Page 32 of The Captain of Betrayal
The mood in the room changed and Polly cast James a quelling glance. There would be time enough to discuss where they would live; though James knew that he would not allow Polly to start life as his wife, cooking and cleaning for other people. He would hire a maid, a cook and a gardener, so that Polly would be free to spend her days as she pleased. And, if it pleased her to spend them in bed with him, then all the better.
"You look tired, James," Polly said, a calming hand on Emily's shoulder. "We will leave you rest. Would you like a tray brought up to you at tea-time?"
He shook his head, for though he was tired, he wasn't an invalid. All he needed was a hot bath, a hair brush, and a new set of boots and then he would be himself again. Actually, he thought, as the door closed behind the two Jenkins sisters, he would be better than just himself again; he would be the happiest man in the world.
Mr Wilpole, the congenial vicar of the parish of St Jarvis, had been delighted when James called on him to announce the news of his betrothal to Polly.
"Do you know," the rotund man said happily, as he searched for the marriage register in his untidy study, "I said a prayer to St Peter that things would work out for you both."
"I didn't realise it was tradition to pray to St Peter with marriage intentions," James replied, "If I had known, I would have been on my knees nightly."
"Ah, no," the vicar flushed a little, "Ask your dear wife to be and she'll explain. Ah-ha, here it is."
From a drawer in his writing bureau, the vicar pulled out a dusty marriage register, whose pages were filled with the names of hundreds of St Jarvians. James felt a surge of happiness, as he thought that, soon, both his and Polly's name would be entered into it. Joined together for life.
"I'm forever losing this silly thing," Mr Wilpole continued, as he scribbled something into the book. "And it would be awful if I did. Some thirty years ago, there was a fire in the vestry and all the church records stretching back nearly three-hundred years were lost; bar this one. I had forgotten to return it after a funeral and usually Mrs Wilpole despairs over my absent-mindedness, though it saved one-hundred years of history on that occasion!"
Mr Wilpole looked most pleased with himself, though his expression quickly changed to one of discouragement as he scoured his desk for something.
"Can't find my ruddy spectacles," he muttered, half to himself as he rifled through stacks of papers.
"You're wearing them," James helpfully supplied, suppressing a grin. The vicar's wife seemed quite right in despairing her husband's absent-mindedness; James could only hope that he would remember the date he had agreed to perform the wedding.
"Ah, so they are," Mr Wilpole beamed, pushing the spectacles up the bridge of his nose with a pudgy finger. He read over what he had written in the marriage register, gave a satisfied sigh, and snapped the book shut so forcefully that it elicited a small plume of dust.
"We shall see you in three weeks then, Captain," the vicar said, holding out his hand for James to shake. "And that won't come too soon for you, eh?"
James nodded silently, wondering how it was that everyone seemed to sense his impatience at waiting for the day of the wedding. Well, the night of the wedding, to be more precise. With a hurried goodbye to the vicar, who was chuckling away at his own joke, James departed the vicarage.
He would have taken the short journey across the green to the boarding house, had a familiar figure on horseback not hailed him down; the Duke of Everleigh.
"Ah, there you are Black," Everleigh called, as he dismounted his stallion.
"You were looking for me, Your Grace?" James asked, as the Duke led his horse across the green.
"Indeed I was, would you like to join me for a drink to toast your impending nuptials?"
James presumed that the Duchess had told her husband of his betrothal, for James had not. News spread quickly in small villages, though James regretted that it was not he who had told the Duke, for in effect by proposing to Polly, James had committed to a life on land.
The pair strolled down the steep, cobbled slope of Shop Street to The Fisherman's Friend, where Jack Lawless greeted them with a smile. Everleigh did not speak until a frothy, hoppy tankard of ale was placed before him.
"To a long and happy marriage," he said magnanimously, lifting his glass to James in a toast. "Even though it means that I will lose two of my best employees."
"Ah," James started, "I had forgotten that Polly was employed by you."
"For nearly a decade," Everleigh smiled at the memory, "And she only aimed a pistol at me once it that time--it's quite a feat, my wife tells me, for apparently I'm a most disagreeable man."
"A pistol?" James raised his eyebrows in confusion.
"I rather deserved it," Everleigh shrugged, elaborating no further.
James made a mental note to ask Polly what on earth she had been doing pointing a pistol at the Duke of Everleigh the next time they spoke. Her actions did not seem to have angered her employer, rather the Duke seemed a little impressed by it.
"Have you decided where you shall live?" Everleigh questioned, after a few minutes of companionable silence. The question he asked was the same one that James had been thinking of, every minute since he had proposed to Polly. He had money, and lots of it, but no home or land to offer his new wife.
"Polly is loathe to leave St Jarvis," James replied, giving a shrug. "Though there are few places here that will suit our needs."
"Something might come up," the Duke replied mysteriously, before changing the subject. "Have you told your father's family of your plans? There's a small estate near Truro that Ludlow leases--perhaps they would grant you the lease on that?"
