The Spinster Bride (33 page)

J
ust thirteen years earlier, Jeffrey Penwhistle would have been sentenced to death by hanging. But in 1861, Parliament decided attempted murder was best punished in other ways and England had ended transportation to distant penal colonies. So at least Mrs. Penwhistle had the convenience of visiting her son in Newgate. No one else visited him.

One month after his arrest, he'd been tried and convicted of the crime of attempted murder. He was, in a word, stunned. How could he be convicted of a crime he hadn't committed? He hadn't laid a hand on George. It had been two thugs—criminals that had disappeared into the bowels of St. Giles. George had testified, but perhaps the most damning testimony came from the constable and Lady Penwhistle who had heard Jeffrey confess to the crime. The jury deliberated for twenty minutes.

Two weeks after the trial, Charles arrived, special license in hand, and demanded to see Dorothea. He'd hardly seen Marjorie these last few weeks, and certainly not alone. The family had been in the throes of a terrible scandal, and had forgone any activities outside the home. They hadn't even ventured into Hyde Park. Charles understood, of course, for the newspapers had been filled with lurid details of the murder attempt. George had become something of a hero, for not only surviving the attack, but for participating in such an ingenious plan to incriminate Jeffrey. The details came from Jeffrey himself, who seemed rather to enjoy his celebrity and who, perhaps, thought by telling his story he would evoke some sympathy. His plan quite backfired, for people delighted in his downfall and cheered when he was convicted.

Charles had not attended the trial that last day. He'd spent it instead searching for a suitable townhouse to purchase. His rented one would never do, and he wanted something that would be airy and comfortable—and large enough for a family of six.

Now that he had a home and the license, he need only convince his future bride's mother that she should wholeheartedly approve their match—in spite of the terrible history between their families.

He was asked to wait in a small sitting room with rose-colored cushions, delicate furniture, and fragile-looking porcelain figurines resting upon every surface. The room made him decidedly nervous; one wrong move and he would destroy some priceless heirloom. He had no doubt Lady Summerfield felt a bit of delight when she told her butler to escort him to this room.

He sat, albeit carefully, upon the edge of a chair, fearing it would collapse beneath him. When Lady Summerfield entered, he stood, causing the chair to move into a small spindly table, which in turn caused the figure of a lady holding a small dog to wobble precariously. Lady Summerfield smiled in satisfaction—or at least that was how it seemed to Charles.

“Thank you for seeing me, my lady.”

Dorothea nodded, then sat upon a chair opposite. He couldn't help but notice that she looked nearly as out of place in the feminine haven as he did. She indicated he should sit and he did, smiling grimly.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today, Mr. Norris?”

“You must know, my lady. I've come to ask for your daughter's hand. Again.”

She raised one bushy eyebrow as if surprised. “I told you I would think on it, sir.”

“Yes, ma'am, but that was some weeks ago. And now I would like the deed done. I've purchased a townhouse on Piccadilly and procured a special license.”

Dorothea tilted her head as if confused. “How presumptuous of you, sir.”

“May we stop this pretense, please? You know your daughter and I will marry, with or without your permission. Marjorie would like you to support our marriage and be at our wedding. It is my wholehearted wish as well.”

The lady's eyes grew sharp and Charles thought he'd made a tactical error. “You behaved very badly toward my daughter, sir. Do you forget I found you in her room? Thankfully, no ill consequence of that evening occurred, so there is no reason to marry. To treat a woman with such disrespect does not bode well for you as a husband.”

“Lady Summerfield, I fear I have a confession to make.”

Dorothea lifted her chin and Charles took a bracing breath. “Oh?”

“I lied to you before. Your daughter is a virgin still.”

Dorothea's eyes grew wide and her fury was palpable. Very much like the evening she'd caught them together, she opened her mouth and closed it, as if she were about to say something so horrid her genteel tongue couldn't form the syllables. And then, she smiled. “I can hardly be angry at you for
not
ruining my daughter, can I?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Never lie to me again.”

“I will not.”

Lady Summerfield stood and Charles hastily followed suit. “St. Paul's is available next Saturday if you are.”

There could only be one way the lady had known such a thing; she'd obviously made inquiries. “Yes. Of course I am. Thank you, my lady,” Charles said, beaming his future mother-in-law a smile.

Lady Summerfield looked as if she were about to leave the room, but turned, hesitantly. “Will your mother have a chance to be in town in that time?”

“It is my dearest wish that my parents be at my wedding, ma'am.”

Lady Summerfield nodded, her expression unreadable. “Very well.”

 

The night before the wedding, Dorothea came to see Marjorie, an awkward interview in which Marjorie assured her she needn't continue when it was clear what the interview was about.

“I sense your marriage will be far different from mine,” Dorothea said. “I do hope so.”

For some reason, that small admission touched Marjorie. Her mother had never said an unkind word about her father, though she had often wondered if her parents had ever felt love for one another.

“I know tomorrow will not be easy for you, but I'm very glad you will be there, Mother. It would be purely awful if you were not.”

Her mother looked away. “I am sorry I put you through so much, that my close-mindedness forced you to act in a way that was against your principles. Perhaps you will understand better when you have children of your own. I only want what's best for you. I suppose I wanted you to prove to the world that you were worthy of greatness. That you weren't an afterthought.”

Later, Marjorie would think back on her mother's odd choice of words.
An afterthought
. Was that how she'd felt? As if she should have been grateful for whatever crumbs someone threw her? She'd never thought of her mother as a young girl, in love, with hopes and dreams. She'd known, of course, that Dorothea had married quite late, but had simply assumed her mother was as particular as she was; it had just taken her longer to find the man she wanted.

Marjorie looked about her room, realizing with sadness and a bit of excitement at what lay ahead, and that this would be the last time she would sleep here. She touched her dressing table, drawing her finger over the polished surface, her eyes sweeping around the room. This was where she'd gone when her father had died, to cry into her pillow. It was where as a young girl she dreamed of marrying a duke—or perhaps a handsome prince from some foreign land. And it was where she'd made love with the love of her life for the very first time.

Her maid knocked on her door and she called for Alice to enter.

“I thought I'd lay out your things tonight,” she said, moving to her wardrobe where her wedding dress hung. It was by Worth, of course, and since they'd not had time to travel to Paris for a new gown, Marjorie would wear one she already owned, much to her mother's deep disappointment. The gown was one of her favorites, with an outrageous bustle that made it nearly impossible to sit—perfect for walking down the aisle. It was cream with light rose lace, and a modest neckline perfectly suitable for a wedding.

Marjorie climbed into bed, drew her knees to her chin, and watched her maid work. “Are you excited to work in a new household, Alice?”

“Oh, yes, m'lady. It's nice that I'll know so many on the staff, so it won't be too strange for me.” Alice surveyed her work. “If there isn't anything else, good night, m'lady.”

“Thank you, Alice. Good night.”

Marjorie smiled at Alice as she left, glad at least something would be familiar in her new home. Charles had lured a big bit of Jeffrey's staff away, apparently, and it would be nice to see so many familiar faces. “Good night, room,” she said, feeling silly and nostalgic.

 

The two mothers did not speak at the wedding or the breakfast that followed, something that Marjorie wasn't certain she was glad or sad about. At the wedding itself, her mother did not even glance at Charles's parents, a lovely pair Marjorie knew she would come to love. His sister had come, alone; her husband could not leave the side of his ailing mother. Marjorie was thrilled to have a sister, for Laura seemed like such a lively woman. “We've been waiting for Mother Brewster to die for more than ten years. I daresay she won't meet her maker the one week I'm away.” Marjorie wasn't sure whether to laugh, but when Laura did, she followed suit.

“I'm so glad you were able to come. Charles speaks of you often. I do hope you are able to visit us in London more often.”

Laura looked around the room and smiled. “I think I will,” she'd said, softly but with conviction.

Marjorie had understood from Charles that Laura wasn't entirely happy with her situation, so perhaps a few trips to London would make his sister's life more enjoyable.

The ceremony was brief and private, with only family and a few close friends in attendance. It wasn't the grand wedding Dorothea had dreamed about for so many years, but it was perfect. Charles was stunning in his formal black, with his curling hair slicked back in thick waves. Marjorie could almost sense his need to muss it up, but he showed remarkable restraint. George was his best man, and Lilianne, much to Dorothea's disappointment (Marjorie's best friend, Lady Blackwood, was on the continent and unavailable) was her maid of honor. Their own marriage was in two weeks' time and Lilianne, likely thinking of her own upcoming wedding day, cried nearly nonstop throughout the service.

Back at the house, Aunt Gertrude hugged her warmly and said, “My only regret is that I don't have more nieces to get married off. It was such fun, my dear.”

“It was the best of adventures,” Marjorie said, giving her aunt a kiss. “And now an even better adventure awaits.”

Aunt Gertrude chuckled and shook her head. “I wish you could keep this feeling in a box and take it out whenever life gets difficult.”

“I think I shall, Aunt. That's a splendid idea.”

 

“You may go, Prajit,” Charles said, a bit more harshly than he'd meant to. Prajit hovered just inside the door of his rooms, moving from one foot to the other, as if ready to bound into the room and fight off a tiger. The tiger, in this particular case, was his damnable leg. This day, of all days, it hurt like the very devil after giving him days and days of reprieve.

“A bit of morphine, sir, will take away the edge and allow you to perform your duties as husband,” Prajit said stubbornly.

“A bit of morphine will likely have the opposite effect, Prajit.” He'd spoken a bit louder than he'd meant to and glanced at the door that separated his suite of rooms from those of his new wife.

He wasn't nervous. No, nervous was far too mild a word. After putting off Marjorie's official deflowering, he felt added pressure to make this night perfect for her. And how on earth could he make things perfect when he was about to hurt her?

His father had thought his fears adorable. “Son, if every husband killed his wife the first night, humanity would have long since been extinct.”

Still, there was blood. And pain. And pleasure, for him at least. And God knew he'd spent enough sleepless nights imagining himself thrusting into her. Just the thought made him stir, made him forget the pain in his leg for a moment. Yes, that was just the thing.

“Prajit, I do appreciate your concern about my abilities to perform my husbandly duties,” he said, meaning the complete opposite. Prajit either chose to ignore his sarcasm or had not yet mastered the ability to detect it. “But you are dismissed. Until noon tomorrow.”

Prajit lifted his chin imperceptibly, then bowed and backed from the room, closing the door quietly behind him. But Charles could still sense his worry. He would be bloody glad when no one worried about him.

Charles tightened the belt around his robe and walked determinedly toward his wife's door. He opened it without knocking, and in hindsight that might not have been the most intelligent decision, for his wife's maid screeched as if he was a madman bent on murder.

“Oh, I am so sorry, sir,” Alice said, then laughed nervously.

Marjorie, looking lovely in a frothy nightdress and overwrap, laughed along with her maid. “We'll get used to all this, Alice. You may go now.”

“Until noon,” Charles said, causing both ladies to start in surprise. “I gave Prajit a half day, so I think it's only fair.”

Marjorie flushed from her neck to her cheeks. “Noon, then, Alice. Good night.”

“Good night, m'lady,” Alice said, dipping a quick curtsy and rushing toward the door.

“Here we are,” Marjorie said when the maid was gone

“Yes.” Charles looked around the room. “I see you've settled in nicely.” Polite. Awkward. God, why was this suddenly so difficult?

“Your leg has been bothering you today. Are you certain you're—”

He held up a hand, stopping her. “My dear wife, if a horde of wild beasts now ran into this room, they would not be able to stop me from making love to you.” He sounded angry, he knew, but the last thing he wanted was for his new wife to worry about him.