Chapter 7 - The Gathering of the Storm
Yet the world outside the valley did not surrender so easily.
As the date for the wedding approached—set for the end of June, when the roses along the river path were in full bloom—a subtle, vicious campaign began in the London newspapers.
Anonymously penned articles appeared in the social columns of The Morning Post and The Gazette. They spoke of "a ancient noble house brought low by rural ambition," of "a Duke bewitched by a country girl who staged a rescue to claim a fortune," and of "the tragic decline of Ashcombe Hall under the influence of radical elements."
The articles were accompanied by crude political cartoons depicting Vivienne as a rustic peasant girl holding a net, catching a fish with a ducal coronet on its head.
"It’s Harrington," David Vance, Alaric’s chief legal solicitor, said as he laid the newspapers on the mahogany desk in Alaric’s private study. "He’s using his contacts in the press to destroy Miss Marlowe’s reputation before the wedding. He hopes to provoke a public scandal that will force the Bishops to refuse to solemnize the marriage."
Alaric sat behind his desk, his face dark as thunder, his fingers clenched around a brass paperweight so tight his knuckles were white.
"He wants a confrontation," Alaric said through grinding teeth. "He wants me to sue him for libel so he can drag Vivienne through six months of public court proceedings."
"No," Vivienne said.
She had entered the study quietly, carrying a tray of tea for David and Alaric. She set the tray down on the corner of the desk, looking at the crude cartoon of herself in The Morning Post.
"Vivienne, do not look at those," Alaric said quickly, reaching out to cover the newspaper with his hand. "They are lies written by bitter, small-minded men."
"I am not afraid of ink, Alaric," Vivienne said gently, pulling the paper out from under his hand. She examined the cartoon with a cool, analytical eye. "Lord Harrington thinks he can fight us with whispers because he lives in a world where whispers have power. He thinks that if he makes me ashamed of being a farmer’s daughter, I will hide in this house."
She looked up at Alaric, her gray-green eyes flashing with a sudden, brilliant intelligence.
"When is the Royal Agricultural Society’s Summer Exhibition in London?" she asked.
David Vance blinked. "Three weeks from today, Miss Marlowe. At the Crystal Palace."
"And who is the chief patron of the Exhibition this year?"
"The Duke of Sussex," David replied. "And Lord Harrington is the chief treasurer."
Vivienne smiled—a slow, dangerous smile that made David Vance suddenly realize why Alaric had fallen so hopelessly in love with her.
"Then we will not go to court, Alaric," Vivienne said, her voice smooth as silk. "We will go to London. And we will take the Marlowe butter, Thomas’s dark wool, and fifty head of the finest black-faced sheep from this valley."
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Alaric stared at her, a low, rumble of admiration building in his chest. "You want to compete?"
"I want to win," Vivienne said. "Lord Harrington wants to prove that a farmer’s daughter has no place in London society. I am going to show London that without farmers' daughters, their grand drawing rooms would starve in a fortnight."
