Jane Feather - The Accidental Bride

At eighteen the girl was still young enough to be influenced by her husband. He would be able to control any skittish tendencies.

He pursed his lips, considering Phoebe with cool dispassion. She had a robust air, a sturdy figure with generous hips. A good childbearing figure. Much stronger, much less fragile seeming than her sister. She looked like a woman who would bear sons.

No, she would make him a good wife. He would make, sure of it. Cato went to the door, his carrying candle throwing a soft light ahead of him.

Phoebe was awakened at first light by Olivia’s hand on her shoulder. “Phoebe, why are your clothes all over the floor?”

“Wh… what?” Phoebe struggled onto an elbow. She blinked blearily at Olivia. She felt horrible, as if she hadn’t slept a wink. “What’s the time? It’s the middle of the night!” she protested. It certainly felt like the middle of the night.

“No, it’s not. It’s nearly six o’clock,” Olivia stated. Her black eyes were sharply appraising in the pale oval of her face. She took a deep breath, concentrating on controlling the stammer that had plagued her from childhood.

“Your clothes. They’re in the middle of the floor. They weren’t when we went to b-bed.”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk,” Phoebe said.

“Out of the house!” Olivia stared in patent disbelief.

Phoebe shook her head. “No… I was going to but then it seemed too cold and dark, so I came back to bed again.” Which was not exactly a lie, she thought.

Olivia was not convinced. “You’re fibbing,” she declared.

Phoebe flopped back on the pillows again. Her eyes felt gritty, filled with sand, and she rubbed them with the heels of her palms.

Olivia sat up, hugging her knees to her narrow chest. She frowned fiercely, her thick dark brows meeting over the bridge of the long Granville nose. “I suppose you really don’t wish to marry my father,” she said matter-of-factly.

If only it were that simple! But Phoebe couldn’t see how to explain the complexities of her present dilemma to Cato’s daughter. “I don’t wish to get married at all. You know that,” she replied. “We agreed we wouldn’t ever marry… that day in the boathouse, with Portia.”

“I know, b-but that was a long time ago,” Olivia said. “Things change. Look at Portia. Would you ever have believed Portia, of all of us, would have married?”

“Portia’s a law unto herself,” Phoebe said. “She married because she chose to. I’m being made to.”

Olivia contemplated this melancholy truth. “I know,” she said simply. “B-but at least it means we’ll always be able to live together.”

“Until you get married,” Phoebe pointed out.

“I’m not going to,” Olivia stated flatly.

“That’s what we all said,” Phoebe reminded her again. “If it can happen to Portia and me, what makes you think you’ll be able to hold out?”

Olivia’s fine mouth took an obstinate turn. Her pale cheeks became a little flushed. “No one will be able to force me to marry!” she said with low-voiced intensity.

“Don’t you believe it,” Phoebe said glumly, dragging herself up against the pillows. “What say do women have in these matters? No one asked me for my opinion; quite the opposite. My father and yours just told me it was going to happen. I could have screamed and torn out my hair, but it would have made no difference. It’s the way things are, and it’ll be just as bad after I’m married. Probably worse.”

She wrinkled her snub nose. “To add insult to injury, your father can’t possibly really wish to marry me. How could he?” She grabbed at her waist with a grimace. “Look at all this flesh! Diana was so slender and elegant and I’m as round as a sugar bun!”

“You’re curvy and womanly,” Olivia said, as always stubbornly defending her friend, even against herself. “That’s what Portia said.”

“Your father just wants a son, and I’m a convenient vehicle,” Phoebe said bluntly.

Olivia regarded her in silence. She could think of no way to refute this very obvious truth. "You might like having a child,” she suggested after a minute.

“It’s not going to happen in a hurry.”

She sounded remarkably definite to Olivia. “How d’you know?” she inquired, her eyes curious.

Phoebe stared into the middle distance. “There are ways to stop it happening.”

“How?” Olivia gazed at her in wide-eyed fascination.

“You know my friend Meg?”

Olivia nodded eagerly. Meg was a herbalist and had a certain reputation for benign witchcraft in the village.

“Well, she’s told me how to do it,” Phoebe said. “There are certain herbs that can prevent conception. She says it’s not foolproof, but usually it works.”

“But why don’t you wish to give my father a child?”

Phoebe looked into the distance again. “I just told you that he’s marrying me because I’m convenient. An accidental convenience. Until he stops seeing me in that light… really stops seeing me in that light… then I’ll not conceive.”

She looked straight at Olivia now and there was a grimly determined set to her mouth. “Once I give him what he wants, he’ll never need to try to understand me, or see me for who I am. D’you see that, Olivia?”

“Yes, of c-course I do.”

“I would be a partner in his life,” Phoebe continued. “Not a dependent with limited uses.”

“Married women are always dependent,” Olivia stated. “They can’t help but be… well, except for Portia,” she added.

“What Portia can do, I can do,” Phoebe said.

“But once you give my father an heir, I don’t expect he’ll trouble you much. He’s always so busy…” Olivia’s voice trailed off. She was not offering much in the way of comfort to her friend, who was facing the one situation they had always agreed to avoid. A situation that Olivia herself couldn’t bear to contemplate.

“Not so busy that he won’t expect me to honor and obey implicitly in exchange for a roof over my head and clothes on my back,” Phoebe said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “He said as much. Wives aren’t people, they’re chattels.”

Olivia shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There isn’t anything,” Phoebe declared. “I’m stuck with it. Unless I can do something about it. So I’m going to try.”

“Oh, do stand still, Lady Phoebe. How can I set these pins when y’are wrigglin‘ around like an anthill… and just watch where you put your ’ands, now! Filthy, they are. They’ll leave great dirty marks all over, they will.”

Phoebe sighed and curled her grime-encrusted hands into fists, holding them away from her skirts. She’d been in the village helping one of the young widows muck out her stable and the time had run away from her, so she’d been late for the fitting and hadn’t had a chance to wash.

“Do you think Portia will get here in time for the wedding, Olivia?”

Olivia, from the window seat where she was alternately reading and watching the progress of the fitting, shook her head. “My father said it would b-be impossible for her to make the journey in less than four weeks, and we only sent to her three weeks ago.”

Phoebe nodded glumly. She was in sore need of some robust counsel of the kind that only Portia could provide.

The wedding night. She could think of little else these days. She had only a hazy knowledge of the whats and wheres of the business, but when she imagined being in the great four-poster bed with Cato, her body caught fire. Whatever it was exactly that they would do, she reasoned that they had to be close to do it. Skin to skin… mouth to mouth. She could run her fingers through his hair, press her lips to the deep hollow of his throat. Inhale that rich masculine scent that he had. An indefinable melange of aromas that she had come to associate just with Cato. It was his hair, his skin, the tang of leather and musk, the lavender of his linen, and the fresh, clean scents of the open air.

“Oh, Lady Phoebe, keep still, do,” the seamstress exclaimed as Phoebe took an involuntary step forward with one foot off the stool she was standing on.

“Let me look at the gown,” Phoebe said, brushing the woman aside and stepping down completely. She picked up the trailing hem and walked over to the console glass.

Phoebe examined her reflection critically. “Hand-me-down gowns for a hand-me-down bride,” she remarked with a somewhat bitter smile. “Why on earth should people assume that what looked wonderful on Diana on her wedding day would look as wonderful on me?”

The gown was of pearl-encrusted ivory damask and was caught under her breasts with a girdle of silver tissue. Five years before, Diana had married the marquis of Granville in this very gown. And she had looked exquisite, ethereal. Not so Phoebe, who looked dumpy and insipid.

“And no one asked me if I wished to wear it!” she complained. “My father just said how economical it would be, and Lord Granville merely shrugged as if it didn’t matter a tinker’s damn what I wore to the altar.”

“I don’t suppose he thinks it does,” Olivia said from an accurate knowledge of her parent. “He’s much more likely to think that a new gown would cost as much as outfitting three troopers of his militia. I wish the war would be over,” she added with a melancholy sigh. “It’s all my father ever thinks about.”

“It’s a little difficult to ignore,” Phoebe pointed out. “But even if it was over, my father would still be trying to save money. He just wouldn’t have the same excuse.”

She frowned at her reflection, muttering, “You know, I think I’d rather wear one of my old gowns.” She turned sideways and pressed the material to her body. “I’m so fat,” she wailed.