Beth Andrews (20 page)

In Buckinghamshire, things were well in train for the approaching nuptials. A modiste from London was brought down especially to make a new gown for Cassandra. Cousin Priscilla was as helpful as she knew how to be. Rosalind was her old, phlegmatic self — at least in public.

Julian had much to talk about with his intended and much to do. He was already making arrangements for the purchase of a house only two miles from the abbey, for he did not want to remove his bride too far from her father and Rosalind. He knew that, despite their love, there was bound to be a period of adjustment. It would be best for her if those nearest and dearest to her were close by when she needed them. Mr Woodford was much impressed by the young man’s consideration, and delivered a particularly long-winded panegyric in his presence which Julian bore with great fortitude.

He had already ridden into Hampshire to inform his parents of his choice of bride. He even had the forethought to take a miniature of Cassandra for them to have some notion of her undeniable beauty. The Marchmonts took the news in their stride. A fairly large, liberal family, they were ready to embrace almost any girl their son might choose. Cassandra need not have worried on that head. That she was blind was hardly an impediment; that she was an heiress was a point decidedly in her favor. All in all, they could not have been happier, and looked forward to attending the wedding and staying at the abbey with as much delight as anyone could have reasonably wished for.

For these impetuous young lovers, the sweet sorrow of parting came yet again when Julian was forced to go up to London for the Special Licence — that article so necessary before the ceremony could take place. Besides, he must needs select a more suitable London house for those occasions when, as he fully intended, he should introduce his wife into broader society. Unlike Cassandra’s father, there was no doubt in Julian’s mind that her courage and good humour would be more than equal to such a task, especially with her husband at her side.

* * * *

He was almost a week in the metropolis before he was able to accomplish one of his most important errands. He wanted to seek out St George and ask him to support him at the altar. It would scarcely seem complete if he were not there.

He found his old friend in his lodgings in Berkeley Square. Upon being admitted by the manservant, Julian entered eagerly, only to be brought up short at the sight which met his gaze. Never had he seen Richard St George in such an unkempt state. A disciple of Brummell, St George was always immaculately groomed. It was apparent at once that he needed a shave, and possibly a bath as well. His hair looked as though he had done no more than run his fingers through it. He slouched in an uncomfortable-looking chair, with an empty bottle of wine on the table beside him, and ordered his man to bring another for him and his guest.

‘Thank you, no,’ Julian said, taking a seat opposite him.

‘A staid married man already, I see,’ St George sneered.

‘I cannot stay long.’

‘Must run back to the shelter of Miss Woodford’s skirts, eh?’

Julian was still in shock as he continued to take in his friend’s dishevelled condition.

‘What ails you, man?’ he demanded at last, coming abruptly to the point. ‘You look like the devil.’

‘Thank you, kind friend.’ Richard executed a sloppy bow in acknowledgement of this.

‘I tried to find you at your club, but was informed that you had not been there for several days.’

‘I have not been out of this house for … how long is it now, Brenton?’

‘Three days, sir.’ The manservant, his face wooden, answered the carelessly thrown question.

‘I think you should see a physician, Richard.’

‘You think I’m like to stick my spoon in the wall?’ He laughed and choked all at once. ‘I’m not that far gone yet.’

‘You look much as I imagine the late Mr Plummer must have looked when in his cups,’ Julian said frankly.

‘How is my dear Cousin Priscilla?’ His lip curled in a way that jarred Julian’s nerves. ‘All a-twitter with a the wedding plans, I would imagine.’

‘That is what I came to see you about.’

‘Cousin Priscilla?’ St George asked. ‘Send her packing back to Kent, if you like. What do I care?’

‘I came to ask if you would support me at the wedding,’ Julian responded between clenched teeth. Really, he wondered whether he should even ask him. If this was how he was going on, his presence would hardly be an asset.

‘Thank you for the offer.’ Still that harsh, mocking tone, Julian noted. ‘I am in no mood for such festivities, however.’

Suddenly, a great light dawned upon the younger man. Perhaps because he himself was so newly introduced to the pains and pleasures of love, he realized that the problem with the man before him was of the heart rather than with any other organ of the body. St George had made few comments about Miss Powell in those last weeks in the country. In fact, Julian knew not how far he had progressed in his attempt to seduce her. Could it be that the slipper was on the other foot? They had both set out as hunters. Was it possible that, just as he had been captured by his own quarry, Richard had similarly succumbed to the not inconsiderable charms of Miss Powell? Let him attempt a small test....

‘It seems that we shall be a very small party indeed, since Miss Powell also is likely to be absent.’

‘I cannot see her missing Cassandra’s wedding,’ the other man commented, clearly surprised.

‘I’m afraid Miss Powell is most unwell.’

‘Unwell!’ St George straightened at once, the dull look dispelled from his eyes. ‘How so? She was fine when I left Buckinghamshire.’

‘She has a generally strong constitution, to be sure. But perhaps her tumble into the pond, and the stress of losing Cassandra’s constant companionship ... the physician speaks of consumption ....’

‘Consumption!’ The wine and the chair were both forgotten. Suddenly the older man was pacing about the room. ‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘Why did no one inform me of this before? If anything should happen to Rosalind—’

‘Quiet yourself, sir.’ Julian stood up and faced his friend. ‘Miss Powell may be a trifle fatigued with all the preparations, but otherwise I assure you she is perfectly well.’

St George stared at his friend in astonishment.  ‘What in God’s name do you mean by this, Julian? By God, if you are lying to me, I swear—’

‘What I told you first about Rosalind was a lie,’ Julian admitted. ‘But your reaction has confirmed what I suspected. You are in love with her, Richard!’

‘Go to the devil!’

Julian snorted. ‘I see you do not deny it.’

‘Go back to your bride,’ St George answered wearily, collapsing once more on to the chair.

‘You
do
love her,’ Julian repeated, ignoring his friend’s rude request. ‘For the Lord’s sake, man, why did you not tell her so? If I could have the temerity to offer for Cassandra, surely you could have plucked up the courage to do the same for Rosalind.’

‘She does not care for me.’ Richard shut his eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath. ‘And even if she did, how could I ask her to marry someone like myself? She deserves better. She deserves a younger man, one without the kind of reputation I have been at such pains to acquire — and which now is like dust and ashes to me.’

‘She may deserve better,’ Julian admitted. ‘I am sure Cassandra deserves a better man than I am. But she loves me. Perhaps Rosalind has feelings for you as well. Come, man! Did she never give you any sign?’

‘I kissed her once,’ St George muttered reluctantly. ‘That night when we walked together in the abbey garden.’

Julian blinked. ‘You never mentioned this to me before.’

‘I … I could not.’

‘She was not ... repulsed by your advances?’

‘No.’

Julian considered his friend’s bent head, as if he bore the weight of the world on those broad shoulders. He was being consumed by his own love for a woman, which must undoubtedly be a novel sensation to him.

‘Go back to her, Richard,’ he said softly. ‘Tell her how you feel.’

‘But what if she should reject me?’ He looked up and Julian was shocked yet again at the fear and pain in those clear hazel eyes. ‘I could not bear it if she did so. I could not.’

* * * *

‘I have never seen a man so deep in love, nor one so stubborn!’ Julian said to his uncle later that evening.

‘I guessed as much,’ Sir Jasper said, seeming mighty pleased with himself.

‘Since you know so much, perhaps you can tell me if Miss Powell is in love with him as well?’

He tapped a finger against his chin. ‘I should say that it is very likely. If you want to be certain, of course, you must ask Miss Cassandra. She is her cousin’s confidante, I’m sure.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Julian brightened. ‘But I doubt if St George would believe me if I told him so.’

‘He might think you told him only to push him into proposing to her,’ his uncle conceded.

‘His damned pride!’

‘How right it is that “an haughty spirit goeth before a fall.”’

‘St George has certainly fallen. But if what we suspect is true, Miss Powell must also be very unhappy.’

‘Probably.’

‘You do not seem very concerned about either of them,’ Julian said sourly.

‘Should I be?’

‘Well, I cannot sit idly by while they are both nursing wounded hearts. I must
do
something.’

‘Far be it from me to interfere in the lives of others,’ Sir Jasper said magniloquently. ‘It generally does nothing but harm to become involved in such matters. But if you will be advised by me, my boy, I think I may be able to devise a little deception which might prove efficacious.’

‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘It will take courage and daring, mind you.’

‘Whatever it takes, it must be done!’

Lady Bettisham, the very same person who has already been mentioned as the mother of the unfortunate Richard St George, emerged from her bedchamber at eleven o’clock in the morning. It was several days since the meeting between her son and Julian — a meeting of which she was, of course, completely ignorant.

She had awakened over an hour before, but her
toilette
was laborious and she never felt in any condition to present herself to her acquaintance without first undergoing a rigorous regimen of ablutions and the application of an artfully arranged mask which produced just the effect which she desired.

Settling herself gracefully upon a sofa, she rang for some lukewarm tea and a wafer-thin piece of toast. One could not keep a girlish figure at her age without drastically reducing one’s consumption of meals, after all.

The maid delivered the requested sustenance, curtsied and made her exit. Along with this desiccated breakfast was a copy of the day’s
Gazette,
which milady languidly perused for several minutes before her eye caught a paragraph of particular interest.

She stiffened at once, crushing the paper in her claw-like hand. In fact, the under-housemaid, passing by at that moment, was arrested in her progress by one glance at her apparently paralytic employer. Upon closer inspection, the poor maid wished that she had had the presence of mind to run swiftly past the portal, for it was now clear to her that Lady B. was not paralysed. In fact, she was in that state of mind peculiar to the idle rich when they are confronted by an unpleasant dilemma: undetermined whether it were best to swoon or slap the nearest servant.

‘Girl!’ Lady Bettisham screeched, not bothering to ring for anyone, since succor appeared to be already at hand. ‘Go,’ she continued in that strident voice. ‘Go and tell Brodman to make my carriage ready at once!’

* * * *

At the very moment when she was clamoring for transportation, her son was picking up a copy of the
Gazette
for himself. He did not generally pay much attention to it, but some anonymous friend had left a copy at his door with a note to the effect that he might read something of interest to himself therein.

For some time he searched its pages, trying vainly to determine what there could possibly be that pertained to him. He was almost about to discard the blasted thing when the words he sought leapt out at him from amongst the jumble of print. For a moment he stared down at it, quite as shocked as his poor mama had been. Then, as if by magic, the languor which had engulfed him these past weeks fell from him like an old coat. He rose up from his chair, sober and resolved upon immediate action.

‘Brenton!’ He called for his man, who appeared but seconds after. ‘Ah! There you are.’

‘What is it, sir?’ Brenton asked, puzzled by this sudden burst of activity.

‘I need to shave,’ St George announced. ‘Also, draw me a bath and lay out clean driving attire.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Brenton struggled to keep up with his master, who was advancing through the house at great speed, talking all the time.

‘Oh, and have the groom see that the grays are harnessed. I will be driving the phaeton today.’

Brenton stared at him in blank astonishment. The change in him was so sudden and so complete. The man he had known and admired all these years had all but disappeared in these past weeks, but now he had miraculously returned. What had happened?

‘Don’t stand there gawking, man!’ St George commanded. ‘I must be ready within the hour. Be quick about it. Go now!’

* * * *

It was another day before the inhabitants of rural Buckinghamshire received their copies of the
Gazette.
The news it bore might be a day old, but its effect was just as profound as it had been in London.

At the hunting lodge, Sir Jasper read the interesting item and handed it silently to Julian. He looked at it, raised his brows and passed it on to Mrs Plummer. Her reaction was much less muted than that of the two men.

‘Goodness gracious!’ she cried. ‘Bless my soul! I cannot eye my beliefs! Can this be true?’

‘It says so in plain English,’ Julian pointed out unnecessarily.

‘But I have heard nothing of this.’ She placed a plump hand against an equally plump cheek in wonderment. ‘Not but what it is a fine thing if it were true.’