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Authors: Madeleine Conway

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“It can be annulled.” Marchmont held her close and kissed her forehead. “It is a muddle, but we shall come about, never doubt it. Now, off you go and start your packing. We must leave for London the day after tomorrow.”
“Papa, what shall we tell people?”
“We will claim a long-standing, private betrothal, made when you were in your cradles. It is now formalized. Do you think that will wash?”
“With the world, perhaps. I will see what Mademoiselle says. If she is prepared to accept it, the rest of our friends will. But there is one thing, Papa.”
“What, child?”
“Please, do not play at piquet again.”
At this request, Marchmont was filled with remorse. He looked once again into the wondrous eyes of his child, so like her mother's, and spoke. “Dearest Cecilia, my gaming days are done.”
As Cecilia climbed the stairs back to the nursery, it was as though a thick mist had fallen, obscuring her future entirely. Fairy stories and novels ended in marriage and the promise of living happily ever after, but the union of happy lovers was surely meant to follow the adventures, not precede them. It had always been her intention to have many adventures. She had imagined herself boarding ship for Africa or distant Cathay, taking to camels in sandy Araby, dancing with dervishes, sledging in the deep snows of the Russian winter. Marriage had never figured large in her imagination. She turned as she reached the top of the stairs and gazed at the painted ceiling and walls, alive with nymphs and winds and gods and soldiers. She sat on the top step, remembering Ormiston's visit. He had seemed to frown perpetually, his being given over either to scorn or sulks, his nose and chin pimpled, his mien glowering. But there was no other course open; the marriage must proceed.
Reggie and Amelia emerged from the nursery door. Amelia sat beside her sister and took her hand.
“Are you in terrible trouble, Ceci?” she whispered.
“I'm not in trouble at all, my darling. None of us are. It is just that Papa has told me I am to be married, so you see that is no great tragedy at all.”
“Married!” Reginald paled a little. “Does that mean that you shall leave us and live somewhere far away? I had rather he had found out all about the cricket ball and the greenhouse than you should go away.”
“There is no need to confess to any such misdemeanour. There is no need for any commotion at all, my dears, for I shall simply go to London with Papa and return by the week's end. You will not remember the man who is to be my husband, but he came and visited us quite five years ago. Papa and his father, Lord Dacre, must have settled it then, but forgot, and now they want it all carried out quick as may be before Ormiston—that is the son of Lord Dacre—goes away for a good long while to Europe.”
“You will not go with him to Europe?” Reginald continued to sound a little nervous.
“I should like nothing better than to go to Europe and see such things as we have read of in the library, but it is felt that I am too young just yet, and the next time Lord Ormiston goes away, I may accompany him. But that won't be for years and years yet, and by then, you shall both be quite grown up and going on your own travels.”
The task of appearing matter-of-fact before her brother and sister gave Cecilia courage for her next interrogation with Mademoiselle. But while the Frenchwoman cultivated in herself and her female charges an appearance of calm compliance, she was shrewd and intensely practical.
“I think your papa would have had something to say to me regarding the matter of this long-standing betrothal,
ma puce
.”
“I would have thought so, too, but he told me he had quite forgotten it, as had his friend, Dacre. It was only Ormiston's imminent departure for Europe that brought it to mind again.”
“For me, it seems heathen that you should be married to a boy you scarcely know. It is a custom that was outmoded when I was a girl in France. Still, if you do not object, who am I to protest? At least you will not be removed from the family just yet. It is just as I have always said, my child. Men govern our lives, and we have no recourse against their judgements and decisions. It is barbarous.”
“You have been reading
A Vindication of the Rights of Women
again.”
“You, my child, would do well to make it an object of study instead of those foolish novels you love so. But now we must inspect your wardrobe. It is an age since you had any new clothes, but there must be something suitable for you to be married in. Ring for Sukey, and we will set about the packing.”
Sukey, only a few years older than Cecilia, had joined the nursery to help Nurse with Reggie and Amelia, but following negotiations between the governess and Nurse Featherstone, the girl had been in training for six months as Miss Cecilia's maid, under the tutelage of Mademoiselle Lavauden, who once had had her own lady's maid. The practical Frenchwoman did not repine for her lost glories. Left a penniless orphan by the Revolution over twenty years ago, she had come to England to the house of a cousin who had married an English clergyman, much against the will of her family. While it was clear that Cousin Claire would willingly keep Mademoiselle Lavauden with her in the vicarage, an awareness of the burden of feeding an additional mouth made the young Frenchwoman eager to find her own way in the world. Armed with references from the vicar, she was fortunate to find governessing situations in families who were sufficiently sophisticated to feel that to converse fluently in at least one tongue other than English was a necessity. French, despite the rampaging and ravages of that villain Buonaparte, remained the language of choice.
It was now nearly ten years since Lavauden had been with the Marchmonts at Sawards. Taken on by the mistress of the house, she was immediately conscious that her path had fallen into pleasant ways, where the tone was set by Mrs. Marchmont, who had been a vivacious and intelligent woman with a love of learning positively nourished by her husband. In addition to Miss Lavauden, the Marchmonts employed a librarian, Mr. Hartley, who was also able to tutor in mathematics and classics. Miss Lavauden remembered still the celebrations which attended the births of Master Reginald and Miss Amelia, and even more vividly, the wasting sickness which had taken Mrs. Marchmont following Miss Amelia's birth.
Of the three Marchmont children, Cecilia was the only one who remembered her mother with any clarity, a circumstance which brought her close to her father, and also led her frequently to resort to Mademoiselle when trying to persuade her younger siblings toward what Mama would or would not have liked. Mrs. Marchmont's death secured Lavauden's place in the family circle, and while Mademoiselle would have been the first to disclaim the notion, she had in fact stood in for Mrs. Marchmont admirably. Hence her pique at this sudden betrothal. Pique, and a certain disquiet. She, like Cecilia, decided to make the best of the situation, and led her charge to the cupboards and drawers where her clothes were stored.
Cecilia had always been a robust young lady, but none of her intimates had really absorbed the effects of a recent spurt in growth, both upward and outward. She had numerous everyday dresses in muslin and poplin, but nothing that would do for a wedding.
“Does it matter?” she queried. Mademoiselle and Sukey harrumphed and rolled their eyes at each other. Time was too short to allow for anything other than a letting-out of a dull green gown which had been intended for Sunday best, but which was rarely used even then due to its unprepossessing color. It had been described as sage in the shop, but when made up, had come out sludgier and browner than expected. Lavauden draped her own prize Norwich shawl about Ceci's ample shoulders and chest and pinned it securely with an amethyst pin, and summoned up her most plausible tone to tell Ceci that she looked very well indeed, and did Sukey feel confident that she would be able to repeat the effect when the time came?
There followed a lengthy discussion about bonnets and it was decided that Ceci, a creditable needlewoman, might be left to trim her own Leghorn straw with an ostrich feather, and perhaps Sukey would fetch a posy of fresh white roses for the wedding day. Sukey and Mademoiselle did what they could with three other gowns, all rather the worse for wear. The bustle and banter kept Cecilia's mind from the terrors of the next few days. Before she knew it, bath and story-time for the younger ones was upon them, and then bed. She slept more soundly than she had expected.
Two
Ormiston arrived in London, carefully suppressing his excitement at the prospect of Europe. Of course, he had a bear-leader, but at least he had been allowed to choose an artist to share his passage around the Continent. Peter Buchan had made something of a name for himself as a watercolorist, but had insufficient funds to allow him to travel freely. The Scot had not leapt at the opportunity to accompany Dacre's heir on his Grand Tour, but when he had seen the viscount's own drawing and painting, he was reassured that the young man was no philistine. They might even get some good work done.
Dacre's secretary, Powell, a cousin of the family with few expectations and great ambition, had fixed on half-past eleven on the morning after Ormiston's arrival in town as a suitable time for an interview between father and son.
Dacre had not been minded to give his son a prosy jawing such as Polonius had passed on to Laertes. Apart from his disinclination to stand moral arbiter, he was well aware that Ormiston would roll his eyes and heave deep, poetical sighs and hurl himself from the room with a histrionic flourish modeled on that expelled literary lion who, in addition to bringing his own sister into disrepute, had caused Caro Lamb to let go of what little sense she had ever had.
The youth drooped into the room in slender disarray. Lord knew, the last thing Dacre wanted was a pattern card for a son, but he found Ormiston's willful shabbiness a repellent affectation. The scuffed boots, the half-buttoned waistcoat, the shirt points so limp, the shirt sleeves emerging shapelessly from coat sleeves, the slack necktie, the pomaded hair tumbling artfully in careless locks, all served to irritate the earl.
Ormiston's appearance was intended to convey that dress was a mundane adjunct to one whose mind was preoccupied with higher matters. Dacre could not help comparing his son to his secretary. Powell was always neat and unobtrusive and gentlemanly. It was a shame that Powell was not accompanying Ormiston, thereby giving him time to infuse the boy's precious artistic ideals with a little brisk good sense. Perhaps the artist fellow would prove to be practical-minded rather than high flown. Dacre had not yet met Buchan, but Powell had passed on a good report.
“You summoned me, my lord.”
Dacre bade the boy sit. He had not intended to command his heir to attend him, but so Ormiston perceived it. Heavens, how tiresome was the quadrille he must dance about the boy's sensibilities.
“You have my draft. You know you may rely on me if you are in difficulties and you know that I wish you only the best for this journey. I do not look to see you back in London for at least two years, but you are at liberty to extend your travels if there is any object of study that demands more time.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ormiston did not sound grateful.
Dacre hurried on. “However, there is one piece of business we must complete before your departure, according to your mother's fondest wish.”
“Sir?”
“Your mother wished to see you married to the daughter of her dearest friend.”
“On my return from Europe, I would be happy to meet the young lady. If we suit, perhaps a betrothal would be possible.” Ormiston sounded positively accommodating.
“That is very good of you, but there is a difficulty. You must marry Miss Marchmont before you leave for Europe.”
“Why, sir?” The boy's tone was skeptical.
Dacre began to bluster. “It is a matter of honor, a matter of some delicacy, but suffice to say, if I do not have your agreement to this marriage, there will be no tour of Europe.”
“Sir, this is preposterous! High-handed! It is Turkish behavior.”
“Say no more. If you refuse, as I say, you bring the family name into disrepute. You may think on it. Marchmont will be here this afternoon to sign the settlements. I understand that he is accompanied by Miss Marchmont. If you choose, you may see her then. I have secured a special license for your marriage. If you comply, the ceremony will take place tomorrow morning at St. George's and I shall have a coach ready to take you to Dover immediately after. If you fail to comply, the coach will return you home.”
Dacre was well aware that this approach would only deepen his son's resistance. With his next words, he sought to mollify.
“Consider this. If you marry her now, you will not see her further for several years. On your return from Europe, you may once again meet, and if you find that you do not suit, I will fund whatever is necessary to dissolve the marriage.”
“How has this person been persuaded into such a match? Surely we cannot proceed without her agreement also?”
“She appears to have a more highly cultivated sense of duty toward both her father and her family name than you.”
“Has she also been offered an annulment?”
“That, I think, is a matter for the young lady and her father.”
“And you say you will not permit me to leave for France if I refuse?”
“Not only that. I will keep you without further funds. You may retire to Hatherley and produce daubs to your heart's content.”
Ormiston stood and paced the room. He wanted to lash out, to kick, to hurl ornaments out of the window. But he would not. He turned and paced back. He would go to Europe. That was the vital thing, his real goal. Fury would be a waste. He was being manipulated into doing as his father wanted, but Europe was what
he
wanted, and after all, this match could be dispensed with on his return from the Continent.
If
he returned.
“Very well, sir. I shall do my duty.”
This capitulation astounded Dacre. “Marchmont will be here at tea-time, with the lawyers.”
“I shall join you then.” Ormiston bowed and left the room, heading out immediately. There would be someone at Angelo's willing to spar or fence or wrestle—certainly his fellows in the prank which had seen them all sent down from Oxford to rusticate indefinitely. He would lunch with his friends, and then, for once, he would drink, deeply, and then he would return to Dacre House in time to meet his bride.
As Ormiston paced toward Bond Street and other less salubrious haunts, he tried to picture his betrothed. He remembered going down to Sawards years before, but recollect Miss Marchmont he could not. There had been two young children, he seemed to recall. She was the elder of the two children. She could be no more than fourteen now. What his father proposed seemed to him barbaric. But of a piece with the man.
Everything about Dacre repulsed his son: his bulk, his heartiness, his gambling, his mistresses, his drunken sham-blings and late nights, his philistinism, his gun-dogs and horses, his farmer's talk and manners. Ormiston regarded the marquis as a crude vulgarian and strove to present himself in as different a light as possible.
The viscount saw himself as a sophisticated creature of some refinement. Of course, there were lapses from that ideal. It was hard to refrain entirely from the usual pursuits of young men and last term there had been the unfortunate incident with the provost and the fountain, following an unusually riotous dinner.
At least Ormiston's university career was only temporarily curtailed rather than terminated, due in part to the marquis's influence, and also because Ormiston had had to drop away from the main body of malefactors so that he might redistribute the dinner he had eaten in a convenient urn. The aftermath of the episode was a sense of shame and a continuing tussle between the conscience of the young viscount, which required him to eschew all frivolities, and his common sense, which dictated that a gentleman ought to be able to hold his drink in all company.
The viscount found solace in painting, a talent he had inherited from his mother. The marquis, who had been fond of his bride and saddened by her death in childbirth, was glad to see some sign of her in her son. He fostered Ormiston's artistic ability with the engagement of good drawing-masters at Hatherley and later at Harrow. By his fifteenth year, the viscount was producing creditable depictions of the Hatherley park and its environs.
Wild ideas of spurning his father's machinations and making off into London to apprentice himself to some master were considered and then dismissed. He had no funds whatsoever and had the idea that men only took apprentices on with some financial inducement. Besides which, Ormiston's
amour-propre
could accept neither the prospect of taking orders nor the notion that he might end up in the homes of his former cronies painting their portraits. While he affected dedication to art, the truth was that the viscount's true deity was comfort.
So, he would go through with this match with as much grace as he could muster and the devil take the marquis, which, given the old man's reprobate habits and loose morals, might occur soon enough, although not soon enough to suit Ormiston. At least, so he had resolved by the time he needed to return to Dacre House to meet his betrothed.
Instead of finding friends at Angelo's fencing salon, Ormiston found only a fencing master at a loose end. The man was newly from Italy and gave Ormiston a thorough practice with some new maneuvers. When he heard that the young man was hoping to go to Venice, the fencing master gave him the names of two people from whom he might learn a little more and wished him well for his journey.
So it was that Ormiston found himself back at Dacre House well before the appointed hour of his meeting with the Marchmonts and the lawyers. He found his sketchbook, then ran down to the garden and sat by the fountain, the centerpiece of which was a statue of Hercules overcoming the Nemean Lion. He was soon absorbed by the complexities of shadow and light on the black marble, the problems of rendering accurately the snarl on the lion's features, echoed by Hercules's own pained brow and twisted mouth. When he was drawing, he noticed nothing else, so he was unaware that from the library, a girl was watching him.
Within, Cecilia and Marchmont had arrived promptly, followed soon after by lawyers representing both families. All were ushered into the library while the servants were sent in search of the viscount. The men were discussing the price of corn imports and duties, so she drifted away to the windows, conscious of the discomfort of her tight dress and the corset, which had required the wrestling of two maidservants to fasten, and the prickling of overstarched petticoats. Like a shaggy pony in the heat, she longed to find a convenient tree or column and ease the itch between her shoulder blades, roll in the mud, and free herself of all ribbons and ties that bound her.
Then, looking into the garden, she saw a young man intent on his drawing, glancing up at the statue he was trying to capture on the page, every particle of his being concentrating on the task at hand. He was slim, and he shared his father's dark coloring, with almost swarthy skin and a thick head of hair. But his features were altogether more refined than Dacre's pug-like nose, heavy brows, and jowly cheeks.
The young man's mouth appeared wide, given the narrowness of his face, and his nose was of an elegant length. He had a high brow and neat eyebrows. His eyes were squeezed tight in concentration and against the sun, which now shone into the garden directly behind the statue's head. His chin was definite, and his neck was long, his shoulders broad. His clothes were all black and somewhat dusty. His coat was shabby, his cravat untied and dangling, his shirt points wilted, his boots scuffed, and his unmentionables skintight, molded over muscled thighs. Later, she was unsure whether it was the constriction of her clothes or the sight of this Adonis that caused her breathlessness and a sudden flush to rise unbecomingly to her face. She turned back to the room.
“Is the young man in the garden Viscount Ormiston?”
Dacre came over and gave an affirmative, unimpressed grunt. Marchmont came to stand behind his daughter, his hands on her shoulders. Watching thus, they saw a servant approaching tentatively, then breaking the concentration of the young man. He scowled, but packed away his things and followed without delay.
Minutes later, Ormiston came into the library and sketched a cursory bow. He mumbled an apology, then looked at Cecilia, who at that moment saw uncertainty and then distaste flitting across the viscount's face. She could not be sure, for he swiftly took her hand and bowed once again as he kissed it. By the time he straightened, his features were schooled into bland impassivity.
“The papers are ready for signing, your lordship,” said one of the lawyers, and the group gathered around the desk to put their names to the documents that safeguarded Cecilia's dowry and provided detailed particulars of the calls that might be made on Ormiston's purse by his future wife and, heaven forfend, his widow. After, Dacre called for refreshments, and they drank a toast to the happy couple. Ormiston stood beside Cecilia. As soon as the champagne was drunk, Marchmont made moves to leave.
“We need to rest and dear Cecilia must gather her strength for the morrow. You have fixed the ceremony for eleven, is that right, Dacre?”
The marquis confirmed the arrangements for the wedding itself and the Marchmonts took their leave. In the carriage, Cecilia sat back, mute and confounded. Marriage to such a man as Ormiston—such a boy—was the last thing she had wished for herself. Yet, now she had seen him, she knew there was nothing more she wanted than to be married to him. To be loved by him. She gave a small gasp of surprise.
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