The Marriage Mart (13 page)

John walked the field next to his steward, pausing occasionally to bend down and feel the soil with his hands, or to nudge a tuft of dislodged grain back into place. He made a concerted effort to hear what the man was saying, but it was in truth not much more than a repeated recitation of the reasons why John could not return to London just yet.

“Those cattle what I was afeared might have a bit o’ bad lung? Tain’t heard cough nor naught more from ‘em in a week. Had the local barber up--had me tooth pulled, y’know--and he gave his opinion, saying’ as they was good to go to market,” the steward, James Rigger, said seriously.

But try as he might, John found his attention straying. One minute he was listening, and the next he was caught up in the diversion of watching a flight of swallows overhead, or a mare running in the adjoining pasture, or thoughts of the conversation at table last night, or wispy, unfocused remembrances from days both recent and long past.

He recalled such a day as this; cool, crisp, with breaks in the fat white clouds. The clouds, then as now, were high in the atmosphere, slowly moved by a wind that did not deign to touch the earth, causing the clouds and the sun to play a lazy game of hide and seek far above the heads of the mortals below. So it had been on that other day, the day his heart had first been touched with the frost of unrequited love.
Melinda.
Pretty, clever, cruel Melinda. Although the thought of her no longer caused that organ which resided in his chest to contract painfully, still the thought of her was a sobering one, and unwelcome. Especially unwelcome today, for some reason he could not even begin to name. He forced his mind back to the conversation at hand, until yet again the steward’s words began to wind away, John’s thoughts once again gone astray.

It was time to move on if he could not concentrate, so he bid his steward good day, and realized this move only left him two options: he could visit Miss Yardley, as he had promised he’d do sometime today, or he could stay locked in his own thoughts the rest of this not altogether comfortable nor pleasant day. He chose the former.

Still, the ruse proved no defense when he found himself alone on his way to call. Free to be totally distracted, John gave up the fight and allowed his mind to wander where it would as he worked the reins. The lane was wide and even, his nag content, and the dogcart a simple vehicle that did not require much of his attention. He had deliberately chosen the dogcart, for it did not have room for more than one other person. If Miss Yardley wished to ride with him, it would be without benefit of a companion at her side.

The thought of a companion made him smile just a little, for a picture of Mrs. Pennett leaped into his mind. She had given a little taste of her spirit, that spirit so dedicated to her darling Mary, and it had surprised him at the time. He had been playing cards, not even seated at table with Mrs. Pennett’s charge, and yet he had looked up to see the companion stitching as usual in the corner, giving him the most serious look he had ever been given.

At his returned scrutiny, she did not blink, nor in any wise back down, and he had the uncanny feeling she was telling him something. Ah well, that then was easy enough to decipher, with a reputation such as his: “stay away from my girl,” of course. And yet, too, it had been something more…but what?
That
was the puzzle. For had he read some deeply buried, yet nonetheless real, hint of
approval
there? It was a contradiction. He must stay away and yet Mrs. Pennett liked him… If one wanted to be rid of another’s presence, one could not, surely, also like them…?

For one of the rare moments since he had left his innocence behind, John did not understand what ought to have been eminently understandable. That is what made him smile now, for Mary’s advent into his life had had that same effect on everything.

He’d had no intention of respecting his family’s wishes, but suddenly Mary was there, telling him that, yes, he ought to marry, and now he found himself mulling over the very idea that a week ago he would have sworn he should never care to give so much as a thought. Where once he would have let his mother prattle on about such silliness about duty and inheritances with scarce a peep of annoyance from himself, just this week he had roared at her that he had heard quite enough--and all, in truth, because he found the topic had somehow become embarrassing just because Mary sat at his table.

The gaucheness of his family had mortified him, until he saw the upturned corners of sweet Mary’s mouth.

The loveliness of his estate had never struck him as such a point of pride until he saw the approving glitter in Mary’s soft brown eyes. All the old pains of returning to this place, the home of his youthful follies, had been as nothing as soon as the good lady had placed one tiny slippered foot upon its soil.

It was her musical laughter, and the lilting sound of her voice raised in those ancient songs of love and adoration that came so pleasingly from her lips, not to mention the comfortable silences they had shared, that now filled his ears.

Too, there had been a certain moment other than these--a moment that had rocked him for the time it lasted. It had started so simply: he had only meant to give her a brief, saluting kiss. A kiss to send her safely on her way.

Somewhere, somehow, even in its brevity, it had become much more than that: he had seen without a doubt that Mary was a being waiting for love. She thought her only desire was for children, that everything else could be put aside in the pursuit of such, but he had seen her more clearly. That kiss, so revealing, had shown him just a hint of the passionate nature no one care to know existed within the lady.

The knowledge was vitally important. He knew, more than ever before, that not just any fellow would do for Mary. The lucky man must be capable of affection, must be able to fall in love with her. It meant that he, John, must look all the harder at the applicants to that position, for even Mary herself did not really comprehend what she must have, what sort of person her husband must be if she was to be happy and to go on being John’s dearest, most extraordinary Mary.

Ah, Mary, my heart,
he sighed to himself,
how I miss you already and only half a day gone. How did you slip past my defenses so cleanly and easily? Why did I let you open my eyes again to the virtue, and the complications, of life simply lived?

And there were still too many days to go before he could return to London. Just this morning hadn’t his steward been again telling him of the sale of some of the Whitden property at auction? It was not adjacent to, but very near his own. He would be a fool to let some other landowner purchase it. Such an investment might recoup--not this year, but perhaps next-- some of their losses, and would in any event be good land to own. There would be a price to be haggled over, documents to be signed. Not to mention the new roofs he had ordered on three of the present estate’s cottages, and the blasted stone fence that had been discovered could not be rebuilt in the same place, for fear of the same thing happening later, Too, there was that danger of disease with the cattle...all of which could be handled by his steward, if only Georgette had not developed a fever. It was not uncommon, said the doctor, following birth, but John could not, and would not, leave until she was recovered. Mama was quite beside herself with concern.

There was no hope of leaving for London soon, so a’calling he would go.

As he moved toward that engagement, John’s mind slid past thoughts and impressions of the lovely Miss Yardley, aimlessly to thoughts of how he would have asked Mary along this day, to come with him to review the girl. He would have asked Mary the best way to learn more of this creature, how to bring out the young lady’s true opinions, for he knew full well that the ladies of his circle oft times said what they ought, not what they thought. Too, in truth, he would have used Mary as a kind of buffer, a way to keep the ardent-eyed Miss Yardley from being too forward.

That thought made him laugh aloud, for it was not usually his way to wish a beautiful woman
out
of his arms, but--he thought more soberly--this was not a matron with full knowledge of her deeds; this was a “marriageable,” with certain expectations, and thereby entailed with certain consequences to certain actions. Women had one set of rules; young misses another. And Miss Annalee Yardley was a young miss, make no mistake.

He sighed then, and was almost glad to see the clouds once again closing over the brief bit of sun that had begun his journey. Had he wanted to persuade Miss Yardley to drive alone with him? No, he could not really fool himself, and knew it had never been his intention. The imminent rain only served to make it that much less likely.

He noted how the front doors were pulled open for him in a manner more styled for royalty, and how the daughter, mother, and father of the house stood just inside the door to greet him the very second his boot first touched their flooring. His hat and coat were solicited, and then his need for drink, followed by edible refreshments. Only when he had denied the latter two did the trio recall themselves enough to let their guest step aside that the doors might be closed. He was then offered profuse apologies for the lapse, followed by an escort into the front parlor, where once again he was offered a round of refreshments, which he decided to accept as it seemed so very important to them.

A heavily loaded tea tray explained at a glance that their cook had been pressed to produce a number of wonders, not least of which was a spun-sugar bowl of tiny marzipan fruits, nearly hidden as it was among the tea cakes, trimmed sandwiches, fresh fruit tarts, sugared nuts, and cleverly carved and arranged slices of ham and cheese that he took to be a representation of the Yardley coat of arms.

Having taken his midday meal just before he came, he found the display a bit overwhelming…and not just the edibles; also the daughter. Miss Yardley was dressed in the very latest frock, cut daringly low for a day dress, with a gossamer fabric that hinted at the charming form beneath. John found himself a trifle disconcerted that parents should allow such an ensemble, at least in the full light of day, and also for the blatant display of consent it so obviously implied. Should any of his nieces appear in such a rig, he’d order them straight back to their rooms.

He found himself thinking he could very well have that ride alone in the dogcart with Miss Yardley, if he were to so much as open his mouth and mention the idea.

Vowing in a moment’s time that if the girl’s papa, Sir Edmund, asked to speak a moment with him, John would at once have to develop a tremendous megrim, or some such by which to refuse such a meeting, for he could see they had every hope of an offer for their daughter’s hand. It couldn’t be clearer than if they’d hung a sign about her neck which read “take me, please”. And who could blame them? Even if their daughter became his marchioness and John proved to be cutting and shared nothing of his wealth with them, the Yardleys would still profit on the social scale by association alone.

John accepted a cup of tea, trying to murmur small appropriate noises when he must, for his mind flitted yet, trying to slide away from attention to the conversation.

It was not that he had no idea of how to undo their hopes, should he choose to--that was a simple thing, in fact. He was practiced at dashing presumptions. No, it was instead the unusual inability to decide if that was really what he wanted to do or not. They wanted him. Did
he
want the girl? He turned his gaze to the daughter of the house, and was rewarded by a bright, yes, even stunning, smile. It was an eager smile, one that promised much. And she was too young to promise those things in falsehood, of that he would swear. She was not capable of complicated games, as were others from his past.

Even so little as a few years ago, he would have been deeply cautious--but time and experience had proved him grown not completely incapable of assessing others, so that now he felt some confidence in his conclusions. Should he rethink his first impulse to run and hide, allow himself to be open to the occasion? Mary had told him yes, and Mary cared for him. She would not deliberately lead him into harm’s way, of that, too, he could swear. No, that he
knew.

He settled back in the chair his hosts had offered him, and feeling rather uncharacteristically awkward and not some little bit uncertain, allowed them to paint a pretty, perfect, pastoral scene around him with their barely veiled hints at a more permanent connection. And though he was nobody’s fool, and could rightly call himself an intelligent man, all the while he wished Mary were here, for that sense of not quite understanding his own mind overcame him again, and he longed for her to explain it all to him.

Mary found she was able to slide easily back into the world of parties and fetes, dances and card evenings. Her absence had only served to make her more sought after, as her brief sojourn meant she might have something new and interesting to say. And so she did, though she was careful to tell no tales on her hosts--not even so much out of good manners, but because such tales would serve to stir up longings in her to return there. And how easily she had forgotten London’s propriety! She chafed a little under the daily censure, the gossip that told all, that made one watch one’s tongue, but at the same time she welcomed it, for it kept her mind very busy, this routine of thrust and parry, come and go, take but not give, or at least give only a little in return.

She had gone sailing with Lord Pentford, but that had proved to be a wretched event. She had been forced to dedicate nearly all her time to poor Mrs. Pennett, who alternately lay upon a bunk with a cool cloth to her head, or felt the need to hurry above “for air”. Mary did not know if seasickness was contagious, but after awhile she had not felt so well herself, and firmly made up her mind she was never sailing again, and so she knew she must discount Lord Pentford as a groom-to-be.

Lieutenant Hargood had returned to London, and made a point of securing a dance from her whenever they met. She enjoyed his ability to move gracefully, and so often gave him two dances. If this occasioned some whispered speculations, well, that was to the good, as well. Lt. Hargood was a man with an ear for talk, and to hear of himself would not displease him; it might even steer him the sooner in the direction of more serious contemplations, Mary believed. She could not much care for the thought of being a military wife, having to move about or to await the man’s return from duty. Too, she did not think the lieutenant terribly well-to-do, but (as she told herself) “beggars can’t be choosers”. He was serious-minded, well-read, a fine dancer, and reasonably attractive. A woman could do much worse, Mary assured herself.

Lord Faver still sought her out for dances as well, but he had a knack of wanting to talk softly through the exercise, causing Mary to have to often ask him to repeat himself. She amused herself with thoughts of a sort of verbal duel taking place, as they came together, called something quickly, came away, and back together for a reply or a call of “what was that?” Yet, when the dance was finished, and they were moved to the side of the room, he seemed to lose most of his ability to speak, only instead nodding or shaking his head and murmuring ‘hmmm-mmm’ in reply to her comments. Although his reticence did not unduly upset her, she did find herself wondering if he would be able to speak at all were they to find themselves alone together.

Of her suitors, if such they could be called, it was Lord Bretwyn who seemed the most likely to possess both the ability to speak a proposal, as well as to initiate one. He was possessed of a bright mind, an ability to tell a tale or two, and a ready smile. Mary thought well of him, for it was clear he would be the kind to nurture the family fortunes rather than spend them; to have affections in this life, if perhaps not any grand passions; and to settle comfortably to the ways and works of a wedded pair. His only keen flaw was that he favored a pipe, but Mary knew such women as forbade them in their homes, and she suspected Bretwynwould not mind having an excuse to stroll to his club of an evening were she to follow their example. Yes, he had all these attributes, plus the reassuring one of seeking out her company deliberately. His sister had never again shown so overtly her interest in the two making a connection, but Mary was fairly sure she knew, if she were to ask outright, what Lady Hammand’s wish would be.

It was therefore disheartening to find she had no real enthusiasm in the playing of the marriage mart game, and only wished time away, so that she could have already been given and accepted an offer. Yet, for all that Mary felt this way, she knew it was early days yet, and she could not rush her fences.

It was in a rather melancholy frame of mind that she found herself at a Hazard party at Lord Faver’s. The play had not gone her way, and therefore in no way lightened her day. She had excused herself from the table and gone in search of punch for lack of anything more inspiring to do. Mrs. Pennett was not to be seen, and so was probably at the lady’s necessary, as she was nothing if she was not punctilious about attending her charge. Taking up a glass of punch, Mary decided to wander about until such time as Mrs. Pennett made her reappearance, and then she thought she might return home, the evening having been less than sparkling. There was no dancing, and Lord Pentford had avoided her ever since she’d had the poor grace to have a seasick companion, and Lt. Hargood was gone on duty again. Lord Faver was busy entertaining his guests, and the Bretwyns were not in attendance. Mary had already circled and chatted with the others present whom she knew, and did not relish the thought of doing so again. It was natural then, surely, that her mind returned to the letter from John she had received just today.

It had started with its usual protestations against his family, except for a happy point that told her Georgette was much on the mend. Then came a couple of bittersweet references to “your abandonment of me to my fate,” but then the tone had changed:

Ah, Mary, I find myself thinking of you and my eldest protagonist (I mean Hortense, not Mama), closeted together with you so many times. I shudder to think what she must have told you of me! I was a beastly child, I feel sure--
Mary had shaken her head, for she had never heard anything but what a delightful child he had been to his many sisters--
but an even more beastly man. I feel somehow compelled to defend myself, to tell
my side of the story, in my own way and words. Will you indulge me? If not--for nothing is more boring than when a man writes of himself--then you have but to burn this. But pray do not return the ashes to me, for I find I do not care to truly know if you have read these words or not. Foolish, I know, but you already knew this of me, and loved me anyway.

What to say, now that I am down to it? What did Hortense whisper in your ear? Ah well, of my ‘supposed broken heart’, no doubt. And truth, dearest, is that she is right, in a way. I did break my heart. However, nearly fifteen years after, I have stitched it back together rather well, I say. Enough so that I do not look upon Miss Yardley with all-consuming terror, as once I might have done.

And so the tale begins: I was a young lad. Not even twenty. An age of stupidity, all told. Aye, and even so for women, not just men. For this is the age when women make fateful life choices, sometimes based on nothing more than a notion, or as pathetic a thing as how a man may appear on the surface.

Her name
was
Melinda. That is enough of a name by which to call her, as she is married now. She was fair, light and lovely. In truth, I do not remember her face well now, but do not think me too peculiar when I say I
do recall she had lovely, even, white teeth. Such a smile! Radiant enough that it is what I retain of her now. As to her nose or eyes or chin, perhaps I would know them if I saw them, but I do not recall them particularly well, and neither do I try to do so. Perhaps I remember those teeth because she laughed all the time. I do not have a memory, scarce even one, where she is not laughing, not even at the end.

After nine weeks of acquaintance, I bid her be my wife. She told me ‘yes’, and--now, remember you promised to blush no more before me (or even my written words)--I tell you she said ‘aye’ to more than just my title. We found ourselves tumbled together, in the way, I suppose, of many young lovers. I thought such intimacies meant we were ‘one’, as the ancient sayings go, and therefore did not think to question if that were so. I allowed myself to fall deeply in love with her--no, not with her, but what I thought her to be. And I allowed her murmured remarks as to my physical beauty--there speaks my vanity again!--to have the same sound to my young ears as would words of eternal devotion.

Imagine my surprise when a week later we were engaged no more, and a month after that she was wed to another. I had thought, for a while, this was some kind of test or game, but I could not believe that any longer when I sat in the church and watched her take her vows to the other man. Of course, my father was well and hale in those days, and it seems the lady was not willing to wait to become a marchioness.

‘Well,’  I told myself,
‘I
guess we were not meant to be.’ So, although I ached and sighed, and had grown much wiser by far, it wasn’t too long before I was foolish enough to try the whole again.

Sandra was as dark as Melinda had been fair. She was much the same in style though, and I think that is what caught my eye at first. Ah, but how people told us of how fine we looked together! It was quite heady, to be part of such a pair. But, no longer being a green boy, I was much more cautious this time. We were betrothed for six months, during which time I was as chaste as any priest in a remote and womanless village. I thought me that if the lady could be devoted for a length of time, it would be proof of her future steadfastness.

They say God watches over fools, and it must be true. The day came when I was convinced of her, and so she allowed me to know more than the touch of her lips on mine. But she had miscalculated, for though I was young and had been a long time celibate, I was no longer a complete fool. It was clear that here was no maiden.

And still, I meant to be not too judgmental, not too exacting, and thought of Melinda, and how I had not left her intact for her eventual husband. But some wise voice whispered in my head, and I told the lady I must delay the wedding a while yet. She was not happy for it, and talked to me often to try and persuade me otherwise, but it was not two months later that there was no disguising the fact she was increasing, and by the advanced thickening of her waist that it could not possibly be my child. The proof of this was come into the world four months later, a big, healthy, timely baby girl.

There then, are my tales. I am not afraid to tell you I sought no faithfulness after that. I have slept where I was bidden, but I have never pretended to desire anything more than amusement. There is not a woman who could say otherwise. I’ve made no promises. I know you have heard rumors of my antics, and quite some few of them are true, as I have never tried to hide from you, but never were promises of any kind uttered.

They say the measure of a friend is when they know you well, and love you still. I pray--again my Mary has me praying!--that you will love me still, as ever I adore you.

(I realize it is not quite the same thing, for I am wicked, and you are not, but perhaps my sad stories have moved your heart a little, and you are not quite ready to cast me off.)

                                                                   John

Remembering the letter, and how the words--words of pain and heartache, of betrayal and trust gone awry--those things he had written between the lines of script, perhaps without even meaning to, had caught at her heart. He had silently pleaded for forgiveness, as if it was hers to give, but it was not. Forgiveness must come of himself, though the thought that he believed there was much to forgive made her eyes glisten with unshed tears for him. She understood then that to host a great beauty could be as heavy a burden as to have a face that held no beauty at all.

It was then, as she stood in an alcove, staring off into space with eyes that shone with tears in the candlelight, that a shadow fell over her and caused her to slowly recall herself, and turn to see who was come to her side.

“Lady Mary, how very great a pleasure to see you again.”

She managed a smile with one side of her mouth, but even that quickly faded as she kept herself from sighing at his reappearance at the same event she had chosen to attend. “Lord Stephens.” She curtsied instead of uttering lies about it being her pleasure to see him again.

“Ah, even though it yet rains, I vow the sun has come out for me, now I see you again,” he said, catching up her hand to bow low over it.

She pulled her hand away as soon as she could, only grateful that he had not kissed it.

He had noticed her quick withdrawal. “Lady Mary, I do not know why you have taken me in such dislike,” he said, and there was hurt in his voice, enough to make her instantly regret she had not tried to be more subtle. But his next words erased that softer feeling, as he said, “But I assure you I am as fine a fellow as any of these that you pursue.”

“Hmmm,” she said, unable to scold since it was only the truth, if poorly done to speak so baldly.

“You would do well to consider,” he pressed. “I, too, am a man of some years, in need of a wife, and therefore not so particular as some. Come, we are of an age to be less coy, so I tell you honestly your shocked looks do not give my tongue the order to cease and desist. Why not be forthright? For what other purpose do you frolic here? Indeed, Lady Mary, put an end to all this posturing and wondering of ‘who’ and ‘when’, and take me. We could be wed in a week’s time, if we should so wish it. That would suit us both, would it not?”

She stared at him, some part of her brain thinking he was as outspoken as her beloved marquess--but there was a world of difference between these cutting words and John’s, for the one was ill-spoken, and the other meant to amuse her and never to wound.