Authors: Christianna Brand
So her ladyship sat in the little drawing-room with her lover’s hand in hers and asked very prettily if when the time came, it might all be done very quietly; and raised her eyes to the portrait, smiling so tenderly down upon her, and said that for the sake of that dear friend (and he had been little more than a friend, she had been almost a child then — and
his
child, since he had brought her up, almost from babyhood — just a kind father) — for the sake of his memory she would prefer no outward parade of rejoicing…
He was disappointed. ‘I wanted to show my prize to all the world. The Prince himself had promised to be there.’
‘The Prince?’
‘His Royal Highness is my intimate friend. He was the first I went to when I knew I was to be the happiest of men. He was delighted. He has never really cared for—’ He broke off abruptly, bit his lip a little, shrugged it all off. ‘The — er — the lady concerned was from the other set: there are two divisions in our present society, as no doubt you know, those who circle about the court and those who attach themselves to the Prince, who is of course not at present
persona grata
with his papa. So that — well, as I say, he would have undertaken to dance at my wedding; and confided to me, dearest, by the way, that it had been in his mind to send you flowers, but that you appeared so adamant in refusing all acquaintance that he dared not: for the Prince of Wales can hardly afford an open rebuff.’ (Oh lord! reflected the Unattainable, there we went too far!) ‘But he greatly admires you and would be more than happy to give our marriage his blessing.’
An inspiration struck her. ‘Under the — circumstances: since you have now mentioned the other lady — would not a big wedding perhaps prove embarrassing?’
He shrugged again. ‘A little. But as I have said — there are these two divisions in our present society. And my mother, of course, would wish it to be a great occasion.’
His mother! They had not, naturally, counted on interference from such a quarter; a man picked up a mistress without reference to his mama, but a daughter-in-law of course was different. Suppose the Countess of Tregaron were to be more scrupulous than her son in taking up references! ‘Could we not,’ suggested Gilda timidly, ‘slip away by our two selves anyway — why?’ He smiled at her fondly. ‘Are you ashamed?’
‘What — wed in secret? How could this be possible? — though it’s true that my family are at present abroad. But anyway — why?’ He smiled at her fondly. ‘Are you ashamed of your bargain?’
A little ashamed, perhaps — though not as he meant it. And a little ashamed, also, of what she must do now. For the look in his eyes had been a prompting: there might be more ways of killing a cat than by filling it up with cream, but this cat looked very hungry for cream. Her life had been planned as the exploitation of her physical beauty and passion, for gain, and now the first step in that direction must be taken. She got up slowly and moved away a little and hung her head and drooped an adorable lower lip — so that he must as a matter of course, jump up and follow her, come close to her, catch at her hands and ask her what was the matter, did she really care so much to have their marriage kept private, did it mean such a lot to her…? And she, with her hands in his, bent her head till the bright hair brushed his lips and murmured that life was so sad and lonely, she had stood so long alone and undefended, it had been so wonderful that soon, soon, he would be always with her, she need no longer struggle on her own… But now…‘All this fuss and preparation — how long will it not take? Weeks and months — you’re a man, my lord, you don’t think of these things, but a great wedding can’t be all arranged in the twinkling of an eye: I know for I’ve been through one already.’ And on that occasion the bridegroom had at least — at least been anxious to have things hurried forward… (Lest he die of old age, meantime, thought Gilda to herself, glancing up, all heaven in her eyes, at the portrait of the unknown octogenarian above the mantelshelf.)
‘Do you think
I’m
not anxious? If I could marry you tomorrow—’
‘Ah, but you can’t marry me tomorrow. Your lady mother, the Tregaron family, his Royal Highness, all the rest of your world, my lord — they won’t let you. So that, though you and I may wish it, we, though we’re the principals, must wait.’ And meanwhile, she added, giving in with a pretty grace, moving away from him, slipping her hands out of his, he must release her hand, she was a woman alone, it was not
comme il faut
that he should come so close; she didn’t know what her duenna would say. And she’d be right to say it. Once they were married, of course—
He came after her, caught her to him again. ‘Damn your duenna—!’
‘With all my heart,’ she said, almost laughing, looking up at him with a look very different from the look of pure maidenly love she had given the portrait. ‘But as I say, after all she would be in the right.’ And she gave him a little push, the palms of her hands against his breast. ‘So let me go now, or I must call her in — for propriety’s sake.’ And she hung her head again and forced a blush — which came with a somewhat disconcerting ease, when she felt herself so close to him — and murmured that they did not want a repetition of — of what had happened when — when first he had kissed her…
His left arm held her fast, his right forced back her head till her mouth touched his, lip to lip. ‘We’ll be married tomorrow, next day, whenever you will. No one shall know. It shall be just as you say. Only never again, for God’s sake, refuse me your kisses…’ And his lips fastened down upon hers and triumph for a moment struggled with shame, and she thought: What an actress I am, what a sham it all is! And then it was a sham no longer, there came again that leaping flame, that wild surge of excitement, her hands grasped his coat sleeves, she strained herself to him, gave her mouth to his, was lost — lost to all but the thrilling pain of his arms so fierce and hard about her, his mouth so mercilessly pressing down on hers; his face looming above her, gone so strange and pale. When at last he let her go, she leaned trembling against a chair while he flung across the room and cooled his burning forehead on the chill glass of the window pane. He said: ‘I’ll ride to Wales tomorrow. I must arrange things there. But I’ll be back within the week. Meanwhile — I’ll arrange a marriage licence. Today is Monday. Next Monday: will that do?’
She answered, too shaken inwardly for further triumph, humbly: ‘Monday? Yes, my lord.’
‘Say nothing to anyone. If the secret gets out, we’re lost. Can you trust your servants?’
‘My servants? — oh, yes, certainly.’
‘To deflect suspicion, let your household here continue a little while, let your servants continue to say you are indisposed. That will throw any enquirers off the scent. Meanwhile, once married we’ll go straight down to Carmarthenshire.’
She was stricken out of acquiescence. ‘To Wales?’
‘We shall hardly keep our secret by setting up home in the family house in Hanover Square.’
‘I suppose not,’ she said doubtfully. Once they were married, did it matter to her that the secret be kept at all? But then again, was not the whole thing too overwhelming altogether? It would be best to have time on her side. He said, rather edgily: ‘You seem not over eager to come to Castell Cothi. But after all, this is to be your home.’
She pulled herself together. ‘You must make allowance for me. I am but an urban creature, used only to cities. And—’ She affected a rueful laughter, turning it all back upon herself, a deprecatory little joke. ‘I can’t help thinking of my duenna, as you call her. She will rot away in — I mean, she’ll be quite lost, without the familiar link lights and cobble-stones of town.’
‘She’ll be necessary here. You can’t leave the business in the hands of your cook and your footman; if your woman shows herself, then none will doubt that you are really sick a-bed. I’ll bring back a Welsh girl to attend you to Wales.’
‘A Welsh girl?’
‘Welsh girls are what we
have
in Wales,’ he said, again with a sharp touch to his voice. But he controlled himself. ‘Have no fear, the girl I think of is accustomed to this work, my sister employed her for some time.’ He appeared to consider the matter as settled — and she dared not argue further. ‘We’ll be married as early as the priest is astir and, by using six horses, may lie that night at Cheltenham.’
‘At Cheltenham? Drive off a hundred miles or more without so much as a wedding breakfast?’
‘It was you who didn’t wish for a wedding breakfast.’
‘I have no objection to eating one myself,’ she said crossly.
‘We needn’t go hungry; but by cutting short such ceremony we may reach Castell Cothi by the second night.’ He looked at her, astonished. ‘Does this plan not appeal to you? It was you that wished so much for discretion.’
‘Discretion, yes. But not to creep out of bed, waken up some unshaven cleric to couple us up; and then rattle away in a carriage to Cheltenham.’ What use, she had said to the family, a great fortune if they were not to enjoy the spending of it? — and what sort of start to the spending of it was this? ‘Is that your notion of a wedding day, my lord?’ He began to speak but she overrode him; despair and frustration raged within her, the Marchesa Marigelda acting outrage became Miss Marigold Brown in a genuine temper. ‘Why not fly to the Fleet outright, where some unfrocked wretch may mumble our lines for a guinea and hustle us off? A fine marriage, I declare: and I in my servant’s sac, I daresay, the better to disguise my identity? — creeping out of town as though I were — as though I were—’ But she remembered what in fact she was and, with all her indignation and despair, was hard put to it to prevent herself from bursting into laughter. A muffled sound, hastily hushed, from behind the door, reminded her that the footmen doubtless had their ears pressed against it, reporting all that went forward to the rest of the family, hanging over the banisters; and probably in much the same half-hysterical condition as herself.
Lord Tregaron stood staring at her in dismay. ‘But — it’s you who wished for discretion; and in my case — as in your case, for I think you little know how much talked about you are — discretion must involve absolute secrecy, or be useless.’ He stood, indecisive. ‘For my part I care nothing of the how or the where or who’s present or who is absent — so that you marry me as soon as may be.’ He came to her, holding out his hand. ‘Come, tell me what it is you wish and it shall be as you say.’
‘I wish nothing. A respectable church, a decent hour of the day, at least to wear my own gown—’
“Who suggested anything different? — be reasonable!”
‘—and not to go jolting off like an escaping criminal to Cheltenham.’ Let the newly coroneted head, she thought, at least lie one night upon the pillows of the mansion in town: by the time she returned to London, it was too likely that the truth would be out and she a pensioner on her husband’s bounty, doled out because, she being his countess before all the world, he could do no less. ‘Let the marriage be arranged for Monday evening — if you wish it so. I will sleep that night in Hanover Square and come with you next day to Carmarthenshire.’ She had retreated to the cool emotion of the Unattainable, standing quiet and composed in the doorway, not taking his outstretched hand. It was, after all, for the Marchesa to make her own terms.
His hand dropped to his side. He bowed. ‘As your ladyship commands.’
‘You ride back to Wales tomorrow then?’
‘And shall return by Monday.’
She was a little alarmed at the chill in his tone, afraid lest she had gone too far, betrayed herself perhaps, in the frankness of her outburst. She threw a new warmth into her voice. ‘Not before then?’
He bowed again. ‘You have warned me that until we are married I must — keep my distance.’
‘But needn’t do so literally?’ she suggested, smiling.
‘If I am to do the one, I had better do the other also,’ he said, still coldly.
She left the door and came to him and stood close against him, not touching him, her hands behind her back: and lifted up her face to his. ‘Perhaps you’re wise. We are — neither of us — so strong that we should take foolish chances.’ And as he remained stony-faced, braced back from her, she came closer, leant upon his breast but still with her hands behind her back, not touching him; and put her lips against his lips and whispered: ‘But let us take just one more foolish chance, to say goodbye…’
And he caught her in his arms and held her close; and she knew, with a triumph tinged with shame, that there was a magic strong in her, that henceforward would work her will with him.
Upon the Wednesday evening after his departure a man came to the door, a messenger: a hard, brown, sturdy man, his Welsh accent so thick as hardly to be understood. He wore a sort of jerkin of natural coloured frieze, buttoned to the waist over trousers of the same rough wool, and a round black beaver hat: and he carried a vast bouquet of red roses. ‘From the Earl of Tregaron.’ He pushed them somewhat unceremoniously into the footman’s arms.
James took the flowers. ‘Is his lordship back in town?’
‘No, no: sent up from Wales. I rode up from Castell Cothi; just arrived now.’
‘Will you see my mistress? Have you any message for her?’
‘No, no,’ he said again. He shrugged. ‘He’s well. No trouble on the ride down. And to give her a package and tell her he returns on Sunday. And he said that if I had any trouble with the Gentry on the way up here, I should tell the lady’s page. Well, and so, inform the young gentleman that I did. Waylaid by Y Cadno himself of whom it seems he spoke to the boy.’ He laughed. ‘I played him a trick after Y Cadno’s own heart: feigned fear, let my eye and hand wander, as though in particular anxiety, to a certain saddle-bag, and at last contrived to slip it free and cast it into a thorn bush, as though to come back for it later, when he should have gone. And he, mightily amused, let it all go forward and then dismounted and made for the thorn bush. So when I had him in a fine tangle, caught up in the thorn bush and reaching for the bag — which by the way contained a change of stockings and little more — I set spurs to my pony; pausing only to deliver him a load of buckshot which I think did him some injury. And so am able to deliver the package to the lady.’ He handed it over, a small, hard, wrapped box, grinned broadly, biffed her ladyship’s footman jovially in his fine plush ribs by way of farewell, and ambled off. So, thought James, is my lovely sister to be waited upon in the future! Still, in Aston-sub-Edge she had not been waited upon at all; and one way or another, they would soon have her back from Wales.