Louise Allen - Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady

Best to put it behind them if they could. He was to be married and he had better accept it and move on from there as he hoped Arabella would.

He had never expected to find love in marriage, he thought as he stared unseeing out of the carriage window at the unweeded drive. He supposed he had that in common with most men of his class. But neither had he expected to take a wife who was not a virgin, one who was carrying someone else’s child. They would have to become accustomed to that, somehow. It would be like wedding a widow virtually from her husband’s open graveside.

He grimaced at the macabre image. He must think positively. Surely Arabella would recover soon enough from the shattering of her infatuation with Rafe and the cruel realisation that she had been deceived. They could put it behind them and build a marriage based on reality.

It was, after all, time he settled down. He was thirty now. That had come as something of a shock. He had been teasing a small group of giggling young ladies at Almack’s in March and had suddenly realised just how young they were. He could not go on flirting for ever, dodging the matchmaking mamas.

In the past few months he had begun to identify suitable young ladies who would make eligible brides and he had accepted an invitation to the Framlinghams’ house party that would have given him time with a number of them, including Lady Frederica Framlingham.

Frederica was charming, assured and pretty. He suspected she would not be averse to an offer from him. Under the circumstances it was fortunate that the funeral, and then all the work he had found himself dealing with, had taken him from Town close to the end of the Season and before the house party convened and he could commit himself with Frederica.

The timing might work out well. Arabella would have until February to become used to her new role, to give birth and to prepare to make her dèbut next Season. Elliott pulled out his notebook and jotted a note to have the Town house refurbished. The front door opened. He pulled out his watch: on the stroke of eight. His betrothed was prompt.

‘Good morning, Elliott.’ The footman helped Arabella in and he studied her face as she settled herself opposite him.

‘Good morning. Did you sleep well?’ She was pale and pinched and there were dark shadows under her eyes, which were bloodshot. He had never demanded beauty in his women, but he had expected a certain level of attractiveness. Miss Shelley was quite right, she was certainly plain. The image of Freddie Framlingham, pink cheeked, blue eyed, vivacious, flashed into his mind. Virginal, uncomplicated, good-natured Freddie.

‘Thank you, yes.’

Elliott knew that was a polite lie. She must have spent most of the night worrying. ‘Excellent.’ There was no point in telling her just how ill she looked. ‘There is Madeira wine and some dry biscuits in that basket.’

‘How thoughtful.’ The fleeting smile was a revelation. He stared at her; Miss Shelley, it seemed, was not quite so plain after all. Then the animation faded and once more she was wan and subdued. ‘I have had a very careful breakfast. I hope this nausea will not last much longer.’

He did not refer to the fact that it was more than morning sickness that was distressing her so. They had no need to speak of the circumstances. ‘You have a confidante , someone with experience of being with child?’ It occurred to him that she would need one. Cousin Dorothy would be no help and Mrs Knight, his housekeeper, had her title from courtesy only. She too was a spinster.

‘Our laundry maid has six children,’ Arabella explained. ‘I heard all about her health throughout several pregnancies so I have some idea what to expect. But other than her, no. Papa did not encourage close friendships.’

‘Rest and a lack of anxiety should help.’ Elliott hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. What Arabella needed was some experienced female companionship, not an unknown husband whose knowledge of childbirth was entirely derived from the stud farm and the kennels.

‘A lack of anxiety?’ That expressive smile suggested that she was far from agreeing with his choice of words.

‘Now you know that your child will be secure,’ he temporised.

‘That is true.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘Elliott, are you quite sure about this? I lay awake thinking that you must be awake too. Awake and bitterly regretting what you had done.’

‘I thought you want what is best for your child.’

‘I do, but this is not your fault.’

‘It is, however, my responsibility.’ Damn it, he was beginning to sound like the prosy bore Rafe had accused him of becoming. ‘A gentleman does not go back on his word.’

‘No, Elliott. Of course not.’ Arabella seemed to withdraw into herself.

So now he felt like a prosy bore who had kicked a kitten. He consulted his notebook. Might as well carry on behaving like a dull, domineering husband—at least that involved no messy, uncomfortable emotion.

‘We will call on my lawyer, Lewisham, this afternoon and he will draw up the settlement so that you and the child are protected. I will also organise your allowance and arrange to have it paid to you quarterly, if that is convenient.’

‘An allowance for housekeeping?’ Arabella queried. He could see her making herself pay attention and wondered if dragooning her into coming to Worcester had been a good idea. But the alternative was to leave her with Dorothy and there she would have to pretend all the time.

‘No, for your personal use. For gowns and whatever else you wish to spend it on. I thought fifty pounds, but you will let me know if it is not enough.’

‘A year?’ She was staring.

‘No, a quarter.’

‘Two hundred pounds? I can afford a maid.’ She looked more stunned than pleased. She was way out of her depth, he realised. That was another thing that had not occurred to him—he was going to have to show her how to go on at this level in Society.

‘I will pay for your maid, and later for the nurse and the nursery maid. And an allowance for the child. This is all for you, Arabella. We will discuss the housekeeping later, but you have Mrs Knight, who has been housekeeper for about ten years and she is very experienced. You will not have much to do in that department.’

‘I know all about housekeeping,’ she said with a touch of asperity. ‘This will just be a matter of scale. But what am I to spend all that money on?’ Then that unguarded smile reappeared. It was impossible not to smile back. ‘Books! I can join a subscription library and have them sent. And journals. And embroidery silks—I would like to do fine work and not just darning and knitting. And then patterns for baby clothes.’ Her hand came to rest, unconsciously, on her midriff and something twisted inside him that he could not identify. The baby was real, suddenly, not just an abstraction or a problem. Rafe’s child. Elliott felt a strange pang, almost apprehension. He shook his head to clear it.

‘And later you should have a dancing master. You will be called upon to dance very frequently, next Season. We will go up to London when you have recovered from the birth. Then you can have lessons, buy your ball gowns and court gown.’

‘Court. Balls. Oh, my.’ The smile faded. ‘Elliott, I fear I am well out of my depth.’

‘But I am not. I am used to the London Season, I have many friends in Town. You will soon find your feet and become an accomplished hostess.’ And by then she would not rely so much on him. Life could get back to normal. He would attend sporting events, Jackson’s Boxing Salon, his clubs. During the Season they would go to parties and to balls. And she would go shopping, make calls, look after the child. Out of Season they would pay visits and live in the country. It was all very simple. No mistresses, of course. And no flirting.