Chapter 3

Frederick had not looked a great way beyond the proposal. If he had, it was with a vague notion that he would rush to London in person for a special license and marry in haste and near secrecy in Bath, only the requisite two witnesses present apart from the clergyman and the two of them. Things did not turn out quite that way.

First there was that infernal Whitehead, who turned out to be quite as humorless as Frederick had expected and quite as adamantly protective of Clara Danford’s interests as she had warned. The two men spent all of three hours together on the morning following the proposal, supposedly sitting over breakfast at the White Hart, to which hotel Frederick had been summoned, apparently conversing affably and agreeing on all major items of business, but in fact fencing with each other, sizing each other up, trying to decide if they liked each other and trusted each other. Trying to decide how much the other liked and respected Clara and had her interests at heart.

On one point at least Frederick was relieved. Enormously relieved. Although he was to receive only a dowry with his bride, it was far more generous than he had feared all through a pleasurable but distracted second night with Lady Waggoner. Twenty thousand pounds! It would pay all his debts with some to spare. It was tempting at first to consider which debts were pressing enough that they must be paid immediately and which ones could be conveniently forgotten about until in time they fell into the first category. But he would not give in to temptation. He would pay them all off, every last one of them. It would be a novel feeling to be debt-free.

It was going to be a novel feeling to be married, he thought when he was finally climbing the hill back to his own hotel. He still felt something like panic at the prospect. But he needed to think of it coolly and rationally. There was no getting out of it now. He was going to have to reform his ways. No more gambling, he decided, or not for high stakes, anyway. He had learned his lesson. And no more womanizing, or not to the extent he had carried on during the last several years anyway. He would find himself a mistress, something he was not in the habit of doing, and keep only one at a time. It would be infinitely more healthy than whoring. He had made no further assignations with Lady Waggoner after last night. It was the wrong time for a long-term affair, pleasurable as it would undoubtedly have continued to be.

Lord, he thought as he entered the York Hotel and nodded affably to those employees who were on duty in the lobby, he was not even married yet and already he was planning a complete transformation of his life. Would it be possible? Did it snow in July? He let himself into his private sitting room.

And found his mother seated there and his father standing at the window. Who the devil had told them? he wondered foolishly during the first moment of surprise. And then his mother was on her feet and he was hugging her and kissing her cheek and reaching out a hand to his father.

“What is this?” he asked, laughing.

“We were on our way home from Primrose Park,” Lady Bellamy said, “and decided to come out of our way here to call on you, Freddie.”

“Well,” he said, “I am delighted you did. Where is Les?”

“Your brother went to London,” Lord Bellamy said, “with some bee in his bonnet about traveling. He wants to go to Italy for the winter, it seems. Julia put the idea into his head apparently that he had always wanted to be a traveler.”

Jule. There was no getting away from his guilt, was there?

“We wondered why you did not stay for the wedding, Freddie,” his mother said, “but rushed away almost without a word to anyone.”

He grinned at her. “You know me, Mama,” he said. “Always restless. Always eager to be on to the next adventure.”

His father cleared his throat. “We thought it might have had something to do with Julia,” he said.

Oh, good Lord, had they heard?

“We thought perhaps you had offered for her yourself and been disappointed at her refusal,” his mother said. “We know you have always been fond of her, Freddie.”

They had not heard. He grinned again, with relief this time. “It was wicked of Uncle to state in his will that Primrose Park would go to whichever nephew Jule agreed to marry,” he said. “Of course I was interested for a while, Mama. It is an attractive property and I am fond of Jule. I even offered for her. But my feelings were not engaged. I wish her happiness with Dan. Did the wedding go well? Did the rest of the family stay for it?”

“Everyone except for you,” his father said.

Frederick shrugged. “I was afraid they would be embarrassed with me there,” he said. “Since I had proposed to her and all that—and Dan knew it. I would have been embarrassed.” He rushed on before courage could desert him. “I have some important news.” The understatement of the decade, he thought.

They both gave him their full attention.

“I got myself betrothed yesterday,” he said. “I am going to be married within the week.”

His mother sat down abruptly again. His father frowned. Frederick laughed.

“Are you not going to congratulate me?” he asked. “Are you not going to ask who she is?”

“Who is she?” his mother asked.

“You dark horse, Freddie,” his father said. “Someone you fancied before, is she? And you heard she was in Bath? That is why you rushed away and did not stay for the wedding?”

“Who is she?” his mother asked again, her voice more impatient.

“Miss Clara Danford,” he said. “Of Ebury Court in Kent. Her father was the late Sir Douglas Danford.”

“But why did you not tell us about her before, Freddie?” his mother asked. “How long have you know her?” 

“A week, Mama,” he said. “I met her here and fell headlong in love with her. It sounds out of character, I admit. It took me by surprise too.”

His mother’s eyes lit up and she clasped her hands to her bosom.

“Danford?” Lord Bellamy said with a frown. “The East India Company Danford, Freddie? He was as rich as a sultan, wasn’t he?”

“I think maybe he was,” Frederick said with a shrug, “according to something Clara said yesterday when I was making my offer to her, and according to what her man of business has just been telling me.”

“She inherited everything?” his father asked. 

“Apparently, yes,” Frederick said. “A nuisance actually. She is wealthier than I am. A man likes to feel that his wife will depend upon him for everything. But we will not let it spoil things for us.”

His father looked at him fixedly and shrewdly. “We must have a man-to-man talk later, Freddie,” he said. “Right now it is time for luncheon.”

“When may we meet your betrothed, Freddie?” his mother asked. “Oh, does not that sound strange and wonderful, Raymond? Clara is her name? A sensible name. Is she beautiful? But of course she must be. What a foolish question. No one has more of an eye to beauty in women than you. I just hope that she really is sensible too. Oh, this is turning into a marvelously exciting day. I am only just beginning to comprehend what you have told us, Freddie.” She laughed. ‘There is to be another wedding. Our own son this time. We are to have a daughter-in-law. Perhaps even a grandchild by next summer.”

“Luncheon, Eunice,” Lord Bellamy said firmly, setting a hand beneath his wife’s elbow.

Frederick’s cravat was feeling too tight suddenly.

“But when may we meet her, Freddie?” his mother asked again.

Clara was agitated when a note was brought from the York Hotel early in the afternoon asking if Mr. Sullivan might call later and bring with him his parents, Lord and Lady Bellamy, to present to his betrothed.

“Harriet,” she said, her face looking even paler than usual, “I did not think to have to meet his family so soon. They will know, will they not? As soon as they set eyes on me? That I have grabbed an opportunity to be married at the expense of their son?”

Harriet’s voice was angry. “Perhaps they will know too,” she said, “that he has grabbed an opportunity to enrich himself at your expense.”

“I wonder how much he has told them about me,” Clara said. “Do you think he has told them everything, Harriet? I cannot refuse to meet them, can I? Can I pretend to have had a sudden attack of smallpox? Or typhoid?” She laughed. “What shall I wear? My blue again? And what can I do with my hair? It is so unruly.” 

It really was something she had not expected. She had imagined a quiet wedding in her own drawing room, no one present except her and Freddie and the clergyman, with Harriet and perhaps Mr. Whitehead as witnesses. She supposed she must have realized that at some time in the future she would have to meet his family, but she had put the prospect comfortably to the back of her mind. She did not even know how large a family he had.

And Mrs. Whitehead would be coming for the wedding. She would not miss it for worlds, Mr. Whitehead had said during a brief visit before luncheon, during which he had been able to assure her that everything had been agreed most amicably between him and Freddie.

Suddenly the truth of what she had allowed to happen during the past few days was being borne in upon Clara. Harriet was not pleased.

“Oh, Clara,” she had said as soon as Frederick had left the previous afternoon, “what have you done? Have you really considered? What does he mean by calling you his love and looking at you with such melting glances?”

“He means to convey the impression that he is in love with me,” Clara had said.

“Oh, Clara.” Harriet had looked sorrowful. “Send him away. Tell him to go on the stage where he belongs.”

They had come near to quarreling for the first time.

“You must not say such things any longer, Harriet,” Clara had said quietly. “He is my betrothed. He is soon to be my husband. I will not hear anyone maligning him.”

Tears had stood in Harriet’s eyes and she had bitten her upper lip. “I am sorry,” she had said. “I am so sorry, Clara. Do you care for him after all, then?”

“Whether I do or not,” Clara had said, “he is to be my husband, Harriet. You must not expect me to discuss our relationship with you from this moment on.”

“I shall look about me for another position,” Harriet had said. “They are not difficult to come by in Bath. And Mama is here for me to live with while I wait. I am grateful that for more than two years my employer has also been my friend.”

Harriet should be the one marrying, Clara had thought suddenly. She was the beautiful one. It was just a lamentable fact that she was without fortune. She was the one who should be marrying Freddie. They would suit each other in splendor. He could probably even come to love someone like Harriet.

“Don’t leave, Harriet,” she had said. “Please. Not unless you will find the situation intolerable. I will need you as much as ever after I am married. My husband will have his own life, as all gentlemen do, but I will not be able to join him in as many activities as other wives enjoy. I will be able to share only a corner of his life. I will need your companionship and your friendship. Stay with me.”

And so they had both cried a little and assured each other that their friendship was too deep a one to be broken so easily. Of course she would stay, Harriet had said. She would have stayed for friendship’s sake even if she did not value the employment. And yet Clara had felt her pity-—pity for a woman who was to be married within the week but who could hope for only a corner of her husband’s life.

She did not pity herself. It was more than she had hoped for until a week before. It would be enough to push back the loneliness. It was not as if she loved Freddie, after all. She merely wanted to have a part in the type of life most people took for granted.

But she was nervous at the thought of meeting his parents. Lord and Lady Bellamy. They were only a baron and baroness. Her father had been a baronet. They were not so far above her in station. And yet she was awed by their titles. They would have expected more for their son. She wondered how much Freddie had told them about her.

Obviously it had not been a great deal. There was a horribly embarrassing moment when they were all admitted to her drawing room and Harriet rose out of respect—and the baroness’s face lit up as she began to stretch out her hand. And there was the strange look cast upon her by both the baron and the baroness when they finally realized that she was the one and she did not rise to greet them. It was a blank look. An identical blank look that spoke volumes to Clara’s anxious heart. They were deeply shocked. She wished absurdly that she had worn the blue again after all instead of the rose pink. As if a dress could have made an iota of difference.

“Clara is unable to walk,” Frederick was explaining. He had come up beside her chair and smiled warmly into her eyes and took her hand to raise to his lips. “How are you, my love?”

But she was too aware of his parents to do more than smile stiffly up at him.

“Please do excuse me for having to receive you like this,” she said, withdrawing her hand from Frederick’s and extending it to his mother.

“My dear,” Lady Bellamy said, taking her hand and bending over her, concern in her face, “was it an accident or an illness? No, don’t try to move. I shall seat myself here beside you and we shall have a cozy chat.”

“It was an illness, ma’am,” Clara said. “A lengthy childhood sickness when I was in India. One of those mysterious tropical illnesses. The physicians never did seem to know quite what it was.”

The baroness was kind, she thought in some relief. She must also be in some shock. The baron merely made his bow to her and seated himself in a chair indicated by Harriet and looked levelly at her. Frederick was sitting beside her, on the other side from his mother, and holding her hand again.

“Seeing Clara’s cheerful patience,” he said, smiling down at her and then looking at his mother, “can you wonder that I have tumbled into love with her, Mama?”

But of course, Clara thought, he must be quite as anxious as she at this meeting. It was obvious that he had not told them the full truth, that he was trying to deceive them as well as her. But they knew him better. They would know even better than she was expected to do just how incredible his story was. How could they look at her and believe that he had fallen in love with her?

“Harriet,” she said, “would you be so good as to ring for tea?”

It was as well, she thought, setting herself to entertain her visitors and very aware of the warm strength of her betrothed’s hand about her own, to get this over with. Perhaps after all it would have been more of an ordeal to meet the baron and baroness after a secret wedding.

The wedding did not take place for another four days. Though there was no particular hurry, Frederick realized. If any of his creditors had traced him to Bath, they would not have pressed their claims too hastily knowing that he was about to be married and to whom he was about to be married. He was safe.

He did not after all go to London the day following his meeting with Mr. Whitehead, as he had planned. His father had arranged a meeting at breakfast with him while his mother was still in her room. And an uncomfortable meeting it was, too. The baron demanded to know the truth.

“And don’t give me that cock-and-bull story about having fallen in love with Miss Danford, Freddie,” he said. “Have more respect for my intelligence. No offense to the lady, but she is very far from being a beauty. How big are your debts?”

Frederick was forced to admit to debts about half as large as they actually were. He submitted himself to a paternal lecture and promised faithfully that he would reform his ways. It was a speech and a promise that had repeated themselves with painful regularity over the past seven or eight years.

“But this time, Freddie,” his father said, “you have more than yourself to consider. You are going to have a wife. My guess is that the lady has endured more than her share of suffering during her life. I’ll not have my son causing her more.”

Frederick promised with even more vehemence. And meant every word. But then he had always done so. He had always resolved to turn over a new leaf every time his father had bought him out of some deep hole of his own digging. He wondered again if it ever snowed in July. If only someone with a long memory could prove to him that it did, that once in history it had, then perhaps there would be hope for him.

“But I do love her, Papa,” he said in conclusion, feeling compelled to justify himself in his father’s eyes. Somehow his father, endlessly patient and unwaveringly loving, could make him feel like a schoolboy again with one sorrowful look. “I love her more than life. I would marry her if she were a beggar.”

His father gave him that look—the one Frederick always dreaded more than any other. He even preferred anger to that level, knowing, and disappointed stare. “Don’t overdo it, Freddie,” he said. “Words mean little. Show her that you love her more than life. Make me proud of you, boy.”

Lord, it was enough to make his eyes sting. It would be the final humiliation to cry in front of his father. More than anything else at that moment, he wanted to make his father proud of him. It was a ridiculous admission for a twenty-six-year-old man to make, even to himself.

The afternoon had to be given over to another meeting with Mr. Whitehead, that gentleman and the baron finalizing the marriage settlement with Frederick as an almost silent third member of the party. His yearly income was to be increased after his marriage—it was to be called an income now, no longer an allowance. And there was to be a town house. Bachelor rooms would no longer be suitable for a married man, it seemed, even though it was unlikely that Clara would ever want to visit London with him. Ebury Court was to be their country home.

It was strange, Frederick thought, how one seemed to lose ownership of one’s own wedding once the proposal had been made. His mother spent the better part of the day at the house on the Circus with Clara, discussing things like flowers and wedding breakfasts. He saw Clara only briefly when he went to fetch his mother back to their hotel for dinner.

It was the next day before he finally set off for London and the special license. And once there he had to find out his brother to give him the news, and nothing would do but Lesley had to come to Bath too for the wedding. Italy could wait another day or two, he insisted, beaming his pleasure at his elder brother’s approaching happiness. Weddings and happiness were synonymous in Lesley’s vocabulary.

And so another day was lost while Lesley, uncertain what he should wear at the wedding—would it be quite the thing to wear the same outfit as he had worn at Dan and Jule’s wedding so recently?—packed two large trunks with almost all his possessions and had to be persuaded to reduce his luggage by at least half. And then he remembered that he had a new coat awaiting him at Weston’s, no less, Frederick found himself tossing glances at the ceiling and doing a deal of chuckling, something that always seemed to happen when he was with Les.

But finally they were back in Bath and the atmosphere of unreality. Everything had been arranged in his absence. Out of deference to Clara’s condition, the wedding would take place in her drawing room instead of in a church. The baroness explained all the details. In addition to the minister and the bride and groom, the groom’s parents and brother were to be in attendance, and the bride’s companion, Miss Pope, and her dear friends, Mr, and Mrs. Whitehead, Colonel and Mrs. Ruttledge, and the Misses Grover.

Frederick wondered how they would all crowd into the drawing room, but he supposed it was not so very many people really. Just a deal more than he had originally expected.

The Misses Grover were to take Miss Pope home with them after the wedding breakfast, her own mother being from home at the time, and she was to remain with them for a week, after which time the baron and baroness would bring her to Ebury Court. The newly married couple, it seemed, were to proceed there the day after the wedding.

And so they were to have a honeymoon alone, Frederick discovered. He had not thought of honeymoons. He still did not know if there was any possibility of its being a normal marriage in any way.

There was a horribly confused mingling of reality and unreality in Frederick’s mind as he retired to bed on the night following his return from London. His mother had seemed to be describing some alien event, something that had nothing whatsoever to do with him. And yet— good Lord!—he was going to be a married man by this time tomorrow.

He found himself wishing that he had not eaten such a hearty dinner.

Clara, meanwhile, was just closing her eyes after lying staring at the canopy over her bed for a long time. She could still see the pleats of the drapery outlined against her closed eyelids.

It had all become frighteningly real. Somehow, as long as their impending marriage had concerned only her and Freddie, it had seemed quite reasonable. They were each marrying for a very definite reason. They each had something to gain from the marriage. It might turn out tolerably well.

But now other people were involved and she had the panicked feeling that she had started something that had developed a life of its own and was galloping along beyond her control. Several of her acquaintances had learned of her betrothal and had come with their smiles and kisses and handshakes and congratulations, and with their observations on the good looks and charm of Mr. Sullivan. Some of her closest acquaintances had called while Lady Bellamy was with her and had promptly been invited to the wedding.

Lady Bellamy had been very kind and very eager to ensure that the wedding would be an event to remember. Clara guessed that she was disappointed that it was not to be a large society wedding. But she had made the best of the situation. Clara discovered that there must be flowers everywhere, including the bride’s hair, and that a special wedding breakfast must be prepared. She discovered that a seamstress must be summoned in all haste since she must have a new dress for the wedding and a new carriage dress to wear when she and Freddie left for Ebury Court the morning after their wedding. It was only a pity that there was insufficient time to have a whole wardrobeful of bride clothes made.

Lady Bellamy had arranged for Harriet to leave the house on the wedding day and to stay away for the first week of the marriage. Clara found the whole unexpected idea frightening and rather embarrassing. She wondered how Freddie would react to the idea of a week-long honeymoon.

It was that thought that made Clara close her eyes. A honeymoon. One week. She would have that, at least. He would surely stay with her at Ebury Court until his parents came at the end of the week, bringing Harriet home with them. At the age of twenty-six she would finally discover tomorrow night what it was like to be fully a woman. She would discover it in company with all that strong and splendid masculinity.

It was an exciting thought. A terrifying thought. And one not at all conducive to sleep. Yet she must sleep. If she did not, she would be even paler than she usually was in the morning. And there would be shadows beneath her eyes. She was plain enough without those added defects.

She willed herself to sleep. And felt rather nauseated and dizzy. And breathlessly excited.