Chapter One - A Sly Marquess

 

It was truly shaping up to be a beautiful wedding. Having decided to take a morning walk, the middle Wharburton daughter had been charged with checking that all was well at the chapel, ensuring that nothing had fallen out of place overnight after they had stayed up well past bedtime decorating it.

  

  

Emilia could not have asked for any better arrangements for the wedding of her older sister Lydia. Their mother and aunt Darley had truly outdone themselves and Emilia and Lydia had both extolled the virtues of everything from the dishes to be served at the wedding breakfast to the stationery that the thank you notes were to be written on. 

Emilia spoke with Mr. Snaghorn to ensure all was well with the ceremonial vows, before excusing herself.

 

  

It was a lucky thing that Beacon was so disgustingly rich as he was, as one look at the final floral arrangements had Emilia cringing at the cost.

 

Making her way out of the small, stone chapel on her father's estate and back towards Willowsea Park, Emilia stopped atop the hill that separated the rectory from her home and took a deep breath. She breathed in the beautiful, brisk morning air knowing that this would be the last moment of peace she would in all likelihood get today.

  

She tilted her head to the side, imagining she could hear the noisy din of her mother and aunt ordering people about.

Emilia had only made it halfway down the hill when her imaginings became reality, and the sounds of servants being sent to fetch things and daughters of the house being roused could be heard.

 

 

From her vantage point on the hill she saw poor Rosa standing at the window with her head in her hands having been more than likely vexed by their mother's demands.

 

 

With a small smile to herself, she quickened her pace and in short time was at the kitchenside door.

She took one final steadying breath of the cold morning air.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” Emilia whispered softly.

 

 

When downstairs, the noise was at a mostly tolerable level. She could certainly hear her mother's voice, but it had always carried throughout Willowsea. She could hear her aunt's worries of being late, but they were not as shrill as they were once Emilia had made her way up the stone staircase.

 

 

“Oh, Abby,” Mrs. Wharburton cried, “where are the hot irons for Lydia's dress? We asked for them above a half hour ago.”

 

  Abby, having just been promoted to upstairs maid with Lydia's own going to her new home with her, had the decency to look chagrined.

 

 

“Apologies ma'am, I will see to it for you now,” Abby replied, hurrying off down the corridor presumably to the kitchens to fetch the missing tool. 

Emilia side stepped the rushing girl and offered her a small conciliatory smile and moved into her sisters room.

 

 

The wedding dress waiting to be ironed lay on the bed, its wearer in her seat at the vanity and the bride's mother was hurrying around the room fetching items yet to be put to use.

 

 

As soon as Emilia's mother noticed her presence, she pounced on her with questions.

“Miss Emilia has finally found herself back at the house I see. Pray tell me, how did you find the chapel? Was all in its place? Were the flower arrangements undisturbed? Has Mr. Snaghorn had everything prepared for us? Do we need to bring out the rest of the gardenias do you think, or will the fifty we placed be enough?”

 

 

“Oh Mama,” Emilia said with a giggle, “So many questions! The chapel looks beautiful. I do not think even dear Lord Beacon's uncle the Duke will be able to criticise anything. Not even the colour of the ribbons you have chosen.”

 

 

Her mother sighed in relief and excused herself to her own chamber, having been reassured of the continuing success of arrangements.

 

Emilia exchanged a glance with her sister. For all of her posturing, Lydia was anxious. It was a circumstance made ridiculous by Emilia's realisation that her older sister never once before in her life had been anxious.

Lydia turned to her sister imploringly. “Mr. Snaghorn is indeed prepared, Emi?”

 

 

Emilia inclined her head. “As much as he would be for the wedding of any other parishioner I would imagine, and then tenfold on the Earl's behalf!”

Lydia let out a slight giggle before turning back to her looking glass.

“You take great delight in vexing me, I see. Have your jokes then, I shall miss them when I have removed to Simshire,” Lydia said. “You must be getting on with your preparations though Emi, I won't have you disgrace me today."

 

 

Emilia laughed and kissed her sister on the cheek.

“I suppose I shall have to ring for Clara then, and make my way back to my own room.”

Emilia excused herself, just as Abby came into the room flourishing the hot irons for Lydia's dress.

“Just in time,” she thought to herself as she walked into her own chamber.

 

Her own dress had been laid out for her, a layered silk dress in lilac with delicate Brussels lace around the neckline and cuffs. The matching slippers had been placed beside the dress, the delicate satin glistening in the morning sun coming through the window.

 

 

Emilia rung the bell for Clara to come assist her, once she had made use of her basin and soap to wash.

Clara liked to whistle while she worked and Emilia welcomed any little distraction. She knew she would have to square up with one of the men Beacon had chosen to stand up for him at the wedding.

 

 

Emilia knew that at the very least Beacon had chosen His Grace the Duke of Simmendish to accompany him and she hoped very much that Rosa was the lucky one chosen to take his arm when they exited the chapel.

Rosa would surely remember the unpleasantness that arose in Simdon when he took offence to Emilia's manner, for she would certainly not forget their mother's anger at Emilia for riling the distinguished man up.

Who could forget her cries, at one in the morning no less, about Emilia's “infamous manner” towards the Duke at the Wharburton sisters coming out ball. 

 

 

“You will never find a husband, you will alienate your sisters and ruin their prospects as well! I tell you now, Miss Emilia, should you ever come in contact with His Grace again I beg you will not speak, not even to apologise! Disastrous! Would that you had lost your ability to speak tonight.”

 

Emilia fondly remembered the night, for all of her mother's bluster. She quite imagined at the time that he had been rather intrigued with her manner, but he had proven her wrong on the many occasions they had to meet that followed the ball. He had not given her the cut direct, he was far too much of a gentleman to do so, but he had never asked for her to dance with him again. 

 

 

He had also on at least one occasion, persuaded a man of means against asking her to dance as well.

Emilia had then deduced that he must have been horribly offended at her frank manner of speaking, and more than likely at her self-depreciating manner as well.

 

 

Her character was usually not one of capriciousness and certainly she did not listen to a thing her mother said, but she decided in this instance to heed the motherly advice bestowed and not to bother the Duke again.

It was a shame, she figured, that he had not a sense of humour. For all his other good qualities, his fine figure, his fashionably cut clothes, his deep and pleasant voice, even his great wealth; even these combined with his lack of any obvious vices and rumours of his warm-heartedness towards his tenants and dependants, could not sway her.

  No, indeed. The Duke could not laugh, least of all at himself and that simply would not do.

 

Emilia was interrupted in her daydreaming by Rosa presenting herself in her very own gown, hers a beautiful shade of light green with lace around the neckline and floral details. 

 

“Whatever is the matter Emi?”

“I was just pondering who we shall be forced to stand up with at the altar,” Emilia answered.

“Pray, don't worry that the Duke of Borington shall ruin your day, Lydia and I had already planned that he should stand up with me.”

 

 

Emilia laughed. “You shouldn't call him that... the Duke of No-Humour does much better.”

The girls giggled together. Emilia stood up and addressed her sister directly.

 

“If I am to stand up with him, I simply shall have to keep my mind elsewhere. I won't ruin Lydia's day because of his ill humour.”

“Well let's hope it doesn't even need to come to that,” Rosa replied.

 

Both girls turned towards the door where more ruckus could be heard, before being ambushed by their mother.

She clapped her hands and exclaimed. “Oh my girls, you look so fine today. Rosa, you be sure to take the Marquess' arm today. Beacon has just informed my dear Mr. Wharburton that he has been able to make the wedding.”

 

Rosa visibly started. “The Marquess is coming today? The Marquess of Simmington?”

“Of who else would I be speaking child?” Mrs Wharburton said with an exhale of breath, “He had a family emergency this last fortnight in Simhampton and was unsure he would be able to arrive in time, but he most certainly has and Beacon said he asked after you specifically!”

 

 

“Oh.” Rosa was completely off guard.

 

“If that is not a sign of particular partiality, then I should eat my bonnet.” Mrs. Wharburton looked immensely pleased with herself.

Emilia hummed in response, as her mother left her chambers.

“I suppose I cannot ask you to take the Duke's arm now, can I sister?”

“If you should wish it....”

“No indeed, I would not deprive you of your Dearest's company. Not when he has been absent for above three months.”

 

Rosa took her sister in her arms. “You know very well that he has written.”

“Yet, nothing has been said of his standing up for Beacon. That is very sly of the Marquess.”

“Indeed it is. I assure you I will punish him most thoroughly!”

 

A yell could be heard from downstairs and the recognisable sounds of a carriage soon joined it.

"Let us not keep mother waiting now Rosa," Emilia said with a giggle.