The Spanish Marriage (12 page)

“Lord, I can’t imagine Aunt Susan would
appreciate that. No, just my uncle. I trust there is a fire in the library,
Platt?” Matlin did not wait for a reply. He pushed Thea gently ahead of
him through the hall and into a large, book-lined room where a fire was, in
fact, burning cheerily. Platt, having given the postboy a few coins and taken
up the scant armful of their belongings, followed them in to the library expectantly.

“The message for my uncle, Platt?” Matlin urged
politely. “And you might ask Mrs. Keynes to have some supper brought to
us here. We’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast.”

“Yes sir.” Important with news and vital
errands, Platt bowed his way out of the room. Thea, watching him, giggled
weakly. Matlin was enjoying it, she thought, playing the prodigal as if it were
the most natural part in the world. She drew near the fire and gazed about her.

“Sit down, for heaven’s sake.” Matlin
pulled a plush upholstered wing chair toward the fire and settled Thea in it,
still playing the role of solicitous, bullying nurse to her. Too aware of the
kindness to resent his condescension, Thea sat mutely, waiting for miracles:
food, water, a bed.

Beyond the fireplace a small writing table stood and on it a
calendar in a polished brass frame. May 10, 1808, it read. Thea realized with a
mild shock that her birthday had passed while they were at sea. She was
nineteen years old now. She turned to tell Matlin, but he was pouring himself a
glass of brandy, his back to her, and somehow it did not seem important.

A bare half an hour later Lord Ocott was admitted to the
house. Thea had lapsed into a light doze by the fire; that at least, had
stilled the grumbling of her empty stomach and given some respite from the
worry which had plagued her all day: How would Lord Ocott and his wife take to
Matlin’s ready-made bride? The voice that boomed in the hallway with a
demand to know what the devil anyone meant by sending insane messages to him at
White’s woke her. She sat up hastily, trying to straighten the hopelessly
rumpled folds of her skirt and jacket.

“Perhaps I should meet him first.” Matlin smiled
briefly at her and left the room.

In the hall Platt was taking his master’s greatcoat
and being as slow in the process as possible in hopes of witnessing the reunion
between Lord Ocott and the lord’s nephew.

“I was in the midst of a fine hand of whist, best hand
I’ve had this twelvemonth, and with Bevan, too, who bets like a fool.
Emergency? Pfaugh.”

“Here I flattered myself you would be pleased to see
me, Uncle,” Matlin broke in with deliberate mildness.

Nevil Ocott spun round to face his nephew; his expression
was unbelieving. He wore an old-fashioned wig, slightly askew, and the sober
coat and immaculate trousers of a young dandy. At the sight of Matlin the
choleric color in his face receded and he went white; his lips quivered as he spoke.
“Douglas?” He stretched a hand to the younger man. “My dear,
dear boy, we thought you were dead.”

“So Platt informed me,” Matlin returned the
clasp of his uncle’s hand, “but I’ve taken you by surprise,
sir. Should you sit for a moment?”

“What kind of damned old woman d’ye think me?
Platt!” He swung around to the footman. “Stop your gawping and
fetch wine to the library at once. Have you eaten, boy?”

“Mrs. Keynes was to send us up some supper. We....”

“My God, boy, where the Hell have you been for the
last year? I had all I could do to keep your cousin Jack from having you
declared dead and taking the baronetcy and your property straight off. If Jack
were a little less the toad he is, I doubt I could have done so.”

“I can well imagine Jack praying daily for my death at
Bonaparte’s hands.”

“Pfaugh, a mingy little fellow who wears pink-striped
waistcoats, your cousin Jack.... Speaking of waistcoats....” He cast a
meaning glance at Matlin’s clothing.

“I know, I know, sir. My first chore tomorrow will be
to find a tailor.”

“I’ve a new man in Jermyn Street. Remind me, I’ll
give you his name. But dammit, boy, you still haven’t told me....”
Lord Ocott turned to push the library door open and proceeded Matlin into the
room. He found himself staring at a slight girl—no, at second glance, a
young woman—dressed in clothes as shabby as Matlin’s own, with dirty fair
hair in mashed clusters about her face and large eyes, darkened by fatigue. She
stood in the center of the room expectantly. Ocott bowed at once. “Excuse
me, my dear, I had no idea.”

Thea looked at Matlin, waiting for an introduction.

“Uncle.” He cleared his throat. “May I
present Dorothea to you? She is....” He cleared his throat a second time.
“She is my wife.”

The mixture of expressions that crossed Lord Ocott’s face
was blessedly indecipherable. After a pause too brief to be considered a pause,
he advanced and took Thea’s hand in his own. “My dear, I am
charmed.”

Thea smiled mistily. “I’m happy to meet you, my
lord, you must forgive me, forgive us, for appearing to you this way, but I am
sure Matlin will explain it all to you. He brought us out of Spain, you see.”

Ocott heard the admiration in her tone and saw the shy
deference in her sideways look at Matlin. It pleased him. “I suspect you
wish me at the Devil, appearing before you’ve had the chance to redd up a
bit. But we’re family now, my dear, and won’t stand on ceremony.
Will you permit me to take some wine with you?”

At his urging Thea was seated again, and the wine was poured.
Healths were drunk and Platt appeared, followed by the kitchen boy bearing
trays of cold chicken, bread, fruit, and a piece of apricot tart. The two
travellers stared at the food as if it were riches, and Thea thought suddenly
of the apricots on which she had supped on Matlin’s first night at the
convent.

Matlin served Thea chicken and fruit before heaping his own
plate high. “We haven’t seen a meal like that in a month,” he
told his uncle. “This poor child has barely eaten anything in a week.”

“Nothing in a week? Good God, boy, what way is that to
treat a new bride?”

“I was ill,” Thea said defensively. “He—my
husband took very good care of me, sir. I’m not a very good sailor, and....”

“You need say no more. I can think of nothing more miserable
than to be ill at sea.” Ocott smiled, satisfied. Plainly, the girl adored
Douglas. “You shall finish your dinner, then Mrs. Keynes will show you to
your room. A hot bath would be welcome, I fancy?” He rang for a footman
and desired that rooms be made ready for his nephew and new niece. “And
tell Mrs. Keynes to find something for Thea to wear. I trust that is agreeable,
my dear?”

“You see my trousseau before you, sir,” Thea
admitted, liking Lord Ocott better every moment.

Satisfied with these domestic details. Lord Ocott turned to
his nephew. “
Now
will you tell me where the deuce you: have been
the past two years?”

Dorothea had finished her food and another cup of tea and had
been instructed to drink a stiff brandy, “Strictly medicinal, my dear,”
by Lord Ocott, and still Matlin had barely reached the middle of his story, his
capture as a supposed spy by the Spanish officials in Malaga. Thea rose stiffly
from her chair.

“My lord, if you will forgive me? Matlin needs no help
with his story, and as you said, a bath would be very welcome. “

Both men were on their feet, and Ocott sent for the housekeeper.
“This is Mrs. Keynes. Ask her for anything you wish. Don’t fear, I
shan’t keep your husband up too late. In the morning you shall meet your
Aunt Susan, hey?”

He took her hand and bowed low over it. Thea turned to face
Matlin, who looked somewhat discomfited and who bid her goodnight with a dry,
distant kindness.

She followed Mrs. Keynes from the room, and the door closed
behind them.

“I must say, Douglas, I’m pleased to see you
showed such good sense. My God, a pretty girl, well-mannered. What’s her
family? Where did you meet her?”

“Her father’s people are Welsh, from Somerset, I
think. Cannowen. Her mother was a Spanish woman, but there’s no love
between Thea and her mother’s people. I know how singular this all
appears, sir; the girl’s only a child....”

Lord Ocott enthused, unhearing. “A wife, by God! A
Spanish bride! What happened to you in Spain? When you left London I had
thought that Adele Frain had turned you against women, and you were for
becoming one of those testy old bachelors who make their own and everyone else’s
lives miserable with their plaints. Good for you! A romance, I gather it was?
Won’t this be a nine-day’s-wonder amongst the
ton.
You and
your new Lady Matlin.” The older man leaned back in his chair, as pleased
as if he had arranged the marriage himself.

“Lady Matlin,” Matlin repeated quizzically. “I
never thought of her that way. We’ve been—that is, it is not the
romance you think it, sir. Dorothea had been stopping at a convent with her
duenna....” Quickly he sketched in Thea’s history and the story of
how they had met. “To give the girl her due, she’s a good
companion, braver than most grown women I know, and clever with it. Twice she
saved my life.”

“And you say there’s no romance? I knew I liked
the look of that girl. I say it will serve very well. When your Aunt Susan has
rigged the girl out and she acquires a little Town Bronze, she’ll be a
Belle herself, damn me if she won’t. High time you set up your nursery....
What’s the girl’s name again?”

“Dorothea. Thea. But sir....” Stricken by the
mention of a nursery, Matlin was suddenly at a loss for words.

His uncle looked at him shrewdly. “You don’t
still nurse a
tendre
for the Frain chit, do you?”

Matlin flushed angrily. “I’ve barely spared
Adele Frain a thought in a year.”

“Just as well.... She married Charlie Towles, you know,
and has been queening it up in her own circle. Thank God Charlie’s too
stupid to realize the May-game she’s been leading him, although I
can’t say whether he actually wears his cuckold’s horns or no. You
had a lucky escape. Now, what can you tell me of Spain and my vineyards?”

Matlin did not try to address the subject of his marriage
again that evening. There would be time in the morning for the awkward
admission he must make. He spoke instead of Spain.

“Frankly, Uncle, I think you’d best write off
your property there as a dead loss, until Bonaparte is beaten back into France,
at least.”

“Into France? Just how deep into Spain is he?”

“The French are ubiquitous, sir. When we last had news,
both the old king, Carlos, and the new, Fernando, were under a protective
arrest at Bayonne; one might as well say Bonaparte has the country in fact, if
not in title.”

“And how do the people feel?”

“The people? Fernando is their idol, a rather
tarnished one, I suspect, but their King. They’re sickening of the French,
sir. All it will take will be one spark to set the country aflame. God knows
what that spark will be.”

Ocott eyed his nephew speculatively. “By God, boy, you’re
a treasure. I’d not even considered it. Tomorrow morning—no,
afternoon, when you’ve had a chance to find some makeshift clothes, you’ll
come with me to the ministry. Strangford and his lot are all very well,
reporting on what happened in Portugal, but we’ve precious little information
these days about Spain. It might,” he added thoughtfully, “make the
beginning of a career for you.”

o0o

Upstairs, in a room that seemed as huge and luxurious as anything
she had ever seen, Thea revelled in the feeling of clean hair, clean skin, the
soft touch of one of Lady Ocott’s silk negligées. Under clean sheets,
soothed by warm food and the draught of brandy Lord Ocott had prescribed for
her, she was genuinely hopeful for the first time in days, with the faith of a
girl of nineteen years. If Lady Ocott could help her to dress nicely, if she
could show Matlin a wife in something other than those black rags, perhaps she
would have a chance with him. He had been kind to her and patient on the boat.
It was a sweet thought.

She was asleep long before Matlin climbed the stairs, and thus
did not hear his footsteps stop outside her door for a moment. He continued to
his dressing room and slept there that night.

Thea was awakened by a soft hand on her shoulder. Light
streamed into the room through filmy curtains; it was obviously late in the
morning. Standing by the bed was a plump, smiling woman in a lavishly laced
morning robe and equally beribboned cap; her face was middle-aged, her hair a
trifle brassily colored, but her smile was so genuinely young and charming that
Thea could not consider her
old.

“I didn’t like to wake you, my lamb, but I
thought perhaps you should not sleep too long past noon,” the woman said.
“No, that makes me out a saint, which I am not. I was bursting to talk
with you. I’m Douglas’s Aunt Susan. We are going to have such a
lovely time together, you and I, to make up for all the unpleasantness you’ve
been through. Thin as a rail, you poor child.... I made Douglas tell me all
about it while I drank my chocolate, and quite uncomfortable he looked, too,
like a bull in a lady’s boudoir. He’s grown quite rustic in Spain,
but I daresay a few weeks in Town and he’ll be as polished as ever he
was. Of course, you never knew Douglas in those old days. Do you like London,
my lamb?”

Overwhelmed, Thea giggled. “Lady Ocott....”

“My dear life, don’t start
that,
or I vow
I shall have to call you Lady Matlin, and we’ll be so proper and serious,
like a pair of old maids in caps!
I
am not the least bit serious, most
of the time, in any case. I daresay you could use a little frivolity. Can’t
you?” With her head cocked to one side in her ridiculous, frothy cap,
Lady Ocott resembled a worried sparrow. “But of course you can,”
she answered herself after a moment. “Douglas would not marry a stiff,
mifty sort of girl. Now, what would you like to do today?”