Marigold's Marriages

The summer of 1806 was to end uproariously, with among many other things, a talking wren, a demon duck, and ancient druidic magic gone very wrong indeed, but it began on a somber note that gave no hint of the amazing events ahead. At the reading of her late husband’s will, Marigold would never have guessed that within weeks she would not only be deliriously happy for the first time in years, but her enemies would all be changed into chickens and sold at Salisbury market!

None of these astonishing things seemed in the offing as everyone gathered in the great hall of Castell Arnold to hear Merlin Arnold’s will. They were all waiting for Merlin’s brother, Falk, and at last he arrived, but as he took his seat it was clear he relished the coming minutes. There was an air of gloating anticipation on his face, as if he knew that all his devious ambitions were soon to be realized. Everything about him warned his elder brother’s widow that things did not bode well for her. Or for her son.

Conscious of the intense dislike Falk had always had for her, Marigold smoothed her black bombazine skirts, then clasped her gloved hands pensively in her lap. Of late he had become more arrogant than ever, conducting himself like a medieval baron who enjoyed absolute power over everyone and everything in his domain. There were whispers that he was to marry this summer, although no one seemed to know the identity of the unfortunate bride. One thing was certain, the poor creature had her sister-in-law’s complete sympathy!

Marigold drew a steadying breath. Today was too important to indulge in trivial thoughts about Falk’s forthcoming nuptials. He wanted this castle and everything that went with it, and although she and her son stood in his way, Falk was the sort of man to stop at nothing to get what he wanted. His recent astonishing victories in the law courts had so gone to his already swollen head, that he’d begun to think success was his by right.

Falk was the most litigious man she had ever encountered. Ever since she’d known him, he had pursued doubtful claims through the courts, but until the beginning of this year he had never won. Then two important, seemingly impossible cases had inexplicably gone his way, followed by several smaller victories, so that a considerable amount of money had now fallen into his grasp. Since then he had confidently embarked on more, mostly ancient and very tangled disputes over land and titles. He didn’t doubt he would win every one, for when it came to legal matters, Falk Arnold of Castell Arnold on the Isle of Anglesey seemed to have become invincible.

Marigold couldn’t help a secret smile, for since she’d been banished across the straits to a dower house in Caeniarfon for nearly twelve years, she wasn’t supposed to know what went on here. The Arnolds wanted to ignore her existence, but she had managed to keep a finger on their pulse. She’d had to, for her son’s sake. With an uncle as rapacious and cunning as Falk, thirteen-year-old Perry needed all the help and support his mother could give.

From behind her veil, she watched as Falk sat down heavily next to his black-clad mother and maiden aunts. He wore black too, and as usual, everything was too tight for his considerable bulk. It was as another Beau Brummel that he liked to imagine himself, but it was of the unstylish, overweight Prince of Wales that people thought when they saw him. He had split his breeches on sitting down to dinner recently, and Marigold wished it would happen again now. It would certainly enliven proceedings that were the end in dullness.

At forty, Falk was two years his late brother’s junior, and his image in many ways, except that Merlin had been thin. Both were vain, with enviably thick golden hair and strange amber eyes. And both were disagreeable, unfeeling, and overbearing. She wished she could hold her late husband in higher esteem, but there was no denying the truth. Her love for him was long since as dead as he himself now was, in fact all she felt at his demise was relief.

She clasped and unclasped her hands, for although she’d seen little of Merlin since their son’s birth, it was still hard to believe he’d gone forever. He’d died two weeks ago, when returning from one of his infrequent visits to her. As usual his purpose had been to nitpick with every item on her household accounts, and again as usual, they had parted acrimoniously. According to the groom accompanying him, they’d just alighted from the ferry at the island, when a robin had suddenly burst noisily from a rowan tree. Merlin’s startled horse had thrown him, and he’d died that night.

She looked out of the tall east-facing windows. Cloud shadows raced across the rolling park toward the narrow Menai Straits, which separated Anglesey from the northwest tip of Wales. The shore was deserted now, but in the mists of prehistory, the island had been a druid stronghold. In their hundreds they’d waited on the sand to confront the invading forces of Julius Caesar, gathered half a mile away on the mainland. The druids had been overwhelmed, and their sacred groves of oak and mistletoe destroyed.

Her gaze moved to the distant peaks of Snowdonia, still white-capped even though it was the end of May. Today was the fourteenth anniversary of her arrival here at Castell Arnold, and she remembered first seeing those beautiful mountains. Her thoughts wandered back over the years. From the wiser age of thirty she could see Merlin’s faults so clearly, but at sixteen she had been a naive Lancashire lass who was readily impressed by his London airs and facile charm.

When she’d met him at the Preston subscription bail—to which he and his society friends had come merely to amuse themselves with the local rustics—she had been flattered and taken in completely. How could the stepdaughter of a mere country doctor fail to be? Her strict stepfather forbade her to see “that strutting London popinjay,” but in her passionate innocence she thought she was in love, and so she ran away with her seducer. Her stepfather had promptly disowned her.

With hindsight she marveled that Merlin had actually married her, for it was surely against all the odds. The rest of the Arnold clan were appalled, especially Falk, who loathed her from the moment he learned her name.

Privately she thought that for some reason Falk was actually afraid of her; for there’d been something almost panic-stricken about the way he’d kept on at Merlin to send her to the dower house. She had to admit that the name Marigold wouldn’t have been her choice, but she didn’t think it warranted such a vitriolic reaction.

She’d been given her name because her parents were particularly fond of Shakespeare’s A
Winter’s Tale.
“Here’s flowers for you; Hot lavender, mint, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun. And with him rises weeping.” Her mother had told her she’d nearly been called Lavender Marigold, but her father, who had died before his only child was born, had always liked marigolds. And so Marigold Lavender it was.

Such a touching story carried no weight with Falk, who turned on Merlin for refusing to send her away. Merlin had loved her in the beginning, and as the elder brother, he was heir to everything, but Falk, supported by the rest of the family, gradually gnawed away at his influence.

When old Mr. Arnold passed away within six months of the marriage, Merlin should have become the absolute master of Castell Arnold, instead it was Falk whose commands were always obeyed, Falk whose permission was always sought, and Falk whose preferences always came first. Falk was everything, Merlin virtually nothing.

Realizing what his wife had cost him, Merlin began to treat her cruelly. Too late she realized her mistake in marrying him, but in the time-honored phrase, she had made her bed and now had to lie in it, for she was expecting his child. And so she had consented to go to the dower house, accepting the situation because she was intent upon guarding her child’s inheritance against Falk’s ambition.

On the whole she had been well provided for, even when Perry went away to school, and then on to Eton, where he now was, but over the years she had endured Falk’s vicious sniping, put up with the constant criticisms of his old buzzard of a mother, and submitted to the spite of his spinster aunts. Above all she’d suffered the vindictiveness of his sister, Alauda, a raven-haired beauty who in spite of her exquisite exterior and stylish Latin name—meaning skylark—was in fact a vulture fit only for Hades itself!

Marigold pursed her lips. Everyone at Castell Arnold possessed a name relating to birds in one way or another. Even Perry, whose peregrine falcon was sometimes seen over Anglesey. Why the Arnolds seemed so obsessed with birds, she did not know. She wished they would all up and fly away! Excepting Perry, of course.

Her eyes slid toward Alauda, who was now the Countess of Fernborough, and was one of the acknowledged belles of London society. Lovely to a fault, with tumbling dark curls, dewy lips, and shining brown eyes, she possessed the sort of curvaceous figure that looked seductive even in mourning. More than anyone, Alauda had striven to make Marigold’s life a misery. Even after leaving Castell Arnold, Alauda had written numerous spiteful letters to Merlin and Falk, inventing sins Marigold was supposed to have committed. Without fail, the letters were believed, and retribution fell upon the dower house in the form of temporarily withheld allowance.

Alauda was a woman of loose morals, and the once adoring Earl of Fernborough had soon become so tired of his beautiful wife’s constant indiscretions that he was now her equal in the adultery stakes. Her latest love was Lord Avenbury, who was apparently the personification of all that was fashionably Gothic and mysterious. Marigold knew nothing of Lord Avenbury, except that he was reckoned the most romantically handsome man in England, as well as one of the most accomplished lovers, and most notorious duelists. Falk spoke of him as “doomed” Lord Avenbury, and when Alauda laughed at this, Marigold had put the remark down to the fact that his lordship would soon go the way of all Milady Fernborough’s lovers.

Momentarily catching Alauda’s gaze from behind both their veils, Marigold quickly looked away. She turned her thoughts to things more pleasant: her adored son, Peregrine, who would now inherit his father’s great estate and fortune. Perry was in his third term at Eton, and was as golden-haired but much more handsome than his father and uncle. He’d declined to attend his father’s funeral, nor would he come here today for the will reading, for he felt nothing for the man who had ignored him virtually all his young life, and had treated his mother so badly. Marigold could not blame him, nor did she attempt to persuade him to change his mind, for in her opinion he was justified. The Arnolds, on the other hand, were outraged.

Suddenly a shiver passed over her, and she glanced instinctively toward Falk, only to find his amber eyes, cold as a hawk’s, already upon her. The chill glitter in his gaze reminded her of the unease she’d felt as he first entered the hall. Something was wrong. But what?

A hush descended over everyone as Merlin’s lawyer, a hook-nosed, shifty-faced fellow by the name of Crowe, took his seat in the middle of the long polished oak table. The entire Arnold family, Marigold included, faced him, with the multitude of servants ranged behind them, all wearing black, like a clustered flock of rooks. The lawyer broke the seal on the will, cleared his throat, and then read out in his harsh, guttural voice.

“This is the last will and testament of the late Mr. Merlin Arnold, made on the fourth night of May, in this year of 1806. I, Merlin Peregrine Arnold, being of sound mind, do hereby ...”

As the lawyer’s grating tones echoed around the vast hall, where a huge painting of the Anglesey druids in one of their groves had pride of place on the vast chimney breast, Marigold’s lips parted with shock. Less than a month ago? A
new
will? Why hadn’t she been told? Her eyes moved warily toward Falk, who was still smiling faintly. Suddenly she realized that he already knew what the will would contain. More than that, he
liked
what he knew! Her heart sank like a stone.

The opening paragraphs of Merlin’s last testament were dull, as such things always were, but just when it seemed the main points would never be reached, suddenly came the momentous words. “... I have to confess to a monstrous deceit, perpetrated over many years, to wit that I was never legally married to the woman known to you all as my wife.”

Falk’s cunning smile didn’t waver as Marigold stiffened with shock. There was a gasp from the servants, but old Mrs. Arnold did not react, except for her claw-like hands tightening upon her silver-handled walking stick. The old witch knew, Marigold thought. So did Alauda, who raised her veil to briefly reveal her astonishingly lovely face, and a smug smile that was an echo of her brother’s. The spinster aunts fluttered, but it was only a token show. Everyone had known, except the servants, and the hapless widow.

Mr. Crowe held a hand up for silence, and as the stir died away again, he continued. “In order to secure Miss Marigold Lavender Marchmont’s seduction, on the second day of May, 1792, I deceived her by hiring an actor to play the part of clergyman at the parish church of Kirkham in the County of Lancashire. After resorting to such a course, I was surprised to find myself in love with her, by which time it was too late to admit my sin without risking losing her. To this day she remains Miss Marchmont. I meant to take the secret to my grave, but my feelings have changed irreparably because Miss Marchmont has become increasingly ill-disposed toward me. So also has her son, who clearly can no longer be regarded as legitimate. In view of this, I do not feel I owe them anything further. What they have been provided with thus far is therefore
all
they will receive. My entire estate goes to my younger brother, Falk, who is my legal heir.”