Substitute Bride

Substitute Bride

Laurel Lamperd

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Laurel Lamperd

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Other books by Laurel Lamperd

Murder Among the Roses

Crossroads at Isca

The Japanese Grandmother

Battle of Boodicuttup Creek

Wind from Danyari

www.authorsden.com/laurellamperd

Chapter 1

Miss Emma Napier came into the morning room, wearing a lemon-coloured dress with a blue ribbon tied around the waist. The mid afternoon sun streamed in through the bow-shaped windows, filling the air with warmth. I see you found my painting, she said to Mr Oliver Pollitt who had arrived from his sister’s, Mrs Myers, the Squire’s wife, whom he was visiting. It has just come from the framers. Do you like it?

Mr Pollitt turned from examining the painting. It’s quite nice, he began. But why did you paint it in oils?

I thought the subject needed a stronger medium than watercolours. Emma stood in the sunlight which hi-lighted her fair hair, twisted into a coil piled high on her head, and which made her appear taller than Mr Pollitt.

The painting depicted a group of gypsies congregating around a campfire in a clearing. Beyond them against the darkness of the trees, the shapes of caravans reflected in the yellow light of the fire. The gypsy in the forefront of the painting possessed a strong wilful face, dark hair and his white teeth showed in a mocking smile. He was tall and his body, though slender, looked strong and virile looking. He stood hand on hip, gazing insolently at them.

Looking drab in an ill-fitting dark brown coat, too tight for his short sturdy figure, Mr Pollitt’s lips tightened. He wanted to tell Miss Napier that a gypsy wasn’t a fit subject for a young woman to paint. She’d be better to concentrate on painting roses. Who is he? he asked.

I didn’t take note of who he was. I copied him from a likeness in one of the journals. Of course, he isn’t a gypsy but looked to be of the first consequence.

Before he could answer, Mrs Purse, Emma's old nurse, arrived with the tea tray.

Emma took the tray from her old nurse who was breathing heavily. You should have sent one of the maids with it, Nanny. It’s too heavy for you. She carried the tray to a low table on which stood a vase of daffodils. Would you mind removing the vase please, Mr Pollitt?

But Mrs Purse, old woman that she was, was quicker and took hold of the vase a moment before him. It’s a family heirloom and needs to be handled carefully, she said, oblivious to Mr Pollitt’s annoyance as she carried the vase to a corner table.

He glared after her, suspecting Mrs Purse had carried in the tray of afternoon tea so she could inspect him. Miss Napier shouldn’t allow the old nurse such liberties and he was determined when he and Miss Napier were married that Mrs Purse wouldn’t form a member of his household. With this vengeful thought he accepted the tea that Emma handed him.

Is there anything else you need, my little lady? Mrs Purse asked, calling Emma by an endearment from her babyhood.

Emma smiled affectionately at her. No, thank you, Nanny.

The old nurse shuffled to the door, leaving it ajar as she went out.

Mr Pollitt thought crossly he wasn’t likely to make improper advances to Miss Napier over the tea table. It would be far better for Mrs Purse to prevent her former nursling from painting wild imaginative subjects not at all suitable for young ladies of gentle birth.

Do have a cucumber sandwich, Mr Pollitt? Emma handed him the dish of dainty triangular sandwiches.

He took one, his offended feelings somewhat mollified when Emma asked, Are you attending Mrs March’s card party tomorrow evening?

I have the pleasure of saying I am. I hope you and I will be partners at the same table.

We’ll see. I’m not fond of whist. Mrs March has promised to show me some of the prints that Mr March brought back from London. She tells me there are some several excellent landscapes of the Lakes District where they holidayed last year.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Before the maid announced him, Gerald Myers entered the room. Ignoring Mr Pollitt, he moved towards Emma and taking her hand in his, glanced soulfully into her eyes, saying, I hope you are well, my dear Emma?

Emma tried to disengage her fingers from his grasp but Gerald held on. Pulling free with a jerk, she snapped, I’m quite well, thank you, then added in a sweeter tone. This is a surprise visit, Gerald.

A pleasant one I hope. Gerald turned to Mr Pollitt. I didn’t expect to see you here, Uncle Oliver.

Mr Pollitt too, felt anything, but pleased at his nephew’s arrival and less at his greeting as uncle. He was only thirty-eight, sixteen years older than Emma, an age difference he thought quite suitable between husband and wife. He considered it gave a husband certain superiority over his spouse.

Emma went to a corner cupboard and brought back an extra teacup. Will you have some tea, Gerald?

Yes, thank you. Gerald patted the necktie which he wore in place. I’ve just come from the Derries. He pulled a note from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to Emma. Abby gave me this to give you.

I believe the Derries have a London visitor, said Mr Pollitt who didn’t visit at Clapham. He’d had strong words with Arthur Derries during a previous visit to Little Gosford and they weren’t on speaking terms.

So I’ve heard, Emma said. She and Mr Pollitt looked expectantly at Gerald.

He’s Mr Adrian Weaverham of London, Gerald said, his hand going again to pat his necktie in position.

I didn’t know the Derries were intimate with any London people, Emma said. Mr Derries hardly leaves Little Gosford, and then it’s only to take the waters at Bath. How long is Mr Weaverham staying with the Derries?

Gerald shrugged his shoulders. I don’t know. I scarcely exchanged a word with him. You know how he holds forth.

When are you off to London, Gerald? Emma asked.

Not as soon as I hoped. The Hunts have changed their time of departure to the end of the month now. Mrs Hunt keeps altering her mind. Gerald sounded dissatisfied.

To my mind, London is a den of iniquity, said Mr Pollitt. No one with any sense would go there.

Gerald looked about to retort when Emma hurriedly interrupted, Do you visit there often, Mr Pollitt?

Occasionally, he said, not wanting to tell her he hadn’t been to London more than three times in his life.

Why don’t you come, Emma? Gerald said. You could stay with that aunt of yours. You say she’s always issuing invitations for you to visit.

I’m sure Miss Napier doesn’t wish to go to London, Mr Pollitt interrupted.

But I do, Mr Pollitt. Emma made up her mind in an instant. My brother returns from Vienna next month. I’ll surprise him and meet him in London. I'll stay with my mother’s sister, Lady Matilda Langridge. She’s always begging me to visit her.

Gerald’s eyes glinted with excitement. You haven’t said anything about that before. What fun we’ll have. You and I may yet stand up at Almacks together.

Mr Pollitt thought Miss Napier only encouraged his nephew in his infatuation. He wondered if his sister knew of her son’s unsuitable attachment. If not, he determined to apprise her of it at the first opportunity. It was with this thought he took his leave. I’ll see you this evening at Mrs March’s, he said, taking Emma’s hand and kissing it. He gave his nephew a nod as he left.

Thank goodness that old bore has gone, Gerald said after Mr Pollitt’s departure.

Gerald! Emma said, stifling a giggle.

Surely you don’t care for my uncle? Gerald was incredulous. He drives my mother to distraction with his proselyting and the Squire can’t stand him at any cost.

He doesn’t worry me. Emma turned over the letter Abby had written. I suppose your uncle will be leaving Little Gosford to return home soon?

Gerald looked gloomy. I think he plans to stay forever or until he persuades you to marry him.

He’ll never do that but don’t worry. You’ll be escaping to London soon. She ripped open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of notepaper, frowning as she read aloud,

"Will you meet me by the old well at five o’clock. It’s imperative I speak to you. I’ll go mad if I don’t."

She glanced at Gerald. What do you make of it?

Gerald glanced up from studying the tassels on his riding boots. It sounds like she’s upset about something. I wager it has something to do with that London toff.

Mr Weaverham?

He nodded. I could see she didn’t care for him and his superior airs. I was suspicious of him from the first because of the way he tied his neck cloth. At the Derries, Gerald had cautiously inquired of Abby Derries whether his necktie was set properly.

Abby, who was hastily scribbling a note in the hall, had looked in no mood for such frivolities. She uncivilly brushed aside Gerald’s question as if it was of no importance and thrust the note at him, begging him to remember to deliver it to Emma.

Abby’s lack of interest in his latest creation offended Gerald, but when he saw the misery in her blue eyes, he forgot his own concerns and was about to ask what was amiss when Arthur Derries called from the drawing room, demanding to know what the devil was keeping his niece.

Gerald didn’t want to admit to Emma how inferior the Derries’ London visitor’s suave London manners and sophisticated urbanity made him feel. Abby had done nothing to aid his awkwardness either. She’d sat there like a zombie with nothing to say. Mrs Derries was equally unhelpful. She looked and behaved more like a frightened rabbit than what she usually did but it was Mr Derries behaviour that had astounded Gerald.

Everyone in the district acknowledged Arthur Derries was an old tyrant who terrified his wife and niece with his moods and ill humours but in Mr Weaverham’s company, there was no sign of his surliness except occasionally when he forgot himself in some annoyance with his wife or niece. Mr Derries hung on to every word Mr Weaverham said and laughed ingratiating at his wit even when there was some suggestion of it ridiculing Mr Derries himself.

What has Mr Weaverham’s necktie to do with it? Emma demanded, pulling on the bell rope to summons a maid.

Gerald was affronted. It has everything. A recent article in the London journal that I have sent to me each month declares the character of a man can be determined by the set of his neck cloth.

How ridiculous. Emma turned to the maid who came into the room. Would you ask Ribble to saddle my mare, please Mollie?

Forgetting his role of suitor, Gerald said, How can you say that? You haven’t read the article.

I don’t wish to read such nonsense either. I’m sorry but I must leave. I have to change into my riding habit. Emma glanced at the little gold embossed clock standing on the mantelpiece. It’s half past four. It will take half an hour to change and ride over to the boundary.

You mean you’re actually going to meet Abby.

I must. She’s expecting me.

It’s so late in the day.

What else should I do?

You could send a groom with a message saying you’ll visit her tomorrow.

It’s too late for that. She’ll have left home by the time he arrived at Clapham.

You might run into a poacher.

A poacher would more likely get out of my way than accost me. So will you excuse me please, Gerald?

Before he could protest further, she’d left the room.

Abby was waiting at the old well when Emma arrived. She rose from where she sat on a fallen log under the shade of an elm and came towards her.

I’m sorry I’m late, Emma said after she dismounted and tethered the mare to a post near the well. She lifted the skirts of her riding habit and stepped over the stile between the two properties. I had Gerald and Mr Pollitt to tea. She stopped her chatter, startled by the worn expression on Abby’s face which was usually calm and serene. What’s wrong, Abby?

Abby burst into tears. I’m sorry I had to ask you to meet me so late in the day but it’s the only time I could get away.

Emma placed an arm around Abby’s slender shoulders. Never mind that. Tell me what ails you?

Everything. Abby pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her faded blue dress and dabbed at her reddened eyes.

Tell me about it?

Twisting the damp handkerchief with her trembling fingers, Abby said in a trembling voice, Have you heard that an acquaintance of my uncle is staying with us?

Gerald did mention him. Emma’s green eyes twinkled. I think your visitor has put him out of countenance with his London clothes and manners. Gerald did go on about his necktie.

Abby smiled wanly. Mr Weaverham is everything Gerald would wish to be but then he’s much older, ten years at least. It’s only natural he’d be more sophisticated. Oh, Emma, he’s so well dressed. I feel quite the country bumpkin.

Emma glanced at Abby. Her ancient blue dress did look old fashioned, but then, she didn’t dress in the height of fashion either.

Uncle Arthur has a great regard for him and I must to if it wasn’t… if it wasn’t… Abby stopped and wept silently into her handkerchief.

Emma hugged her. Please don’t cry. Tell me what worries you?

Abby lifted her head to stare at her before saying, I don’t know how I can bear it.

Bear what?

My uncle thinks I should marry him.

Chapter 2

Emma was so stunned at Abby's revelation she could hardly speak. Marry him! Who? Mr Weaverham?

Abby nodded, tears again filling her eyes.

Emma tried to take in what Abby had said. How do you know Mr Weaverham wishes to marry you?

He hasn’t asked me if that’s what you mean. It’s my uncle who says I must. He says it’s a wonderful opportunity for me.

Do you want to? Emma was still shocked at the thought of Abby’s eminent betrothal and marriage.

Abby shook her head.

Mr Weaverham must hardly know you?

I suppose it’s my uncle’s money which attracts him? Abby sniffed and blew her nose.

Was Mr Derries very rich? Emma glanced at Abby’s woebegone face. She supposed he might be. Though the Derries’ only had a small property compared to Lansdown, she’d heard her brother, Richard, remark that old Mr Derries held gilt-edged investments and Abby would be quite an heiress one day. How did Mr Weaverham come to stay with your uncle? Emma pondered the thought of a London swell being a friend of the churlish Mr Derries.

His carriage lost a wheel while passing through Little Gosford. Uncle Arthur had met him several years ago at Bath and invited him to stay with us if ever he should be in Little Gosford.

How unfortunate for Abby that Mr Weaverham’s vehicle chose to break down near Little Gosford. No one in their right senses would wish to be a houseguest of the Derries, but did Mr Weaverham want to marry Abby Surely it was just a fancy of her uncle’s? Maybe when Mr Weaverham’s carriage is fixed he’ll be on his way and it will be the last you’ll see of him," she said, confident Abby had the whole thing out of perspective.

You don’t understand, Emma. The carriage wheel was soon mended. He could have left three days ago.

Emma was shocked. It did sound more serious than she’d thought but how could a fortune hunter take in Mr Derries whom Richard had said could size a man up in five minutes? Then you’ll have to tell your uncle you don’t want to marry him.

How can I? You know how unpleasant Uncle Arthur is if he’s thwarted? Aunt Ada is petrified he’ll get into one of his rages. She spends most of the day in her room. Abby hid her face in her hands. I don’t know what to do.

Emma looked pitying at her. How awful it must be for her, having to bear the brunt of entertaining Mr Weaverham and keeping her uncle content. Then you must stay at Lansdown until he has left and your uncle comes to his senses. When Richard returns to England, he’ll discover all there is to know about this Mr Weaverham.

Abby looked shocked out of her misery by Emma’s suggestion. How can I? What about Aunt Ada? And think of the gossip it would cause? Uncle Arthur would be apoplectic and what must Mr Weaverham think of me?

What he thinks should be the least of your concerns.

Abby fumbled for a handkerchief and blew her nose. I suppose my uncle means it for the best. I suppose I must marry one day. What else is there for a woman to do?

Emma hadn’t given marriage a thought but she supposed she too, would marry though she’d never met anyone she wanted to marry. There weren’t many prospective suitors around Little Gosford except maybe Gerald who was six months younger than her but she considered him more of a brother than a husband. He’d only conceived this desperate passion for her when he returned from college three months earlier to learn the management of the Manor estate under his capable parent, the Squire. A role so different from the playmate who had lost his temper after a childish argument and pushed her in the brook at the bottom of the orchard. I think you should leave your uncle’s house and maybe… She paused with another idea looming, thinking of what she’d told Gerald and Mr Pollitt. You should leave Little Gosford.

Surprised out of her wretchedness, Abby asked, Where would I go?

We could go to London. I had intended to visit London when Richard returned from Vienna. I’ll just be leaving a little earlier than planned. Yes, that would be the best idea. We could stay at Richard’s lodgings. You must contrive to leave home without your uncle knowing.

How can I? And how would we get to London?

That’s what we must decide now. Emma thought quickly. I’m supposed to be attending Mrs March’s card evening tomorrow night. Are you going?

You know my uncle and Mrs March aren’t on speaking terms.

I’d forgotten. How fortunate your uncle had that row with Mrs March last winter. Tomorrow will be the best time for me. I’ll pretend to leave early for Mrs March’s but instead, you and I will go to Chippendale and board the London coach. The coach leaves the White Hart Inn in Chippendale tomorrow afternoon. I know because one of our servants went on it last week to visit his ailing mother. We’ll need a conveyance to get us there. I daren’t order the Lansdown carriage. Gerald will have to help.

What will Mrs Purse say?

She’d say a lot if she knew but I shan’t tell her. I’ll leave a note explaining everything.

I wish I dared tell Uncle Arthur that I don’t want to marry Mr Weaverham.

Emma wished Abby would find courage to tell her uncle too. Abby and her aunt’s gentle ways had only fostered