Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The next day Louisa donned a high-waisted, white muslin dress with several rows of fine trimmings. Her thick, honey-golden hair cascaded in rich, glossy curls about her shoulders, framing her long, swan-like neck. Her features were striking; she had a proud nose and a sensitive mouth with pink, petal lips that rarely parted in a smile.

Long-limbed, lushly curved, and proud. She studied her figure in a mirror dispassionately. Yes, she supposed her appearance fulfilled the current beauty ideal. Many people would be surprised to learn that she did not like the way she looked. She would have preferred to look different, for she'd always admired the smaller, lither, Mediterranean type.

"Today is a special day, Penny," she said.

"Is it, miss?" Penny arranged the Kashmiri shawl around her and stepped back, satisfied.

"Yes." Louisa drew in a deep breath. "Today is my wedding day."

Penny stared at her with round eyes and clasped her hands together. "Oh! But who…?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Louisa confessed. "It will be revealed in due time." She had to admit that she felt a sick churning in the pit of her stomach. "I have told my father that I shall marry the first man I encounter today." She swallowed. "I hope Phipps and John don't show themselves until then. Though I hold them both in high regard, I'd rather not marry either of them unless absolutely necessary."

"Phipps? John?" Penny's mouth dropped open. "You'd never do that!"

"Oh yes, I would," Louisa replied grimly. "I swore I'll marry the first man who crosses my path. Be he a beggar, servant, or soldier."

Imagine being married to Phipps! The man was well over sixty years old. She lifted her chin. Even if it came down to it, she would do it. She'd made a vow, hadn't she?

"But, miss!" Penny wailed. "What if you run into the chimney sweep? Or the coachman? Or, heaven forbid, the night soil man?" The night soil man collected the excrement from cesspools and privies and sold it as fertiliser in the countryside.

Louisa swallowed. "Then this shall be my fate, Penny. I have taken a vow, and I shall keep it." She was determined to become a martyr on her own altar of foolishness.

"In that case, miss, let me rush out and warn the household staff to stay out of your way today. Do not leave the room for the next fifteen minutes." Penny scampered out of the room before Louisa could stop her.

She waited for a quarter of an hour. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

As fate would have it, the first man she ran across was—her father. He wore a banyan, had a newspaper tucked under his arm, and looked thunderous.

"Today is the day!" He wagged the rolled-up newspaper at her.

"I haven't forgotten, sir."

Lifting her chin, Louisa marched down the stairs, noting that Penny had done her work, and all the male servants were indeed nowhere to be seen.

She flung open the front door. It was a bright morning, and Park Lane was deserted. Not a single carriage or coachman in sight. Not a single passerby, not a single caller.

Now that she'd finally decided to get married, had the entire male world of London suddenly decided to hide? Where were all the men?

Louisa marched down the street towards Piccadilly, followed by Penny, who ran after her, wringing her hands.

She supposed she could linger outside Apsley House, also known as Number One. It was currently owned by Wellington's brother, the Marquess of Wellesley, and had a steady stream of aristocratic male callers. If she waited long enough by the gates, there was a good chance one of them would cross her path. But that would be akin to cheating. It was likely that every gentleman who entered Apsley House had already proposed to her in the past and been rejected. She might as well have accepted Sir Frippery Fop's hand and spared herself the trouble.

The streets were oddly silent. Frowning, Louisa paused at the corner, and noticed that there wasn't a single vehicle on the road.

She narrowed her eyes.

Except for one.

Across the road stood a mule-drawn cart. Next to it was—eureka! Dressed in a rumpled, ill-fitting waistcoat with a cap crooked on his head, the man bent down to lift a crate onto the cart.

Her heart jumped, then raced.

There he was. A simple costermonger.

She swallowed. Her bridegroom.

It took every inch of her willpower to put one foot in front of the other and to cross the street. Her heart pounded in her ears, her stomach churned, and her hands trembled.

Yet she continued to walk straight towards him with singular determination.

He did not see her approach and only paused his activity when she stood right in front of him.

She crossed her arms and stared.

The man took a step back in surprise, almost dropping the crate. He looked over his shoulder, to the left, the right, then back at her again.

He set down the crate, pushed back his hat and scratched his head. He looked away again, then finally met her gaze.

He was tall with light eyes, a tanned and weathered face, uncombed hair, and a scruffy two-day beard. He didn't look any different to the many hundreds of costermongers who worked in the London markets. His stained waistcoat worn over a wrinkled shirt that was rolled up to the elbows revealed muscular arms. Louisa wrinkled her nose. He probably hadn't bathed in ages. If ever.

She wondered whether he could read and write.

She closed her eyes painfully for a moment, swallowed, then opened them again and nodded.

"Milady…?" he mumbled uneasily. "‘'ow can I ‘elp? An apple, maybe, or a carrot?" He lifted one of each in his hand. He spoke in a thick accent spoken from the East End of London.

"What is your name?" she demanded.

"Robert Jones, milady."

"Are you married?"

"Nay."

"Do you have a sweetheart?"

"Nay."

"You'll do," she pronounced.

"Eh?"

"Follow me." Without much ado, she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him across the street back to her house, where the entire household had gathered at the entrance to watch the spectacle unfold before them.

The man recoiled at the sight of so many people inspecting him with various degrees of surprise. "Begging yer pardon, but what's the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"Come in." Louisa nodded at the door. "That is, if you please. "

He threw her a suspicious look. The people at the entrance stepped aside.

"Why?"

"We'll explain things momentarily. If you could come inside, we can discuss it all in the drawing room."

"If yer meaning to order some fruit or vegetables, I daresay I can discuss it with the cook in the kitchen, not in the drawing room," he began, visibly ill at ease at setting foot into the expensive townhouse. Then he caught sight of Louisa's father standing in front of him with his arms crossed, scowling.

"Inside!" he thundered.

"Yes, s-sir," the poor man stuttered, tearing off his cap and clutching it to his chest as he made his way into the house, bowing crookedly to everyone, including Phipps, who gave him a scornful look and gave the footman a quick order to sweep after his trail of mud. He stood awkwardly in the drawing room, the centre of all attention.

He was uncommonly tall, Louisa noticed. He stood large and broad, easily a head taller than herself—quite a feat, considering her own stature as a tall woman. He even towered over her father.

Her father! Oh dear. He was breathing heavily, and his face had taken on a puce colour.

Her stepmother sank back on the sofa, moaning and holding her handkerchief to her face, as if the scene in front of her was too painful to watch.

The servants gathered at the door.

At a nod from her father, Phipps began to close it.

"Wait," her father ordered. "You"—he pointed at Walker, his secretary, who was standing next to Phipps with a slack jaw—"and another person are needed as witnesses. And fetch a clergyman."

"Yes, sir," Phipps replied.

"As for you." Louisa's father turned to the costermonger. "What is your name?"

"Robert Jones, sir." He looked at her father uneasily. "Am I in trouble, sir? I was merely picking up some apple boxes. I swear I meant to move the cart immediately afterwards."

Her father cut him off. "Robert Jones. You have the honour of being chosen as my daughter's husband." He gestured to Louisa standing in the middle of the room, clutching the top of the chair for support so tightly that her knuckles were white.

"Eh?" The man's mouth dropped open.

At least he had a good set of teeth, Louisa noted. White and strong. She might have objected if half of them had been black and missing.

"You're marrying my daughter," her father repeated with exaggerated slowness.

The man stared. "Begging your pardon, sir. Do I understand that you want me to marry your daughter?"

"He appears to be a fool," her father growled. "But at least his hearing is in order. You have understood correctly. The clergyman is sent for."

The man backed away. "Is this a jest?"

"It is not."

"Her?" He pointed a thumb in her direction.

"Yes."

"What's wrong with her? "

His mistrustful attitude towards her, as if she were about to sprout horns and a tail, caused Louisa to snap. "Wrong? There's nothing whatsoever wrong with me."

"Beggin' yer pardon." He bowed in her direction. "But something must be if yer wanting me to marry ye."

His gaze swept appraisingly over her figure. Quite inexplicably, Louisa blushed.

"There's nothing wrong with my daughter. She is beautiful, as you can very well see. She is accomplished. She speaks five languages and plays the harp. The only problem is that she is unmarried. We are in the process of rectifying that."

"If she's such a paragon, why marry her to me?" the man protested. He slowly edged backward towards the door, where Phipps was standing guard, his arms across his chest.

"My name is Louisa Highworth."

The man's eyes widened. "No. The Ice Damsel?"

Louisa stifled a groan. Even the lowest costermonger had heard of her.

"Yer truly wanting me to marry the Ice Damsel?"

"Stop calling her that," her father said irritably.

"But, sir, yer honour, yer graceship, with all due respect, why should I marry the Ice Da—I mean, yer daughter? Can't you find another toff to marry her to?" He waved a calloused hand. "Some drawing room dandy more suitable to the task?"

Louisa cast him a sweet smile. "You're very suitable, Mr Jones. I choose you."

That apparently rendered him speechless, for he said nothing for the next few minutes. When he regained his tongue, he said, "But why should I? What's innit for me?"

"Ah, we come to the heart of the matter. Sit down." Her father gestured to the armchair in front of him. When the man hesitated, Highworth snarled, "Sit!"

The man stumbled into the armchair and sat, but Louisa's father remained standing, appearing more at ease now that he could look down at him. "Make no mistake, my daughter has been disinherited. If you're expecting a fortune to come with her, get that out of your head, because it's not coming."

The man jumped up again. "Well, in that case?—"

"Sit down."

The man ducked and quickly sat down again.

"As I said before, my daughter is an exquisite woman, refined, cultured, educated, and possesses all social graces."

A slight sneer crossed his face. "But what do I do with one like that? I don't need no society lady," the man argued. "All the graces and accomplishments are of no use to me if she melts like sugar in the rain. My kind of woman must be physically strong and robust." His eyes flicked over her dismissively. "She has to be able to lift a crate of turnips without batting an eyelid. Not a pretty china doll that breaks easily. She's entirely useless to me. I'm sorry." He shook his head and got to his feet.

Pretty china doll?

Melting like sugar in the rain?

She was not physically strong and robust?

She was of no use to him ?

Louisa was outraged. "I can lift a crate of turnips," she declared. "Do you want me to prove it to you?"

The man pulled his mouth to a sarcastic smile. "That is entirely unnecessary, milady."

"Miss. The name is Miss Highworth."

The man shrugged and turned to go.

Highworth pressed him down again into the chair. "I understand completely. I'm a man of business after all. It's money you want."

The man pretended to consider. "Yes, sir, yer honour, yer graceship. I mean, no, sir. Well, money won't hurt neither … but ye just said she ain't got no fortune. How much are ye offering, then?"

There it was again. Money. It always came back to that, didn't it?

She clenched her fingers into her palms, choking back the hot tears that shot into her eyes.

"As I said, she won't inherit, but to ease the first few months of your married life, as an incentive, I'm giving you a small financial bonus in the form of a dowry." He named a sum that, to Louisa, was small indeed, but it seemed to take the wind out of the costermonger's sails.

He gaped at her father as if the sum he mentioned was the biggest he'd ever heard of in his entire life. For a costermonger, it might well have been.

"Yes, sir. Very well, sir. I'll marry her, then. Gladly, sir. When? How?"

"As soon as the minister arrives. We have a special licence," her father responded.