Lord Ravensden's Marriage

Olivia had clearly been hurt by some other young lady’s glee in the fact that her marriage was, after all, merely one of convenience, that despite her glittering Season, and being the toast of London society, her bridegroom was marrying her only to oblige her adopted father. She had reacted in a very natural way, and had written him a stilted letter, telling him that she had decided she could not marry him, which he had received only on his return to town—by which time the scandal had broken and was being whispered of all over London.

Harry cursed the misfortune that had taken him from town. He had been summoned urgently to his estates in the north, a journey there and back of several days. Had he been in London, he might have seen Olivia, explained that he did indeed have a very high regard for her, and was honoured that she had accepted him—as he truly was.

Perhaps he had not fallen in love in the true romantic sense—but Harry did not really believe in that kind of love. He had experienced passion often enough, and also a deep affection for his friends, but never total, heart-stopping love.

He enjoyed the company of intelligent women. His best friend’s wife was an exceptional woman, and he was very fond of Lady Dawlish. He had often envied Percy his happy home life, but had so far failed to find a lady he could admire as much as Merry Dawlish, who laughed a lot and seemed to enjoy life hugely in her own inimitable way. Even so, he had felt something for Olivia, and he had certainly not intended the tragedy that his carelessness had caused. Indeed, it grieved him that she had been put in such a position, for without fortune and friends to stand by her, she was ruined.

So what was he going to do about it? Having just returned from the country, he had little inclination to return there—and to Northamptonshire! Nothing interesting ever happened in such places.

Harry’s besetting sin was that he was easily bored. Indeed, he was often plagued by a soul-destroying tedium, which had come upon him when his father’s death forced him to give up the army life he had enjoyed for a brief period, and return to care for his estates. He was a good master and did not neglect his land or his people, but he was aware of something missing in his life.

He preferred living in town, where he was more likely to find stimulating company, and would not have minded so much if Olivia had gone to Bath or Brighton, but this village…what was it called? Ah yes, Abbot Giles. It was bound to be full of dull-witted gentry and lusty country wenches.

Harry’s eye did not brighten at the thought of buxom wenches. He was famed for his taste in cyprians, and the mistresses he had kept whenever it suited him had always possessed their full measure of both beauty and wit. He believed the one thing that had prevented him from giving his whole heart to Olivia was that she did not seem to share his love of the ridiculous. She had found some of his remarks either hurtful or bewildering. Harry thought wistfully that it would be pleasant to have a woman by one’s side who could give as good as she got, who wasn’t afraid to stand up to him.

“What an odd character you are to be sure,” Harry told his reflection. It was a severe fault in him that he could not long be pleased by beautiful young women, unless they were also amusing.

Harry frowned at his own thoughts. It was not as if he were hiding some secret tragedy. His mother was still living, and the sweetest creature alive—but she had not been in love with his father, nor his father with her. Both had carried on separate lives, taking and discarding lovers without hurting the other. Indeed, they had been the best of friends. Harry believed he must be like his mother, who seemed not to treat anything seriously, and was besides being the sweetest, the most provoking of females.

No matter! He was a man of his word. He had given his word to Olivia, and the fact that she had jilted him made no difference. He must go after her, try to persuade her that he was not so very terrible. As his wife, she would be readmitted to the society that had cast her off—and that surely must be better than the fate which awaited her now.

“Beckett…” he called, making up his mind suddenly. “Put up a change of clothing for me. I am going out of town for a few days.”

“Yes, milord,” said his valet, coming in. “May one inquire where we are going?”

“You are going nowhere,” Harry replied with an odd little smile. “And if anyone asks, you have no idea where I am…”

“Come in, dearest,” Beatrice said, meeting her sister at the door. It was some six days since she had received Olivia’s letter, and her heart was pained by the look of tiredness and near despair in Olivia’s face. Oh, that rogue, Ravensden! He should be hung, drawn and quartered for what he had done. “You look cold, my love. Was the journey very tiresome?”

The road from London to Northampton was good, and could be covered easily enough in a day, but the country roads which led to Abbot Giles were far from ideal. Olivia had travelled down by one of the public coaching routes the previous day, and had been forced to find another conveyance in Northampton to bring her on. All she had been able to hire was an obliging carter, who had offered to take both her and her baggage for the sum of three shillings. A journey which must have shaken her almost rigid! And must also have been terrifying to a girl who had previously travelled in a well-sprung carriage with servants to care for her every whim.

How could the Burtons have sent her all this way alone? Anything might have happened to Olivia. It was as if her adoptive parents had abandoned all care for her along with their responsibility. The very least they might have done was to send her home in a carriage! Their heartlessness made Beatrice boil with anger, but she forced herself to be calm. It did not matter now! Her sister was here and safe, though desperately weary.

“Beatrice…” Olivia’s voice almost broke. Clearly she had been wondering what her reception would be, and Beatrice’s concerned greeting had almost overset her. “I am so very sorry to bring this trouble on you.”

“Trouble? What trouble?” Beatrice asked. “It is with the greatest pleasure that I welcome my sister to this house. We love you, Olivia. You could never be a trouble to me or your family…” She smiled and kissed Olivia’s cheek. “Come and meet Aunt Nan, dearest. Our father is busy at the moment. We try not to disturb him when he is working, but you will meet him later. He has asked me to tell you how pleased he is to have you home again.”

At this the sweet, innocent face of Miss Olivia crumpled, the tears spilling out of her bright blue eyes.

“Oh, how kind you are,” she said, fumbling for her kerchief in the reticule she carried on her wrist. She was fashionably dressed, though her pelisse was sadly splashed with mud, and the three trunks of personal belongings she had brought with her on the carter’s wagon would seem to indicate that the Burtons had not cast her out without a rag to her back. “I know you must think me wicked…or at the very least foolish.”

“I think nothing of the kind,” Beatrice said, leading her into the tiny back parlour, in which a welcoming fire was burning. It was usually not lit until the evening, neither Beatrice nor her aunt having time to sit much during the day, but this was a special occasion, and the logs they were using had been a gift from Jaffrey House, sent down specially by their very wealthy and illustrious neighbour the Earl of Yardley.

The Earl had a daughter named Sophia by his second marriage, of whom Beatrice imagined he was fond. The girl was near Olivia’s own age, and very striking, with black hair and bright eyes. Beatrice knew her of course, though they seldom met in a social way.

Mr Roade did not often entertain, nor did he accept many invitations, but the Earl’s family were seen about the village, and Beatrice was sufficiently well acquainted with Lady Sophia to stop and speak for a few minutes whenever they met. She thought now that it was a pity her father had turned down some of the kind invitations the Earl had sent them over the years. It would have been nice for Olivia to have made a friend of Sophia Cleeve.

“My dear Olivia,” Nan said, bustling in. She was wearing a mob cap over her light brown hair, and a dusting apron protected her serviceable gown. “Forgive me for not being here to greet you. I was upstairs turning out the bedrooms. We have only the one maid, besides the kitchen wench, and it would be unfair to expect poor Lily to do everything herself.”

Olivia looked amazed at the idea of her aunt having been busy working in the bedrooms, then recollected herself, blushed and seemed awkward as she went forward to kiss Nan’s cheek.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I fear I have caused extra work for you.”

“Well, yes, I must admit that you have,” Nan said, never one to hide the truth. “However, I dare say the room needed a good turn-out—it was your mother’s, you know, and has not…”

“Nan doesn’t mean that you are a bother to us,” Beatrice said as she saw her sister’s quick flush. “The room you have been given was our mother’s private sitting-room, not her bedroom—that is where she died, of course, and I felt it might distress you to sleep there.”

“I was about to tell Olivia that,” Nan said. “We’ve been waiting for the bed to arrive—it was ordered from Northampton, but arrived only this morning on the carter’s wagon. Had we not needed to wait, your room would have been ready days ago.”

“It was time we had a new bed,” Beatrice said smoothly, with a quick frown at her aunt. “The one we have in the guest room, which is at the back of the house and depressingly dark, is broken in the struts which support the mattress. It is still there, of course, though since no one ever comes to stay, it does not matter…”

“I see I have caused a great deal of trouble,” Olivia said. “You have been put to considerable expense on my account.”

“Nothing of the sort,” replied Beatrice. “Take off your bonnet and pelisse, dearest. I shall ring for tea—unless you would like to go straight up to your room?”

Olivia looked as if she would dearly like to escape, but forced herself to smile at them.

“Tea would be very nice,” she said. “I have a few guineas left out of the allowance my…Lord Burton made me earlier in the season, but I did not care to waste them on refreshments at the inns we passed. Besides, I was in a hurry to reach you. I shall give you what money I have, Beatrice, and you may use it for expenses as you see fit.”

“Well, as to that, we shall see how we go on,” Beatrice said, and reached for the bell.

It was answered so promptly that she imagined Lily had been hovering outside in the hall—a habit her mistress disliked but not sufficiently to dismiss her. Like Bellows, Lily did not complain if her wages were late, though Beatrice paid the girl herself, and usually on time.

“Tea please, Lily.” She turned to her sister as the maid went out again. “That’s right, dearest, sit by the fire and you will soon feel better. We shall talk properly later. For now, I want you to tell me all the news from London…that is, if you can bear to? We hear so little here, you know, except when neighbours return from a visit to town.”

“You know of course that the Prince was declared Regent earlier this year?” Olivia looked at her doubtfully.

“Yes, dearest. Papa takes The Times. I am aware that trade has been bad, because of Napoleon’s blockade of Europe, and that unemployment is high. I didn’t mean that sort of news…a little gossip perhaps, something that is setting the Ton by its ears?”

Olivia gave a little giggle, her face losing some of its strain.

“Oh, that sort of news…what can I tell you? Oh yes, apart from all the usual scandals, there is something rather exciting going on at the moment…”

She had taken off her outer clothing now, revealing a pretty travelling-gown of green velvet.

“There is a new French modiste in town. She is the protégée of Madame Marie-Anne Coulanges, who was herself once apprenticed to Rose Bertin—who, you must know, was a favourite dressmaker to Queen Marie Antoinette.” Olivia paused for effect. “They say Madame Coulanges was once a friend of Madame Félice’s mama, and that is why she has taken her up—anyway, she presented her to her clients, and Madame Félice has taken the town by storm.”

Beatrice smiled as she saw the glow in her sister’s eyes. Her little ruse had worked, and Olivia had lost her shyness.

“How old is Madame Félice?”

“Oh, not more than two-and-twenty at the most, I would think. She has pretty, pale hair, but she keeps it hidden beneath a rather fetching cap most of the time, and her eyes are a greenish blue. I think she might be beautiful if she dressed in gowns as elegant as those she makes for her clientele, but of course it would not be correct for her to do so. Though no one really knows much about her…she is something of a mystery.”

“How exciting. Tell me, dearest, is she very clever at making gowns?”

“Oh, yes, very. Everyone, simply everyone, is dying to get their hands on at least one of her gowns—but she is particular about who she dresses. Would you believe it? I heard she actually turned down the Marchioness of Rossminster, because she had no style! She will dress only those women she thinks can carry off her fabulous gowns. Of course they are the most beautiful clothes you have ever seen. No one can touch her for elegance and quality.” Olivia dropped her gaze. “She was very nice to me. I have one of her gowns and she was to have made a part of my wedding trousseau…” Her cheeks fired up as she spoke. “I have the gown she made for me in my trunks. I will show it to you later, if you wish?”

“I would like very much to see it,” Beatrice said. “If it is as smart as the one you are wearing…it must be lovely.”

She had been about to say that her sister would have little opportunity to wear her beautiful clothes now, but bit the words back before she was so cruel as to remind Olivia of all that she had lost.

“We shall talk of other things later,” she said. “There is much to talk about, Olivia—but we have time enough.”

“Yes,” Olivia said, losing the sparkle she had gained when telling her sister the news about Madame Félice. “Of course, London is thin of company now. I believe the Regent is to leave London for Brighton at the end of this month…Oh, that is today, isn’t it?”

Her mouth drooped as though she were remembering that she would no longer be a part of the extravagant set that surrounded the Prince Regent and privileged society. However, the arrival of the tea-tray and the delicious cakes that Beatrice had spent the morning baking brought her out of the doldrums a little.

“These are delightful,” she said, choosing from the pretty silver cake-basket and chewing a small, nutty biscuit. “Quite as good as anything I have tasted anywhere.”

“Beatrice made those for you herself,” Nan said. “They are Bosworth Jumbles, but Beatrice adds her own special ingredients to the recipe, which some say was picked up on the battlefield at Bosworth in 1485, hence its name. Your sister will make some lucky gentleman an excellent wife one day.”

“Did you really make them?” Olivia stared at her. “You are so clever. I have never cooked anything in my life.”

“I can teach you if you like, and there is a very good manual by Mrs Rundle, called Domestic Cookery,” Beatrice said. “I know it may seem tedious at first, Olivia, but living in the country has its compensations. We have nut trees and fruit from our own orchards, berries from the kitchen gardens, and we make our own jams and preserves. It can be a rewarding way to pass the time.”

“Yes, of course.” Olivia lifted her head, as though wanting to show she was not above such things. “Yes, I am sure I shall soon settle in…”

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