An Eccentric Engagement Read online

  “Of course,” Mrs. Marchand said, “Bertram! Sorrow has told me I must call you that, and it’s a lovely name, so—”

  They were interrupted by a ghostly girl dressed all in gray who flitted into the hallway just before they reached a large door, half open, through which Bertram could see a parlor.

  The girl wrung her hands together, rolling them over and over each other. “I can’t get them clean! What am I to do? Sorrow, come help me; I can’t get them clean!” Her whispered lament echoed against the high ceilings.

  Sorrow immediately approached the girl and took her hands in her own. “Margaret, your hands are clean, dear. Look at them; they’re spotless.”

  “B-but they’re not,” she moaned. “I’ve washed and I’ve washed and I can’t seem to . . . the water’s not hot enough, and the maid won’t bring me any more.”

  Carlyle gazed at the girl, and then looked down at her hands, which Sorrow had captured and held still, though they still moved like restless kittens, independent of their owner. Margaret, as Sorrow had named her, stilled and gazed down at her own hands, which were red and chapped, blistered in spots.

  Sorrow caught her mother’s eye. “She was doing so well before today. I should go and talk to her, Mama; you know it’s just all of the activity in the household that has brought this on.”

  “No, dear,” Mrs. Marchand said in gentle tones, going to her daughter and taking the other young woman’s arm. “Margaret must become accustomed to my help. You’ll be going away and I must learn for myself what soothes her anxiety.”

  Nodding reluctantly, Sorrow released the girl, but looked into her eyes. “Margaret, you know we spoke of this,” she said softly, much as one might speak to a frightened puppy. “Your hands are clean. It’s just in your worry that you think they aren’t. Let my mama help you.”

  Margaret nodded reluctantly and Mrs. Marchand guided the young woman toward the stairs to the upper floors. Over her shoulder she said, “Take Mr. Carlyle . . . er, Bertram . . . into the parlor, and I shall join you presently.”

  Bertram followed Sorrow into a sunless room that, oddly, had a fire lighted already, so early in the day. She closed the door behind them.

  “Should we not leave that open?” he asked. “I know we are engaged, but propriety—”

  “Mr. Howard is here,” she said, indicating a Bath chair close to the fire.

  And indeed there was an ancient man in the chair, his eyes closed, his hands laying on his lap on top of a warm cover knit of soft blue wool.

  Bertram stared at the man for a moment but could detect no rise and fall of his chest, no sign that he was alive. “Is he . . . all right?”

  “Yes, I imagine,” Sorrow said. She moved over, stood close to the man for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, he’s just sleeping. Poor Mr. Howard. He had a bad night last night and didn’t sleep much, I think. Sometimes he sleeps better down here, by the fire.”

  “Who is he? He’s not your grandfather or you would not call him Mr. Howard.”

  “No,” she said, guiding Bertram to a settee by a window that was open a couple of inches. “He is no relation at all.”

  Carlyle shook his head. “Then why is he here?”

  Sorrow looked uncomprehending for a moment, but then said, “Oh, you mean why are we looking after him and not some relative of his?”

  Carlyle nodded.

  A dark expression of anger passed over Sorrow’s lovely face, but then was gone in a flash; so brief it was that he may have imagined it. “His nephew was going to put him in an asylum, for there was no one else to look after him. Luckily the young man’s wife—little more than a girl, she is, but with a conscience—appealed to Mama for help. Papa and Mama invited him to come live with us.”

  Turning this over in his mind, Bertram shrugged, finally, and looked up into Sorrow’s eyes. She was watching him intently, he realized, and had been doing so for a while. It was an expression he had noted on her face during their courtship. He often felt that she was trying to look into him, rather than at him, as odd as it sounded. He smiled at her and took her hands in his. “How lovely it is to see you again, Sorrow. I feel as if we parted so very long ago, but it’s just a few weeks.”

  She sighed. “Yes, I’ve felt that too. I’m sorry you had such an odd welcome to Spirit Garden.”

  “Odd? Now what was odd about that? I have often heard of grooms being greeted at their fiancées homes by their future fathers-in-law chasing young gentlemen in only their shirt and breeches.”

  Sorrow giggled.

  Moved by an urge, Bertram leaned forward and kissed her swiftly on the mouth. Though startled, his future wife did not shy away, but rather kissed him back, just as quickly and just as decisively. He rather liked it.

  Conversation followed expected lines for a while, she asking about his trip down to Kent, and he asking how arrangements for their wedding were going. When, finally, the conversational stream slowed, he remembered a discussion they had in London and a promise she had made.

  “I say, Sorrow, do you remember the night at the Lange ball? We sat in the conservatory for a while and I asked you about your name because it was so pretty but so sad, and you promised that when I came to Spirit Garden you would tell me the story of how you came to be named so.”

  “I remember.”

  “Tell me now,” he said, taking up her hand and sitting back on the settee. He had often just watched her face, even when they were apart. He thought that though there were many prettier girls in London, there was not one whose face intrigued him more. She kept secrets, he thought, and yet told more truth than any girl he had ever met. A few gentlemen who had been attracted to her at one time or another complained that she had a way of looking at a man that made him feel she knew more about him than his own valet.

  And yet, she would say or do something the next moment that would be completely naïve. He liked that. It made him feel that marriage would be a voyage of discovery, not a lifetime anchored in port.

  “All right.” She sat back, gazed down at their joined hands. “Bertram, I must preface my story by saying that I hope you will not feel I have held anything back, anything that you needed to know before asking me to marry you.”

  A jolt of trepidation coursed through him. “What is it?” Was there insanity in her family? He had forgotten Joshua and Mr. Carlyle and their mad dash through the door as he arrived. Was that a part of her story?

  “I am adopted,” she said, without meeting his gaze. “The Marchands are not my real parents, though they adopted me when I was just days old.”

  He actually felt a thread of relief. He squeezed her hand. “It matters not a whit, my dear.”

  “Thank you for that; you’re very kind. I know it would matter to many men. But there is more.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Sorrow gazed at him, and saw in his eyes only kindness and compassion. It was what had drawn her to him in London, the feeling that beneath his stuffy layer of London propriety there beat the heart of a compassionate and benevolent soul. On an impulse, she said, “Bert, you are so good and kind; you didn’t affiance me just out of that kindness, did you? The night we met, that fellow—I don’t remember his name—was making a cruel joke at my expense and you came to my rescue.”

  “No,” he said, threading his fingers through hers. “My father had already decided you were suitable . . .”

  Sorrow felt her heart clench; she didn’t want to know that.

  “But I would never have followed his recommendation if I had not seen you and thought that you were the loveliest girl I had seen for some time,” he continued. “There was something more to you than the other girls.”

  Examining his face in the dim light from the fire, she saw only honesty. “But you had asked other girls to marry you before.”

  He sighed. “I know. Please, Sorrow, don’t hold that against me. If it counts for anything, I’m very happy they said no, now, because I am so very glad you said yes.”

  �
�It does count,” she said on a sigh. She held his hand up to her cheek for a moment, and then let their joined hands fall back to the bench.

  “Tell me the rest. You said there was more. And you still have not explained your name.”

  Sorrow settled back and felt Bertram’s other arm around her back, touching her tentatively. It felt comforting and yet somehow pleasantly agitating at the same time. “Papa . . . my papa now, that is . . . was a very wild young man. He and Mama lived a gay life—they had discovered that they could not have children, and decided that they should just enjoy themselves—but once, when Papa was racing along the road in the dark, his carriage went off into a ditch. It was a terrible accident and he almost died, for he hit his head on a rock.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “Yes, but he was . . .” She hesitated and once more stared at him earnestly. “He believes he was visited, as he clung to life, by a spirit who told him that in exchange for living, he must perform acts of charity. Mama was so grateful he had lived that when he told her about this, she took it quite seriously, though they didn’t know what it meant.”

  Bertram was frowning, but it was an expression of concentration, not of displeasure, and he was not making fun of her, and that was good.

  “And then they met my mother.”

  He nodded encouragingly.

  “They already knew her family, but she was rumored to have run away to get married and come to a bad end. She was destitute when Papa found out about her, living in a sponging house in an awful part of London. She had married—she swore she truly had—and her husband had died, but her family didn’t believe her and would not accept her because she was . . . she was carrying me.”

  Bertram sighed and looked very serious, but still said nothing.

  “So Papa brought her home and told Mama he thought he knew what the sprit meant. They talked about all the times they had seen something or heard something about someone in need and done nothing. The spirit simply meant they should do something. So they nursed my mother, but she died just a day after I was born despite finally having a physician’s aid. The last word she said was sorrow, so that is what they named me. People talked. They said my mother was Papa’s cast-off mistress and that Mama was a fool for allowing it, but they didn’t care; they adopted me.” She stopped and waited, not daring to look at Bertram, so it came as a complete surprise when he folded her into his arms and held her close.

  “Sorrow, don’t tell me you were afraid to tell me this in London?” he said, his voice hovering somewhere over her ear.

  “I wasn’t sure I should.”

  He held her away from him and stared into her eyes. “You must never be afraid to tell me anything again. We are going to be man and wife. I care for you, Sorrow, and I want you to be happy.”

  “Oh, Bert, I knew you were the right one!” She threw her arms around him happily and kissed him, discovering, as she did so, that she was rewarded by a warm feeling that trickled through her. Awkward at first, Bert became rather good at kissing her after a minute or two, and she happily settled into his arms, feeling his soft lips covering her cheeks and chin, nose and mouth, and his warm breath in her ear.

  “Sorrow, I cannot believe—”

  But whatever he couldn’t believe was interrupted as the door was flung open and her papa stood on the threshold, proudly escorting Joshua, duly shorn and pink from scrubbing.

  “We have done it,” her papa said, “and have even come to see Sorrow’s young man, haven’t we, Joshua?”

  The boy bobbled his head in a shy nod.

  Behind him Margaret followed, calmer once more, and Sorrow’s mother, too. She was followed by Letty, the maid, who carried a tray and complained, “If folks will move, a body could bring in the tray! Mr. Howard is needin’ his tea!”

  Sorrow shrugged and turned to Bertram, who was looking a little dazed by the onslaught of people bustling into the room. She bit her lip. “I don’t think I finished explaining, Bert,” she said. “There are more, but some are in their own rooms, and some don’t rise until later. You’ll meet everyone before tonight . . . or almost everyone, anyway. And if not tonight then at breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Everyone?” he said faintly.

  “Everyone,” she said, nodding firmly.

  Chapter 3

  “Mr. Carlyle is very handsome,” Margaret whispered to Sorrow as they did their evening check on two of the old dears.

  “Do you think so?” Sorrow asked, creeping into one of the small quiet rooms on the third floor ahead of Margaret. She approached the bed, checked the bedside table for water and handkerchiefs, and watched old Mrs. Mackintosh sleep for a moment.

  “I do.”

  “One of my friends in London damned his looks and said his ears stuck out too much.”

  “Then she was a great ninny,” Margaret said, brushing back a strand of the old woman’s hair and bending over her with a smile. She laid a kiss on the old woman’s forehead and straightened. “And she did not know a gentleman when she saw one.”

  Arm in arm they moved on to the next room, where an even older lady lay, close to death. She was so old that she had outlived the family who had cared for her before their own deaths, and so had needed a place to go. Letty was there, sitting by the bedside with her basket of darning, and Sorrow and Margaret held a whispered conference with her, asking after Miss Chandler. She was the same, Letty said, quiet, still breathing. She might have hours left or she might have months. The doctor was coming to see her on the morrow.

  Sorrow thanked Letty for her care, and she and Margaret crept out, closing the door behind them. Servants did the actual labor involved in caring for the most elderly of the inhabitants of Spirit Garden, and a couple had evolved into fine nurses, especially Letty, for all her complaining. But Sorrow or her mother checked on all of their friends every day a few times, and arranged special treats, taking those able outside when the weather permitted. Sorrow had determined not to let her own impending nuptials change her habits, for she knew the old folks would miss her when she left. Margaret was starting to take an interest and that was good, for it was the best cure for her own problems, Sorrow had learned; it made her think about others instead of her own fears and worries.

  In the hall once again, Sorrow said, “I agree. Bertram is very good-looking and he kisses wonderfully!”

  “Kisses? He has kissed you?” Margaret gasped, and then dissolved into giggles.

  They retreated to Margaret’s room, her haven, she called it, the walls covered with her sensitive and brilliant watercolor paintings. She could not bear to wear bright colors, preferring gray or brown, but her paintings were always filled with beautiful hues. Sorrow saw a new one and exclaimed over it, “Oh, Margaret! It’s . . . it’s beautiful!”

  It was quite obviously of herself and Sorrow was deeply touched. Margaret, when she was calm, painted quite lovely works, but, oddly, it was when she was disturbed and at her most agitated that she painted with a brilliance and intensity that was frightening, the colors deeper, the images more vibrant, but sometimes hard to understand. This was clearly painted in one of her sunny moods and showed Sorrow in a white lace gown holding a bouquet of roses. She reached out and hugged Margaret to her.

  “It is to be a wedding gift for you and Mr. Carlyle,” the girl said shyly. “I hope to do one of him to match, now that he is here.”

  Overcome by a sudden case of nerves, Sorrow sat down on Margaret’s narrow bed and covered her face with both hands. “Am I doing the right thing? Will he ever understand me?”

  Margaret sat down by her and said, “What’s wrong? Do you not love him? Isn’t he perfect?”

  Struggling to put her fears into words, Sorrow uncovered her face and said, “Perfect? Well, no. He’s a little stuffy and too diffident. He’s a very intelligent young man, but he lets his father rule him. Will that continue? And what about his father? I only met the man three times, but I quite despise him. Will Bertram understand that?”

 
“I had been thinking marriage was a solution to all a lady’s problems,” Margaret admitted with a rueful tone. “But it seems that it creates quite as many as it solves.”

  Turning on the bed and drawing one leg up under her, Sorrow said, “Please, Margaret, don’t mistake me. I still want to marry Bert. He’s a good man, better, I think, than he even realizes, or I should not be marrying him. I . . . I care for him a great deal. Shall I tell you how I first saw him?”

  Margaret nodded.

  “He doesn’t even know this,” Sorrow said, twisting her hands together and staring off at one of Margaret’s paintings on the wall. “But I first saw Bertram at a dinner party at the home of friends of my aunt, Lady Spotswycke. I had wandered off to the library—out of boredom, I’m afraid, for there were a great many pompous people there—when I heard an argument. I came out to the hall and saw a young man abusing a maid. I was about to make my presence known when Bertram came out of the drawing room, assessed the situation immediately, stopped the fellow and shamed him into apologizing—actually apologizing!—to the poor maid. I was immensely impressed. Even more so when I found out later that he had escorted the poor girl to the butler and demanded she have a few moments and not be expected to wait upon that young man again. And even more so when I discovered he had spoken to the hostess to make sure the girl did not suffer, for a maid will often be dismissed for that kind of thing, you know, and who knows what the young man who abused her would say about her to her employer?”

  Margaret, listening intently, said, “Why have you not told Bertram about this? Witnessing this?”

  “It was a private deed, and he would be embarrassed if I told him what I saw and how affected I was by his kindness and consideration.”

  “But . . .” Margaret hesitated, but then said, “You have not said you love him. Did you say yes to his proposal because he is kind? Are there not other kind men in London?”

  “Of course.” Sorrow gazed down, untwisted her hands and plucked at the bedspread. “But Bert . . . I don’t know how to explain it. He . . . captured me. I knew, somehow, that we could have a wonderful life together, and Margaret, I want children and a home and . . . all the other things every lady wants.”