Jo Beverley (5 page)

“I don't see that there's any ‘of course' about this extraordinary situation.”

“You'll see.” Before Meg could protest that, Susie added, “He treats life like an endless game. Not that he neglects his responsibilities, but he doesn't like to always do the expected. He makes decisions by tossing a coin or rolling dice. He doesn't gamble for high stakes, but he'll use cards and dice to risk other things.”

“Are you certain he shouldn't be in an asylum?”

Susie giggled. “Oh, miss!” But then she sobered. “It's
a true offer, though, and you'd be a fool to turn it down.”

“A fool? To turn down the offer to marry an eccentric, possibly a lunatic, sight unseen?”

“A very rich eccentric.”

Money. The root of all evil, but so very important when one didn't have any. The maid was right. Here was the chance to save her family from disaster—the chance, surely, she had asked for. How silly to sit here quibbling. After all, she had been willing to become Sir Arthur Jakes's mistress to save them all. Could this be any worse? At least she was offered marriage.

She stood. “I will come with you now to meet the earl.”

The maid, however, stayed in her chair. “I'm sorry, miss, but he says not. If you want to do it, you're to turn up at the church tomorrow at eleven o'clock.”

“What church?”

“Whatever your parish church is. I'm to find out.”

“This
is
insane! What possible reason can there be for us not to meet? Unless there is something about him that will repulse me. But then,” she added thoughtfully, “I could refuse to go through with the ceremony. . . .”

“Exactly. I don't know his reasons, miss, except that it's the way he is. He flipped a coin, and it pointed to you. If you don't agree, he'll pick a name of one of the society ladies out of a hat. But if you say you will, then don't go through with it, he'll let his grandmother have her way.”

“Flipped a coin!” But then, was that any worse than making a wish on a risqué statue? “Describe the earl to me.”

“Oh, he's a handsome man, miss. Tall, well built.”

A
strong
maniac.

“And his nature?”

“He's a pleasant enough gentleman. Right charming to the ladies when he's of a mind to be.”

And when he's not? Meg wondered, a little shiver running down her back. “You say he's handsome. Is he dark, pale . . . ?”

The maid wrinkled her brow. “Well, he's sort of yellow, miss.”

“Yellow? You mean blond?”

“Sort of. His skin's darker than most gentlemen's because he loves to sail in the summer and don't have a care to wearing hats. His hair's a darkish kind of blond—from the sun, see—and his eyes are kind of yellow, too. Yellowish brown.”

“Are his teeth yellow, too?” Meg was beginning to think she knew why the earl had trouble finding a bride. This story was perhaps largely a face-saving exercise.

Susie giggled. “No, miss! White and strong and healthy. Are yours? It was one of his things he had to have.”

Meg stared. “Are you supposed to inspect them?”

Susie actually leaned away. “Er . . . no, miss. It was just a comment. He didn't say anything about
your
teeth.”

“So I should hope! He is undoubtedly mad. Tell me the truth. Will I and my family be safe with him?”

“Safe?” The maid's astonishment was reassuring. “Of course you will, miss! Even in his tempers he never touches
people.
”

“His tempers?”

The maid looked as if she wished she'd held her tongue. “Oh, he just flies off the handle now and then and smashes things. But only things.”

Meg sank back into her chair. In a strange way these problems comforted her. If the Earl of Saxonhurst had been a normal gentleman, she would have been more suspicious. Now, despite the maid's attempts to paint a good picture, it was clear that he was a gentleman who had his problems. She could put up with his foibles and thus earn his support of her family.

“I have one condition.”

“A condition, miss?”

Meg knew she was in no position to bargain, but the earl did seem to be in a predicament. “I want Lord Saxonhurst's word that my brothers and sisters will live with me under his roof, and be assisted by him to make their way in life.”

“Oh, I'm sure he would—”

“I'll have it in writing. Wait here.”

Meg went to her father's study—an empty shell now,
stripped of the pictures and books, all sold for what they could raise. His engraved stationery remained, however, for that would bring little. She pulled out a sheet, then realized that the silver standish had gone, and the ink with it. She dug out the stub of a pencil.

She had to sharpen it, and almost cut herself, her hand shook so much. She was mad to consider this; mad not to grab it.

When she sat to write, she had to wait for her nerves to steady. Her writing must look clear and determined.

To the Earl of Saxonhurst,

My lord, I am surprised and honored by your offer of marriage and find that my situation obliges me to give it serious consideration. Before I can come to a final decision, however, I must have your assurance that my two brothers and two sisters will live with us after marriage, that they will be educated as befits their station as ladies and gentlemen, and be provided with modest sums to enable them to proceed in life.

Meg hesitated here, chewing the end of the pencil. She knew what she had to write, but feared to commit herself. With a steadying breath, she continued:

If you can give me that assurance, my lord, I will be at St. Margaret's church at eleven tomorrow and will marry you.

She looked it over, tempted to tear it up. But then she remembered Sir Arthur's designs on Laura.

She had no choice.

On the whole, she told herself, she had escaped quite lightly. The sting in the
sheelagh's
magical solution seemed likely to be bearable. Of course, she still knew little of her future husband, but the maid—Susie—seemed honest, and her sister had been a good person.

They were only servants, however, with no power over a lord.

Her mind was swinging backward and forward like an off-balance pendulum and quite predictably, giving her
a headache. She wished desperately that her parents were here to advise her.

But if they were, none of this would be happening.

Laura,
she reminded herself.

That was the simple, conclusive reason to go through with this.

And she herself would have a home and family. Since men didn't pursue her, she'd pretended not to care, but she had always wanted marriage and children. An eccentric, rather ugly earl was a small price to pay.

Moreover, she reminded herself, if he turned out to be worse than that—foul, drooling, clearly insane—she simply wouldn't say her vows.

Suddenly worried about the legalities of written promises, she picked up her pencil and added,
if we find each other congenial.

There. After another teetering hesitation, she folded the paper, took it downstairs, and gave to the maid.

“He might not reply, miss. He's a devil for keeping to his arrangements.”

It was tempting to back down, but if the earl wasn't going to support and house her siblings, there was no point to this. “If he doesn't reply as I wish, he will have to draw his bride by lot and hope he can persuade her to the altar.”

The maid chuckled. “You are a one. I think you'll do.” She tucked the note in a pocket. “I need your full name, miss. For the license.”

“But I haven't committed myself yet.”

“Just because you have a license doesn't mean you have to use it, and apparently things like that take time.”

Meg was as much reluctant to tell her flowery baptismal names as she was to commit herself. But it couldn't be helped. “Minerva Eithne Gillingham,” she admitted.

“Pretty,” said the beaming maid, and hurried out.

Meg collapsed back into her chair, wondering what on earth she had done.

When Laura and the twins burst in, mid-argument, it was a welcome relief.

“Sit!” Meg shouted. Richard and Rachel fell into chairs at the table, two grubby urchins ready to be fed.
Meg was beginning to think of them as like baby birds, mouths always open.

She cut thick slices of bread, spread them with dripping, then poured boiling water over the old tea leaves and served the weak brew. They ate and drank without complaint, but she knew they couldn't go on like this. And tomorrow Sir Arthur would be back.

With a shiver, she knew she was going to have to marry the eccentric Earl of Saxonhurst, even if he was foul and drooling.

She heaved their iron pot onto the stove, and set the twins to building up the fire with the scrap wood they'd found on their walk. That was the real purpose of their walks these days—foraging. London wasn't like the country, though. Little went to waste, and hundreds sought it. The twins had grown quite clever at finding bits of wood for the daily cooking fire and took pride in it, but they shouldn't have to be thinking of such things at their age.

It was soup for dinner. She'd bought some vegetables—mostly potatoes and cabbage—and the butcher had given her a shinbone. Charity, but she was beyond pride. It would give a little substance to the meal, and the pot would probably stretch until tomorrow, when one way or another, their fate would be sealed.

Bread she always had because her earlier stone-brought suitor now ran his father's bakery. He was married, and to a very pleasant young woman, but perhaps some trace of the magic lingered. Whenever Meg went into the shop, he always had old loaves he needed to get rid of cheap. They always seemed to be remarkably fresh, too.

Even so, Sir Arthur aside, her family couldn't go on like this. They were all thinner, and that couldn't be good for growing children.

The knock on the back door froze her to the spot.

What if
he'd
come in response to her note?

What if he saw her like this and instantly changed his mind? She pushed uselessly at the tendrils of hair straggling over her hot face.

What if he was a monster she simply couldn't endure?

While she hesitated, Richard ran carelessly to open
the door. Susie stepped in, brightly smiling. “All's set!” she announced, pulling out a different piece of paper.

Aware of her fascinated siblings, Meg took it with unsteady hands and broke the crested seal. Smoothing out the sheet she saw the same crest embossed into the heavy paper. The handwriting was a little careless, sloping to the right and with vigorous loops. There was nothing palsied about it, however, or suggestive of a disordered mind. Of course, he had a secretary who might write for him.

She looked at the signature, a boldly scrawled Saxonhurst. Though even more careless, as signatures often were, it was in the same hand as the rest.

My dear Miss Gillingham,

I am delighted that you are inclined to accept my offer of marriage, and happy to assure you that your brothers and sisters will instantly become as my own, to be raised and educated with the same care, and suitably provided for.

À demain,
Saxonhurst.

Meg read it through again, though it was direct enough. It even included a clear recognition of his offer of marriage that she could take to a court of law and use to claim damages. Susie was right. He was a rash man.

But the handwriting soothed her. It had been her observation that handwriting indicated personality, and the earl's showed nothing too terrible. She could handle a rash, impetuous man with eccentric ways. And if he was physically unattractive, she certainly had no right to balk at that.

“Very well,” she said to the maid. “Tomorrow at eleven.”

Susie's smile was blinding. “You won't regret it, Miss Gillingham! You'll have all the servants on your side if he gives you any trouble.”

As the door banged shut, Meg sank into a chair.
Gives me any trouble?
Oh dear . . .

“What's happening at eleven o'clock tomorrow?” Rachel demanded rather shrilly.

How scared the twins were. She'd thought she was doing a better job of hiding the seriousness of the situation.

She called up a bright smile. “I'm getting married.”

They all just stared at her and she laughed, a genuine laugh of relief. Whatever the consequences, they were surely better than the worst. “I'm not mad, sweethearts! I'm getting married. We'll move to a big house. There'll be no more scrimping and saving, and you'll have good food to eat.”

The twins still looked doubtful. “Truly?”

“Truly!”

“But who?” asked Laura, rather pale. “Not . . . not Sir Arthur.”