The Marriage Act (23 page)

Bishop Fleetwood had been listening in silence, but at John’s sigh he gave Ronnie a heartening smile. “My dear boy,” he said with warm affection, “do you imagine you’re the only young man who’s found it difficult to live up to the reputation of an older brother? I’m sure you must have heard the old maxim that the Church is a profession for the fool of the family.”

Ronnie looked befuddled. “Do you mean...
you
, sir?”

“I often say it was clever of God to arrange matters so that my twin was born the elder brother—” he glanced in Sir Geoffrey’s direction “—but I don’t mean that as a compliment to myself or to any value I might have to the Church. I mean it’s far better for Stanling Priory and its dependents to have my brother here as master than it would’ve been to have me. Geoffrey was always the clever one.”

“But you became Bishop of Essex,” Ronnie said with a doubtful look.

“Precisely! Which only goes to show that while a sharp mind may take one far, dedication and the right temperament can be every bit as valuable. I struggled through every day at Oxford, but that didn’t stop me from finding success.”

Ronnie’s brow knit in a thoughtful frown. “So you think I should go into the Church?”

“Do you want to go into the Church? We’ve already established that you don’t feel cut out for a diplomatic career, but there are any number of occupations at which a young man like you might excel.”

Ronnie scratched his jaw. “I have thought about the Navy. I used to go sailing whenever I visited my mother’s family in Devon, and I loved everything about it.”

“I didn’t know that,” John said.

“I never mentioned it, because you and Mama’s family never got on, and I thought you might disapprove. But even if you were to like the idea, I’m probably too old for it now. Most young gentlemen join the Navy at thirteen, and by the time they’re my age, they’re ready to take the lieutenant’s examination.”

“You’re older than most,” John said, “but God forbid that nineteen should be too old to undertake a new endeavor. And there’s no reason to despair of finding preferment, especially with the right connections.”

A hopeful gleam lit Ronnie’s eyes. “You mean you’d really let me go to sea?”

“If you go as an officer-in-training, yes, I would.”

“Truly?” Ronnie was so excited he sprang to his feet. “I sometimes wondered if you might understand, but my tutor wouldn’t hear of it, and Caro said you were determined to see me back at Oxford—” He stopped, glanced guiltily at the bishop, and finished, “I mean, she wrote that in her letters. From Vienna.”

“Yes,” John said dryly. “So I gathered.”

“I have friends in the Admiralty,” Bishop Fleetwood said. “I’ll write to them and ask them to suggest a captain willing to take you on as an able seaman or a quarterdeck volunteer. It may even be possible to have you rated a midshipman, in consideration of your prior sailing experience.”

“Would you, sir? Oh, thank you!” Ronnie’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm. “I can’t say how grateful I would be.”

“But, please,” John said, “no more drinking yourself into insensibility. If you mean to become an officer, I need to know you can keep your wits about you.”

“I won’t,” Ronnie said. “Drink, that is. Not alone, and not unless I have your permission first.”

“Good. Then you’re welcome to go and join the ladies in the drawing room.”

Ronnie was on his way out when he stopped and turned to address Caro’s uncle. “Before I go, Sir Geoffrey—I apologize. I never meant to make such a cake of myself, especially as a guest in your house.”

Sir Geoffrey waved a careless hand. “Apology accepted.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ronnie grinned and excused himself with a bow.

He’d been gone only a few seconds when Sir Geoffrey gave his twin a bemused look. “Matthew, what were you about, telling that boy I was more clever than you? You know very well that you were always a far better scholar. Not only were you a double first classman, but you wrote the Latin Prize poem our year at Oxford.”

“I know that, and you know that,” Bishop Fleetwood said, “but why should young Mr. Welford have to know that? I said you were the clever one, not the
more
clever one—”

“And that you struggled through every day at Oxford.”

“Which is true enough. I had to climb two flights of stairs to reach my room, carrying a heavy stack of books all the way.”

Sir Geoffrey rolled his eyes. “You know that’s not how Mr. Welford understood you.”

“All for a good cause,” Bishop Fleetwood said, looking not at all contrite. “That boy could use a little confidence in himself, and if believing that indifferent scholarship is no bar to success will give him that confidence, then I’m content to let him believe what he will.” He smiled. “Besides, I meant the part about your being better for the Priory than I would be. Of the two of us, you’ve always been the more practical one.”

“And don’t forget better-looking.”

“I try not to think about that too much, Geoff,” the bishop said mildly. “Envy rots the bones.”

His twin laughed.

John regarded Bishop Fleetwood with interest. Even if he hadn’t precisely lied in the way he’d presented the facts, he was certainly guilty of equivocation. On the other hand, his half-truths had given Ronnie a new sense of purpose and self-respect. John was more inclined to admire the bishop’s finesse than to condemn his tactics.

But then, he could see what was in the bishop’s heart—not a self-serving desire to gain the upper hand or to puff up his own consequence, but a sincere wish to help. If only Caro’s falsehoods had always been so selfless...

Thank heavens she’d promised not to lie to him anymore. If he could only trust her from now on, perhaps their marriage might have a chance.

Chapter Twenty-Two

To tell our own secrets is generally folly
,
but that folly is without guilt;
to communicate those with which we are intrusted is always treachery
,
and treachery for the most part combined with folly.

—Samuel Johnson

While the gentlemen enjoyed their port in the dining room, Caro chatted with her aunt and her cousin in the drawing room.

Before long, Sophia yawned. “I’m tired, and I have a touch of the headache, Mama. Would you mind very much if I retire early?”

“Now? That’s not like you, to miss an evening in company,” Lady Fleetwood said with a worried look.

“I know, but I’m not feeling quite the thing.”

“In that case, you’d better go and lie down.”

Sophia produced a weak smile. “Thank you, Mama. Good night, then, both of you.”

She slipped out, leaving Caro alone with her aunt. “I don’t think Sophia has a very high opinion of me.”

“Oh no, dear, you mustn’t think that. It’s more the opposite—she’s always been envious of you and Anne, because you were older and she felt left out of the things you girls did together.”

“We didn’t mean to slight her. It never occurred to me that she might wish to do the same things we were doing, when we were out or nearly so, and she hadn’t yet put up her hair.”

“I know, and I tried to persuade her as much, but all she saw were your city clothes and city polish, and how grown-up you seemed—your talent with the piano, for example, and your poise when you served as your father’s hostess. She could think of little else except how much she wanted to be like you.”

Perhaps that was the source of Sophia’s jealousy—that she was still remembering when she’d been eleven and Caro sixteen, and she’d envied not only Caro’s bonnets and gloves and shawls, but also Caro’s new freedom to mix socially with adults. Even now, Caro’s life must seem charmed to Sophia, who had only met romantic, amusing John, and not the cold, disapproving version.

No, that wasn’t true. Sophia knew that she and John had been putting on an act. She’d heard a scrap of their candid conversation. And she’d missed many of Romantic John’s best moments, like the look on his face when he’d said he didn’t like the notion of Caro crying, and their breathless encounter in the cloakroom. Sophia had met Disapproving John too, apparently, when she’d thrown herself at him. Yet it wasn’t Caro’s gloves or Caro’s bonnets Sophia longed for now. She wanted Caro’s husband.

And the astonishing part was, Caro wanted her husband too. She knew every cold, disdainful thing he’d ever said to her—but she also realized she’d been far from blameless, and the more time she spent with him, the more she cared about him. The stubborn sense of right and wrong that had so galled her for the past five years now seemed admirable, the foundation of a reliability that meant she could trust him despite distance and disagreement. He could be kind and funny and playful too, to say nothing of an exciting and enthusiastic lover. Just looking at him made her heart beat faster.

She’d come to Stanling Priory with every intention of putting on an act. But somewhere along the line, her happy marriage had crossed the line from make-believe into tantalizing possibility.

* * *

To John’s relief, Miss Fleetwood was absent when he and the Fleetwood gentlemen joined Ronnie and the ladies in the drawing room.

“Sophia has the headache and decided to retire early,” Lady Fleetwood explained to the new arrivals.

Ronnie looked disappointed at first, but he managed to rally despite Miss Fleetwood’s absence. “Perhaps I can persuade her to take a walk with me tomorrow. You enjoyed your walk today, didn’t you, John?”

“Very much,” John said with a quick glance at Caro. Her lips twitched, and she ducked her head to hide a blush.

“In that case, I’ll ask her at breakfast tomorrow,” Ronnie said. “With your permission, of course, Sir Geoffrey, and if John and Caro will agree to come along as chaperones.”

“I’ll go,” Caro said, sparing John from having to commit himself to another outing with her cousin.

Though John wanted to be sensitive to Miss Fleetwood’s feelings, he hoped she was making herself scarce out of a belated sense of her own impropriety. He wasn’t particularly eager to go to her father about her conduct, and if she’d realized how woefully inappropriate her actions had been and regretted them enough, perhaps he could put off speaking with Sir Geoffrey until he and Caro were ready to take their leave.

He was trying to reconcile himself, too, to Caro’s mild reaction to her cousin’s improper advances to him. Perhaps Caro didn’t take a jealous interest in him, perhaps she wasn’t even close to falling in love, but did that have to mean she could never develop feelings for him in the future? Now that he’d realized how coldhearted he must have seemed to her before, he’d changed, really changed, and perhaps with time Caro would come to develop an answering attachment to him.

He didn’t care how long he had to wait. Caro was worth it.

“How are you faring tonight, Papa?” Caro asked. “You’re not tiring yourself too much, are you?”

Was it his imagination, or had Sir Geoffrey and Lady Fleetwood just traded a look?

Bishop Fleetwood set a hand over his heart. “No, not tiring myself at all, my dear. You mustn’t worry so much about me. You and John came here to enjoy yourselves.”

“We came here to see you, and to visit Uncle Geoffrey and Aunt Ella.”

“And there’s no way you could possibly enjoy yourselves, doing that,” her father said with a twinkle.

“Papa.” Caro gave him a chiding look. “You know that wasn’t what I meant.”

John regarded the bishop with interest. He did seem stronger than he had when they’d first arrived. He wasn’t as short of breath, and he appeared to move with more ease. Only a few minutes ago, he’d walked from the dining room to the drawing room unaided.

“Don’t forget you have a letter, Lord Welford,” Lady Fleetwood said, nodding toward the pianoforte. A silver salver atop it bore the day’s post.

“Ah, yes. Would you excuse me for a moment?”

“Of course.”

It was from the Foreign Office. Standing by the pianoforte, John broke open the seal and quickly read through the letter.

Caro appeared at his elbow. “It’s not bad news, I hope?” she asked quietly.

He looked up, smiling. “On the contrary. I’ve been promised the position of Secretary of Legation or Secretary of Embassy.” At her blank look, he said, “That’s a step up from attaché. The only higher positions are the two ministerial ranks, and then Ambassador.”

“Congratulations.” She looked genuinely happy for him. Her eyes shone—though was that because she was pleased at his good news, or because it seemed likely he would soon be leaving the country again? “Where do they propose to send you?”

“Nowhere yet. I’d be posted to wherever the first such opening occurs in one of our German-speaking missions. I could be sent to the legation in Württemberg, Bavaria, Frankfurt, Saxony, Prussia, Switzerland, possibly even back to the embassy in Vienna...”

“Goodness. As many places as that! In that case, I can’t imagine it will take long before a post opens up.”

“I should think some time in the next year.”

“That’s wonderful news.”

She looked so lovely, her delicate face smiling up into his. He wanted to ask
Would you come with me?
But it was a weighty question, fraught with myriad considerations of travel, separation from loved ones and familiar surroundings, cultural differences...and the future of their marriage. He would ask her after they retired and they could speak privately and candidly, rather than here under her family’s noses.

“Is it a secret?” she whispered. “Is it all right to tell everyone?”

“It’s not a secret.” He hesitated. “But are you sure you want to tell them when it’s not definite yet, at least not in terms of when and where?”

He hoped she would say
Yes
,
let’s tell them
, and not just because it would be gratifying to know she was proud enough of his success to want to share the news. If she told her family, it might mean she had it in mind to join him—or not. After all, she’d pretended to join him in Vienna, despite remaining in England all the while.

But the possible meanings were a moot point, for instead of saying
Yes
,
let’s tell them
, she merely nodded and said, “You’re right. Perhaps it would be better to wait”—a response that enlightened him not one whit.

* * *

It was apparently his night to receive letters. He’d no sooner retired, Caro continuing to their bedroom while he went to his dressing room to file the offer from the Foreign Office with his papers, than he discovered someone had slipped a folded note under his dressing room door. It lay waiting for him to discover it,
John
written in a feminine script across the back.

He held it up to the candle to read it.

Dearest, darling, most admired John,

Since you will not let me tell you how I feel, I must write what it is in my heart, in the hope—the belief—that it is in your heart too, and that you are simply too honorable to speak without real proof of my devotion.

When you speak of Caro with such loyalty, it is most commendable of you. But I have discovered the truth, and it has left me struggling to no avail to overcome my sentiments. I know that you and Caro have only been pretending to be happily married. Never mind how I know, but I do, and it pains me to think of you unloved and neglected when you are so kind and handsome and honorable, and everything that is good.

I love you, deeply and utterly. From the moment we first met, I knew that Fate had brought you here, and that we were destined to be together. I long to be with you, to feel your arms around me and to make you happy as you deserve. There is nothing that I would not do for you, and you have only to ask.

You told me today—and very sternly, too!—that you are married, and older, but such things can be no barrier to true love. Others may think me rash, but I know that you are too noble to condemn me for following my heart. I pray that you will do likewise.

Your loving and ever faithful,

Sophia

He groaned inwardly. The letter was a mixture of sentiment and hyperbole, every bit as extravagant but not nearly as well written as
The Sorrows of Young Werther.
It was also so wildly indiscreet that if it fell into the wrong hands, Miss Fleetwood would be irretrievably ruined.

Someone scratched on his dressing room door.

He hadn’t rung for Leitner. Letter in hand, John stalked to the door. He was virtually certain he knew who it would be.

“Miss Fleetwood,” he said when he opened the door. He brandished the letter. “Did you really write this?”

She gazed at him with adoring eyes. “Of course I did. You must know I did!”

She said it with all the melodramatic passion of an actress on the stage—or an eighteen-year-old girl who fancied herself in love.

John frowned and stepped out into the corridor to talk with her. “Good God,” he said in a low, urgent voice, “what were you thinking? Promise me you’ll never write anything so imprudent to a gentleman again, least of all a married man, unless he’s your own husband.”

Her face fell. “But John—”

“You should call me Lord Welford.”

She made a petulant face. “Caro doesn’t.”

“Caro is my wife.” Even then, he’d been
Welford
through most of their marriage, though he kept that to himself. “I was under the impression you felt at least a cousinly affection for her.”

“I do, but—”

“Then show her the respect she’s owed, and give up this attachment you think you feel for me. Caro and I have been married since before you were out of the schoolroom.”

Her chin came up. “Lots of men discover
grandes amours
after they’ve shackled themselves to the wrong woman.”

“That’s their misfortune. I happen to love my wife.” Whatever pretending he’d done that week, he meant what he said. He hadn’t wanted to admit as much during the five angry years he’d spent licking his wounds in Vienna, but it had been true from the first moment he’d set eyes on Caro. “Don’t you realize that any man prepared to cast aside his wife to be with you would be just as prepared to cast you aside to be with someone else?”

“But I
love
you.”

“You scarcely know me.” It dawned on him that Miss Fleetwood had probably spent more time with him than he’d spent with Caro before he proposed marriage. If that wasn’t reason enough to forgive Caro for running away on their wedding night, nothing was.

“I know how I feel,” Miss Fleetwood said. “I know I’ll never be happy without you.”

“You’re only eighteen. Believe me, ‘never’ is a very long time.”

“I’m not a child. I know what I want. I also know that even if you think you love Caro, she doesn’t love you.”

His eyes narrowed. “What makes you so sure?”

“She told me so herself.”

John studied her in silence. “Excuse me a moment, would you?” He went to the door of the bedroom he shared with Caro and knocked.

The door opened a moment later, and Caro looked out. “John,” she said in surprise. Her eyes moved past him to her cousin. “And...Sophia?”

“Would you mind joining us out here for a moment?” John asked.

Caro stepped through the door, looking confused. “Yes?”

“You cousin has written me a letter,” he said, holding the sheet of paper up for her to see. “Would you like to read it?”

“No!” Miss Fleetwood cried. “I wrote that to
you
. It’s personal.”

“Caro is my wife,” he said firmly. “This isn’t the kind of thing I’m likely to keep from her. I’ll leave it up to her whether she wants to read your letter or not, but either way, she’s going to know about it.”

“Well, Caro?” Miss Fleetwood asked, giving her an oddly challenging look. “What do you have to say about that? Do you want to read my letter?”

Caro threw a nervous glance at her cousin before her gaze returned to him. “Thank you, John, but I don’t need to read it.”

Baffled, John looked from Caro to Miss Fleetwood and back again. “What’s going on here?”