The Midnight Marriage

©Lucinda Brant 2002

Prologue

(Gloucestershire, England 1761)

    Deborah woke from a deep sleep to the sounds of a hasty late night arrival in the cobbled courtyard below her bedchamber window. Commands were barked out at drowsy-eyed stableboys and carriage wheels spun and slid to an abrupt halt. At first the girl thought it all part of her dream but the clip clop of horses hooves on uneven stone did not seem possible in the cool of a forest clearing. Otto was making beautiful music with his viola while she swung higher and higher on the rope swing, her silk petticoats billowing out between her long stockinged legs. She was sure if she swung higher her toes would touch the clouds. They both laughed and sang and it was such a lovely sunny day. Then the sun went behind a cloud and Otto disappeared and she fell off the swing at its highest point. Someone was shaking her awake. Fervent whispering opened her eyes and she blinked into the light of one taper held up by her nurse.
   Before she had time to fully wake, nurse pulled back the warm coverlet and threw a dressing gown over Deborah’s thin shoulders. Then with shaking hands the woman straightened the girl’s lace edged night cap, brought forward over one shoulder the single long thick plait of dark red hair, needlessly straightening the white bow; all the while muttering for Miss Deb to be a good girl and do as she was told and her prayers would be answered.
   Drowsy and barefoot, Deborah was abandoned by her nurse at the door to Sir Gerald’s book room. The passageway was dark and cold and the book room was no better. At the furthest end of this masculine sanctuary blazed a fire in the grate but it did not beckon her with the prospect of warmth and comfort. She went forward when ordered by her brother Sir Gerald, a nervous glance at the two strangers taking refreshment after a hard ride. They had divested themselves of their great coats but the tall gentleman with the white hair and strong aquiline nose still wore his sword, the ornate hilt visible under the skirts of his rich black velvet frockcoat with silver lacings.
    Deborah could not help staring at this imperious ancient stranger, his close-shaven cheeks etched with the lines of time and hair and eyebrows as white as the soft lace ruffles which fell over his thin long white hands. She had never seen an emerald as large as the one in the gold ring he wore on his left hand. She imagined he must be a hundred years old.
    When he turned bright dark eyes upon her and beckoned her closer with the crook of one long finger she caught her breath and hesitated. A sharp word from her brother moved her feet and remembering her manners at last, Deborah lowered her gaze to the floor. When she came to stand before this imperious ancient stranger she shivered, not from fear because she did not know what or whom to fear, but from the cold night breeze coming in through the open window. She curtsied and placidly waited to be spoken to first, gaze obediently remaining on the Turkey rug.
    The stranger’s voice was surprisingly deep and strong for one so old.
    “What is your age, child?”
     “I am twelve, sir.”
    He frowned and over his shoulder said something in French to the little grey-haired man who stood at his elbow. He was answered in kind and the ancient stranger nodded and addressed Sir Gerald in his own tongue.
     “She is too young.”
    “But—your Grace, she is of age!” Sir Gerald assured him with an eager nervous smile. “The bishop raised no objection. Twelve is the age of consent for a female.”
    “That is true, Monseigneur,” agreed the little man. “But it is for your Grace to decide… I do not know of an alternative.”
    “Surely your Grace has not changed his mind?” whined Sir Gerald. “Bishop Ramsay was not pleased to be summonsed here, your Grace, and if the ceremony is not to go ahead…”
    “Your sister is not fifteen as you led me to believe, Cavendish,” enunciated the ancient stranger in an arctic voice.
    Sir Gerald gave a nervous snort. “Twelve or fifteen: three years hardly matters.”
    Deborah glanced up in time to witness the look of disgust which crossed the lined face of the ancient gentleman and she wondered what he found to fault in her. She knew she was only passably pretty. Sir Gerald despaired of her plain, brown looks, but she was not disfigured and her features were unremarkable. She was considered tall for her age but she was not so awkwardly big boned that this stranger had the right to pull a face at her in her own home. And why did her brother wear such a silly smile on his round fleshy face and stare expectantly at the arrogant ancient man as if his whole dependence rested on his will? He was acting as one of his own lackeys did before him. She had never seen her brother bow and scrape to anyone. It was strange indeed.
    Deborah felt the black eyes regarding her from under heavy lids and she forced herself to look the ancient gentleman in the face without blinking. But she could not stop herself blushing when his gaze dropped to her bare feet and travelled slowly the length of her nightgown, from the tip of her single thick plait of dark red hair which brushed her thigh, on up over the swell of her budding breasts, to rest on the lopsided bow tied under her chin that kept her nightcap in place. He then looked into her brown eyes again and she met his gaze openly. A small crooked smile played on his thin lips and Deborah wished she had the courage to tell him his manners were lacking in one so old. His question to her brother bleached her cheeks.
    “Has her menses begun?”
    Sir Gerald was dumbstruck. “Your—your Grace?”
    “You heard the question well enough, Cavendish,” prompted the grey haired companion of the ancient one.
    But even though Sir Gerald’s mouth worked he could not speak.
    Deborah, feeling the heat in her cheeks, answered for him. “Four—four months ago, sir.”
    All three men turned and looked down at her then, as if finally acknowledging her mental as well as physical existence. Sir Gerald frowned but the ancient stranger and his friend smiled, the ancient one politely inclining his white head to her in thanks for her response. He seemed about to address her directly when a commotion in the passageway distracted them all. The grey-haired companion disappeared into the shadows and out of the room. He was gone for several minutes and in the interval no one spoke. Sir Gerald brooded; once or twice looking at his sister with mute disapproval while the ancient stranger calmly waited by the open window and fastidiously took snuff from a gold and enamelled snuffbox.
    Into the book room came a gentleman dressed in a cleric’s robes, but these were no ordinary robes; they were edged in ermine and were of velvet and gold thread. He carried an ornately decorated Bible and wore a magnificent, old-fashioned, powdered wig with three curls above each fleshy ear. Deborah knew this to be Bishop Ramsay. He had arrived at the house earlier that day and set the servants on their ears with his imperious demands. Nurse said Cook was at her wit’s end. The bishop took one look at Deborah in her nightclothes and put up his bushy brows. He ignored his host in favour of the ancient stranger over whose outstretched hand he bowed deeply. Deborah thought it odd that a bishop should bend to this old gentleman; he must be someone very illustrious indeed. Just then the little grey haired man came out of the shadows looking worried.
    “They’ve dragged him out of the carriage, your Grace,” he announced then hesitated.
    “And… Martin?” asked the ancient gentleman with uncanny perceptibility.
    “He’s downed another bottle, your Grace,” Martin apologised.
    “Then he will endure the ceremony better than the rest of us,” came the flat reply.
    “The marriage is to go ahead as planned?” Sir Gerald asked eagerly.
    The ancient stranger did not look at him. “I have no choice.”
    He said this in such a weary tone that even Deborah, for all her youth and inexperience, heard the deep note of sadness in the mellow voice. She wondered what troubled him. The fact that these men were talking about a marriage ceremony barely registered with her. After all, no one had spoken to her of marriage. And everyone knew that before a girl was of marriageable age she had to leave the schoolroom and be launched onto society during the Season and attend plenty of balls and routs and meet many eligible gentlemen, one of whom she would fall in love with and hopefully he would be the one who asked her brother for her hand in the usual manner. Marriages did not happen in the dead of night, between strangers. There were formalities and mysterious things called settlements and a proper order to such a momentous step in a girl’s life.
    But Deborah was wrong and knew she was terribly wrong when her brother led her to the bishop, who called her a little sparrow of a bride and pinched her chin in a fatherly way, saying what a great honour had been bestowed upon her and her family for she had been chosen to be the wife of the Duke of Roxton’s heir.
    Her first thought was that she must still be asleep; that her beautiful dream with Otto in the forest had somehow turned into a nightmare and if she tried hard enough to think about waking it would happen and nurse would be there with a glass of milk and soothing words. She closed her eyes, weak legged and dry in the mouth but she did not wake up from this nightmare. She was so bewildered she could not speak nor could she move. Panic welled up within her. She wished with all her heart that Otto would come home and save her. She felt like crying. There was hot tears behind her eyelids. Yet quiet sobbing in the doorway distracted her enough that she momentarily forgot her fear.
    A tall, well-built youth with a mop of tight black curls was being supported at either elbow by two burly servants in livery. He was not so drunk that he could not walk and so he told his captors in a growl of angry words. But the more he struggled to be free of them the harder their grip on his elbows and he gave up the fight and returned to weeping into his chest. An awkward silence followed as the boy was brought to stand beside Deborah. A languid movement of dismissal from the ancient gentleman and the burly servants retreated into the shadows.
    Out of the corner of her eye, Deborah stole a glance at the weeping boy but he had turned away from her to face the ancient man and addressed him in French, his voice breaking into sobs between sentences. He spoke faster than she could ever hope to understand but he used the words Mon Pere: Father, over and over. Deb could not believe that this white haired old man could possibly be this boy’s father. Surely he meant grandfather? And as she continued to stare at father and son, the boy suddenly broke into English. His words were so full of hate that Deborah’s face was not the only one to colour up with embarrassment.
    “It’s all your fault! Your fault,” the boy screamed at the ancient gentleman, his fists balled in rage. “Why should I be banished for your sins? Does my presence make you uncomfortable, Monseigneur, now that I know the sordid truth? You can’t bare the truth about yourself, that’s the irony!” he added bitterly. “Poor Maman. To think she’s had to live with your disgusting secrets all these years—”
    “Alston, that will do,” cut in the grey haired companion. “You’re drunk. In the morning you will regret—”
    The boy tore his tearful gaze from his father. “Regret knowing the truth? Never!” he spat out, lip trembling uncontrollably. “You’ve known all along, haven’t you, Martin? Why didn’t you tell me? I’m his heir. I had a right to know. A right.” He began to sob again and dashed a silken sleeve across his wet face. “Mon Dieu, I’m cursed. Cursed.”
    “It’s all in your head, my son,” the ancient gentleman said quietly.
    This made the youth give a bark of hysterical laughter that broke in the middle. “In my head? Then it’s a lie: that His Grace the most noble Duke of Roxton, my father, has littered the landscape with ill-gotten
bastards—”
    The slap across his face knocked the boy off his feet and left the Duke nursing a smarting hand. Deborah watched him turn his back and walk into the shadows while at her feet the boy picked himself up to his silken knees, a hand to his stinging cheek. The grey haired gentleman known as Martin put an arm about the boy’s shaking shoulders and with a glance at Deborah said in a soothing voice,
    “If you ever want to see your mother again, marry this girl. Then you and I can be on our way to France.”
    The youth gripped Martin’s arm convulsively, his wet face close to his. “If I do as he wants may I see Maman before we sail? May I, Martin? Please.”
    Martin shook his head sadly. “The early birth of your brother has left her very weak, my boy. She needs time to recover; the rest is up to God.”
    The youth broke into fresh sobs. “He’ll never let me see her again! I know it, Martin. Never.”
    Deborah’s brown eyes widened and she held her breath, awaiting the grey-haired gentleman’s response. When he looked over the youth’s bowed head of black curls and smiled at her kindly she felt a great relief. Though why she should feel anything but panic and dread at the prospect that lay before her she could not explain. There was something oddly reassuring in the grey haired man’s smile, as if he would protect her from this strange sad boy and the consequences of this hasty midnight marriage.
    “After the ceremony, I am taking my godson to France and then on to Rome and Greece,” Martin told her in a confiding tone, adding for good measure, as if living up to the promise of his smile, “We will be away for many years. Do you understand, ma cherie?”
    Deborah nodded. France was over the water. And Greece and Rome were so far away that it took months and months of travelling to reach such exotic countries; Otto had told her so. Her panic subsided and she felt safe. This boy was going away for many years. She would never see him again after tonight. The sooner the bishop performed the ceremony the sooner she would wake from this nightmare. She would be back in her own warm comfortable bed and nurse would tuck her up under the covers and she would forget this night ever happened.
    The grey-haired man’s words of reassurance had an effect on the boy too for he pulled out of the man’s embrace and dashed the curls from his wet face. The bishop quickly came to stand before these two children with his bible open and proceedings began in a rush; as if there was no assurance the boy’s capitulation would last long enough for the exchange of vows. The bishop’s fears seemed justified when all of a sudden the boy began to chuckle under his breath, disconcerting the bishop enough for him to pause on two occasions, and Deborah to glance nervously up at the boy to see what he found so amusing. Finally the boy had to share his amusement with his ancient parent who stood behind him like a sentry made of marble.
    “Monseigneur? Is this plain, awkward creature the best you could find to marry your heir?” he threw over his shoulder in arrogant bitterness. “Surely my lineage begs better?”
    “Her pedigree is as good as yours, my son.”
    The youth sniggered. “What an illustrious union for we Heshams!” and snatched up Deborah’s hand when requested by the bishop. Obediently he repeated the words that would make them husband and wife. Deborah too had repeated the words after the bishop but she had said them without thinking and had no idea what this boy’s Christian names were, despite there being a string of them, because she could not take her eyes off his face. He was the handsomest boy she had ever seen, but it was his eyes that held her mesmerised. They were green, a deep emerald green. The same colour as the large square cut emerald on the thin white hand of the ancient stranger Deborah was convinced had to be a hundred years old.