Delsie

Chapter Four

On the last Sunday in November, Delsie set her unadorned round bonnet on her head, looking in the mirror to see that it was straight. Her serious gray eyes looked back at her wistfully. She would have liked a prettier bonnet, at least on Sunday, but the schoolteacher was one who must dress discreetly. Dark clothing, she had been told. No curls, no powder, no scent, no jewelry of an ostentatious sort, Mr. Umpton had announced, with a disapproving eye at her simple gold locket. I might as well be a grandmother, she thought, then wrinkled her nose at her reflection and went downstairs to call for Miss Frisk, who would accompany her to church.

Since they had arrived early, their heads, like everyone else’s, turned when the party from the Hall entered. No company today, Delsie noted. Only Lord deVigne, Lady Jane, Sir Harold, and the young girl, Roberta, who came with them only infrequently. They entered their family pew, across the aisle and a few seats ahead of Miss Frisk and herself. The service progressed as usual, the hymns, and then it was time for the announcements. The vicar cleared his throat and looked around before speaking.

“I would like to ask the benefit of the prayers of the congregation this morning for Mr. Andrew Grayshott of this parish, well known to us all…”

My God, he’s dead! Delsie thought, and her eyes flew to the deVigne pew. So soon! Less than a month since Lord deVigne had asked her to marry him. I would have only had to live with him for a month. Surely it would have been worth it. I would be with them now, for the rest of my life. All this went through her head in a second. Then the minister’s voice went on. “… who is very ill. Also for the repose of the soul of…” Lord deVigne’s black head turned around over his shoulder. He directed a meaningful look across the aisle and back to Delsie, who was still staring at him, a question on her face. Their eyes met and, though no word was spoken, she was dead certain she would see him again that day.

After church, she went straight home and to her room. No “little chat” with Miss Frisk today. Within minutes-he hadn’t even taken the others back up the hill, but had come to her directly from the church-there was a knock at her door. She had scarcely taken off her hat and hung up her pelisse. She assumed it would be Miss Frisk, big with the news that Lord deVigne awaited her belowstairs, but she was wrong. It was deVigne himself standing there, hat in hand, filling the small door frame with his size. “May I come in?” he asked.

“I’m not allowed gentlemen callers in my rooms,” she told him. “We can go downstairs.”

“I have spoken to Miss Frisk,” he replied and, bending his head, stepped in.

“Oh-in that case…” It was unnecessary to extend any invitation. He was already inside, glancing around her apartment.

Never had her little rooms looked so bleak as they did today, as she imagined how they must appear to one accustomed to elegance. The shabby, threadbare rug, where dim outlines of flowers were all that remained of a once lively pattern, her homemade curtains and cushions, their unfaded yellow and blue stripes only strengthening the age of the rest, the worn settee to which she must lead him-all spoke of poverty and meager living. A vase of wilting flowers, weeds really, sat forlornly on the sofa table, and if he glanced through to her kitchen, he would see the breakfast dishes unwashed on the counter, for on Sundays she slept in and cleaned up after church.

“Pray be seated, milord,” she invited, in the lofty tones of a duchess.

He sat on the settee, while she took up the one chair beside it. “You know why I am here?” he began at once.

“I heard the announcement in church. Mr. Grayshott is ill-worse, I presume.”

“Dying. He has caught pneumonia. There is no hope of a recovery. I have come to repeat my request of a few weeks ago. Will you marry him now?”

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be right. I can’t marry a dying man.”

“Your excuse-reason-on the last occasion I spoke to you on the matter was that I could not guarantee his death, I can now guarantee it, absolutely.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“It was your meaning. You said you couldn’t marry him because he might recuperate. He is now beyond hope of it. All the advantages I outlined to you at that time still exist. You would be removed from this-place,” he said, with a flutter of shapely hands, substituting a milder term than the word “hovel,” which had first occurred to him. “You would no longer be required to work so hard for your living. For a few days spent as Mr. Grayshott’s wife, you would achieve independence.”

“It’s not right. Marriage is a sacrament. You should love the person. I can’t marry for those reasons you give-for self-advancement.”

“Marriage is also a legal contract. Think of it in that context. You would agree to take on the care of Roberta in exchange for a home and some security. It is a better position than the one you now hold.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head in confusion, for, while she felt bound to object, there had sprung up, back in the church, a strong regret that she had first refused. “How would it look to the villagers? I marry him one day, and two days later he is dead.”

“You will have no trouble with the villagers. When you are seen to be under my family’s protection, on intimate terms with us, they will not bother you. There will be a little unavoidable gossip, of course, but these things blow over quickly.”

“On intimate terms with us.” It was the most forceful argument he could have used. Her whole being longed to accept, but conscience held out. It wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right to do such a monstrous thing as marry Mr. Grayshott. She tried, in a disjointed way, to put these thoughts into words. He nodded, but impatiently, frowning.

“Yes, yes, I understand your scruples. It is not the marriage any young lady would dream of, certainly, but still, it would be no bad thing for you. You needn’t consider it as selling yourself, as you mentioned previously, the other time I spoke to you. It would be a job-you would have charge of Roberta, you would be working still, in a way. She needs a mother. That poor child has been badly neglected. She needs the care of a conscientious woman like yourself, someone to take a real and lasting interest in her welfare. She is scarcely ever allowed to come to us. She was with us today only because her father is so ill. It would be an act of charity on your part, certainly not taking advantage of anyone. No one loses anything by your accepting. Even Clancy Grayshott will be happy enough to have the girl off his hands. He only takes her to keep her from me. He will not be sorry to see her placed with an objective third party like yourself. Roberta gains a mother, you a good position in life, and you will be saving me a long and costly court battle.” He spoke quickly, urgently, and convincingly, but still she was not quite talked over.

“I must have a little time to think, to consider it. I am sure there is something wrong with it. It doesn’t seem right.”

“Time is what we do not have. Andrew is dying. While we sit here talking, he might be drawing his last breath.” He leaned forward from the settee, looking with those commanding eyes at her, pinning her to her chair, and his voice increased in pace, in urgency.

“Think of yourself! Such a chance as this is not likely to come to you again, Miss Sommers. You live alone, and lonely I should think, in this crabbed little room. What company can there possibly be for a woman like you in this village? Whom do you see nights? The fishermen and their wives? What do you do for entertainment, relaxation? You are an educated, cultured lady, one prepared for better than this menial existence you lead. Your short life is being squandered away in this place. Come to us, to your own sort of people, and lead a normal life. There are times when we must act with promptness and decision. This is one of those times for you, Miss Sommers. Come with me now, or I think you will regret it all the rest of your life.”

How had he known so accurately the points of her life to mention? She knew she would regret refusing. She swallowed and looked at him, uncertain, wavering.

“Come, there isn’t a moment to spare,” he said urgently, as he arose.

“Well, I’ll come, then,” she said, and she too got up, in a sort of trance, carried along by his words, his authoritative voice, by his very presence-the lord of the village. I still don’t have to marry him, she thought to herself. I can think about it while we drive to Grayshott’s house. If I change my mind, they can’t make me marry him.

“Get your things together,” he said.

“Oh-it will take a while. Can you come back later?”

“I’ll wait. Where are your bags?”

She had only one, stored under her bed. She went into the bedroom and whisked her garments from closet and bureau in five minutes. Made a quick trip into the tiny parlor to pick up a few oddments, books, really nothing to show for her life’s work, and was ready to go in ten minutes.

“I’ll take your case.” He picked up her bag, a large, square straw case, as easily as though it were empty, and very strange it looked, to see Lord deVigne carrying such a shabby article.

“I’d better say good-bye to Miss Frisk,” she said.

“There will be plenty of time for that later. You can come back and call on her. Do you owe her any money?”

“No, I have paid for the month in advance.” Just paid for December as well, but perhaps I’ll be back, she added to herself.

At the door, he beckoned towards his carriage. A footboy sprinted forward and took her case. “See Miss Sommers to the carriage. I’ll be with you directly,” he added to Delsie, then stepped back inside the house. In less than two minutes, he joined her in the carriage.

“I explained to Miss Frisk,” he said briefly.

“Explained in two minutes!” she objected.

“It would have taken a lady ten, which is why I chose to do it myself. I told her you would be calling on her soon.”

“You take a great deal on yourself, milord!” That he had commandeered her life was atrocious, but it was this straw of his arrogance that broke her temper. He would explain to Miss Frisk. He would decide that she would call soon.

“Forgive me,” he said, with no trace of penance. “These are exceptional circumstances. You will not always find me so overbearing.”

He placed a fur rug over her knees, and the horses bolted forward. It was an exhilarating experience, being inside, a carriage, for once. To see others staring in at her, their eyes widening as they recognized her. She could almost read their lips. “It’s Miss Sommers, the schoolteacher!”

“We’ll go directly to the Cottage,” he told her. “That’s what we call Mr. Grayshott’s place. The wedding will have to take place immediately, while he’s still conscious.”

“No-not so soon! I wanted time to consider it.”

“You have had a month in which to consider it, ma’am. Did you not regret your former decision? Tell me truthfully now, as you plodded to school in the early morning, or lay in your bed at night, did you not feel you had been overly hasty? Under this new circumstance of Andrew’s imminent death, are you not agreeable to marry him?”

Was the man a mind reader? She looked at him, much struck at his percipience. But when she spoke, she uttered an irrelevance. “How did the rest of the family get home? Surely you didn’t leave them at Questnow?”

“No, Sir Harold brought his coach today as well. I knew mine would be required to bring you and your effects to us.”

“You knew that, did you?” she asked ironically.

“Hoped,” he modified, with no more shame when it was needed than humility at his former arrogance.

“I suppose you arranged as well for the vicar to be there, knowing he would be required?”

“Certainly I did. The marriage could not be performed without him. He went with Sir Harold. The solicitor also will be there, to see to the will.”

“Well, you have forgotten one rather important detail, milord. There have been no banns read, and we cannot be married without a license in that case!” she stated triumphantly.

“You are surely not under twenty-one?” he asked.

“I am twenty-two, but still a license is required, if I am not mistaken.”

“Only twenty-two? What a strong character you have, for one so young.”

“About the license…”

“I have a license, Miss Sommers. I took the precaution of procuring one two days ago, when Andrew first came down with pneumonia, in case it should be necessary in a hurry.”

“I daresay you have got a gold band in your pocket as well,” she said, resigned to his omniscience.

“Did you want a gold band in particular, ma’am? I have selected a rather pretty circlet of diamond baguettes. I hope I chose the right size.”

She hadn’t a doubt in the world he had. “My bridesmaid and best man?” she inquired, suppressing a fierce urge to giggle.

“Lady Jane and myself. You have no objection?”

“None in the least. Where are we to go for our honeymoon?”

“No honeymoon will be possible, I’m afraid,” he replied blandly. “But you are young yet. There is no saying you will not have a real marriage before too many years, if you are interested in it at all.”

“I will be sure to put you in charge of arranging all the details,” she said, then stopped short, as she realized what freedom she was taking with the almighty Lord deVigne.

“You couldn’t do better,” he answered readily. Offense, like humility and shame, was missing when she expected to see it. He spoke on calmly, as though they were out for a Sunday drive, no more. “There will be a good many bothersome details in this business. As I have coerced you into the match, I shall attend to them all, to give you as little worry as possible.”

“That is very kind of you, but I have been accustomed for many years to looking after myself, milord.”

“The experience has left its trace on you. I do not mean that as a criticism. Quite the contrary.”

“I would appreciate being consulted at least on any details that have a direct bearing on me.”

“I will bear it in mind, ma’am,” he agreed, nodding at her.

“I must notify Mr. Umpton I will not be at school tomorrow.”

“Or any other tomorrows.” What a pleasing phrase! A wave of complete exultation washed over her, to be at last free of Umpton and the students. He spoke on, apparently unaware of her feelings. “I understand Mr. Umpton’s cousin, a Mr. Perkins, is interested in the position. Shall I get in touch with Umpton?”

After her protest at independence, it was too cowardly to ask him to do it, yet it was the one chore she would happily have relegated to him.

“You will be busy, and in some state of perturbation as well in all the excitement. Let me do it for you,” he suggested, in a rather final tone that indicated the matter was settled.

“Thank you, if you would be so kind,” she said meekly.

Before it seemed possible, the carriage had climbed the hill, with the metallic table of glittering sea stretching below them, an incredible view really, but little appreciated today. They pulled up outside the half-timbered cottage where Mr. Grayshott lay ill. DeVigne looked at the unkempt yard and building, then glanced at his companion. “All this mess can be cleared away very easily,” he assured her.

Sir Harold’s coach was already there, and a gig belonging to the solicitor. It seemed less possible every moment for Delsie to retreat from her decision, to refuse to marry him. The so-much-wanted time for reconsidering did not exist. DeVigne ushered her into the house, where an unpleasant odor assailed her nostrils, but before she had time to look about her, she was being hurried upstairs, with a stream of chatter to divert her, to prevent her thinking about what lay ahead. They walked along an uncarpeted hallway, knocked at a closed door, and were bade to enter. Mr. Grayshott lay propped up on pillows in a handsome four-poster bed, with his valet bending over him. He had been prepared for the ceremony, with his tails of hair trimmed, his face shaven, and a dressing gown of peacock hues over his thin shoulders. Still, to his bride he looked like a caricature of his former self, with his face shrunken almost beyond recognition and turned to an alarming graying tone. Clearly there would be no recovering from such an advanced state of decline.

He held out a hand and said in a weak voice, “Come in, Miss Sommers.” She entered, reluctantly, and deVigne came beside her. “Leave us, Max. You too, Samson,” he said to his valet. Delsie cast one wild, imploring look to deVigne. His fingers tightened reassuringly on her arm before he left, with Samson departing from another door. She stood alone with her bridegroom.

“Come closer,” he said. She advanced to the side of the bed. He reached out a hand to her, and in confusion, she put hers into it. “Miss Sommers-now I may call you Delsie-at last it is to be.” He referred, she presumed, to their marriage. “You have made me wait too long,” he said sadly. “Still, you are mine at last, and we shall have a few months together at least.” Her heart fluttered at this grim forecast, but of course it was nonsense. He was at death’s door. Perhaps they had led him to believe it, to get his agreement to the marriage.

She half feared he might close his eyes and expire even while she stood with her hand in his. He sighed, but a stronger pressure from his fingers told her death was not yet at hand. “There is so much I would say,” he began, with his eyes closing. “You will be kind to my little Bobbie. I know that much. Promise me you will take care of her.”

“Yes, I promise.”

Again he squeezed her fingers, while she looked at the wizened face before her. “You will not regret it,” he went on, weakly. “The cottage and her mother’s portion are for my daughter. It was arranged by deVigne, but the rest of it is yours-payment for this favor you do me. There is money, you know. I have money.” He got his eyes open, with some effort, and looked at her closely.

“I do not do this for money,” she said. Grayshott’s fortune, she knew from deVigne, was dissipated.

“For love?” he asked, and smiled ironically. She said nothing. This was carrying hypocrisy too far. She could not say she loved him. He lifted the hand he held to his lips and kissed it, while she stood rigid with embarrassment and shame, and even anger. Then he fell into a fit of coughing. “Better get on with it,” he said when he had recovered. “Call deVigne.”

She was heartily glad to leave the room in search of him, and hadn’t far to go. He stood outside the door, a few feet down the corridor, with the vicar, Lady Jane, and Sir Harold, and no doubt the solicitor too was not far behind, though she didn’t actually see him. The whole party entered Grayshott’s room, except Sir Harold, who went below. The bride stood beside the prostrate bridegroom, and the vicar, opening his book, began to intone the solemn words of the marriage ceremony. How inappropriate they sounded-”to love, honor, and cherish…to have and to hold…till death us do part…” It was a moot point whether the groom would last out the ceremony. Grayshott held her hand tightly throughout the reading, repeating those portions of the service that ritual decreed. “I, Andrew Grayshott, take thee, Delsie Sommers…”

Best not to think. Think about something else. In five minutes it will be over-I can leave. Miss Frisk is having her lunch now. No school tomorrow, or any tomorrows. DeVigne is not wearing his good-luck charm today. I wish I were wearing it. I think I’m going to giggle-I think I’m going crazy. Where shall I go when this wedding is over? Do I remain here, in this house? No doubt deVigne has arranged all details.

She repeated her words, parrot-like, and soon the circlet of diamond baguettes was being pushed on to her finger by Andrew. It had the weight of a pair of manacles, and though it was pretty, she felt a strong urge to pull it off and throw it out the window. Then they were signing papers, people were shaking her hand-so foolish-the vicar wishing her happy. My God, what must he make of this travesty? What subtle pressures had deVigne brought to bear, to make him go through with it?

“Leave us now,” Grayshott said to them all. “I want to be alone with my bride.” Delsie cast a frightened glance to the little group, then looked to her groom. “Don’t worry, Max, you can send in the solicitor in five minutes. Leave me five minutes’ privacy with my wife,” Grayshott said, his voice fading.

They left, but the ceremony had tired Grayshott, and the five minutes were not so harrowing as she had feared. She sat beside him, while he held her hand, his eyes closed, his lips smiling. He looked frighteningly like a death mask. “Talk to me,” he ordered.

What did one say to a man at death’s door, a man, besides, whom one had just married without caring for him in the least? She decided to talk of his daughter. “I shall take good care of Roberta,” she began. “I shall try to be a mother to her. I am used to dealing with children. I am-was-a schoolteacher, you recall.” He nodded, satisfied apparently with this line, and she rambled on, making much of nothing.

After an interval that was surely at least five minutes, he opened his eyes and said, “You’ll do. There is money-I should tell you where. It’s not easy. I’ll tell you later, when I feel stouter. I saved it for you, for…” Then he fell into a coughing fit again, and it was clear he was nearly spent. There was a tap at the door. DeVigne entered, with the solicitor at his heels.

“May I go now?” Delsie whispered to him.

He nodded. From the bed a weak voice followed her. “Come back after, Delsie. I’ll tell you where…”

“Your wife will return to you after luncheon, Andrew,” deVigne said. “She has had a busy morning. She will want her luncheon.”

“After lunch,” he nodded, and Delsie escaped out the door, down the stairs to the main saloon, where Lady Jane and Sir Harold sat talking to the vicar. They all looked toward her. “Lord deVigne and the solicitor are with him,” she said, and sat down, too overcome to take part in any conversation.

The vicar turned to her. “This has been a very romantic affair,” he said, smiling. “A long-standing attachment-a pity you waited so long, Miss Sommers.”

She looked at him, bewildered. Before she had said anything, Lady Jane came forward and pushed a glass of wine into her hands. “Drink this, you’ll feel better,” she said.

Sir Harold engaged the vicar in some ecclesiastical talk, and Lady Jane turned to Delsie. “We had to give vicar some story. He thinks you and Andrew have been in love for some time.”

Delsie nodded and sipped her wine. She was relieved that the vicar at least was acting decently in the matter.

In a short space of time, deVigne and the solicitor descended. The doctor arrived and went abovestairs to his patient, while the solicitor offered the vicar a ride back to Questnow. As soon as the family were alone, Delsie said, “Must I come back after lunch?” Her face, though she didn’t know it, was ash-white, her eyes two large dark circles.

“Just for a moment,” deVigne said. “I doubt he will even be conscious. It is nearly over, Mrs. Grayshott.”

“Oh!” she gasped. It was the first time she had been called by her new name. She found it singularly unpleasant.

“Let’s get out of here,” Lady Jane suggested. “Enough to give anyone the blue devils, looking at this dust-laden room.”

They all arose, with no argument. DeVigne took Delsie’s arm and led her to his carriage, and the others followed in Sir Harold’s, the two making a brisk trot to the Hall. Seeing the Hall at such close range, actually entering its twin portals, would have been a matter of great interest on any other occasion. Today, Delsie entered in such a state of distraction, she spared not a glance at the surroundings. She was vaguely aware of approaching a large stone home, with leaded windows gleaming in the pale autumnal sunshine, and the vines just turning to fall colors along the windows’ edges. She was similarly insensible to aged oaken woodwork within, the curving great staircase with intricately carved ornaments on posts and ceilings. The size and furnishings of the large saloon into which she was shown were also ignored. She walked to the fireplace and stood looking into the leaping flames, with her hands stretched out to them. Her hands were cold as ice.

Her three companions exchanged a look, wondering what to do about her. DeVigne poured a healthy portion of brandy, Jane added a dash of water to it, and handed it to her. “Try this,” she said.

Delsie sipped obediently and choked, being unaccustomed to the strong drink. But in small sips she finished the glass, and felt a little restored. It took the cold chill from her bones as the fire had not done. It was more an emotional numbness than a physical chill.

“We’d better get on with luncheon if we are to go back to the cottage,” deVigne suggested.

“Must she go, Max?” Lady Jane asked, with a condoling look at the bride. “She doesn’t look up to it.”

“I promised him,” Delsie said. “I’ll go.” Then she set down her empty glass, lifted her chin, and accepted deVigne’s arm to enter the dining room.