The Hired Wife

Copyright 2008
Cari Hislop

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The Hired
Wife

Early March
1818

‘A gentleman
wishes to hire an unattached female aged between thirty and forty
with excellent hearing who can read and write. She must be good
natured, patient, hard working and honest. Duties will include
reading to the master, dealing with servants and assisting the
master to hear. There will be no free day for the first four
months. All applicants who do not conform to these specifics are
not wanted. Apply at Dobson and Browne Solicitors near St. Bride’s
between ten and twelve.’

Miss Mary Donne
took a deep shaky breath and looked up the queue; there were
thirteen applicants in front of her. She blushed as her stomach
gurgled; she didn’t need an audible reminder that life’s kindnesses
had come to an end. It was unlikely she’d get a chance to be
interviewed, and even if she did she’d probably be passed over for
being only twenty-six. Fate could be so cruel.

Taking another
deep breath, she inhaled the scent of dusty books. It brought back
memories of her father in his study. She missed his genial smile,
having a home and eating three meals a day. The new Reverend had
sold off her father’s belongings and kindly allowed her to stay
three months in the attic while she looked for employment. After
six weeks she was no longer welcome at the family table and allowed
only a beggar’s breakfast of cold pasty gruel in the kitchen.

The office door
opened as the first woman to be interviewed was shown out and the
second shown in. The line shortened as they all pressed closer, but
there was only a few minutes of silence before the woman rushed
from the room in tears. The third applicant hesitated, but entered
with a fearful expression. Half a minute later she too was
dismissed. Mary watched the plain woman leave and wondered if she
was equally hungry. The next applicant only had time to shut the
door before they all heard a man shout, “God preserve me! Next!”
Mary’s heart went out to the middle-aged woman who was almost ugly
and watched a more comely woman confidently enter the office. This
time the interview seemed to last forever. Mary watched in surprise
as the door burst open and the pretty little woman sobbed past as
everyone shifted up a space. What was the man looking for? A
horrible feeling settled over Mary’s heart, how was she going to
get the position when she wasn’t even pretty? She was wasting her
time standing in a line when she could be out looking for
employment, but she remained where she was. She was too hungry to
contemplate scouring London. Common sense prevailed; she couldn’t
be rejected unless she applied for the position.

…

Marshall
Godfrey, the eighth Viscount Raynham sat on a mahogany settee flush
against the wall with his arms folded and his legs crossed. He
watched in silent disappointment as the thirteenth applicant was
put through the mill by his solicitor. Were all single educated
women so unromantic looking? He hadn’t seen one woman he’d want to
write a poem about after three bottles of port let alone stone
sober. He chastised himself for judging the poor creatures harshly,
but he was the one who’d have to look at her for a year or forever
if he couldn’t get an annulment. For once he’d get what he wanted.
“Next!” The shouted word drew the young woman’s head in his
direction. She was comely, but there was something about her eyes
that reminded him of a corpse he’d once seen lying in the street.
The thought of sitting close to her for hours as she repeated other
people’s words into his ear made his skin crawl. He didn’t care if
she did have a pleasant voice. He sighed loudly as melancholy
threatened to press flat his heart. He wasn’t going to give up
until he’d seen every applicant. A few minutes later Marshall’s
romantic heart slumped in despair as a thin bonneted creature in
clothes fifteen years out of fashion stepped into the room.

He couldn’t
hear the solicitor ask the woman to remove her bonnet. He watched
as she slowly untied the ribbons and removed the hideous hat hiding
her face. She wasn’t ugly, but… Marshall’s assessment was suspended
as the small window behind the solicitor’s desk became a golden
square. Sunshine broke through the overcast sky, bent around
several corners and showered the young woman’s calm features with
light. She looked like she’d stepped out of one of the Dutch
paintings he’d seen on his grand tour. Words sprouted through his
melancholy like brightly coloured tulips. She’d never be pretty,
but there was something inexplicably pleasing about the woman with
honey coloured hair. He crossed his legs and sighed loudly drawing
the woman’s eyes in his direction. She probably had a voice like
his Aunt Beatrice. She was probably in love with her Vicar. She’d
probably stink. She’d probably be unfit for purpose. He scowled at
her curious expression. There was a sunken hollowness around her
eyes. If she was hungry she’d be more inclined to accept his
offer.

He couldn’t
hear her reading the bible. He had no idea that the quill pen made
a squeaking noise as she proved she could take notes as the
solicitor’s mouth opened and closed at regular intervals. A few
minutes later the solicitor waved her over to him. She’d passed the
first three tests. She met his piercing gaze and then dropped her
eyes as she curtseyed low as if he were the King. From the corners
of his eyes he watched her sit next to him. “What’s your name?”

Mary jumped at
the booming question and rubbed her ear. “I can’t hear you woman,
speak into my ear and don’t mumble. I hate people who mumble.”

Mary steadied
her nerves and stared into sapphire blue eyes out of place in the
plain face. He was clean shaven, but he looked like he’d dressed in
a windstorm. His black and white striped waistcoat was misbuttoned
and didn’t go with either his dark blue jacket or snug pale green
trousers tucked into black boots. “If you can’t speak I have no use
for you.” She licked her lips and leaned over. She’d never been so
close to a man. He smelled like soap, lemons and ham. She was so
hungry she was smelling food everywhere. “My name is Mary
Donne.”

“Merry Dunne?
Like the poet?” Marshall watched the woman’s eyes crinkle with
amusement and lean back to speak against his ear.

“My father
liked to tell people we were descended from the famous man. I
suspect after reading my father’s poetry, John Donne would sue him
for libel.” She jumped as he barked a loud laugh and relaxed back
in his seat so he could see her more clearly.

“Where’s your
father?”

“He died a
short time ago Sir.”

“Speak up
woman!”

“He’s dead
Sir!”

Her prospective
employer rubbed his ear, “There’s no need to shout, I’m not
deaf.”

“I’m sorry Sir,
is this better?”

“Don’t call me
Sir. It makes me feel like an aging tutor. You may address me as Mr
Godfrey. Did Mr Browne tell you I loath being addressed as my
Lord?”

“Yes…”

“Good, do you
have any family?” She didn’t have to answer the question. Her
crumpled features spoke volumes. “You don’t have any bastards to
feed or…what? Do you have a problem with plain speaking Miss Merry
Dunne?”

“No, of course
not…”

“To which
question? You don’t have any bastards or…?”

“No to both
questions.”

“Are you
promised to marry some impoverished vicar or journeyman?”

“No.”

“Is there any
particular man you wish you could marry?”

“No. Why?”

“Good. I’ll
take this one Browne. Send the rest away. We’ll need a few minutes
alone. What’s wrong with you woman? You’re not going to be sick are
you?”

“You…you’re…”

“Out with it
woman; I hate people who can’t say what they want to say.”

“You’re
shouting. It hurts.” Mary’s heart sank as she waited to be
dismissed before the first meal.

“Of course I’m
shouting. If I don’t shout no one listens.”

“There’s
something I need to tell you…”

The man waited
until the door was closed before turning to face her with a
ferocious expression. “Don’t you know what an ear is? Talk into
it!”

“I’m only
twenty-six.”

The man scowled
in confusion, “I’m forty-three, what difference does it make?”

He looked down
as she held out the paper and pointed to the ad. “You didn’t want
anyone under thirty, but I came anyway…hoping…” Mary’s hungry brain
swirled with confusion as burning blue eyes seared her soul.

“
Do you have a problem with working for someone who can’t hear
very well Miss Dunne?”

Her eyes went
wide with horror as she shook her head. “No! You advertised for
someone honest. I couldn’t pretend to be thirty while I’m
only…”

“Humph!” The
ferocious expression softened into mild irritation as the sapphire
eyes studied her person and then returned to her face. “I wish to
hire you to be my wife.” Mary stared dumbfounded. Had she heard him
correctly? “I need help presenting my sisters into society. I can’t
attend functions on my own; I can’t hear anything. I can’t
communicate. They all look at me like I’m stupid. I need you to
translate what people say to my face as well as behind my back. I
need someone who can tell my poxy servants I expect them to earn
their wages.”

“But I don’t
know anything about high society.”

“Are you saying
you don’t wish to marry me? Why are you making that awful
face?”

“It hurts when
you talk so loud.”

“I haven’t got
all day Woman, are you going to marry me or not? You’ll receive a
new wardrobe which I’ll choose and a monthly allowance to spend or
save as you wish. If you last a year I’ll purchase an annuity for
you when the marriage is annulled, but I may require your services
for longer in which case the amount you receive will increase
accordingly. If I find I can’t stand you and annul the marriage
before the year is over I’ll send you away with enough to keep you
housed and fed until you find other employment.” Mary felt her
inner organs relax back into their normal positions.

“You won’t be
consummating the marriage?”

Lord Raynham’s
eyebrows met as he looked her with an expression of distaste. “I
wouldn’t beget my children on a common dowdy châtelaine I picked
out of a line after placing a want ad in the paper. I’ve never
heard of anything so unromantic!” Mary winced at the stinging
verbal slap. What did it matter? Her dream of falling in love and
having children was destined to remain a dusty unread novel on the
shelf of life. She’d be his property until he found a more suitable
woman for the position, but in the meantime she’d have a bed and
three meals a day. It was an acceptable exchange.

“Very well,
I’ll marry you.”

“You will?” He
looked surprised. “I haven’t even told you how much you’ll be
paid.”

“I’ll have
three meals a day, won’t I?”

“When did you
eat last?”

“Five o’clock
this morning. Reverend Stokes kindly allows me one bowl of gruel a
day with the other beggars.”

“I see.” The
two words implied an unchristian desire to inflict bodily harm on
the Reverend Stokes. “It’s almost twelve-thirty. I told the
Archbishop to be ready for one o’clock. I’ve purchased a special
license…he just has to fill in your name.”

The next hour
whirled by in a hungry haze as Mary stood next to a stranger named
Marshall Allen Francis Godfrey, eighth Viscount Raynham and
promised to love, cherish, and obey him in sickness and health till
death parted them asunder or the union was aborted like an ill
attended production of ‘Alls Well that Ends Well’. The simple gold
ring was too big for her finger. She clenched her fingers all the
way to the vicarage. Her new husband insisted on accompanying her
inside and up the stairs to her pathetic corner under the eaves
almost free of cobwebs. Her small trunk was quickly packed. Once
downstairs he loudly demanded the remains of his wife’s property.
The disgruntled Reverend insisted on seeing proof of the wedding
before handing over three old manuscripts, an antique ink well
emblazoned with the Donne family motto and a battered wedding plate
that had been in Mary’s mother’s family for over two hundred years.
Feeling brave with a large man at her side Mary said, “I want my
mother’s lace table cloth.”

“It was sold to
pay for your upkeep.” He rubbed his nose and slid a look to his
wife.