Chapter 40: Marriage à la Mode
"There are more in here, John," Tavington declared, looking inside an ivory puzzlebox in his mother's boudoir.
His brother only grunted and added the slips of paper to their growing stack. Since eight o'clock, the two of the them had been ransacking their mother's apartments, trying to put her papers in some sort of order. Lady Cecily had become very secretive as her passion for gambling had consumed her. Tavington doubted that she kept track any longer of what she owed and what she was owed in return. Promissory notes over a year old had gone uncollected. With care, they should have some idea of what potential resources they could command on her behalf. What her total debts were remained a mystery. What they had already found proof of was considerable enough.
On a shelf in one of her wardrobes, John discovered a pile of unpaid dressmaker's bills, and whistled at the total. "The minute word gets out that she's ill, the creditors will come crawling out, demanding their money," he predicted.
Lady Cecily was not being helpful. She had tried to refuse them entry, and then threatened legal action, and then, when John told her to hold her tongue, she had withdrawn in a sulk first to the daybed in her boudoir, and then, after her sons had searched her room, to her bed.
Little enigmatic notes were everywhere: stowed under her mattress, under the carpets, in all the drawers of every piece of furniture that had them, in her pockets, pinned to the inside of her hats. Her maid, Fabienne, had tried to sneak away with a letter to Lady Cecily's new lawyer, the one who had written her new will, after Lucy had eloped and been disinherited. Tavington had taken it from her and tossed it in the grate to burn, and then sent the young Frenchwoman back into his mother's bedchamber to tend to her.
Meanwhile, John found a copy of their mother's will and read it out loud to his brother, with scathing comments. "Do you know she's leaving Caro and Pen nothing at all but a few pieces of jewelry?" he demanded, growing more and more irate. "I can understand why she's bequeathed you this house. I can understand why she's leaving me nothing but a card table, on the grounds that I inherited the whole entailed estate from Father, but you'd think she would have shown more regard for our sisters, who've sacrificed their lives and futures at her demand!"
"She's left me this house?" Tavington asked, surprised. "I certainly would have thought she would have left it to the girls—at least for the duration of their lives. Isn't there anything in the will requiring me to let them live here?"
"Nothing. You could toss them out, rent the house—even sell the house, since the old woman received it as a freehold, not as a long-term lease. They're not protected in any way. Thank God their money is held in trust. At least they'll always have an income!"
Tavington shook his head. "Obviously I would always see that they have a home here—and you as well. Perhaps Mamma takes for granted that I would do so."
John snorted. "I think she simply doesn't care." Grudgingly, he added, "It could be that it's all part of her condition—if she is going mad. I sent a letter to Sir John Elliott this morning, asking him to call and examine her as soon as possible. No matter what that jumped-up medicine man says, though, I am still her legal guardian, as her son, and she's not going to be sending little notes to her friends or to her new lawyer!" He raised his voice. "If nothing else, I'll tell everyone her judgement is impaired due to extreme old age!"
"I've told Rivers to tell anyone who calls that she's indisposed," Tavington agreed. "After Elliott gives us his opinion, we should sit down with the girls and hammer out a strategy for dealing with this. They should be included in any decision."
"And Mrs. Tavington should be included too," John insisted.
"Yes—you're right. Jane is very sensible, and will no doubt have clear-headed suggestions, not being bound to Mamma by ties of family affection.
John grunted. "Hardly!"
Tavington liked the idea of including Jane more and more. She will be less angry with me, if she feels that I understand how difficult Mamma has been. If she has a say in whatever we do, she will know I respect her judgement. That could only ease our current estrangement. Jane had cried herself to sleep last night, and had not wanted his attentions. He had held her until she fell asleep, not daring more while she was so distraught over Letty's peculiar engagement. He was worried about Jane. He could still hardly credit the evidence of his own eyes, when last night she had tried to shoot Lord Fanshawe. Jane's nerves seemed shredded, and he guiltily acknowledged that he was largely to blame.
"What about Protheroe?" John asked. "You've been in contact with him. Do you think he would prove useful?"
"That's a thought indeed!" Tavington exclaimed. He found paper and ink at his mother's writing table, and immediately composed a note, asking their brother-in-law for his help.
My dear Protheroe—
If your business permits, could you see your way clear to calling on us as early as possible today? I am aware about my mother's strictures concerning you, but we have cause to believe that her reason is impaired, and have sent for Sir John Elliott to examine her. We are much in need of sound advice as to our options in restraining her from causing herself embarrassment, and we wish to keep the matter within the family as far as we can. I am reluctant to put the whole story to paper, and will give you the full details in person.
On another head, my sister-in-law, Miss Rutledge, has quite suddenly received an offer of marriage from Lord Fanshawe. She is inclined to accept it, but I would like the settlement papers reviewed by a legal expert. He asked us to call this afternoon. If today is impossible, let me know when it would be convenient, as both matters are of some urgency.
I am, etc.
William Tavington
The note was dispatched immediately, and they were still going through their mother's effects when their brother-in-law arrived. Tavington found a very recent letter from his Cousin Anne to his mother, giving all the salacious details of his brief affair with Kitty. He looked it over, felt rather sick, and shoved it into a pocket to study later. For a moment he loathed his cousin. Very slyly, she had reported the tale only as scandalous rumor and innuendo, not committing herself as to its truth. However, the opinions expressed about Kitty were smug and catty, and the things Anne wrote about Jane and Letty were simply hateful and mean-spirited. Tavington felt a wave of depression. No wonder Jane detests my family. Excepting my sisters, of course. Thank God for them. I must be more careful of how I permit the world to speak of my wife. The rest of the documents were gathered up, and the disputed snuffbox set on top.
They brought Protheroe into the inner sanctum of John's study, where they could not easily be overheard, and told him the bizarre tale. Unhappily, he had already heard about the gaming parties, which meant that everyone in London knew about them. He was concerned about repercussions—possibly legal, or more likely personal—from those who had been ejected from the house.
Tavington shrugged. "I haven't heard anything from Torrenham. He was drunk last night. They all were. If he calls me out, I shall meet him--more fool he!-- but he uttered a vague threat, rather than a definite challenge. I refuse to worry about such a fellow. We are more concerned with Mamma now. You might as well hear the rest of what has been going on..."
Protheroe listened attentively to their descriptions of their mother's behavior. Tavington related the story of Lady Cecily accusing Jane of theft.
John had not heard that, and just groaned. "Obviously, there's no truth to it at all! We all saw Lady Trumfleet give Jane the wretched thing in the presence of our uncle the Earl and everyone else at the table. The old woman just gets stranger and stranger!"
Cautiously, Protheroe offered his own analysis. "It is sometimes difficult for family members—especially children—to recognize that a parent's faculties have declined. What is apparent to the rest of the world is hidden to those who share a household, who have become inured over time to growing eccentricity. In Mrs. Protheroe's own case—well, what can I say? She was made a prisoner under this roof because her mother imagined her to be unwell—or because she feared something else. I do not wish to dwell on the past, but my own impression at the time was that her ladyship had ceased to have a firm grip on reality."
John sighed. "I've let it all slide too long. I'm very much to blame for that fiasco. Hiding in the library was easier than fighting the old woman. With Will here, I feel like I have some support."
"You do," said Tavington, giving his brother an understanding nod.
"Well—that's all water under the bridge. One good thing that might come of this affair is welcoming Lucy back to the family—and you and your little boy, too, of course. Caro and Pen will have a hard time. They take "Honor thy mother" very seriously--the Commandment my mother pounded into their heads from childhood." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Didn't work with me, of course. No one could ever teach me anything—which was why I was such a dunce at school!"
Protheroe laughed lightly. "Certainly, if her ladyship is ill, she cannot be permitted to dictate to this household, either by threats or manipulation. You say a physician will be examining her? Very good. The point is moot, of course. As her son, you are her guardian at law, and can command her obedience."
John groaned, and shook his head.
Tavington put in impatiently, "Yes, John, you can and you must. I've locked her in her room and left a footman up by her door, with orders to keep her there on pain of immediate dismissal. She has her maid, and her meals will be sent up to her. No one wants to harm her, or to stint her anything—whether the necessities of life or her accustomed luxuries--but neither can we allow her to make an exhibition of herself. She has done enough harm with her ravings and her accusations."
"Well," said Protheroe heavily. "She can be kept here, or committed to an institution—"
"My mother in a Bedlam!" cried John, truly horrified. "Never!"
"No, never," Tavington agreed hurriedly. "It's unthinkable, Protheroe. She must stay here. She will be most comfortable in her own bedchamber and boudoir. If we find a respectable woman to mind her, it might be possible for her to join us for meals, if she can be persuaded to moderate her behavior."
Protheroe said nothing, but nodded thoughtfully. Tavington understood that Protheroe considered the possibility of Lady Cecily persuaded into reasonableness so small as to be not worth mentioning. Reluctantly, the lawyer brought up an issue that filled them with dread. "It may be," he observed, "that if your fears about her debts prove true, she is more likely to be committed to a debtor's prison than to a Bedlam."
"That won't happen," Tavington swore. "We'll find a way. You can see how much she is owed." He gestured at the heap of promissory notes.
"We will begin collecting on those." John promised. "I will make a list of them, and write to all the men on the list. I'll ask Caroline to write to the women, politely requesting payment of the debts of honor."
"And if payment is not forthcoming," Protheroe mused, "a letter from a lawyer often has a salutary affect!"
Tavington grinned. "You are a splendid addition to the family, Protheroe!"
Their brother-in-law sketched a bow, and then grimaced. "You ought to know of something else that may cause talk. You have heard, I trust, that Lord Ravenswood died two nights ago, after a long struggle."
"No," said Tavington, rather surprised. "Well, yes, we knew he was dying, but we had not heard that all was over."
"You have not heard, then, that he bequeathed ten thousand pounds to Lucy."
"No!" cried John. "I mean-er-that's splendid! When we saw him, he did mention her…"
Tavington felt a tightness at the back of his neck. "More cause for speculation and gossip."
"Indeed," nodded Protheroe. "There may be some little delay before the money is released, but then perhaps we may be of service in your current difficulties—"
"I pray that a temporary loan is not needed," Tavington told the lawyer.
"Very good of you to offer, though," said John. "But it's only fair that Lucy get to keep the money, after all her difficulties at home." His voice drifted off. None of them really wanted to discuss the realities implied by the bequest.
----
The famous physician, Sir John Elliott, was too busily engaged to see Lady Cecily before four o'clock, and so Tavington decided they would have time to deal with Lord Fanshawe. Already tense from the morning's struggles, Tavington was glad of Protheroe's company as he faced the coming appointment with—too strange for words—Miss Laeticia Rutledge's suitor.
Tavington had never been in Fanshawe's London house, and was reluctantly impressed by the elegance and good taste displayed from the moment one passed the front door. A huge portrait of Fanshawe in court dress, painted by Allan Ramsay thirty years before, was the first thing one's eyes fell upon. The man in it, only a few years old than Tavington, deserved his sobriquet of "the handsomest man in England." The brilliant colors immortalized Fanshawe's splendid prime, and gave an illusion of three-dimensional depth to the picture. There was no time to admire, or to reflect on the merciless iniquities of Time. The two men were admitted to Lord Fanshawe's private study immediately, by a liveried servant of extraordinary good looks
The viscount, stylishly dressed, met them with every courtesy. Protheroe was introduced and greeted as an equal and a future brother. Had it not been for the outrageous circumstances forcing this union, and the absurd disparity in ages of the betrothed parties, Tavington would have been pleased and flattered by such attentions, and thought this marriage a very good thing for everyone involved. Fanshawe, it was clear, regarded it so, and was going out of his way to soothe Tavington's qualms. Fanshawe's lawyer, old, shrewd, and resourceful, presented them with a marriage settlement that no one in his right mind could reject.
"As you see," said Mr. Pryor, noting all the salient points, "my principal has spared no efforts to protect the young lady, and ensure—as far as is humanly possible-- a future of comfort and security for her."
Tavington looked over Protheroe's shoulder, as they read the document together. Letty would have pin money for clothes and jewels of eight hundred pounds per annum. She was promised a carriage of her own. She was assured a jointure of fifty thousand pounds on Lord Fanshawe's death. In addition, a house in Half Moon Street was to be bequeathed to her absolutely—not simply with a life interest. Finally, any children of the union were to have a total of thirty thousand pounds settled upon them—the sum to be divided equally amongst their number. That last provision made Tavington feel rather queasy. Is the old reprobate actually planning on procreating with sweet young Letty?
Tavington knew that Fanshawe had an heir of about Tavington's own age, and had met the man in the past. A rather starchy fellow, as unlike his father as possible, with an equally unbending wife. John had told them that there were any number of young grandsons. What would the Honorable James de Vere think about his father's new wife? Certainly Fanshawe was equal to guarding Letty from unpleasant family friction, but it was equally important to protect her legally in the event of Fanshawe's death.
Protheroe was studying the document with great attention, and raised a few minor points. The two men of law were off, discussing the matter in the arcane language of the Inns of Court.
Fanshawe smiled indulgently, and beckoned to Tavington. "Let our wise friends hammer out the details to their mutual satisfaction. Let me show you some items of interest whilst they work."
Down the patterned, marble-paved hall, Tavington found himself in an exquisitely furnished little parlor, much like the morning room at home, but nearly fanciful in its use of pale colors and the lightness of its furniture. A gilded escritoire was matched with a gilded chair, two sofas in ivory watered silk faced each other companionably. The mantelpiece was white marble, with a relief showing a gathering of the Nine Muses and Apollo. Silken panels of trailing fruit and flowers brightened the walls; and on high the merry faces of gods and goddesses peered over the edge of a little inset dome of painted blue sky, watching the mortals below with amusement and kindness. It was room dedicated to the arts: for there was a golden harp, a gorgeously painted spinet, and by one window, an easel displaying a sketch of St. James Square.
Fanshawe smiled up at the portrait above the mantelpiece. "Good day to you, Camilla my dear," he greeted the subject of the portrait. A very pretty girl of about fifteen, clad in classical draperies, gazed back at them cheerfully from within the frame. "My daughter--who had to leave us all before she had hardly known life. This was her favorite room. Do you think that Miss Rutledge will be pleased with it?"
"She will think herself in Heaven."
"Good." Fanshawe smiled happily. "Much better that one's wife thinks herself there than in the other place, don't you think?"
Tavington grunted, suspecting that Fanshawe was making a fling at Jane's angry words, which he had no doubt clearly heard. "The manner of your courtship, my lord, nonetheless leaves much to be desired."
Fanshawe studied his daughter's portrait, still smiling. Without looking at Tavington he remarked, "You are aware, are you not, that I am not the only person to whom your mother might owe money?"
Thinking uneasily of the note his search through his mother's desk had unearthed, Tavington sighed. "Yes. I daresay we shall soon be hearing from her creditors."
"Indeed. When I was first approached about this business—I will not say by whom—it was made clear to me that if I were not satisfied by the offered restitution, others might be. Others who were owed a thousand pounds, or five hundred, or fifty."
Tavington felt ill, and looked away. Fanshawe continued, still gazing at the portrait. "Others who—I must say—might not have been satisfied with simply gazing on the young lady as she slept, and would neither have had the ability nor the inclination to offer her marriage afterwards."
"I see," said Tavington, after a long silence.
Fanshawe turned to him, with a delighted expression. "I am so glad we understand one another, sir. We shall, after all, be brothers. Miss Rutledge is rescued from the aforementioned fate, and instead, shall be treasured as a pearl of great price. And I shall have something better than a bowl of roses to brighten my home."
"I hope you will permit your wife to see mine. Mrs. Tavington is devoted to Letty, and it will break her heart if—"
"I quite understand. The business of attempting to shoot me? Quite understandable, given the circumstances. No, I won't hold it against the lady. Of course, I do plan on a wedding trip of some duration. Lady Fanshawe must visit my principal country seat, and become acquainted with a few of the more remarkable sights of the kingdom."
"When did you think to marry?"
"Well—let us see… Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow!"
Fanshawe laughed. "I am seventy-one years old, Colonel. I haven't much time!" More seriously, he added, "You are right, of course. Perhaps the Archbishop will not have time to attend to my application for a special license that quickly. Friday, then. A small affair, of course. Large weddings are so vulgar. I shall invite my good old friend Lord Rowley, if he is able to rise from his deathbed. You will want your family to attend, I daresay."
Tavington could imagine Jane's response to all of this. "I do not think it wise to make plans for the wedding itself without consulting Miss Rutledge and Mrs. Tavington. I shall suggest Friday, and if they concur, I shall send a note to you forthwith."
"Oh—" said Fanshawe thoughtfully. "There is another matter that needs your approval, which you might not have delved deeply enough into the contract to divine. If the future Lady Fanshawe should have issue, and if I were to go to my reward prior to said child's majority, I would like you—and Mr. Protheroe--to undertake the guardianship."
Tavington frowned.
"I can see your hesitation," observed Lord Fanshawe. "You think it would naturally fall to my son. I think—that would be unwise, don't you?"
"Perhaps." Tavington cleared his throat. "I believe I can understand your reasoning."
"Then we are in perfect accord."
-----
"Friday!" Jane's look of horror was exactly what Tavington had expected. Letty, too was wide-eyed. Jane waved her hands, and protested, "There will be no time for preparations—for wedding clothes—for anything!"
Tavington turned to his sister-in-law. "Despite that, Mr. Protheroe and I believe it would be best. Lord Fanshawe is granting you very generous pin money, and you will be able to obtain 'wedding clothes' after your marriage. Do you consent to be married on Friday? I am certain a wedding breakfast can be arranged. It will be a small wedding only—just our family here, and an old friend of Fanshawe's."
Letty asked curiously, "About how much in pin money?"
Tavington could see her thinking through her wardrobe, trying to arrange and economize, and then he told her the amount. "Eight hundred pounds a year."
Letty's hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, my!"
Jane's jaw sagged. It was more than half their own yearly income. Letty's life would be lavish on a scale he knew his wife had not yet comprehended. He told them the rest of the provisions made for Letty, except for the money to be settled on her future children. At the moment, it seemed indelicate, and he feared it would distress Jane.
Letty's great dark eyes were enormous, as she began to realize what it all meant. "Yes," she said. "I can be married on Friday. Lord Fanshawe is so kind to think of all of those things to protect me. He must be a very good, generous man. And you all say I must marry him anyway, so I think the sooner, the better."
Jane did not try to contradict her, but her attempt to smile was rather pitiful, Tavington thought.
And so the arrangements were quickly made. Letty's only demand was that the ceremony itself should take place in a church. The rector of St. Michael's, Mortimer Square, was contacted and proved agreeable. The wedding would take place at ten o'clock, and then everyone would return to Number Twelve for a wedding breakfast. Then the bride and groom would go to Fanshawe's house in St. James Square for a night, and then embark on an extended tour of England, visiting historic sites on the road to Somerset, spending time at Salton Park, Fanshawe's great country house. The sights and amusements of Bath were then not far distant, and Fanshawe planned to introduce Letty to them.
Fanshawe had engaged a lady's maid and a sewing maid to serve his new bride. The two women were sent over to Mortimer Square for Letty's approval. Both were French, sisters in fact: Julie and Véronique Maupin. Their English was good, and their manner gentle. A fortunate choice, since Letty would not have refused them, anyway, lest they be left without employment. While there, the two sisters found themselves happily pressed into service in the morning room, helping Letty and Pullen trim a fabulous hat that Letty would wear to her wedding. It used some of the fabric left over from her elegant best gown, which was obviously what would have to serve as her wedding dress.
Protheroe could not stay longer, but promised to return the following day and hear their report of Sir John Elliott's visit. They all dreaded the outcome of the examination. Caroline and Penelope, who had been almost invisible all day, emerged from their rooms and waited in the drawing room for the doctor to arrive, twisting their hands, looking very miserable. Tavington sent to Jane, asking her attendance upstairs in the drawing room, telling her enough of the situation that she came soon, only stopping long enough to give Letty a word about her errand.
Letty gave a nod, glad not to be included in the family council. The last few days had filled her with dread of Lady Cecily. She was like the worst sort of slave-master: arbitrary and incomprehensible. She had finally gone too far, and her sons were putting a stop to her domestic tyranny. Something Jane had whispered to her earlier led her to believe that they thought the lady might be mad. Letty was no judge of that, but she could see that the family was very embarrassed by their mother's behavior. Lady Cecily had done some good things for Letty, which the girl did not forget: seeing that she was beautifully dressed and that she had Mr. Bellini to teach her. The past few days, however, had been turbulent. New people had crowded in to pay calls on them, their curiosity piqued after that man from the Morning Post had come and talked to them, and had wanted to see Jane's pistol. It would be been entertaining, if it had not been ruined by the evenings. Lady Cecily had wanted Letty to entertain the gamesters coming to the house. It was worse than the African Ball in Charlestown—men smirking at her, touching her, treating her like chattel. When Mrs. Tavington had quarreled with Lady Cecily, Letty had never been so relieved in her life. Lady Cecily might be powerful here, but Letty still thought she was safest obeying her sister.
And so it had proved. They had not been evicted from the house, because Lady Cecily did not dare evict her son's wife behind his back. Badly as Colonel Tavington had behaved, he would surely not permit his wife to be turned away from his home. But it had all become very insecure, all very unstable. Letty was not sure how long they could continue to live in this tense situation. In the end, something would happen—something possibly catastrophic. Colonel Tavington's flirtation with Lady Sattersby had shaken Letty profoundly. If he could not be trusted to be true to his own wife, what protection had Letty, who was only a half-sister, a former slave, and a poor relation? The night before had been a dream, frightening and fantastical. Lord Fanshawe had addressed her with the deepest respect, and begged for her hand in marriage. If she were married, she would be safe. If she were married in a church, with all the legalities observed, Lord Fanshawe could never renounce her. If he signed the contract giving her money and a house, she would always be secure. She would be a titled lady—and perhaps—she hardly dared to think of it, she might have a child of her own, instead of tending all her life to other people's children. A little girl! Oh, if I could only have a little girl! I'd sing her to sleep, and I'd dress her so fine…
Very secretly, she found another wonderful reason to accept the kind old nobleman. If Letty had money and a house, she could help her sister, no matter how despisingly these Tavingtons treated her. If Jane had to leave, she could come and live with Letty! What an awful, marvelous thought. She had never resented Miss Jane in the days of her slavery, but she had envied her. And now, if their situation were to be reversed, and if Letty could be the one to take care of her sister, that was only right, and somehow a perfect revenge on those of the Rutledge family for whom Letty had no love.
-----
"An ailment," pronounced Sir John Elliott, "of many years standing."
He had emerged from Lady Cecily's room, leaving her maid to calm her. Caroline and Penelope had been present at the examination, and were white and shaking with stress and anguish.
Caroline took a deep breath, and asked baldly, "Does my mother suffer the same disease that killed my father?"
Elliott paused. He did not want the women included in this conversation. It was indelicate, and inappropriate for the weaker understanding of their sex to be taxed with the intricacies of modern medicine. "Some complaints of a venereal nature," he disclosed, in simple language that even they could understand, "can lie dormant for decades—especially in the female-- before revealing their horrors to the unknowing victim." He gave a properly dramatic pause, to let his meaning sink in.
Jane regarded him skeptically. Biddy had warned her about doctors, and this puffed-up little man inspired no confidence in her. He seemed no better—well, perhaps much better-dressed-- than that horrible ship's surgeon who had spooned rum into her helpless baby. The others, however, were considering his words seriously, and she could see that they believed them.
"Then it's true," cried Penelope. "Our father has killed Mamma. She always said he would!"
"Pen! My dear!" exclaimed Tavington, putting an arm about her for comfort.
"Is there any treatment—mercury, perhaps? Anything--" began Sir John, rather helplessly.
"At this final stage, when the disease has laid siege to the mind, there is none. Her life may be spared some months or even years, but inevitably her reason must diminish, her powers decline. It may be that she will not suffer great pain—"
"Our father suffered," growled Tavington. "He rotted from the inside out—"
"Don't, Will!" pleaded Caroline. "It's too horrible!"
Sir John Elliott was unruffled. It was the duty and the art of the society physician to remain both objective and professionally compassionate. The late Sir Jack Tavington was not the first man to give his wife syphilis. A pity it had gone unrecognized and untreated. Entirely too late to save the lady now, of course.
"I advise that she be kept comfortable, in familiar surroundings—"
"Oh, yes! Of course!" Penelope agreed passionately.
The physician continued. "I can recommend to you a sick nurse of some education and proven discretion. She can be trusted to guard her ladyship against the embarrassments that public view of her condition might incur. She can also be trusted to administer those medicaments that will relieve your mother of discomfort and distress. I, of course, will be at your service, to visit on a regular basis."
"Yes, thank you, sir. You have been of the greatest assistance," broke in Tavington, not liking the oily fellow very much. Medicaments—ha! Elliott meant laudanum, probably. At least the drug would keep Mamma quiet and manageable, and spare her from pain in her joints or face. Her face! Tavington shuddered, hoping that his once-beautiful mother did not decay like so many in the grip of the pox—noses gone, hair gone, hideous caricatures of humanity. Perhaps the laudanum would keep her from feeling the pain of that, too, if it came to it. His skin crawled, thinking of the whores he had known. "—can lie dormant for decades—" What an inducement to marital fidelity!
-----
And on Friday, Letty became Laeticia de Vere, Viscountess Fanshawe. Tavington thought that there could hardly have been a more beautiful bride in England, as he gave her away in the church. Radiant in her splendid gown, she smiled on everyone, and already made a creditable showing as a noblewoman.
Early that morning, another gift had arrived from the prospective bridegroom: a magnificent set of sapphires sparked with diamonds. In the box were glittering earrings, and a brooch-pendant so colossal that Tavington told John that he thought the piece could turn a bullet. As a wedding ring, Fanshawe presented Letty with a diamonds surrounding another large sapphire. Tavington thought with shame of the clumsy, ill-fitting piece of loot he had foisted upon Jane that awful day in Charlestown; and he vowed that when their finances permitted, he would give his wife something pretty of her own—even if it were not so rare and costly as Letty's jewels.
It was a small party, as was customary. Jane stood with his sisters, tears running unheeded from her reddened eyes. Lucy held her hand, and Caro and Pen stood close by, offering support and handkerchiefs. John was hung over, and Protheroe maintained a pleasantly grave demeanour, befitting a responsible lawyer.
Letty was sorry that Jane was so upset. Her sister had told her that she did not have to marry Lord Fanshawe, that she would stand by her and defy society, even if there were a scandal. But Letty did not want to refuse Lord Fanshawe.
She loved her sister, and thought her very clever about many things. However, Letty did not see that Jane was a very sound judge of men--particularly husbands. She did not want to hurt her by pointing it out, but Jane had chosen a man mostly for his looks, and in Letty's opinion he had not treated her very well. Jane had asked Colonel Tavington to marry her, and he had been glad to marry a rich woman, but sometimes he just took his wife for granted.
With that lesson before her, Letty decided to choose differently. Instead of asking, she was the one asked. Her husband was wealthy and could provide for her, instead of living off his wife's money. He knew a great deal about the sort of things that Letty liked and was learning to value. When the sapphires arrived, and their beauty was revealed, Letty was sure she had made the right decision. It was not just because the jewels were expensive. Lord Fanshawe had remembered that blue was her favorite color. Most men would not have troubled themselves.
Yes, her husband was old. But he was also wise. He had been handsome--it was obvious to anyone. In his youth, he had probably been as handsome as the Colonel was now. Everyone grew old, if they lived long enough. He was kind and considerate, and had offered her a place in the world of her very own. As she repeated her vows, she was filled with confidence, and hope for the future.
Tavington was touched at the sight of Letty's radiant smiles. He had not many good deeds to boast of, but he was proudest of giving Letty her freedom and bringing her to England. She had come into her own here. Perhaps, if things had gone better--if she had come out during the Season--perhaps she might have met a more suitable man. But who could say? She seemed happy enough. Fanshawe looked—well, perhaps five years younger than usual.
With Fanshawe was his old partner in mischief, Lord Rowley—he of the bawdy name and the even bawdier reputation. The old villain leaned on his walking-stick, needing its support, since he certainly appeared to have one foot in the grave. He grinned at the proceedings like the specter at the feast. Fanshawe himself looked like the picture of health compared to his friend, but the contrast of his age with Letty's blooming young beauty was jarring, to say the least.
They had left Mamma at home, naturally. Elliott's recommended nurse, Mrs. Watkins, had arrived the day before, and had assumed her tasks without hesitation. She was perfectly respectful to her charge—and perfectly immovable to Lady Cecily's pleas and threats. There had been a great deal of noise at first, but the screams from his mother's apartments had quieted after tea was brought. Tavington wondered if Mrs. Watkins had drugged it. The thought made him very sad, but there was nothing else to be done.
John was depressed, too. He had made his list, and started on his letters, and plainly had never done anything he disliked more. He would need all of Tavington's help to get through the miserable task.
His sisters presented their own difficulties. Caro and Pen were terribly conflicted: filled with guilt and pity for their mother, and overjoyed to see their sister again. No doubt that joy made them feel even more guilty. Lucy had brought young Ned yesterday, and his sisters were at least partially distracted by the antics of the toddler, who had instantly won their hearts. Perhaps all would be well in time, he hoped. People can adjust to anything. He glanced at his wife again, and felt another pang of remorse.
She looked really quite terrible. His sisters had organized a wedding breakfast that would follow the ceremony, for Jane had proved unequal to it. He had not been able to find her on arriving home from Horse Guards the previous afternoon, and had finally tracked her down to the nursery, where she was asleep in one of the children's beds, looking very pale. Moll had told him to leave her alone-- that sleep was the best thing for her at the moment.
"She's feeling mighty low, Colonel," the tall woman said, fearlessly looking him in the eye, brooking no opposition. "This wedding business is right hard on her."
Tavington was troubled that his standing in Moll's eyes, too, had diminished. He had made a hash of things lately. The whole 'falling in love 'nonsense had proved as stupid and dangerous as he had always thought it would be, and perhaps more trouble than it was worth. Kitty was certainly lovely, but he now wished he had at least shown a modicum of discretion. If he had, perhaps he would be better able to comfort his grieving wife.
The ceremony was quickly over. James Lionel Mowbray de Vere, Viscount Fanshawe, took Laeticia Rutledge for better for worse—or more to the point, in Tavington's opinion, in sickness and in health. He wondered how many years Fanshawe had before him. It would be unfortunate if Letty became a nurse instead of a wife and mother. Nonetheless, she was well provided for, and when the articles of the settlement were signed he felt some comfort in that.
Caro and Pen had been anxious over the breakfast. Apparently there had been some little trouble with the household expenses. Nonetheless, they had worked wonders, and a very handsome feast was laid before the wedding party.
"To your very good health!" said Sir John, as he toasted the new couple. "I wish you joy."
Tavington was relieved that old Lord Rowley was behaving himself, and not embarrassing everyone with the sort of toasts he would have exchange with Fanshawe in his youth--or in the youth of Mad Jack Tavington, for that matter.
The newly wedded couple did not linger over the meal. All too soon, they were getting ready to depart. Letty's few possessions had been carted away to Fanshawe's mansion early in the morning. There many bows and courteous words exchanged. There were many whispers and kisses among the women—and more tears from Jane.
"Letty," Jane said anxiously, clutching at her sisters arm, "If he isn't kind to you, you know you can always come back. I'm afraid--" Distressed, she was unable to speak further.
"But I'm not afraid," Letty replied serenely."I'll be all right, honey. You'll see." She donned her spectacular hat again, adjusting the set of it very exactly with the aid of a long looking glass, and then kissed her sister goodbye.
"But you will write to me, won't you?" Jane pleaded, her voice cracking.
Letty looked astonished at the thought. "I've never written a letter. I--I'm not sure I know how--." Seeing her sister's forlorn face, she promised, "Yes, I'll write. Just don't laugh at me, even if I sound silly!"
The bride and groom climbed into Fanshawe's splendid coach. It was in the newest fashion, heavily gilded, and drawn by four pure white horses. Letty leaned out, smiling, her plumes waving in the stiffening breeze. The sky darkened. A few drops sprinkled those gathered to farewell the couple. Tavington stood by Jane, patiently waiting for the coach to turn out of sight. Only then could his unhappy wife be persuaded to get out of the chilly rain and sit with him by the fire.
Note: The title refers to Hogarth's great series of paintings depicting an arranged married between a debauched aristocrat ("Lord Squanderfield") and a wealthy tradesman's daughter. The six paintings show the sorry progress of the marriage from boredom and expense, through venereal disease and adultery, ending with the husband killed by the wife's lover in a squalid brawl; and then finally Lady Squanderfield committing suicide after her lover is hanged, while her greedy father steals her wedding ring from her dying hand. The only person grieving is her little orphaned daughter, already ravaged by the congenital syphilis contracted from her reckless parents.
A "rowley" was a euphemism for a male member. One of Charles the Second's aliases was "Mr. Rowley."
Not many people go insane and die of tertiary syphilis anymore, but before the twentieth century it was often fatal. It's been referred to as "The Great Imitator," because its symptoms are often mistaken for other diseases.
"Bedlam" comes from Bethlem Royal Hospital, where 18th century ladies and gentleman paid admission to see the insane. Visitors were allowed to use their walking-sticks to prod the inmates into amusingly enraged behavior. The term was used to refer to any mental institution.
Most 18th century weddings were intimate affairs, even among the rich and noble.
Next:--Chapter 41: A Family Council