The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) (5 page)

He cocked his head slightly to one side and surveyed her for a moment, his eyes suddenly serious.

“Let us endure this day, my dear. I have already told Isabella that we will not sleep here tonight, in spite of her protestations. I intend for us to spend a few days together at my house before we embark for Europe, so that we can get to know each other better. I will tell you anything you wish to know then. Does that satisfy you?”

“Will you even show me your face, unpainted?” she asked, then blushed. If he was disfigured by smallpox, as she was certain he was, it was up to him, not her, to choose the moment when he felt he could reveal his scarring. He had not pressured her to reveal the name of her assailant last night. She had no right to pressure him to reveal that which he wished to conceal. She opened her mouth to apologise, but he spoke before she could.

“Yes, I will even show you my face, unpainted. I think, as we are to spend some considerable time together, that would be inevitable in any case,” he said. He did not seem distressed or offended. If anything, her words seemed to amuse him. “Now, sleep. I will see you later.”

In spite of the sense of his suggestion, Beth could not go back to sleep. Instead, when Sarah entered at nine o’ clock, her arms full of a breakfast tray and her mouth full of questions about the wedding night, Beth, rather than tell Sarah every detail as she had intended to do, found herself saying only that Sir Anthony had been a gentle and caring lover, feeling that to reveal any more than this would somehow be a betrayal of him.

CHAPTER THREE

Sir Anthony was right. She did need all her energies to survive this day showing enthusiasm. By early afternoon she was flagging badly. She had survived breakfast for thirty-five seemingly close friends, who sniggered and made suggestive comments or smiling enquiries as to the state of her health and how she had slept, in a thinly disguised attempt to discover the answer to the question no one would ask directly, now they were no longer possessed of alcohol-induced confidence. She deflected them all good-humouredly, but it was hard work, made harder by the fact that she had no assistance from her husband, who was engaged in conversation at the far end of the table, and who did not join her as she had half-expected.

In the afternoon the breakfast guests were joined by yet more ‘friends’ for a card party, many of whom Beth had met for the first time only yesterday. At least Edwin and Caroline now put in an appearance, and Beth spent as much time as possible with them. She had expected her husband to stay by her side for most of the day, in tribute to the romantic mood Isabella and Charlotte had tried so hard to create, but in fact she hardly saw him. He seemed to be avoiding her, and she wondered if he was, after all, angry with her, or perhaps even regretting his decision to marry her.

At dinner he couldn’t escape being with her, as they were seated together. He did ask her briefly how she was bearing up under the strain, but she had barely replied that she was coping although feeling the lack of sleep, before he had become engaged in conversation with Edwin, who was seated on his right. He was at his most gregarious, keeping the table in uproar with jolly anecdotes, and she felt obliged to keep up with him, chatting gaily with everyone in the vicinity, blushing prettily at the compliments her mint-green satin dress attracted, and generally being her vapid and trivial best. It was exhausting.

After dinner the company all decamped en masse to another room, which Isabella had designated ‘the music-room’, although none of the family were particularly accomplished in any instrument, apart from Clarissa, who was only technically proficient, and whose harpsichord had been dusted off and moved to the improvised stage for the use of the visiting musicians. As Lord Edward was not particularly interested in listening to music in any form, it was seldom heard in the house. That his three sisters felt very differently was obvious by their excessive excitement at the thought of listening to an hour or so of Handel, Corelli etc., played by an ensemble of professional musicians. The combination of the prospect of good music and the fact that their dear cousin was so newly married to such a fine man as Sir Anthony Peters had rendered the three ladies almost hysterical with excitement, and the smelling-bottle was resorted to on several occasions.

If they were disappointed that the new bride herself showed no signs of joyful delirium, and that her husband seemed to be virtually ignoring her, they were too well bred to comment on it. Caroline, however, cared enough for her friends to ignore propriety, and approached Beth as they entered the room, where rows of seats had been placed for the audience.

“Is everything all right between you and Anthony?” she asked without prevarication. She knew she would have only moments alone with Beth before they were interrupted.

Beth’s instant blush gave her the answer to her question.

“I am tired, that is all,” she replied. “And he is making the most of the attention, I think. You know how he adores being at the centre of things.”

Caroline was weighing whether to accept this evasive reply or to pursue the topic, when Charlotte came bustling up and swooped Beth off to show her to her seat. Instead she exchanged glances with Edwin, who was eyeing Sir Anthony with a similar expression of concern on his face.

Beth, although she loved music, was devoutly praying for the evening to come to an end, so that she could escape this situation which was becoming intolerable to her. If Sir Anthony had chosen to fuel rumours that their marriage was on the rocks before it had even begun, he could not be doing a better job than he was with the way he was behaving towards her. In spite of his consideration last night, she was starting to feel humiliated, and annoyed with him. Surely he could at least pretend
some
affection towards her, just for a few hours? She was also puzzled by his attitude. His words to her on leaving the bedchamber this morning had suggested that they would endure the day together, as companions and friends, when in fact she had rarely felt more lonely than she did at this moment, thanks to him.

Lord Edward threw himself down into the seat next to her. He was also in a bad mood, but for different reasons. He resented the amount of money his silly sisters had spent on this wedding, and resented even more the fact that he was required to be present at every tedious entertainment, when he could have been out hunting, or at his club. Still, once he had suffered this ridiculous musical soiree, he would have the joy of waving goodbye to his ill-bred, rebellious cousin, hopefully for a very long time. At least she was no longer his responsibility, and judging by her husband’s behaviour, the baronet was already regretting his choice of wife. Still, too late now! Edward smiled smugly, and glancing round to make sure no one was listening, he leaned over towards Beth, who was fanning herself vigorously in an attempt to stay awake.

“Glad to see that you were able to entertain Anthony without my help last night,” he said. Beth stopped fanning herself, but didn’t reply to his comment, hoping he would take the hint and find another seat. “And glad that in spite of your ill-breeding you were able to hold on to your virginity until your wedding night. Congratulations.”

Beth was aghast. Surely Richard would not have told him…She looked up at her cousin, her face aflame. Misreading her expression as one of puzzlement rather than shock and incipient rage, he ventured an explanation.

“Inspected the sheets myself. Only right, you know. It’s tradition. Normally the father’s job, but as the eldest male relative…” He smiled, relishing her discomfort. “So whatever is amiss between you both, at least I can be assured that it is not that your husband is angry because I have sold him soiled goods.”

He stood before she could summon up a reply, and vanished into the crowd. She sat for a moment, staring at her painted lace fan and trying to master her rage, before abandoning the effort. Mouth set in a tight line, she gathered her skirts together and was just about to go after her cousin when Sir Anthony, appearing from nowhere, took the seat that Edward had just vacated.

“So, dear wife, how are you enjoying your day?” he began, laying a hand on her arm. She moved to shake it off impatiently, but his fingers closed around her upper arm in a restraining gesture that no doubt appeared affectionate to onlookers, but which told Beth that he had no intention of allowing her to march off and confront Lord Edward. Thwarted, she turned her temper on him instead.

“I would be enjoying it a lot more if my dear husband thought fit to speak to me occasionally!” she hissed. “And what is all this about inspecting the sheets?”

“I am sorry if you feel neglected, my dear,” he replied calmly. “I have had so many calls on my attention today, but I will endeavour to make it up to you.” Retaining his grip on her arm, he leaned over to whisper in her ear. “As for the sheet, surely you know that when a woman…ah…beds with a man for the first time, she bleeds a little. It is customary for the bridal sheets to be inspected the next morning to ensure that the bride was indeed a virgin on her wedding night, and that the man has been able to consummate the marriage. Did you not know that?”

She stared at him, her face crimson with embarrassment. One or two bystanders tittered, sure that Sir Anthony was making lewd suggestions to his wife.

“No, I didn’t,” she finally managed to say. “But we didn’t…”

“Quite so,” he replied before she could go any further. “So I gave myself a small scratch and…arranged matters, in order that neither of us would be humiliated. Do not be embarrassed, my dear. In times past, the bridal sheet was hung on the wall for all to see. At least we do not have to suffer that. Smile, Isabella approaches.”

Before she had registered his last words, the lady in question was upon them.

“As the musicians have only just arrived,” she flustered, “Mr Johnson has kindly agreed to give a recitation of poetry, until they are ready. Does that meet with your approval?" Her eyes pleaded with them to say yes.

“Excellent!” Sir Anthony enthused. “I do so love an ode or two. You have excelled yourself today, dearest Isabella. The entertainment has been incomparable.”

She blushed at the apparent compliment, and reassured, moved off to ask Mr Johnson to take the stage. He did, standing silently and forbiddingly until all chatter had ceased. He cleared his throat loudly.

“A Hymn to Virtue!” he declaimed solemnly, frowning down on his audience as though he knew them all to be guilty of the most heinous sins. Beth remembered him now as the puritanical gentleman who had sat next to her on the day she had thrown the wine in Edward’s face.

“’Hail, heav’n-born virtue! Hail, supremely fair!

Best-loved, and noblest object of my care!

Inspire with wisdom, in the tempting hour,

To spurn at pleasure and confess thy power;….’”

A light spattering of applause greeted the end of this poem, which was some eight stanzas long. A vague sound as of musicians unpacking their instruments came from the adjoining room, and more than one eye turned hopefully to the door. Jeremiah Johnson smiled condescendingly at his audience.

Beth sighed drowsily and settled into her seat. It was going to be a very long evening.

“And now, a few stanzas from an ode occasioned by the recent happy success of His Majesty’s troops in Europe:

‘But how, blest sov’reign! shall th’ unpractis’d muse

These recent honours of thy reign rehearse!

How to thy virtues turn her dazzled views,

Or consecrate thy deeds in equal verse?’”

“How indeed?” cried Sir Anthony, springing from his seat and rousing Beth, who had been falling into a doze. “Why then make the effort? Being but recently wed, I have a fancy for a love poem. Do you have such a verse in your repertoire, my dear Mr Johnson? If so, please indulge my dear wife and I by performing it without further ado.” He smiled up at the disgruntled countenance of the performer, who was not at all inclined to indulge the ignorant fop with the sort of trivial nonsense he would no doubt appreciate.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, sir,” he replied. “But I have not the facility to commit to memory verses of a superficial nature.”

“Come, sir, one can hardly dismiss love as superficial!” came the rejoinder. “Was not Anthony undone by his love for Cleopatra? Were not Romeo and Juliet driven to the most desperate act of suicide by their passion? Was not King Arthur’s Camelot laid to waste because of…”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr Johnson, thoroughly discomfited by the combination of Sir Anthony’s flowery outpourings, the titters of the company, and the general expressions of relief that his oration had been interrupted. “Perhaps you are right. Nevertheless, I do not recall any poems of love. If I may continue…”

“Then perhaps I may be so bold as to recite a small verse, if the audience and my dear wife will indulge me?”

The audience made it clear they would, and Beth, who thought she would rather hear anything than forty stanzas on the military prowess of King George, also nodded assent.

“Very well, then,” said the baronet, placing one lace-covered hand on his hip and striking a tragic pose. “The poem is entitled
The Constant Lover.”
He bestowed a smile on his wife and began.

“’Out upon it, I have loved

Three whole days together!

 And am like to love three more,

 If it hold fair weather.

 Time shall moult away his wings

 Ere he shall discover

 In the whole wide world again

 Such a constant lover.’”

Sir Anthony paused to bend and place a kiss on his stunned bride’s forehead, before continuing;

“’ But a pox upon’t, no praise

 There is due at all to me:

 Love with me had made no stay,

 Had it been any but she.

 Had it any been but she,

 And that very, very face,

 There had been at least ere this

 A dozen dozen in her place.’”