The Marriage Bargain (3 page)

But at this moment all she could think of was that tall, handsome soldier, his red coat trimmed with gold, gazing down at her with eyes the color of a summer sky and hair as dark as the fertile earth in which she had just been digging. She could still feel the press of his lips upon her forehead after they had spoken their vows and had been pronounced man and wife.

The very next day he had brought her here to Kellworth, not even staying a night here before leaving for the coast, back to war. How young she had been. How her eyes had been full of stars! Now she could see how blind they’d made her.

At the time she’d thought him the most romantic of men, so sensitive to her youth and inexperience that he’d been willing to forgo marital relations with her, though she had snuggled with him in the same bed that one and only night.

She had always believed he would return. For the last two years, she had dared him to return. Dared him to face her wrath for leaving her with the sorry mess that was Kellworth. But always, always she thought she would see him again.

“There, there now.” Mrs. Cobbett patted her back as if she were a small child.

Emma sniffed away her tears and straightened. Mr. Hale, his eyes moist, fished in his pockets and handed her his pristine white handkerchief, folded and warm from being in his breast pocket.

Emma dabbed at her eyes. “Mrs. Cobbett, do we have any tea? I must serve something.”

Mrs. Cobbett put her fleshy arm around Emma and Emma leaned on her once more. “Never you worry, m’lady. I’ve a few leaves saved. And Betty is making biscuits from the flour and sugar left in the pantry.”

Emma gave her a wan smile. “What would I do without you?”

Mrs. Cobbett squeezed her once more. “Well, I expect you won’t find out anytime soon. I’ve a good many years left in me, you know.”

Emma watched Mrs. Cobbett hurry away, her skirts rustling and her keys jangling. These servants were like family to her. Emma was so grateful to them. After Spence departed from her, it had been left to Mr. Hale and Mrs. Cobbett and the others to teach her how to go on and make her feel at home. The servants and Reuben, of course.

She turned to Mr. Hale. “Can we send Tolley to fetch the vicar? He must hear this news directly and we need his help, I think.”

Spence’s cousin Reuben had the living of Kellworth Parish. He had also been Emma’s steadfast friend.

“I took the liberty of sending for Reverend Keenan already. If he is at home, Tolley should bring him very soon.”

Emma found her eyes again filling with tears. “Thank you, Mr. Hale.” She wiped them away. “I suppose we must also find a room . . . for . . . for the earl’s coffin. And . . . and bedchambers for our guests.”

It was difficult to think of all that must be done, but so much easier than thinking of Spence lying in a wooden box.

“I have also taken the liberty of having Master Spence . . . I mean, Lord Kellworth’s coffin moved to the gallery. Mrs. Cobbett has sent two of the girls to ready the guest bedchambers in the west wing.”

She would endure, Emma decided. These lovely people would hold her together and she would withstand this final blow from Spence.

Emma squeezed the butler’s bony hand. “You have anticipated everything. I do thank you.”

He squeezed her hand in return and limped off. Emma took a deep breath and walked back to the drawing room.

Still standing, the two gentlemen looked as if they’d been having a very heated discussion. They broke apart, both red-faced.

Emma lowered herself into the most worn of the parlor chairs so she could hide its shabbiness. “Please sit, gentlemen.”

Blakewell, the charmer, took a chair near her and leaned forward. “How are you faring, my lady?”

She waved off the question, not needing these men to hear her private turmoil. “Forgive me, but I know nothing of you. Who are . . . Who were you to the earl?”

“We
are
his friends.” Mr. Wolfe’s voice cracked with emotion. He paused, taking a moment to compose himself. “We knew Spence since school days. We served together in the war. We were closer than brothers.”

Such fast friends and she had known nothing of them. If she had, she would have tried to reach Spence through them, to beg him to attend to Kellworth’s needs.

“He told us so little of you.” Mr. Wolfe’s tone made it sound as if that had been her fault.

She straightened her spine. “Perhaps my husband forgot about me, as he forgot about Kellworth.”

“He would not have done so!” Mr. Wolfe protested. “Spence would not have allowed his home to fall into disrepair.”

Emma might have retorted that Spence had not cared enough even to inquire after his property in all this time, but she was suddenly too weary. Besides, that old, constant ache merely added to her grief.

Another worry arose, adding to the tempest of pain and despair she was trying so hard to control. She would lose Kellworth, as she had lost her childhood home. Zachary Keenan, Spence’s uncle, would inherit.

Blakewell shot his friend a quelling look. “Lady Kellworth has had enough of a shock for one day. Let us not tease her with such matters now.” He turned to Emma. “Is there anything we might do for you, my lady?”

She did not know which of the two she wished to throttle first. Blakewell, with his feigned solicitude, or Wolfe, with his unfounded accusations.

Mrs. Cobbett herself carried in the tea tray, the look of warmhearted concern on her face enough to spark more tears. Emma blinked them away and busied herself pouring, confining conversation to how the gentlemen preferred their tea.

It occurred to her that she did not know how Spence might have taken his tea. She had never had an opportunity to serve him. She had known him so very briefly, but that March day in 1813 when he walked into his uncle’s parlor remained as vivid as if it had been yesterday.

Her mother, hastily remarried after Emma’s father’s death, had never been much of a presence in Emma’s childhood, always gadding about to wherever the
beau monde
frolicked. When the distant cousin who had been her father’s heir took over Emma’s beloved childhood home, all that changed. Her mother brought her to London and rushed her into a come-out, treating her as if she were some pet project, bent upon her making a spectacular marriage. She had been seventeen at the time, and much too much a country miss to know how to go on in the city. She hated London with its noise and dirt and confusion, and begged her mother to marry her off to some country fellow. Her mother, ever conscious of status and rank and ever as indifferent to her daughter’s wishes, found her a successful Member of Parliament instead. Zachary Keenan, Spence’s uncle, had been nearly as old as her father, and frightened her with his air of importance and the hungry gleam in his eye when he gazed upon her.

Emma had felt many strong emotions these last three years, anger and anxiety chief among them. But not until this moment had she experienced the same sense of despair she’d felt in that London parlor when faced with the frank admiration of Zachary Keenan, his countenance filled with an expectation that Emma had no idea how to fulfill.

And then Captain Spencer Keenan had walked in, tall, vital, and handsome in his infantry uniform. She had never seen a young man so gloriously handsome. When he was introduced to her as the Earl of Kellworth and Zachary Keenan’s nephew, he smiled down with eyes the color of a country sky in spring. She thought her heart would stop beating. When her mother told Spence his uncle was courting her. Emma had turned away, unable to bear the young man’s reaction.

At dinner the older Mr. Keenan had been seated next to her. He’d brushed his hand along her leg from under the table, and her cheeks had burned with embarrassment. Later when she fled Mr. Keenan’s more ardent advances, it had been Spence who found her and dried her tears.

The next day he called upon her mother. Before Emma knew it, her mother pushed her into the parlor with Spence and closed the door on them. He proposed, not marriage so much as a marriage bargain. He would marry her and settle her on his estate and he would go off to war. She would have the protection of his name and the country life she loved in a home even more grand than the one of her childhood.

Emma had readily agreed. Spence had been to her like a knight of old, charging in on a white steed to rescue her from the evil villain. Never once had she believed it when he said theirs would be a marriage of convenience. She thought the reason he spared her the marriage bed was because he had seen how shaken she’d been by his uncle’s fervor. She thought he would initiate a true marriage when his soldiering was done; when she was a little older and more ready to be a wife. And a mother. She believed Spence had spoken so out of love for her, a love as pure and fine as in any tale of courtly love.

How young and stupid she’d been!

She’d not realized how much of that girlish dream had remained, how much she’d secretly hoped Spence would again charge in to remove all the burdens she’d borne in keeping Kellworth together. But now he would never return. She would never see him again.

Emma glanced up at Mr. Wolfe and Blakewell. Her silence had become awkward, but she had no idea what to say to them. Mr. Wolfe stared out the window, and Blakewell’s gaze fixed on the contents of his teacup. Neither seemed much aware of her. Were they grieving? She could not tell for certain, though they did seem upset.

A knock sounded at the door, and all three of them looked up. Reuben walked in, and Emma sprang to her feet to greet him. Blakewell and Wolfe also rose.

The Reverend Reuben Keenan took Emma’s hand in his. “Mr. Hale informed me of the tragic news. My sincere condolences, my dear Emma.”

Emma felt the tears prick her eyes again. “Thank you, Reuben.” Reuben’s boyishly round face was such a comfort to her, even if his expression was solemn. She presented the vicar to Blakewell and Wolfe.

“Blakewell?” Reuben’s brows rose. “Were you not at school with Spencer? I seem to recall it.”

Mr. Wolfe gave an audible huff.

Blakewell did not smile. “Both Mr. Wolfe and I were schoolmates of your cousin. You were three years ahead of us.”

The reverend nodded affably. “We older boys paid little mind to you younger ones.”

He turned to take both Emma’s hands and lead her to the settee. He kept her fingers in a steadying grip. “Now do tell what happened to my cousin.”

Blakewell and Wolfe exchanged glances, and Wolfe wheeled around and trod back to the window. Emma looked to Blakewell.

He remained standing, as erect as a soldier, hands clasped behind his back. “Spence was killed in a duel.”

“A duel!” Reuben’s eyes widened. “Surely not!”

“It was about gambling,” Emma added.

Wolfe twisted around. “He was falsely accused of cheating.”

“What of his opponent?” Rueben asked.

Blakewell responded, “He is bound for the Continent, and not likely to show his face for a year or two.” Blakewell finally sat in a nearby chair. He leaned toward Reuben. “The thing is, we wish to keep the circumstance of Spence’s death quiet.”

“Oh, what does it matter?” Emma said this more to herself, but Reuben answered her.

“It matters because if these gentlemen were present at the duel, they might be charged in Spence’s murder.”

And perhaps they ought to be, thought Emma, for not stopping such a foolish contest.

Reuben cleared his throat. “We do not wish undue attention from the justice of the peace. Let me deal with Squire Benson. I fancy I may talk him into some tame tale, say a fall from a horse?”

“Spence would never fall from his horse!” protested Wolfe.

The muscle in Blakewell’s cheek flexed, but he remained silent.

“We shall say it was a freak accident,” the reverend placated.

Blakewell and Wolfe exchanged glances again. Wolfe turned back to the window, and Blakewell said, “Very well.”

Men are so foolish, thought Emma. What did it matter how he died? He was gone forever and nothing could change that fact. She must worry more about her own fate now. The anger that had grown over three years crept back. Spence had paid no attention to her care while he lived. Had he provided for her in death?

Before leaving for war that day after their wedding, he told her he’d made provisions for her in the event of his death. Not wanting to hear such words, she’d silenced him before he could go on. Now she wished she had let him speak.

But whatever provisions he’d made had likely come to naught after squandering his fortune.

She supposed she would be forced to go to her mother. Would her mother turn her away? More likely the Baroness Holgrove would get busy finding another match for her daughter, something that would raise her own status in the eyes of the
ton.
Emma had never considered confiding her financial troubles to her mother. Her mother’s infrequent letters had contained little curiosity about her daughter, filled instead with lively discourse about the society events of which she’d been part. Once her mother had even asked for money.

“We find ourselves a little short of funds,” her mother had penned.

Emma had written back that her husband had total control of her finances and she was unable to do anything on her own. She suggested her mother appeal to Spence directly, but she had no idea if her mother had done so, or if Spence had fulfilled her mother’s request.

She forced attention back to Reuben.

“. . . I suggest we bury my poor cousin tomorrow. We may send messages to the appropriate people today, and I shall ride to Squire Benson’s directly.” He turned to her. “Will that suit you, Emma, my dear?”

She shrugged. What did any of it matter? The vestiges of her youthful dreams, dreams she had not even realized she’d harbored, had died with Spence.

The next morning dawned gray, with a light but persistent rain falling like tears from the sky, tears that Emma had forbidden herself. She was determined to get through the day without succumbing to emotion.

She and Susan had unearthed her old black dress, the one she’d worn to her father’s funeral. Susan had labored into the night, straining her eyes by the light of a colza oil lamp, to alter it to fit Emma’s more womanly figure, but the bodice still strained against Emma’s breasts. The black hooded cape she wore disguised the fact, though in church, she feared breathing as it merely pulled the neckline even lower.