Read Online Those Endearing Young Charms by Marion Chesney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marion Chesney
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fire.
Tomorrow, he would decide what to do with her. She moved in her sleep, murmured something, and then rolled over until she was lying pressed against the length of his body. She smelled faintly of soap and rose water and pine.
She did not wake up when he pushed her roughly away.
* * * *
What do you do on the first day of your marriage when that marriage has not been consummated? Emily awoke in all the intimacy of the inn bedchamber. For one blissful moment, she thought she was at home.
Then a faint sigh beside her brought her back to reality with a thud. Without even looking at her husband, she scrambled nervously from the bed, drawing the curtains tightly around the bed in case he should wake up and watch her dressing. She gave herself a perfunctory wash and scrambled into her clothes.
Her first thought was to go out for a walk so as to escape the embarrassment of facing him when he woke up. But her second, saner thought was that he would probably be in a towering rage if he found her missing again. She dressed and, since he was still asleep, she began to wish she had made a more thorough toilet. Her stomach gave a faint protesting growl. Somewhere below, someone was grilling kidneys and frying bacon. It was agony sitting here waiting for him to wake up. Should she go into the parlor and order breakfast? Or ring for breakfast?
They talked incessantly at local assemblies about the enviable freedom of married women, thought Emily. Sitting here too frightened to move until the lord and master decided to wake up could hardly be called freedom. Emily looked longingly at the bellpull on the wall. One jerk of it and a little bell on the kitchen wall downstairs would ring; some blessed servant would arrive, and in that way he would wake up and she would not be alone with him.
Emily became very angry with herself for being so timid. A married lady would probably call her maid and go about things as usual. But not on the first morning of her honeymoon, said a treacherous voice in Emily's brain. So the obvious solution to the immediate problem was to wake him up. Perhaps he was already awake, lying behind those bed curtains, staring up at the canopy and working out plans of revenge.
Emily gave a timid little cough.
Silence.
She coughed again. Louder.
Silence.
The bed curtains did not move.
"Devenham!" she called softly.
Then loudly. _"Devenham!"_
Emily sank down in a chair by the window.
Perhaps he was dead. That would be very sad, of course, but she would be free. And she would still be the Countess of Devenham without any of the responsibilities. She would call the surgeon. She would be expected to cry. Well, that would not be so very difficult if only she remembered that kiss. And she would make sure he had a really splendid funeral. Perhaps he would have to be buried in Westminster Abbey. Black horses with black plumes to do justice his rank. And mutes. Mutes would have to be hired. But she would be expected to go to his home on her own and face all his servants. Perhaps they might blame her for his death. Perhaps she might be tried and sent to Tyburn! No, Tyburn scaffold was gone, and they now hanged people outside Newgate. But she was a peeress, so she might be executed at the Tower. The gates of the Tower clanged as she was led from the river up the damp steps.
There was the executioner's block and there was the executioner in his black mask. There was Mary, crying desperately. "She sacrificed herself for me," wailed Mary. The prince regent had come in person to witness this interesting execution. "Stay!" he cried. "I cannot bear to see one so fair die beneath the headman's axe."
"Your Highness," said Emily. "Although I did not kill him, I cannot bear to live without him. Please let the execution go forward."
Yes, that was terribly touching. Tears ran down Emily's face as she sat by the window.
"You brought it on yourself, you silly widgeon," said a sleepy voice at her ear.
"Devenham!" screamed Emily.
Tomorrow, he would decide what to do with her. She moved in her sleep, murmured something, and then rolled over until she was lying pressed against the length of his body. She smelled faintly of soap and rose water and pine.
She did not wake up when he pushed her roughly away.
* * * *
What do you do on the first day of your marriage when that marriage has not been consummated? Emily awoke in all the intimacy of the inn bedchamber. For one blissful moment, she thought she was at home.
Then a faint sigh beside her brought her back to reality with a thud. Without even looking at her husband, she scrambled nervously from the bed, drawing the curtains tightly around the bed in case he should wake up and watch her dressing. She gave herself a perfunctory wash and scrambled into her clothes.
Her first thought was to go out for a walk so as to escape the embarrassment of facing him when he woke up. But her second, saner thought was that he would probably be in a towering rage if he found her missing again. She dressed and, since he was still asleep, she began to wish she had made a more thorough toilet. Her stomach gave a faint protesting growl. Somewhere below, someone was grilling kidneys and frying bacon. It was agony sitting here waiting for him to wake up. Should she go into the parlor and order breakfast? Or ring for breakfast?
They talked incessantly at local assemblies about the enviable freedom of married women, thought Emily. Sitting here too frightened to move until the lord and master decided to wake up could hardly be called freedom. Emily looked longingly at the bellpull on the wall. One jerk of it and a little bell on the kitchen wall downstairs would ring; some blessed servant would arrive, and in that way he would wake up and she would not be alone with him.
Emily became very angry with herself for being so timid. A married lady would probably call her maid and go about things as usual. But not on the first morning of her honeymoon, said a treacherous voice in Emily's brain. So the obvious solution to the immediate problem was to wake him up. Perhaps he was already awake, lying behind those bed curtains, staring up at the canopy and working out plans of revenge.
Emily gave a timid little cough.
Silence.
She coughed again. Louder.
Silence.
The bed curtains did not move.
"Devenham!" she called softly.
Then loudly. _"Devenham!"_
Emily sank down in a chair by the window.
Perhaps he was dead. That would be very sad, of course, but she would be free. And she would still be the Countess of Devenham without any of the responsibilities. She would call the surgeon. She would be expected to cry. Well, that would not be so very difficult if only she remembered that kiss. And she would make sure he had a really splendid funeral. Perhaps he would have to be buried in Westminster Abbey. Black horses with black plumes to do justice his rank. And mutes. Mutes would have to be hired. But she would be expected to go to his home on her own and face all his servants. Perhaps they might blame her for his death. Perhaps she might be tried and sent to Tyburn! No, Tyburn scaffold was gone, and they now hanged people outside Newgate. But she was a peeress, so she might be executed at the Tower. The gates of the Tower clanged as she was led from the river up the damp steps.
There was the executioner's block and there was the executioner in his black mask. There was Mary, crying desperately. "She sacrificed herself for me," wailed Mary. The prince regent had come in person to witness this interesting execution. "Stay!" he cried. "I cannot bear to see one so fair die beneath the headman's axe."
"Your Highness," said Emily. "Although I did not kill him, I cannot bear to live without him. Please let the execution go forward."
Yes, that was terribly touching. Tears ran down Emily's face as she sat by the window.
"You brought it on yourself, you silly widgeon," said a sleepy voice at her ear.
"Devenham!" screamed Emily.
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