Forced Offer (6 page)

"I'll stay in my room, thank you," said Presleigh picking up a newspaper he had found in the hall. "Have you any idea what it is to be glared at by those people out there? They remind me of the horrible blood-thirsty throngs in the French revolution."

"They'll be glaring with jealous rage very soon," said Mrs. Presleigh smugly, "when they hear that Belinda has snatched the catch of several Seasons right from under their noses."`

Presleigh shook his head and with a long sigh retired to his bedroom where he sunk himself in ship arrivals and the news from the front.

"Mama, I cannot marry him," Belinda gasped, her face pale and drawn. "He is convinced you and I plotted this—he is certain we trapped him—he 
hates 
me!"

"Love and hate," said Mrs. Presleigh, with unusual insight, they are as opposite as night and day, and yet night and day are constantly melding into each other."

Belinda stared at her hands as her mother, putting her arm around her shoulders, sat beside her.

"Lord Berrington has opened a door for us, my dear," pressed her mother. "It is the only chance we will ever have of regaining our rightful place in society. You cannot begrudge us that, Belinda. I know that had Rosselle lived…"

Belinda looked into her mother's eyes. She may be conniving and abnormally obsessed with regaining her social status, she thought sadly, but she was still her mother.

Tears now streamed down Mrs. Presleigh's powdered cheeks, forming shiny trails down to her chin as she pressed her face to Belinda's. "You must do what's right for your parents, my dear," she pressed.

Belinda did not answer, but instead looked over her mother's shoulder at the vast void that was her life before her.

She realized she had spent her life either in the woods by herself or reading in the library. She had lived in Roselle's shadow even after Roselle died and had been compared to Roselle every day of her life and had been found wanting.

But now, for the first time in her life she alone would make a decision as to her future—and that of Berrington's.

* * * * *

"Belinda, my dear," said Mrs. Presleigh to her daughter, as she adjusted the ribbons at her bodice, "you must remember what you promised. I have an idea Lord Berrington might try to act overbearing toward you, and try to trick you into admitting what all these nasty people keep repeating, that there was a plot afoot to force him to marry you. You must not answer to any of that, no matter how many times he should repeat it. Lord knows his conduct is such he will try to wriggle free of the consequences.

"Just remember, that whatever the reason was for you and him to be locked in the cellar, the result of it is that you spent the night together—and that's that. He has already agreed to propose marriage to you, as he is honor bound to do so. Simply say yes—no explanations on your part are necessary."

Belinda nodded absently, feeling her body numbing at the fearful meeting with Lord Berrington that was fast approaching.

"You must be firm, though, and remember your parents," pressed Mrs. Presleigh, "for you are doing this for us. You have only to say yes when he proposes to you, that is all."

"Are you listening to me, Belinda?" added Mrs. Presleigh when Belinda said nothing.

"Yes, Mama, I am listening."

"I often wonder if you are listening, you know. You must not act thus with Lord Berrington, for it is very irritating to be constantly wresting words from you."

"You hold your parents' future in your hands," her mother added at the door, looking deep into her eyes. "You will remember that?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, go on now to the library."

* * * * *

"Come in," Lord Berrington said to the soft knock at the library door. And when Belinda merely opened it a crack, he went up and opened the door wide, allowing her inside. He then closed the door and went to stand by the window.

Uncertain at what to do, Belinda waited in the middle of the large library awaiting a sign from him. Should she sit down?

Lord Berrington turned back from the window and came to stand before her.

"Please sit down, Miss Presleigh," he said, and when she was seated he sat on a chair immediately before her.

For a few moments he said nothing, while Belinda waited with arrested breath, her eyes unable to meet his.

"We find ourselves in a highly unusual situation, Miss Presleigh," he began. "I am sure it is as uncomfortable to you as it is to me. I have spoken to your father and he has given me leave to address you." He waited for any reaction to his words.

"Yes," she finally said.

"Before I continue, though," he went on, "I must know for certain that you have not been coerced into a decision; that is, that whichever answer you give me is given of your own free will."

"Yes," she said in the pause that followed.

"The answer you give will be of your own free will?"

Belinda looked into his eyes and winced. She was a stranger to him still, and as such was he thus gazing at her. Yet for six years 
he
 
had not been a stranger to her.

For a few moments there was unbearable suspense and she could see that he hoped against hope she would decline his offer—an offer he was being forced to make.

Still gazing at her as one gazes at a stranger, Lord Berrington sighed and then said in an almost lifeless voice:

"Miss Presleigh, will you do me the honor of accepting my offer of marriage?"

There was a long silence while Lord Berrington waited for her to answer.

Belinda did not think of her mother and her obsession with social status. She did not think of the scandal whirling about them. She thought of none of these things, for everything outside of this room where she was with Berrington disappeared, was blacked out as with a sudden inky night. She saw instead the barren years that lay ahead for her, and a realization of the love that she had for this man, this man who viewed her as a stranger, hit her full force. She would 
always
 
love him, she was certain of it. She was not the kind of person, she knew, who could accommodate several loves in a lifetime. To her only Berrington existed. After him no one else would.

She knew she was unable to resist the offer of being connected to him in name for the rest of her life. He might choose to live apart from her, yet she would 
always
 
have a connection to him. The alternative was that she would never again see him. And death would be a kinder choice for her then.

She realized that Berrington was expecting her to decline. He had made the offer merely as a formality so that she would not lose face, as she had been compromised.

Something in his expression told her clearly that he considered marriage to her impossibility.

Taking a deep breath Belinda looked into his eyes.

"I am honored with your offer of marriage, my lord. I accept."

Chapter 6

In the silence of St. George's Cathedral, the clergyman's voice rang out unnaturally high, and to Belinda's ear, hurtfully strident.

"Do you, Richard Branston, Earl of Berrington, Baron D'Estel, take this woman, Belinda Presleigh, of Hunsley Manor, as your lawfully wedded wife, to love and honor until death do you part?"

They called it becoming leg-shackled, thought Berrington, feeling a choking sensation in his throat, but they were wrong, he felt the shackles around his neck, so tight that he had trouble breathing. He knew these shackles would be with him for the rest of his life. The thought now made his chin tremble with suppressed rage.

"My lord—" The clergyman's voice was worried, apologetic. He looked up at Berrington expectantly, as a long silence hung heavy on the pale staring faces of the few wedding guests who had been able to attend with a few days' notice. Everyone seemed to be holding their breaths.

Belinda, waited, feeling numb. For the first time in the days that had followed she realized the enormity of what she had done and felt the full weight of it on her mind. She now realized that however idealized her image of Berrington and the love she had for him, 
he 
would never come to feel for her a fraction of what she felt for him. She was bathed in humiliation by his long pause and felt an embarrassment for which there was no description. He obviously despised the thought of marriage to her and could not even bring himself to utter the words.

She now wished he would say no. The embarrassment of being jilted would be nothing compared to that awful hesitation, that long pause in which everyone looked at each other, some with smirks of “I told you so,” some almost laughing. The pause told her clearly, as clearly as if Berrington had shouted it, that he would resent her for the rest of her life.

Belinda felt the sting of tears in her eyes as she realized she could not now undo what she had done.

The awful deed had come to roost in her heart.

Finally, Lord Berrington's voice rang out—loud, impatient, and clear.

"I do."

* * * * *

In the stillness of the opulent carriage, Belinda felt like an interloper as she leaned against luxurious squabs inside a carriage where she felt she had no right to be.

Avoiding the unsmiling, averted face of Lord Berrington who sat before her, she turned to view the drenching rain and lowering dark clouds.

She stared at the raindrops splashing on the window and realized that her life had now become a nightmare from which she was not allowed to wake.

Not a word was spoken in the carriage during the five hours that it took to reach the first village, where they would spend the night and continue on the journey to Winterhill.

After a few minutes of stony silence Berrington had taken out some newspapers and given his attention to these for the larger part of the trip.

Belinda, feeling in enemy ground, kept herself from falling asleep by recalling poems she had memorized or the plots of novels she had read. She would not lie there asleep, helpless before him, so that he could view her with cold contempt at his leisure.

For the next two hours she managed to keep her mind blank as she stared out the window, keeping away from thoughts about the life that awaited her at Winterhill.

Lord Berrington continued asleep and Belinda's mind wandered to her last day in London.

"It is incredible that Lord Berrington refuses to speak to me," her mother had said excitedly. "He and that unpleasant sister-in-law of his, Flora Liston, made all arrangements for the wedding without the slightest need to consult me, and communicated only through your father.

"He seemed to want the business over and done with and as rapidly as possible—"

"I wanted it that way too, Mama," Belinda interrupted. "I'm glad he was able to get a special license. All London was gossiping about us. I'm also glad we are leaving the city, for I don't think I can bear one more loud whisper as I go by or any more angry glares from all those people."

"Umm, well, I suppose that may be his reason," answered Mrs. Presleigh. "But how can you excuse the fact that I was not consulted about anything? Why, that woman didn't even feel a need to discuss your wedding gown, of all things. I would have thought that at least in 
that
…everything done at the speed of lightning and without even as much as a by-your-leave."

"I didn't care what gown I wore, Mama," said Belinda, remembering the dreadful gown Flora had chosen for her. It had hung loose on her body and was of so heavy a material and so lavishly embroidered with pearls and appliqués that it had tired her the few hours she had worn it.

She intended never to set eyes on that gown again, and shuddered as she recalled the awful wedding breakfast.

Thankfully, Berrington had whisked her out of the place after one excruciatingly embarrassing hour.

"But he allowed that woman Flora to oversee everything, and made certain I was excluded," her mother still protested.

Flora Liston was already on her way back to Winterhill. Belinda and Lord Berrington, however, were to spend another day in London while Berrington took care of some unfinished business.

And rather than take her to his large townhouse, he had arranged for her to spend their first wedding day and night in the company of her parents. He would collect her the following day, he had told her in the few words he had addressed to her during the wedding breakfast.

Most of his time there had been spent speaking to the wedding guests, many of whom had come up to wish him well. Dozens more guests had been able to attend the breakfast than had the ceremony and Belinda had felt her face flushed as she had been ushered into the salon amid a sea of probing faces that stared at her as though with their eyes they would tear her apart.

"In time Lord Berrington will thaw in his feelings toward you, Mama, I am hopeful of that," she said sadly, although she hardly believed it herself.

"Ah…well, I 
am 
his mother-in-law, my dear; he will eventually realize he cannot escape that fact," said Mrs. Presleigh contentedly, and her mind darting to something else, she added,

"You must call your husband either Richard or Berrington, Belinda." She now began to check Belinda's portmanteau. "It is your privilege, for you are now his countess."

Belinda winced at these words. She was quite certain she would never be able to call him that. However, she merely nodded, while Mrs. Presleigh had then embarked on a subject that made Belinda blush to her ears.

"Minnie," she had said to her abigail, "I need to talk to Belinda alone. Go check to see if the laundress has her handkerchiefs ready."

"Yes, ma'am," said the amiable Minnie.

"Now, Belinda, I must speak to you about your first wedding night with Lord Berrington…" she began when they were alone.

"Mama, I would rather not…" said Belinda, a tremor in her voice.

"Now, there is no need to panic," Mrs. Presleigh assured her daughter. "It will be an ordeal of only a few minutes and then it will be over. When Lord Berrington approaches you in the bed, close your eyes tight and think of a place other than where you are—think of that place you like to go wandering off by yourself back home. Pretend you are 
there
, rather than on the bed."

"Why?"

"Because that way it won't hurt as much…"

"Mama," said Belinda with wide eyes, for she was still a complete innocent, "
what 
will hurt?"

"What he is going to do to you, my dear," said her mother. "Never mind, for it will not last long," she added hurriedly on seeing the look of horror in Belinda's eyes. "Men have great pleasure in these things—more so with light skirts than with wives, of course— but women must just put up with the whole unpleasant business. Unfortunately, it is the only means of getting children. Once the appropriate number of children is achieved, though, they then turn to their other women and leave you at peace."

"Mama—I would rather not talk about this anymore. It's making me sick."

During the flurry of hurried preparations for the wedding, Belinda had gone through everything as in a trance, allowing herself to be led here and there without protest. Lord Berrington's sister-in-law, Flora, who had not smiled at Belinda once, and had spoken the bare minimum to her, had taken charge of everything and made all the decisions without once asking Belinda for her opinion, not even in the choice of wedding gown. Belinda had blanked her mind to all but the immediate present, so that on being reminded now that there was to be a contact between Lord Berrington and herself on their first night together panic now came to her in choking waves. She had again that sensation of her lungs being filled with water.

Belinda's information concerning relations between men and women came from books of poems. Embraces she read about in these pages were intensely romantic occurrences and kisses were as light as the touch of dew. Pain often stealed through these love scenes, but only as the pain wrought from separation or from a faithless love.

But this pain her mother had spoken about—it was a physical pain she meant, a pain that had nothing to do with the idealized version of love Belinda had.

Belinda pressed her hands to her temples and wondered if she even had the capacity to withstand the horror that her life had now become.

There was to be no honeymoon, and for that Belinda was thankful, for she couldn't imagine what she and Lord Berrington would find to talk about if forced to each other’s company during an extended length of time. It was enough that the journey to Winterhill was to be done in three days, stopping in inns along the way, for it could not be done any faster.

"Yes, dear," said her mother, cutting into her uneasy thoughts, "I think it is best not to talk about it. In any case, men don't want their brides to be too knowledgeable about the subject, it makes them suspect they might have experience."

"Mama—"

"Alright, I shall not speak anymore about it. Ring for Minnie then so she can finish with your packing."

* * * * *

Belinda, lost in her thoughts, looked out the window of the Blue Teal Inn, a large, well-run establishment on the Northampton Road, and at the activity of coaches arriving and departing. She was brought back from her reverie by the voice of her new abigail, a lady's maid Flora Berrington had engaged for her in her usual peremptory manner.

But Belinda liked the girl, who was young and as inexperienced in everything as she was and looked at her admiringly.

"My lady," said Bessie, holding a light blue nightgown in one arm and a white one on the other, "which would you prefer?"

"The white one, I think," said Belinda without enthusiasm, and choosing it merely because the other was too revealing.

She had gone through a silent meal with her husband; his inscrutable brown eyes as shut to her as if they had been closed. He had been cordial on their arrival at the inn, though, and attentive, if in a distant way, as if he were speaking lines on the stage at a theater, but like his sister-in-law, spoke the bare minimum to her. His sister-in-law, however, had not even bothered to be cordial.

And after forcing herself to swallow a few bites of the meal which stuck in her throat like straw, she had excused herself from the table and gone up to her room.

After helping her out of her clothes and into the nightgown, Bessie asked her if she would like her hair unbraided. Belinda nodded absently, her mind becoming increasingly uneasy as she recalled her mother's words in relation to what was to happen this night.

"It's a nice color, mum," said Bessie enthusiastically, as she undid the single thick braid at the back of Belinda's head and brushed it vigorously, "like dark honey. I wonder you don't arrange it in a style that shows it off more."

"Because it doesn't curl, Bessie," answered Belinda. "It's as straight and thick as a horse's mane." She repeated her mother’s description of her hair.

"But pretty—look mum, see yourself in the looking glass."

Bessie led Belinda to the wardrobe mirror and Belinda looked at herself with little interest, merely to please Bessie, whom she was beginning to like a lot. She looked at her thin face with masses of heavy hair all around it and grimaced.

"No, Bessie, it looks—wanton, all loose that way. Please, braid it again as it was."

"Yes, my lady," said Bessie disappointed and proceeded to do was she was told. Then brightening she said:

"Some other time, my lady, I could perhaps show you some styles my cousin Alice showed me. They take a lot of time to do, of course. My cousin worked with Lady Serelia of Taverling Hall, and Lady Serelia, mum, she had that famous stylist in London do her hair—a Monsieur Debrec."

"Yes, some other time," smiled Belinda kindly on the talkative Bessie, "I will let you experiment on it, although I can't assure you you will have any luck with it. My mother gave up on my hair long ago. She decided that it was much better braided and out of the way than to have to wrestle with it. You see, it's so heavy it can't even be curled with paper curlers. And around my face it makes my face look even thinner."