Page 21 of For a Scandalous Wager (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #3)

CHAPTER 20

C oward that he was, Rochester would have chosen Cumberland’s parish if he’d known where the hell it was because showing up at the church where Evelyn’s father might attend on any given Sunday made his hands sweat. He’d already written Mr. Markham for a private word and been met with a return post unopened, which was answer enough. With no other choice left him but elopement, Rochester was forced to show up for the banns and somehow appeal them.

Using a late arrival for strategy gained him access to the parish where he might have otherwise been denied by Mr. Markham—had he been there—it also, unfortunately, made him a spectacle.

He chose the morning prayer and said his own hail to the Lord that everyone practiced the reverence of eyes closed and heads bowed dutifully. Turned out it didn’t matter because the old parish door creaked on its hinges, and several heads turned, creaking necks and all, to see the newcomer. Thankfully, Mr. Markham was not in attendance.

Rochester sat through an organ prelude and a reading in Psalms while his heart thudded uncomfortably like a thief ready to spring when the vicar cleared his throat. He felt the charge just before the announcement as if electricity sparked the air, preparing for the proverbial lightning strike from heaven.

“And for the banns,” the minister recited. “I publish the banns of Miss Mary Sutton to Mr. Harold Mercer…”

Rochester waited patiently, blood rushing through his eardrums and creating its own sound like the ocean.

“And for the banns,” the minister began again.

Rochester twisted one fist into the other.

“I publish the banns of Miss Evelyn Markham and Victor Beasley, Baron Cumberland.”

Rochester’s gut dropped. All hope that Winn had been wrong dissolved.

“If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two should not be joined together, ye are to declare it. This is the second reading.”

The time had arrived on golden wings and a thunderous shout. No, on second thought, it was a shout of thunder and an explosion of lightning setting off the cobalt blue, rusty red, lemon-orange, and a myriad of dazzling colors ablaze in the stained-glass windows lining the church walls.

A blessing from God? Or a curse?

Rochester stood, his knees locking, his hands gripping his coat with a tug. He cleared his throat. “I have grounds to speak.”

“On which case, sir?” Every neck craned to see who had the temerity to do such a thing.

“The latter between Miss Evelyn Markham and Lord Cumberland on the grounds of love.”

The minister looked reverently patient as if he’d said something most obvious. “As one would hope, my good man. We wish for all marriages to join through a mutual love for one another.”

“Yes. I understand, but I am the one in love with Miss Markham.”

A few of the ladies gasped into handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths.

“You are not Lord Cumberland?”

“I am not. I am Mr. Dalton Rochester, heir to the Rochester Viscountcy, and I declare the banns false.”

The minister coughed uncomfortably. Clearly, this was a first for him. “Unfortunately, this is not a legal reason to void the engagement. Perhaps you’d like to take this up in private council after service?”

Unless he wished to sully Evelyn’s name with the graphic truth in the middle of a prayer meeting, he had little choice but to agree and take his seat. The older women regarded him with pity and understanding. The older men grinned at him as if to say he had barely escaped an impulsive crush that might cost him a lifetime shackled to the same woman. One gentleman even winked and held up his thumb in agreement.

After service, he stayed seated, hoping the church would empty out and he’d avoid being accosted in the yard. But the women were bolder than he would have expected. They filed between the seats, each pausing to pat his hand and, those close enough, kissed his cheek. Rose perfume and gardenias, mingled with wood polish, assailed his nostrils, which he supposed he deserved.

“Mr. Rochester,” the vicar began after the church finally bled out. He stood in the aisle close enough for a less booming conversation and a less public one. “Is there any other just cause you would care to mention?”

“With all due respect, reverend, I believe that love is the most important cause, and fully justified, to challenge the banns.”

“If the engagement is settled, I can only deduce that the couple is in agreement with the contract of love.”

“Yes, but this couple is not in agreement, I assure you. Miss Markham’s father, who, God willing, means to honor his daughter with the best intentions, has set upon this contract of betrothal against his daughter’s wishes.”

“Then why is Miss Markham not here to protest?”

“Because she’s unaware.”

“Then I must surmise that she is also unaware of your tendre for her since she is not here.”

“It is not a tendre I feel for the lady. It is a deep abiding love. The kind ordained by God Himself as set forth in Genesis.” He could not be any plainer without directly profaning her name.

“I am not without sympathy. I do feel for you, son. Young love is a sensitive and often painful lesson. May I suggest you pray on it or have a frank discussion with the young lady’s father?”

Rochester left the church no closer to his goal than when he entered the beautiful archaic building. Which made him think how archaic it was to betroth one’s children without full consent. And in this case, without any consent.

With his coach at the local inn, he’d be forced to stay the night. A horse would have been more prudent, but he had traveled straight to the parish from Winn’s and wouldn’t return home until this was rectified.

Step one and two, between Mr. Markham’s refusal to see him and the minister’s refusal to listen, Rochester was down another day. He had a week to null the banns. A week to convince Markham. A week to plan a trip to Gretna Green because he’d never secure a license quick enough to keep Evelyn’s father from hauling her away.

He emerged from the church, bouncing his hat on his thigh and muttering to himself. He looked at the sky, which appeared clear of rain and caused him to wonder whether he’d imagined the thunder and lightning.

“Son?” The man with the knowing smile—the one who’d winked and given him a thumbs up—stood in the garden just beyond a short retaining wall. He bent and pulled a weed.

Rochester waved sportingly. “Good day,” he said as he kept walking.

The older gentleman did not halt his gardening but regarded Rochester with a side-glance and waved him over. Curiosity alone over the man’s mannerisms in the church changed Rochester’s mind, and he turned in the direction of the garden. With hat in hand, he ducked under a blossoming cherry tree.

“What can I do for you?” Rochester asked.

The man straightened. “Nothing, son. It’s more what I can do for you.” When he brushed off his hands and held one out, Rochester took it. He appeared to be in his sixties, perhaps, with a thick head of dark gray and white-peppered hair. He stood a few inches shorter than Rochester’s six feet one inch and had kind eyes and a warm demeanor.

“I’m Mr. Benjamin Hartley,” he said.

“Mr. Dalton Rochester.”

“So I gathered.” Mr. Hartley went back to weeding, speaking while he worked, pausing to take a deep breath now and again. “I watch over the grounds and sit on the board of saints. I’m the parish leader here. Have been since, oh, before Miss Evelyn was born.”

Rochester watched him more intently, his curiosity on heightened alert. “How well acquainted are you with the Markham family?”

Mr. Hartley pushed around the dirt, pressing his knuckles into the ground where he’d made a hole from pulling a rather large weed. He puffed out a reply between squats. “Weeds choke the beds, and ones left to grow as large as that one tend to come back with a vengeance.” He pointed to a thick-stemmed dandelion limply lying on a mound of wilted greenery with the roots holding on to a ball of dirt. “Sometimes the good dirt is sacrificed for the root ball. Must get it all or sacrifice the garden to it.”

“So I gather,” Rochester said, refusing to be distracted with talk of gardens and weeds and dirt. He hardly had time to entertain a lonely parish saint.

“Evelyn is my goddaughter. I take it you know her well.”

“I do,” Rochester replied curtly. “I apologize for my abruptness. It’s been a long day.”

“You’re not nearly as abrupt as you need to be, my good fellow. If Mr. Markham is set against your match, then there must be a reason.”

“You don’t seem to agree with the banns yourself if I read your wink correctly. Why so if Mr. Markham is your friend?”

“Because, Son.” He stood again, this time brushing off his trousers. “I can see you truly love her, and I believe that is the single best reason to object. No one should wed without love.”

“If you know the Markhams so well, have you met Lord Cumberland?”

“No, no. Henry and I had a falling out some years ago.”

“Then we have that in common, Mr. Hartley.”

“Ah, now I understand why you came here instead of seeing Miss Evelyn’s father.”

“I’ve tried that already. Believe me, this was not my first idea. Markham won’t see me, so I had little choice.”

“The man can hold a grudge.”

“He’s as stubborn as hell.”

Hartley chuckled. “If you’re staying at the inn, I’ll walk with you, and we’ll sit and chat over an ale and a noonday meal.” Hartley followed the cement divide until he reached the garden gate. When he caught up to Rochester, he slapped a friendly palm on his shoulder.

For the first half an hour of their meal, Rochester listened patiently while Hartley regaled him with memories of Evelyn as a girl, of the Markham family, and some memories of Evelyn’s mother—who sounded much like her daughter. He found out that Evelyn favored her mother down to her dark-blonde hair and sea-green eyes. He learned that Hartley had been married for thirty-five years to the love of his life and that they’d never had children, which made the honor of being named Evelyn and Winn’s godparents so significant.

“How did you and Evelyn meet?” Mr. Hartley asked.

Rochester rubbed his jaw, wondering how much to say. “Winn and I are close friends. Like brothers.”

“And the family?” Hartley asked with a half smile as if he already knew the answer.

“Not so close.” He tipped his ale like a toast.

“Has it always been that way, this unease between you and Mr. Markham? Or did something cause a rift with the family, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

He chortled, saying, “I can see it’s going to be agony and take more than a tankard of ale to draw the story from you, and I’m guessing you don’t have that kind of time.”

“The story is mine, Mr. Hartley, and I’m not inclined to tell it to just anyone. Not even the godfather of the woman I love.”

Hartley took a draw of ale, watching Rochester over the rim with a perceptive eye and a depth of wisdom behind the penetrating gaze. “What if I tell you that I want to help? Because I believe you can use all the assistance you can get, even from an old man like me who’s possibly as unwelcome as you are with Mr. Markham.”

“I might be inclined to take you up on it if I weren’t hard-pressed to believe Markham hates anyone more than he hates me.”

“Ack. He doesn’t hate you.”

Rochester eyed him with suspicion. “How long exactly have you been on the outs with him?”

“Hmmm.” Hartley tapped his lip. “Exactly, four years and four months.” The older man raised his eyebrows, a clear challenge.

If Rochester didn’t know better, he’d think the man knew of his humiliation. On second thought, the dates were too close to be anything else. “Should I ask, or is your story also a private matter, Mr. Hartley?”

“I imagine it’s a private matter so much as it concerns your friend. Is it possible we’re speaking the same language?” He squinted one eye and gave a good-natured half smirk.

“Your calendar puts Winn in Bath for three years and home for sixteen months.”

“Precisely.” Hartley nodded a toast.

“Mr. Hartley, Winn is one of my dearest friends.”

“And I recall he traveled to Bath with two of his closest companions.”

“It’s doubtful I need to explain much more of my position with Mr. Markham. Since you know why the man is angry with me, might you enlighten me why he’s irritated with you?”

“Because, my dear boy, I disagreed with him quite vehemently. I thought the whole thing would blow over, but he was bent on keeping Evelyn’s name safe.”

Rochester rolled his eyes and sighed heavily; his teeth came together smartly, and his cheek twitched. “I can’t say that I’m relieved that someone else knows, although it is good to hear another opinion.”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not defending what you and your friends did. I simply thought it was a harsh judgment on Winn. I couldn’t say whether it was for you or not. I didn’t know you then.”

“You don’t know me now, sir. If you don’t mind me saying.”

“Mayhap not, but I can read your character, Mr. Rochester, and I find your persistence in the face of Mr. Markham’s anger to be rather encouraging. And I like you.”

Rochester couldn’t help but smile. “Pardon me if I feel relieved at the notion. I’ve been through hell in a handbasket for a week.”

“Don’t be surprised when you go from the frying pan into the fire. Let’s have another ale and see how many more idioms we can sharpen our tongues on. Then, we’ll make a plan. Give me a night, and I’ll go see Henry and see if I can’t secure you an audience. But first, I want to get good and drunk because I might look like a kind old man, but I’ve overindulged on pride.”

Rochester gave the man a day and night. He waited for word, but by day two, none had come, so he headed for Rosewood Manor with every intention of demanding that Mr. Markham see him.