Honor's Players

... this is the ’pointed day ...

—Act III, Scene 2



“Elizabeth!” Lord Monweithe’s voice bellowed up the stairs. “Elizabeth! Confound it, girl, hurry up! We’ll be late!”

Elizabeth returned no comment but continued to move very slowly. It was agony to move so slowly. Her tense muscles screamed at the discipline; however, she persevered. She wanted to be late to the wedding, to force that arrogant Viscount to cool his heels while he waited upon her!

The previous week had been a nightmare. All society seemed to come to Rasthough House to offer felicitations, ogle, raise eyebrows, and whisper behind open fans and sheltering hands. Elizabeth had refused to come down when she could and sat stoically quiet through those visits she could not avoid. Only once had she openly responded to the many arch questions and innuendos cast in her direction and that had been to smile triumphantly at one particularly vicious matron with two marriageable daughters and remark graciously: “While I feel it is beneath one to bandy words and frowns,” a feeling she certainly did not feel but rather did with a certain amount of relish, “I feel compelled to remind you that I, at least, have ended this season betrothed.”

Affronted, the matron promptly quitted Rasthough House with a harrumph and dark mutterings of future comeuppance. So relieved were all with her departure, that even Lady Romella did not frown for long at Elizabeth.

Save for her small victory, she felt she was riding in a poorly sprung runaway carriage. When the household was not besieged with visitors, Lady Romella and Helene towed her from one dressmaker and milliner to another, shopping for her trousseau. Her father had been adamant that she should have a large and rich trousseau. Whether that gesture was out of guilt or sincerity, Elizabeth did not venture to guess. During these enforced shopping excursions she followed apathetically along, merely grimacing as more and more frivolous pastel colors were purchased. For Lady Romella and Helene, surprised by Elizabeth’s perceived docility, were soon emboldened to choose anything they themselves admired without querying her at all.

On solely two occasions did Elizabeth voice her opinion—once again quite in her old spirit—and that was in the choice of nightgowns and her wedding dress. She refused filmy muslin nightgowns in favor of a more sturdy lawn material and insisted on an ivory-colored wedding gown over a stark white which she knew, while highly flattering to Helene, would cause her to appear insipid.

She stared now at the wedding gown reflected in the mirror, unconsciously stroking the fine material. It was of ivory gauze with silk appliqué petals and leaves sewn in tiers at the hem and on the puffed upper portion of her sleeve. The bottom of the sleeve fitted snugly to her arm, fastening with ten tiny pearl buttons. The gown’s small, high bodice was plain. On her head Elizabeth wore a small brimmed hat of ivory silk plush decorated with the same silk petals and leaves as were on her dress. Attached to the brim and allowed to fall over her face to her shoulders was a sheer gauze veil edged with tambour work. Elizabeth, turning slightly so she could see the gown from all angles, was pleased with the overall effect.

The maid sent into her that morning by Lady Romella fussed about her, straightening a petal and seam while chattering of her mistress’s good fortune. “And to think, my lady, one day you’ll be a Countess!” She clucked her tongue. “Lawks a mercy, all a’Lunnon a been buzz’n about this wedd’n. It’s the affair of the season, that’s what they do say, even if it do seem a might unseemly in its haste,” the maid remarked ingeniously, hoping for some reaction from Lady Elizabeth that she could take below stairs.

Her chatter fell on deaf ears. Around and around in Elizabeth’s mind the one single unanswered question whirled. Why me? She had tried to dissuade St. Ryne, had tried to show him only her nastiest side, only to find herself tongue-tied before him, impotently raging within herself. She refused to analyze her reasons, knowing if she did so she would discover she had met the one man who mattered.

No! she thought sharply, tossing her head, which sent the maid into another bout of clucking. No man mattered! For her sanity she repeated the litany in her mind. She wondered how late she dared be before her father stormed up the stairs.

Elizabeth fervently wished Hattie were here. Her old nurse was the only person she ever laughed with, the only person to understand her and love her unreservedly.

To be unloved was agony. She had borne it from her father since her mother’s death. She could even say with conviction it didn’t bother her anymore. At nineteen she had learned to accept what she could not have though she still railed against it. She trembled at the thought of being thrust into a new life with a man she didn’t know and who couldn’t possibly love her. Her eyes misted, their gold lights turning to amber.

Her waspish tongue and rude attitude had developed as a young girl's ploy for attention from her father. At least if he ranted, railed, and punished her, he had to acknowledge her existence. Hattie had often lectured on the futility of such a strategy, but her words were to no avail. As Elizabeth grew older, her rudeness and cutting tongue became a habit and a defense. She learned to consider herself unlovable for she was the one blamed for her mother’s death.

She remembered the day well—she could scarcely forget for it was carved in her memory and often haunted her dreams. It was her fifth birthday and nature was helping the family celebrate by offering up an unusually warm spring day. The past winter had been particularly severe and for a time Lady Susan Monweithe, Elizabeth’s mother, had been extremely ill and not expected to survive. She had, nonetheless, recovered splendidly, leaving the family doctor awed and her family joyful. As the weather was sunny and mild, it was decided Elizabeth’s birthday party would be out of doors; consequently, a family picnic was planned. Her father was jolly then, tossing first her then Helene in the air. After lunch, he dozed in the shade of a large tree while their mother watched as she and Helene, a golden-haired toddler then, explored the edge of the lake. Mama had warned them not to go too close; however, with youthful impetuousness they did not heed her. While Elizabeth gathered flowers by the water’s edge, Helene squatted on an overhanging rock to watch some frogs. From her great maturity at five, Elizabeth knew it was dangerous to get so near the water so she jumped onto the rock to scold her baby sister. Suddenly the rock tipped forward and unthinkingly she pushed her sister to shore before she tumbled backward into the water.

Though afterward she could see there had been no danger for the water was not over her head, she panicked, and her mother ran to pull her out. Somehow—Elizabeth was never sure how—her mother also lost her balance. Screaming, Elizabeth clamored to her like a mad thing. Her mother tried to get up, but her long skirt tangled her legs and Elizabeth was thrashing and kicking too much. Her screams and Helene’s crying woke her father, and he came charging down the bank to haul his wife and daughter out of the water just as dark clouds closed over the sun and a sharp spring wind kicked up to remind them of the season. The drenching and the return of the cold spring weather caused Lady Susan’s illness to return. This time she did not recover. While she was ill, Lord Monweithe banished his children to their nursery and haunted his wife’s room. Lady Susan tried to tell him in a hoarse, cracking voice how Elizabeth had been protecting Helene. He shushed her and begged her not to strain herself. In the nursery, Elizabeth sobbed and clung to Hattie. There was no calming her for she knew something dreadful was going to happen. Four days later, her mother passed away in her sleep. From that day, and for many years, Lord Monweithe could not bear to look at Elizabeth. In his mind he knew he could not blame the child for his beloved wife’s death, but in his heart he did. As he could not reconcile his feelings, he chose to pretend Elizabeth did not exist. Over the years, though the pain grew less, his manner of ignoring his elder daughter became habit. He ceased even to realize what he was doing.

Elizabeth’s maid was putting the final adjustments on her hat when there was a sharp rap on the door. Before she could respond, it was flung open, banging against the wall, and Lord Monweithe angrily strode into the room. He had waited fifteen minutes, and now they would be twenty minutes late. Though Elizabeth wished she could be late forever for this wedding, she was resigned to the event now. She took heart and drew strength from knowing they would be twenty minutes late to the church.

After seeing Lady Romella and Helene off, Lord Monweithe had waited downstairs for Elizabeth, his only companion his port bottle. At first, he took to the port when vague doubts about the correctness of this hasty marriage flitted through his mind. As the minutes passed, so did those doubts, to be replaced with a sense of injury and an insidious fear the marriage would not take place; that Elizabeth’s seeming bid ability of late was a sham to cover her plans to humiliate him further. With the second glass of port came the conviction that those indeed were her plans and an equally strong conviction arose on his part to see the marriage go through. The older she became, the harder it was for him to even look at her. Though her hair was darker and her eyes brighter than his dear departed wife’s, in face and form, she was her twin. At one time he had irrationally blamed Elizabeth for her mother’s death. That was long ago. There were times when she was growing up he had wanted to draw her to his chest to hug, only to be met with bitter, waspish, angry words. He’d never known how to reach that tiny wraithlike creature with her condemning gold eyes.

He knew she had been devastated by her mother’s death, yet at the time, he’d had no room in his heart to comfort her—so great was his own grief. Unthinkingly he pushed her away, pushed her into the cursed shrew she was. Through the years he’d never been able to rectify his error and give her the love she needed. Perhaps marriage would cure her. Yes, he decided, babes were what she needed. That and a change of scene, away from her own family. He would not let her throw away a chance for happiness. He owed her that chance and owed himself some peace, he’d decided foggily before storming up the stairs.

“What missish nonsense is this?” Lord Monweithe paced Elizabeth’s room in a tight circle, his color rising. “If you’ve no notion of going through with this marriage and think it a play to embarrass your family, you’ve overextended yourself,” he declared flatly. “I’ll see you married or I’ll swear I never had an elder daughter named Elizabeth and throw you out on the street!”

Elizabeth gaped at the injustice. Fearful he was serious, her sense of aloneness and being unloved grew in proportion. Bile rose, burning her throat. She swallowed convulsively.

“Married or not, I would not stay a day longer in this house with a sanctimonious old woman, an empty-headed young one, and a man so enamored with appearances and conventions!” Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper while she held her head high and angrily held back tears. “But I will see this farce of a wedding through, if only to maintain my place in society so I may be a constant reminder to you, a constant thorn in your side with the knowledge of your failure as a father.” She crossed the room to the dressing table, staring down at its surface.

“Hold your tongue!” Lord Monweith roared. Beads of perspiration gathered on his brow.

“Why?” Elizabeth choked out, whirling around to glare at him. “You have already sold me; the wedding remains a mere formality. Since Mama died I have been like a dead thing to you. You are merely getting around to burying the rotted corpse.”

Appalled at her words, Elizabeth twirled away from her father to stare sightlessly out the window. Never had she come so close to revealing herself, and never in fourteen years had she even dared mention her mother to her father. An awful silence filled the room. The maid, her back to the combatants, busied herself with straightening brushes and bottles while her sharp ears listened carefully so she could repeat word for word everything that was said to her peers below stairs.

The Earl mopped his brow, the earlier fogginess being replaced with a searing pain in his head. Carefully, he ignored what Elizabeth said save her statement that she would go through with the wedding.

“If you’re going to go through with the wedding, we’d best be off before the guests think we are not coming and rise to leave.”

Elizabeth nodded curtly. She picked up a handkerchief from the dressing table and under cover of her veil, dabbed at the corner of her eyes before turning to her father. He was holding the door to her room open. With her head high, she swept through it and on down the stairs ahead of him. At the foot of the stairs Jovis waited with her bouquet. Regally she took it from him and disdained the warmth of a proffered cloak. Lord Monweithe scowled, saying nothing, a wordless truce having sprung up between them. He took her arm to lead her to the waiting carriage. Elizabeth murmured a polite “thank you” as he handed her into the vehicle but otherwise remained silent as they traversed the few short blocks between their home and St. George’s in Hanover Square.

In that time, she sadly convinced herself the marriage was for the best. It was unfair to her family to bear with her any longer. She was a blight on their lives. Just because she could not have love and happiness, what right did she have to deny that to others? She sighed audibly, drawing her father’s curious eyes upon her but she did not notice. At the church, she mutely allowed herself to be handed down and led up the wide church steps. She paused at the great doors, steeling herself for the walk up the aisle and the end of her life as she knew it to be. Suddenly she was aware of a flurry among the people gathered at the altar and Freddy Shiperton came hurrying back to them, agitated and stuttering his request to stay where they were.

“Stay? But we’re late as it is. We must get on with this.” The Earl looked around. “Where is St. Ryne?”

Freddy looked pained and wrung his hands. “That’s just it, sir. We don’t know. He ain’t here yet.”

Elizabeth’s world spun around for a moment at the bald pronouncement and she would have fallen had not a hand come out to steady her. Mistily she found herself looking up at Sir James Branstoke. He smiled at her and murmured softly; so softly she was afraid she did not hear him correctly when he said:

“Patience, good Katharine, and Baptista too. Upon my life, Petruchio means but well ...”

Elizabeth looked at him curiously. “Beg pardon? What—”

“What’s that you say? He ain’t here?” Lord Monweithe expostulated, again looking around the church as if to repudiate Freddy’s statement. “What’s the meaning of this?” He turned to glare at Freddy. “What do you know about this, Shiperton? I demand an explanation.”

Freddy spread his hands helplessly, his fair complexion flushed with embarrassment. He slid a worried glance in Elizabeth’s direction.

Elizabeth found herself exceedingly thankful for the veil she wore for she discovered to her dismay that her eyes were stinging with tears threatening to overflow. She drew every inch of her tiny frame erect and bit her lip to maintain her composure. Around her she heard whisperings, the snap of fans, and the rustle of material as the guests turned to one another. The whisperings increased in volume with each passing moment of the Viscount’s absence. The whisperings became louder until they seemed to shout and reverberate in her head.

“Perhaps—” her father coughed, running his hand nervously through his hair. “Perhaps, Elizabeth, we should return to Rasthough House.”

Elizabeth snapped her head around.

“Or-or mayhap retire to our carriage and await Viscount St. Ryne’s arrival there,” he finished quickly.

Mutely, Elizabeth shook her head, her pride not allowing her to make such a telling move. Her eyes were now so blurred that she could scarcely see, but she refused to raise the handkerchief she clutched in her nerveless hand to her eyes to blot away the tears.

It was nearly one hour after the appointed time for the ceremony when the first party of guests rose to leave. Elizabeth grimaced at the pitying glances cast in her direction but held her ground. Her tears had long since dried, to be replaced with a simmering anger bearing a stiffness of posture and high color to her cheeks. Suddenly there was an uproar at the great door leading into the narthex and the guests who had been on the verge of departing milled un-certainly. A young boy burst into the church, his sides heaving as he panted to catch his breath. He bent over, hands on his knees, as he gulped air.

“He’s coming!” he gasped out. “His lordship’s coming!” the child cried when at last he recovered his voice.

Lord Monweithe pushed through the crowd to grab the boy by a thin shoulder, spinning him around to face him. “What’s that you say? Speak up, lad,” he said, giving the child a slight shake. “You’ve seen the Viscount St. Ryne? Make no mistake about this. Where is he?”

“He’s coming, sir, down the road.” The boy trembled at the ferocious expression on the Earl's face. “I saw him riding his horse this way,” he explained, throwing up a bony arm to shield himself from the backhanded blow he expected.

Lord Monweithe, however, had no thought of punishment or reward for the lad. Stunned, he walked into the narthex, wishing to see for himself if St. Ryne approached. Uncertainty kept him staring at the closed doors.

Sir James Branstoke approached the fidgety and frightened boy, quietly placed a coin in his palm and pushed him toward a side entrance. Clenching the coin tightly in his fist, the lad muttered his thanks and ducked out the door.

Suddenly the great carved doors burst open letting in a whoosh of air and bright light, silhouetting the Viscount against the sky.

St. Ryne was indeed in riding attire and as he stepped into the church it became obvious to all that the Viscount had come to his wedding in all his dirt. An uproar rippled through the church. His top boots were thick with dust and his buckskin breeches sported a dark stain on one thigh. His jacket, while admirably fitting his form, showed signs of sweat and dust while his Inexpressibles bore a distinct gray cast. About his neck, in a very casual manner, was knotted a kerchief.

Elizabeth felt sure she would feint from mortification. She forced herself to stand calm, as if it were no concern of hers.

St. Ryne glanced about the church, a bland smile on his face, before focusing on those guests standing by the entrance. He raised an eyebrow.

“Have you all not found seats yet? Freddy, be a good, chap and assist them, please.”

Freddy, who stood transfixed and gawking at St. Ryne’s appearance, roused himself. “Certainly—ah, right you are. This way.”

With a soft murmur of voices, guests scurried to resume their seats. One affronted gentleman moved to leave altogether only to be stopped and remonstrated by his lively mate that they would do no such thing for she vowed this was better than a play. Hearing the woman’s comment, Elizabeth ground her teeth in vexation.

“You should have trod the boards. Beware. The lady is of uncertain temper,” Sir James Branstoke advised St. Ryne. “Moreover, she is a lady,” he warned.

St. Ryne smiled. “Rest easy,” he said, clapping Branstoke on the shoulder good-naturedly though a quizzical light shone in his eyes.

Branstoke turned to look past him, and St. Ryne followed his gaze to where Elizabeth stood in the shadows. His smile faded as he bowed slightly in her direction. He turned back to Branstoke.

“All will be well. I do not strive to hurt, only to tame.”

“And can you do one without the other?” Branstoke asked in flat tones.

“Why not?”

“I wonder— But here is Freddy, his chore completed.”

“Ah, yes indeed. Now I shall assume my place and await my gentle bride.” So saying, St. Ryne walked up the side aisle, followed by Freddy, and took his place before the altar. Once there, he turned to look back in expectation of seeing his bride approach, a set smile upon his face.

It was the smile that set the cap upon her rage. Staring steadily at St. Ryne, she threw down her bouquet in unspoken challenge then turned to march out of the church.

She had reckoned without her father.

Though the Viscount had made them the butt of jokes, he was here and apparently still of a mind to marry his daughter. Perhaps they were suited to one another. Regardless, he’d had enough skiff skaff for one day and would see the two of them wed. He grabbed Elizabeth’s arm, jerking her off balance so she fell heavily against him.

“I told you, will ye, nil ye, I would see you wed,” he said in her ear.

Elizabeth looked up at him in surprise. “I refuse to believe you’re serious. That man has just humiliated us in front of all of London and you would still countenance this wedding—this farce?”

“Countenance it? It is an event to be desired. Has it not occurred to you that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander?”

“You’re mad!”

“Perhaps. I am your father, however, and as you so crudely stated earlier, you have been signed and sealed for. What remains is the delivery. Come.”

Panicked, Elizabeth started to pull away. Her eyes looked out into the church as she did so and what she saw caused her to freeze. Every head was turned her way. Bitterly she realized this wedding was better than a play, affording society with a scandal that would provide grist for the gossip mill until the next season. She glared at her father. Well, she would not make her father an object of sympathy and pity—she would not give him that luxury. She would be the martyr, and let her father and the Viscount take the hisses. She threw up her head and casually smoothed the creases in her gown.

“Bravo!” whispered Sir James Branstoke as he handed her the discarded bouquet.

Elizabeth looked at him in surprise. He was the oddest creature. There seemed to be a depth in him that was lacking in her sister’s other suitors. She bowed her head in silent thanks, then resolutely turned toward the altar and walked steadily down the long aisle. She felt all eyes following her progress. Let them stare. Though the marriage mart was full of simpering beauties, only she would be the Viscountess St. Ryne and albeit thrust upon her, she intended to make the most of the position.

She repeated her vows in a clear but clipped voice, bringing a genuine smile to St. Ryne’s face. When the priest declared them man and wife, Elizabeth’s new husband gently lifted her veil.

“Isn’t it better, my lady,” he murmured softly, “to be angry for legitimate slights than merely perceived slights?” Astonished, Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest only to have the Viscount swoop down to capture her lips in a kiss. Pulling her tightly to him, his kiss caressed and teased, bringing an unfamiliar tingling up through her body making her feel weak and giddy. She grasped his shoulders for strength. Then as suddenly as it had begun, the kiss ended and he put her away from him. Dimly Elizabeth was aware of a few titters of laughter. Color rushed to her cheek. Angry with the Viscount and herself, she stepped hastily backward, catching the heel of her shoe on the altar step. Suddenly she was slipping backward. Her arms went out in a crude attempt to balance herself but to-no avail. She continued to fall backward, landing smartly on her posterior.

Hearty laughter erupted from the wedding guests, and tears burst into Elizabeth’s eyes. St. Ryne bent down to help her rise and he felt a twinge of remorse for his behavior.

“Come, Bess,” he said softly. “If you laugh, they will be laughing with you, not at you.”

Thankful for his sudden understanding, she smiled ruefully up at him. “It is hard to laugh when a portion of one’s anatomy hurts.”

“That is indeed true; however, it also aids in forgetting the pain.” He pulled her upright.

“Do you think, my lord—”

“Justin.”

She laughed. “Do you think, Justin, we might depart from this church with a modicum of decorum?”

“I doubt I would place a bet in the book at White’s; however—”

“However, we will try,” Elizabeth said firmly.

St. Ryne held out his arm. Smiling, Elizabeth took it and together they walked down the aisle. Seeing them together, smiling, caused several who observed to wonder once again at the root of this marriage.

Elizabeth’s good humor lasted until they entered the carriage that would take them back to Rasthough House where a breakfast for the wedding party was waiting. She did not understand St. Ryne’s strange humors. One moment he could be insulting, the next understanding. She was uncertain as to how to act with him. She found herself wondering about the marriage bed. Would he be rough with her or patient with her ineptness? She blushed furiously at her thoughts, turning her head away so St. Ryne would not note her embarrassment, for how could she explain?

Delighted with her good spirits as they left the altar, St. Ryne was dismayed to see it fade when they were alone. He consoled himself with the belief he had managed to place a chink in her armor. It angered him, however, to see her turn away from him in the carriage, as if she could no longer stand his presence. Any thoughts he had of not continuing the course he’d laid out for them were swiftly laid to rest. His Kate was not yet tamed.

At Rasthough House, St. Ryne’s countenance was inexpressive as he handed his bride down from the carriage. For her part, Elizabeth kept her eyes downcast until her family claimed her attention. St. Ryne followed them into the house, nodding pleasantly to those arriving guests who’d been invited to partake of the wedding breakfast.

After the last guest arrived, St. Ryne began the play anew: “My lady, it is time we left. Go change into your riding attire so we may be on our way.”

“What!” exclaimed Elizabeth.

“Now see here, St. Ryne!” expostulated Lord Monweithe.

St. Ryne raised a hand for silence. “Hurry now, and change. We must be on our way.”

“Are you mad? We have got to stay for the breakfast!”

“Are you begging me, my sweet Bess?” St. Ryne asked.

Elizabeth swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Then for sure we cannot stay. I will not tolerate a begging wife.”

“Well then, you can go and I will stay!” Elizabeth said angrily, whirling around to face those of the guests who stood in the hall with them, all agog with curiosity yet embarrassed to be where they were. “Come,” she invited, “let us go in to breakfast.”

“Yes, go all of you to make merry and celebrate this day. My Bess cannot be with you for she goes with me. She is my everything, and I shall protect her with my last breath,” he said loudly, then turned to speak softly to Elizabeth. “Now, do I have to undress and dress you myself or will you go get into your habit and bid your man saddle your horse? Pack only what is needful in a small portmanteau. The rest will be sent to follow. Our honeymoon tryst should be our secret.”

Too embarrassed to argue publicly with him after the events of the morning, Elizabeth flounced up the stairs to change. She was piqued at his manner yet also intrigued. Slowly she gathered items for her portmanteau, stowing them carefully away as she considered St. Ryne’s behavior. She did not know his game and was not sure she wanted to play. Refusing to change, she sat down on her bed, deciding to stall as she had done that morning with her father.

His patience exceeded her father’s by ten minutes. When he stormed into her room some thirty minutes later, Elizabeth scrambled to her feet. Belatedly she realized she erred greatly in flaunting his order.

Taking in the situation at a glance, St. Ryne strode determinedly toward Elizabeth.

“So, you prefer to ride before me on horseback. Why didn’t you tell me sooner, my love? We could have been off by now. Well come, it is time to go.”

“No! Wait! I’ll change.”

St. Ryne smiled. “It is too late now, my love,” he said softly. “Now, will you walk down the stairs before me or do you wish me to carry you?”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what? You should know by now there is a great deal I will dare.”

Elizabeth shuddered slightly. Without a word she walked numbly past him and down the stairs. She listened in a daze as he ordered a warm hooded cloak for her and almost docilely followed him outside to where a groom held his horse. He threw her up onto the front of the saddle then mounted behind her. The Earl of Rasthough stood in the doorway and silently watched his son-in-law, wondering for the first time in his life what would become of his daughter, Elizabeth.