LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Six

      Lottie twisted the iron band about her left ring finger, rather than look at her new husband where he stood speaking to the blacksmith. The ceremony had gone quickly, squeezed in between a horseshoeing and mending a plough. Nothing fancy. Simple and ordinary.

      Her face burnt from the heat of the fire and her ears rang from the clanging of the hammer against the anvil. A quick brush of his lips against hers. Very correct. Very polite, but nothing more. But she wanted more. She wanted him to kiss her like he meant it, like he wasn’t marrying her simply because he had to, because society forced them. Lottie concentrated on the iron band. Slowly she drew on her glove, hiding the ring, but her hand remained heavy with the unaccustomed weight.

      ‘Shall we depart, Lottie?’ Tristan said, coming over to her; the blacksmith started striking the anvil with his hammer again. ‘Unless you want to stay and see the horses being shod, there is nothing here for us.’

      Lottie shook her head and allowed Tristan to lead her from the shop.

      ‘So we are married. Forged as it were.’ She gave a small laugh once they had returned to the street. It looked as it had when they had entered the shop—people were still hurrying by, intent on their shopping, the mud still lay in pools. Nothing had changed. No one noticed what had happened to her. ‘I had never thought about it. My friends will be all agog when I write. One only ever hears about going to Gretna Green to get married, and the precise details are never spelt out.’

      ‘Yes, we are married. The ceremony was perfectly legal.’

      ‘I never questioned it.’ Lottie glanced quickly up at her new husband. His face was remote and held little of the warmth she had glimpsed last evening. She wondered how she could get it back. If he had looked like that, then she would not have been tempted to make this marriage. She wanted him to smile down at her, to do something to show that this marriage was more than an inconvenience caused by her own indiscretion. ‘We have both been saved from ruin. The marriage will be a nine-day wonder, if that. Undoubtedly someone somewhere will do something worse and it will be forgotten.’

      ‘I am no stranger to scandal but I had no wish to be outside society for ever. It is not good business.’ His eyes showed no signs of softening. ‘Neither of us had any choice in the matter, Lottie, but we do have a choice about the life we lead. Shall we look to the future, rather than live in what might have been?’

      ‘The ice-cold wind of disapproval.’ Lottie adjusted her bonnet and ignored the rip in her sleeve that appeared to grow each time she moved her arm. She hated the thought of being dressed like this in public, but there was nothing she could do. She had to hope no one would notice. She moved so her arm was next to Tristan’s, hiding the worst. ‘I need to know, Tristan. Why did you marry me, since you had already experienced society’s disapproval?’

      ‘Once you ruin a virgin…there is very little way back.’ Tristan ignored her invitation to take her arm and stood staring down at her. His voice did little to restore her confidence.

      ‘And did you want a way back?’ Lottie asked. She wanted to believe that there was more to this, that he had wanted to marry her.

      ‘I am no cad. And perhaps I no longer wanted to be an orphan.’ A cold smile touched his lips. ‘Does it matter about the reasons? We are married now, and we will go forwards without scandal. I will lead the sort of life my father had envisioned for me. Upright. Solid. The sort of life I intend to lead now that I have returned to Britain.’

      ‘You appear to have made a number of promises to your father.’

      ‘They were all part of the same promise. My father and my uncle were not friends.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I wanted to torment my uncle.’

      ‘And what did your uncle predict?’

      ‘That I would come to no good, that I would blacken the family’s name and die in an unmarked grave.’

      ‘It is hard when families fight, particularly if one of them is titled.’ Lottie placed her hand on his arm. ‘Didn’t your mother try to help? Or your aunt? It is the duty of the women in the family to mend quarrels.’

      ‘My uncle’s wife was concerned with…other matters and my mother died when I was three.’ A flash of pain crossed Tristan’s face and Lottie’s heart constricted. In that instant she caught a glimpse of the young boy Tristan must have been. How truly awful to have this long-ago quarrel blight his life. ‘I doubt she could have mended this quarrel, but I like to think she would have understood.’

      ‘I am sorry. I lost my father when I was twelve. I cried for days on end. Buckets and buckets.’

      ‘My father died when I was seventeen. I had stopped crying then.’

      Lottie bit her lip, aware that she knew very little about the man standing next to her, very little about the man whose bed she would now share and whose table she would grace. She had always thought that she would have a long and proper courtship, but it had happened a different way. They would get to know each other in time. And some day, she would make him see that making social calls and being part of a community was important. It gave meaning to people’s lives. It enabled people to help each other and to help their families lead better lives.

      ‘We shouldn’t be talking about sad things on our wedding day.’

      ‘You are quite right—we should only speak of happy things.’

      ‘It is the polite thing to do.’

      ‘And you always do the polite thing.’

      Lottie tilted her head. ‘Whenever possible. It saves making a spectacle.’

      ‘Then we had best move as we are beginning to make a spectacle.’

      Tristan put his hand under her elbow and guided her away from the blacksmith’s shop. Lottie saw the curious stares from several women. With his other hand he carried her satchel as they walked slowly through the streets of Gretna Green. The market crowd had dispersed somewhat, but the streets still heaved with people. Twice, Lottie had to walk around a drunk lying the gutter.

      ‘Where are we going now?’ she asked as he strode along, not looking left or right. ‘What happens next?’

      ‘You are my wife and I shall take you back to the inn where hopefully the innkeeper will have prepared rooms for us.’

      ‘Do we have a private room?’ Lottie asked. She attempted a smile. She did not want to think about what men and women did in bed at night. She heard whispered rumours from the servants, and once at Martha Dresser’s house had come across Aristotle’s

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