Two
“You wished to see me, ma’am?” Miss Caitlyn Maria Woodbridge entered her aunt’s sitting room feeling both curious and apprehensive. In general, Aunt Sylvia ignored her niece’s presence in the household.
“Yes, my dear. Do come in and close that door so we may be private. Sit there.” Sylvia Fiske pointed to a particular chair, and Caitlyn felt her inner tension grow. She sat and began nervously pleating and repleating her skirt.
“I have great news for you, Caitlyn.”
“You—you have?” Caitlyn’s experience was that, when Aunt Sylvia broached a topic with such patently artificial enthusiasm, the news did not bode well for others.
“Your uncle has arranged a splendid match for you, darling.” Aunt Sylvia clasped her hands together in a show of delight.
“Oh.” A tremor of fear assailed Caitlyn; then she relaxed. “Oh. Bertie did persuade his father to relent.”
“Bertie? Oh, you mean that Latham boy. No, my dear. Hubert Latham is the son of a mere viscount. Fiske has arranged your marriage to the son of an earl. Is that not wonderful?”
Caitlyn was struck speechless. No. This could not be happening to her. And Aunt Sylvia expected her to believe such a disaster to be “wonderful”?
“But . . . but I do not know any earls—or their sons.” Caitlyn focused on the obvious to try to think as she absorbed this news.
Her aunt ignored Caitlyn’s comment. “You are a very lucky girl. You will be connected with one of the finest families in England.”
Caitlyn had thought the Lathams quite a fine family. After all, was her aunt not always bragging of her own association with Lady Latham, lioness of society in their parish? Caitlyn knew Lord Latham wielded a good deal of power as the largest landowner in the area. The Latham estate ran parallel with her uncle’s. That was how she and Bertie had become acquainted—how long ago? Ah, seventeen months, two weeks and three days ago. Dear, sweet Bertie.
“There must be some mistake, Aunt. Bertie—”
“Forget Bertie. The Lathams would never countenance such a match for their son.”
“No, not now, perhaps. I—we—know we are very young. Bertie has not quite eighteen years—but in a few years—”
“And you are nearly seventeen. But it matters not. Latham has made it quite clear you would never be suitable. Not that your uncle and I ever had such presumption as to think otherwise.”
“I—I do not understand.” Caitlyn fought to quell threatening tears. “Lord Latham was always very kind to me when we chanced to meet.”
“You mistook mere courtesy for approval. I am sorry, my dear.” The baroness sounded neither sorry nor affectionate. “You will simply have to put the Latham lad out of your mind.”
“But . . . but I love Bertie. And he loves me.”
“Love! What does a green girl like you know of love? Now you listen to me, young lady.” Her voice turned hard and her dark eyes glared. “The marriage is arranged. And a very fortunate one it is. After all, you have no dowry, you come from a family of nobodies, and you are certainly not a ‘diamond of the first water’ as far as looks go.”
Her aunt’s cruel words released the tears Caitlyn had held back. “My . . . my parents were perfectly acceptable,” she insisted.
“Barely. Your father was a country vicar—hardly a member of the ton. And your mother certainly improved her social standing when she became my stepsister—only to throw it all away by marrying a clergyman.”
“My parents loved each other.” Caitlyn stifled a sob.
“And look where it got them. And you.”
“I do not want to marry this stranger:”
“You have no choice,” her aunt said coldly. “Fiske cannot be responsible for you forever. You are far too young to become a governess—and you look much younger—even had you the education for such.”
Caitlyn stifled another sob. She knew that her aunt spoke only the truth. Spoken brutally, but the truth all the same.
“How long . . . when . . . how many weeks until . . . ?”
“The wedding will take place Saturday.”
“Saturday! But that is only three days away. But—the banns. What about banns?”
“Not necessary. A special license is being obtained. Now run along, Caitlyn, and wash your face. Fiske will not be pressed for a season for you after all, so he has agreed to a new gown for you to be married in.”
“How very generous of him.” Caitlyn was sure the irony in her tone was lost on her aunt.
Back in her own chamber, she flung herself on her bed and sobbed aloud. “Oh, Bertie. Bertie. All our plans, our dreams . . .” If only they were older. If only they had control of their own lives. . . . When she had cried herself out, it finally occurred to her that her aunt had not mentioned, and she herself had not asked, the name of her betrothed.
In another neighborhood, that young man’s despair matched her own. His eyes held a bleak, trapped expression as he welcomed a visit from his longtime friend Theo Ruskin, a captain in His Majesty’s Army.
“I heard about what happened,” Ruskin said. “God! I’m sorry I was not there.”
“You missed quite a show.”
“No. I meant I might have been able to help avoid this disaster.”
“I doubt it. I have fairly done it this time.”
“Can you not go to your father and explain?”
“Good God, no. He would have a fit of apoplexy. You know how he is.”
“What about Lord Gerald? Or Marcus?”
“No, Theo. I cannot do that. I got myself into this.”
“I doubt you could be held to this affair legally.”
“Look. I am of age. It is a debt of honor, after all. Worse things have happened to stupid young men.”
“Have you even met the girl?”
“No.”
“Perhaps she will cry off.”
“Not likely. Denton knows the family. Her father was a churchman. Good connections, but no blunt. The girl’s been living on Fiske’s charity since her father died.”
“And friend Fiske is not noted for his charity,” Theo said.
Trevor merely grunted in response.
“Don’t you even want to meet her?” Theo was plainly curious.
“Saturday is soon enough. I shall have a whole lifetime to know her.”
“You seem extraordinarily complacent about this, Trevor.”
“It is merely a matter of accepting the inevitable. Either that—or go insane. Come, let us make the most of the time I have left.”
The two young men planned to spend the next two days in a continuous round of high living. First, however, Trevor had to take time out to pay a morning call on his aunt, Lady Gertrude Hermiston. Aunt Gertrude, a sister-in-law to Lydia, Countess of Wyndham, was a widow, having lost her husband in “that unfortunate war with the colonies.” She was a woman of independent means—and an even more independent demeanor.
As a new widow, she had been subjected to innumerable lectures from the countess—for whom Gertrude had no great liking. Lydia had assumed that Gertrude would turn over her affairs to Wyndham to handle. When Gertrude refused to do so, both the countess and the earl were quite put out with her. Then Gertrude compounded the “error.”
Once she came out of mourning, she found her dead husband’s sister determined to play matchmaker. The trouble was, Gertrude had no interest whatsoever in the useless fribbles Lydia found so fascinating. Trevor recalled vividly his mother’s complaints of being embarrassed by her ties to such a “bluestocking.” Nor did his father have much time for his wife’s in-law relative. Gertrude made no secret of the fact that she found the Earl of Wyndham to be singularly boring, pompous, and prosy. Thus it was that the elder Jeffries and Lady Gertrude seldom sought each other’s company.
When her husband’s title passed to a distant relative, Lady Gertrude had chosen to reside in town, for, as she put it, the new viscount and his family did not need her around to supervise them. Besides, she had dozens of pursuits in town that commanded her attention. She lived modestly on her dowager’s pension, and moved in several worlds of ton society. These included political circles, her precious literary society, and a social reform group whose current interests focused on rescuing children sold to chimney sweeps and country girls lured to London’s streets.
While their parents had little to do with the eccentric Gertrude, Wyndham’s younger children had always adored her. She made children feel important. She took them fishing and on picnics. In town, she did not shrink from visiting the menagerie at the Tower with them, nor the “horrors” of the wax museum—though she steadfastly refused to allow them to see a hanging or a flogging. When they were old enough to see such things on their own, the twins had fully understood her reasoning.
“Trevor! Dear boy.” His aunt turned up her cheek for his obligatory kiss when he was shown into her private sitting room. She gave him a keen look and then said, “It must be something important for you to seek the company of an old crone like me.”
“Now. Now. No fishing for compliments. You know very well you put many younger women to shame—and Lord knows, you are infinitely more interesting!”
“So—I get compliments anyway. But what is it—really?”
“You mean besides merely enjoying your company?”
“Yes, besides that.” He caught the rich irony in her tone.
“Well, it is Melanie. She needs your help.”
“And why does she not simply ask me herself? Not like her to resort to roundaboutation.”
“She—we—thought it best if the countess did not know—and Melanie visiting you would surely get back to our dear mother.”
Lady Gertrude sighed. “I gather Lydia is on her high horse about something?”
“Not yet. But she is likely to be.” Trevor explained about Melanie’s attachment to Andrew Sheffield and the proposed role for their Aunt Gertrude. “So—will you help?”
“There is nothing untoward about the Sheffield lad. Fine boy. Of course I will help. Let me see . . .” She tapped her nails on the arm of her chair. “It should not be difficult. Lydia and I do often go about in the same circles. I shall just quietly warn her away at some tea or musicale. That should do it.”
Trevor chuckled. “I am sure it will. If you determine a thing to be black, the countess is sure to label it white.”
“Now.” Lady Gertrude looked her nephew directly in the eye. “What about you? How are you doing? I keep hearing disturbing things.”
Good God, Trevor thought. Had word of that blasted card game already reached the ton’s drawing rooms? “Such as?” he asked, stalling.
“Well, I am told you sold your cattle.”
“True. I did.”
“Was that wise?”
“I think so.” He knew his tone sounded bleak. “They no longer held my interest.”
“I see . . .” Her tone suggested she would not press him on that subject. “I also hear you spend a good deal of time in the company of Dexter Fitzwilliam.”
Trevor shifted uneasily. “He is a friend, yes.”
“Well, take care, my son. I am sure you know what you are about, but I do hear disquieting rumors about that man.”
“I will.” He rose to take his leave. “And—thank you.”
He wanted to pour out this latest trouble of his own to her sympathetic ears. But no. That would not be the manly thing to do. He would just have to muddle through this on his own.
On the eve of the wedding, Trevor and Theo spent the entire night on the town, returning to Trevor’s quarters only in time to freshen up and change for the event. Arriving at the church—actually a small chapel—they found the Fiskes there before them. Oh, my God, Trevor thought on seeing his bride for the first time.
He had hoped—dreamed—that one day he would marry a beautiful woman of sophistication and poise. He had always leaned toward tall, ultra-slim blondes with style and flair. The female clearly needing to be prodded in his direction was not quite of medium height. Her head might be even with his shoulder. She had light brown hair and eyes that reminded him of the sea, despite their being red-rimmed and filled with despair. She seemed inordinately pale, causing a profusion of freckles to stand out across her nose. She was rather plump and wore a pink gown with far too many flounces for a woman of her proportions.
“I thought you said she was nearly seventeen,” Theo whispered.
“She is. But she looks about fourteen, eh?” Trevor whispered back.
“Ah, Mr. Jeffries.” Fiske greeted them affably. “I see you brought your own witness. Good. Good.”
Introductions were made all around, and Trevor tried to smile encouragingly when he caught the girl studying him. It felt more like a grimace than a smile. She looked away without returning his gesture of goodwill.
“Well, shall we get this over with?” Fiske asked, leading the way to the front of the chapel.
“Trevor.” Theo put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You can still back out.”
Trevor returned Theo’s sincere gaze and merely shook his head.
Caitlyn stumbled through the ceremony as in a trance. Two days ago she had received a note from Bertie, smuggled to her through a kitchen maid. She imagined a tearful Bertie writing it secretly. She was especially touched by his quoting from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Caitlyn would always have his heart, he told her.
As she stood to repeat her vows, she stole another peep at this stranger who would be her life’s mate. She had not expected him to be so tall. Nor so handsome. No, that was not right. He was not precisely handsome, was he? Attractive. That was it. He seemed amiable enough.
When the minister pronounced them man and wife, her new husband leaned to kiss her on the cheek. She smelled a mixture of shaving soap and spirits on him. Had he had to fortify himself for the ordeal? Was he as willing a party to this affair as she?
The necessary documents signed, he took her by the elbow and propelled her toward the door and a waiting carriage that would take them to his estate in Suffolk. Her aunt and uncle stood beside the carriage as she was handed in.
“Do let us hear from you, dear,” her Aunt Sylvia said with a great show of affectionate cheer.
Caitlyn stared at them, marveling inwardly at the hypocrisy. The previous day she had gone to the library to try once more to persuade her uncle to change his mind. The door was ajar and her aunt was with him. Aware that they were discussing her, she did not knock. Instead, she deliberately listened. She remembered later her mother’s oft-repeated adage about eavesdroppers never hearing good of themselves.
“—never would have taken her in in the first place,” her uncle had been saying.
“It was our duty to do so. Caitlyn is family.”
“Not really. There are no blood ties with a stepsister.”
“Well, then, there was a moral obligation, and we have fulfilled it—thanks to you, my clever love.” Aunt Sylvia was doing it a bit brown, Caitlyn thought.
“It cost me a bundle, but we shall be free of her.”
“ ’Tis not like it was money out of hand, though, love,” his wife replied.
“No. And it ended by being much less than it would have cost to sponsor her for a season. Don’t know why you insisted on a season for her.”
“My dear sir,” her aunt said playfully, “you know very well it would have taken that and more to find that girl a husband. I truly dreaded the prospect.”
“But I saved you the trouble.”
“Yes. Not to mention saving yourself the expense.”
“Wyndham will not be thanking me, I’m thinking.”
“What can he do?” Sylvia Fiske asked, her scorn sounding clearly in her voice. “The boy is of age, after all.”
“Yes, he is. But Wyndham and his heir are said to be rather high sticklers. I cannot think they will welcome a little country nobody into their family.”
“Unfortunate, but not our concern after tomorrow.”
Caitlyn had turned away, knowing there was, indeed, no hope now.
She did not have even the comfort of running to the stables here in town, for her uncle kept no carriage or cattle here, preferring to save himself that expense. In the country she had had the freedom of the stables. That freedom and access to his rather limited library had been her only comforts after losing her father and being taken in by Baron and Baroness Fiske nearly two years ago.
That is, until she had made the acquaintance of the shy, sensitive son of the neighboring viscount. She and Hubert had been immediately drawn to each other. Hubert seemed as neglected by the adults in his household as she was, for the two of them spent hours together riding across the countryside.
Often dear Bertie would bring a book of poetry to read to her. Once, he wrote a poem of his own praising her eyes and rosebud lips. She knew her mouth was far too wide to be described so, but the thought was so sweet. . . . There were even a few chaste, but awkward, kisses.
She stared out the carriage window and refused to look at her relatives. Her aunt gave a haughty sniff and turned away. Caitlyn’s husband—his name was Trevor, was it not?—took the opposite seat, and they were off.
Reluctant to look at the man across from her, and panicked at being alone with him, she continued to stare out the window. A movement caught her attention. Bertie! Bertie had come to bid her a silent farewell. There he stood, looking so woebegone her heart fairly ached for him. She raised her hand briefly as the tears threatened to well over. She caught herself and glanced at her husband.
He gave her a tentative smile. “A friend?” he asked.
She nodded and looked away. She heard him heave a sigh.
It was going to be a long journey to Suffolk, Trevor thought. Well, at least she was not a chatterbox. He leaned back and feigned sleep as he studied his wife through half-closed eyelids.
She was a dumpy little thing. Pretty hair, though—the sunlight picked out red and gold highlights. Tied back with a pink ribbon to match her dress, it hung loose around her shoulders; she looked like the schoolgirl she probably was. He found himself wondering how she would look in a dress that matched the aquamarine of her eyes.
He felt distinctly sorry for her. That clutch-fisted uncle of hers did not even provide her a proper wedding breakfast. He wondered briefly why her family was so eager to be free of her. What if she were a bit mad—not playing with a full deck—or possessed of an unstable disposition? This was a fine time to think of that, he told himself.
The Atherton estate to which Trevor was taking his bride was located in East Anglia. He remembered visiting his grandmother there and being disappointed that, in the heart of England’s horse country, the various farms associated with the property dealt largely in sheep and the production of wool.
Well, that suited him just fine now. He knew little of sheep, but surely there was a competent steward and Trevor considered himself a “quick learn.”
Soon, the swaying carriage and his sleepless night combined to make his dozing off no longer feigned.
When they stopped for a change of horses and the midday meal, Caitlyn shook herself out of the sense of melancholy that had settled on her after that brief glimpse of Bertie.
She had always been a cheerful child, accepting what fate sent her way, dealing with it, and getting on with her life. Had she not lived in relative harmony with the Fiskes? She could surely deal with one young man.
The innkeeper had shown her to a room where she could freshen up. When she came into the parlor, Trevor stood to assist her to the table where a modest meal was laid out.
“How is it that you travel without a maid to assist you?” Trevor asked. His tone indicated only conversational curiosity.
“A maid?” She was surprised. “I have never had a maid, sir. My father had only the housekeeper and a handyman. My aunt and uncle have their own dressers, but I could hardly expect to have a maid assigned to me.”
“Hmm. That will have to be remedied. I shall not have my wife going about unattended.” He poured himself another glass of wine.
She was pleased that he wanted her to have the privileges of any young matron. She was emboldened to ask, “May I . . . uh . . . may I know where we are going, sir? And when we expect to arrive?”
“Oh, I am sorry. I just assumed you knew—though why you should is a mystery.” He smiled, and it occurred to her that that smile had probably caused many a heart to flutter in London drawing rooms. Why, look what it was doing to hers already. “We shall arrive at our destination sometime late tomorrow afternoon, I hope.”
“And that is . . . ?”
“Atherton. Near Lavenham and Newmarket.” He explained how he had come by the estate and told her as much as he remembered of it.
“It sounds wonderful, sir,” said she who had lived in a modest vicarage most of her life.
“Do not allow your expectations to get too high,” he warned. Then he added, “You must call me Trevor, for that is my name. And I shall call you Caitlyn. I believe first names are customary between married people.” His tone had a teasing note.
“Trevor. Trevor. . . . Yes, I like it.” She smiled. “It seems to suit you.”
“Thank you, kind lady.” He gave her a mocking little bow, and they continued the rest of the meal talking of innocuous subjects and generally getting to know each other.
Caitlyn noticed that Trevor drank rather more wine with the meal than she had ever seen her father imbibe in the middle of the day. But he seemed in control of himself, and, after all, what did she know of the habits of a gentleman?
Back in the carriage, they continued to chat amiably until each lapsed into silence. Caitlyn thought he might have dozed off again.
She tried to keep her mind on other matters, but she could not help wondering what this night would bring. In truth, she had no idea what to expect.
She recalled overhearing her father’s housekeeper and her friend talking one time. What was it they had said? Something about the marriage bed being the price women had to pay for a roof over their heads.
That sounded a bit coarse to Caitlyn. Slightly sordid, actually. But with fewer than seventeen years to her credit, what could she say?
Aunt Sylvia had called Caitlyn in the day before to discuss her duties as a married woman. Caitlyn had actually anticipated this discussion—eager to know what she should expect. In the event, however, Aunt Sylvia had been so imprecise that Caitlyn had been more confused than enlightened.
As a girl who had spent so much of her time in the stables, she felt she had some idea of what to expect. However, it surely would have been nice to be better informed than her aunt’s vague “You must strive to please your husband.”