The Reckoning (61 page)

‘
It's to bring you luck, my lady,' he said quietly as she
looked at it in silence. 'And to remember the day. I hope
you'll forgive my presumption.'

‘
Oh Parslow!' She touched it with one finger as it lay there
on the palm of her other hand, and then looked up at him.
‘Thank you. I shall never part with it. Oh Parslow –' Her eyes
were dangerously bright, and he had half an idea she was
going to step forward and kiss him. She half-thought so
herself.

‘No, no, my lady,' he said gently. 'All's well. The carriage is downstairs now, and his lordship's waiting for you.’

She bit her lip and nodded, and he stepped aside to allow
her through the door. She picked up her gloves and started
forward. Then in the doorway she stopped, inches from him,
and said, 'I hope you don't feel bad about it? I'm a different
person now, I think. I believe this marriage is the right thing
for me. Marcus is – Lord Chelmsford and I will be happy
together.'

‘
Yes, my lady,' he said, to all or any of it. She looked at
him a moment longer, and received in return his steadiest
look, which made no judgements, only promised always to be
there, and always to care for her; and then she went past him
and started down the stairs.

At the foot, Lord Theakston was waiting, elegant and slim
and as neat as a pin, smiling up at her, ready to take her to
the Abbey and give her away. I'm lucky, Rosamund thought
suddenly, to have so many loving people about me; and the
image came unbidden into her mind of her sister Flaminia,
shut away at Stainton mourning the loss of her twin
daughters. Poor Minnie, she thought with the generosity of
happiness. As soon as the honeymoon's over and Marcus and
I are settled, I'll go down and visit her, and try to persuade
her to come and stay for a while. So resolving, she pulled on
her long pink kid gloves. Parslow's horseshoe remained in her
right hand inside the glove, and the feeling of it pressing
against her palm was comfortable and reassuring.

*

The bad thing about a wedding at the Abbey, Rosamund
thought — generalising wildly as she drove away after the
ceremony in the same carriage, but this time with Marcus
beside her instead of Lord Theakston — is that you don't feel
at all married afterwards. If we'd married in the little church
at Wolvercote, for instance, or in the chapel at Morland
Place ...

It had been a very grand occasion, though, she had to
concede, and Marcus had looked quite splendid — divinely
fair, tall, handsome and lightly flushed with emotion, his
well-proportioned and soldierly figure exquisitely dressed by the same tailor who had enjoyed Beau Brummell's patronage.
He was Prince Florizel incarnate as he stood at the altar, and
Rosamund had imagined, wryly, the sighing and fluttering
amongst the young female element of the spectators as he
passed for ever beyond their grasp.

The Abbey had been far fuller than for Flaminia's
wedding, for that had been in wartime when a great many
people were overseas; and also the Chelmsford connections
were more numerous than the Sales'. Now they were to
return to Chelmsford House for a banquet seating a hundred
people, with the Prince Regent as guest-of-honour; after
which there was to be a reception for everyone else, followed
by a ball, and fireworks to finish.

All in all, she thought, glancing sideways at her husband
from under her eyelashes, this was likely to be the last time
she was alone with him for quite some time. Married life, and
getting to know him, would have to wait for a more private
time — and she was not sorry, she thought, suddenly jittery, to
have it put off. The wedding ring seemed to throb unnatu
rally on her left hand inside her glove, like the threat of an
infection.

But Parslow's charm nestled warmly in her right palm, as his words nestled in her mind.
No, no, my lady. All's well.
She
didn't know how her mother was going to manage without
him, especially abroad, but she was heartily glad he was staying with her. It would make the transition from Lady
Rosamund Chetwyn to Lady Chelmsford less of a shock to
have the familiar faces of Moss and Parslow around her.

For it was bound to be a shock, she knew that — however sensible she was going to be about it, and whatever she had
said to Sophie. There would be a great many things to get
used to, and some of them, she thought with a sigh, would not
be pleasant.

Marcus heard the sigh, and turned his head to look at her.
‘Tired?' he asked. 'It was rather a long business, wasn't it?'

‘
I'm a little tired, perhaps,' she said. 'And a thousand pins
are sticking into my head.’

He smiled. 'But you look very beautiful.
I
could hardly
believe it when I saw you coming towards me on Lord Theak
ston's arm —'

‘Thank you!'

‘
Oh lord! I didn't mean it like that! I think you're beautiful
anyway, you know that, but I'd never seen you dressed in
anything so — well —’

Rosamund laughed. 'I think you'd better stop before you
make it worse. You don't have to be polite to me, you know —
I'm just your little cousin Rosy.’

He took her hand, startling her a little, and pressed it, his
fingers finding the hardness of the ring through her glove.
‘Not any more. You're my darling wife now — and I mean to
make sure you never forget it. My lovely Rosamund! I shall
never, never let you out of my sight from now on!’

Oh dear, thought Rosamund, how different such things
sound in real life from when one reads them in a two-volume
novel! Shall I ever learn to like them, or will I always simply
put up with them, out of politeness?

‘
That might be rather inconvenient,' she managed to say, quite politely, she thought, when the words that were really
struggling for expression were 'Don't be such an ass'.

*

Fourteen hours later the wedding was really, finally over, and
Rosamund really was tired, so tired that she couldn't walk a
straight line along the passage to the large bedchamber,
known as the Countess's Room, which had been prepared for
her wedding-night. That was Lady Barbara's order, and
Rosamund hoped it was the last instruction she would give as
lady of this particular house. The Countess's Room was a
cavernous apartment, draughty and uncomfortable, and the
last place anyone would ever choose to sleep. Tomorrow,
Rosamund thought determinedly, she would have a small,
snug room allocated to her – and preferably as far away from
Lady Barbara's as possible.

For tonight, though, she must put up with it, and be
thankful that it was not the State Bedroom, which was even
bigger and draughtier; and that there was not, in any case,
much of the night left to pass there. Since leaving the Abbey
she had smiled, shaken hands, given and received kisses,
eaten, drunk, talked, danced, talked again, eaten again,
danced again, and finally watched the fireworks and partaken
of the last supper and champagne toast, and it was now two
o'clock in the morning. She had hardly sat down since dinner.
Her feet were hot and swollen, her back was aching, her head
was throbbing with noise and reeling with champagne and
tiredness, and her body felt as though she had been beaten all
over.

It was fortunate, really, that this was not to be a night of
love, the fulfilment of all her maiden dreams, for she was
hardly in a condition to have enjoyed it. She thought
suddenly of Philip Tantony, and imagined what her wedding
would have been like had she married him. Not in the Abbey,
that was for sure; and without the Prince Regent's portly
blessing on the occasion. A small and quiet affair, she
supposed it would have been – in the church at Wolvercote,
perhaps, with the tenants drawing the carriage back to the
house by hand. A neat wedding-breakfast, a few kisses and
tears, and then she and Tantony alone together and
embarking on an adventure which would have been
 
She stopped herself with a jerk from drifting off into a
waking dream. Tantony was dead, two years in his grave. Her
future lay with Marcus, by her own choice, and she must
make the best of it, which included, she supposed, this Night
of Nights. It would simply not do to be thinking of another
man when Marcus arrived. He deserved her loyalty at least.
She must try to remember what it had felt like when she
hero-worshipped him, when she used to sneak out from the
nursery or schoolroom to sit on the stairs in the hope of
catching a glimpse of him arriving or leaving, when every
word that fell from his lips was precious and important.

Moss was waiting in the bedchamber, sitting on a chair
half-asleep, and roused herself, shivering, as Rosamund came
in. Rosamund looked around her grimly. Lady Barbara could
not have chosen better if she had wanted to lay a blight on
her son's wedding-night. The large number of finest wax
candles which had been lit were too few to relieve the gloom
of this enormous room, or to brighten the sombre colours of
its ancient decoration and hangings. Despite the fire burning
under the marble caryatids, swags of flowers and cornucopiae
of the fireplace, the air was cold and stale; and the gigantic
bed on its dais under a fifteen-foot-high canopy looked more
like a catafalque than a nuptial couch.

Fortunately Moss was too cold and sleepy to want to chat,
and undressed her mistress and helped her into her night
gown without comment, unpinned and brushed her hair in
silence, and only when she had helped her between the sheets
found anything to say.

‘
Goodnight, my lady. It was the best wedding ever, my lady
– everyone said so.'

‘
Thank you, Judy,' Rosamund said, feeling a surge of affec
tion. 'I hope you got some good things to eat and drink?'

‘
Oh yes, my lady, thank you. Mr Hawkins gave orders that
all of us servants was to have a special supper, with cider to drink your health, and his lordship's, my lady, which we did
with a three-times-three, and very hearty.'

‘
Most kind of you,' Rosamund said, stifling a yawn. Oh, to
have undisturbed sleep to look forward to now! She envied
her maid, who had no further duties to perform until the
morning. 'Goodnight then.'