Deanna Raybourn - Midsummer Night

Your devoted aunt,

Portia

Chapter One

He is the half part of a blessed man,

Left to be finished by such as she,

And she a fair divided excellence,

Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.

—King John, II.I.437

“For God’s sake, Julia,” grumbled Portia. “It’s your wedding. Do you not even care to choose the flowers?”

“Pray, do not ask her,” our elder sister, Olivia, put in firmly. “Her opinion will only confuse the matter. Tell her what she likes—that is the way to deal with Julia. And what she will like is flowers sent down from London,” she finished, ticking an item off her enormous list of wedding notes.

“You are sending to London for flowers?” Portia’s voice was incredulous. “Flowers come from the country.”

“Not these flowers,” Olivia corrected. “Hothouse orchids. Just the thing.”

“I thought wildflowers might be best—things one might cut from the garden. It is a country wedding,” I pointed out.

“You will look like a peasant,” Olivia warned.

Portia countered with something cutting and I left my sisters quarrelling over the details whilst I mooned about, waiting for a letter from Brisbane. While Olivia had wanted a smart town wedding, the rest had mercifully overruled her and decided I would be married from the church of St. Barnabas in Blessingstoke, the village nestled at the foot of our family seat at Bellmont Abbey, surrounded by friends and family. As it was not thought seemly we sleep under the same roof before the wedding, it was arranged that Brisbane would lodge with Uncle Fly at his vicarage in preparation for the day. Brisbane’s response to this was eloquent and profane, but he agreed in the end, stipulating that he would only submit if he were permitted to take the music entirely in hand. Olivia gave in with singularly bad grace, but Brisbane’s taste was impeccable, and I was delighted he intended to take so active a role in the wedding itself. He began a frequent correspondence with Mrs. Netley, the blacksmith’s wife and organist of the church of St. Barnabas, a position she guarded jealously.

With all the necessary arrangements made, two days before Midsummer we assembled at Bellmont Abbey. Family flocked from the four corners of Britain, a collection of relatives so numerous the Abbey was fairly bursting at the seams to contain them. Aunt Hermia, in her capacity as official hostess of the Abbey, had hired in a number of girls from the village to help with food preparations and the endless round of bed making, dusting and sweeping so many guests demanded.

The last expected guest had just arrived in a flurry of embraces when there came a great rapping at the vast door of the Abbey. Hoots, as much a fixture in the Abbey as any of the furniture and approximately twice as old, hurried to open it, but not hastily enough, and I heard a booming voice carrying into the hall.

“My God, man, leave me rot on the doorstep, and me come all the way from Scotland! Get out the way and let me pass before I poke you with my stick, you great nubbin.”

I turned to Aunt Hermia in shock. She mouthed a single word at me. “Aberdour.”

It was his Grace, the Duke of Aberdour, Brisbane’s great-uncle and the genteel terror of the United Kingdom. I gave Aunt Hermia a meaningful glance. “Warn the maids,” I told her as I hurried forward.

“Your Grace, how delightful to see you! You sent regrets,” I said, moving to him with my hand extended.

He ignored it and kissed me soundly on the mouth. “Of course I sent regrets. It would hardly be a surprise if I told you I was coming.” He smacked his lips appreciatively as he looked me up and down. “You’ve put on a mite of weight since I saw you last. Looks like it all went up top,” he noted, leering into my décolletage. He leaned closer. “Tasty enough, but I am rather a bum man, myself.”

“Indeed, your Grace?” I asked faintly.

He gave a wheezy chuckle. “Don’t look so abashed, lass. I am too old to mend my ways. Now, tell me the truth. Do you really mean to marry that scapegrace nephew of mine or have you reconsidered my proposal?”

“Your proposal?”

He huffed, offended. “When last we met at your father’s house in London—that musical evening of Lady Hermia’s—I seem to recall offering you my hand. What about it, girl? You’d be a duchess. That is nought to sneeze at. And I wager I could give my nephew a run for his money in the bedchamber. He hasn’t as much practise as I have. You see, the key to bedding a woman—”

I broke in swiftly. “How kind of you to renew your offer, your Grace. But I am afraid I must decline. Brisbane is the man for me.”

He gave me a shrewd look from under his bushy white brows. “You are a woman besotted. I can see it well enough. And he is just the same. We came down on the same train and he went quite moony at the mention of your name, poor cub. Very well, then. If you will not marry me, point me towards the port. I’ve had the devil’s own trip of it and could use a bit of stimulation.”

He waggled his eyebrows at me, but before I could respond, Portia moved smoothly forward. “I will be happy to show you to the drinks cabinet,” she said, putting an arm through his. “And we can have a nice chat. I believe you were saying something instructive on the bedding of women?”

Portia drew him away and Aunt Hermia and I exchanged horrified glances.”Wherever shall I put him? All the guest rooms are taken.”

“You could let him sleep in your room,” I told her mischievously. “He seems to be in the market for a wife.”

She nipped me hard with her fingers but I twisted away and slipped out the door just before Hoots swung it closed on its massive hinges. The problem of what to do with the duke did not fall to me, and I had more pressing matters to attend to. Brisbane had arrived! I had not seen him for nearly two months, and I was not prepared to wait a minute more. I fairly flew down the long drive, heedless of the stones cutting through my thin slippers. I had intended to walk to the village, but no sooner had I passed through the gates of the Abbey than I spied him crossing a field of young wheat, his hand brushing the top of the budding ears. I stopped, my heart rushing so quickly I thought it would fly right out of my chest. I opened my mouth, and found I could not speak. I could only stare at this magnificent figure of a man—a man who loved me just as I was, for all my foibles and faults, and I nearly choked with gratitude. There was something holy in that moment, and this is not a word I use lightly. I do not look for God within stone walls or listen for him in spoken scripture. But in that moment, some divine kindness settled over us, and it was that moment that I felt truly married to him.

I stepped forward and opened my mouth again, but before I could call his name he jerked his head up, looking straight at me. I do not know if it was his second sight that told him I was there—the legacy of his Gypsy mother—but he looked at me and I saw him catch his breath before a smile stole over his face and he broke into a run.

He caught me hard against him and the kiss we shared would have shamed the devil. When we spoke it was quickly, words tumbling over each other as we clung together.

“I missed you,” I told him, and one ebony brow quirked up in response.

“Really? I did not notice,” he said, casually removing my hand from inside his shirt.

“I do not much care for your gadding about without me,” I told him. “I didn’t even know where you were.”

“Paris,” he said promptly. “Wrapping up a counterfeiting case.”

“To your satisfaction?”

“Entirely, although it is not half as satisfying as this,” he added, applying himself to a demonstration of his affections.