Читать книгу A Mother For His Family - Susanne Dietze - Страница 11
ОглавлениеHelena pattered up the rain-puddled path to the village church on her father’s arm, favoring her stiff ankle. The kirk’s weathered stones blended into the landscape’s gray-green palette of rolling hills, rain-heavy clouds, mossy gravestones and muddy grass. It was probably damp and drafty inside, but the moment Helena crossed the threshold, she didn’t mind the cold swirling her ankles. The kirk felt like something, all right—warm and comfortable in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature.
It felt hopeful, something Helena hadn’t experienced in a long while.
Was this from God? Did it mean this church was full of His love? Could some of it extend to her?
Someone must have noticed them arrive, because the murmured conversations of the guests quieted. A nervous thrill twined with the quickening she’d experienced in her body, but she was ready, especially now that she’d felt such comfort. She took a deep breath, filling her nostrils with the smells of every church she’d ever entered: stale air, musty pages, candle smoke and beeswax.
She squeezed Papa’s arm as they paused at the threshold to the aisle. She hoped he’d look down at her. Smile and squeeze her fingers. Tell her she made a beautiful bride.
Instead he looked ahead. “Come along, then.”
The aisle was as lacking in length as the pews were in guests. A tiny female in dull clothing—the children’s nursemaid—lurked in at the rear. Toward the front, a few others dressed in finer attire stared at her with unashamed curiosity. The familiar faces of Gemma and Tavin smiled at her from the left side of the aisle while their wards, Petey and Eddie, wriggled and tugged at their miniature neck cloths.
Lord Ardoch’s children stood in the front pew on the right. The boys wore matching brown coats and impish expressions. Margaret, wearing sprigged muslin, a straw bonnet and a scowl, lifted little Louisa in her arms.
And beside the bespectacled, round-faced young clergyman at the end of the aisle, donned in a formal black coat, Lord Ardoch waited, hands at his sides, face impassive.
The sensation of peace she’d experienced at the threshold drained away.
Helena compressed her lips. I do not know if I can address You like this, God, but You must know how sorry I am. Marrying will make everything right, won’t it? Will You forgive me, once I do this? Will You even love me?
When they reached the end of the aisle, Papa released her arm. She clutched her prayer book so hard her knuckles ached.
Glancing down at her flowery book, Lord Ardoch’s eyes warmed to a deeper green and a soft smile lifted his lips. He must be pleased she’d attached his gift of blooms.
He was handsome, the sort of gentleman she might have noticed before she met Frederick Coles. But as Lord Ardoch was a lord of Parliament, the lowest rank in the Peerage of Scotland, her parents would have dismissed him as a potential husband.
In the end, however, rank hadn’t mattered to her that much. Certainly not with Frederick.
Stop thinking of him. She forced her lips to lift into a slight smile. Now freeze.
She trembled. Perhaps in freezing her smile, she’d iced the rest of her, too.
The clergyman spoke of covenant, looking over his spectacles at them as if to impress on them the gravity of such a thing. But she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t understand. Her pledge was no small thing. It was forever.
A few more words, punctuated by one of the children’s snuffles and someone’s long sigh. Then Lord Ardoch faced her and took her right hand. Steady, she ordered her twitchy fingers.
“I, John Angus, do take thee, Helena Caroline, to be my married wife, and do, in the presence of God, and before this congregation, promise and covenant to be a loving and faithful husband unto thee, until God shall separate us by death.”
As he spoke the vows, did he think of his Catriona, the wife he chose? He was marrying Helena out of convenience, after all.
Then his gaze met hers, its message sure. He would provide for her and shelter her. He would be a good husband in that way. Perhaps not loving, but good.
It was more than she deserved. A jerky swallow pained her throat as she took his right hand. Not too firmly. Nor too affectionate, or too scared, or however else he might interpret her clasp. She fixed her gaze on the precise knot of his neck cloth.
“I, Helena Caroline, do take thee, John Angus, to be my married husband, and do, in the presence of God, and before this congregation—”
She glanced at Papa. His mouth was downturned, like a child’s drawing of a rounded mountain.
“Before this congregation, promise and covenant?” The clergyman bore an indulgent smile. She must not have been his first overset bride.
“—before this congregation promise and covenant to be a loving and faithful wife unto thee, until God shall separate us by death.”
There. She’d done it. Maybe God would absolve her now.
Her fingers squeezed Lord Ardoch’s.
His brows rose.
Oh, dear. She meant nothing more in her gesture than relief. Assurance of their partnership. But perhaps he hadn’t understood. Prickles of heat barbed her neck and cheeks. Her hands pulled back, but he held on, his grip far firmer than hers had been.
She couldn’t lift her gaze from the buttons of his silver waistcoat while the clergyman spoke about the fruits of marriage. There would be none of that. The warmth of her blush washed away, from the crown of her head down, leaving her cold again.
After more prayers, Lord Ardoch slid a cold, polished ring with a deep red stone on the fourth finger of her left hand.
And then the one other thing. Their first—and last—kiss.
With one hand, he cupped her shoulder, and with the other, he lifted her chin. It was a light touch, enough to hold her steady. But more than enough to send her insides quaking.
He bent his head. His well-formed lips brushed the corner of her mouth, fleeting and gentle. Then he lowered his hands and released her.
She had received warmer kisses on her hands from courtiers back in London. Still, the tingle of his touch lingered. She resisted the urge to touch her mouth.
One final blessing by the clergyman, and it was done. She was married. Her problems were solved, neat and tidy. Her parents would be relieved. God approved, too. From this day forward, everything would be smooth as the cream icing on her wedding cake.
A shriek, shrill and jarring as a parakeet squawk, echoed off the stones. Startled, Helena dropped her prayer book.
Lord Ardoch spun toward his youngest child. “Louisa—”
Louisa’s red-slippered feet kicked Margaret, who dropped her cousin with a gasp of exaggerated outrage. Louisa fell to her hands and knees, screeching.
“Is she ill?” Helena rushed forward.
“No.” Lord Ardoch scooped Louisa into his arms. “What is it, poppet?”
“Get it out!” Louisa’s screams reverberated through the sanctuary.
Papa’s grumble wasn’t loud, but it lifted the hairs at Helena’s nape. She didn’t need to look up to know every eye fell upon them. All she could do was watch Louisa writhe and howl in her husband’s arms. Yet he said she was not ill. Then what sort of problem could explain her behavior? Children knew better than to show such poor deportment. In church. At their father’s wedding—
Alexander and Callum—whichever was which—doubled over, hands pressed against their diminutive satin waistcoats, silent laughter escaping their ruddy little faces. Why, they weren’t just amused by Louisa’s tantrum. No doubt the rascals caused it.
She touched the boys’ shoulders. Not hard, but enough for them to spin toward her, their eyes wide.
“What did you do?” She enunciated each syllable.
They glanced at one another. Her eyes narrowed.
“Nothing—”
“’Twas his idea—”
“Dear me,” the clergyman lamented, retrieving Helena’s prayer book.
Louisa thrashed. Lord Ardoch cupped her golden curls, and below his hand, under Louisa’s dress, something moved.
Helena’s stomach rippled. “Inside her gown.”
Her husband’s brows lifted. She may not know him well, but it was not difficult to discern his utter befuddlement. With a huff, Helena thrust her hand down the backside of Louisa’s lacy bodice and grasped something hot and furry.
She yanked. A thin, hairless tail dangled between her fingers.
A yip, like an angry Pekinese’s, escaped her throat and her grip went slack. A gray blur fell from her hand and shot under the pew. The clergyman clutched Helena’s flowery prayer book and the boys fell to their knees. Not out of penitence, but to hunt the rodent.
Lord Ardoch held out Louisa to Helena, but Margaret hurried forward and took the sobbing girl, leaving Helena feeling foolish with her arms extended and empty, and half her new family either weeping or crawling about the floor.
Tempted though she was to swoon, she’d never managed to escape in such a convenient fashion, so she fixed another frozen smile on her face.
Lord Ardoch pulled one of the twins to stand. “Enough.”
“But he was a good mouse.” The boy’s lip stuck out.
The lad cared about the mouse more than his sister? No blood or rips marred Louisa’s white gown and the child’s cries had hushed, but Helena would have to summon a physician to be certain. “Your sister could have been bitten.”
“That one never bites.” The second twin folded his arms. “He goes about under our waistcoats all the time and all he ever does is tickle.”
Gemma and Tavin’s ward, Petey, broke from the pew. “I want him in my waistcoat.”
“Not now.” Gemma pulled him back.
“The only creature that beastie will be acquainted with now is the kirk cat, but that is the least of your concerns.” Lord Ardoch’s brows knit. “Apologize to your mither for causing such a scene at her wedding.”
Her wedding, and oh, dear, what had he called her? Helena’s stomach swirled as the twin’s eyes widened. Then narrowed.
“She’s not my mither!”
Well. Louisa was not the only one with strong lungs in the family.
“I won’t call her mither, either,” the other boy said. At least he wasn’t screaming.
“You will not disrespect your m—your st—Lady Ardoch.” Emotion bleached a rim of white around her husband’s tight mouth. “Apologize now.”
The boy’s lips twisted, as if he’d been presented with an unappetizing dish. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Helena forced yet another smile. “This is a new situation for us all. Perhaps together we might think up a name for you to call me. You cannot call me Lady Ardoch forever.” And perhaps they could discuss it later, in private, rather than in front of their assembled wedding guests.
Margaret took the twin’s shoulder. “Leave Lady Ardoch alone, Alex. ’Tis her wedding day, after all.”
“Margaret.” Lord Ardoch’s snap brought color to the girl’s cheeks. “Your tone leaves much to be desired. Your aunt deserves a better welcome than this.”
Margaret hid her face in Louisa’s bonnet, but her mumble of “She’s not my aunt” was nonetheless audible.
“I apologize.” Her new husband looked sincere and poised. Every bit the politician he was, working to pass bills in Parliament.
“None of us has had much time to get used to the idea.” Her frozen smile didn’t waver. She’d not show how embarrassed the children made her feel.
What had she felt when she’d entered the kirk? Warmth, love? She felt neither anymore, neither in her heart nor radiating from her new family.
Perhaps God had felt the need to punish her further by reminding her that the marriage was as much a sham as the wedding turned out to be. But Helena had been taught that a duke’s daughter should exude confidence and poise, so she held her head high as she walked beside him through the kirk door.
Where she was met by shouts and hands. Dozens of them, as children reached out to her.
* * *
John withdrew the purse he’d shoved into his pocket for this moment and pulled out a shiny coin. “Will a shilling do, lady wife?”
She didn’t take the coin. Instead, her face froze in a detached expression that looked too much like her haughty father’s for John’s taste. Meanwhile, the village children enclosed them, open-handed and noisy with congratulatory hoots. Why didn’t she take the coin? Was she as arrogant as her father, dismissing others below her in rank?
John’s jaw set. She was the new Lady Ardoch, and she must comply with tradition before displeasure—and then distrust—grew in the villagers’ hearts.
He reached for his bride’s hand and pressed the shilling into her palm. He’d been in politics long enough to know how to keep his voice level and diplomatic, but be able to convey a sense of urgency, and he strove to use that tone now. “The first one you saw.”
“The first?” Her gaze lifted to his, breaking her emotionless facade.
“Is it not customary for a bride to give a coin to the first child she sees after leaving the kirk on her wedding day?”
“I do not know.” Her fingers closed over the coin.
A trickle of shame slid down the back of his neck. He’d judged her as arrogant, like her father, jumping to the conclusion she didn’t wish to engage with the villagers, when in truth she’d been ignorant of local customs. He opened his mouth to speak, but she turned away and leaned over a ginger-haired girl in a brown frock. The cooper’s daughter. “I saw your smile first. Thank you for your welcome.”
“Thank ye, m’lady.” The girl bobbed a curtsy.
John emptied the purse of its contents and tossed the handful of dull gray sixpence over the children’s heads. While they shrieked and lunged for the coins, he offered her a small smile. Behind them, the children and wedding guests followed them out of the kirk. He waved at the crowd before assisting Helena into the landau they would share to Comraich.
John settled against the squabs beside her as the carriage lurched forward. “You must know how sorry I am about the scene the boys caused. And Margaret, and, well, all of it.”
“As I said, it will be a transition for us all.” Her expression was polite, which made it impossible to know what she thought.
It occurred to him that his first private words for her as husband and wife were an apology. Half the villagers following after their carriage assumed they were taking advantage of their privacy by murmuring words of affection, maybe even kissing.
Not that he wanted to do such a thing. Never. That one brief kiss he’d pressed on her lips was the only one they’d ever share, and while it had been quick, it had felt important, as if it sealed the vows he made to her—
John blinked. What had they been discussing, before his gaze caught on her lips?
Ah, the children. “My bairns know better. It’s no consolation, but they’ve been without a proper governess for some time. A candidate arrives tomorrow, and I’ll instruct the housekeeper to hire her.”
His bride’s brows raised a fraction. “No need. I shall see to the matter.”
“You don’t mind?”
“’Tis my role now, is it not, my lord?”
“John,” he corrected. “You are my wife. Please call me John.”
Her lips parted in surprise, breaking her polite mask. Many couples didn’t use Christian names, but he didn’t think he could stand it if his wife—convenient or not—called him by his title all his days.
“John. And I am Helena, but you know that already.” Her head dipped, but then her brows furrowed and she turned to look out the window. “Are they following us?”
The villagers’ cheers and the strains of flute and fiddle accompanied the carriage around the bend toward home. “Aye, for the wedding feast.”
“The entire village will be there?” Her fingers stilled, but her gaze met his in an apologetic look. “Forgive me. I’d not expected much celebration. My mother said—”
Her lip caught in her teeth, as if she bit back her next words.
“What did she say?” Plenty, no doubt, if she was of the same mind as her husband. Kelworth certainly thought John uncouth. “Did she think I’d be inhospitable?”
A vibrant flush stained her cheeks, burning away the cool mask she’d affected. “She said naught about you, just my...circumstances. That there was nothing to be celebrated.”
John’s amusement fled as understanding dawned. His wife expected no festivities because her wedding was no happy union, but a rushed embarrassment, the fruit of her ruin and his desperation.
He’d not known quite what to expect of Lady Helena, beyond Tavin’s assurances of her gentility, but he’d learned a few things of her since their first meeting in the ha-ha. She was willing to pay the price for her mistakes, and she was brave to have made the decision to marry him. Most of the time, she wore a mask that made her appear haughty, but beneath it, she was lost, unfamiliar with her new surroundings. And no doubt she felt quite alone.
The carriage rounded onto Comraich’s drive. John had but a moment left of privacy while the liveried footman hurried to open the door latch and lower the steps. “Your mother is wrong. There is much to celebrate this happy day.”
And it was true. He’d prayed for a wife to help him, and the Lord had sent Helena. Perhaps the tone of their marriage could be set now, with their first steps on his—their—land. “Comraich means welcome, and it is now your home every bit as it is mine.”
“That’s a beautiful name.” Her smile was small but enough to assure him his words comforted her. John preceded her out of the carriage and assisted her down.
Her head was regal as she met the staff lined in neat rows at the door. She greeted each one, from the lowest of the chambermaids up to the butler, Kerr, the housekeeper, Mrs. McGill, and his valet, Ritchie. Then the other carriages arrived, followed by villagers, and everyone moved to Comraich’s grassy yard, where the aromas of roasting mutton and beef tangled in the air with laughter and strains of music.
After welcoming the guests and nibbling on the roast meat and punch, John and his bride separated. He didn’t even glance at his wife until his portly agent, Burgess, stopped midsentence and lifted his brows. “Fetching scene, m’lord.”
John turned. His new wife, her white gown billowing in the breeze, linked arms with his niece Margaret as they strolled away from the festivities. Helena’s head bent toward Margaret’s, and she spoke softly. He couldn’t see Margaret’s face, but he imagined a smile there.
He expelled a long breath of relief. Thank You, Lord. It seemed he’d made a wise decision, after all. Despite the scene at the kirk, Margaret seemed to be regretting her attitude and was now warming to his new wife. Before long, the boys would, too.
He’d had nothing to worry about, after all. Everything would go well from here on out.
* * *
At least Margaret didn’t try to break free from Helena’s loose hold as Helena led her toward the house. “When did you find time to do it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Margaret forced a phony-sounding laugh.
Helena’s eyes stung from the oversweet tuberose perfume the girl had liberally applied at some point since arriving back from the kirk, but the fragrant fumes weren’t all the girl had put on. “I know the effects of Rigge’s Liquid Bloom and a rouge crepe paper pressed against a cheek when I see them.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You are not the first person I’ve met to use color and deny it. Even the Prince Regent.” Helena glanced about, thankful they stood in the shadow of the house. “I’ve no wish to embarrass you, but you are far too young for cosmetics.”
Although she had a fair idea why Margaret had put them on: that dark-haired schoolboy who’d tugged Margaret’s bonnet ribbon. “Who is that young man?”
“Archibald Dunwood, the solicitor’s son.” Margaret’s tone was superior.
Archibald—like every third male she’d met today. “I see. Well, he will still be at the party after we’ve washed your face.”
Margaret’s head snapped back, as if she’d been slapped. “I’m not washing my face. I’m not wearing cosmetics.”
Really, was she having this argument with a child? At her wedding party? What should she do? Mama would order the nursemaid to see to her punishment and ignore her for several days, dared she behave like this.
But Helena was not Mama. She looked Margaret in the eye, or at least tried to, for the child stared at the house with a mulish expression. “You may not lie to me, Margaret. I know my being here will be a difficult adjustment for us all, but things will go better if we are honest with one another.”
That got Margaret to return her gaze, but oh how it crackled, like a log catching fire, sparking and hot. “May I go inside the house to wash my face, Lady Ardoch?”
Helena ignored the sarcastic tone. “By all means. And then we may start again.”
But Margaret was already stomping toward the house.
It was a relief when Papa approached, a familiar face among the strangers. Behind him, some sort of dance began, with the fiddle and fife growing louder. Papa would not dance, of course, but the tiniest bit of her wished he would dance with her on her wedding. For one person to be happy. Other than Louisa, that is, who’d been sweet enough once the mouse was out of her dress.
“Papa, isn’t this a lovely party?”
“Just so,” he said in a tone that implied the opposite as he stared at a toddler attaching himself to her new husband’s legs. “Alas, I must take my leave.”
“It has been a long day.” Helena’s feet ached. Or rather, one ached. The other—the one she’d twisted last week—throbbed. And Papa must be exhausted, too. He hadn’t been well. “What time shall we expect you to call tomorrow?”
As his head shook, a thin lock of faded blond hair fell over his forehead. “Tomorrow I return to London.”
Oh. Her eyes stung, but she’d not allow tears. “When will I see you again?”
If ever? As if on cue, Papa coughed. She reached out but didn’t allow herself to touch him. He wouldn’t want it.
This spell was blessedly short, however. Within a few moments he took a steadying breath. “I do not know. I’m certain your mother desires a letter from you, once you are settled.”
“I shall write to her on the morrow.” It would be pleasant if he waited to deliver it himself, but clearly, he had no desire to stay any longer than he’d had to. He hadn’t been well, true—
“How could Mrs. Knox permit you to wear that?”
“Wear what?” Was her hem ripped? Did she drip punch on her bodice?
“That gown. ’Tis a good thing no one we know from London can see you—can you imagine what my brother would say?”
“Uncle Cecil?” Papa’s younger brother and heir presumptive was a stickler and looked down his nose on others even more than Mama did, and he’d no doubt disapprove of Helena’s marriage once he learned of it. But why would he care about her dress?
“If your mother had been here, she would have seen you dressed properly.”
“Mama suggested I wear this gown today.”
“Then she was rendered daft by grief, for your gown is a disgrace.”
The bodice was modest, not at all alluring, as Papa had accused her of dressing after Frederick—after that terrible day. “Is it too showy?”
Papa’s lips twisted. “It is too white.”
“White is fashionable.” The words tumbled out. All unmarried ladies—and many married ones—wore white.
“’Tis also symbolic.”
Of course it was. Was the church altar not dressed in white at Easter and Christmas and all the other happy feast days? “White is the color of joy.”
“And purity, a quality you lack, so there is little joy today, either. You could have made a dazzling match. Stayed close to us in London. Now you’ve lost everything.” His eyes moistened, which made her eyes sting and her hands tremble to reach out to him, but before she could move, he shook his head. “No, daughter, there is no cause to wear white this day.”
With that, he left her alone. A few guests approached, expectant smiles on their faces, forestalling her from fleeing into the house and doing something shameful, like giving in to tears. She forced herself to freeze: smile, posture, proud tilt of her chin.
I am ice. I am ice. And if I am not careful, I will crack.
