Page 8 of An Inconvenient Vow

“If you will give me your arm,” she continued with as much calm as she could muster, “and treat me with civility, then I will accompany you back into the Great Hall right willingly.”

“You will accompany me back into the hall, madam, because I say you will,” he returned harshly, but after a heartbeat or two, he stalked over to her. Looking at his face, she braced herself, thinking he might shake her until her teeth rattled. When he reached her, however, he halted abruptly and offered his arm. True, he was stony-faced when he did so, but under present circumstances, she found this understandable.

Taking a deep breath, Sabina laid her hand on his forearm. She felt him stiffen beneath her touch and tried to keep her clasp on his decorated sleeve as light as humanly possible. His tunic was an elaborately embroidered affair, covered with gold thread. She could only imagine the contrast they would present to the company at large.

Her own dress had been in her possession for two years at least and had been worn on many occasions, as the fraying braid on her cuffs attested. Any spare monies her father had were spent on Isemay’s attire. After all, she reflected wryly, today was not supposed to be her wedding day.

Pressing her lips together, Sabina steeled herself for the ordeal ahead of her. None present would ever know how much it cost her pride to walk back into that hall, whose rafters had heard her defamed as a shameless woman, a self-proclaimed strumpet no less.

She re-entered it now as Sir Jeffree’s despised bride. Everyone would draw their own conclusions about that, seeing them leave the room with the members of the ecclesiastical court and then re-enter, respectably wed. No doubt they would conclude he had married her under sufferance, under threat of punishment no less.

Should she disabuse them of this fact? Protest she had wanted no part of him, that he was the one who had insisted on this ridiculous union? She dismissed the notion almost at once. They would ne’er believe such a thing, she thought dully. Instead, they would all think her a nasty little schemer, a woman of loose morals, triumphant at the outcome of catching such a husband.

Even as they crossed the threshold into the large flagstoned hall, she heard the whispering start, the cold, hostile stares. Oh gods, what had Isemay been thinking, wanting to be joined in marriage to this despicable lot? There was not one friendly face among them!

Sabina swallowed and found herself clutching at Sir Jeffree’s arm. To his credit, he did not make so much as a murmur of protest, as he led her across the Great Hall, headed for a woman in her late forties, dressed in a dark blue brocade. If she had not such a sour expression, Sabina would have thought her a handsome woman despite the many lines at her forehead and about her mouth. She guessed they were from years of frowning and pulling down her mouth into a disagreeable sneer.

At their approach, she turned flashing eyes on Sabina. “Why do you bring this woman into my presence, Jeffree?” she asked in freezing accents. Instead of moderating her tone, she raised it, making her words clear to those standing about them.

Only by the greatest effort of will did Sabina not react. Perhaps those three mortifying years of marriage to Miles had stood her in good stead after all? For they had prepared her to meet this fresh torment now with an appearance of unruffled outward calm.

“I bring her to you as a dutiful son, presenting his spouse,” Jeffree replied, his voice lifted to match her own.

So then, this was his mother. Sabina recognized those very blue eyes, though it looked like that was the only physical trait he had inherited from her. His mother was dark and slight, not fair and tall. Was the man stood next to her with the stooping shoulders his father then? she wondered. If so, it was hard to believe when Jeffree’s own were so very broad. Whatever else he might be, her new husband was a fine figure of a man.

His mother choked on whatever words had hovered on her lips, as all around them gasped and hissed. “You cannot be in earnest, my son!” she faltered.

“I assure you that I am,” Sir Jeffree replied woodenly. “This is my mother, Lady Maud Vyse and her husband,” he added as an afterthought. “Sir Dudley Vyse. Present your curtsey.” He said the last without turning his head, and for a moment, Sabina was not sure who he was addressing. Then her wits kicked in and she sank down into her most graceful curtsey.

Jeffree’s mother gave her only the most cursory nod of her head by way of response. Sir Dudley bobbed his thinning head, shooting an alarmed look first at his wife and then Jeffree, speech apparently beyond him.

To Sabina’s dismay, her husband did not move immediately on to the next group of relatives. Instead, Jeffree remained where he was as though they might pass some more words by way of conversation. The silence grew oppressive. All about them, it seemed as though people craned their ears to hear their exchange.

“How remarkably well this has turned out for you,” her new mother-in-law said finally, addressing her in a voice as cold as ice. “You are to be congratulated, it seems, as well as rewarded for your conduct. Punishment, it seems, must wait for the hereafter.”

Some might say this marriage was punishment enough, Sabina thought, but left the words unspoken. She did not know the lengths this latest husband might go to by way of retaliation. For all she knew, he might box her ears or haul her out and beat her with the nearest stick.

Instead, she forced a small, answering smile of equal coolness to her own lips. “How right you are Lady Maud. As the gods know, we will surely reap that which we sow.”

Jeffree’s mother’s eyes widened, and two spots of hard color appeared in her gaunt cheeks. She seemed almost to stagger for a moment at her new daughter-in-law’s effrontery. Her husband reached out a steadying hand to catch her elbow. Shrugging him off angrily, she straightened herself. “Move away now Jeffree. There is only so much a mother can tolerate,” she said bitterly.

He inclined his head and moved on to the next group without another word. Sabina kept her tight smile in place for the next half hour as they made their way slowly about the room, Jeffree formally introducing her to a myriad of De Crecys and their connections. Few ventured more than superior stares in exchange and miniscule nods. Sabina did not trouble herself to remember their names.

They had performed almost a full circuit of the hall when they finally approached the dais. The Duke of Bethencourt was seated, speaking plaintively to his dour-looking friend, Sir Charles Ellis. Of his vile son, who had made the wicked accusations, Sabina could see no trace, nor of her mother or sister. Frowning slightly at their absence, Sabina allowed herself to be escorted into their presence.

“Uncle,” Sir Jeffree said. “Allow me to introduce my wife.” She turned a deaf ear to the faint trace of scorn she heard in his words at addressing her thus.

The duke eyed her doubtfully. “Er yes, I have met—er, Mistress Hendry on several occasions.” He clammed up as she performed a curtsey low enough for a duke. “All most irregular,” he fretted. “I could wish you had chosen a less underhanded method in your wooing, Jeffree!”

Sabina’s eyes widened, and she could not forbear a sidelong glance at this. Sir Jeffree’s chagrined reaction would have been almost laughable if the situation were not so dire. She waited for him to strenuously deny that he had ever wooed the likes of her, but other than a hot slash of color appearing along his cheekbones, he did not react.

“Poor Mistress Isemay has been treated shamefully,” the duke tutted. “All a misunderstanding, so Ellis tells me.” He indicated his friend who stood by looking like he was carved out of granite. “Leland got the wrong end of the stick. Or at least, that wretched fellow from the tavern misled him or got his facts muddled up, I hardly know which.”

An awkward silence reigned for a moment. Had the father been trying to excuse his son’s behavior? Sabina wondered scornfully. If so, she would never be convinced that Sir Leland had acted in good faith. A craven cur like Alfred would never have dared to cook up such a story left to his own devices. No, he had been put up to it by Leland Ellis, Jeffree de Crecy, and very likely this upstanding gentleman, Sir Charles Ellis.

“Alfred Hendry,” Sir Charles Ellis said suddenly, as though seizing on something previously overlooked. “A relation of yours by marriage, I understand,” he said to Sabina, fixing her with an accusing stare, before directing an enigmatic look at her husband. She felt Jeffree stiffen beside her.

And just what did Sir Charles mean by looking like that? she wondered indignantly. Did he mean to suggest to the duke that she had set the little worm up with his tale of spying ‘neath her window? Ridiculous!