Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
They’d been riding in the carriage for nearly an hour when Marcus broke the silence. Writing desk balanced on his knees, quill in hand, he looked from James to Elizabeth, and then back to James. “Your wedding license—shall I draw up a simple license or a special one?”
“Sorry?” James said.
Elizabeth stared at the man as if he’d sprouted a second head.
“I’ve always wanted to try my hand at an archbishop’s signature, but I suppose a special license might raise some questions as to how you managed to acquire it so quickly and without anyone hearing of it. Unless you’ve some special connections of which I’m unaware, Dinsmore?”
“No.”
“It’s unfortunate we’re not closer to Scotland. The paperwork for Gretna Green would be quite simple.”
“Heading in the opposite direction, I’m afraid.”
“A small wedding it is, then, with the fewest possible witnesses. Easier that way, fewer signatures to create.” Marcus lifted his quill, but stopped short of writing.
“It just occurred to me you might be married on shipboard; even less paperwork there. Of course”—he tapped the tip of the quill feather on his lip—“you might marry in France.”
Elizabeth couldn’t decide which was more bizarre, the man’s references to marriage licenses and forging, or the fact that this was the longest speech she’d heard from him since they’d met three days ago.
“Since we are only pretending to elope, I fail to see why Lord Dinsmore and I should need any sort of documents, forged or otherwise.”
“Paperwork, licenses, contracts, certificates, they are the key to our modern society. You’d be surprised how many doors open to a few flourished signatures and an official-looking stamp or two.”
“It wouldn’t be binding, would it?” She slid a glance at James. “I shouldn’t want to find myself unintentionally bound to Lord Dinsmore.”
“So young and innocent,” Marcus said dryly, “to think that a document, particularly one such as a marriage license, could ever be binding. People are bound only if they wish it so, not simply because some fancy bit of scrollwork says they are.”
What a peculiar secretary James has chosen, Elizabeth thought. “Is that why you became a forger, because you’ve such contempt for legal institutions?”
Marcus shrugged, his expression making it clear he had no intention of answering her question.
“A marriage license will make it easier for you to travel with Dinsmore, raise fewer questions—not to mention eyebrows. A married woman traveling with her husband is subject to far less…how shall I put this? Discourtesies.”
Discourtesies. She wondered if James’s secretary was aware of the many cuts she’d suffered in London, the slights that had followed her to the countryside, driving her to this moment.
“Still, if people suppose us to be eloping and not yet married, it will be easier for Lord Dinsmore and me to explain our need for separate lodgings.”
“That matter has been settled,” James cut in sharply.
“I have no interest in paying the cost of extra rooms, even if they should be available, which is unlikely considering where we are headed. And I have enough on my mind without wondering, every moment, what trouble you might have gotten yourself into, left unattended in a public inn.”
Elizabeth ignored the latter part of his answer. “I’ve been thinking I should send word to my brother asking him to send me some additional funds. I’ll tell him that the Norcrofts have the cleverest seamstress visiting and that I’d like to have some dresses made.”
James arched an inquisitive brow. “And where will you have this money sent, and how do you propose it might reach us once we begin traveling in France?”
She frowned.
“Of course, if your sensibilities have been distressed after only one night together,” he volunteered, “it’s not too late to have you delivered safely home.”
“That will not be necessary,” she snapped.
“It was worth a try.” He smiled, a curve that was thrown off center by the scar.
“So, what shall it be; shall we tell anyone who might be curious that we were married in a quiet country church, sheep grazing in the cemetery outside, while we pledged our troth at an old wooden altar? Shall we say that you wore fluttering ribbons and I sober silks?”
She looked at him as if she were considering his suggestion. “You know, I’m not certain which part of your story people will have the most difficulty believing, that you have gotten married or that you were actually in a church.”
Marcus smothered a cough that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
She continued, aping his casual tone. “If we must pretend to have married, let us tell people it was on shipboard, crossing the channel. I wore a sensible navy traveling gown; you were in brown serge and puce.”
“Puce? I never wear puce.”
“The ceremony was unremarkable, the words spoken hurriedly so that the captain could get back to the business of sailing.”
“What an appallingly grim imagination you have.” He gave a mock shudder. “And to think, I once imagined you a romantic.”
“I gave up on romantic illusions,” she said, her voice deceptively light, “about the time I began to wonder how your sister could have known precisely when to open the door to the library and when to have my brother’s coach brought round.”
“Arabella.” Her mother’s voice, drawing out the last syllables of her name, echoed up the staircase. “Ara-bell-ahhh.” It was a command, not a question. Marking her place with a bit of grosgrain ribbon, Arabella Norcroft closed her book.
Her mother entered the room just as she was setting it down on a side table. “Reading,” she said disapprovingly. “Nearly as bad as leaving the windows open at night. Invites in all manner of corruption.”
“You were calling for me, Mama?” she asked in an attempt to distract her mother from a discussion of her “unnatural” propensity for books.
“It’s most peculiar, my dear, most upsetting.”
“What is?”
“The carriage downstairs.” Her mother drew her chin up disapprovingly. “It has the Moreham coat of arms on the doors.”
“Is it Lady Elizabeth come to call?” She tried hard to keep the excitement from her voice. It would be just like Elizabeth to show up unannounced on her doorstep.
“It doesn’t appear so, though considering that one’s wild behavior, the impertinence wouldn’t surprise me at all.” She motioned for her daughter to follow her. “The coachman said he has some packages for you.” The starched lace of her cap shaking with disapproval, she started down the stairs.
Arabella trailed after her. Though her mother had forbidden her to see Elizabeth when they’d both still been in London, she’d stopped short of refusing to let the girls correspond.
There was always a possibility, her mother said, that society might forgive Elizabeth Harcrest. Or that some gentleman might be willing to overlook her indiscretions, marry her for her title and fortune, and restore at least some of the luster to her tarnished reputation.
If such a thing were to occur, it might be well if Lady Elizabeth remembered Arabella with affection.
By affection, she knew her mother really meant something more akin to patronage; her mother considered every relationship outside the family in terms of how it might advance Arabella’s marital prospects.
A girl with limited endowments, her mother was fond of saying, should be careful not to squander them.
Arabella had only to look in the mirror to know that by “limited endowments” her mother was referring to more than her modest dowry.
Her figure was little better than that of a boy, her hair was an uninteresting shade of brown and had fewer waves than a pane of glass.
Her bookishness, her mother frequently pointed out, only made things worse.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and turned, approaching the open door to the parlor.
Arabella could see her sister Annabella propped up on the chaise, a great pile of embroidered pillows behind her head, her eyes closed as she listened to their youngest sister, Annelise, practicing the pianoforte.
It might have been her imagination, but Arabella could have sworn that some of the stiffness in her mother’s bearing eased.
Doubtless it was the soothing sight of pretty, pregnant, successfully married Annabella.
Her husband, Rupert Fenwinkle, as Annabella liked to tell anyone she thought might not be aware, was cousin to Sir Edmund Bogglesworth, a baron, no less, with considerable estates to the north.
Hamcroft. Whenever Arabella thought of the name, she couldn’t help envisioning the stout Sir Edmund with an apple in his mouth.
Annabella lifted her head from the nest of pillows as Arabella and her mother passed by the door.
“Is it someone come to call, Mama?” She loved visitors, could talk for hours about who was wearing what, who was courting whom, and who had won or lost at the gaming tables.
Now that she was pregnant, she also enjoyed lengthy discussions on the proper clothes and furnishings for a child.
Arabella wondered if the baby would appreciate the hours that had been spent on choosing just the right pattern of French wallpaper for the sitting room next to the nursery.
“No one of any consequence, my pet. Do not bestir yourself.” Arabella’s mother paused for a moment, her finger in the air as if testing the wind. “Annelise, that should have been an E, not a D. You must read the music more carefully or you’ll give your poor sister a megrim.”
“Yes, Mama.” There was a rustle of sheets of music being turned back. Annelise began playing the piece from the beginning.