The Reluctant Bride Read online

  Groggily, she forced herself to confront the truth beneath the covers of a strange bed belonging to a man she’d known less than a few weeks … in her husband’s house and more heartsick than she could remember.

  She registered once more the rustle nearby, smelled the familiar smell of chamomile and the strange one of – what was it? Orange water? – and finally acknowledged she was not alone.

  A tantalising aroma of bacon wafted through from the rear of the dwelling, and when she half opened one eye she saw someone sitting on the chair at her bedside. For a moment she thought it was her mother and excitement surged through her, quickly extinguished as an unfamiliar voice directed the maid, ‘Miranda, a nice cup of tea, please. Mrs McCartney’s awake.’

  Mrs McCartney.

  Emily jolted upright and stared at the stranger, a plain, pleasant-faced woman in her early thirties. Her cream muslin gown was simple but fashionable, her fair hair drawn back from her face, a style which accentuated her best features: fine, hazel eyes through which she regarded Emily with a mixture of interest and compassion.

  ‘I’m Caroline McCartney, your sister-in-law, and you’ve slept a long time but I think it was just what you needed.’ When the woman smiled she no longer looked plain and efficient. Her smile was the most heart warming smile Emily could remember in a long time, but she clamped down the flowering she felt in her heart and imagined Caroline must be a fine actress to hide the disgust she’d no doubt be feeling. She’d regard Emily as no better than a woman of easy virtue, a fallen woman, a Cyprian … and goodness knows how ghastly it must have been for her to have tended to her for all this time.

  Giving no indication that this was the case, her sister-in- law went on. ‘I came here the day before yesterday and you’ve been in and out of consciousness. We were worried and loath to move you.’ Glancing around, raising her eyebrows at the pictures turned to the wall, she added, ‘I think you will be more comfortable with us. My husband, Jonathan, is preparing the carriage for your removal now. In case Angus hasn’t told you, Jonathan is his older brother and rector of St Barnabus, a little over an hour away. Less, of course, on horseback but although the carriage is slow, it is comfortable.’

  Although Caroline withdrew the hand she’d extended towards Emily, her smile remained, despite Emily’s lack of response. ‘I believe you have no wish for your mother to be sent for, but if there is anyone …’

  Her mother. Emily quivered with longing at the thought. Even if her mother could manage the journey her father would never sanction it.

  ‘There is no one,’ she whispered.

  Nevertheless, she regarded Caroline with interest. Like herself, she was Mrs McCartney – the eldest brother’s wife. And she was being kind to Emily.

  Her sister-in-law took the steaming cup of tea Miranda handed her and said, as if reading her thoughts, ‘Angus asked me to see to your comfort, Emily, but I think you also want someone with you who understands your grief.’

  To Emily’s surprise, Caroline touched her cheek, her eyes full of sympathy. This was not what she expected. Her dead child meant nothing to anyone else; except as an interloper by family members doing the arithmetic.

  Emily did not withdraw from Caroline’s touch this time. It had been so long since she’d enjoyed the comfort offered by another human being without fear of what she must provide in return.

  ‘I understand your grief, Emily, for I lost my first child within a week of giving birth and my third was stillborn.’

  Emily felt the tears begin again but her heart was like a bitter almond, though she tried to appreciate Caroline’s words in the spirit in which they were intended.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it, ma’am,’ she murmured, closing her eyes. ‘It must have been hard for you.’

  ‘I thought I would die of the loss.’

  Emily was aware of being scrutinised in the silence but she refused to open her eyes. She didn’t care, now, if she never left these awful soldier’s barracks. If she died right here it would be a good thing.

  Sighing, Caroline patted her wrist and Emily heard her rise, saying, ‘Let us speak no more of loss for now. No doubt you imagine you could die of it at this moment, but I know better. I know that time will lessen the pain, only it’s too early to try and persuade you of that. Now—’

  Emily, opening her eyes, was surprised to see the obvious distaste with which Caroline regarded the sparsely furnished room.

  ‘Angus is disappointed his arrangements for a new house have been delayed but he promises you shall be comfortably installed directly after his return. A good thing, too, though let me assure you, he’s doing his best.’

  Emily’s eyes alighted on the threadbare rag rug by the doorway.

  Caroline, following her gaze, gave a short laugh. ‘When you both have repaired to something more commodious than these bachelor’s quarters I’ve no doubt he’ll give you full sway with the decorating. Angus is generous to a fault when his feelings are aroused.’ She put her hand on the door knob. ‘I see there is not much to pack, so perhaps when you’ve finished your tea I can help you dress in something suitable for travelling so we can be home in time for dinner.’ A minute ago Emily had embraced death. Now she decided she didn’t care where she was going as long as it was away from these dreadful quarters, so perhaps she did have the energy to get out of bed.

  Ten minutes later, without objection, she allowed Caroline to help her up and into an old gown with far too generous a waistline, for she possessed no appropriate travelling clothes that would fit her.

  Reverend McCartney, a plump, friendly man with an open smile, was waiting by the side of a handsome equipage drawn by four fine bays. A crowd of ragged village children had gathered, staring in awe at the dark-blue vehicle. Such a sight would be a rarity in this neighbourhood she thought, before her heart clutched at the sight of the tiny coffin strapped to the back.

  Caroline gripped her shoulders as she swayed, her sister-in-law’s words of comfort finding their mark as she whispered, ‘Jonathan will bury your child in consecrated ground and you will be there tomorrow for the ceremony. He will not be forgotten.’

  Dazedly Emily allowed herself to be helped by Jonathan into the carriage.

  ‘You must tell me if you are uncomfortable so we can stop or rearrange the cushions,’ Caroline told her as they set off, taking the bumps and ruts with the smoothness of a royal coach.

  Emily had forgotten what it felt like to feel cosseted. ‘Your carriage is a good deal more comfortable than my own bed,’ she remarked, running a hand over the rich plush cushions. ‘I’ve my wife to thank for that.’ The reverend, sitting opposite her, smiled fondly as he patted his wife’s arm. ‘You see, I married money.’

  ‘Just as long as you don’t tell people you married for money, Jonathan,’ Caroline said, lapsing into what Emily soon came to realise was the familiar, bantering tone they used with one another. Even preoccupied as she was with her own feelings, the observation came as a shock. She’d not seen married people behave like this. When she found it too exhausting to offer more than monosyllabic replies to Caroline’s efforts at engaging her in light conversation, she listened to the couple discuss their own concerns: Anthony’s new school, Jeremy’s preoccupation with horses, Jane’s wicked toddler ways, the anticipated crop from the apple tree.

  They spoke of domestic matters like they were the best of friends, not always agreeing, but with an overriding affection foreign to Emily. Plain Caroline was transformed into an engaging, quick witted and affectionate wife; Jonathan into an amusing, incisive husband with a teasing manner and a gentle self-deprecating wit.

  She closed her eyes, enjoying the swaying motion as the carriage rolled along, so different from the hellish journey she’d endured just after her marriage; then heard Caroline whisper, ‘Jonathan, tuck up Emily’s feet and put another cushion behind her,’ and Jonathan’s tentative, ‘Do you not think I might disturb her, my love?’

  To this Caroline agreed, after which there was a long silence followed by her plaintive sigh. ‘What has your brother done?’

  Emily was not about to indicate she was awake. ‘He’s fallen in love.’

  ‘Clearly,’ came the quick rejoinder, ‘but surely even you can see he’s set himself up for a good deal of heartache. He’s not one to act impulsively so it’s a pity he’s done so over his marriage.’

  ‘You’re forgetting Jessamine.’

  After another long silence Caroline said, quietly, with a finality that brooked no returning to the subject, ‘Love had nothing to do with it. Hush, now, Jonathan. We don’t want to wake the lass.’

  Jessamine, again. Interest pricked though she told herself Angus’s amours were of no account. Still, she was astonished that Caroline should know anything about Angus’s illicit liaisons and even more so by her cryptic discounting the possibility that emotion had anything to do with the union. Everything Emily knew of Angus suggested he was man who’d only become involved with a woman if his emotions were deeply engaged.

  The thought only intensified her guilt as she shifted restlessly, still feigning sleep.

  ‘Home at last!’

  Emily stirred at Caroline’s jolly tone, allowing Jonathan to help her out of the carriage and set her down at the bottom of a flight of shallow stone stairs.

  Gazing with surprised delight at the beautiful, honey- coloured vicarage with its mullioned windows and cloak of ivy, she turned at the sound of running feet on gravel.

  ‘Jemmy, my sweet!’ cried her sister-in-law, embracing the grubby-faced little boy. Setting him away, she added with a smile, ‘Jeremy, meet your new aunt Emily. You didn’t know Uncle Angus had married, did you?’

  A choking lump rose up in Emily’s throat but she extended her hand towards the lad who gave
her a shy, gap-toothed smile. ‘Where’s Uncle Angus?’ he asked, clearly disappointed with the answer that he was away on business before running off.

  The next hour passed in a blur as Caroline showed Emily her room, instructed a parlour maid to unpack the trunk, sent her own dresser to help Emily wash and change, insisted Emily return to her bed after the long journey, then finally came to visit her, the maid in her wake bearing a supper tray. ‘I’m sure you’re done in after the journey so I’ve arranged for your refreshment to be taken here,’ she said, easing herself into a stiff-backed chair by the bed.

  Emily’s room, like the others in the rectory she had seen, was decorated in the latest style and while she had grown up in comfort, she was enchanted by the bold decorating of her new surroundings.

  ‘Angus asked me to write every day to inform him of your health.’ Caroline smiled as if expecting some tender response from Emily. When this was not forthcoming she said without missing a beat, ‘He was terribly concerned at having to leave you at such a time.’

  Emily turned her head away and stared at the ceiling. The silence lengthened. She knew a polite response was expected. Something along the lines of how glad she was to hear it, or how she missed him. Instead she whispered, ‘It is very hard to be a good wife.’ Turning back to Caroline, she went on with difficulty, ‘You must know that I was to be married to another man before Angus. A brave soldier.’ She drew in a difficult breath. ‘I mourn him still and now I mourn the baby, yet I know how much I ought to be grateful to Angus.’ She swallowed. ‘But it is so very hard.’

  ‘I know.’ Caroline’s tone lacked censure as she handed Emily a handkerchief to stem the tears that spilled onto her pillow. When she touched her arm Emily felt a frisson of warmth and gratitude. A fallen woman was irredeemable and wasn’t that what they all knew her to be? Yet Caroline went on as if Emily were not damned. ‘When Angus returns it will be a new beginning even if part of you is in mourning.’

  ‘When Angus returns I will have to do my duty as his wife and’—Emily slanted a glance at her sister-in-law—‘I don’t know how I can bear that.’

  Caroline looked thoughtful as she smoothed Emily’s pillow. ‘When you have exorcised your grief, Emily,’ she said slowly, ‘embrace the good things life is offering you. Including your husband.’

  Turning at the door, she added, ‘I’ve known Angus more than seven years. He’s the last to advertise his fine qualities but believe me, Emily, there are few men finer than he.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘My daughter killed any good opinion I harboured towards her.’ Time had not softened Bartholomew Micklen, Angus noted as he accepted a glass of sherry, wishing the interview over and heartily regretting the deviation he’d made on his return from France. He’d so hoped to broker a reconciliation, but Emily had been right. There was no forgiveness in Bartholomew Micklen’s heart.

  Beneath a jutting forehead over which dangled the tassel of his smoking cap, Micklen’s eyes appeared slits of malice which he focussed on Angus whom he’d directed to a low chair while he chose to stand. ‘I’m sorry, Major, but if you’ve just left Emily’s bedside with her petition ringing in your ears, you’ve come in vain.’

  Angus looked down at his glass and wondered how to terminate his visit. The room was warm and stuffy. He ran his finger around the inside of his stock, forcing himself to mount one final appeal.

  ‘You don’t know how much your forgiveness would mean to her.’

  ‘Really?’ The older man’s laugh was ironic. ‘Emily is like all the women in her family.’ He jerked his head towards his wife, bent in her chair by the fire but clearly following the conversation. ‘She’ll say whatever she thinks is to her benefit, regardless of truth. My daughter doesn’t value my good opinion. Never has.’

  Angus placed his sherry on the little side table and rose. It was not often he was roused to anger. Prudently, he decided it was time to beat a dignified retreat. ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you, sir—’

  ‘No need to be so hasty. I haven’t ruled out my forgiveness entirely.’ Mr Micklen waved Angus back into his seat. ‘I simply want Emily to understand that her behaviour has consequences.’

  ‘I think she is well aware of that, sir.’

  Mr Micklen’s smile did not have the effect of making his expression any pleasanter. ‘I confess I am surprised by your visit but I’ll consider your request. Emily has learnt a painful lesson. Perhaps she is not yet beyond redemption.’

  When his son-in-law had gone, Micklen stared thoughtfully through the window into the orderly garden beyond. He knew it was pointless waiting for his wife to break the silence and for once regretted terrorising her to such an extent that the sport of cutting her down was now a thing of the past.

  ‘You are surprised by my softened heart, Margeurite?’ he asked, not turning.

  ‘Nothing surprises me any more, Bartholomew.’ Her voice was deliberately neutral; it amused him to think of the efforts she’d be expending right now to subdue her fear. He could hear it, as carefully controlled as a bow across a too-taught violin string.

  ‘I can only think you have some motive for pretending to grant Emily latitude. You’ve never loved her.’

  ‘How astute, ma chérie.’ He turned. ‘Perhaps if she’d been my daughter …’ He left the sentence hanging.

  Margeurite swivelled her eyes to meet his. ‘You see benefit in courting Emily’s noble husband, yet I cannot see why, for he is nothing like Jack Noble.’

  Micklen sighed. ‘Jack Noble was the ideal son-in-law, it is true: greedy, unpatriotic and amenable to reason.’ He left the window and began to pace in front of the fire.

  Margeurite twisted in her chair to follow him with her gaze. ‘Angus McCartney is none of those things. Certainly not amenable to the kind of reason you would have him see. Don’t risk Emily’s happiness a second time, Bartholomew, I beg of you. Major McCartney will be good to her. She may even come to love him. But if you—’

  ‘Silence!’

  Obediently, Margeurite Micklen pressed her lips together and lowered her eyes. Their exchanges rarely came to this. She had learned her place long ago.

  Bartholomew rubbed his chin. ‘Emily is half French. Why should her patriotism be confined to English interests? You heard the major. Like Jack Noble, Angus McCartney has been sent across the channel. Why?’ He chuckled. ‘It stands to reason Woodhouse has recruited McCartney in place of our ignoble lately lamented Major Noble.’ He turned to warm his back, his smile contemplative. ‘Fanchette is in need of assistance.’

  ‘You have heard from Fanchette? After all these years …’

  Micklen smiled at the strangled surprise in his wife’s voice before answering roughly, ‘Fanchette deserves to be punished for foisting her useless sister upon me. Granted, there were benefits at the time, but now you are a millstone around my neck.’ His lip curled. ‘A hideous cripple.’

  Margeurite’s breathing quickened in defence. He could almost smell her terror as she croaked, ‘The only reason you stand where you are is because of Fanchette.’

  Micklen clicked his tongue. ‘Reminding me of my place, eh? My, my, you are becoming bold, Margeurite.’

  Margeurite lowered her eyes to her trembling hands. ‘You are rich thanks to Fanchette’s generosity—’

  ‘Thanks to her treachery, I think you mean. She sacrificed her family to the guillotine for a fortune which she spent on those she loved. God knows why she was so fond of you, butthe fact you still have a head on your misshapen body proves she does have some redeeming qualities, I suppose.’

  Gratified by the fear his wife was unable to hide, though disgusted by the drool she hurriedly wiped from her trembling mouth, he added, ‘Fanchette parades herself as the heroine of French liberation, but her black, immoral soul is a foul canker on all society. Should such a creature be rewarded?’

  Margeurite managed to raise her voice above a whisper. ‘All I want is the best for Emily. It’s all I’ve ever wanted …’

  Micklen laughed as she began to sob. Rubbing his hands together, he said, ‘The time has come for Emily to join the family firm, my dear Margeurite. Noble was supposed to be the means to bring that about, but the fool got himself killed. Now it’s time Emily started paying her mother’s dues, eh Margeurite? For twenty years you’ve been nothing but a drain on me … an affliction I’ve been forced to bear.’