Married For His Convenience. Eleanor Webster
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do your soul more good to give to the heathen than to me.’
‘It would do my bride’s peace of mind more good to know that you are comfortable.’
‘Her peace of mind would be better assured through prayer. Do you pray, Lord Langford?’
‘I—’ Then he remembered Elizabeth.
And Edwin.
‘I have of late,’ he said.
But even as he finished the sentence, he saw Mrs Crawford’s face change. Her gaze altered, becoming vague.
She stepped back from him, her expression confused.
‘Who are you?’ Her tone was high and wavering whereas seconds earlier it had been firm and strong.
‘Mrs Crawford?’ He softened his voice.
‘Where’s Molly? I lost my doll. I want it. I want it back.’
‘Your doll?’
‘Molly will find it. Or Sarah. I feel stronger when she is around.’
‘Sarah or Molly?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, the taut shoulders drooping. Sebastian shifted his weight uncertainly. He realised now why Sarah had said that Mrs Crawford would need a companion. He saw also that her acceptance was moot—she would soon be in no position to refuse.
‘Are you good at finding things?’ Mrs Crawford asked, her voice tremulous like that of an overtired child.
‘I—’ He thought again of Edwin. ‘I pray to God I am.’
* * *
Sarah sat within her bedchamber.
Her betrothed—her mind stumbled over the word—had come and gone. She’d heard his footsteps in the front hall. She’d heard the door open and close. She’d heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves.
Permission granted, she presumed.
This thing, this marriage, was gathering momentum, moving and surging with the unstoppable power of an ocean’s wave. They would be married Monday. She would marry a man she did not even know on Monday.
On Monday—the day repeated in her mind as though the idea would be less bizarre on a different day, a Tuesday or a Wednesday perhaps. Five days from now. One hundred and twenty hours.
Her fingers tightened about the locket her mother had given her. She opened it, touching the dry strands of her sister’s hair she had treasured for so long.
It would be worth it. If she could find Charlotte, it would be worth it. Her sister, Charlotte, who had always been there, so much more motherly than the laughing, glamorous woman who had birthed them. She could not...must not fail her—not when this opportunity was within her grasp. Besides, countless women married for convenience or money or a title or because their parents told them to. She was no different.
Her solitude ended when Mrs Crawford appeared. She stood within the doorway, her body rigid and her fingers tightly clasped about the wooden frame as though needing its support.
‘Lord Langford has asked for your hand in marriage. You have agreed to this?’
Sarah nodded.
‘Then there is little more to be said. Apprise me of the arrangements and I will, of course, pray for you.’ Mrs Crawford turned as if to go.
‘Um—’
Mrs Crawford paused, her hand dropping to the doorknob. ‘Yes?’
Doubts and questions weighed on Sarah like the oppressive mugginess of a thundery day. The region under her breastbone ached with that familiar pain, that suppressed longing for affection.
‘I’ll miss you,’ she said softly.
‘Then you must look to the Lord for comfort.’
And that was it. The conversation was finished before it had begun.
Sarah watched as her guardian turned and left, her progress marked by the brisk click of her footsteps. The ache deepened. She could not blame her. Sarah’s arrival at the Crawfords’ residence must have represented the older woman’s worst nightmare. While Sarah and her mother remained in London, Mrs Crawford could ignore her husband’s infidelity. She could pretend the tiny house in one of London’s dubious neighbourhoods did not exist.
But then her mother had died. The house had been emptied and Mr Crawford had transported her here.
She shivered, remembering that chilly reception. Bending, Sarah pulled out an ancient hatbox from under the wooden bed frame. She lifted the lid, inhaling its familiar musty mix of perfume and ink.
Charlotte’s letters.
She knew them by heart. She knew every ink blot and loop of her sister’s childish hand. She should. She’d devoured them, reading and rereading them a hundred times a day. Sometimes she’d even placed them under her pillow, slipping her hand underneath to feel the edges against her fingers and hear their rustle, taking comfort in the knowledge that her sister had held them, folded them, mailed them.
A tangible reassurance that someone loved her.
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