Katie MacAlister: The Trouble With Harry

“What about another book?” Cordelia looked up, her eyes bright. “You could write another Guide !”

“No, I couldn’t. Even if I had enough material for another Guide —which I don’t, my time with Charles having been limited to just six weeks — I’ve asked the publisher, and he says the lawsuits and attention from the government are not worth the profit. I’m afraid Vyvyan La Blue has no further literary career.”

“Oh.”

Plum’s shoulders drooped as she looked out over the small, but well-tended lawn of the vicarage. Bees buzzed happily in the roses and hyacinth, the air filled with the sounds and scents that Plum had come to love so much. If only she could stay tucked away in her safe little cottage until she had time to find a husband, the man who would seamlessly blend his life with hers. “I’m afraid all that stands between me and the poorhouse is the five shillings I have tucked away in an old glove, and the meager amount that Thom receives quarterly. I have been obliged to borrow from her, but even that is not enough to support us.”

“I had no idea things were as bad as that,” Cordelia said, her eyes full of sympathy. Plum turned away, unable to bear the look for long. “Well, then, you really do have no choice, you must marry, and marry immediately.”

“That is easier said than done.”

“Nonsense, you’ve had several suitors.”

“All of whom withdrew their suit once they knew of my history.”

Cordelia smiled. “Then the answer to your problem is clear: If you insist on telling the truth about your past, you must do so — but wait until after you are wed.”

Plum nibbled on her lip again. “It seems wrong—”

“Being married to a bounder who was already wed is wrong, Plum. You were innocent of any wrongdoing. Why punish yourself further for something that was not your fault? You must seize opportunity if it is presented to you, and worry about such minor things later. Besides, Charles is dead, God rest his soul even if he deserves to rot in whatever Italian ocean he drowned in. He can’t hurt you any more, so as long as you keep quiet about your past, no one else will bring it up.”

“It was the Mediterranean, somewhere off Greece, I believe.” It was tempting to do as Cordelia suggested, Plum admitted that much to herself. She had been so close to marrying before, but each time she had bared her past, the man in question had fled, not wanting her stain of shame to taint him. Perhaps if she could find a man who would be so obliging as to fall in love with her, perhaps he wouldn’t mind her past too much. Perhaps he would understand that she had been young and foolish, and had no experience with men to judge Charles for the heartless rake he was. Perhaps she could find a man who simply wanted a wife, a mother for his children, a companion, someone with whom to share the joys and sorrows of life. Plum thought of what her life held for her — poverty, loneliness, and the responsibility of seeing Thom happily settled — and decided that for once, she’d take the less honorable road. Her heart lightened at the decision, as if the burden she carried had dissolved. “Very well, I will send in my application, such as it is. If it turns out that he wishes to marry me…well, I’ll tell him just as soon as is possible. You’ll stand reference for me?”

“Of course.” Cordelia smiled again, and Plum felt her own lips curving in answer. “I will give you such a glowing recommendation, he would have to be mad to turn you down.”

A little giggle slipped out of Plum as she rose, brushing off her gown and collecting her bonnet and reticule. “Mad I could deal with, just so long as he’s kind and amiable, and willing to give me a child. Oh, drat, I forgot the new smithy!”

Cordelia walked beside her friend as they strolled toward the large, red-brick vicarage. “What new smithy? Oh, Mr. Snaffle. He is very virile looking, isn’t he, what with those huge arms and all that curly hair, and his very, very tight breeches.”

“Cordelia!” Plum said, trying to look shocked but afraid the laughter in her eyes was giving her away. “Such a vulgar and unseemly innuendo shocks my maiden’s ears.”

Cordelia laughed aloud as she paused at the gate. “A less maidenly woman I have never met.”

Plum paused as she clicked the gate closed, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her back, the air filled with the scent of honeysuckle. A faint frown tugged her straight eyebrows together. “About that…are you sure I shouldn’t tell—”

“Absolutely certain.”

“But what if I meet someone who knows me? Someone who tells him about my past before I can?”

“As the wife of a simple country gentleman — for a gentleman he must be since his advertisement is very well worded — you are unlikely to come into contact with any members of the ton. No one will know who you are, so you will be able to tell your husband in your own time, when you feel the moment is right. Say six or seven years from now.”

Plum looked down the dusty road to the green at the center of the village. Ram’s Bottom had been a haven for her, but it had also been a prison. She had hidden herself and Thom away from the prying eyes of gossips, but the years were slipping by, and Thom deserved to have a better life than the poverty Plum could offer. “Very well. I will call later for the recommendation.”

“It will be waiting for you,” Cordelia said, waving as Plum turned and resolutely started toward the green, her mind full of the letter she would send to Mr. T. Harris. Along the way she noticed that several women were clustered together on the green in small clumps talking intensely, but she thought nothing of that. The ladies of Ram’s Bottom were notorious gossips, happy to spend hours in the analysis and dissection of each others’ character, antecedents, and offspring.

“No doubt they’re tearing some poor lady’s reputation to shreds,” she said to herself as she skirted the green and headed for the smithy.

A few minutes later Plum regretted her complacent attitude.

“I want ye,” Mr. Snaffle said, leaning in and spraying Plum with the odor of unwashed body, onions, and horse sweat. It was, she found, not a scent conducive to romance. Large arms and thick curly hair he might have, but Mr. Snaffle was definitely not going to suit her. “I want ye bad. Feel how bad my cods want ye.”

Before she knew what he was doing, a massive hand descended on hers and slapped it over the bulge in his tight breeches.

“Mr. Snaffle!” she gasped, and snatched her hand away as she tried to sidle out from under the brawny arm holding her pinned to the rough planking of the blacksmith’s shed. “You forget yourself! I have no interest in you or your cods, so please allow me to pass.”

The fetid smell increased as the blacksmith laughed in her face. Plum turned her head, wishing she’d sent Thom to have the pot mended — the convenient ploy she used to meet and consider the blacksmith as husband material — then immediately regretted such a cowardly thought.

“Ye play coy with me, Missus, but I know how much ye want me too. Give us a kiss.”

Plum tightened her fingers around the handle of the pot and gritted her teeth. Her life, one moment only mildly horrible, had turned into full-fledged, raging nightmare. “Mr. Snaffle, if you do not let me pass this instant, I shall be forced to take action against you.”

He leaned up against her, flattening her against the wall with his broad, sweaty chest. She shifted the pot, relieved he was just leaning his upper parts against her.

“No one cares iff’n ye scream, Missus. They all know ye for the trollop ye are, pretendin’ yer all high and mighty by marryin’ a man what was already married. Miss Stone says that yer own family won’t have nothin’ to do with ye. Give us a kiss,” he demanded again, spittle collecting in the corners of his fleshy lips.