Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Mr. Berryman moved to the front of the room near the Oakleys, a rather harried expression across his features.
“I’m terribly sorry for the delay,” he said. “Thank you for your patience.”
His white hair—balding in the center and thick on the sides—stuck up at odd angles and was untidier than Charles could ever recall seeing.
Mr. Berryman greeted the Oakleys and Charles’s parents—avoiding Charles’s gaze altogether—as he stood before the fireplace with his back to the hearth. Then he faced the six of them with a calming breath. “Now. Shall we begin?”
“Yes,” Mr. Oakley said decisively.
“I think that would be for the best,” Mother agreed.
Charles looked between them in stunned silence, still refusing to believe what he thought was happening.
Then again, he’d thought this before with Mother. When he was a young boy, he’d been tricked into eating broccoli with the promise of growing a full foot overnight. He hadn’t grown a hair.
And then there was the time he’d been home from Winchester for the summer holidays, and she’d promised to leave for a fortnight with Father to London.
She’d returned early, and he had been thoroughly punished for bringing a group of friends to Grendale Manor to hold a house party—or rather, a drinking party.
Tristan had gotten off without a scathing retort, which was just as well. He never acted out like Charles did.
There were countless other instances where Mother said one thing and the truth revealed opposite—especially in regard to the women she found to be “perfect” for him.
“Miss Beaumont has a five-thousand-pound dowry.”
Yes, but the woman was already engaged to another.
“Miss Fitzroy is to inherit her family’s extensive property.”
Yes, but said property was in the middle of wetlands and would be shared with the woman’s six younger brothers.
“Miss Grant has such lovely red hair.”
Yes, but the woman was stronger than Charles and could throw him over her shoulder if he attempted to tease her.
But...this. This was the worst trickery Mother had ever performed.
“Miss Marie Oakley, Mr. Charles Shepherd,” Mr. Berryman said, interrupting Charles’s slew of memories. “Please, step forward.”
Miss Oakley did as she was told, facing Mr. Berryman, but when Charles did not, all eyes fell on him. Father tossed his head toward the vicar, Mother nodded encouragingly, but Charles remained rooted to his spot and finally found his voice.
“I do apologize,” he said, “but what exactly is going on here?”
He didn’t really need to ask. Obviously, his parents had taken leave of their senses—no, they’d gone utterly mad.
Mother and Father exchanged concerned glances, then Mother gave a tense, little laugh. “Oh, Charles. You are always such a tease. But, son”—she cleared her throat—“I do not know if this is an appropriate time.”
He stared at her, his mouth agape.
Mother meant well. He knew she did. And how he loved her with her opinions and pushiness and emotions. But sometimes, her will was unfounded. She couldn’t possibly think that feigning ignorance would convince him to give up his entire life and marry a stranger.
A gorgeous stranger, but a stranger, nonetheless.
He looked past the scowling eyes of Mr. Oakley to where Miss Oakley watched him once more. No change had come across her features other than the kindness in her eyes shifting ever so slightly to confusion.
“Forgive me, Miss Oakley, Mr. and Mrs. Oakley,” Charles said, “but I fear my parents have led you astray.”
“Charles,” Father’s voice boomed from the background, “your mother was right. You must cease your teasing now.”
“I am not in jest, Father,” Charles said through clenched teeth. Then he looked at Mother. “Did you truly believe a trick of this magnitude would work?”
“This is no trick, son,” Mother said.
Charles waved a hand about the room. “Then what is all of this?”
“Why, your marriage,” she responded, her voice low as if the others couldn’t hear, “to Miss Oakley—just as you requested.”
Charles’s jaw weakened. “I requested? I have never once expressed any desire to have an arranged marriage with anyone—let alone Miss Oakley.”
Gasps sounded around the room, Mother’s loudest of all.
Father scowled fiercely, Mrs. Oakley’s smile faded, and Mr. Oakley’s lips were stretched in a grim line.
Miss Oakley finally revealed her own uncertainty, her smooth brow slightly puckered, and for a moment he knew a sense of compassion for the woman who had clearly been duped as much as he had.
The only one who did not appear surprised was Mr. Berryman. In fact, he looked as if he’d expected Charles’s actions.
The vicar had been over the parish since Charles was a boy. Charles had tormented the man during his sermons, whispering to Tristan incessantly and tossing pebbles at the vicar as he pulled faces—all while Mother and Father weren’t watching.
Charles had repented of his childish ways since. Well, not so much repented as replaced his habits for less annoying ones. But Mr. Berryman had never liked Charles. Due to the condemning eyes now on him, Charles didn’t find it difficult to believe the vicar’s opinion of him hadn’t changed.
But Charles refused to feel a shred of guilt. His parents were to blame for all of this.
“I must apologize for the shock this must be causing,” Charles said, then he faced Mother directly, “but how could you do this? Not only have you tricked me into coming here and encouraged me to believe that this would be a simple meeting, but you’ve also allowed the charade to carry on for the Oakleys, as well.
One can only imagine the damage this will cause to all of us. ”
Her chin began to quiver, and Charles grimaced. Mother could cry at the drop of a hat—and often did so—but she needed to know her behavior was unacceptable.
And yet, when Father moved forward in clear defense of his wife, Charles knew his words had gone too far.
“What on earth is going on here?” Mr. Oakley chimed in. “We deserve an answer.”
“We all do, Mr. Oakley,” Father said. “I assure you, we will get to the bottom of this.” He faced Charles. “For the last time, this was no trick. And how dare you stand there and cast such accusations toward your mother when you know full well the contents of your last letter.”
Charles stared. His last letter had been filled with sardonic and fictitious agreements. There was no chance it could have been taken seriously.
But as he looked about the room, each pair of eyes confirmed his worst fears.
“You said you had changed your mind,” Mother said, leaning forward with her eyebrows drawn high. Her tears had vanished, as had her quivering chin—as quick to disappear as it was to appear. “You told me to make all the arrangements. You even set this very date.”
“This miscommunication is precisely why God condemns any sort of untruth, whether speaking with satire or otherwise,” chimed Mr. Berryman.
Charles cast him a look of long-suffering, then faced Mother again. “Tell me you did not take my word as fact.”
“I believe one look around the room will help you deduce just exactly what she thought,” Father said dully. “What we all thought.”
If anyone had ever questioned whom Charles had inherited his wit from, the truth was now obvious.
Mother pulled up her reticule, rummaged around the deep pocket, then pulled out a crumpled letter. “Here,” she said, thrusting it toward Charles. “Read this and tell me you did not mean a single word of it.”
“You have it with you?” he asked incredulously, accepting the letter.
“It made me so happy, that is all,” she said, dabbing at fake tears. “I like to be reminded of it.”
Charles clenched his teeth, then read over the whole of his words, most of which he’d forgotten.
Mother,
Very well, you’ve convinced me. Arrange the marriage. Set the date. Order the flowers. Send out the invitations. Read the banns. Purchase a ring for her, will you? I care very little about the details.
As for the marriage date, that must be perfect. How about the eleventh of March? A nice odd number. Should be lovely weather, too. The rain will help ring in my new life with Miss Oakley. I will be home for a few days, so that will be just enough time for me to become acquainted with my new wife.
Oh, heavens above. I haven’t the time to obtain a license.
Perhaps one of you could do that. The banns must be read as soon as possible.
Better yet, we ought to look into obtaining a special license.
This marriage will be special, so why do we not forgo a church ceremony and begin our life with a license using the same descriptor as my and Miss Oakley’s future.
Perhaps Mr. Oakley will be able to manage that with his connections, seeing as how he is the grandson of an earl—as you have mentioned to me at least half a dozen times.
But one simple request: might I meet my future wife first?
Charles
Charles lowered the letter, then looked at Mother. “This was not obvious enough to be taken in jest?”
“You were so convincing,” Mother said defensively. “And seemed so serious.”
“When have I ever been serious in my life?”
“Calm down, son,” Father said reprovingly. “I also read the letter and was convinced of your earnestness.”
“As was I,” Mr. Oakley stated.
“And I,” Mrs. Oakley agreed.
“That’s wonderful,” Charles said with a shake of his head. “I’m relieved to hear my personal correspondence with my mother is being shared for all to partake.”
“It did pertain to them, son,” Mother said with a sigh, as if Charles was the one being unreasonable.
He looked at Miss Oakley, expecting her to be embarrassed. Humiliated, even. He knew he would be, if he were in her position—ready to sign his life away to a person, only to find out that person had to be tricked into agreeing to the marriage.
But to his surprise, she remained stoic, still, and watchful.
“Did you read the letter?” he asked.
“I did.”
“And…”
“And, what?”
Heavens, she was the least forthcoming person he had ever spoken to. “And did you think I was serious?”
“I did not have any reason to believe otherwise.”
He studied her, still unable to read her. Why did she appear so unruffled with this whole matter? Was she not embarrassed, surprised, or disappointed?
Or had she been forced into this arrangement as much as he had and was now relieved there might be a way out of it?
“There, you see, son?” Mother said. “Your letter was so very convincing. Furthermore, you did not respond in the contrary to any of my other letters I sent, apart from the very last one.”
“What other letters? I received nothing after I sent this, apart from the one that set the date. The date”—he swiftly added before she could speak—“that I thought was for my meeting Miss Oakley, not marrying her.”
“Heavens,” Mother said, shaking her head. “I am certain I sent them.”
“They’re not hidden somewhere in that reticule of yours?” Charles asked.
She gave him a very unimpressed look, the same he’d received countless times as a boy when he spoke out of turn or tracked muddied footprints across her newly remodeled parlor carpet.
“No,” she said. “I sent them directly to Leonard Stanton’s house, I’m sure of it.”
“Whose?” he asked, leaning forward with his ear toward her.
“Leonard Stanton.”
He closed his eyes. “Mother, I was not staying with him at the time. I was staying with Rowan Ashworth in Penwick.”
She blinked. “Oh.”
“How did you manage to send so many letters to the correct location when the most important ones went to another?” he asked.
She pressed her lips together with impatience. “Honestly, Charles. How am I to keep all of your and Tristan’s friends straight? There are at least a dozen of them.”
“There are seven of us. Two of whom you’ve birthed.”
She waved a passive hand before her. “You cannot blame me for mixing them up every now and again.” She lowered her voice. “Especially when you live as a vagabond.” She straightened, then smiled reassuringly at the Oakleys. “At any rate, the letters were sent, that is what is most important.”
She was mad. That was all there was to it. Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past her to have sent the letters to the wrong place on purpose.
“What exactly did you write in these letters anyway?”
“Well, there were three, to be exact.” She raised her fingers, counting them out. “In the first, I told you that the Oakleys”—she paused sending an affectionate smile at Miss Oakley—“had agreed to the marriage upon your acceptance.”
“My alleged acceptance,” he inserted.
“In the second,” she continued, ignoring his words, “I informed you that Mr. Oakley had, indeed, managed to procure a special license. And in the third, I told you of our shared desire to maintain discretion. That no one should hear of the marriage until after it had been accomplished, and that the union should be discussed with those around us as a happy one.”
Charles stared. “So your intention was to lie to everyone we know?”
“Not lie,” Mother said with a quick settling smile in Mr. Berryman’s direction. “Our intention was to keep you and Miss Oakley safe from gossip by ensuring everyone that yours was a marriage of joy. At any rate, we did not believe that would be a stretch, due to your good-natured response.”
Charles walked about the room, pacing back and forth and running his fingers through his hair. “Did you not question my supposed acceptance when I did not respond to the others?”
“You are not exactly prompt with your correspondence, son,” Father piped in. “In truth, you very rarely respond at all.”
Charles glanced at the others, heat rushing over his cheeks. Mr. Oakley hardly seemed impressed, Miss Oakley remained unchanged, and Mr. Berryman, once again, didn’t look surprised.
Nothing like his parents airing out their grievances in front of all the world to see. It wasn’t Charles’s fault he couldn’t keep up with all of Mother’s letters. Especially when more than half of them begged to introduce women to him.
Little did he know his lack of correspondence would lead to his mother arranging a marriage for him.
He blew out a large puff of air. This was too much. It was all too much. He needed fresh air. Space to move. Somewhere without six sets of eyes on him.
“Charles,” Mother said softly, seeming to sense his overwhelm, “all of this letter business hardly matters now.”
“It most certainly does matter,” he stated, refusing to be mollified. “For everyone who expects the marriage will now surely be disappointed.”
The silence grew so thick, Charles couldn’t move now if he tried.
“Disappointed,” Mr. Oakley said. “You mean to say you have no intention of marrying my daughter?”
Charles straightened. “No, sir. I do not.”
Mr. Oakley took an abrupt step forward, but Charles stood his ground. Before the man could move any closer, however, Miss Oakley’s hand shot forward, staying her father’s advancement.
“Father, a word?”