Joan Smith Read Free

forward to greet the newcomer.
    “Mrs. Morgan, welcome to ... your home,” she said, feeling acutely uncomfortable. It was hardly her place to welcome the bride, but as no one else was doing it, she forced the words out. “I am Miss Ramsey.”
    “Thank you, ma’am,” the lady replied in a soft, high voice, and curtsied. It was the first time Jane had ever been called ma’am by anyone but a servant.
    Nicholas turned to his bride and smiled admiringly. “There, I told you we would surprise them.”
    His bride looked less than enchanted with the reaction his surprise had elicited, and Jane for one did not blame her in the least. His aunt and Mrs. Lipton soon recovered from their shock and began babbling to cover their embarrassment. While coats were removed, Jane had a moment to assess the newcomer.
    It did not take a genius to see why Nick had married her. If an angel came floating down to earth, it would surely resemble this lady. Her stylish bonnet was removed to reveal a halo of soft blond curls. That sweet face, those blue eyes and long lashes, might have stepped out of a Botticelli painting. The angel had obviously visited a French modiste to acquire that striking blue silk gown. She would have been freezing in the carriage, were it not for the sable lining to her mantle. The lady’s figure was less angelic. Angels did not have such full, round, high bosoms and such small waists. Her age, Jane thought, was not more than seventeen or eighteen. She was certainly in the first flush of youth.
    Eventually the little throng moved to -the Gold Saloon, where Nicholas was busy to arrange his bride before the grate, setting a stool in front of her to dry her dainty feet. She continued to smile shyly around without saying much.
    “You must forgive us, my dear,” Lizzie said to the newcomer. “Such a shock! We had no idea. Why did you not tell us, Nick? I would very much have enjoyed going to your wedding.”
    “So you shall, Auntie,” he said merrily. “We aren’t married yet. We mean to do it up at the beginning of the New Year. I only introduced Aurelia as my bride as a little joke. You know how I like to shock you. Naturally you must all attend our wedding. Aurelia wants a lavish wedding.” His circling gaze included Jane and Mrs. Lipton in the invitation.
    “And what is your fiancée’s last name?” Lizzie asked.
    “Townsend,” Nick said. “Aurelia is the youngest daughter of Edward Townsend.” He looked expectant, under the misapprehension that this name meant something to his listeners. “You must have heard of him. He’s famous.”
    “The Bow Street Runner?” Mrs. Lipton asked inconfusion.
    Nick laughed merrily. “Good God, no. Edward Townsend is the second largest brewer in the country, after Whitbread. He is the creator of the famous Oldham Ale that has become so popular.”
    “I have heard of Samuel Whitbread,” Lizzie said. “He married Lord Grey’s granddaughter. He was a friend of Charles Fox as well. Fancy abrewer’s son —”
    Jane saw where this was going and leapt in. “Nick says you are the youngest daughter, Miss Aurelia. Have you many brothers and sisters?”
    Miss Townsend looked her gratitude to Jane. “I have one brother and two sisters,” she answered in a perfectly genteel voice. “They are all married. I was visiting my oldest sister, Mrs. Huddleston, in London, which is how I came to meet Nick.”
    “Huddleston? Do we know any Huddlestons?” Lizzie asked Mrs. Lipton. “The name sounds familiar.”
    Mrs. Lipton refrained from mentioning that she was probably thinking of Sam Huddleston, the cobbler in Amberley.
    “My brother-in-law used to be the MP for Manchester,” Miss Townsend explained. “Perhaps you have seen his name in the journals. He works for Papa now, running the administration office in London.”
    “Ah, an MP, that would be it,” Lizzie said, nodding, although she seldom glanced at the political news and was hardly aware they had politics in