Was one of them her husband in disguise? A strange peaceful
hush in the churchyard seemed to reach out and caress her. Was she
dreaming? The spell was broken by her parents rudely hollering for
her to wait. She snubbed them by turning and continuing up the
aisle where four more torches lit up the Vicar and another cloaked
figure. The flickering light reached dimly into the corners where
eerie large rectangular shapes supported what appeared to be ladies
and knights resting for the wedding.

Hoping the dead
would be too busy elsewhere, Eve reached the altar to find the
hooded man was merely a proxy for her husband. Standing still, her
teeth started to chatter. There was only a thin layer of dried
calfskin and a fine silk stocking between her feet and icy
flagstones. Eve opened her mouth to ask how long the service would
take, but she could feel brimming tears waiting for her to try to
speak. Tingles caressed her neck as a single outrider took up guard
on her right. Did the demons think she’d attack the vicar? Did they
think she’d try to escape? How would she flee into freezing
darkness dressed like a butterfly? Where would she go? Her parents
had conspired with her evil groom; she didn’t even know where she
was.

The cloaked
demon on her right looked down at her shivering body and the
ceremony was set in motion. When it came time for the ring to be
put on her finger, the demon to the left of the proxy groom held
out the ring and the proxy demon-husband, who appeared to be drunk
or blind, shoved the ring onto her cold middle finger. “Stop! That
hurts… It obviously doesn’t go there or it would fit wouldn’t it?”
She was too angry to care that her eyes filled with tears. “Are you
an imbecile? Even demon-brides wear the ring on the third finger!”
The ring bearer’s leather glove reached out and took the Proxy
husband’s clumsy fingers in a grip that made him gasp in pain. A
black leather glove to her right was extended silently requesting
her hand. She reluctantly complied too cold to refuse. The demon
gently took possession of her trembling hand and carefully teased
the ring free as if he had all night; as if there wasn’t another
demon waiting to ravish her. As the hooded man slid the ring onto
the correct finger, Eve tried to see what he looked like, but he
was wearing a black mask. Perhaps he had no face. She was so cold
she was imagining there was something in the man’s touch that went
beyond courtesy; as if he cherished the opportunity to hold her
hand. Was this cloaked demon her husband? Did he just squeeze her
hand to comfort her? She sighed through chattering teeth; it didn’t
really matter if he was her husband or the devil. It was all the
same to her.

The ceremony
was over before she could memorise her husband’s names; Adam Harold
Damian Latham, sixth Earl of Latham was a mouthful, but
reassuringly human. The madman would be named Adam. He probably
believed she’d been ordained by God to be his perfect mate. She
shivered as she imagined a faceless demon named Adam climbing on
top of her and forcing her with child every nine months until she
died of over breeding. She shivered in fear as her eyes filled with
tears; the night promised endless nightmares. Her morbid thoughts
were interrupted as the Vicar asked her to step forward to sign her
name in the parish register. She found her husband had previously
signed his name and was surprised to see that the ink was black. He
hasn’t signed the register with blood; was that a good sign? It
only remained for the proxy husband to step forward and place an x
next to the real signature and it was done; Eve was the new Lady
Latham. She could hear her Mother practicing her new name somewhere
behind her, “Lady Eve Latham…this is our daughter, Lady Eve…” Eve
clenched chattering teeth as she wondered what she was supposed to
do next. “Lady Eve…” Her mother’s shrill cheerful command gave the
sinister proceedings an air of farce. “…come give your Mamma a
kiss!”

Snubbing her
mother, she smiled as her parents loudly objected to their forced
removal from the church. The door closed with a loud thud silencing
their theatrical outrage. A peaceful silence fell over the empty
pews; Eve was at the mercy of two cloaked demons. The figure on her
right, who’d replaced her ring, held out his arm and led her with a
dramatic swish of his cloak out through a small side door and back
into the night where moonlight outlined tombstones as tall as Eve.
Were they tombstones or doorways into hell? She slipped in the wet
grass, but a strong black glove caught her around the waist and
effortlessly returned her to her feet. Ensnared in the demon’s
clutches she was led through a tunnel of clipped yew trees and into
the parsonage. Would the madman deflower her before travelling
further? She shivered in relief as the black leather glove on her
waist gently led her into the parlour and waved her towards the
fire where a chair and table were set with supper for one.

Ignoring the
food she leaned into the flames as she strained to hear the two
demons whispering near the door. They appeared to have forgotten
her existence. Enraged, she raised her voice, “Excuse me…would you
be so good as to explain why my husband couldn’t attend his own
wedding? Is he ill? Is he chained up in his attic? Is he unable to
stand on consecrated ground or has he read so many Gothic novels
he’s incapable of being sensible?” The two faceless hoods turned in
her direction with comical surprise. “Well? Where is my invisible
husband?” The two hoods turned back to look at each other, one
whispered something and the other made a soft choking snort, as if
he were biting back laughter. “I’m so glad someone’s amused,
because I’m not! Where’s my husband?” The two hoods turned again in
her direction as silent as the grave. One whispered something to
the other, who emphatically shook his head no.

Eve abruptly
turned towards the fire to hide her distress as the door opened and
closed behind retreating footsteps. Failing to restrain her tears,
chills ran down her spine like wet ghostly fingers; one of the
demons was still in the room and he was watching her. Shaking in
fear she waited for hell to swallow her whole.

The cloaked
rider standing near the door clenched his hands in indecisive
agony. His bride was clearly upset and needed reassurance that he
wasn’t the devil, but years of experience with women had taught him
that if he told her he was her husband and he wouldn’t hurt her
she’d demand to see his face. Exhausted by the long cold ride and
unnerved by the fact that her parents had withheld his identity,
the last thing he wanted was to hear his wife scream in terror at
the sight of him. He’d made up his mind; he’d introduce himself to
his Eve in the comfort of his shadowy home. He’d swallow his pride
and wear his cursed silly eye patch once she was his. She’d see he
wasn’t completely monstrous and forgive him. That’s how he prayed
it would happen or his heart would break. His mind made up, he
strode over to the chair near the table and pulled it out making
her jump around in fright. He silently motioned for her to sit
down. Seeing her tears, he was relieved he’d remembered to put a
clean handkerchief in his pocket and offered it without a word. To
be alone with the woman made him feel as if he’d drunk half his
cellar.

“Thank you.”
She blew her nose and watched as he uncovered her dish before
escaping her curious gaze by taking a turn in front of the fire.
Poking at the large log with the toe of his boot, he watched his
unsuspecting bride. She was pretty with sweet curves that made his
blood sing, but his heart had succumbed to the sound of her voice
and her cheerful amusing outlook on life. He’d first noticed her at
his cousin’s ball; he’d been watching from a hidden recess half
senseless with dejection at the prospect of rejoining society to
find a wife. He knew what to expect; the men would snort with
laughter to cover their fear while the ladies recoiled in horror.
If he gave into his cousin’s dare to leave his hiding place without
wearing his hated eye patch he knew with awful certainty that no
one would dance with him.

He’d nearly
made up his mind to leave the ball when Miss Eve Venables had sat
down nearby with a female friend and entertained him with her
outrageous observations. Her theory of how an innocent boy had
become a heartless Mr John Smirke had been particularly
entertaining. She appeared to have an amusing opinion on everything
and everyone. By the time she’d abandoned her seat to dance with a
pleasant looking Lord his heart was panting her name and demanding
he arrange an introduction sans delay. He’d watched with envy as
the other man led her through an eternal country dance earning her
grateful smiles. If he hadn’t left his hateful eye patch on his
dressing table he’d have given in to his heart’s demands and asked
her to dance. It was another thing to add to the list of
uncomfortable consequences of his youthful stupidity. He’d
challenged a better swordsman to a duel and paid for his chivalrous
impulse with one eye and several large red gruesome scars. The
visible scar cut across the right side of his forehead down over
the bridge of his nose through his left eye and slashed his left
cheek. The deep puckered scar slicing across his throat was hidden
under his cravat; his once pleasant voice was no more than a gruff
whisper. His family and friends often reminded him he was lucky to
be alive, but it was hard to feel lucky watching happiness dance
past through a spy hole.