Vice and Virtue (2 page)

Propriety demanded that a mother chaperone her daughter in such situations, but Mrs Eversedge knew when to treat propriety with circumspection. Pleading her duties to two other girls who awaited her upstairs, she curtseyed to Mr Francis, gave Aurora a meaningful glance and quitted the room. Aurora sat down and gestured for Mr Francis to do the same. He sat on a straight-backed chair, arranging the skirt of his coat and adjusting his elaborately decorated cuffs. As he did so, she had leisure to look at him.

She had always pictured the man who came to court her as tall – taller than her father, and at least as strong. He would be a horseman and a swordsman. And he would be rich, of course. But the only aspect of this picture presented by Edward Francis was the last. Wealth he might have, but he had no bearing. Neither his height nor his breadth spoke of a man of action. He carried a sword, as all gentlemen did, but Aurora doubted he knew how to use it.

His shoulders were narrow, and so rounded that he walked with a stoop. His face, though not positively ugly, was plain. Thick eyebrows lay in straight lines above eyes so dark that Aurora could not tell where the pupil ended and the iris began. And it was a lean, bony face. The man looked, for all his wealth, as if he did not get enough to eat.

“Your mother understands the nature of my visit, Miss Eversedge?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Aurora.

The room was very hot; there was perspiration on the back of Aurora’s neck, under the tendrils of her lower hair, which Flora had dressed fashionably over her shoulders. The rest of her hair, swept into a topknot secured with satin ribbons, felt as if it would tumble if she moved her head. She wondered if the necessity of keeping still made her look elegant, or merely ridiculous.

“Do
you
understand it?” he asked her.

“I believe so, sir.”

Some of the tension left his face, though his expression was still apprehensive. “Then God has smiled upon me. I feared that you would dismiss me as a charlatan, or a philanderer. But I swear I am in earnest.”

He looked to her for encouragement.

“Very well, sir,” she said.

“I do not presume,” he continued, “to fathom your reasons for allowing me into your company. I can only describe my own motive for resorting to this unorthodox method of approaching a young lady. When I saw you in the park, something happened to me which I had despaired of ever happening.”

Aurora lowered her eyelids modestly.

“Miss Eversedge, I have no doubt that you are the woman I love. And if you have any compassion in your soul, I implore you, consider my situation.”

She looked up, surprised by the speed of his declaration. His black eyes did not blink; his lips were unsmiling. There was nothing in his countenance to suggest a man in love.

He settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “My father, who is recently deceased, wished me to do something that he himself did, many years ago, and which gave him happiness for much of his life. He wished me to marry for love.” All the while he was speaking, he brushed imaginary dust from his breeches. “Of course, if I were to fall in love with a woman of means, from a wealthy family who would bestow upon her a sizeable dowry, so much the better. I have tried my best to secure such a match. I have been introduced to Lady This and Miss That, and their sisters. Widows and fortune-hunters have pursued me, or rather my wealth. Unfortunately, not one of these ladies possesses what I am searching for.”

He paused, his eyebrows drawn together. Then his watchful eyes again fell on Aurora’s face. “Miss Eversedge, my feelings are strong, and utterly sincere.”

“Sir—” she began, but found herself silenced.

“You are not only beautiful, but you are graceful. You wear your simple gowns with more elegance than the daughter of an earl, and yet with a pleasing lack of vanity. And now that we have been introduced, I find the sweetness of your voice very much to my liking.”

Aurora accepted his compliments in silence, bowing her head as low as the insecure topknot allowed.

“I understand this is very sudden,” he added, “since we have only just met.”

Aurora remained silent. He seemed encouraged by this; she heard him take in breath in preparation for his next words.

“Miss Eversedge, if you will consent, I very much desire to make you my wife.” All apprehension was gone from his voice. “But under a condition you must allow me to enforce.”

Aurora felt very hot. Her heart thudded, sending blood rushing to her face and neck. She sat on the edge of the chair, her words to Eleanora repeating themselves in her brain. It was clear now that she truly was embarking on something as unpredictable, and potentially as damaging, as setting a flame to a barrel of gunpowder. Could she really agree to marry a man unknown to her and her family, merely because he requested it, and her mother encouraged it?

She wished she had the courage to rise, make a curtsey, tell Mr Francis she was grateful for his offer but must refuse it, and leave the room. But she was not courageous, and her mother had to find
three
men who would take her daughters without a marriage portion. That a wealthy man should present himself with no effort on anyone’s part was a stroke of fortune not to be dismissed.

“What is the condition, sir?” she asked.

“That the wedding be a clandestine one, conducted in one of the so-called chapels near the Fleet river.”

Aurora stared at him. Aware that her mouth had fallen open, she closed it and tried to collect herself. “What can possibly be the need for such a condition, sir?”

His thin lips stretched into a humourless smile. “Perhaps you will understand better if I tell you that I am in ill health.” He rested his head on the back of the chair, slightly dislodging his wig. Aurora caught a glimpse of dark hair, choppily cut above his ears. His thin features and stooping frame made it difficult to estimate his years, but she hoped the wig did not cover a prematurely bald pate. “I have consumption,” he said bleakly.

For the first time, Aurora was moved. His story of his search for a bride had been as commonplace as his appearance was plain. But that he was suffering from an illness that always ended in an agonizing death was truly tragic.

“Perhaps,” he went on, “you have been given a clue by my appearance. I am thin and pale, I know. I live in Islington for the fresh air, but I cannot follow country pursuits. Nor do I attend social functions. I have a large library, and still play the violin when I have sufficient energy.”

Aurora’s spirits sank. First the demand that her wedding be unacknowledged by society, now the news that if she married Edward Francis no hunting parties, no balls, no visitors and no outings awaited her. “So am I to take it that a clandestine wedding is necessitated by … a shortage of time?”

He did not look at her. She saw his throat work as he swallowed repeatedly. He must have planned his answer to this inevitable question, but he was uncomfortable nonetheless. Some time passed while he considered.

Aurora waited. The sunrays had travelled while they had been talking and now fell upon Edward Francis’s shoulders, making the green of his coat greener. At last his eyes, so black they seemed neither to absorb nor reflect light, turned their flat gaze towards her. He spoke softly.

“You are quite correct. I do not have much time left on this earth. I cannot wait for the banns to be read and the period required by the law to expire. Furthermore, in view of your family circumstances, we shall not be delayed by the drawing-up of a financial contract. If you are willing, we can be married next week.”

Aurora contemplated him steadily. She could not warm to the man, but she was impressed by his candour. And although his declaration of love had not moved her, without doubt it had flattered her.

“After my death,” he continued, “my lands and fortune will be bequeathed to you and, if we are so blessed, my son or daughter. I am my parents’ only child, Miss Eversedge. I long for an heir.”

Into Aurora’s brain floated the often-imagined picture of herself and a tall, strong man kneeling at the altar of St Margaret’s, beneath a radiant east window. She sat silently, her hands in her lap, contemplating the pale face of the man before her. A man old before his time, weighed down by illness and strain.

“Mr Francis,” she said at last. “I know I am free to refuse you. If I do, may I have your word that no part of what has passed between us today will ever escape your lips?”

He nodded, keeping his eyes on her face. “Upon my honour, you do, madam.”

“The choice is mine?”

He nodded again. Aurora felt the colour come again into her cheeks, but she kept her expression calm. “Then may I ask, sir, on what basis your choice of me as the woman you wish to marry is based? Apart from physical attraction, that is?”

He had not expected this. His countenance clouded; he cast his glance downwards, and was silent for a few moments, preparing his words. Then he raised his eyes, which regarded her with an apologetic, almost sheepish expression. “Miss Eversedge, you have just given me confirmation, if any were needed, of the prudence and intelligence I suspected you possess. You will commit yourself to nothing until you are satisfied that I am not intent upon villainy, and quite right.” He gave a shallow sigh. “I confess, I have not been entirely truthful. I did not address you in my letter by your name, but the fact is, I already knew it.”

His eyes continued to hold her gaze. He was embarrassed, but not, as far as Aurora could discern, humbled by his confession.

“Why did you not use it, then, sir?” she asked.

“I considered it. But I decided you would be more likely to hear me out if I met you first and explained my circumstances in person, before allowing you to know that my selection was not as random as I have implied.”

Aurora digested this. It sounded plausible. If the letter had begun “Dear Miss Eversedge”, her first thought would have been that Edward Francis had vaulted several social barriers in one leap, not only following her home but addressing her by name when they had not been introduced. It was true, she would have thought the less of him, and his manners.

“I understand, sir,” she told him warily. “But pray tell me, how did you know who I am?”

He was still looking at her steadily, but now his eyes took on a sharper look. “Because I knew your late father, William Eversedge.”

Aurora’s surprise must have shown on her face, because Edward Francis smiled sympathetically. “I am sorry to astonish you so, but the truth is, both my own late father and myself were associates of him and his friends, and share his…” He paused, searching Aurora’s face for recognition of what he was about to say.

She gave it without hesitation. “His loyalties?”

“Indeed. I too am loyal to King William, and I am persuaded you are also.”

“I am, sir,” Aurora assured him. “The King may be the Defender of the Protestant Faith, Mr Francis, but be in no doubt that I am equally unshakeable in my defence of it. King James shall never again sit upon the throne of England!”

He smiled. “You are your father’s daughter, I see.” His tone was mild, but there was conviction in it. “When I saw your mother, whom I recognized as William Eversedge’s widow, can you blame me for taking special notice of her eldest daughter? Quite apart from your obvious charms, I knew you would share the convictions my father passed to me. And so would any heir you and I might be fortunate enough to have.”

Aurora considered. Sincere-sounding though this speech was, she was not seduced by it. She had been given the explanation she had asked for, and now all that remained was for her to make her decision. Nothing had changed in the last few minutes; her choice was still a stark one: between marriage to a man she did not know, and certainly did not love, and the rejection of money, status and family connections she may never have another chance to obtain.

She surveyed him carefully as he sat in the chair. His green suit, his pale countenance, his over-decorated cuffs, his pedagogic air – nothing about him attracted her. Was she about to agree to marry this stranger because she would be a fool not to? She had never considered herself mercenary, and had often been uneasy at the casual dismissal of love in favour of fortune that marriage seemed to demand. But now she had been given the opportunity to make a stand against the prevailing attitude, would she do so, or not?

Yesterday, her future had seemed certain, lying before her as plain as a map. She would continue to live in the amiable but restrictive household at Dacre Street, under her mother’s command. She and her sisters would do what they could to secure the attentions of, perhaps, an under-clerk, a hatter, or, if one of them were extremely fortunate, a young clergyman hopeful of employment as soon as a living became available.

If Aurora had been a man, she would have been able to express her interest in the daily turmoil of London life, from the activities of Parliament and the court to the latest satirical play. She would have been able to frequent coffee houses, immersing herself in political gossip, being amused by the fearlessness of young plotters and agitators, discussing the contents of pamphlets and journals with other like-minded supporters of the king.

But because she had been born female, she could do none of these things. Certainly, she had read every one of her father’s books, many of them more than once, and she read the news; she knew what was happening in the world. But Mrs Eversedge’s social circle did not include educated people who brought their intellect to bear on the questions of the day. Aurora was forced to accompany her on calls, sitting for hours in cramped parlours, stifled by both the lack of air and the banality of the conversation. And dreaming of escape from the world of women.

But today, her future was no longer certain. Freedom beckoned. Though it might come at a price Aurora could not predict, the powder keg was ready for her to ignite the fuse. She would have the freedom to be mistress of her own house, to wear fine clothes, and speak of politics with concerned men who were prepared to hear her opinions. And then, later, to be a rich widow, perhaps the mother of a son or daughter, and to be able to choose her second husband from a stream of suitors. What an extraordinary luxury for the daughter of a mantua-maker!