“Indeed,” Nash countered smoothly. “Which is why I’m here. A wedding, as soon as can be arranged.”
The vicar gave a curt nod. “As it happens the bishop is coming this afternoon for a short stay. He can issue you with a license. Save you a trip into Salisbury.” He opened his diary and perused the entries. “You cannot marry until ten days after the license has been issued. That brings us to Friday week. If you want to marry any sooner, you’ll need a special license, which will involve a trip to London.”
“No, Friday week will be soon enough.” Nash paused. “How long does the bishop plan to stay?”
“A week. Why?”
“Could he be persuaded to stay on for the wedding?” A bishop’s presence would be to Maddy’s advantage, make the marriage look less hasty.
The vicar gave him a shrewd look. “Will any of your relatives be attending? Your brother, the earl, for instance?”
Nash nodded. “My brother, the earl; my aunt, Lady Gosforth; my half brother and his wife, Lady Helen; and some others. And a small reception afterward at Whitethorn Manor, to which the bishop, yourself, and Mrs. Matheson would be invited, of course.”
The Reverend Matheson nodded. “Then I believe the bishop would indeed be interested.” He slanted Nash a speculative look. “A wedding conducted by the bishop and attended by such exalted guests would also have the village ladies in a tizz of excitement.”
Nash smiled. “One hopes it will turn their minds to more . . . pleasant topics.”
The vicar said frankly, “Nothing more vicious than a clutch of genteel tabbies turning on one of their own.”
“Quite. And, of course, Miss Woodford would invite those she considers her friends.”
The Reverend Matheson smiled for the first time. “Oh, that would change their tune, indeed it would. Very well, I’ll relay your request to the bishop.” He glanced at Nash and gave a small nod, as if confirming something to himself. “My wife and I will do what we can to persuade him to stay. Hasty it may be, but that little gel deserves as fine a wedding as we can give her.”
“Excellent, we understand one another then.” Nash stood. “I’ll be taking Maddy and the children on a visit to meet my family later today, but I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself. We’ll be back in a week, but in the meantime, I want people to think Maddy is at home as usual.”
Rev. Matheson agreed, and looked intrigued, but Nash didn’t explain.
The vicar led him toward the front door. “My wife will be thrilled to hear about the wedding. She’s very fond of that gel and the children. Anything we can do to help, just you ask.” He held out his hand to Nash.
Nash shook it firmly. He’d misread this man in so many ways. “There’s just one small misapprehension: the bishop can say a prayer or perform a blessing or some such, but we want you to perform the actual ceremony.”
The vicar’s eyes almost popped from their sockets. “Me? Instead of the bishop? Bless my soul, why?”
“You’ve been a staunch friend to Maddy and it will mean more to her to have you marry us than a dozen bishops or even an archbishop.”
The vicar stared for a moment and his face slowly flushed. He pulled out a large white handkerchief and blew fiercely into it. “I’d be delighted, my boy, delighted,” he said in a thick voice.
Making his third journey that day to his new home, Nash stopped in the village, famished, and ate two meat pies washed down with an ale at the village inn. To the girl who brought the pies and the man who drew the ale, he casually dropped the information that he’d be back next week to attend his wedding. Yes, to Miss Woodford. A secret, long-standing engagement. These last two years she’d been waiting for his return from Russia. Yes, she was very patient, he was indeed a lucky man. And yes, Russia was a long way from here. Foreign parts indeed.
And that, he thought as he rode toward Whitethorn, should deflect the gossip nicely.
Next, to take control of his inheritance.
Seventeen
Word had obviously reached Whitethorn Manor that Nash was in the district, for by the time he rode down the long drive that led to the house, a handful of staff had lined up at the front door to meet him.
He recognized Ferring, the butler and Mrs. Pickens, the housekeeper. They looked so much smaller and older than he remembered. Ferring had to be in his seventies, and Mrs. Pickens perhaps sixty. With them stood a stocky, middle-aged woman and a young girl of about sixteen. As he dismounted, a wiry, gray-haired groom appeared from around the side of the house.
“Grainger, isn’t it?” Nash dragged the name out of his memory and handed the groom the reins. On his rare childhood visits to Uncle Jasper’s, he’d haunted the stables.
The man gave a quick smile and bobbed his head in a kind of bow. “Aye, sir. I’m surprised you remember; it must be twenty years or more since you was here last.”
Nash smiled back. “I was nine. But how could I forget your patience with a pestilential brat?”
“You was never a brat, sir, just a lad with a passion for horses and a knack for mischief.” The groom slapped the horse’s neck. “I see you’ve grown into a fine judge of horse-flesh.”
“Alas, this fine fellow belongs to my brother. Take good care of him, won’t you? I’ll need him later on. And have my baggage brought into the house—yes, the cloth bundle as well as the portmanteau.”
