Читать книгу Marriage of Inconvenience - Cheryl Bolen - Страница 13

Chapter Five

As Aynsley asked his question, his green eyes twinkled in harmony with his dimpled grin.

“About the reforms you intend to promulgate.”

“There are so very many.”

“Indeed there are. It’s hard to know where to begin to eradicate all the injustices.”

He gazed from the window at a soot-covered old chapel until it disappeared from view. “I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought,” he finally said.

“Which matter?” she asked.

“Reforms. The hierarchy of reforms.”

As much as she had contemplated reforms, she had failed to consider the sequence in which they needed to be implemented. “Go on.”

“Before the social ills like penal reform and abuses of laborers can be addressed, we need to correct the defects in the representative system.”

The sheer brilliance of his words stunned her. Why had she never considered reforms in such a light before? Ideas raced through her mind so rapidly she had difficulty isolating one. She was still reeling from the wisdom of ranking the implementation of reforms when he had bedazzled her with his choice for first priority. “Oh, yes, I see it so clearly!” she said. “Under our present system, a handful of powerful landowners like you control Parliament, and they’re not likely to welcome changes that reduce their own power in order to benefit the lower classes.” She looked up at him with awe. “Are you familiar with the Great Compromise in America?”

“I am. A pity Englishmen would so resist such a perfect democracy.”

She was impressed—and delighted—that Lord Aynsley was so well-informed on political theories and practices. “There would be great resistance to abolishing the king or the House of Lords,” she said, “but do you not think the House of Commons should be set up along the lines of America’s congressional representatives? One representative for every so many voters? I know Commons now supposedly represents particular areas of England, but you and I both know that’s a complete farce. The geographic areas do not reflect the population, and there’s no residency requirement for the members who serve in Commons.”

“I do agree with everything you’ve said. We’re now in a transition from an agrarian society to an industrialized one, and our elective system—inadequate at its inception—is sadly outdated.”

She had never before felt so fully alive, so excited, never before spoken face-to-face with anyone as intelligent or like-minded as Lord Aynsley. John. It suddenly did not seem so very odd to address this man by his Christian name. “There would be a great deal of resistance,” she said.

“We must remember the 1780s and ’90s in France.” His voice was solemn.

“You think the English people will revolt?”

“It’s a possibility. They will certainly want a government that’s more democratic. The manufacturing centers of Birmingham and Liverpool—which aren’t so very far from Dunton—don’t have a single borough in Parliament even though they have large populations.”

“While some boroughs are inhabited only by sheep!”

“We must work to change that.”

We? It was almost as if he knew of her essays, knew she was determined to work to bring about change. She felt wretchedly guilty for concealing her alter ego from the man she had married.

“In Parliament,” he added.

She squeezed his hand, surprising herself. “I know I’m just a woman and incapable of influencing political thought, but I appreciate that you do not find me a muttonhead, that you’re willing to discuss these matters with me as you would with a man.”

He turned to her, their eyes locking. Her heart began to beat unaccountably fast. “And I appreciate that you are not a muttonhead,” he said.

She giggled. “I’m trying to determine if you just complimented me.”

His rakish smile returned. “I complimented you, Lady Aynsley.”

She scowled.

“Forgive me. I should have called you Rebecca.”

“Indeed you should have, John, but I forgive you because you are a beacon of light in the dimness that is the House of Lords.” It suddenly occurred to her that marrying a peer came with an unexpected bonus. Her husband, as a member of the House of Lords, was in a position to actually work toward progressive changes.

She wondered if in the years which stretched ahead of them he would come to seek her counsel. Would he ever solicit her opinion? This marriage business was beginning to sound promising—certainly much preferable to being the peculiar spinster residing in the home of the staid Tory statesman Lord Warwick.

“Are there any peers in the Lords who could be persuaded to our way of thinking?” she asked.

“Let me put it this way. There are many who I think could be swayed.”

“I do hope you can start gathering support for the overhaul of the elective system.”

He looked at her with flashing eyes and a wicked smile. “You do, do you?”

She offered a lame nod. “I would be willing to do anything in my power to assist you.” What an impotent offer! As if there was something a twenty-eight-year-old female bluestocking laughingstock could do. How she wished she could tell him she was P. Corpus and would use her pen to enlighten the masses. Despite that she and her new husband shared so many progressive views, she did not know him well enough to admit her authorship. What if he forbade her to ever write again? She was now obliged to obey her husband. To give up her writing would be to nullify her entire reason for marrying him! Admitting her authorship was too great a risk.

“I shall take that under advisement,” he said.

“Your statement about the hierarchy of implementation of reforms brings to mind a most interesting essay I read. It was written by P. Corpus. I hope you are in agreement with his ideas, for he seems to me to be a very wise man.” Her pulse accelerated as she gazed up at him, fearing he would not agree.

“For an idealist, but he lacks pragmatism.”

“All visionaries lack pragmatism. That can only come with the universal acceptance of their ideas.”

“A most mature observation,” he said.

Under her husband’s praise she soared like a phoenix. “I’m rather interested in political reform.”

“To which of Mr. Corpus’s essays do you refer?” her husband asked.

“The one about classification of crimes.”

“Oh, yes, where he proposes that punishment should suit the crime. Lesser punishments for lesser offenses.”

“That’s the one. His idea is so simple, one wonders why no one else thought of it sooner.”

He did not say anything for a moment. If he maligned P. Corpus she would...well, she didn’t know what she would do, but it would make her decidedly angry.

“I much admire the man’s writing,” he finally said.

For which she was exceedingly grateful.

Until quite late that night they rode on, munching from the basket his cook had prepared, and they never lacked for a topic to discuss. They spoke of labor unions, the Corn Laws, the stodgy lords who controlled Parliament, and were in complete agreement on P. Corpus’s

plan for penal reform.

A few hours after dark, the coach rolled into the inn yard in Milton Keynes. This had been the most exciting day of her life—not because it was her wedding day but because she had found a man she had not thought could exist.

* * *

A light mist was falling. Aynsley did not wish to expose his wife to the damp until they were assured of procuring rooms. “I shall require a private parlor for dinner as well as rooms for myself and Lady Aynsley for the night,” he told the coachman when that servant threw open the carriage door.

“Very good, my lord.”

“Next to each other,” Aynsley added, “and don’t forget to mention we’ll need a hot meal.”

Once the coachman returned after procuring the rooms, Aynsley stepped down from the carriage, then offered Rebecca a hand. As she stood beside him he swept his greatcoat around her and pulled her close as they sloshed through the muddy inn yard toward the buttery glow of a lantern beside the timbered door of the Cock and Crown.

They were shown to the cozy parlor, where a welcoming fire was blazing in the hearth. They warmed themselves in front of the fire until a serving woman brought them a pot of hot tea, then they sat across from each other at the trestle table, which was lit by a candle.

He watched his bride as she clasped her hands around the cup’s warmth, the candlelight bathing her face in its golden glow. She looked much younger than her eight and twenty years, and despite the brilliance that resided within her, she elicited a protectiveness in him. It was akin to that elicited by his children—yet altogether different.

It occurred to him that he would be spending the rest of his life with this woman. The prospect was almost overwhelming. What if he had acted too rashly? What did he really know about this woman? The memories of Dorothy’s perfidy clouded this moment. Would Rebecca be capable of such duplicity?

“Have you any regrets, Rebecca?”

“Over what, my lord?”

It pleased him that she’d forgotten and addressed him as she had before she’d confessed to her ridiculous abhorrence of titles. “Over this speedy marriage of ours. What could have prompted you to...to honor me with your proposal when a considerable period of time had elapsed since we had last seen each other?”

“I will be honest with you, then. Please don’t be offended.”

She was going to admit her P. Corpus persona! “I assure you I won’t.”

“For some time I’d been thinking of how much more freedom is given to a married woman. I was beastly tired of never being permitted to go where I wanted without approval from my sister, who would then demand that a maid—or some type of chaperone—accompany me. I had decided that being my own mistress had vast appeal.”

“That’s it?”

“Hear me out. There’s more. I was also having a great deal of difficulty living in Lord Warwick’s house. I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that he and I disagree on almost everything. Our disagreements were becoming more heated, and I felt I was tearing apart my sister’s happy home.” She paused to offer him a smile. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I selected you.”

Their eyes met, and he nodded.

“I’m not going to say I had been attracted to you because that would be a lie. It was just that as I started enumerating eligible men, I instantly discarded every unmarried man I knew. Except you. I cannot tell you why. I think it was the children. I knew you had needed a woman to serve as mother to your children, and the more I thought on it, the more I wished to undertake such a charge. I felt as if the Lord were guiding me to you. To you and your children.”

Thankfully, the serving woman entered the chamber, saving him from having to reply. He would not have known what to say, he was so stunned. He hadn’t thought of God in a long while, but now he did. He, too, could feel God’s hand in this marriage. Why else would a sensible, pragmatic man like himself have agreed to so speedy a marriage with a woman with whom he had scarcely ever communicated?

After they ate, Aynsley turned to his wife, one brow hiked and a grin pinching his cheek. “A most peculiar wedding night this is.”

“Thank you for being so understanding.”

He lifted her hand to brush the back of it with a sterile kiss. “Don’t give the matter another thought. Earning your trust is all I ask. For the present,” he added wickedly.

A parlor maid carrying a candle led them up a flight of dark, narrow wooden stairs to their chambers. “These rooms at the top of the stairs are fer yer lordship and ladyship,” she said. “They should be nice and toasty now. Yer servants have already laid yer own linens on the beds.” She curtsied and took her leave.

His gaze flicked to his bride, who stood in her doorway. “Tomorrow will be another long day. I shall ask to be awakened at dawn. We’ll dress and eat, then hopefully push off by seven.” My, but you’re pretty. And uncommonly intelligent.

“A very good plan.”

* * *

The first night of their journey Rebecca had been too exhilarated to sleep. For that is how she felt now. After eight-and-twenty years of utter loneliness and a melancholy acceptance that she was different, she had at last found someone who thought like she did. She even began to believe that with Lord Aynsley she could salvage a semblance of a normal life.

Throughout the long night she had recollected every word of every one of their conversations and mentally added new topics to discuss with her husband the following day.

On the second night of the journey, her body cried out with fatigue, but she could not sleep then, either. But this time for entirely different reasons.

Now she found herself wondering about Lord Aynsley the man. Had he loved his first wife terribly? Had theirs been an affectionate marriage? The very thought of him with someone else ignited a strange sensation. Good heavens! Was it jealousy?

She also thought about his confession that he had shut God out of his life. Please, Lord, help me help him find You again.

She felt completely at ease with her husband and was coming to know him as she had never known any man. She had learned of his fondness for plum pudding, his disdain for men who could not hold their liquor, and she had come to relish the ready grin she seemed so capable of eliciting from him.

He was coming to know her well, too. The last day of their journey he sat across from her in the carriage, a concerned look on his face. “You did not sleep well,” he said.

His words jarred her from reverie. “How did you know?”

That rakish grin on his face, he studied her. “I’m coming to know your face rather well.”

The interior of the coach at once seemed a most intimate place. She felt as if all that mattered in the world was enclosed within that cubicle, that nothing else existed. This was uncomfortable territory for her. Equally as disconcerting was the way he continued to watch her so intently.

Did he stare at her because he found her wanting? If he’d been able to determine she had not slept, the evidence of her sleeplessness must show in her face. “I must look wretched,” she finally said. What was happening to her? Rebecca never gave consideration to her appearance.

“Not at all. You’re lovely.”

Men never said she was lovely. “You, sir, will put me to the blush.” She could now add blushing to her areas of expertise.

“I’m sorry you’ve been unable to sleep,” he murmured. “I expect the mattress is not what you’re used to.”

“I’ll be fine once we get to Dunton. When will we arrive there?”

“Before dark.”

Her thoughts flitted to her new home, and she realized she would take the chambers occupied by the former Lady Aynsley. “Will I be given...your wife’s rooms?”

“You are my wife, Rebecca.”

It suddenly seemed very hot within the carriage. Intimate. Did the intimacy account for her sudden urge to pry? She vowed to be less personal, but her resolve dissipated before five minutes had passed. “What was her name?” Rebecca asked.

“Your predecessor?”

He had cleverly chosen not to call the former Lady Aynsley his wife. “Yes.”

“Dorothy.”

“Do you miss her dreadfully?”

“It’s been a long time. I can’t even remember what her voice sounded like.”

How neatly he had avoided answering her question. “Were you utterly heartbroken when she died?” What’s wrong with me? Rebecca never dwelled on personal matters. She’d always concerned herself with ideas, not people.

“She’s dead, Rebecca. You’re my wife now, and we’ll make a new life. It’s very important to me that you’re happy.”

It didn’t seem that her happiness had ever mattered to anyone else before. Maggie, of course, loved her, but had never understood her. In that instant, in that cozy carriage, Rebecca came to believe that she did matter to this man who had honored her with his name. “I’ve never been happier,” she whispered.

“I wonder if you’ll feel that way a year from now.” His voice softened. “I sincerely hope so.”

* * *

That afternoon they passed through Birmingham. Aynsley had always found the city’s jungle of bulging, belching, blackening factories oppressive. Now, he wished to gauge Rebecca’s reaction. She seemed unable to remove her face from the glass as their carriage jostled over the filthy streets, and it was not until the city’s unhealthy haze was behind them that she spoke. She turned from the window to face him, an incredibly solemn look on her face. “My heart bleeds for those people.”