The First Snowdrop

Chapter 3

"I-I don't understand, my lord," Anne Parrish said. Her hands were unconsciously twisting the sides of her gray wool dress as she stared at the viscount's straight back.

Viscount Merrick was in the library, standing at the window. His back was to the room. He stared out at the snow that still blanketed the gardens outside, even though water was already dripping from the roof. He did not immediately answer her unstated query. Finally, he turned to face her, a smile on his rather white face.

"I meant just what I said, Miss Parrish," he said. "Have you never had an offer of marriage before? I would be honored if you will consent to become my wife. Is that clear enough for you? And will you, ma'am?"

Anne continued to stare. The words, though repeated, still refused to register themselves fully on her mind. Marriage! He was asking her to marry him. She had dreamed of such an ending the night before during several waking spells. How wonderful it would be, she had thought, to be swept off her feet by this very romantic and very handsome stranger, who was a viscount, no less. How marvelous it would be if he fell in love with her and took her away with him to the large home and estate she was sure he must own, and to London, where she would find herself in the middle of the life of the haut ton. She would lose weight and he would buy her fashionable clothes. Suddenly, under the influence of his love, she would no longer be shy, no longer tongue-tied in the company of strangers. She would be vivacious and dazzling. His friends and acquaintances would envy him and want to know where he had found such a treasure.

Anne had actually chuckled aloud at herself when the dreams reached the point at which she was chatting amiably to an admiring Prince Regent, who insisted that she sit at his right hand during a dinner in Carlton House because he found all his other guests such bores. It was all very well to be a dreamer; visions of romance could help make a very dull life more bearable. But it was another matter to attach those dreams to a very live man who happened to be sleeping in a room in one's own house and whom one had to meet again in the morning.

But this was not a dream. She was fully awake in the library, the most familiar room in the house. The logs were crackling in the fireplace. And the breathless nervousness she was feeling was not the sort of reaction that she ever felt in her dreams. In those, she was always very much in command of a situation. Viscount Merrick had asked her to marry him. She took a deep breath.

"I do not understand," she said again. "You do not know me, my lord."

He moved from the window and came to stand a few feet in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back. Anne was very much aware of his intensely blue eyes looking into hers. "Not very well, it is true," he agreed, "but I have seen enough to appreciate your hospitality and your kind heart. I believe we will deal well together. And I have your brother's permission to pay my addresses to you."

"Bruce?" she said, dazed. "You have asked Bruce?"

"Yes, indeed," he said, and smiled anew. "Did you believe I was asking you to run away to Gretna Green with me?"

"Oh, there would be no need," she said seriously, a split second before she realized that she was being teased. "I am of age, you know."

"Well, then," he said, "what is your answer to be? Will you marry me, Anne?"

She looked back at him earnestly, trying to discern from the expression on his face the reason behindthis strange turn of events. She had been in the kitchen earlier that morning when the viscount had come downstairs, looking quite immaculate despite the fact that he wore the same clothes as the night before. He was even shaved. Anne guessed that his shaving gear was in the leather bag that he had carried with him when he arrived. She had been trying to cook eggs and ham over the stove, which had taken her a long time to light earlier. Fortunately, he had made no adverse comment on the lack of variety that their breakfast was to offer. He had merely told her to bring the food to the dining room as soon as it was ready, and had wandered off again.

He had invited her to join him at the table when she took the food in on a tray, looking as amused as he had the night before when she had hesitated about joining him. But he had made little attempt to converse with her, beyond a compliment on the quality of the coffee she had brewed. He had browsed through an old periodical that he must have brought from the library.

Bruce had arrived home as she was carrying the dishes from the room. He had walked all the way from the village, wading up to his knees in places, he said. But he had felt compelled to make the attempt, knowing that his sister was alone at home. The vicar had come with him, refusing to allow his friend out into the white world without some companionship. Anne had taken them into the dining room, where the viscount was still hidden behind his periodical, and had introduced the three men. She had left the room with the loaded tray just after the guest had leapt to his feet and flung his periodical to the table. That was the last she had seen of him until Bruce had come to her in the kitchen and told her to go to the library.

Anne had quickly dried her hands and gone. Bruce was clearly in one of his moods. He was grim and tight-lipped. Clearly he considered her behavior bad-mannered in the extreme. It must be that he expected her to remain with their guests, smiling and trying desperately to think of something to say. He could not understand that in the absence of servants work piled up. Someone had to keep the house tidy, cook the meals, and wash the dishes.

But when she reached the library, it was to find only the viscount there. And suddenly she was "Miss Parrish." And he had made her a formal proposal of marriage. It was all most romantic and utterly frightening-and downright impossible.

"Yes," she stammered. "I mean, if you really wish it and if Bruce has given his consent. Yes, I would be honored. If you truly wish it, that is. My lord." Like a schoolgirl. Gone was the Anne of the daydreams.

The smile and the charm were gone from his face instantly. He almost snapped to attention. His jaw clenched. "Then that is settled," he said matter-of-factly. "How fortunate it is that your brother chose to bring a clergyman with him this morning, since it seems that we will be housebound for at least the rest of today. We will be able to make arrangements with him to be wed within the next few days, and I shall be able to take you to Redlands as soon as the roads are passable again."

"Within the next few days?" Anne echoed faintly. "You wish to be married so soon, my lord? Do you not have family members that you wish to have present?"

"Not at all," he said briskly. "I have always considered elaborate weddings to be an utter foolishness. A church and a minister and a couple of witnesses are quite sufficient to make a binding marriage. It will be time enough for my family to be informed when the deed is accomplished."

This was not the stuff of dreams at all. There was to be no large church, then, and no crowds of admiring guests and laughing well-wishers afterward. Just the village church and the Reverend Honeywell and Bruce. But did it really matter? Was there not something unutterably romantic about the notion of taking the fashionable world by storm? She would be introduced to his family and his friends as his wife. How surprised they would all be! If only she had a chance first to lose some weight and to improve her wardrobe. But no matter. She would do both in the course of the next few months, and even the viscount would be surprised to discover that his wife could be attractive.

The viscount! She did not know his given name. She blushed with embarrassment as she looked up at him. Would he think of telling her? It was impossible to ask him when she was already betrothed to him.

He observed her blush unsmilingly. "Since you have been stranded here without servants, ma'am," he said, "I can imagine that you must have a thousand and one tasks to occupy your time. I must not keep you. I shall discuss the arrangements for our nuptials with your brother and the vicar, and refer them to you later for your approval." He took Anne's hand, which was still pleating the stuff of her gown, straightened her fingers with his own strong hand, and raised them briefly to his lips.

Left alone in the library, Viscount Merrick crossed again to the window and stared unseeingly out at the snow, his hands clasped behind his back. His mind and his feelings were as frozen as the world without. Even more so. There was water dripping from the eaves across his line of vision. There was no comfort at all for him.

How, in heaven's name, had he got himself into such a coil? He still could not quite convince himself that he was not asleep, locked into some nightmare from which he could not shake himself loose. Yesterday-just a matter of hours ago, in fact-he had been riding with as much haste as he could muster to London and Lorraine. Their betrothal was to be announced within the week. He was to be back in the world he knew and loved, the world with which he felt thoroughly comfortable. He had been annoyed to think that the storm might delay his return to that world by so much as a day. He had considered the appearance of this house a stroke of good fortune once he had accepted the necessity of that delay.

But now! He was betrothed to a girl whom he found in no way attractive, honor-bound to marry her within the next few days, sentenced to spend the rest of his life shackled to her. A girl whom he had considered to be a servant until a very few hours ago.

The events of the last couple of hours were so jumbled in his mind that he had hardly sorted out yet what had happened. He did remember that when the brother had arrived in the dining room and been introduced, he had not needed to inquire if he was the owner or a servant left in charge. The answer was very obvious. And he had realized in a flash that Anne was no servant, either. Her speech was quite genteel. He should have noticed that instead of drawing his conclusions entirely from her mode of dress. He should have known from experience that in the country people did not always dress according to their station. It did not take Merrick long to learn- from the Reverend Honeywell-that brother and sister were the grandchildren of a baron and close relatives of the present holder of the title.

Merrick's first thought had been one of relief. He had come uncomfortably close to compromising a lady's honor. It was no servant girl that he had almost seduced the night before. But the feeling was short-lived. It soon became very obvious that both Parrish and the vicar considered that the girl's honor had indeed been compromised very badly. She had spent a night alone with him, and even though they did not suspect him of having behaved in an ungentlemanly fashion, and even though they knew that Anne's behavior was always above reproach… Merrick had not listened to every word or argument. But their meaning had been patently clear. The only way the situation could be redeemed was for the two who had been alone together to be wed.

He could have resisted, Merrick supposed now, watching a heavy pile of snow finally lose its hold on the bare branch of an oak tree and crash to the ground. It was quite ridiculous really to suppose that honor was compromised when circumstances as drastic as those of the night before had forced two people into company together. It was not even as if they had been trapped together in a single room. They had been in a large house that must have at least eight bedchambers. Why would the proper minds of those who would hear of the incident suppose that they had occupied only one of those rooms? Such a notion of honor was old-fashioned, and rightly so.

Yet somehow it is not so easy to resist when one is faced by the righteous and tight-lipped owner of a house with which one has made free for a night and a morning. Especially when that owner is accompanied by a very sober and stern-looking country vicar who stares at one as if he can see a devil and its pitchfork over one's shoulder. And more especially when one knows oneself not entirely blameless. It still seemed miraculous to Merrick that he had not bedded the girl when he had so obviously overcome any resistance that she might have offered.

Almost in a dream, he had agreed that the honorable thing to do was to offer for the girl. Before the idea had had a chance to take root in his mind, before he had had time to realize that he would lose Lorraine and all his dreams for the future, Merrick found himself in the library awaiting the arrival of the girl. Even then he had not realized the finality of the situation. Surely she would laugh at the notion of marrying a complete stranger and moving away with him. She would refuse him. Gallantry dictated that he treat her with courtesy. He had found when confronted with her that he could not be wholly truthful and explain that he was offering only because her brother and the vicar considered it the honorable course for him to take. He had had to pretend that he really wished the match.

But surely she should have realized the truth. She must know that in real life men did not that easily make a decision to marry a strange girl. She must know that she was a dowd whom no man in his right mind could fall for within the course of a few hours. He expected her to reject him, had not dared to think of what he would be facing if she accepted. His mind had become completely numbed by her reply. He could hardly recall now what he had said or how he had behaved toward her. Had his natural courtesy of manner prevented him from showing the horror and disgust that he had been feeling?

Merrick watched the snow outside the window become wetter. Soon it would melt off the roadways. There was the faintest chance that by late afternoon it would be possible to travel again. But the thought brought no comfort. He would be going nowhere for the next few days, not until after his wedding, and then he would have to make arrangements for his wife to travel with him. His wife! That little drab of a girl who even now looked to him all the world like a servant. What was he to do with her? He could not possibly take her back with him to London. The very thought of being seen with her by all his acquaintances, of having to face Lorraine with her,' made him feel nauseated.

And as he stood there by the window, a faint suspicion began to form in Merrick's mind and to grow by the minute. He had fallen surely into a cleverly laid trap. Miss Anne Parrish might be completely lacking in feminine attractions, but she had considerable intelligence. She must have seen almost immediately the night before how she could turn the situation to her advantage. She must have seen that he had mistaken her for a servant, yet she had made no attempt to correct his error. She had played along with his mistake, acting the part with great skill. She must have realized, little dowd that she was, that this was the great chance of her life. If she could only seduce him-yes, indeed, it was she who had been the seducer-she would be able to force him into marriage.

She had succeeded, of course, much better than she could have expected. She had kept her honor intact and yet still won her point. Perhaps she had realized that, too. She must know her brother and that vicar fellow pretty well. She would have realized that in their narrow-minded view of life even the fact that he had spent the night in the same house as she would mean that her honor had been compromised. It had really been easy for her. All she had had to do was ensure that he stayed at the house all night and long enough the next day for her brother to come home and find him there.

The more he thought of the matter, the more Merrick was convinced that he had discovered the truth. Why else would the girl have accepted him with such little reluctance? Of course, he had introduced himself the night before by his title, obviously a great mistake. He was wearing his most fashionable and expensive clothes. He must have appeared a great catch indeed. And what a foolish one! He might have known that country morality was far more straitlaced than that to which he was more accustomed. He should have pressed on the night before after warming himself in the house. She had told him that the village was a mere three miles away. It surely would not have been impossible to travel that far. But, of course, he could not have been expected to foresee the danger; he had taken her for a servant. And he could not really blame himself for that. She certainly looked every inch the part, and she was a skilled actress. Only her speech might have given her away.

Merrick found that he was clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides and that his teeth were so firmly clamped together that his jaw ached. It was all true. Reality was beginning to establish its hold on his mind. He was not dreaming. Within the course of a few hours, his whole life had changed. All his dreams and plans for the future were ruined, and his new plans hardly bore contemplation. He had committed himself to this girl and would have to marry her. But he was damned if he would pretend to like it. His life might never be able to take the course that he had planned, but he was not going to allow the scheming little chit to ruin it altogether. She would be made to feel very sorry indeed for what she had done. She might bear his name and his title, but she would gain nothing else from this marriage if he had anything to say in the matter.

Anne Parrish and Alexander Stewart, Viscount Merrick, were married two days later in the village church. The Reverend Honeywell officiated, and Mrs. Honeywell and Bruce Parrish witnessed the ceremony. No one else was present or even knew of the wedding. The new tenants of the house had not yet arrived, and the present occupants had been nowhere during the days that intervened between the morning after the storm and that of the nuptials. The vicar's wife served tea and cakes in the vicarage afterward, but the viscount refused the offer of a wedding meal. He had hired a carriage with which to take his bride to his home in Wiltshire and intended to start without further delay. Even so, the state of the roads made it uncertain that they would complete the journey before nightfall.

Anne had never thought that she would feel sorry to say good-bye to her brother and to the home where she had never known much of happiness. But she felt something very near to panic as the shabby coach, the best the village had for hire, drew away from the gate of the vicarage and the group of three standing there waving to her. Only then was it fully borne in on her that the man beside her-her husband-was a stranger. And a very quiet stranger at that. In the last couple of days, though they had occupied the same house, they had spent almost no time in each other's company and no time at all alone. She had been busy in the kitchen much of the time. He had spent a great deal of time outside, either in the stable endlessly grooming his horse or in the grounds of the house trudging through the snow. He had spent very little time even with Bruce, seeming to prefer to be alone.

And that morning he had sat beside her in the coach, the same one in which they traveled now, Bruce on the seat facing them, saying not a word, making no attempt to touch her, or to smile at her, or to offer any sign at all that she was his bride and that they were on their way to be married.

Her bewilderment had grown during those two days to the point at which she did not know what to think. All the charm that he had used in the library when he had asked her to marry him had disappeared without trace. Since that time he had shown no interest in her, had acted indeed as if he were unaware of her existence. Yet he had made no move to explain to her that he had not been serious about his offer or that he regretted it and wanted to withdraw from his commitment. Why had he offered? He must have wanted her when he spoke to her. Was he perhaps merely feeling awkward at being trapped for a few days in a house without a change of clothes and without any of the people he knew? Yet it had been his decision that they marry there in such haste.

Perhaps now that they were on their way to Redlands-his home, about which she knew nothing except the name-he would be different. She waited for him to speak, to turn to her with some warmth. She expected him to begin to tell her about his home and family, about himself. Yet he sat straight on his seat, not touching her, looking out onto the dull world of melting snow and mud. And Anne dared not speak herself. She could think of nothing to say that would be sure to break down his reserve. So she stared out of her window, tense, uncomfortable, feeling the silence grow between them like a tangible thing.