Marry in Haste (3 page)

He seemed pleased with her answer. “Yes, I suppose so. Though I cannot think that your treatment at the hands of the English has been such as to fill you with any great gratitude.”

“You are mistaken, sir.” She flared up at once in defence of her friends. “Everything I am and have I owe to the Duchess of Devonshire. You do not understand—how can you?—what it is to be a refugee, to have nothing. If it had not been for her ... I ... I do not like to think what might have happened to me.”

He smiled at her very kindly. “It becomes you to defend her, but surely to end up as a governess—and in such a house as Mrs. Cummerton’s—is hardly the pinnacle of worldly bliss?”

“But that was no one’s fault but my own,” she said. “I could have stayed at Devonshire House forever, I am sure, if I could have borne it, and I have no doubt, if the Duchess had lived, I should have done so. Everything was different when she was alive. It did not seem to matter then that I was the object of charity, penniless, without a dowry, but when she died, everything changed. You have no idea, sir, how difficult it is to be the victim of benevolence.”

He smiled, signalled to the footman to refill their glasses, and changed the conversation to politics. “I collect, since you were brought up at Devonshire House, that you are the fiercest of Whigs,” he said, “and think nothing Government does is right.”

“Why, not exactly.” She considered it for a minute. “Because, you see, we
must
beat Bonaparte, or he will tyrannise over the whole world, and the Whigs do not seem to be sure about that. But what are your politics, sir?”

He smiled at that direct question. “Why, Tory of the deepest dye. In fact, I rather expect to be employed in the new government that is now forming—the Duke of Portland, you must know, is my cousin, and you will, I am sure, have heard that we Tories carry nepotism to the point of scandal.”

“Nepotism, sir?” She raised delicate eyebrows at him.

“I cry your pardon. I am lecturing you as if you were a political meeting. Nepotism, Miss Forest, is the gentle art of giving jobs to your relations. You must have heard that we Tories are perfect in it.”

“Well,” she considered, “the Whigs seem to do pretty well at it too.”

“Ah yes, but in their case, of course, it is pure coincidence. Or so they say. But tell me, now we have reached our second glass of champagne, is it possible that you have come out of Devonshire House heart-whole? Are you not secretly wearing the willow for young Hartington? Or one of those noisy Lamb boys who hang about there?”

She coloured—what an extraordinary conversation this was—but answered composedly enough. “Why, as to Hartington,” she said, “no one who knows him could help loving him—as a brother—but I am not quite mad, sir. To be Duchess of Devonshire is something above my touch. Besides,” she added with transparent candour, “I think I lived too closely with them all to fall in love with any of them.”

“So here you are, a full-fledged governess, and, if I am not very far out in my calculations, twenty years old, and without a romantic attachment to bless yourself with?”

She laughed. “You make my condition seem deplorable indeed, but I refuse to despair. We French, you know, are a practical race. I gave up dreaming of a grand romance when I was seventeen and began to understand that all the men I met were quite beyond my mark. Since then, I have had various plans. I should make an admirable wife for a country clergyman, I think; and a governess, you know, has frequent chances of meeting
them.
And, if all else fails, I can always set up as a modiste.”

“What a talented young lady you are, to be sure. You will be telling me next that you are skilled in cookery and made that charming dress you are wearing. I cannot, however, think that you know Portuguese.”

“Portuguese?” She looked at him in amazement. “What is that to the purpose?”

“Why, perhaps, a great deal, if you are indeed as practical as you suggest. Do you drink port, Miss Forest? No? I thought very likely not; it is hardly a young lady’s drink. Marston,” he turned to the butler, who had been, for some minutes past, hovering nearby in a faintly threatening manner, “fill up our glasses, set the dessert on the table, and leave us. Miss Forest will take pity on my solitude and drink another glass with me. You see,” he turned back to Camilla, “that I am something of a tyrant in my home.”

She had been thinking that on the contrary he seemed oddly ill at ease. Throughout the meal she had been aware of a certain tension behind the miscellaneous questions he had fired at her, and this awareness of strain in him had done much to ease her own nervousness. Just the same, now, with the room empty, the candles flickering, and the fire burning low, she found her hands uncontrollably shaking as she helped herself to the cheese Leominster recommended. What could the proposition be that he had spoken of at the beginning of dinner? Why had he asked her so many questions, almost, she thought, as if she were applying for a position? What was the cause of the strange excitement she felt burning beneath his outward calm?

“A glass of wine with you, Miss Forest.” His voice interrupted her thoughts. Solemnly they drank, then, his glass empty, he pushed his plate aside and leaned over the table towards her. “Will you bear with me, Miss Forest, while I tell you something about myself?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Then to begin with, as I think I told you before, I do not like women. Anyone will tell you that. I do not understand them, I do not appreciate them, I do not want them. Please remember that. I never had a mother; my sister might just as well be my daughter. My cousin Harriet is well enough; she teases me, but not beyond bearing—but as for young ladies—heaven defend me. I know nothing about them, and I do not wish to learn. You will forgive me, I know, for making this plain from the start. You are, you have told me, a practical Frenchwoman; very well, then, I have a practical proposition to put to you. Will you marry me, Miss Forest?”

“Marry you?” She could not believe her ears.

“Yes, marry me. On the strict understanding that it is a marriage of—shall we say—appearance only. You look confounded, Miss Forest, and I do not blame you. I fear I have set about this quite the wrong way. Let me explain. I have a grandmother, the Dowager Lady Leominster, to whom I have just been paying my yearly visit of duty. She is a fierce old lady with a great sense of family pride—and a close hand on the family purse. I have the title, this house, and a pittance with which to support them. My grandmother has millions, which I had always assumed would come to me, in the fullness of time. Yesterday, she told me that unless I marry, she will leave the whole to my cousin. So you see you are not the only one to know what it is to be the victim of benevolence.” His voice was bitter. “You, with your spirit, which drove you out into the world as a governess, will perhaps ask why I do not snap my fingers at my grandmother and her money. But I have family pride too. I love this house and cannot bear to see it falling to pieces about my ears. Besides, a title has its responsibilities; there is my cousin Harriet; there are others, whom I feel bound to support. I had hoped, perhaps vainly, that I might find a solution to my difficulties in Government office. Now, I have been offered a place by my cousin—he wishes me to go as special assistant to Lord Strangford, our Minister Plenipotentiary at the Court of Portugal. It is a position of the greatest dignity and difficulty—and one that will cost me infinitely more than it brings in. And as if that was not enough, my grandmother has to tell me that she wishes to see me married before I go. I tell you, Miss Forest, I was in despair when I met you, but since then, I have been beginning to hope. You are everything of which my grandmother would approve, and—forgive me—you are in a position where even the half marriage I offer might be—well, preferable at least to turning modiste. If you were head over ears in love, I would not have ventured this proposition, but you tell me you are heart-whole. Would it amuse you to come to Portugal with me, Miss Forest?”

She had heard him out in amazed silence; now she thought for a moment before speaking. “It is indeed a remarkable proposition, my lord. But have you thought closely enough, I wonder, about what you are doing? Your grandmother, you say, wishes you to marry out of family pride. Surely, if I may speak plainly with you, this means she wants you to marry and get an heir. May you not find, if you venture into the kind of arrangement you have done me the honour of suggesting, that you are saddled with the wife, and still deprived of the fortune for lack of the heir?”

He looked at her with a new respect. “I confess that is an idea that has occurred to me. But my grandmother is a woman of her word; she has not stipulated the heir; she will hold to her side of the bargain. Besides, she is hardly to know on what terms we live—and—she is a very old lady. That is the ground on which she insists on my marrying forthwith. She wishes, she says, to see me established in life before I go to Portugal because she does not expect to live until my return. As a matter of fact, I have no doubt she will live to be a hundred, but there it is; she has delivered her ultimatum and will abide by it. And anyway, if I must marry, there could be worse times. It is bound to be something of a nine days’ wonder, and we would be safe away from it, in Portugal. Besides, a wife is always a useful adjunct to a diplomat.”

Camilla could not help laughing. “I must say, sir, that your proposal is scarcely a flattering one. ‘If you must marry’ indeed. What do you expect me to say to that?”

“Why, anything to the purpose.” There was a note of impatience in his voice. “I have been at some pains, already, to explain to you that this is anything but a romantic proposal. Flattering, on the other hand, in some ways, I think it is. You are the first young lady I have met with who had enough sense to entertain it for a moment.”

“Or enough foolishness.” Thoughtfully. “But then, you must remember, sir, that I am only by courtesy a young lady. Do you really think your grandmother will be delighted at the news that you are to marry a governess? Not,” she hurried on, “that I have at all decided to agree to your remarkable proposition, but I think we would do well to have all clear between us. And she does not sound to me like the kind of person who will take kindly to a
declass
e
e
granddaughter-in-law.”

“What a sensible girl you are,” he said with approval. “All your objections are admirable ones. Of course we would have to handle it with care, but I think if we make you known to her first, and tell your story afterwards, we will do well enough. Besides, she will be too delighted at having me marry at all to throw many rubs in our way.”

Again she laughed. “More and more flattering. Well, sir, it is an odd enough proposition, but I tell you frankly I find myself so circumstanced that I must at least consider it. Since you have dealt plainly with me (and I am grateful to you for it) I will do as much by you. A year ago, I would not have entertained such a proposal for a moment. I was still full, then, of dreams of romance. Now, I am not so sure. Romance, I begin to see, is something of an expensive commodity and I wonder whether I can afford it. But tell me, when do you need your answer? I would like, if I may, to see my father before I decide. Not, of course, that I would tell him anything about your proposition. I can see that one of the terms of our agreement would have to be most absolute secrecy on both sides. It is not the kind of arrangement one would wish to discuss even with one’s dearest friends. Not,” she added reflectively, “that I have any very dear friends. Which would make it all the easier. But, frankly, I would like to see if my father has any more eligible suggestion for me. Perhaps—who knows?—he has won a fortune at cards since I saw him last, and I may set up heiress on the proceeds. It is not, I can tell you, likely, but I would like to make sure before I commit myself to—forgive me—so desperate a hazard.”

It was his turn to laugh, somewhat wryly, and she found herself thinking with amusement that he liked her plain speaking no better than she had his. But he spoke with his usual grave courtesy. “Of course, Miss Forest, you must have time to decide. That you will even consider my proposal is, to my mind, a great point gained. I must, in any case, go to town tomorrow to discuss the terms of my appointment and begin my preparations. It will hardly be possible for me to set out for Portugal until, at the earliest, the middle of May, and, in my opinion, our marriage, if you agree to it, should take place at the last possible moment.”

“Naturally.” Again she could not help a little laugh.

“Before then,” he went on, “we should, of course, have to pay a visit to my grandmother, and you, too, would have your preparations to make. You will want, I suppose, a trousseau, for which, in the circumstances, I shall consider it my privilege to pay. Altogether, the sooner you make up your mind, the better. Besides, I should be glad to have my anxiety at an end.”

“To be put out of your misery,” she said kindly. “Yes, and, of course, if I should refuse, you will have to start looking about for another candidate.”

“Quite so.” He refused to be roused. “So, all things considered, I would suggest that you do me the honour of accompanying me to London. We will take Cousin Harriet too, in deference to the proprieties. If you are to be Lady Leominster, you cannot be jauntering about the countryside alone with me.”

“Caesar’s betrothed?” she said, teasingly.

“Exactly so. Indeed, I must ask Mrs. Lefeu to look out for a maid for you. And,” a new thought struck him, “where are you to stay? I do not imagine that your father’s lodgings will be quite the thing for my future wife.”

This was suddenly too much. “Not your future wife yet, sir,” she said. “You are going a little too fast for me. And naturally I had not the slightest intention of staying with my father. I am quite as well aware of what is suitable as you are, and plan to return to Devonshire House, where I have carte blanche. You would not, I collect, consider it beneath your dignity to take a wife from there.”