Substitute Bride
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's 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, making 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. Though tall and slender, he looked strong and virile. 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, disapproval plain in his voice.
Emma turned to face him. "I didn't take note of his name. 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 Mr Pollitt could answer, Mrs Purse arrived with the tea tray.
Emma took the tray from her old nurse who breathed rapidly. "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, 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 she'd brought in the tray of afternoon tea instead of giving it to a servant so she could look him over. Miss Napier shouldn't allow her old nurse such liberties. He 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 which 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," she said as she glanced at the tray. "We seem to have everything."
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 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 said as she passed him the dish of dainty triangular cut sandwiches.
He took one, his offended feelings somewhat mollified when she 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 Mr March brought back from London. She tells me there are several excellent landscapes of the Lakes District where they holidayed last year."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Before the maid could announce him, Gerald Myers entered the room. Ignoring Mr Pollitt, he moved towards Emma and taking her hand in his, glanced soulfully into her eyes. "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 of 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 a 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 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 glanced 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'd hoped. The Hunts have altered their time of departure to the end of the month now. Mrs Hunt keeps changing her 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. My aunt, Lady Matilda Langridge, is 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. With this thought he took his leave. "I'll see you tomorrow evening at Mrs March's," he said as he took Emma's hand and kissed 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 sounded 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,
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 passed the letter to Gerald. "What do you make of it?"
Gerald glanced up from studying the tassels on his riding boots and scanned Abby's note quickly. "It sounds as if 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 hastily scribbled a note in the hall, had looked in no mood for such frivolities. She uncivilly brushed aside Gerald's question as if of no importance and thrust the note at him, begging him to remember to deliver it to Emma.
Abby's unusual lack of interest in his latest creation offended Gerald but when he saw the misery in her blue eyes, he forgot his own concerns. He was about to ask what was amiss when Arthur Derries called from the drawing room, demanding to know what the devil kept 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 did 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 which 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. 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 looked affronted. "It has everything. A recent article in the London journal which 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 waited 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 usually serene face. "What's wrong?"
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. 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 an acquaintance of my uncle is staying with us?"
"Gerald did mention him." Emma's green eyes twinkled. "I think your visitor 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 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's 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, making 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. Though tall and slender, he looked strong and virile. 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, disapproval plain in his voice.
Emma turned to face him. "I didn't take note of his name. 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 Mr Pollitt could answer, Mrs Purse arrived with the tea tray.
Emma took the tray from her old nurse who breathed rapidly. "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, 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 she'd brought in the tray of afternoon tea instead of giving it to a servant so she could look him over. Miss Napier shouldn't allow her old nurse such liberties. He 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 which 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," she said as she glanced at the tray. "We seem to have everything."
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 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 said as she passed him the dish of dainty triangular cut sandwiches.
He took one, his offended feelings somewhat mollified when she 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 Mr March brought back from London. She tells me there are several excellent landscapes of the Lakes District where they holidayed last year."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Before the maid could announce him, Gerald Myers entered the room. Ignoring Mr Pollitt, he moved towards Emma and taking her hand in his, glanced soulfully into her eyes. "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 of 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 a 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 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 glanced 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'd hoped. The Hunts have altered their time of departure to the end of the month now. Mrs Hunt keeps changing her 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. My aunt, Lady Matilda Langridge, is 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. With this thought he took his leave. "I'll see you tomorrow evening at Mrs March's," he said as he took Emma's hand and kissed 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 sounded 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,
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 passed the letter to Gerald. "What do you make of it?"
Gerald glanced up from studying the tassels on his riding boots and scanned Abby's note quickly. "It sounds as if 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 hastily scribbled a note in the hall, had looked in no mood for such frivolities. She uncivilly brushed aside Gerald's question as if of no importance and thrust the note at him, begging him to remember to deliver it to Emma.
Abby's unusual lack of interest in his latest creation offended Gerald but when he saw the misery in her blue eyes, he forgot his own concerns. He was about to ask what was amiss when Arthur Derries called from the drawing room, demanding to know what the devil kept 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 did 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 which 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. 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 looked affronted. "It has everything. A recent article in the London journal which 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 waited 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 usually serene face. "What's wrong?"
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. 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 an acquaintance of my uncle is staying with us?"
"Gerald did mention him." Emma's green eyes twinkled. "I think your visitor 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."