Chapter Nine
Wrth gicio a brathu, mae cariad yn magu.
Whilst kicking and biting, love develops. (Welsh Proverb)
The one downside to Rakecombe’s wedding day morning was the sight of a sotted marquess and snoring earl in his normally immaculate study. The loiter-sacks slobbered over his furniture and had noticeably scuffed the silk.
Had the twosome really been so deeply cut that they couldn’t find the guest chambers?
He himself had awoken snug in bed, but perhaps Rawlins had lent a hand, in part earning his exorbitant wage.
Considering the quantity of hashed goose, claret and brandy he’d consumed, Rakecombe felt rather well. No doubt, skipping chef’s breakfast had aided his agreeable constitution. A selection of pastries had been sent up but they’d wept with butter and he’d pushed them to one side.
He shook Winterbourne’s shoulders as the chap drooled over his chaise, feet bare.
“Gerroff, darling,” the rogue slurred. “Maybe later.”
“Get your hairy arse, darling, off my furniture. You have one hour to return home, scrub yourself clean and attend my wedding.”
Blood-shot eyes opened. “It’s a nightmare.” They closed again.
Slightly easier to awaken was Kelmarsh, who guiltily realised he’d sent no message to his wife about the impromptu nightcap.
The two wastrels sluggishly gathered their thoughts and strewn waistcoats, and Rakecombe bustled them with indecent haste to the hall, denying them breakfast – in truth doing them a favour.
Upon arrival at the main door, where his efficient butler stood with their coats, he promptly twisted to Kelmarsh as a thought had been preying on his mind this morning.
“Should anything happen to me…in the future. Look after Aideen, won’t you? I need to know she’ll be protected.” His friend nodded, eyes grave and knowing. “And you also, Winterbourne. For some reason, she favours your acquaintance.”
“Of course, old fellow,” he replied, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “But no more tristus canis today. We live for the moment as the future is forever just that. Now,” he said, running fingers through his immaculate hair despite a night on the chaise – how did he do that? “Have you anything other than black for your wedding? Or else the mourners… I’m sorry, guests may get the wrong idea.”
Rakecombe thought for a moment. “I have an off-black waistcoat with charcoal thread running through it.”
“Hmm. I’ll send something over. No need to thank me.”
∞∞∞
Aideen sat. Twitched. Fiddled with her lilac wedding gown. Even her toes jiggled in the silk slippers.
Everyone had abandoned her, citing the absurd notion that she needed some time to herself this morning before the big event. Time to gather her thoughts and to rest.
She didn’t.
Only when reading did she ever have restful thoughts, the story transporting her to another place, but she could hardly bury herself in a book now: the words would be a hodgepodge.
Furtively, she gazed over at a purple box deposited on the side table.
Sophie had brought it earlier as an additional wedding gift, but she’d made Aideen promise on her lucky clover not to open it until tonight. What Sophie didn’t know, however, was that her lucky clover had never performed as wished and she’d given up on the dratted thing a year ago.
The wedding gown rustled as she stood and meandered in a roundabout way to the box as though someone was watching her through a crack in the door. She skirted a chair and peered at the many flowers on the mantel – from everyone except her spouse-to-be.
Well, if the entire family were going to leave her alone, what was she supposed to do?
Covertly, she skimmed a finger under the box lid. There was something silky, something–
“Miss Quinlan?”
“I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me,” she shrieked, turning and knocking the box to the floor.
A lady, and there was no doubt this was a lady, stood in the doorway. The Duchess of Rakecombe – soon to be addressed as Dowager.
Oh heavens.
With spine straight and head high, the duchess perused Aideen from mauve slippers to the violets in her hair. The lady herself wore an exquisite deep navy gown with matching pelisse – a fashion plate of sophistication, and even though Aideen was taller than the older female, she felt lower than a snake.
“Miss Aideen Quinlan,” the lady repeated, her tone all hauteur.
Was that a question or a statement or a command?
“Yes, Your Grace.” She gave her best curtsey, kicking the box under the table.
“Hmm. An unusual given name. It means ‘little fire’. Are you?” A fierce glare followed that question.
Aideen considered a clanker, but they were to be related and she would only be able to hide her true nature for so long.
“Yes. I have been known to be.”
Her Grace’s eyes began to fill with tears and her lip quivered.
Fiddlesticks, as Mrs Beckford would say.
The small woman dashed towards her and Aideen flinched, but then…
Uncle Seamus was good at hugs, hearty and strong; they smelled of smoke and wood. Mrs Beckford’s were appreciated, but always at a distance as they creased one’s gown. Sophie’s were mad and tangled.
This lady’s was enthusiastic and heartfelt, arms surrounding Aideen’s waist, tight and sincere; she smelled of expensive silk and orange blossom.
“I’m so glad.” The duchess pulled back, face wreathed in smiles, satin hands cupping Aideen’s cheeks. “I worried he’d marry some milksop miss and that isn’t what the boy needs at all.”
Boy? “Erm, thank you.”
“You’re perfect, my dear. I can tell. And us Celts must stick together.”
“Celts?” Aideen stared at her imminent mother-in-law’s face as intelligent faded green eyes rolled in disgust. She was pretty, not in a handsome way but soft, like a peach, and age looked well on her.
The lady elegantly seated herself on the settee and patted the silk cushion next to her. “Has Alex not told you anything about our family?”
Aideen perched on the edge. “We’ve not had many…conversations.”
“Oh, the naughty whelp.”
“I didn’t mean–”
She laughed, a delicate trill. “I was delighted when I saw him kissing you so ardently. I’d almost despaired of him, you understand. He needs to…unstiffen a little.”
Aideen couldn’t contain a snort. “You are not what I expected, Your Grace.”
“Pish, call me Meghan. I know he likes to act the priggish proper duke, but he conveniently forgets that his father and I eloped to Gretna Green.”
“What?” Aideen gawped.
“My, he hasn’t told you anything, has he? Are you sure you want him? We could travel to Egypt instead. I’ve always wanted to go and am seeking a suitable companion. We will get on famously, I can tell.”
Aideen was used to Uncle Seamus talking at tangents, but she did enjoy Meghan’s thought process.
Did Aideen want the Duke of Rakecombe?
Unfortunately…yes.
“Why did you go to Gretna Green? Did the then duke disapprove?”
“Oh, gracious no, dear.” She leaned in. “My own father did! Isn’t that wonderful? I grew up in a tiny harbour village in north Wales. Gentlefolk, yes, but no title, and years in England has erased the accent. Anyhow, Alex’s father was in Wales for the air – my Matthew always suffered from delicate lungs – and we met whilst I was sketching the castle. It was love at first sight.” The lady sighed.
Egad, and Aideen thought she talked a lot. “So why–”
“I had more money in my reticule than his family did. His father, Alex’s grandfather, was an absolute gambling wastrel – lost everything. Of course, he had the entailed estate but it was not well-tended and so gave no income. My father thus considered Matthew of the same ilk, so we eloped, dear. Fortuitously, well, not to speak ill of the dead, but Alex’s grandfather died suddenly, and we spent years rebuilding the monies and estate – such happy times. Along came Alex and then Gwen. But my Matthew died of those weak lungs and then…we lost Gwen also.” She took an immaculate handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at rounded cheeks.
Without hesitation, Aideen clasped the duchess’s hand in hers. “I’m so sorry about your husband; you must miss him greatly. And I apologise for my ignorance, but who is Gwen?”
“Oh!” She scowled. “I’ll have Alex’s guts for garters. Gwen was his sister, my daughter, born four years after Alex. She was taken from us at eighteen years.”
Aideen hugged the now sorrowful woman. The words “taken from us” allowed for so many interpretations, none of them good.
“How truly awful. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
“’Twas long ago, my dear. At the time, it hurt like a mortal wound and though it still aches, I can breathe easier now. My Matthew used to say life is not life without bitterness, for how can we appreciate the sweetness. I am not sure Alex has learned this yet.”
Meghan stood but not before another forceful hug. “I am so glad he is to marry you. And if you are concerned about society, as I was at your age, do not worry a jot, as we will be a twosome to be reckoned with. As for Alex… He needs someone to challenge him, to interest him, but even more, to love him. He is not the easiest of men, but I know he would be worth it. I know he could give so much, if he would only allow himself. So I hope you will come to love him, Aideen. See you in church.”
A buss to the cheek and the scent of orange blossom departed.
Aideen sat, her thoughts a jumble. The duchess’s words had struck deep.
The question was not perhaps could she love him, but whether she already did.