Married For His Convenience

Chapter Six

‘Yes,’ Sarah said.

Sebastian’s gut squeezed, although whether this was due to nerves or excitement he did not know. For the past year—both emotions—any emotion other than the leaden weight of despair had felt foreign to him.

‘I am honoured.’

‘Nonsense and poppycock,’ she said with a sudden return to animation. ‘If this arrangement has any hope of success, we must be honest. I doubt you’re honoured. Relieved at best.’

‘Are you always this outspoken?’ The woman did not mince words.

‘In general. But—’ She looked at him, her forehead puckered. ‘There is one other favour I must ask. I hate to do so as I know it will cost money.’

‘Do not worry, Miss Martin, you will have your own funds for whatever jewellery or knick-knacks you desire.’

‘Thank you, but that is not it. The favour... It is for my guardian, Mrs Crawford. I cannot leave her alone. She has become peculiar. I fear she will starve or freeze or both.’

‘You want her to come with us?’

‘No. I thought of that, but she’s lived here for years. She needs familiar surroundings or I fear she will become more disorientated. I hoped we could arrange for a companion, if that would not be too awfully expensive. I know that your circumstances are straitened—’

‘I can arrange for a companion,’ he said.

‘And you think someone would agree to such a position? She can be difficult.’

‘Money is usually an excellent incentive,’ he said, although it had not helped him retain a governess.

‘I feel I am abandoning her, but I need...’ She paused, as though uncertain.

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing. Only that I will visit her when I can.’

‘Of course, you are at liberty to come here as often as you would like.’

They walked forward again, continuing down the tree-lined road in silence until Miss Martin spoke once more in her forthright way. ‘When were you thinking this marriage should occur?’

‘I will talk to the local vicar and arrange for a common licence. I expect we can be married Monday.’

‘Monday? This Monday?’

‘It would save the necessity of chaperons on our trip to London and allow us to expedite our plans. If that is convenient?’

‘I have nothing planned for the day,’ Miss Martin said.

He met her gaze and they both smiled in recognition of the ludicrous nature of the statement.

‘I must also ask your guardian for your hand.’

‘Yes, I suppose.’ Her face creased into a frown as though she were more worried about this than getting married within the week. ‘I do not know how she will react. Don’t come today. It is too late. She is more alert during the mornings.’

‘Very well. But do not worry. I see no reason for her to disapprove of the match. I will, by the way, set up an account at the local seamstress’s establishment so that you can purchase a wedding gown.’

‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I doubt poor Miss Simpson could make a dress so quickly.’

‘Again, money is an excellent motivator.’

‘You have a jaundiced view of human nature,’ she said.

A smile tugged at his mouth. His whole life people had pussyfooted about him because of his position, money or, more recently, his temper.

‘I would say realistic as opposed to jaundiced.’

‘But people can also be caring and compassionate,’ she said softly, glancing up.

She had long lashes—dark, delicate fans which formed pretty patterns against her pale cheeks. He stiffened. His sense of ease dissipated. He should not be noticing her eyes, her lashes or that her skin had a creamy smoothness that made him want to touch it...

‘People tend to care only when it is in their interests to express the sentiment. Moreover, now we are on the subject of emotion and motivation, I must emphasise that this is a marriage based on sound business principles.’

‘Business principles?’ Her eyes widened, her brows rising with a trace of mockery.

‘Indeed, I gain a mother for my child and access to my great-aunt’s largesse and you escape the drudgery of your current life. There is no sentiment involved.’

‘And you do not feel cheated?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Most men would wish to at least like their wife.’

‘Most men have not witnessed their parents’ infidelities only to have their wife run off with a Frenchman, taking his children with her. Romance is too fragile a base for a lifelong contract.’

He clenched his jaw, wishing the words unsaid. There was a vulnerability in such anger.

They had exited into the small clearing which marked the end of the woods and the beginning of the Crawford property. By mutual consent, they paused, facing each other.

Her clear gaze met his own. ‘I will ensure that it is a marriage without sentiment. I could develop some annoying habits if that would help.’ Her lips twisted wryly, amusement glinting in her clear, candid gaze.

Again he felt his own sense of humour awaken. His smile broadened.

They should move on, but he found himself loath to break the moment and, as though of its own volition, his hand touched the smooth satin of her cheek.

Her mouth opened. He saw the sheen of moisture on her bottom lip. He heard the quick exhalation as her gaze widened as if in surprise or awareness. He stepped closer. The top of her head brushed his chin. He leaned towards her. Her hair smelled of—

What in the name of—

Jumping back, he stared at the wriggling creature in her arms.

The rabbit.

Her grip must have loosened and the animal scrambled free, landing a few feet away.

‘Orion, come back here!’ Sarah called.

It loped in the opposite direction, its left foot dragging behind it.

Sarah squatted on the ground. She pulled a carrot from her pocket. Good God, the woman would have a carrot about her person—and pushed it towards the miserable creature.

‘For goodness’ sake, you’ll get yourself filthy. I’ll catch it,’ Sebastian said.

‘Don’t frighten him and his name’s Orion.’

‘You’ve named him?’ Sebastian took the vegetable and thrust it towards the animal.

‘It makes one seem friendlier. Less likely to put him into a stew pot.’

‘An excellent place for him.’

‘Don’t say that. He’ll never come.’

‘I don’t believe Orion is conversant with the King’s English,’ Sebastian said irritably.

‘Animals know more than we think.’

‘Right. Well, Orion, you’d better come to Miss Martin promptly or you’ll end up as fox fodder.’

The rabbit hopped again in the opposite direction. Sebastian pulled off his coat with difficulty and approached the animal.

Of course Orion zigged and zagged. Sebastian threw down his coat, hoping to entrap the creature. On the second attempt, he covered the rabbit and, in a move reminiscent of schoolboy rugby, scooped it up.

‘Well done,’ Miss Martin enthused.

‘We’d best continue promptly before he gets out again,’ Sebastian said.

‘I can take him. Truly you do not need to walk me home.’

‘If I am to reclaim my coat, I do.’

‘We could unwrap him,’ she suggested.

‘Better not. I have no wish to repeat that performance.’

They continued forward. He said nothing and was glad of her silence. What had that moment been about? He hadn’t had thoughts like that since he’d met Alicia at her debut. Not even the mistresses he’d sought after his wife’s desertion had evoked such feeling. Lust, yes. But not this confused mix of desire, humour, irritation and something else he could not even identify.

And now, instead of relief that he’d solved his childcare and financial problems in one master stroke without involving a single debutantes’ ball, he felt fear—panic—and a deep, growing conviction that he’d made one hell of a mistake.

* * *

Next morning, Sebastian stood within the spartan confines of the Crawford drawing room. No fire warmed the hearth and the walls were bare except for an amateurish portrait of, he presumed, the deceased Mr Crawford. The scent of lemon wax permeated the air.

‘Lord Langford, Sarah said you would be calling and wished to speak to me?’ A crisp voice interrupted his musing and he turned, bowing.

Mrs Crawford stood tall, but her clothes hung loosely from her angular frame as though she had recently lost weight. She wore black, the shade relieved only by a silver cross. Her hair was scraped back into a bun and her skin appeared sallow, stretched taut across her cheekbones.

‘Mrs Crawford, it is delightful to meet you,’ he said.

She nodded, advancing a few steps over the threshold, but she neither sat nor invited him to sit.

‘I must ask you to be brief. It is almost time for my morning prayers.’ She spoke quickly, her left hand already touching the silver cross.

How different this was from his first courtship, from Alicia’s coy expression and her mother’s avaricious joy.

Sebastian inhaled. ‘Mrs Crawford, I wish to ask for Miss Martin’s hand in marriage.’

Shocked surprise flickered across the older woman’s face. Her intense gaze turned on him, her eyebrows drawing together almost fiercely. ‘Did she do something inappropriate? Blood will out, you know.’

‘I assure you, Miss Martin was entirely appropriate.’ He did not have to force the haughtiness into his tone. The indignation he felt on Sarah’s behalf surprised him.

‘She is not young.’

‘Her age is immaterial.’

‘She has no money and her background is dubious. Her mother—’

‘Her background is immaterial.’ He spoke quickly, cutting off her words, conscious of an almost physical aversion to the woman.

‘Then I have done my Christian duty to warn you. You cannot say I have not.’

‘Miss Martin cares for you. I am surprised you would speak ill of her.’

‘I speak honestly as is my duty.’ Mrs Crawford clutched at her cross, so tightly that he could see her knuckles through her parchment skin.

‘You have certainly dispatched your duty thoroughly. Will you now give us your blessing?’

‘You have my permission. I am no cleric and cannot give a blessing.’

‘Of course not.’ He paused, uncertain how best to broach the subject of a companion to this thin-lipped woman.

‘Was there something else?’

‘Miss Martin is worried.’ His fingers drummed against his thigh. He stopped their movement. ‘She doesn’t like to leave you alone and I wondered if you’d allow me to arrange for a companion—’

‘A companion? I cannot afford another mouth to feed or a room to heat.’ The thin hands fluttered about the dark cloth of her dress. ‘I need to save, for the missions, you know.’

‘I will ensure that any financial difficulties are covered.’

‘I am no charity case and you are too free with your money. I hope you give also to the Lord’s work. It would do your soul more good to give to the heathen than to me.’

‘It would do my bride’s peace of mind more good to know that you are comfortable.’

‘Her peace of mind would be better assured through prayer. Do you pray, Lord Langford?’

‘I—’ Then he remembered Elizabeth.

And Edwin.

‘I have of late,’ he said.

But even as he finished the sentence, he saw Mrs Crawford’s face change. Her gaze altered, becoming vague.

She stepped back from him, her expression confused.

‘Who are you?’ Her tone was high and wavering whereas seconds earlier it had been firm and strong.

‘Mrs Crawford?’ He softened his voice.

‘Where’s Molly? I lost my doll. I want it. I want it back.’

‘Your doll?’

‘Molly will find it. Or Sarah. I feel stronger when she is around.’

‘Sarah or Molly?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, the taut shoulders drooping. Sebastian shifted his weight uncertainly. He realised now why Sarah had said that Mrs Crawford would need a companion. He saw also that her acceptance was moot—she would soon be in no position to refuse.

‘Are you good at finding things?’ Mrs Crawford asked, her voice tremulous like that of an overtired child.

‘I—’ He thought again of Edwin. ‘I pray to God I am.’

* * *

Sarah sat within her bedchamber.

Her betrothed—her mind stumbled over the word—had come and gone. She’d heard his footsteps in the front hall. She’d heard the door open and close. She’d heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves.

Permission granted, she presumed.

This thing, this marriage, was gathering momentum, moving and surging with the unstoppable power of an ocean’s wave. They would be married Monday. She would marry a man she did not even know on Monday.

On Monday—the day repeated in her mind as though the idea would be less bizarre on a different day, a Tuesday or a Wednesday perhaps. Five days from now. One hundred and twenty hours.

Her fingers tightened about the locket her mother had given her. She opened it, touching the dry strands of her sister’s hair she had treasured for so long.

It would be worth it. If she could find Charlotte, it would be worth it. Her sister, Charlotte, who had always been there, so much more motherly than the laughing, glamorous woman who had birthed them. She could not...must not fail her—not when this opportunity was within her grasp. Besides, countless women married for convenience or money or a title or because their parents told them to. She was no different.

Her solitude ended when Mrs Crawford appeared. She stood within the doorway, her body rigid and her fingers tightly clasped about the wooden frame as though needing its support.

‘Lord Langford has asked for your hand in marriage. You have agreed to this?’

Sarah nodded.

‘Then there is little more to be said. Apprise me of the arrangements and I will, of course, pray for you.’ Mrs Crawford turned as if to go.

‘Um—’

Mrs Crawford paused, her hand dropping to the doorknob. ‘Yes?’

Doubts and questions weighed on Sarah like the oppressive mugginess of a thundery day. The region under her breastbone ached with that familiar pain, that suppressed longing for affection.

‘I’ll miss you,’ she said softly.

‘Then you must look to the Lord for comfort.’

And that was it. The conversation was finished before it had begun.

Sarah watched as her guardian turned and left, her progress marked by the brisk click of her footsteps. The ache deepened. She could not blame her. Sarah’s arrival at the Crawfords’ residence must have represented the older woman’s worst nightmare. While Sarah and her mother remained in London, Mrs Crawford could ignore her husband’s infidelity. She could pretend the tiny house in one of London’s dubious neighbourhoods did not exist.

But then her mother had died. The house had been emptied and Mr Crawford had transported her here.

She shivered, remembering that chilly reception. Bending, Sarah pulled out an ancient hatbox from under the wooden bed frame. She lifted the lid, inhaling its familiar musty mix of perfume and ink.

Charlotte’s letters.

She knew them by heart. She knew every ink blot and loop of her sister’s childish hand. She should. She’d devoured them, reading and rereading them a hundred times a day. Sometimes she’d even placed them under her pillow, slipping her hand underneath to feel the edges against her fingers and hear their rustle, taking comfort in the knowledge that her sister had held them, folded them, mailed them.

A tangible reassurance that someone loved her.

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