Tallie's Knight (9 page)

“Lord d’Arenville?”

She’d entered the
room so silently that Magnus was caught unaware. He stared, mesmerised, at the
red-rimmed eyes which failed to meet his, the drooping mouth and the woebegone
little face, and it was as if he could hear every choking sob again. With an
effort, he gathered himself and began to speak, feeling dishonest and
uncomfortable as he did so.

“Miss Robinson, I
gather from my cousin that you are under the mistaken impression that I off—”

“Lord d’Arenville, I
accept your offer of marriage,” she said at the same time.

There was a long,
tense moment of silence in the room.

What happens now? Wondered
Magnus. In all honour, he could not continue with his reluctant pretence that
he had made no offer. There was no need —she had accepted him. So that was it.
An offer had been made and was accepted. The rest was inevitable. Irrevocable.
Ironic, that. She could call the wedding off, but there was no question that he
could do the same. Lord d’Arenville was to wed Miss Thalia Robinson. Thalia
Robinson, who looked more like a martyr going to the stake than a blushing
bride.

The realisation was
like a kick in the teeth. Until this moment he’d half believed that Laetitia
was mistaken in saying the girl was going to refuse him. But this miserably
bleak acceptance of his offer had convinced him as a thousand explanations
could not.

It could not be said
that Thalia Robinson actually preferred poverty to himself, but it would be
clear to a blind man that it was a damned close race. The girl might be going
to her execution, the face she was wearing. Magnus stared at the downcast face,
the red-tipped nose, the resolute chin and the trembling lips and felt his
anger rising. It had clearly taken a great deal of anguish and resolution for
her to decide between abject poverty —or marriage to Lord d’Arenville.

Starvation and misery
—or Lord d’Arenville!

The gutter —or Lord d’Arenville!

And finally, by a
nose, or a whisker, or a hair’s breadth, Lord d’Arenville had won. Lucky Lord d’Arenville!

Lord d’Arenville was
furious. He could not trust himself to speak another word to her. He bowed
stiffly, turned and stalked out of the room. Tallie watched him leave, blinking
in surprise.

“Magnus, what—?”
Laetitia was standing in the hallway, speaking to the vicar. Her voice died as
she saw the look on his face.

“You may wish me
happy!” he snapped.

“What?”

“She has accepted me.”
He broke his whip in half and flung the pieces into a corner.

“Oh, Magnus, how
dreadf—”

“I am ecstatic.” he
snarled. “The wedding will be in three weeks’ time. Make all the arrangements. Spare
no expense.” He laughed, a harsh, dry laugh. “Nothing is too good for my bride!”
He noticed the vicar, standing there, jaw agape and added, “You, there —Parson.
Call the banns, if you please. I will return in three weeks for the ceremony.”

He stormed out of the
door and headed for the stables. Laetitia trailed after him, pleading with him
to slow down, to explain, but to no avail. Lord d’Arenville mounted his horse,
and with no warning, no preparations and no baggage, set off for d’Arenville
Hall, a good two days’ journey away.

“Blast and bother!” Tallie
glared at her reflection. She’d brought a mirror up from one of the salons and
propped it against the wall. It told her what she had already suspected —that
she was the worst seamstress in the world and that her wedding dress looked
like a dog’s breakfast.

She tugged at the
recalcitrant sleeves, pulling them this way and that in an effort to make them
appear balanced. It was hopeless. One sleeve puffed beautifully whilst the
other, which should have been an exact twin, sagged and drooped. She’d put the
sleeve in and taken it out a half-dozen times and still it looked uneven —and
slightly grubby from all the handling.

Tallie had no idea
what arrangements had been made for her wedding.

She’d tried several
times to speak to her cousin, but Laetitia was still furious and had ordered
Tallie to keep out of her sight or she would not be answerable for the
consequences.

No one, not the servants,
Laetitia nor Lord d’Arenville, had seemed to recall that the bride had not a
penny to her name. Hopefully someone would remember the bride needed a suitable
gown, but as the dreaded day grew closer Tallie decided she had better make
alternative arrangements —just in case.

The attics contained
dozens of trunks and bandboxes, filled with old dresses and ball gowns
relegated there over the years. She and the children had rummaged through them
frequently, searching for dress-up materials. Tallie had found a lovely pale
amber silk ball gown hopelessly outmoded, with wide panniers and yards of ruching,
but with enough good material left, when it was unpicked, to make a wedding
frock. Using one of her old dresses as a pattern, she had cut and sewn it
laboriously, wishing she had been more diligent in Miss Fisher’s sewing class.

In another trunk she
had found an almost new pair of blue kid slippers, which only pinched her feet
a little, and a stained pair of long white satin gloves. The stains were
impossible to remove, so she’d dipped the gloves in coffee until they almost
exactly matched the amber silk.

She smiled at her
reflection and pirouetted several times. It was not so bad after all. Oh, the
neckline was a trifle crooked, to be sure, but Tallie was convinced only the
most critical would notice it. And if the gathers she had made at the back were
slightly uneven, what did that signify? It was only obvious when she was
motionless, so she would be sure to keep moving, and if she had to stand still
for any reason she would keep her back to a wall.

She examined her
reflection in the mirror again as she tugged on the long satin gloves. She had
never worn anything so fine in her life.

She frowned at the
sleeves. A shawl! She realised in a sudden flash of brilliance. Laetitia’s
spangled gauze scarf would hide the sleeves!

It was not precisely
a bridal mode, but perhaps observers would think it a new fashion. After all,
she was wedding a man well-known for his elegance. Tallie’s mouth grew dry as
she stared at her reflection.

She was not just
wedding a man, she was wedding The Icicle. Tomorrow morning. And afterwards he
would take her away from the children she loved so much —the only living
creatures in the world who loved her.

Tomorrow she would
belong only to him, swear before God and witnesses to love, honour and obey
him. A man she barely knew and certainly didn’t like. A cold man, who was famed
for caring nothing for the feelings of others. Who wanted a wife he need not
dance attendance on, a wife he could get with child and then abandon in rural
fastness while he enjoyed himself in London, awaiting the birth of his heir.
Tallie shivered. What did it mean, get with child? She knew women bore children,
of course, but how it came about she had no idea.

She’d lived virtually
her entire life in Miss Fisher’s Seminary for the Daughters of Gentlemen, and
the subject had certainly never been on that prim spinster’s curriculum.

It had, however, been
a subject of much speculation and whispering in the dormitories. But none of
the various theories put forward by the Daughters of Gentlemen had convinced
Tallie that any of her schoolfellows were more enlightened than she on the
subject. Some had insisted that women carried a baby around in their stomach,
for instance. Well, if that was so —how did they get the baby out? Cut it out?
Vomit it?

In any case, how did
a baby get in there in the first place? The man planted a seed in the woman? A
seed? Babies didn’t grow from seeds!

They did, Amanda
Forrest had said. Her mother had told her so. Well, how did they plant the seed
—swallow it? Tallie suspected it was an old wives’ tale —like that which said
if you swallowed pumpkin seeds, pumpkin vines would grow out of your ears.
Tallie had proven that one wrong by eating more than twenty pumpkin seeds —no
hint of a vine had appeared from her ears, though she’d been a little anxious
for a week or two!

No, Amanda hadn’t
been sure how the seed was planted, but it was much the same as animals did,
she believed. Tallie had scoffed at that one —animals planting seeds?
Ridiculous.

One girl, Emmaline
Pearce, had spoken ghoulishly of wedding nights and blood and screaming, but
everyone had known Emmaline Pearce was a shockingly untruthful girl who made up
all sorts of deliciously scary tales. Miss Fisher had forever been punishing
her for it.

Get with child.
Surely she had the right to be told how it was done.

Had her mother lived,
she could have explained, but all Tallie’s mother had left her was a few
letters. And possibly —But there was no time to think on that. She had a
wedding night to worry about first.

Tallie decided to ask
Mrs. Wilmot. She sought her out in the linen room and, with much beating around
the bush, blurted out her question.

“Lord love you, Miss
Tallie.” The housekeeper blushed. “I’m not the one you should ask about such
matters. I’ve never been wed, my dear.”

“But—”

“All housekeepers are
called Missus, dearie, whether they’re wed or not. But Wilmot is my maiden
name.” She patted Tallie on the hand. “You go ask your cousin, miss. She’ll set
you right.”

The kindness shone so
warmly from the elderly housekeeper’s face that Tallie didn’t have the heart to
explain how very hostile Laetitia was.

Then she thought of
the scullery maid, Maud, who was, according to rumour, no better than she ought
to be. Surely Maud would know. But when Tallie asked her, Maud shrieked with
laughter, tossed her apron over her face and ran from the room giggling,
leaving Tallie red to the ears.

Finally she decided
to approach her cousin about it.

Laetitia took one
look at Tallie’s blushing embarrassment, and snapped impatiently, “Oh, God
deliver me from pulling virgins! Don’t look so mealy-mouthed, girl —I’ll tell
you all you need to know about your wedding night.”

She pulled Tallie
down beside her and whispered detailed instructions in her ear. After a moment
she sat back and pushed Tallie away.

Horrified, but too
mortified to ask questions, Tallie turned to leave, but as she reached the door
Laetitia hissed after her, “Be sure you do not disgrace my cousin or your
family. Remember, a lady endures it in silence —without moving or flinching. Do
you hear me, girl?” She turned back to her mirror, a knowing smile on her face.

They were the last
words Laetitia spoke to her, and the more she thought about them, the more
nervous Tallie became. Endure it? What was it? Endurance sounded most
unpleasant. And in silence. Why would she wish to cry out? Or flinch. It
sounded painful. She thought briefly of Emmaline Pearce, then shook her head.

“Miss, miss, he’s
arrived!” Lucy, the maid, put her head around the door, her face lit with
excitement.

“Your betrothed, miss
—Lord d’Arenville— he’s here!”

Tallie’s heart seemed
to stop for a moment, and then began to beat in double time. He was here. She
would be able to speak to him, then —about Italy— before the wedding. It was
what she had been hoping for. In the three weeks since he had galloped off so
in temperately she’d kicked herself often for not having sorted out everything
to her satisfaction. She had to speak with him, get the whole thing settled before
the wedding, for afterwards there would be little likelihood of him agreeing to
the demands of a woman who’d sworn in church to obey him.

“I must see him at
once.” Tallie started towards the door.

“Oh, miss, miss, you
can’t! It’s bad luck, no matter how eager you are to see your handsome
gentleman again!” Lucy beamed in fond indulgence.

The entire household
had reacted to the news of Tallie’s wedding as if it was a fairy tale come true
for her, and Tallie found she didn’t have the heart to disillusion them.

“Bad luck? Why?”

Lucy gestured to
Tallie’s gown.

“For the groom to see
the bride in her wedding dress, o’course.” She looked more closely at the
wedding dress, and, frowning, reached out to tug one sleeve into place.

“Are you sure of this?”

“Oh, never mind that,”
said Tallie.

“I’ll change my
dress, Lucy, since you say it’s so important, but will you please take a
message to Lord d’Arenville and tell him I must speak to him as soon as
possible? In private.”

Realising she was to
be Cupid’s Messenger, Lucy beamed and said dramatically, “Of course I will,
Miss Tallie. I’ll go straight away, and before you know it you’ll be reunited
once more with Your Beloved.”

She sailed from the
room.

Tallie giggled. Her
Beloved? She giggled again, trying to imagine The Icicle involved in anything
so human as a romantic assignation. It was simply not possible.

Having told the
irritatingly coy maidservant he would meet Miss Robinson in the summerhouse in
twenty minutes, Magnus found himself wondering why the girl wanted to speak to
him so urgently. Something to do with her wedding finery, no doubt. He allowed
himself a faint, cynical smile and felt in his pocket for the long oblong
package. He was well ahead of her.

Magnus had ridden
away from his last interview with his bride-to-be in a white-hot rage. He was
still angry, but his rage had cooled to an icy implacability. Thalia Robinson
would have to learn her place. If she wanted to be treated as a bride would
wish to be treated, she had better tread very lightly around him until she’d
earned his forgiveness. He frowned and felt the package. He must make his motives
for this gift very clear to her. He would not wish her to misunderstand him.