Chapter 24 #2
“Georgiana informed me that banns are tantamount to shouting to her parents. She believes they’ll bring hell to pay on the shire.”
“There’ll be hell to pay, in any case.”
“I know that. She knows that. She wishes as little humiliation from her parents as possible. You know the Haydens. Picture the kind of humiliation she fears.”
“Special license?”
“To paraphrase the lady, the Archbishop of Canterbury is a cousin. York is her uncle, and Winchester her father’s boon companion. Special license is tantamount to banns.”
“Gretna?”
“Cowardly, cold, and undignified at our age.”
“Common License it is.” The little baron stretched his shoulder, an uncharacteristically smug expression spreading slowly across his face. “It will feel good to be of some use for once.”
Andrew looked at him quizzically.
“Allow me to introduce you to my grandmother’s brother, the Bishop of Ely,” Jamie said through a widening smile, “who dislikes Sudbury sufficiently to enjoy thwarting him and is advanced enough in age not to care what Canterbury might say or do.”
Andrew greeted this marvelous speech with a hoot of laughter. He hadn’t intended to enact his personal drama for an audience, but it seemed there might be advantages. A smile began to evolve deep in his dark eyes.
Jamie’s self-satisfied grin answered back. “Shall we leave tomorrow or allow the lady one day to reconsider?”
Andrew’s face fell. “Let’s allow her a day to get comfortable with it. It has to be her choice. Georgiana’s stubbornness might be a hurdle, but she will come around. She has no choice.” Andrew shuddered at the thought.
Glasses clinked in agreement. Companionable silence stretched a while before the baron spoke again.
“Hell to pay for certain, if not before then after. I presume your funds are safe?”
Mallet nodded. He was a careful man. “Sudbury can’t touch me. I’m unlikely to be considered for a University post in any case, so he can’t harm me there. I can afford a wife.”
“Humiliation is a Hayden specialty usually reserved for sworn enemies and family members. I can see where she’d want to avoid it. Is that the rub then?”
“That and marriage itself I think. Mostly she is angry with me and with Richard for things that happened long ago.”
“Your sudden wish for an army career?”
Andrew didn’t expect insight from Jamie. “That, yes. Claims we arranged her life for her.”
“Didn’t you?”
“There wasn’t any choice at the time, but she thinks she should have been given one.”
“No logic. Females don’t have choices. May not be right, but it’s the way it is.”
“We don’t either, come to that, not all the time. Still, they have a right to their own lives. She has a point. She also has some maggot in her brain about our love being something rare, fragile, and on some illusive higher plane than marriage.”
“Isn’t it? Passions don’t last.”
“Fragile doesn’t equate to long-lived, I agree, but she can’t see past it. I want old age by the fire, care for one another, and work we share—the entire thing, not just a piece of it.”
“If she’s going by what passes for marriage for her parents and their crowd, she probably doesn’t know there is such a thing. Hell, I’m not sure I know there is such a thing. Still, if it is what you want, I’m ready to fetch the license. Just say when.”
* * *
Richard Hayden, the Marquess of Glenaire, was an orderly man.
He arrived at his desk at Whitehall precisely at seven-thirty, just as he did every morning.
He reveled in the quiet at that hour, and he used it to read dispatches.
By ten, those seeking his good will began to fill the halls, and the importuning began.
He listened to most, giving ear to the problems of returning soldiers first and the ambitions of fribbles last.
He left Whitehall precisely at one to walk to lunch at his club. He stepped out of Horse Guards into the warm spring day and began his familiar walk to Saint James Street, exactly as he did most days.
Today, he skirted the canal along its north edge and noted with disapproval the urchins playing in its dirty water.
Saint James was a royal park. Urchins didn’t belong there; he disapproved.
The walk to the Marlborough Gate, he noted with satisfaction, had been cleared of debris this morning and flowers had begun in the borders.
Glenaire was a careful man. All men should be careful about their work. In a world well run, they would be.
He climbed Saint James Street, thin of people as it often was in early afternoon.
A small cluster of young men gathered in front of a storefront which was unusual.
It appeared to be Franklin’s bookstore, just below White’s.
A modest little store, it never attracted much notice until now.
He began to step into the street to avoid the unseemly scuffle when a young man emerged from the store with a familiar looking volume under his arm.
His fellows gave up a cheer. “You got one!” One shouted, “M’mother insists on a copy. Say you’ll sell it to me.”
Glenaire looked more closely at the book with its leather cover and familiar gilt letters. Poetry by Women. Damn!
Moments later he was in a hackney on his way to Fleet Street. A very red-faced clerk greeted him. Mr. Bailey was out. The clerk blurted out a confession without waiting to be asked. He incoherently confessed to misunderstanding the situation.
The clerk had put most of the books in storage as requested, but he assumed Bailey only did that because he thought it wouldn’t sell.
Print copies were never held back. He had sent a small batch to Hatchard’s Bookstore and been startled when they requested more copies.
Several other stores requested copies the same morning, and he didn’t discover his error until he went in to tell Bailey about their success.
“Mr. Bailey was right angry. He said it was my job if the client wants me fired.” The man looked at Glenaire with fear. Bailey had already gone to Cambridge. Prefers to face Andrew rather than face me. Glenaire smiled grimly. Wait until he meets Georgiana.
Glenaire loathed having his orderly existence disrupted, but he had little choice this time. He would assess the situation at Mountview and then go to Cambridge himself.