The Chadwick Ring (4 page)

The doorknob turned, and Chadwick dropped his hand. Emma came in. Her alert green eyes noticed the tension in the air, but she bobbed a quick curtsy and said neutrally, “Miss Ginevra, your father told me I was to attend you.”

Ginevra exhaled with a shudder and retreated from the window. ‘Thank you, Emma, but I am finished in here now.” She bowed formally to the marquess. “My lord, if you will excuse me, I will send a footman to show you to your room, and I shall see you again at dinner.”

Chadwick nodded. “Miss Bryant,” he murmured, and Ginevra wondered if she was imagining the faint mockery in his voice.

After the meal Ginevra left the men to their port and retired to the drawing room, where she and Emma worked quietly at their sewing. Emma was piecing a small quilt, patchwork after the American fashion, a gift for the cook’s daughter, who expected her first child soon. Beside her Ginevra worked apathetically, stitching an intricate pattern of yellow roses in silk on a piece of fine white cambric. The fabric was destined for the yoke of a new nightdress, part of her trousseau, and since Tom’s death she had lost all interest in it, continuing only because she had already invested too much time in the piece to discard it. Now she laid the embroidery in her lap and stared blindly at it as an unwelcome and disturbing picture slowly formed in her mind: herself chastely adorned in that demure white gown, her dark gold hair tumbling loose over her shoulders, as she waited, waited, for Lord Chadwick to come to her ... Her hand trembled, and the silk floss tangled almost magically into a knot Gordius himself would have admired. Ginevra regarded it with disgust and pushed her sewing aside.

Emma glanced up from her own work and noted with concern, “You seemed very agitated tonight. Is there any way I may help you?”

Ginevra shook her head. “No, Emma. I am caught in a coil like that thread there, and I fear there is no escape. I’ll know better after I’ve spoken to my father.”

Emma studied the girl’s pale face and said kindly, “Perhaps something to drink would soothe you. May I bring you some tea? Ratafia, if you prefer?”

Ginevra shook her head again. “No, thank you, but I should like that book I was reading, the one by Mary Wollstonecraft. Do you know where I left it?”

“I believe I last saw it on the stand beside your bed. Shall I fetch it for you?”

“Please.” Ginevra watched her maid leave the room, and she wondered just how much of the situation Emma was aware of. Probably a great deal. Servants had the uncanny knack of knowing everything. Emma might even know what had caused Sir Charles to force Ginevra into this awkward and impossible situation in the first place.

Ginevra’s ruminations were interrupted when Lord Chadwick came into the room. Unlike Ginevra, he had changed for dinner, and the unrelieved black of his evening clothes only emphasized his height and the excellence of his tailor. The coat was styled along the vaguely military lines fashionable since the onset of the French wars, and Ginevra recalled that when Lord Chadwick was very young, he had been for a time an officer in the Navy, serving under Parker and the great Nelson himself, until he was wounded at the Battle of Copenhagen and invalided from the service. She wondered if he ever regretted leaving the Navy. He was probably a good officer. He had the air of a natural leader.

Chadwick coughed, and Ginevra suddenly realized that she had been staring. Blushing furiously, she tried to hide her discomfiture by asking, “Was your meal satisfactory, my lord? Is there any other way I may serve you?”

“Thank you, Miss Bryant, no. Everything was excellent. I hope you will extend my compliments to your cook—unless I have you to thank this time?” She shook her head, and he added in a low voice, “Your father wishes to speak to you now, Ginevra. In his study.”

Ginevra sighed and rose reluctantly from her chair. She smiled bleakly at the marquess. “Thank you, I’ll go at once.” Her voice trembled slightly. “Please make yourself at home. If you should desire anything, you have only to ring for it.” Like a sad little wraith she slipped from the room.

The study was almost dark, lit only by the fitful glow of the fire in the hearth. Sir Charles sat hunched behind his desk, leaning on his elbows, his nose mashed against the steeple formed by his stubby fingertips. Lost in thought, he gazed sightlessly at the pewter standish in front of him. Ginevra once again waited in the center of the room, determined not to incite her father’s anger. Head bowed low, folded hands working nervously at her waist, she had unconsciously assumed the position a petitioning tenant might use when begging a favor, a favor he expected to be denied. Sir Charles glanced up and recognized the stance, and it irritated him. He gestured to a chair. “Sit down, child, I’m not going to beat you.” Silently Ginevra took the seat offered, her eyes large and resentful. He sighed impatiently. “All right, I admit I was harsh with you earlier. Now, stop gawking at me in that doleful manner.”

“I’m sorry.”

Silence hung between them. Sir Charles asked tersely, “Ginevra, have I been a good father?”

“I have always thought so, Papa.”

“Do you believe I would deliberately plot your unhappiness?”

“No, Papa.” She studied her fingers entwined demurely in her lap.

Suddenly Sir Charles banged his fist on the desk. The inkwell bounced. “Then, confound it, girl,” he cried, “why are you defying me now?”

Ginevra’s wan face colored. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, leaning forward to add with a flash of spirit, “but I do not wish to marry Lord Chadwick.” She subsided into the chair again and gazed at her father.

Sir Charles regarded her wearily. He had been under a great deal of strain lately, and it made him uneasy to watch the chit so quiet and solemn, peeking up through her lashes like a wounded fawn. Dammit all, he was not some kind of felon! He had gone to considerable difficulty, risking a humiliating rebuff, to arrange an excellent, even a brilliant match for her, one that far exceeded the usual expectations of the daughter of an unremarkable country baronet. And now, instead of showing him the proper gratitude, Ginevra stared at him with those eyes like sovereigns and waited for him to justify his actions. He had always been too soft with her, that was it. Distraught over his wife’s untimely death, he had tried to console himself with the diversions readily available in London to any man with a little money, and he ignored the girl who reminded him so painfully of his lost love. He had allowed her too much freedom, let her read unsuitable books. The possible consequences of his neglect seemed unimportant when her future was already settled with young Tom Glover, but now his laxity as a parent was returning to plague him. The girl had to marry well—and quickly!—and she calmly declared that she did not want to. God! What would he do if she remained mulish, if her recalcitrant behavior offended Lord Chadwick? Dowerwood or no, the Bryants still stood to gain far more from any union than did the marquess’s family ... Sir Charles stiffened with determination. He was going to post the banns and be done with it Ginevra would marry Chadwick even if he, her father, was reduced to ranting like a hack actor playing old Capulet in a Drury Lane production: “Fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next, to go to church, or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.”

He essayed a different tactic. “My child,” he intoned, “the world is not an easy place for a lone woman, and if anything should happen to me, you would be quite alone. You have no brother or uncle to care for you, and indeed, upon my death my title and Bryant House will pass away from our family to a distant cousin I have never met, whose generosity toward you might be questionable. Dowerwood is not part of the entail, but even if I gave it to you, you are not equipped to manage it. Consequently, it is my most pressing duty as your father to arrange a good marriage for you, so that you will always be safe, under the loving protection and guidance of a husband.”

Ginevra mumbled, “Yes, I know that.”
And it’s not fair,
she added silently.

“Then surely you realize that a match with Chadwick would be advantageous far beyond my wildest aspirations for you.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “Why, think, child, you would even outrank your old Papa.”

Ginevra shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“What!” Sir Charles exploded. “Not care about being a marchioness? In God’s name, why not? You ought to be on your knees with prayers of gratitude! You were eager enough to unite with the Glovers before.”

“It was different before,” Ginevra cried, wounded by his callousness. “I was going to marry Tom.”

Her father stared at her, shaking his head in exasperation. “Oh, Ginevra,” he clucked, “don’t tell me you fancied you had a
tendre
for the lad? How could you? You hadn’t seen him in six years. He probably changed beyond all recognition.”

Ginevra pleaded helplessly, “But he was my friend, Papa. Surely that wouldn’t have changed.” She toyed with the stiff fabric of her skirt, fast becoming very wrinkled under her nervous fingers. She was distressed by the justice of her father’s words. All the doubts she had felt in the past returned to haunt her. Of course her fiancé would have changed. She had known an amiable boy of twelve, but the Tom Glover who died while on a drunken spree was eighteen, older than his own father had been when he was born, and perhaps already as much a rake and libertine as the older man ever was ... Something died inside Ginevra. The union with Tom would have been as loveless as most such arrangements were. Despite her puerile protestations of lifelong friendship, she would have been marrying a stranger.

When Ginevra looked up, her father could see the resignation in her tawny eyes. She had taken his words to heart at last. Oddly, her capitulation gave him some relief, but no joy: there was little pleasure in crushing dreams. He felt a pang at the weariness evident in her voice when she said humbly, “Forgive me for being so obstinate, Papa. You are right, of course, marriage with any of the Chadwick family would be a great honor. I am indeed fortunate that his lordship is agreeable.” She hesitated, perking up slightly. “But... but couldn’t you relent and let me marry Bysshe Glover instead? He’s the heir now, as lofty a match as Tom was. I know he is still at Harrow, but he is not so much younger than I that our marriage would be impossible, especially if we wait. In three years I’ll only be twenty-one, not
truly
a hopeless spinster as you seem to fear. Perhaps Bysshe and I could even spend some time together beforehand, to get to know each other. It would mean so much to—”

Sir Charles interrupted flatly, “No, Ginevra. You must marry Lord Chadwick himself, and as soon as possible. If you don’t...” His voice died away; and he colored with embarrassment.

Ginevra observed her father curiously. He looked unwell, she thought; almost old. Something was troubling him gravely. She repeated, “If I don’t, what?”

Sir Charles wanted to bluster indignantly that the girl had no right to question him—but he did not. With a twinge of guilt he acknowledged to himself that his own bungling had placed her in a damned awkward position. She would marry Lord Chadwick, he would see to that The man was rich, titled, extremely eligible, a prize catch. And yet ... and yet, only in the dark recesses of his soul dared Sir Charles admit that the marquess was not the sort of man he truly wanted to wed his daughter. Ginevra was a sweet and loving child, and for all his grace of manner, Chadwick displayed a cynicism, a deeply ingrained bitterness, that augured ill for anyone who cared for him.

Ginevra asked again, “Papa, what will happen if I don’t marry Lord Chadwick?”

Her father rasped, “I will lose everything.” Ginevra stared at him, incredulous. He amplified, “I am in debt, child. The credit sharks are after me.”

Ginevra frowned thoughtfully, full of remorse. This possibility had never occurred to her. “Oh, Papa, I’m sorry, I should have realized! But the harvests have been so plentiful that I never dreamed ... These must be difficult days for you, with all your responsibilities. I know from reading the
Gazette
that since the end of the war corn prices have plummeted. Why, they say already that many small farmers have been forced to—”

Assailed with compunction at her unwarranted sympathy, Sir Charles said sharply, “My money worries have nothing to do with economics, Ginevra, and I wish to point out that it ill becomes a young woman to pretend knowledge of so unfeminine a subject.” He rubbed his temples, vainly attempting to stave off the headache settling behind his eyes. How could he explain to her the pressures that had driven him to London, there to fall victim to the wiles of ivory-turners and the meretricious delights of the muslin company? He had tried frantically to soothe the anguish caused by the loss of his wife, and he succeeded only in hurting the child she had left in his care.

As penance he now confessed bluntly, “Ginevra, for years I have borrowed money on the strength of your upcoming marriage to Tom Glover, putting off the creditors with assurances that someday my daughter would be a rich woman. Time has run out. They will not wait even a few months longer, much less two or three years until young Bysshe is old enough to marry. If you do not wed as scheduled, I shall undoubtedly go to the Fleet Prison, and you and those who serve us will be evicted from our property. The Bryant name will be disgraced, and we shall probably starve like the other poor homeless wretches wandering the countryside these days.”

Ginevra shuddered. She was conscious of the element of bathos in her father’s plea, for she knew that she and he, well-educated and of gentle birth, would manage some way, no matter what happened—she could always become a governess!—but if there was a genuine danger of losing the estate to the moneylenders, what would become of the tenants, the servants who had devoted their entire lives to the comfort of the Bryant family? How would they survive? Now that the war was over, the country was in a depression. Farmworkers who only four years before had barely subsisted on twelve shillings a week now tried to live on less than ten. Thousands were unemployed.