The Forgotten Marriage Page 3

  In spite of her brave words, the Honorable Barbara was less than confident when, a week after receiving Mr. Jenkins’ missive, her post-chaise drew up in front of the Morley mansion on Portman Street, to which, Lucian’s identity having been discovered, he had been moved some four days earlier. A memory of their last encounter caused her to shiver as, accompanied by her mother, she mounted the three steps leading to the pillared portico.

  “It is a charming house . . . one tends to forget how charming,” Lady Barrington commented, evidently deciding to eschew any unwelcome comparisons with the ducal palace of the Prydes.

  “Yes,” Barbara agreed. “Quite a lot of money was expended on its rebuilding, Lucian told me. And there is the hunting seat in Leicestershire and, of course, the abbey.” She grimaced. “But we need not count that.”

  “No,” her mother agreed distastefully. “It has not been opened for years and I believe that Lord Dome had it in mind to tear it down—at least the house if not the abbey mins.”

  “I am quite in agreement about the house.” Barbara grimaced a second time. “It is a moldy old place to be sure and always cold, but”—she achieved a sentimental sigh—“Lucian and I did meet in the mins.”

  “Yes, I well remember that.” Lady Barrington thinned her lips. “ ’Twas when you were ten and slipped away from Mrs. Pope. What a fright you did give that poor woman, and myself as well. You were a very naughty child, willful and spoiled!” Lady Barrington sounded unusually stem.

  “You cannot scold me for it now,” her unrepentant daughter said with a smile that faded as her mother, reaching the paneled front door, lifted the knocker and slammed it forcefully against its plate. “He did ask for me, Mama,” Barbara said in a small defensive tone of voice.

  “Most assuredly he did, my love. I am sure . . . “Lady Barrington broke off as the door opened and Church, a heavyset man in his late fifties, appeared on the threshold. He had been looking very gloomy, but at the sight of the fair visitors he brightened.

  “Yer Ladyship,” he said obsequiously. He had a broad smile for Barbara. “ ’Is Lordship’ll be that glad to see ye,” he continued. “ ’E’s been ’opin ye’d come.”

  Barbara bestowed a small smile on him. “One prays that he is on the road to recovery. Church.”

  “ ’E will be now,” the butler remarked with a touch of familiarity that, Barbara reflected, must be allowed a man who had long served the family and had known her since she was a child. In fact, she was considerably heartened by his attitude. Obviously Church knew nothing of that last fateful meeting when she had summarily broken her long-standing engagement to Lucian and broken his heart as well, as he had not scrupled to inform her. However, the butler’s lack of knowledge was not surprising, for he had been at Tunbridge Wells with the late viscount during Lucian’s last leave. Lucian had come to London from the watering place, and directly he had left her, he had gone to Belgium. Given his father’s state of health, it was doubtful that he had written him concerning that disappointment. No, she decided, he could not have written, else Church would have known. Servants had a way of knowing everything. Pryde’s failure to come up to scratch would have been blabbed all over London had she not given Jane a cameo brooch and three gowns she had not even worn yet, as well as the most delightful bonnet adorned with three ostrich plumes, all of which were very dear.

  “ ’Is Lordship’s in the library,” the butler said. He added, “Ye’ll find 'im a mite confused as yet. ’E don’t remember naught past Vitoria, an 'e ’as been ’ard put to realize that ’e were wounded at Waterloo.”

  “We are acquainted with his condition, thank you. Church,” Lady Barrington said graciously. “ ’Tis a great pity.”

  “It is that.” Church nodded. He fastened a penetrating stare on Barbara’s face. “ ’E were in a rare takin’ for fear you’d not waited, Miss Barbara.”

  The smile with which Barbara now favored the butler was beatific. “But I have,” she said unblushingly. “And will lose no time in informing him of that fact.”

  Her smile broadened as she and her mother followed Church up the stairs to the first floor and down the hall to the library. She had quite forgotten the luxuries of the mansion. The late viscount’s father had been an art lover and he had collected a number of fine paintings, including a splendid Rembrandt and, what was much more to her taste, a Botticelli that quite rivaled the master’s Birth of Venus. There was also a charming Romney that might be, she thought disapprovingly, an early likeness of that depraved Irish doxy, Lady Hamilton and, she also remembered, there was the famous Reynolds portrait of Lady Morley, Lucian’s grandmother, which hung in the first drawing room.

  That Lucian was in his library rather than his bedchamber did not surprise her. He enjoyed reading and had been a collector of books. He possessed a signed Childe Harold, she recalled, and probably he would be much shocked to hear about Byron’s hinted incestuous relationship with his half- sister Augusta Leigh, this despite his connection with Annabella Milbanke. For one who served with the armed forces, Lucian was surprisingly stiff-necked about extramarital relationships. He had always decried the fact that even before his mother’s early death, his father had not scrupled to take as his mistress Miss Violetta, an opera dancer at Covent Garden. Her thoughts came to an abrupt end as they reached the library.

  Church knocked on the door and she heard Lucian call weakly, “Come.”

  Opening the door, the butler announced, “Lady Barrington an’ Miss Barrington, yer Lordship.”

  “Please have them come in, Church.” There was a lilt to Lucian’s tone now.

  As Lady Barrington entered, Barbara, following her, cast a quick look at her gown—in her favorite green, as usual, and part of that unofficial trousseau she had been collecting until the miserable Duchess of Pryde had summarily put a period to her dearest hopes. Though the Grecian look was not as popular as it had been a few Seasons ago, it had always been vastly becoming to her really beautiful figure and consequently she had had no qualms about having it made. She was sure that it must meet with Lucian’s approval. As for her bonnet, high-crowned and ornamented with bronzed cock- feathers, nothing could have been more becoming, she was positive. Lifting her head, she stepped into the library. Her eyes widened as she saw Lucian lying on his long leather sofa. Though he was thinner and much paler than when last they had met, he had lost nothing in looks. She moved forward, impulsively saying softly, “Lucian, my own love, oh, thank God, thank God . . . after all these weeks and weeks of uncertainty, to see you alive! ’Tis a miracle, indeed. If you but knew how very much I have suffered ...” Her voice broke and she brought her gloved hand to her eye to wipe away a nonexistent tear.

  He looked up at her and it seemed to Barbara that his heart was in his eyes as he replied haltingly, “My Barbara ... my beautiful, beautiful Barbara. Then n-nothing has—has changed between us?”

  “My dearest.” She glided to his side and sank to her knees. “Oh, my poor, poor Lucian—all that has changed is that I know you are here in the world, and I can put my mourning aside, as you see I have. Oh, my dearest darling, have you suffered much?”

  “ ’Tis nothing,” he said, looking at her as if he could not believe she was real. He put a hand to his head. “You know . . . Mr. Jenkins told you, I think, that I have received a blow that has wiped out two years of my life.” He regarded her anxiously. “Are you sure that does not matter?”

  “My love, nothing matters save that you have returned to me and we can be married at last,” she dared to say.

  He stared into her eyes. “We are still betrothed, then?”

  “How could you think otherwise, my own? Have you ever known me to be unfaithful?”

  “Barbara, my love,” he exclaimed. He added with that impulsiveness that had always been an integral part of his nature, “When can we be married?”

  She knew that he wanted an immediate wedding, but thinking about mantua makers, fittings, announcements, and the dinners, teas, routs, and bal
ls given to celebrate this most felicitous and, she thought happily, triumphant occasion. Barbara said softly, “We will be married as soon as you can walk to the altar.”

  “Ah”—he expelled a deep breath that he must have been holding—“I will see that that will be very, very soon, my dearest Barbara.”

  In another household, another letter was received, read, and re-read with mounting incredulity by Lady Alicia Mor- ley. Turning to Timothy, who was sitting at the edge of the couch on which she was lying, Alicia said faintly, “But—but it is not p-possible.”

  Timothy said in some surprise, “What is not possible, my dear?”

  “Octavia writes ... she writes ...” Alicia shook her head and handed him the letter. “In the Morning Post," she said incomprehensibly, and leaning back against the cushions, she closed her eyes.

  Her father, who had been standing near the fireplace, crossed the small parlor in two strides. “My dearest,” he cried, “you’ll not swoon!” He looked about for the vinaigrette, which had been in use more than once in the past three and a half months. He could not find it and, a second later, decided that this time it would not be needed. Alicia had opened her eyes again. He regarded his daughter with a mixture of sorrow and something perilously close to an agony he had not experienced since the death of his wife. She had had much the look of Alicia at the last, thin and pale, all her vivid coloring dimmed, but it had been a wasting illness, not grief, that had finished her. Still, of late, he had feared that Alicia too must succumb as the weeks turned into months and her anguish over the death of her young husband remained unabated.

  He shuddered, remembering her terrible walk over the corpse-strewn field of Waterloo and her agonized wail that she had not found him during that desperate search. Nor had she found him in the many, many houses and hospitals she had visited in Brussels and environs. It was not until then that she had resigned herself to the fact that he was dead.

  “If he were not dead, he would have come back to me,” she had finally admitted.

  Neither he nor Timothy, though they had discussed the possibility often enough, had dared to put forth the theory that if he were alive, he might not want to see her. There was always the chance that he had been terribly wounded or disfigured or both.

  “Good God!” Timothy’s explosive exclamation scattered his father’s thoughts. He added, “We must go to London!” Alicia’s thin hand flew to her throat. “No, it—it cannot be true.”

  “Yet, supposing it is?” Timothy frowned.

  “What is?” Sir Anthony demanded testily. “Where are my spectacles? No, better yet—what is in the letter, my boy?”

  “Shall I read it to you?” Timothy said with a grimness that reminded Sir Anthony of those nights when he, coming penniless from the gaming house, was met at the door by his son, candle in hand. Yet this letter, which had come from London, more specifically from Lady Octavia Winterbourne, could have had no connection with his gambling debts. He said, “Please, dear boy.”

  “I cannot believe it,” Alicia cried. “I cannot believe it.” Slipping from the couch, she ran out of the room. For once her brother made no effort to follow and comfort her. He picked up the letter and began to read:

  My dear Alicia,

  I have news for you which I almost hesitate to set down, but feel that I must. Yesterday, (12 September) there was a notice in the Morning Post. I herewith enclose it. Read it and I will continue with what I have found out which is, unfortunately, very little.

  “Read the notice,” Sir Anthony prompted as Timothy paused.

  “I was just about to do so,” his son said. “Marriage to take place: Lucian Morley, Lord Dome, to the Honorable Barbara Barrington, daughter of the late, etc. at St. James’s Church, 12 October.”

  “No! I cannot believe it,” Sir Anthony said explosively. “May I please continue with the letter, sir?” Timothy inquired with strained patience.

  Sir Anthony, who was well-acquainted with his son’s moods, guessed that he was on the verge of exploding into one of his rare rages. He said pacifically, “Please do, dear boy. I am most anxious to hear the rest of it.”

  “Lady Octavia writes:

  I have made as many inquiries as I may, given the fact that I, unfortunately, have no friends in common with the Honorable Barbara Barrington. And upon calling on Lord Morley, I was informed by his butler, a most officious individual, that his lordship was not at home to any but his closest friends—these the butler knows and is most protective and, I might add, suspicious of strangers, male or female. Why, I cannot know, but in the circumstances could not pursue my inquiries concerning his Lordship any further. However, my dearest Alicia, I have discovered that before his elevation to the title, the said Lord Dome bore the courtesy title of Lord Lucian Morley, that he was in the Light Company, 33rd Regiment from Yorkshire. He had the rank of captain. He fought at Waterloo and was subsequently invalided home with a broken leg and sundry other injuries, the nature of which I could not discover. Still, I must conclude that the Lord Dome whose engagement was announced in the Morning Post is, indeed, your husband.

  With that in mind, I made a great effort and it met with success. I have obtained four cards to a ball given by Lord

  Barrington, the uncle of the bride. It will take place on 30 September and I herewith enclose two cards for you. My fiance (more about him in another letter) and I will make use of the other two and give you the support you need, should you wish to make any revelations and/or accusations at that time. I wish I could have garnered more information, but unfortunately my efforts have proved unsuccessful.

  Please, Alicia, my love, whatever your feelings are, I pray that you and Timothy will attend that ball. If he, by some wild circumstance, is not your Lucian, then you will have set your mind at rest. If he is, you will be able to prevent a serious crime: that of bigamy. I remain, etc.

  Timothy looked up from the letter. “What have you to say to that, sir?”

  Sir Anthony loosed a long sigh. “I wish I could go with you, dear boy, but unfortunately my debts are not entirely settled and I stand in danger of being packed off to the Marshalsea or another of those poisonous dens. However, it being the nineteenth of September, I suggest that you begin immediate preparations for the journey. I have enough of the ready to send you across the Channel and subsequently to London, where you may stay at Grillons. It is a trifle dear, but I won a goodly sum last night and have quite changed my plans about trying to increase it tonight. If Alicia says she does not want to accompany you, she must be persuaded to change her mind.”

  “I have changed my mind, Papa,” Alicia said from the doorway. She ran to him and threw her arms around him. “I—I cannot believe that it—it is Lucian, but . .

  Sir Anthony looked down into her pale, sad little face. “But, my dearest child, you owe it to yourself to find out one way or the other,” he told her lovingly. “I can see that you agree.”

  “Yes, sir, I do,” she said more strongly than he had heard her speak in the last three months.

  He looked from Alicia to Timothy and said proudly but with a catch to his voice and an unusual wetness in eyes that were the exact color of his daughter’s, “It may be premature, but I wish you bon voyage, my dear children, and good luck, May you arrive safely and find what you seek.”

  4

  Lady Octavia Winterbourne, standing in the small parlor, part of the suite of rooms Sir Anthony had booked at Grillons Hotel, looked concernedly at Alicia. Tall and commanding, she towered over her friend. And, as usual, Alicia was reminded of a statue of Pallas Athena she had once seen in a Brussels museum. Octavia had the same wide brow, serene gaze, and large noble features, and that she, also, was aware of that likeness was borne out by the way she dressed her hair—pulled back in loose waves from her forehead and arranged in a Grecian knot. However, her tone, generally as serene as her appearance, was unexpectedly tart this afternoon.

  Fixing an accusing stare on Alicia’s face, she said, “You are being stubborn a
nd—and ridiculous, to boot. You cannot appear at that ball in your widow’s weeds!"

  “But I am a widow,” Alicia stated.

  “We are not at all sure of that,” Lady Octavia retorted, rolling her gray eyes in the direction of Timothy Delacre, whose hazel glance reflected her annoyance. She was positive that they were of the same opinion. Alicia was not daring to let herself hope that the man she would see that night was her lost husband. She continued, “Frankly, Licia, black does not become you. It blots you out. Lucian loved you in colors—I remember you telling me.”

  “Lucian is dead,” Alicia said baldly.

  “As I just told you, we are not sure that he is. That is why you are here, if you will remember.”

  “You have made me sure,” Alicia retorted. “You just said ‘Lucian loved you in colors’; loved is in the past. Lucian is in the past. I am in the past. I do not know why I was persuaded to come here. I should never have come, never, never, never.” Alicia’s tone was half-woeful, half-accusing.

  “But,” Lady Octavia, by dint of remembering her friend’s misery, managed to control her impatience, “you are here, my dear, and widows, as you know full well, do not generally attend balls. You will only draw unnecessary attention to yourself.”

  “Then I will not go!”

  “But you will go, my dearest sister,” Timothy spoke for the first time since the argument had commenced. “And if Octavia does not think you should wear black—and I am in complete agreement with her—you can wear half-mourning. Gray or white or violet!”