Part 11 (1/2)
Chapter 9.
The weather broke on Friday morning and the heavens opened. Lightning forked the blue-black sky and the air was blasted with thunderclaps. The little Norman church was cold and dark, despite the altar candles, and the tapers that Mary Kyle had lit below the stained-gla.s.s windows. The jugs of lilies and bowls of roses that Meg had picked from Arabella's flower garden and arranged around the church threw out their fragrance, but it did little to combat the dank mustiness of old damp stone. On a warm sunny day the church was a pleasant place, sunlight illuminating the stained gla.s.s, the doors standing open to let in light and fresh air. On a cold, wet morning in late August it was a dreary place to be.
Arabella stood under the shelter of the lych-gate, gloomily regarding the puddle-strewn path to the church door. She was wearing a light gown of sprig muslin that Meg had decreed was as close to a wedding dress as Arabella's wardrobe could furnish, and satin slippers that were no match for the wet ground.
Jack had gone ahead to the church. The congregation was small, just the household servants, Peter Bailey, Mary Kyle, and Lady Barratt. Arabella had firmly refused to issue invitations to any of the other local gentry on the grounds that she would then be obliged to include Lord and Lady Alsop.
Sir Mark, Meg, and Arabella huddled under the arch of the gate, waiting for a break in the rain. ”I don't think it's going to stop,” Arabella said finally. ”We'll have to make a dash for it.”
”You'll be soaked,” Meg said. ”Oh, wait, here's the duke.”
Jack, carrying a huge umbrella, stepped out of the church. He came down the path towards them, holding the umbrella aloft. He seemed unperturbed by the rain, his coat of black wool, richly embroidered with a silk floral pattern, immaculate as always. His black shoes with their silver buckles seemed to have come through the puddles without ill effect.
”Sir Mark, if you hold the umbrella over us, I'll carry Arabella to the church and return for Meg,” he said matter-of-factly, handing the umbrella to the baronet.
”I don't need to be carried,” Arabella protested. ”I can walk perfectly well if you hold the umbrella.”
”Your feet will get soaked and the hem of your gown will get dirty. I'm not marrying a gypsy,” he told her briskly, ignoring her protestations as he lifted her easily into his arms. Sir Mark hoisted the umbrella and hurried beside them as Jack strode up the path with his burden. He set her down in the church doorway and he and the baronet went back for Meg.
Once Meg had been deposited beside Arabella, Jack returned to his place at the altar. ”There's something to be said for having a decisive man with strong arms around,” Meg observed, smoothing down a flounce in Arabella's skirt.
”Tush,” Arabella said. Meg gave her a searching look. ”Regrets, Bella?”Arabella shook her head. ”I don't think so.””You don't sound too sure,” Meg observed. ”It's not too late to change your mind, you know.””I'm not going to change my mind,” Arabella responded firmly. Meg inclined her head in acknowledgment. ”Then let's get on with making you a d.u.c.h.ess.”Arabella stepped into the dark interior of the church. Meg followed her, Sir Mark stepped up beside her, and the three of them walked to the altar, where Jack and David waited.
It was over in what seemed to Arabella a very few minutes. Such a momentous step surely should have taken longer, she thought as she signed the register, watching the candlelight catch the dull gold of the wedding band on her finger.
Arabella Fortescu, d.u.c.h.ess of St. Jules.
A little s.h.i.+ver ran down her spine as she watched her husband sign his name next to hers. What had she done?
But whatever it was, it was done now and couldn't be undone.
Jack carefully placed the quill back in its stand. Their two names stared up at him from the white page of the register. It was over now. He had what he wanted. Every last possession of Frederick Lacey's, right down to his t.i.tle. He glanced sideways at Lacey's sister, who now also belonged to him, body and soul. He could feel the tension in her frame and wondered if she was regretting this bargain they had struck. It had been forced upon her, after all.
But at least she was alive, with a future to look forward to. Unlike Charlotte.
He turned away from the register and offered Arabella his arm to walk back down the aisle. Her fingers quivered for a minute against the black wool of his sleeve, and then stilled. She gave him a small, distant smile.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time they emerged from the church. Jack paused in the vestibule and looked up at the sky, which was still gray and heavy, promising another downpour.
”Not an auspicious day for a wedding,” Arabella murmured, s.h.i.+vering in the damp chill.
Jack made no response and Arabella wondered if he thought the same thing. There was no knowing what he was thinking. What little she knew of this man who was now her husband all seemed contradictory.
He broke the moment of silence. ”Come. You mustn't get your feet wet.” He lifted her into his arms and she made no protest. There was little point, and she really didn't want to get her feet wet.
He strode down the path, towards the carriage that waited beyond the lych-gate. He set her inside the carriage and stepped aside for Meg, giving her a hand up into the interior. ”I'll walk back and see you at the house, madam wife.” He closed the door, giving the coachman the signal to start the horses. There was room for him in the carriage, but he was suddenly in need of some time with his own thoughts. Time to rejoice in the completion of his long-planned vengeance? Or time to contemplate the prospect of the evening and night to come?
”Why would he choose to walk?” Meg wondered. ”He's going to get wet.”
Arabella gave a short and rather mirthless laugh. ”Jack Fortescu is a law unto himself-besides, it doesn't seem to rain on him. Haven't you noticed?”
Meg gave this due consideration. ”I suppose it's true,” she agreed. ”There's not a spot of water on his coat, and his lace is just as crisp as it was when he put it on. Everyone else is looking limp and bedraggled and the duke doesn't have a hair out of place.”
”The devil looks after his own,” Arabella said.
”I trust that was in jest,” Meg said.
”Of course it was,” Arabella said with a somewhat unconvincing laugh.
Meg's speculative gaze rested on her friend's face for a moment. She had supported Arabella's decision to accept the duke's proposal. Like Arabella, she had seen it as the lesser of two evils, but if she had thought her friend actively disliked Jack, she would have forcefully tried to dissuade her. She had discounted Arabella's occasional half-laughing comments about the duke's aura of menace . . . the sense she had of something sinister about him, because Arabella herself hadn't seemed to take her own comments seriously. But there was something about the duke that was hard to define, and that made her uneasy sometimes.
But Arabella had been running her own life for many years now, Meg comforted herself. She knew what she was doing. She knew what she was giving up, just as she knew what she was gaining.
”I shall miss you when you go up to London,” she said, taking Arabella's hand in a quick clasp.
Arabella returned the squeeze but her expression lightened and a sparkle appeared in her eyes. ”Maybe you won't,” she said with a mysterious air. ”I had a thought about that.”
Meg looked interested. ”What thought?”
”Well, once I'm established in Town, a full-fledged d.u.c.h.ess, why shouldn't you come and pay an extended visit? You've been lamenting the dearth of good marital prospects in Kent, so why not come up and try your luck again in Town? Your father won't object to your staying with me, will he?”
”No,” Meg said thoughtfully. ”I'm sure he wouldn't. But I don't know, Bella, London Society is such a miserably self-centered universe. I didn't fit in before and I don't suppose I will on another try.”
”I've been thinking about that too,” Arabella said, withdrawing her hand from Meg's and tapping two fingers into her palm for emphasis. ”I didn't fit in either the first time, but just think, Meg, we were ingenues and we refused to toe the line. But a d.u.c.h.ess and her dearest friend wouldn't need to toe the line, wouldn't need to be quite so boringly conventional. We might make a stir.”
”Mmm.” Meg nodded slowly. ”A stir?”
”Well, I intend to make my mark,” Arabella stated. ”I intend to have a political salon and become someone very important.”
Meg looked at her in some awe. Arabella rarely failed to achieve something she'd set her heart on. ”I suppose that would be considered making the best of a bad job.”
”Precisely. If I'm sacrificing myself on the altar of matrimony, I might as well make it work for me.”
Meg raised her eyebrows at this but said nothing as the carriage drew up at the house. The coachman let down the footstep and a.s.sisted the ladies to the ground. Arabella shook out the flounces of her skirt, reflecting that making her mark in Society was only one of the things she intended to use this marriage to achieve. Jack Fortescu, Duke of St. Jules, had gambled his way into the earl of Dunston's fortune. Maybe the earl's sister could give the duke a tiny taste of the bitter bit. How would he feel if he saw his wife, his victim's sister, gambling away his own ill-gotten gains? It would have to gall him, and he'd had everything his own way for too long.
The servants had hurried back from the church and were gathered in the hall, waiting to offer their congratulations to the bride and groom. Franklin looked surprised when Meg and Arabella stepped down from the carriage and there was no sign of the groom, but since everything about this marriage was beyond his ken he merely greeted them, offered his own congratulations to Arabella, and escorted her into the house.
”His grace is walking back,” Arabella explained.
”Just so, your grace,” Franklin said, bowing low, as if it was a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Arabella blinked at him. ”That's not necessary, Franklin. Lady Arabella will do as well as it always has done.”
”I suspect you're going to have to get used to it,” Meg murmured.