The Chadwick Ring (5 page)

She gazed at the flickering fire in the hearth as she asked quietly, “Are you saying then that everything will be well if I marry Lord Chadwick?”

Sir Charles nodded. “The Glovers have always been as proud as Lucifer. Family is all-important to them. The man would never let his wife’s kin come to grief.”

Ginevra sighed, still not looking at her father. She wondered if she would ever be able to look at him again. But despite his betrayal, she knew where her duty lay. “Then I really have no choice, do I?”

Lord Chadwick was lounging negligently on the settee, leafing through a small volume, when Ginevra returned alone to the drawing room. For a moment she stood in the doorway, watching the way the candlelight played on his dark curls. Her husband ... She shivered. He glanced up, and with one fluid, unbroken movement he uncrossed his long legs and stood erect, waiting until she perched nervously on the opposite end of the sofa before he sat down again. When Ginevra remained mute, he passed the book to her and noted in his deep voice, “Your maid brought this in while you were closeted with your father. I can see he is still lax about your reading material, or does he really believe that
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman
is suitable for a girl of your tender years?”

Ginevra bridled at his superior tone. “As I told you once, I read whatever I like, and I like Mary Wollstonecraft. She was a great woman.”

“A notorious one, you mean,” he drawled. “She was the mother of two bastards, and now her daughters seem bent on emulating her. Their affairs with Byron and Shelley have become so flagrant that they have shocked even the
ton
, no mean accomplishment. The whole ménage is expected to flee for the Continent momentarily.”

Ginevra’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the slim book, blushing at his mockery. She stammered, “I ... I am not certain that ... that what you say detracts from the sense of her words. I have learned much from her.”

“Indeed? You mean you wish to learn a trade, venture out into the world and compete with men without allowance for your feminine frailty? What occupation would you pursue, Ginevra? Something physical, a stonecutter, perhaps, or do you think you would prefer—”

“Stop it!” Ginevra cried, tears springing into her eyes at his sarcasm. “You have no right—”

“I have every right,” he said implacably, “and I think perhaps that after we are married I shall have to monitor your reading habits.” He saw the sudden stricken look in her wet eyes. “For we are going to be married, aren’t we?”

“Yes, my lord,” she choked, looking away.

He caught her chin between his fingertips and turned her face back toward his. Her small jaw trembled in his hand, and her golden lashes vibrated against her cheeks. Chadwick’s stern expression softened slightly. “Is the idea so very appalling, little Ginnie?”

She gnawed at her lip. “It will take some getting used to, my lord.”

His fingers dropped away from her face, and he caught her left hand. “Then here,” he said roughly, “perhaps this will help accustom you to your fate.” As he shoved the heavy betrothal ring over her knuckle to the place where it had rested for more than a year, he rasped, “Don’t ever try to take off the ring again, Ginevra. It signifies that you are mine, and what I have, I keep.”

Ginevra outstretched her fingers to stare at the gems flashing coldly in the firelight. The ornate gold hoop, a Chadwick heirloom for over a century, was a posy ring whose stones—lapiz lazuli, opal, verd antique, emerald, malachite—spelled out the simple but poignant plea:
Love Me.
The band and its message seemed to weigh down Ginevra’s slender hand. She thought: In all the time I wore it for Tom, it never felt the way it does now, like a shackle...

She was not aware that she had spoken aloud until Chadwick exclaimed irritably, “Ginevra, this so-called shackle that you despise is one that a considerable number of women have sought from me.”

Ginevra glared at him. “I’m sure they have,” she snapped, her spirit reviving, “and I’ll wager that by rights you owed it to most of them, too!”

When she realized what she had said, her cheeks reddened furiously, and she bowed her head, waiting for him to retaliate. But once again the marquess surprised her. Instead of striking back for her rash words, he studied her flushed face and asked seriously, “Tell me, child, do you resent the life I’ve led?”

Slowly she shook her head. “No, my lord. I ... I take many things amiss, but not that. Your past life is nothing to me.”

“How very tolerant of you,” he drawled. He took her hand in his and began to toy with the ring, tracing the carving with his fingernail, as he asked. “Ginevra, will you explain to me, please, what it is exactly that troubles you about our marriage? Do you object to me personally? If so, I think that, given time, I could change your opinion of me.” His voice became somber. “Or is it because I am Tom’s father? True, that cannot be altered, but my poor boy is gone now and will not be hurt by anything we might do.” He smiled again and kissed her fingertips one by one. The touch of his lips startled her, shooting hot tremors along her arm. When he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss into her palm, she gasped.

He was teasing her, charming her, and when he repeated his question, she wrinkled her pale brow and answered reluctantly, lest she spoil their momentary rapport. She said thoughtfully, “I think what disturbs me most about our marriage is the way I have been used in this arrangement, as ... as security for a bad debt. I know I am not the first girl to ransom her family’s good name in this manner, yet I feel demeaned by it.”

Chadwick shook his head. “No, Ginevra,” he said urgently, “you must not think that way. You are not responsible for your father’s malfeasance. I assure you that I regard you with the utmost respect.”

Ginevra studied the marquess’s face. He was a very handsome man, she conceded with a sigh, and when he was in this unfamiliar, almost tender mood, he seemed younger and well-nigh irresistible. No wonder the London ladies doted on him.

She ventured, “My lord, may I ask a question of you?”

“Of course, Ginevra. Anything.”

“I was wondering...” She hesitated before proceeding awkwardly, “We both know why I have accepted your proposal, but ... but why did you extend it in the first place? This I do not understand at all. You have admitted that you could have your pick of any woman you want, so why marry me? I do not believe that Dowerwood is so important to you. You are a wealthy man, and the prospect of acquiring one small property, no matter how lovely, can hardly be enough to sway you. Therefore, what do you gain by marrying me?”

Chadwick stared at Ginevra, and a shuttered look fell over him. The merry, teasing light died out of his blue eyes, leaving them dark and impenetrable, and he dropped her hand. Ginevra sensed his withdrawal, and she shrank back, hurt and bewildered by his abrupt change of mood. Ridicule dripped from Chadwick’s voice as he ran his eyes insolently over her slight figure and jeered in an undertone, “What shall I get? Are you so utterly innocent that you don’t know? I find that hard to believe.” He watched the color drain from her face, and he mocked, “Of course you know, Ginevra, you’ve known all along. I’ll get you. Don’t you think that will be enough?”

3

Ginevra huddled in the window seat, saying good-bye to her home. She was clad only in her chemise and white silk stockings, but the half-open draperies shielded her from prying eyes as she gazed down at the garden glowing in the sparkling morning light. Through the open window she could smell the rich, heady scent of musk roses wafting upward on the warm June breeze. She sighed wistfully. She had always loved the way her bedroom overlooked the garden. In high summer the chamber was redolent with the essence of the flowers, and she used to lie awake in the perfumed darkness, weaving her girlish fantasies of adventure and love everlasting ... Now she had spent her last night in this room, it was hers no longer. The wardrobe was empty, its door ajar, and the dressing table looked strangely alien wiped bare of the girlish bric-a-brac she had collected over the years: a seashell from Bournemouth; a desiccated camellia tied with white ribbon, relic from the wedding of the vicar’s daughter... Her possessions had been carefully packed into chests and bandboxes and even now were waiting downstairs in the boxroom, to be loaded after the ceremony onto the baggage coach Lord Chadwick sent. All that remained of Ginevra’s in the room where she had spent most of her life were her daffodil-colored going-away outfit spread on the bed—and the wedding gown itself.

Behind her Emma said gently, “Miss Ginevra, it’s time to dress.”

Reluctantly the girl rose from her perch at the window and went to the maid, who was removing the gown reverently from its wrappings. When she raised her arms to help Emma slip the dress over her head, the slide of cool silk against her bare skin made Ginevra feel as if she were donning a mantle of ice. While Emma fastened the row of tiny buttons up the back, Ginevra regarded her reflection dispassionately in the long mirror. It was a beautiful dress, she admitted, certainly no one could deny that. Her father, giddy with relief that his financial worries were over at last, had sent to a fashionable London dressmaker, demanding that she spare no expense in providing his daughter with a bridal outfit that would “rival that of Princess Charlotte herself.” The couturiere responded admirably, not so much because of Sir Charles’s orders as because she realized the advantages inherent in dressing the future Marchioness of Chadwick, and the resultant gown was a miracle of restrained elegance, rich without overwhelming the young bride it adorned. It was made of white silk patent net over an underslip of ivory
mousse une de soie,
with a very high waist and a low square-cut neckline that revealed the soft swell of her breasts. The bodice and hem were heavily embroidered with ivory silk and seed pearls, and the pattern was repeated more lightly on the short puffed sleeves. “
C’est un petit reve d’une robe
,”
Madame Annette—nee Annie Brodie of Ipswich—declared, and Ginevra agreed: it was a dream of a dress—for a nightmare.

Emma’s skillful fingers had shaped Ginevra’s dark gold curls into a heavy coiled chignon at her nape, and her bare throat seemed very pale and defenseless, its vulnerability emphasized by the ivory miniature of her mother that she wore on a white velvet ribbon, her only ornament except for the Chadwick ring. Silently Ginevra watched in the cheval glass as Emma stood behind her and pinned an ankle-length veil of Brussels lace onto her hair with a fragrant coronet of orange blossoms and white roses. When she drew the veil down over her eyes, her vision became obscured by the tiny flowers powdering the lace. It’s like looking through snowflakes. Ginevra shivered. A snowstorm in June. No wonder I feel so cold.

Emma handed Ginevra her long white gloves and her prayerbook, and Ginevra noticed that tucked inside the front leaf of the book was a spring of rosemary. She regarded it quizzically. Emma said, “Cook sent that up for you, Miss Ginevra. It’s for luck. She said we mustn’t neglect the old ways.”

Ginevra smiled then, her first real smile in days. “That was kind of Cook. I’ll have to go down and thank her.”

Emma shook her head. ‘There isn’t time now. But we’ll all be there at the church. She’ll see it then.”

“Of course.” Ginevra turned away. At the door she halted suddenly and stammered, “Emma, I ... I don’t think I can...”

Even through the veil the other woman could see that Ginevra’s honey-colored eyes were shimmering. Swiftly she gathered the girl to her bosom. “Hush, Ginnie, hush,” she crooned as she searched her mind frantically for words that would still, the trembling of the slim body in her arms. “Everything will be well, you’ll see. Think ... think how proud your dear mother would be, to see her daughter looking so beautiful and about to be married to a fine lord.”

For a moment Emma wondered if she had said the wrong thing, but then Ginevra pulled away from her and said stiltedly, “Of course, you’re quite right This is what she longed for.” She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin with a defiant, almost regal air—an effect she promptly spoiled by sniffing inelegantly. Her eyes widened and she squealed in distress, “Oh, Emma, quickly, where is my handkerchief? My nose is ... is going to...” Clumsy seconds ensued while Emma tried to breach the barrier of the long veil to pass Ginevra a scrap of embroidered linen. By the time disaster was narrowly averted, both women were giggling mirthfully, and Emma offered up a silent prayer of thanks that Ginevra’s lachrymose mood had passed. With an encouraging smile she ushered the girl out of the room to meet her waiting father.

The village church was small and undistinguished, but its squat exterior of weathered native limestone was softened and given dignity by the magnificent twin willow trees that grew on either side of the entrance. As Ginevra’s father handed her down from the carriage, she surveyed the mossy facade with affection. Although in recent years she had had little time to attend services, she loved the old church. Her mother was buried in the churchyard alongside the almost forgotten baby brother who had lived just long enough to be christened, and Ginevra knew that she would miss the comforting presence of those graves when she worshiped in London. She supposed that she and Lord Chadwick would occasionally go to church in Town, probably some grand cathedral like St. Paul’s. He did say that religion was currently fashionable among the aristocracy.

Ginevra was touched to note that the yard was full of people of all ages, decked out in varying degrees of “Sunday best,” and most of them sported white flowers in their buttonholes, bridal favors in her honor. They were the villagers, many of them her father’s tenants, and she had been their mistress since she was twelve years old. She had played with their children when she was little, and later while still only a child she had taken over her ailing mother’s duties of nurturing and caring for them in time of sickness or want. At least one of the toddlers skipping among the-gravestones was a baby Ginevra had helped deliver when the midwife was ill. Now they had come to pay tribute to their Miss Ginevra as she made a great marriage to a rich and powerful lord, and they shook their heads in wonder to think that the little girl with yellow pigtails who had once had the run of their cottages was now about to become a marchioness, next best thing to a duchess.

When Ginevra and her father reached the door of the church, the congregation was already assembled. The sexton gave a signal, and the vicar’s wife began pumping out the processional hymn on the wheezy reed organ whose dissonance had been the bane of the parish for decades. As Ginevra lingered in the vestibule, anticipating the moment when she and her father would start down the aisle, she wondered suddenly what Lord Chadwick’s first wedding had been like. She knew so little about him, about his life before he disrupted her own. Probably then a great choir had sung anthems by Bach or Handel, and his lady had come to him preceded by a dozen bridesmaids. Ginevra had no attendants. Her closest friend was Emma, but she was sensible that the older woman would have been mortified by any suggestion that she be maid of honor. So Emma stood at the back of the church with the other servants, smiling tenderly, while Ginevra clung to her father’s arm and slowly made her way to the altar and the stranger who waited there for her.

White patterns of lace floated before her eyes, shimmering as she walked, blurring her vision and imparting a fantastic aura to the scene. Two men loomed before her: the vicar in his snowy surplice, and Lord Chadwick, dark and impeccable in a grey tailcoat, a single perfect ruby ornamenting his intricately tied cravat. Ginevra thought dazedly: This isn’t happening, it’s a dream, a chimera. Soon Emma will waken me, and I’ll be in my own room again, all these apparitions will vanish ...

But the familiar voice of the vicar cut through the comforting mist, and Ginevra’s father mumbled something and slipped away from her, patting her arm awkwardly as he retreated. Lean, strong fingers grasped her hand and guided her forward to kneel at the altar. She would not look up at him. As they settled onto the worn cushions that had served generations of parish couples, she kept her eyes trained on his hands, the long and powerful digits that curled firmly around her small ones, directing her movements as easily as he would control those of a skittish filly. Somewhere over her head she heard his deep voice respond clearly to the vicar’s exhortations. In turn she murmured her own replies softly, tonelessly, and when the time came, she slipped the white glove from her left hand and let him take her pale, work-roughened fingers in his brown ones again. “With this ring...” she heard Lord Chadwick say, and he touched the tip of her thumb with a wide gold band that was warm with his body heat. “In the name of the Father...” He moved it to her index finger. “... and of the Son...” Middle finger ... and of the Holy Ghost.” Now he was slipping the band down over the knuckle of her ring finger, to the place where it would remain forever. “Amen,” he said, and his hand tightened possessively over hers.

He rose from his knees in one lithe movement, drawing her up after him. She still kept her eyes resolutely downcast until she heard him mutter in a commanding undertone, “Look at me, Ginevra.” Slowly, shyly, she peeked up through her lashes, and as she did he lifted the lace veil away from her face, and she could see him clearly for the first time. The sheltering mist vanished from her mind as if burned away by the fire leaping in his eyes, and their gazes locked, jewel-bright, blue and gold. She stood mesmerized, unconscious of anything but the man towering over her, until one corner of his stern mouth twitched and he murmured, “Well, little Ginnie?” And sliding his large hands around her slender neck so that his fingertips caressed her nape and his thumbs traced the delicate line of her jaw, he bent to kiss her.

To her surprise his mouth was firm yet gentle, urging rather than demanding her response, and as her lips began to move under his in this, her first kiss, she quivered, stunned by the unsuspected sensations he was arousing in her. By the time he raised his head she was breathless, her face flushed with wonder, and, oddly reluctant to break contact, quite involuntarily she reached up her hand to stroke the hard line of his mouth. Someone in the congregation suddenly sobbed with pent-up emotion. Chadwick, wryly aware of the enrapt eyes concentrated on them, caught Ginevra’s fingertips in his own and kissed them lightly before tucking her arm under his. “Later, my love,” he whispered as the reedy organ gasped out the opening chord of the recessional, and Ginevra’s astonished delight at the endearment was tempered by the knowledge that his voice sounded amused and somehow triumphant.

When the Chadwick coach finally climbed out of the lambent Kennet Valley and crossed southward into the shady forests of Hampshire, Ginevra gratefully pulled back the russet leather curtain from the window to allow the cool breeze to fill the interior of the carriage and play over her flushed cheeks. She peered out the window behind to see if she could catch a glimpse of the baggage coach that followed with Emma, the marquess’s valet, and the luggage. When she did not see it, she settled against the cushion with a sigh, and beside her her husband asked solicitously, “Are you weary, my dear?”

She turned to smile from beneath the stiff brim of her hat. “I am a little tired, my lord, but mostly I am overwarm.”

“Of course you are,” he agreed, although he seemed personally unaffected by the heat. “This afternoon is exceptionally sultry. Why don’t you remove that very fetching bonnet and rest awhile? We still have two or more hours to travel before we reach Queenshaven.” Even as he spoke he began loosening the jaunty yellow bow tied just under Ginevra’s left ear, and with a moue of relief she massaged her nape and smoothed the damp honey-toned tendrils that had escaped from her heavy chignon. Before he set it on the seat opposite them, Lord Chadwick perused the bonnet, a confection of lacy woven straw and sun-colored ribbons. “My compliments to your milliner,” he said with the air of a connoisseur. “Is this French? Never tell me it was crafted by some village seamstress!”

Ginevra shrugged. “No, of course not. It came from London. Papa contracted with a woman called Madame Annette to provide my wedding dress and trousseau. I don’t know anything about her, but Papa says her designs are quite the thing among the
ton
.”

“Papa has extravagant tastes,” Chadwick muttered under his breath, thinking of the sizable accounts he himself had settled with Annette over the years. Her establishment in the Burlington Arcade was a favored shopping place for certain fashionable ladies who had come under his protection in the past. Ah, well, the couturiere was a shrewd businesswoman who realized she was valued as much for her discretion as for her style. He continued aloud, “Your father chose your dressmaker well, Ginevra. You looked ... quite breathtaking in your gown this morning.” He watched a hint of pink wash her cheekbones, like the blush on a cream-colored rose petal. “I hope your wedding was everything you desired.”

Acutely aware of his gaze, Ginevra schooled her expressive features with an effort and answered too quickly, “Of course it was, my lord.” She twisted around on the seat and peered through the window at a flock of freshly shorn sheep browsing in a clearing beside the road. Curly lambs frolicked among the older animals, who looked naked and defenseless deprived of their heavy winter coats. One fat ewe lifted her head and stared stupidly at the passing coach.

“Ginevra,” the marquess said, and reluctantly she turned to him. “I detect a certain reserve in your enthusiasm,” he chided, his blue eyes probing her face. “Tell me, my dear, for I do sincerely want this day to be all you ever dreamed of.”

Ginevra lowered her lashes and frowned down at her rings, toying with them as if to ease the unaccustomed weight. She pondered her reply. “I was not ... disappointed with the wedding ceremony,” she said at last, deliberately overlooking the fact that throughout most of the service she had felt like a puppet, a lay figure acting out a part for someone else. Only the kiss had been real. “And ... and I did enjoy the breakfast afterward. Cook quite surpassed herself, I’ve never seen such a feast before. But...” Her voice died away, and she bit the soft underside of her lip.