Chapter Thirty-Four
Andrew Fielding strode over to Ben Vernon, who, in his indecision, was still half crouching and half standing over Cynthia.
Grabbing him by the back of his collar, Andrew pulled him to his feet, saying between gritted teeth, “Stand up, you oaf!” before fetching him an almighty punch on the jaw.
Andrew was tall, but Vernon was a big man, and had he been perfectly ready, he would not have stumbled backwards against the wall of the cottage.
But he did, giving his head a crack against it in the process.
He slid down into a sitting position, gazing around him as if trying to work out what had happened.
Miss Rowley stopped her shrieking and stood up calmly, perfectly dry-eyed.
“Mr. Fielding,” she said, “if I may use the grossly exaggerated phrase from one of the novels you seem to so much enjoy, I believe you have saved me from a fate worse than death.”
“Did that brute hurt you?” Fielding nodded at the man on the floor.
“No. He might have had some idea of it, but I kept him fetching and carrying and he never had a chance.”
A smile played at the corner of his lips. “I can well believe it,” he said. “You always were a hard task-master.”
“I never touched ’er,” came Vernon’s voice from beneath them. “I was goin’ t’ arsk ’er t’ marry me. And this is all the thanks I get!”
“It’s a pity you gave yourself so much trouble and ended up with my fist on your jaw,” said Mr. Fielding, “for if you had told Miss Rowley that was your intention, she could have informed you that she was already engaged to be married. She is to do me the inestimable honor of becoming my wife. Not yours.”
“She never!” said Ben Vernon, slowly getting to his feet.
“Why should you find it so surprising?” Andrew raised his eyebrows. “You wanted her, why should not another man?”
“But she’s got ter ’ave ten years on you! You’ll be wanting a much younger wife. And better-looking.”
“You are mistaken. I want exactly the wife I have chosen. Age has nothing to do with it. And unless you wish to end up on the floor again, I recommend you not disparage my fiancée’s appearance.”
During this exchange, Cynthia had begun by staring at Andrew Fielding, but then, seeing the joke, she began to smile.
“Yes, if you had asked me at once, Mr. Vernon,” she said, “I would have told you I was already spoken for, so to speak. But I daresay you wanted someone to clean up your kitchen for you. It certainly needed it. May I advise you that the next time you bring a woman here to court her, you at least wipe the mouse droppings off the table.” She took off the apron and hung it back on the hook.
“I’m not sure you shouldn’t send him a bill for housekeeping, my dear,” said Andrew, taking her hand under his arm. “I’m sure you earned it. In your lovely gown, too. And your head band. How pretty you look!”
Then he kissed her. She blushed furiously, and didn’t know what to say, but Mr. Fielding calmly led her through the splintered doorway and past Mr. Vernon’s gig and horse, which was cropping at the overgrown garden.
When he realized she had no cloak, he took his off and wrapped her in it before helping her up into her own gig, and jumping up to take the reins.
“I knew this must be the place,” he said, “When I saw the gig with the poor horse left to fend for itself.”
Cynthia had a hard time concentrating on what he was saying. She was still recovering from the kiss. But as they turned onto the main road, she thought again what a good joke it had been on Mr. Vernon, and burst out laughing.
“Oh, Mr. Fielding! You played the lover to perfection! I can’t believe you punched him like that! He must weigh a stone more than you. And the kiss was the final touch. He believed it absolutely!”
He turned a serious face towards her. “I caught him off balance, otherwise I might not have been so fortunate. But I was so furious seeing him bent over you like that, I would have faced Goliath himself. And I would never have taken the liberty of kissing you had you not been my affianced wife.”
She laughed again. “Had you not been my affianced husband, I should have slapped your face.”
“Then it’s lucky for me I am the man who is going to marry you.” Turned to her, and his face utterly serious, looked her in the eyes. “I mean it, Cynthia. Will you marry me?”
She looked at him for a long moment, her face as serious as his. “You’re not funning?” she said at last.
“No. I’ve never been more serious in my life. Be my wife, Cynthia. Please.”
Then finally, she burst into real tears.
Whether it was the joy at receiving a proposal from the man she had been in love with for what seemed like forever, or whether it was relief that the ordeal with Ben Vernon was over, who was to say.
But she wept uncontrollably. She wept as she had not wept in her life.
She wept as Andrew drew the gig to the side of the road and put his arms around her.
Then she wept on his shoulder. People driving away from Harriet’s wedding breakfast saw them, nudged each other and turned round in their seats to catch every detail of the scandalous behavior of the spinster Rowley and her so-called lodger.
“You do realize that you can’t say no now, my dear, don’t you?” said Andrew when her sobs grew less severe. “Half the village has seen you in my arms. Your reputation is ruined. You may as well accept me.”
Half laughing and half crying, Cynthia turned her puffy eyes and red nose up to him. “If you can truly say you want to marry a watering pot who looks as dreadful as I know I must do now, then I must accept, if only to look after you in your madness. Yes, Mr. Fielding, I will marry you.”
Andrew laughed and, to the delight or shock of the passers-by, kissed her wet cheeks.
“Let’s go home and tell Teacup,” he said.
“And have a cup of tea… at last,” agreed his betrothed.