The Perfect Rose Page 18

  Hoskins took the offending vessel and hurried from the room. Torie thought this a trifling matter but attributed it to his lordship's obvious foul mood. The day must have been a trying one. “Perhaps some tea until the proper libation can be procured?” she offered sweetly.

  "That might do the trick ... temporarily.” He watched from under lowered lids, seeming to examine Torie's demeanor. She did look to be flushed. Not bothering about his dusty, creased trousers he sat on a stately armchair covered in white brocade.

  Torie flinched at this disregard. But it was his property and she bit her tongue.

  His lordship took the delicate saucer with its equally delicate teacup from Torie's hand. “Deuced parched I am! The tenants are praying for rain, and even I, not being of religious nature must take up the hope. Where are the boys?"

  Torie was stung at not receiving even a polite greeting. Well, if he could treat her with as much disregard as a piece of furniture, she would respond with as much knowledge as a stick of wood!

  She was about to retort, ‘I have no notion!,’ when the room became a burst of energetic youth. Brodie clamored at his father, almost upsetting his tea. “Confound it! If I wanted a puppy in the house, I would bring one!” the senior Lord Lairdscroft bellowed.

  Justin was about to call a greeting, but on seeing his father's black mood he judiciously closed his mouth. Brodie ran to Torie. Torie gave Rhionne a look only a she-wolf could duplicate. She roundly set out to give Rhionne the here-to-fore. “They have not seen you all day! At least you can spare them a greeting, if not a dose of fatherly affection!"

  Rhionne had the grace to look awkwardly abashed. If it had been anyone but Torie he would have dismissed him or her on the spot. As it was, he was brought soundly up to scratch. “Come here!” His tone was a growl but Torie pushed Brodie towards him.

  Shyly Brodie approached. “I'm sorry Father that I acted like a puppy."

  Rhionne ruffled his hair affectionately.

  Brodie looked up at him. “Can I have one?"

  "Have what?” Rhionne did not follow.

  "A puppy!” Brodie began bouncing up and down again, his chastisement already forgotten.

  "Good Gad! What have I started? We'll see. Justin!"

  Justin had been looking at his feet, caught in the awkward position of being too old to run to his father but young enough to have to fight the urge. “Yes, sir."

  "Next week, when I ride out with the bailiff, you are to accompany me. It's time you took a more active roll in the estate affairs. Now you boys run along. See to Nanny Ada. She is fair abandoned without her charges; or a patient to nurse."

  Justin, much happy with his new grown-up status answered, “Yes, sir!"

  When they were gone Rhionne seemed to forget Torie's presence. He could not make do with the tea and with an oath retrieved a bottle of port from the tray of spirits perpetually offered. “Can't get a decent drink in my own establishment!"

  Torie had certainly had enough of being ignored. “I want to thank you for the new cloak. It is far above the quality of the one it replaces. But the gowns are beyond what I can accept."

  "Don't be ridiculous. You saved my son's life. Do you mean to say that Brodie is not worth a few gowns?"

  Torie gasped. “Of course not! I find your mood tonight objectionable and I will leave before I say something I will regret!"

  She was on her feet when his words, seemingly nonchalant halted her; “By the by, was that the parson's gig I saw traveling away from Lairdscroft as I rode in?"

  Could this be the cause of Rhionne's black mood? Torie smiled a cat-like smile.

  Rhionne found the expression irritating. “Was it the elder?” He watched her as she took deliberate time in answering.

  "Nay, only the younger.” Torie sighed as if bored.

  Rhionne's temper flared. “What the blazes did he want?"

  "Only to marry me. Excuse me, I must prepare for supper."

  She got not one step before his voice boomed, “To the devil with supper! What was the reply you gave?"

  "Why, sir, I am touched you take such an interest in my future."

  He looked about to strangle her and measured his words carefully. “What ... pray tell ... was the answer?"

  Torie looked at the ceiling. “I have not committed myself. I must weigh my options.” She looked pointedly towards him. Her eyes sought his. “Is there any objections that should lead me to refuse?"

  He stared, seeming unable to find his tongue. He took a step towards her, then halted. He took a gulp of port and hissed. “None at all! It is a fair match for a mere ... governess. I hope you will be very happy.” He quaffed the remaining port with a flick of his wrist and when he looked, Torie was gone.

  Rhionne stared at the empty doorway. Should he go after her? Nay! If the chit thought to bring him up to scratch by threatening to marry the pious parson, she had another thought coming! He'd say one thing for the passive preacher, he was a forgiving man. Rhionne recalled the evening he'd held Torie in his arm's, the sweetness of her kiss, her pliant body molded to his. “Bah!” he exclaimed in a fit of rage. He looked down at the empty crystal goblet in his hand and with a snarl hurled it into the fire.

  * * * *

  Torie could not believe what had just taken place. The man was an incorrigible scant-o-grace! She had thrown caution to the winds and given him a chance to declare himself and what had he done, thrown her position in the house as ‘a mere governess’ in her face. What had she expected? A protestation of feeling for her? An offer for her hand? Not likely. He'd made it perfectly clear that would not take place ... ever. He was a blue-blooded, many generation snob!

  So it was that Torie's pride was stung beyond repair. The next day she took her time composing a note to Jonathan Pickwick. In it she wrote the necessary gracious niceties and obligatory prose with one exception ... the word yes was added as postscript.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The banns were read on three consecutive Sundays and the wedding was hastily scheduled for scarce a respectable interlude. The prospective groom fawned over Torie as if she were still an invalid. He made several trips to Lairdscroft while Torie had no trouble quashing her enthusiasm and made none to the parsonage. Using the dogcart she planned on taking Brodie into the village with her to shop for the upcoming nuptials. But even the thought of this task could stir little exuberance on Torie's part.

  To Brodie it was all in good fun. His Torie would only be a stone's throw away after her marriage and she would not be leaving him. Justin had taken to riding off with his father to visit estate tenants. This was an all-day task that kept Torie apart from Rhionne, and that suited each. Supper was as always eaten together, but the mood was somber with only Brodie and Justin to add a note of cheer. Justin sensed tension between Torie and his father but Brodie was oblivious to all but his own personal joy.

  The small village consisted of rows of low gabled, brick and stone shops interspersed with whitewashed cottages. Normally it was a lazy, slow-moving atmosphere, the most popular activity being gossip-mongering. But as of late it was unusually busy. A wedding was always cause for celebration and the many villagers waved to Torie enthusiastically. It would appear they approved of their parson's choice.

  After a stop at the sweet shop at Brodie's insistent request, Torie herded the protesting child to the modiste. There she purchased a yard of wispy tulle and a length of frothy Brussels lace along with a bolt of white batiste. As always she was practical in her selection. Her white gloves would do along with her white kid slippers that were worn but not unsightly.

  Advice was free and was freely given. Whether inside a shop or meandering down the narrow cobbled street, she was advised on everything from flower arrangement, to the repast to be served after the ceremony. Torie had thought it was to be a private affair but it appeared the entire village knew of it and would naturally attend just as they attended church on Sunday.

  Indeed, the wedding would be on a Sunday. This was Jonath
an's wish and as Torie was noncommittal, her silence was taken for agreement. The boys would attend and Jonathan had taken it upon himself to invite Lord Lairdscroft. It was merely a token of protocol but it was a necessary one. Everyone knew his lordship did not attend church. He'd never attended a local wedding with the exception of his own many years back. But not in all his years as lord had he attended any church function and it was common knowledge he would not be present at this one.

  The morning of the wedding Torie experienced no nervous stomach, no anticipation of what was to come. There was a feeling in the pit of her stomach that could only be defined as dread. She'd sewn a demure, practical gown from the white batiste, with a modest lace-edged neckline, it's straight skirt simply cut so it could be used again with a few alterations, in her duties as parson's wife. A delicate veil of tulle gave her a romantic flourish she certainly did not feel.

  Rhionne deigned to greet Torie as she swept down the staircase, looking sweet, if not radiant, and incredibly beautiful despite the severity of the virginal gown. Torie hesitated on seeing him at the bottom of the staircase. Her heart soared at the sight of him handsomely clad in fitted gray coat and trousers. But when he only bowed and wished her well, she fell again into a somnolent daze that would carry her through to the moment of arrival at the small, quaint church.

  The boys rode with her, dressed stiffly in their Sunday best, Justin maturely driving the open coach his lordship had graciously provided.

  The church was full to capacity and many waited outside to catch a glimpse of the proceedings. A new carpet had been laid for the occasion, so as not to get Torie's skirts dirty as she made her descent down the isle. An old, battered pipe organ brought in on a wagon from Chesterfield, complete with ancient organist, played religious hymns as the villagers sang along, as out of tune as the organ. Justin was chosen to lead her down the aisle, as Torie had no other escort.

  Brodie sat in the McLairdin pew alone. A risky business at best. Some of the servants from the big house sat behind him and had promised Torie they'd keep a judicious eye on him. As the organist struck up an off key march, Torie put her foot forward to begin her walk. It wouldn't budge! She tried again at Justin's urging at her elbow. She was frozen to the spot! Torie took a step backward. Her feet obeyed. She had an urge to run out of the church and never look back!

  Torie heard a high-pitched giggle and was half-afraid it was her own. But a small head, bobbing up and down impatiently to see over taller heads, made her remember Brodie. From somewhere came a shrill scream and a pew broke out in pandemonium. Women were hopping up and down, some climbing atop the pew itself. A few men seemed to take matters into their own hands and were on their hands and knees hunting for something.

  Torie found her feet and marched down the aisle to the Lairdscroft pew, drawing back the delicate veil that hid her fine features. Without further ado she grasped Brodie firmly by an ear lobe pinched between her thumb and forefinger and hauled him from the pew into the aisle.

  "It's only a little frog, Torie!” Brodie protested.

  An exasperated voice from the front of the church carried up the aisle. “Put it back in your pocket and let's get on with it!” The prospective groom brayed.

  "I can't!” Brodie wailed. “It needs water or it will die!"

  Torie sympathized. “All-right. Take it to the pond behind the church and set it free. Don't wade in. Just release it on the bank and come back without getting muddy.” Torie knew this was a tall order. “We'll wait. Go on!"

  The parson looked about to protest as Brodie scrambled on his hands and knees to locate his amphibious friend and with great pomp held him out for all to see as he carried it up the aisle and outside. Brodie was well aware he had been elevated to a position higher than Justin's and the whole ceremony depended on him now.

  Torie took a seat to wait in the Lairdscroft pew. The church was stuffy and the crowd grew quite restless before Brodie returned, muddy to the knees with dirt streaking his face. “He needed assistance to swim,” he explained as he retook his seat. Looking quite serious, he permitted, “You may begin."

  The parsons, both elder and younger, mopped their brows with their handkerchiefs. “Now can we get on with it?” Jonathan's patient veneer was wearing thin.

  Torie patted Brodie's hand before rising from the pew. With Justin in tow she started back up the aisle, replacing the veil as she walked. A voice behind her, heavy with exasperation called. “No! It's no use now. Come down here at once!” Jonathan ordered.

  Torie's feathers ruffled. She most certainly did not care for his tone! After all, it was her wedding. She swallowed her rancor and advanced down the aisle, trying for a semblance of grace that would mark this, the most important day of her life, as beautiful and moving.

  Jonathan was waiting by the podium, with his father presiding over the ceremony, to his right. The plain, brown frock coat and drab, tan trousers were his only concession to a special occasion. His father did not concede anything and wore his usual rough country tweeds.

  Torie stood listening as the older man read the introduction, “Dearly beloved,” he punctuated with a wheeze, “we are gathered here together,” here a wheezing cough escaped, “to join in holy matrimony this man and this woman.” He was seized with a coughing spell that made his next words almost indecipherable. “A union forged ... before God that is not to be taken lightly as it will be blessed till death do you part.” Another coughing fit struck that made it necessary to reach for a beaker of water that was not in its usual place on the pulpit.

  Justin cordially fetched a vessel, mistakenly using the holy water from the earlier sermon. The elder preacher was not aware of this but hastily gulped a deep draught before his son realized the vessel was the chalice of the church. With a movement near panic Jonathan grasped his father's hand to prevent further drinking. The elder's hand, shaky at best, released the chalice and it fell to the floor. “Oh, my God!” both Pickwicks were heard to exclaim in unison.

  There was another delay as villagers scurried to help swab up the spill and the men poured over the chalice, turning it to-and-fro, looking for a crack or dent that would amount to sacrilege. Finally, when each was satisfied the vessel remained unscathed, the ceremony was called to proceed.

  No one noticed as a small, rotund man, carrying a brown satchel, slipped into the church and took a seat at the back, craning his neck and raising his quizzing glass in order to get a better look.

  Torie rose from the front pew where she waited with Justin, who was most apologetic about the mistake. His apology only extracted a glare from the parsons, both elder and younger.

  "Where was I?” The elder Pickwick had to rely on his son to inform him. Jonathan whispered into his ear. “Ah, yes. A union forged before God..."

  Torie found her mind wandering. She blamed the heat of the church. She had fond memories—and some not so fond—of her life at Lairdscroft and it saddened her to think she would only be a visitor there from this day forth. Not that she hadn't been a visitor before but somehow it had seemed a close-knit family atmosphere, with her taking the maternal role. Well, what was done was done. A parson's wife she would be ... She felt her hand taken and a plain gold band was being forced onto her finger. It stuck and would not go over her knuckle, though it had fit earlier when she had tried it on.

  "If there is anyone present who can give reason these two should not be joined together in holy matrimony, please speak now or forever hold your peace.” There was the obligatory pause. “By the powers vested in me..."

  Simultaneously the ring slipped from her finger and rolled under the pulpit as the doors to the church flew open and Rhionne McLairdin burst in. “I object!"

  At the same time the small, rotund man sitting in the back, rose to his feet. “No, I object.” He dropped his quizzing glass as if just ascertaining it was the right thing to do.

  All heads turned to the back of the church. Jonathan expostulated, “Oh! Now what?"

  Rhionne ignored him
and turned an appraising eye on the rotund man. He had a definite bookish look about him with his eyeglass on a single fob and the satchel grasped tightly as if important documents were contained within. His eyes were small and close together and he squinted when he tried to peer up at his lordship without the use of the glass. A barrister perhaps? “Who are you?” he demanded before softening his manner. “If I might inquire?"

  "You may if it will aid me in completion of my task. I am the Hon. Thurman Wadsworth Esq., procurator for Lady Pawlings, lately of Groveshire in the county of Norfolk. Known to her direct descendants as Grand Dame."

  Aha! Rhionne thought smugly. A barrister.

  Jonathan Pickwick, taking Torie by the wrist, almost dragged her to the back of the church to intrude. “And why, pray tell, should the procurator of a lady, whose name is inconsequential, have an objection to my marriage?"

  The Hon. Thurman Wadsworth Esq. lifted a trenchant eyebrow. “Acting as agent for the lady's estate, we do not object to your marriage. We object to her marriage.” He turned to Torie, bowing deeply. “Are you Victoria Eugenia Beauclaire as is stated in the Croft County section of Intention to Wed announcements?"

  "I am,” Torie acknowledged faintly.

  "And do you know the name, Pawlings? To be exact, Grand Dame Pawlings?"

  "She is my grandmother on my late mother's side."

  "Was, my dear. I am aggrieved to tell you, she has recently passed. But she has remembered you quite well. More than handsomely. As per instructions in the letter that I have with me, she has made you heir to her estate and all that it entails, including all titles held. Upon her death you became Lady Victoria Pawlings-Beauclaire."

  Torie was stunned as he went on. “I can tell you we had quite a time tracing your whereabouts. Why, if it weren't for this insignificant notice placed beneath my own niece's Intention, I would never have looked in this neck of the woods. Now, if there is some place we could go perhaps? There are papers to be signed and details, both great and small, to be considered."