‘We have done well, have we not, John?’ She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled up at him.
‘We are perfectly matched, I think,’ he agreed.
‘In that case, Mr Savidge,’ she said, pouting, ‘I think it most disagreeable that you have not kissed me this age.’
‘That is easily remedied.’
He proceeded to rectify his omission, to their mutual satisfaction, and it was some time before he returned home to discuss the events of the past few hours with his father. His betrothed, meanwhile, made her way upstairs to her aunt’s bedchamber, where the two women indulged in a comfortable coze which lasted until well after midnight. Then, feeling that quite enough had been accomplished for one day, Lydia fell into bed and into her customary deep, dreamless sleep.
Summer was at its last prayers, but managed an almost miraculous renaissance for the wedding of Miss Lydia Bramwell to Mr John Savidge. The little church was filled with the usual assembly of well-wishers, ill-wishers, and those who wished only to see and be seen. So much had transpired over the past months, that a mere wedding seemed almost insignificant in the scheme of things. Nevertheless, it represented a blessed return to the ordinary and a brief moment of gaiety and pleasure before the bleak days of autumn and winter obliterated the last of the summer roses.
Among the guests was the newly married Comte and Comtesse d’Almain, fresh from their bridal trip to the Lake District - a highly suitable corner of England for so romantic a couple. For the moment they remained at the bride’s cottage, though there was already some talk that they might soon be moving nearer to town. Many eyes were upon them during the ceremony, though they had eyes for none but each other.
The bride’s sister, Miss Louisa Bramwell, was there, tricked out in the very latest of London fashions, which every lady present examined with a mixture of envy and a careful catalog of each tiny detail which they might copy to embellish their own country wardrobe. Attached to Miss Bramwell’s arm was her fiancé, Sir Reginald Pevensey, a dignified-looking man who must once have been quite handsome in his way. His manners were universally pleasing, though less charitable persons were inclined to dismiss him as a nincompoop. However, his future bride was clearly enamored - if not of his person, at least of his wealth and title - and was eager to show off her ‘dearest Reggie’ to all and sundry. She would doubtless be as happy in their union as she had any right to expect.
Lydia was especially delighted to be once more united with her parents. It was the last time they would behold her as a spinster, and she detected an uncharacteristic mistiness in her father’s eyes. Mama’s expression was one of almost beatific rapture. With her youngest daughter married, and the eldest only months away from that state of ultimate felicity and security, she had fulfilled every mother’s fondest dream.
Even John’s father had forgotten his earlier reservations concerning his son’s match. In fact, he could not have been more contented with the way that everything had turned out. Lydia might have seemed an unimpressive catch at first. However, the elevation of her relations had increased her own worth immeasurably in his eyes. Indeed, from that time on, Mr Savidge never mentioned his daughter-in-law to anyone - be they intimate friend or perfect stranger - without also taking pains to describe her sister, Lady Louisa, and her dear aunt, the Comtesse d’Almain! He had high hopes that his grandchildren would attain the loftiest of heights, quite eclipsing their humble parentage.
He had even expended a considerable amount of blunt in procuring for his offspring a wedding present beyond anything they could have imagined - - or desired. Sir Hector’s American relations, the new owners of Bellefleur, were not interested in cumbersome English estates, and had been eager to part with the property at an absurdly low price. Three days before their wedding, he placed the deeds in John’s hands.
There was little that either John or Lydia could do but accept such a generous offer. Many of their acquaintance felt that they displayed a deplorable lack of sensibility in seeking to inhabit an aristocratic home far above the station to which they had been born. Then too, there was the fact that at least one person had been murdered there. Who could tell what supernatural baggage might encumber their new home and disturb their domestic tranquillity?
Of course, neither party cared a fig for such nonsense. John looked forward to enclosing some of the land in order to breed racehorses. Lydia expected to enjoy running a large household, and made a mental resolution to read — or at least attempt to read - every book in Bellefleur’s vast library.
As for Sir Hector’s famous treasure, it had by now been identified by those who were familiar with such antiquities as perhaps the oldest extant copy of the Gospel of Saint John. There was some argument in regard to the precise date, as there always is in such cases, but the general consensus was that it was certainly no later than the beginning of the second century.
And so Lydia’s season in Sussex had consequences beyond anything she could possibly have imagined. Who could blame her for the feeling of pride and self-satisfaction which filled her breast as she settled into the carriage beside her new husband and they pulled away from the inn that evening, to cheers and waves from their family and friends?
‘Well, Mrs Savidge,’ John quizzed her gently, ‘you have had an extraordinary season, have you not?’
‘I certainly have had smugglers and murderers and husbands enough for any young lady!’ she retorted.
‘You are content with your lot, then?’
‘Reasonably so.’
‘What would you add to your desiderata?’ he enquired. ‘Another murder, perhaps?’
‘Or another husband ...’ she suggested saucily.
‘I’m afraid you will have to make do with me.’
She heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Very well then. It will have to be another murder.’
‘I have heard of a very suspicious death in Hampshire,’ he said, raising one eyebrow suggestively.
‘Truly?’ She was intrigued in spite of herself. ‘That is not very much out of our way, is it?’
He laughed and pressed her close to his side. ‘I am very sorry, my dear,’ he told her, ‘but I refuse to spend the first few weeks of my married life hunting for a killer in Hampshire!’
‘What better way to spend it?’ she objected.
‘I can think of several things I would much prefer to be doing with my new wife,’ he admitted.
‘What sort of things?’
‘That,’ he said mysteriously, ‘is something which you will soon discover for yourself! I can only assure you that it will be much more pleasant, and I trust will put all thoughts of murder out of your head.’
The two Misses Digweed, watching the carriage carrying the newlyweds disappear in the distance, shook their heads and muttered their own cryptic comments, which they did not hesitate to impart to Mrs Wardle-Penfield.
‘Most imprudent match,’ said the eldest.
‘So well-suited,’ the younger added eagerly.
‘A regular hoyden.’
‘Charming girl.’
‘It cannot last.’
‘Delightful couple.’
‘A pair of simpletons.’
‘So clever!’
‘Well, they’ll rub along tolerably.’
‘So they will.’
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
I,
the author of the preceding opus,
do hereby dedicate
this poor bagatelle
to Raymond and Mebane
for your support and encouragement
to starving artists
of the romantic kind
(Notably myself)
Copyright © 2006 by Beth Andrews
Originally published by Robert Hale [UK] (ISBN 978-0709081098)
Electronically published in 2013 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.