The Marquis Takes a Bride (11 page)

“I do not like having a master,” said Jennie mulishly.

“Do you mean
me?
” cried Chemmy, taking her in his arms and clutching her to his bosom in what she uneasily felt was a deliberately theatrical manner. “I worship the ground you walk on. I kiss your feet… or rather I would if my jacket would but allow me to bend.”

“Oh,
you
… you
fop
,” said Jennie, struggling to release herself and hoping against hope that she had gone too far this time and that her seemingly emotionless husband would at least be provoked into a show of anger, but his blue eyes merely glinted with amusement as he gazed down into her flushed face.

“How true and, oh, how sad,” he said, holding her very close, so close that she could feel the hard muscles of his legs pressing against her own. He began to kiss her very lightly and expertly, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her breast and her mouth again until she gave a choked moaning sound in the back of her throat and clutched desperately at the silk revers of his evening coat for support.

“Oh, Jennie,” he sighed huskily, “there is something I must tell you, my heart.”

“What is it, Chemmy?” she breathed, staring up into his handsome face with a drowned look in her eyes.

“You are clutching me so hard, you are quite spoiling the set of my coat,” said the Marquis.

“Damn your bloody coat, sirrah, and damn and double damn
you
,” howled his little wife, wrenching herself out of his arms and fleeing from the room.

The Marquis looked after her disappearing figure and a smile curled his mobile mouth. “Yes, I really must buy you a horse, my lady wife,” he murmured, “for you have obviously had a close acquaintanceship with the stables!”

For a long time afterward, Jennie was to associate bright sunshine with disaster. Not for her the Gothic omens of the thunderstorm, with its jagged flashes of lightning and purple clouds.

When she and her husband drove up to the ivy-covered front of Runbury Manor, brilliant sunshine was flooding the ragged estate and the birds were chirping busily in the trees, ruffling their feathers under the benison of a mock spring day.

The groom, John, performed a cheerful rat-tat-tat on the door knocker and Jennie and the Marquis stood side by side on the mossy steps, waiting for someone to answer.

Silence.

No omens. No warnings. Only the busy chattering of the birds in the ivy and the dry rattle of crumpled dead leaves over the frozen gravel of the drive.

John banged on the knocker again and then tried the door which swung open revealing the darkness of the hall beyond.

The smell of the cold, fetid air was like a blow in the face.

On an old, high-backed carved chair in the hall sat the elderly footman, dressed in his finery of the last century. His thin, spindly legs in their clocked stockings were neatly crossed, his frail, gloved hands rested motionless in his lap and his pale old eyes stared blankly into space.

Jennie would have run to him but the Marquis held her back. “He is dead,” said Chemmy quietly. “I do not know what has been going on here, my dear, but the stench is appalling. You must wait outside in the carriage for me.”

Too shocked to argue, Jennie stumbled out of the door and took in great gulps of the clear, cold winter air outside.

She climbed into the traveling carriage and wrapped herself in rugs, willing herself not to think. Not to think at all.

After what seemed like an age, the Marquis walked slowly from the house, followed by John and climbed in beside her.

He took her small gloved hands in his own. “Your grandparents are dead,” he said in an emotionless voice. “I found Martha, the cook, and some of the remaining servants in the kitchens in a bad state of shock.

“They say they had pleaded with Lord Charles to hire men to clear the cesspool but he stubbornly insisted it was a waste of money. The other night when it was very cold, he had a sudden fit of extravagance and ordered the servants to close all the windows and light fires in every room and keep them burning all night. Your grandparents and several of the servants died of asphyxiation.”

Jennie clung to his hands, unable to take in the shattering news. People died of such causes every day of the year but it was hard to understand that it could happen to anyone one knew.

“And Jeffries… the footman?” whispered Jennie.

“I think he died of a broken heart,” said Chemmy gently. “He was the one who discovered your grandparents dead. He then dressed himself in his best livery and sat himself in that chair in the hall… as if on duty… and waited for death to arrive.”

“I must go to them,” said Jennie.

“There is nothing you can do,” said her husband, pressing her back into the seat. “John will convey you to the nearest inn while I attend to all that is necessary here. Believe me, my heart, you will only distress yourself beyond reason. You must leave things to me.”

Jennie nodded dumbly. “The dogs are dead too, poor brutes,” said the Marquis, “and unless I remove the rest of the old servants quickly, I will not answer for their lives. Please go, Jennie. John will take care of you until I arrive.”

Jennie sat as rigidly as a statue as the carriage jolted down the rutted drive. She was tortured with guilt.

“I hardly ever thought of them these past weeks,” she murmured aloud. “Perhaps I could have saved them had I been more dutiful. Oh, poor Guy, he will suffer as much as I, for he loved them dearly.”

The image of the Guy of her childhood came back before her eyes, gentle and smiling, and she suddenly ached for his comforting presence.

As soon as she reached her rooms at the local inn, Jennie sat down to write a letter to Guy. She and no one else must break the terrible news to him. After all, he was all she had to cling to now, the only family she had left.

Guy Chalmers put down the tear-stained letter with a triumphant smile and slowly swung around to face his visitor, Alice Waring.

Alice had decided to call on Guy before attending Almack’s subscription ball. She no longer bore Guy any ill-will, having felt that the Earl of Freize had settled the score for her by humiliating Guy that night at the opera. Despite the chill of the evening, she was wearing a pale pink Indian muslin gown, damped to reveal the most of her charms. Diamonds—a gift from the Earl—blazed at her throat and in her hair.

She had called on Guy since she still nourished a curiousity about the Marquis’ marriage and the arrival of Jennie’s letter had interrupted her questions.

“You look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” she laughed. “Has someone left you a fortune?”

“By God, I think they have,” said Guy exultantly. “My dear cousin informs me that those old quizzes, Lord and Lady Bemyss, have gone to meet their Maker. Lord Charles didn’t hold with females inheriting money and he had the good sense to pop off before Jennie produced any brats. Oh, my stars! How rich he must have been! Stupid old miser.”

“Often people considered by all the world to have been misers shock them by dying and revealing that they were, in fact, abyssmally poor all along,” said Alice scornfully.

“Not he,” cried Guy. “Look you, I used to wait until he had his afternoon nap and I would check his business papers. Anyway, mean as he was, he never raised the tenants’ taxes or rents in all his long lifetime. By George! What a shock they will receive when
I
arrive on the scene. I’ll have every man Jack of them paying double.”

“Yes,” murmured Alice. “I can see you in the role of wicked landlord, throwing widows and orphans out into the snow.”

“So,” went on Guy with a sneer, “you can take yourself off, my dear doxy. I have no more use for you!”

“You never were any use anyway,” said Alice, her good humor unimpaired. “You are not much of a man.”

“Get out!” said Guy with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Oh, I’m going, I’m going,” said Alice. “But, hark on, Guy Chalmers. Insult me no further or I shall tell that cousin of yours of your true nature.”

“What do I care?” laughed Guy. “Tell the world and his wife! Rich people like me do not need to worry about social blandishments.”

Alice shivered and pulled her ermine cloak up around her bare shoulders. “Well, my late collaborator,” she said, rising languidly to her feet, “think on this piece of advice, for I have learned it in a hard school. Wish revenge and hate on the world and that is exactly what you will get back… double fold. Good day to you,
Mr
. Chalmers.”

But Guy’s head was once more bent over the letter and a smile of triumph played on his lips.

Just wait until that will was read!

The will was read three days after the funeral of Lord and Lady Bemyss, in the drawing room of the Marquis of Charrington’s town house.

Only Jennie, Guy and the Marquis were present. The lawyer, Mr. Humphreys, was even older than his late client and his thin, frail voice echoed around the room as he at last began to read from the papers in front of him. Snow fell gently outside the windows.

Mr. Humphreys began with a long list of bequests to Lord Charles’ old servants, many of whom, Guy was pleased to note, were already dead.

He suddenly heard the sound of his name and sat very still. “To Mr. Guy Chalmers I leave five hundred guineas with the earnest plea that he will not immediately dissipate it in some low gambling hell.” And as Guy sat rigid with shock, the elderly voice went on. “The bulk of my estate, I leave to my dear granddaughter, Jennifer, Marchioness of Charrington, secure in the knowledge that it will be expertly managed for her by her husband….” The voice droned on, describing the extent of Lord Charles’ fortune in detail. Guy had been right in only one thing. Lord Charles had, indeed, been a very wealthy man.

Guy felt he would die of an apoplexy. The will had said “Jennifer, Marchioness of Charrington” and had therefore been changed after Jennie’s marriage. But he would never achieve the revenge he thirsted for if he showed his hate. As Shakespeare so rightly said, “One may smile and smile, and be a villain.” He was about to turn around in his chair to twinkle boyishly at Jennie who, he knew, was seated behind him by the fireplace, when the voice of the lawyer again caught his attention.

“Should my beloved granddaughter, Jennifer, die childless, then the bulk of my estate, my moneys and my properties will pass to my great-nephew, Mr. Guy Chalmers.”

Chemmy stood by the fireplace, leaning his arm along the mantle and watching the back of Guy’s head. He suddenly wished very much to see his face.

When the reading of the will was over, Jennie was inclined to be tearful and apologetic to Guy. How wicked of Grandpapa! He should have left dear Guy more. And Guy smiled and disclaimed.

As the Marquis led Mr. Humphreys out to the hall, Guy waited until he was out of earshot and then playfully seized Jennie by the hands and swung her around.

“Poor Jennie,” he said ruefully. “Had Lord Charles only died a little earlier, you would not have had to endure this farce of a marriage!”

“Oh, Grandpapa!” said Jennie, her eyes filling with tears. “No, I do not complain about my marriage, Guy. I am
glad
I married Chemmy now. At least before he died, Grandpapa had no worries about me.”

Little hypocrite
, thought Guy viciously. But he said aloud in a tender voice, “Ah, how brave you are, my little cousin. I shall always be here by your side, Jennie, to take care of you. You know I love you and will always care for you.” He dropped her hands abruptly as Chemmy strolled into the room.

“I must speed you on your way, Chalmers,” said the Marquis amiably. “My wife has been under a considerable strain these past few days and I feel she should rest.”

“Of course,” said Guy, all solicitation. He pressed Jennie’s hand to his lips, bowed to the Marquis and took his leave suddenly anxious to be alone—to plot and plan.

Although Guy called assiduously at the mansion in Albemarle Street, he was steadfastly refused admittance. Her ladyship was always “resting.” Jennie had, in fact, settled into a solitary life, mourning for her dead grandparents, having found out too late how much she had loved them. Her husband was an easy and undemanding companion and her tutor, Mr. Porteous, called daily to further her education.

A blustery spring blew past and soon the London Season came around again. Jennie began to dress in half-mourning and the Marquis informed her that it would be quite in order for her to attend balls and parties, provided she did not dance.

All of a sudden, Jennie was anxious to be out in the world again and, like a butterfly emerging from a kind of literary cocoon, she escaped from Mr. Porteous’ teaching and books into the sunshine of calls on acquaintances and drives in the Park.

Her first surprise on emerging from her seclusion was to find that Sally Byles had “an understanding” with Mr. Deighton and that the engagement was about to be announced.

Sally had emerged from her puppy fat and was now a slim, pretty debutante, radiant with happiness. To Sally, Perry Deighton was her shining knight in armor and all she seemed to want to do was to talk about his manifold merits by the hour. Jennie was at first amused, wondering how anyone as spirited as Sally could love the prim and censorious Mr. Deighton. Then she began to feel qualms of jealousy. Since the death of her grandparents, her husband had been urbane and polite but had refrained from any of those kisses and caresses which had disturbed her so much.

She was returning from a visit to Sally and was being helped from her carriage by a footman when, with a leaping of her senses, she saw the slim, debonair figure of her cousin, Guy, bearing down on her.

“Oh, Guy, how I have neglected you,” cried Jennie, immediately contrite.

“How
slim
you are,” smiled Guy, feeling his sun shine again. Jennie was very obviously not expecting a Charrington heir. He decided not to tell her that he had been refused admission to her home for fear she might have changed and would not wish to offend her husband. But ascertaining that Chemmy was from home, he let Jennie bring him into the drawing room and listened with disbelieving amazement to her tale of her months of mourning for her grandparents. And who shall blame Mr. Chalmers for his cynicism? No one really knows for sure the thoughts or emotions of another and, therefore, one credits other persons with one’s own faults, beliefs and humors—particularly one’s faults.