Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 2)

‘…you may kiss the bride.’

Arabella was holding on to his hand as though she was drowning. He lifted her veil, trying to communicate reassurance, and saw her face. She is lovely, he thought with a jolt. Her skin was flushed with delicate pink, her eyes were wide and bright, her lips full, tempting. Where had the drab, miserable little vicarage miss gone? But there was apprehension in those hazel eyes and the full lower lip was not quite steady. No need to alarm her, he thought, dropping a light kiss on her mouth.

Bella curled her fingers hard into Elliott’s grip to steady herself. The bride. I am now Lady Hadleigh. His face came into focus as he lifted the veil, pale and serious, those startling eyes almost ink blue as he studied her face. He is realising that he has committed himself irrevocably, she thought as he bent to kiss her. Her lips wanted to cling to his for reassurance, but already he was straightening; the firm pressure had lingered for just the right amount of time for the place and occasion.

How competent

he is, how assured, how certain of how things must be done. And I am none of those things. But she had been, until Rafe had come into her life and turned it on its head. She had been a dutiful daughter, a competent housewife, an efficient support to the parish. Would any of those talents be of use at all now? It was time to learn to be a viscountess.

Bella lifted her chin and straightened her back as she placed her hand on Elliott’s arm. Deportment and dignity were important. She took her bouquet from Miss Dorothy and matched her steps to Elliott’s slow stride as he began to walk back down the aisle. Following his example, she looked from side to side, smiling and nodding to the strangers who were watching her. There was an unexpected number of people filling the pews. On her way to the altar she had been too nervous to look.

Many must be the staff, inside and outside, from the Hall and the Dower House. But there was a neat little woman who was perhaps the vicar’s wife and a young lady with a little girl on her best behaviour at her side, both of them smiling at someone behind Bella and Elliott—Mrs Baynton, she guessed.

For all the short notice, this was not a hole-in-corner affair, which was a relief. She had worried for Elliott’s reputation if there was gossip now. That would come when her pregnancy became obvious, but perhaps by then people would have got over the shock of the sudden marriage, provided she comported herself suitably.

Elliott had arranged matters so that it seemed just what he had said—a hurried marriage because of the bride’s unreasonable father. I must write to Papa, she realised, then pushed away the unpleasant thought until tomorrow at least. There was too much else to deal with today.

They emerged into a sunny May afternoon, the guests flocking out behind them, to find the churchyard full of curious and smiling villagers. ‘I am glad this is a country wedding,’ she whispered to Elliott and he smiled down at her.

Something tugged at her skirt and she looked down to find a small boy holding out a fistful of wild flowers. He was solemn, chubby and with a front tooth missing. ‘Just one moment,’ she said to him and tossed her own bouquet up in the air.

There was a laughing scramble as girls ran for it and she stooped again to the child. ‘Those are very pretty. Thank you so much.’ He thrust them into her hand, solemn with nerves. Bella looked at them, an unkempt tangle plucked from the hedgerow instead of the elegant and sophisticated bouquet. Just like me, she thought. ‘And what is your name?’

‘Charlie Mullin, mum.’

‘Where do you live, Charlie? May I come and visit you one day?’

‘Pa’s the baker, mum.’

‘Then I expect he makes excellent bread, I must buy some.’ She straightened up laughing, and he ran off to grab the skirts of a plump woman who was pink with embarrassment at her son’s bravado.

‘That was well done,’ Elliott said as they began to walk again.

‘I must get to know the villagers as well as your tenants,’ Bella said, waving to a group of little girls. ‘I have a responsibility to them now and I am used to this kind of work from my parish duties. I expect Mrs Fanshawe will be able to advise me who is in need.’

‘It will come as a shock to them if someone from the Hall calls,’ Elliott said, his voice dry. ‘I doubt they have had any attention from Rafe.’

Rafe would not have understood the need to be sure if frail elderly villagers had warm bedding and someone to cook for them or whether the village children learned their letters and he had probably not cared in any case. Elliott would care, but these things were not something the lord of an estate was expected to deal with. This was something she, the viscountess, could do, she realised. ‘Well, I will call,’ she said. ‘And I will tell you what needs doing and we can discuss it.’

The look he gave her held amusement and a degree of surprise at her decisive tone. ‘And I expect you will be asking me for money for your good works?’

‘Naturally,’ Bella said, delighted to find something she was equipped for.

Whereas for this, now, she was not. Elliott was turning to speak to the stocky man who had stood by him on the altar steps. ‘Arabella, may I introduce John Baynton, my groomsman and a very old friend, and Mrs Baynton. And this is Miss Baynton.’

‘Prunella,’ the little girl said, producing a curtsy. ‘I am five.’

The first of Elliott’s friends. Daniel did not count, he was family. ‘Good afternoon, Prunella,’ Bella said. It gave her time to compose herself, to manage the sort of amiable yet dignified smile that she supposed a viscountess should favour. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Baynton, Mr Baynton. Thank you for coming. I am glad Lord Hadleigh had friends at his side today.’

Mrs Baynton did not seem too concerned about composure and dignity as she shook hands. ‘And I am delighted to meet you, Lady Hadleigh, and to discover that Elliott has such a romantic streak in him! I will call in a week or so, once your honeymoon is over: I am sure we will be firm friends.’

Honeymoon? Of course, with a runaway bride and a precipitous marriage, the presumption must be that this was a passionate love match and that she and Elliott would be spending their days and nights in intimate seclusion. It was the last thing she wanted, whereas becoming close to this friendly young woman with her warm brown eyes was exactly what she needed.

It seemed Elliott thought so too. ‘Honeymoon? I only wish we could, but under the circumstances, with so much business following Rafe’s death, I am afraid I will be sadly neglecting Arabella.’

‘Yes, do call soon,’ she urged as the Bayntons gave way for the vicar to introduce his wife.

‘Are they coming to dinner?’ she asked as Elliott turned finally to the waiting carriage.