The Bashful Bride (Advertisements for Love Book 2)

by Vanessa Riley

  Ester knew that, but it still didn’t make the knots in her stomach go away. She hit at the water. Suds, sweet lilac smelling suds, landed on her nose. “Yes. For that I am grateful, but he could’ve died there or at the abolition rally.”

  “It’s been in the papers for two years, the great actor’s fight for abolition. How did you miss it? Your father says you two have been sneaking about for two years. You should’ve known.” Mama put fluffy white towels from a shelf closer to the tub. “Surely, you talked of it. Or did you do other things to pass the time.”

  There was tension in her mother’s voice that sounded of hurt. Ester and her mother had problems, but she needed to know the truth. Truth was everything. “Mama, the two years I told Papa was an exaggeration, to make him feel cheated as I had felt when I found those letters.”

  Mama took a whole breath, maybe her first deep one since entering the room. She lifted the edge of the towel and wiped Ester’s nose. “The sneaking was a lie to punish your father more. We’ve been through this. That’s my business.”

  “I know, Mama. I know that now. I’ve been watching Bex on stage for two years and loved him from afar. We didn’t meet until Theodosia’s wedding, but I was too shy to say anything to him then. We met again the day of your party. The elopement was planned then.”

  Mrs. Fitterwall sailed into the room. She brought a comb and the jar of coconut oil. “Your chignon is horrid, Mrs. Bex. That won’t do. Mrs. Croome, I burned that burgundy carriage dress of hers like you asked. It was threadbare and smelled of burned tar.”

  Covering up, Ester ducked further into the tub. She was tender-headed, and she dreaded the heavy-handed woman combing through her knotted tresses. Though, that would be a fitting punishment.

  “I’ll do my daughter’s hair, Mrs. Fitterwall.”

  Ester’s eyes went wide. She blew air out her mouth and relaxed again. Though her hair was thicker and curlier than Mama’s straight locks, Mama knew how to handle it without whipping through it as if it were a horse’s mane. “Mrs. Fitterwall, has Mr. Bex awakened? I left him with Clancy when the physicians came.”

  “That’s a brave one, there. But no, no change. Just snoring away, even as we scrubbed the soot from him. That made the snores worse.” The woman offered a smile, maybe of sympathy, but those happy noises were the only reason Ester had left his side. It meant he was safe, and alive, and she could still get to him.

  Mrs. Fitterwall went to the door. “The doctors gave Mr. Croome more laudanum. He’s resting more comfortably.”

  Mama nodded as the housekeeper left them alone. She started undoing the braid Frederica had whipped together. “You met and convinced him to run off. Did you throw him hopes of a dowry? He’s an actor. I doubt he has much.”

  “He lives comfortably, but he was in want of a wife. I came up with an idea from your papers, reading advertisements for husbands. I thought that might be a way to help my friends. They were both in need of marriages of convenience.”

  “Advertisements in the paper?” Mama sighed heavily. “What of their connections, their families, their races? Was none of that a consideration? Anyone who can read could respond? And if someone figured out that Blackamoor women of means were using the papers, they could be nasty. It could be very unsafe. For one talking about avoiding risks, you certainly have allowed your friends to take them.

  Ester hadn’t thought about that.

  She was lucky that Bex hadn’t been vicious. He was far from it. “Frederica Burghley had been corresponding with him. They were to meet for the first time the day of your party, the day Papa announced he’d arranged for me to marry Jordan. When Frederica saw it was Bex she had been corresponding with, she gave him to me. Bex and I, more so I, cooked up the elopement.” She grabbed her Mama’s hand. “It was never meant to hurt you.”

  “Meaning and doing are two different things.” Mama pushed Ester’s hand back into the water and kept working through her hair, holding the tendrils at the root to keep from tugging too hard. Mama knew how to get things done without hurting.

  Ester realized that now. Her heart sank to the bottom of the wide tub, soaking up more sorrow like a sponge. “Mama, I’m so sorry.”

  “I know. I am sorry, too. I should’ve let you see that I’d take care of you.” Mama continued brushing, then massaged her tresses in the soap until the scent of ash had gone away. “Let me go get some water to rinse you, then I’ll oil down to the root.”

  Her mother’s footsteps faded, and Ester was alone again, with all her doubts and fears. Yes, Bex had lived through tonight’s misadventures, but could she live with him always taking such chances with his life?

  Tears fell, plopping from her chin to drop into the water, and Ester wanted to blame the soap dripping from her hair, but this sob was all the thoughts in her head of how he could be hurt. Her tears kept falling, more than could be counted.

  Her mother returned, carrying a yellow bundle of satin and another bottle in her hands. Mrs. Fitterwall bounced behind her with a shiny pitcher.

  The housekeeper dumped the picture of warm water over Ester as Mama worked it through the curls.

  “There you go, squeaky clean. Let’s get you out,” Mrs. Fitterwall said.

  “Not so fast,” Mama said. “I have to oil her scalp. Ester will dry out faster than anything.”

  Mrs. Fitterwall nodded and yawned. “If you don’t need anything further, ma’am, I am going to turn in.”

  “I can handle Ester. You rest well. Tomorrow will be another hard day. Mr. Croome’s recovery will be long.”

  The red-headed sprite yawned again. “God bless him. He’s a good employer. He’ll be a good father-in-law, so don’t be breaking his heart again.”

  “That’s enough, Mrs. Fitterwall. Rest well.”

  The housekeeper nodded and left the room.

  “Mama, Mrs. Fitterwall is right. I hurt Papa, and I hurt you, too.”

  Her mother said nothing and opened a jar of the coconut oil, a rich cream she’d made from mashing up the insides of the big nut. She rubbed it into the parted locks, baptizing her scalp in the sweet scent, then towel-dried the hair. “There, let’s get you out of this tub.”

  Ester rose and stepped from the tub into the soft white towel, but more so into Mama’s arms. She clung to her, hoping the unsaid words in her soul touched her mother’s.

  “Here, Ester, put lotion on your knees and ankles. You always forget.”

  “Mama, will you ever forgive me for eloping? For not respecting you?”

  The woman walked to the small table she’d set her bundle upon. With golden rings glistening, she undid it. “It’s amazing that you want forgiveness just for asking, yet you punished me for forgiving your father. He asked to be forgiven, his sorrow was true, and I forgave him. I believe he knew what it meant to hurt me. Funny, your Bex saved your father and his workers. Not once did he ask your father for Josiah’s sorrow in threatening to shoot a hole through him. You might learn something from Bex.”

  “Mama, I—”

  “Put more lotion on those ankles. Otherwise, you’ll ruin this.” Her mother held up the softest yellow nightgown. She walked back to her and helped Ester into it. Then she tied a bow under her bosom with the sash of the matching robe.

  “This is beautiful. Mama, is this one of yours? Did the seamstress make it too short for you?”

  “No dear. I had it made for you when we returned.”

  That was after her parents had disowned her. “I don’t deserve this.”

  Mama kissed her brow. “I was angry at you. But nonetheless, Ester Bex, never ever forget that you will always be Ester Croome, one of the daughters I love.”

  She touched Ester’s elbow that showed beneath the puffed sleeve of the fairy-like nightgown. “You always miss your elbows—dry and ashy.”

  Water streamed down Ester’s face, harder than before. The deep, ugly cry only stopped when she was in her mother’s embrace again. “You don’t mind that Bex is my choice?”

&nb
sp; Mama’s light gold fingers gripped Ester’s olive ones. “If his hands are the one you want on you, and if those hands treat you well, then he’s my choice, too. Your husband has awakened. He asked for you. If you go to him tonight, tell him he is welcome in this home.”

  Her mother went to the door and grasped the knob. “Your husband’s waking up in a strange place. The doctor said he’d uttered some strange things, but will be fine, and we’ll pray that your father will be fine, too. Good night, Ester.”

  Mama left the chamber, and the soft close of the door took all of Ester’s strength. She sobbed anew. Her stomach ached at how deeply she’d wounded the woman and how great was her forgiveness. It wasn’t weakness to forgive. Maybe someday she’d be as strong as Mama. Maybe she could start now, by forgiving Bex.

  She slipped into the hall. The house was quiet. A sconce flickered, but nothing else moved. The grandfather clock began to chime, bellowing up to her on the third floor. It had to be midnight.

  For a second, Ester thought about going to her room—her canopied bed with the perfect pillows and satin ribbon trim—but she couldn’t hide from Bex. That’s what scared little girls did.

  The clock tolled. It was after midnight. Fairy tales ended at midnight. She needed to see Bex and discover if the love she felt—that feeling that maybe he loved her, too—was still there.

  …

  A door shut. Arthur rolled over, smelling coconut. He just had to accept that he’d lost his mind for good this time.

  “Bex?”

  A match struck, chasing the sweetness away with rotten-egg sulfur.

  Then the glow of a candle made his eyes blink, but he promptly sealed them. “Doctor, I’m no longer beside myself. There’s no need to be concerned.”

  Soft footsteps continued, then stopped a few feet away. “Let your wife be the judge of that.”

  Eyes opening fully, he sat up. “I thought that Clancy had returned to scrub on me some more, or the doctor, to see if I had my wits.” He smiled at this angel in yellow leaning against the bedpost. Her locks were free, moist, taking the shine of the candles—something to be touched. “Ester, it’s late. You should rest after the night I’ve put you through.”

  “It’s after midnight, Bex. The best things happen then.”

  “At least five after. I remember.” With his thoughts running wild, he coughed and lay back down, turning his head into the pillow. “How’s your father?”

  “He’s in pain. Mama says the doctor has him on laudanum.”

  “I’m sorry, Ester. Mr. Croome is a strong man. I’m sure he’ll recover.”

  She came closer and put her hand to his cheek. “Will we recover?”

  He wove his fingers between hers. “I’d like to think so. You look wonderful, like an angel.”

  Her laugh was easy, unhurried, and it lingered in his ear. “Well, I had another hot bath.”

  “I’m so sorry that I took something that makes you so happy and used it to deceive you.”

  “I know, Bex.”

  “Baths make you happy and forgiving. I’ll buy you one for your own use. I’ll even fetch the bath water.”

  “Will that put Jonesy out of a job, Mr. Bex?”

  Now was Arthur’s turn to laugh, but the rumble hurt his chest. “No. Someone that loyal will always be with me.”

  His eyes were heavy, and it still hurt to breathe. He lifted a hand to scratch his chin and slapped himself with the bandage on his palm. Peeking at her, he saw her face blank, lines growing on her creamy forehead. “It’s not as bad as it seems. Barely hurts.”

  Ester picked up his palm and cradled it to her bosom, his finger tangled in her flowing robe. Soft and smooth, the material swirled about her, like a river around her mountains of curves.

  “If you’re going to tell me not to fret, that won’t work. I’m beyond fretting, Bex. I’m frightened. You could’ve been killed twice tonight.”

  “I have but one life to give.”

  “No lines. No Shakespeare.”

  “That’s Nathan Hale, Ester.”

  “You know what I mean, Bex.”

  “No, Ester. No, I don’t know what you mean. I want you to call me Arthur to reflect a newfound closeness in our relationship. You still say Bex.”

  “It’s the name I’ve loved since I first saw you on stage.” Sinking onto the bed, she sat beside him. “It’s just so natural to say.”

  “I’m not that man. That’s an actor, Ester.”

  “One who likes a clean room, one that’s stubborn and too clever for his own good.”

  “Maybe you prefer the actor. His lines are scripted. He’ll always do and say what’s written on the pages.”

  She put her soft lips on his knuckles before returning his hand. “I don’t want paper. I want my husband who is kind. So kind to Jonesy, to even my father, and to me.”

  “It’s easy to be nice to you. You’re easy on me, Ester.”

  “When you first woke up, you said some strange things. The doctor had to convince you that you weren’t on a boat. Was it a role? For when were you ever on a boat?”

  She had to know. It was time. He closed his eyes again. “A long time ago. I was on a boat. My uncle’s boat.”

  She kissed his cheek.

  He wanted to pull away, but it was her mouth, soft and plump like a juicy pear pressing against him. It had a hold on him. He needed to tell her why he had to fight for abolition and why he almost died trying to save a dead man. “I can take critics and sneaky reporters thinking ill of me, but not you. Not now or ever.” He pulled her closer. “Ester, you’re not twenty-one.”

  “That’ll be in three weeks.”

  “Your parents could withdraw their consent, and we could annul this marriage.”

  Her face became blank as she stepped backward. “Lie to the world? Never. My parents were there, Bex. They are the reason we married. You don’t want to be married anymore?”

  “I want you, Ester.” He gazed at her, focusing on the lips he needed to claim and the waist meant for his hands to cling to. “In every sense of the word, I want you, but I’m not the man you want me to be. I cannot give up fighting for causes to secure your love. To do so makes me a bigger fraud than I already am.”

  “I am in love with you, Arthur Bex. That’s no lie.”

  He reached up to smooth the lines on her forehead, but she was out of reach. “Those marks will become permanent if you continue to fret. That’s a crime for someone so young, so beautiful.”

  With a shake of her head, she turned to the window. She opened the curtains, letting the moonlight inside. It shadowed her, her curves, her fine neck, and rich skin. “A rose by any name is still a rose. Bex or Arthur, it is all you. I’ll practice saying Arthur. Arthur. Arthur. I know you were confused by the fire, but don’t be confused in what I am saying. I’m in love with you.”

  If her logic were true, then he’d be free to love her, but it wasn’t. His past would always be looming, waiting to destroy all they built. He sighed, inhaling her lilac that remained on his fingertips. The hunger inside to be loved like she claimed overpowered all but his reason. It was good that she stood inches away, far out of his reach. He stroked his nose. “I’ll make you miserable. You’ll always be concerned that I’ll become injured or killed.”

  “Maybe you are right.” She offered a yawn and started for the door.

  His gut twisted, wringing with a sense of loss. He’d pushed her away. That made his insides cave in.

  Then she turned at the bedpost.

  She took off her robe, exposing more of herself, more of her waist, the full bosom, her thicker hips. She hung the satin on the footboard. Whipping back the heavy blanket and sheet, she climbed in the bed and laid her head beside him, against his shoulder.

  Her locks smelled of coconut. Her skin was perfumed with lilac. “What are you doing?” His voice sounded hoarse, almost a toad’s croak. “In a place this big, don’t you have your own room?”

  “I do, on the third floor, with
a beautiful view of Fournier Street. But my place is here with my husband. I’ve one roommate, and he’s here. We’ve slept in the same bed since we wed. Will you deprive me of enjoying the heat of you? I need to hear your snores. Don’t deny me the shiver when my palm feels the rhythm of your heart.”

  His shy Ester put her hand to the nightshirt he wore. The fine silk was probably one of her father’s.

  “Bex, I need to hold you. I need to remind myself that you’re here and alive.”

  With her pinkie, she circled his heart.

  The thing beat for her like it had for no one else.

  A sharp release of air left his lungs when she moved away.

  With those soft lips puckered, she blew out the candle she’d lit. Then she settled onto her side of the mattress, inches away.

  Coconut and lilac, her heady scent had control of him. He reached for her, and she fell in his arms.

  “Move from me, Bex, if you don’t love me. I know you, Arthur Bex. With every inch of my heart, I love you, and I know you love me, too. If I’m wrong, you have permission to move.”

  “I need permission to sleep in this bed? I was here first.”

  She lifted her face from his chest and stroked each nostril with her thumb. “I know you, Arthur Bex, better than I know myself, but sometimes the talking has to stop.”

  That’s all he ever wanted, for someone to believe in him. “But Ester. I have to tell you—”

  “Shhh.” She put a finger upon his mouth. “I know, and I love you, too.”

  Ester was right. He loved her, more than he thought possible. He reached for her and took her lips.

  It wasn’t a slow kiss.

  Not one for good night.

  It was one of forever, with her trembling in his arms, her wantonly stealing his breath, with her taking everything he had to offer and more.

  Nightshirt gone.

  Nightgown floated away.

  Nothing mattered. He’d be Arthur Bex for her forever. For that man was loved beyond belief and had a temptress, a warrior, a caregiver, and a lover melting in his embrace.

  Chapter Twenty

  Get Your Newspaper

  The sound of rain splashing the windowsill made Ester awaken. Her eyes were tired from too much watching Bex, too much not sleeping. She stretched and found the bed empty. That saddened her. She wanted to see him smiling at her again. Maybe he’d say aloud the whispers that nipped her ear. Snuggling his pillow, she pressed it against her bosom with her heart racing at the memory of him, the thought of his touches. The scent of ash and pine soap were faint, but the memories of his arms holding her, of him breathing life into her—those were vivid and warm.