All Dressed in White EPB

by Michaels, Charis

  “Thank God,” Tessa breathed, leaning against a vine-knotted pillar. She was being silly, she thought. How much more emotional she’d grown since Christian had come. Rampant sentimentality made her weep at sunsets and hymns in church.

  Thinking of Christian, she pushed off the pillar and began to amble beneath the vines. She paced the length of the pergola twice and dropped on a bench at the far end. She had just begun to mentally retrace her steps back to Joseph, when she heard voices. A shout, a laugh, three bars of a song. She looked up.

  A quartet of young men drifted into the pergola from the opposite path. They paused when they saw the wooden trellis and heavy vine but quickly fanned out, marveling at the leafy canopy climbing above their heads.

  One man looped an arm around a vine-choked pillar, leaned with outswept hand, and began to sing. His friends joined in immediately, shouting more than singing, and one man chanted “for crown and country!” between stanzas.

  The four of them laughed and sang and trudged with the staggering shuffle of men deep in their cups. They were young, Tessa thought, not older than her own twenty-three years, and dressed more or less like gentlemen.

  Taken individually, they represented almost no threat. They were lads, cheerfully drunk, out for a ramble. But they had not come upon her individually. There was a scrum of them, and she was alone in the darkness.

  Tessa shrank back, her mind racing for some comment that might calmly alert them to her presence. Silence made her feel like a fox hiding in a hole.

  Without warning, the man who’d begun the song leaned his shoulder against the pillar and hung his head. After a pause, he let out a slow, loud belch. His companions burst into laughter. One man made a show of kicking him in the arse.

  Harmless, Tessa told herself, but her eyes returned again and again to the trail, willing someone else to come along. No one came. Three minutes turned to five minutes. With each passing second, Tessa’s unease grew. She sat very still, so still she thought she might snap in two. She waited, counting the beats of her drumming heart. After what felt like a quarter hour (but was likely far less), she decided a better course of action was to flee—to shove up and dart from the square, disappearing down the opposite path. She wouldn’t speak, she wouldn’t even look. They were preoccupied with their whistles and jibes. In theory, she could simply slip away.

  Drawing a silent breath, she gathered her hat, her reticule, her skirts. The heavy silk rustled and Tessa cringed but kept moving. She darted right and—

  “Ho there!” shouted one of the men. Four sets of bored, bleary eyes turned to the bench.

  Now Tessa was the cornered fox. Vein by vein, fear spread through her body. She willed herself to animate, to look less like stricken and terrified. She released her skirts and grabbed hold of the bench. Her hat fell and she let it go.

  She tried to affect the expression of inconsequence, of not being worth the hassle, but they advanced on her, winding their way through the pillars from four directions. They reminded her of boys descending on a fallen grouse.

  Their faces became clearer with proximity, and she watched them take in her shape and dress and braids. Their talking and jests fell silent.

  “Well, hello,” boomed the first man, coming to a stop before her. He had ginger hair and freckles. His voice was too loud for the small space.

  “Deafen her, Francis, while you’re at it,” joked the next man. He wore a tall hat pulled low over his eyes.

  “Don’t dignify them with a response, love,” called a third man, the one who’d belched.

  “Sage advice, coming from you, Nevil,” said the ginger-headed one.

  They formed a loose half circle around her bench and stared down. Tessa could smell their collective aroma of brandy and tobacco and hair tonic.

  Harmless young men, she chanted in her head. She thought of the Old Tessa, the confident girl who had handily dispatched intoxicated males with a roll of her eyes and a wave. She thought of the girl raised with four brothers and their myriad of rowdy friends.

  But this was not the same. She was isolated; she did not know these men. Worst of all, she was glaringly conspicuous in her vibrant dress with her head bare. The fabric of her indigo gown seemed to radiate in the lantern light. The yellow loops of her braids were heavy on her shoulders. She wanted her pelisse, her bonnet—she wanted to gather up her skirts and run. Fear rose in her chest like icy water in the hull of a sinking ship.

  “What’s your name, love?” called the ginger-headed man.

  “My husband has just stepped away,” Tessa answered. Her voice was breathy and high, fearful. She swore in her head and glanced to the right and left. Could she run without colliding with one of them? Could she squeeze through the thick branches of the hedge behind her?

  “Husband?” cried the third man, the belcher. “Oh, you break my heart.”

  “As if she’d consider the likes of you,” said the man in the tall hat. They laughed.

  They were so close, their bodies cast long shadows like the bars of a jail. Their voices were slurred, and they spoke at Tessa more than to her.

  Harmless, she repeated in her head. Drunk, harmless boys.

  She edged up from the bench. “I implore you, please allow me to pass. I . . . I mean to locate my friends.”

  “Oh, thank God,” one of them said, “there are friends. But, are your friends also married, love?” He studied her like an old man considers a flight of stairs.

  “But let us escort you to these friends,” said another. “Not Francis, of course, but a real gentleman, like myself.”

  This was met with hoots of laughter. Knee slapping and shoulder leaning ensued. The belcher staggered forward and Tessa shrank back. Her skirts hit the bench and she lost her balance. She caught herself with one hand.

  “Careful,” laughed the ginger-headed man, reaching to pull her upright. He made the simple gesture of reaching out to steady her—an open palm and long fingers wrapped around her wrist—but something about the tight, clamminess of his hand caused panic to set in. Tessa bit back a scream and breathed, “No.”

  “Bloody hell, Francis,” said the man in the hat, “you’ve terrorized her, and why I am not surprised. You are a bane to all women. Allow me.” He swooped toward Tessa, his arms outstretched. “Come on, then, love. Up you go.”

  And now Tessa did scream.

  She yanked from their hold and scrambled over the bench, backing into the sharp needles of the hedge. “Please,” she gasped, “you are too close. I beg you.”

  “Familiar words, no doubt, Nevil,” said one of the men. This was met by laughter and a round of whistles. One of them lost his balance and fell on the bench. Tessa pressed herself more tightly into the hedge.

  She was just about to launch herself to the right, to skirt the corner of the pergola and make for the pathway, when she saw a flutter of movement inside the dim pergola. It was just a flash, an arc of blackness, blacker than the night. It came and went so quickly, she thought it was her own hysteria playing tricks.

  But suddenly the laughing man called Nevil was jerked backward—one moment he reached for her, the next he was gone. The snorts and snickers came to a sudden hiccup-y stop.

  One of the young men shouted, “What the bloo—”

  His exclamation was cut off when a forearm lashed out from behind and clamped down across his throat. The young man went bug-eyed and scratched at the arm around his neck.

  Joseph.

  Tessa’s husband had materialized from the night. First she saw his arm, which wrapped around the neck of the young man; next broad shoulders and chest. When Joseph’s face came into the light, Tessa saw a mask of rage. She let out a sob of relief and dropped onto the bench.

  “Tessa, are you harmed?” he called out.

  She shook her head.

  “Tessa?” he repeated, his voice urgent.

  “No,” she said, staring at her hands. “They’ve done nothing. I was frightened. It was silly. You should let him go.”
>
  “Let—merc—go . . .” said the man held by the neck.

  Tessa slapped her hand on the bench, mortified by the scene she had caused. “Please.” She looked up. “Let him go.”

  Joseph released the man and he dropped to the ground on a gasp. Joseph rounded on the others. When he spoke, it was in a voice she had never heard. Raw, loose, the dialect of a common man. “Take another step toward her, no, look at her again, and I’ll sink a knife into your neck before your next breath.”

  “Careful, sir, no harm meant,” said one of the men, edging away.

  “Just trying to be of service,” said the other man.

  Joseph ignored them and moved to the bench. “Tessa?” He hovered above her but did not reach out. His posh voice had returned. “Tell me what happened?”

  She shook her head. “They are harmless,” she said hoarsely. “Let them go. They did nothing.”

  “Harmless, mate,” repeated one man, working with the others to haul their gagging friend to his feet.

  Joseph ignored him, staring at Tessa. “You’re crying.”

  “It’s nothing. Please . . .” She wanted the men gone. She wanted to be alone with Joseph. She saw her hat on the ground and she reached for it, but her hand shook. She grabbed the bench and closed her eyes.

  Joseph eased beside her. “Tessa, what can I . . . ?” he whispered cautiously.

  It was her undoing. She fell against him, burying her face into his neck, grabbing handfuls of his coat. His arms went around her and she sucked in a breath.

  Over her head, he growled, “Bugger off.”

  Tessa heard scrambling, guttural oofs, and retreating footsteps. She clung to Joseph with a fierceness of a survivor on a raft, eyes squeezed shut, breath held. She listened, straining to hear the last crunch of gravel, a stray curse, a snicker. Joseph said nothing. He held her and rubbed circles on the small of her back.

  When the pergola was quiet at last, Tessa allowed herself to breathe again. A torrent of relief and anger and fear came out in gasps and gulps. Next, tears. She wept against his chest.

  “Shh,” Joseph said softly against her hair. “I have you. Tessa, shh. I’m so sorry. This is my fault. It was stupid of me to leave you alone. Forgive me—please forgive me. But please tell me you are unharmed? What did they—?”

  She shook her head, burrowing deeper into his cravat. “No, there was no danger. Drunk boys out for a lark.”

  “You’re trembling. Did they touch you? My God, if they touched you—”

  “No, no,” she said against his shirt. “I’m being foolish. I simply can’t—”

  She stopped, uncertain of how to explain all the reasons she couldn’t manage the men on her own. Giving voice to her fears seemed worse than riding out the moment. She repeated, “I simply can’t.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Joseph. “Simply cannot—what?”

  An easy answer formed in her brain and she seized upon it. “I simply cannot dress in this manner, ever again,” she said.

  “You can’t what?”

  She repeated it, louder this time, and it felt very much like the truth. “It was my fault. This dress, this stupid dress. The elaborate braids. I invite unwanted attention because of my own . . . vanity. I was the reckless one. Reckless and selfish and vain.”

  “Tessa—no. Stop.” Gently he pulled her from his chest. He took her by the shoulders and squared her to him. “These men were stupid with youth and drink and the sort of shared brain that boys acquire when they prowl around together in the night. They were harassing you for their own sport, despite the fact that they likely know better. They are at fault—and me, for leaving you alone. It’s nothing to do with you.” He pulled her hand from his lapel and kissed her knuckles.

  She stared into the pergola. “It’s not. . . .” She shook her head. She began again. “I told Perry I would wear the brown dress, that I would fade into the background and be unseen but safe. Safe.”

  Joseph kissed her hand again. Tessa wanted to pull the spot to her lips.

  She said, “But Perry hid the brown dress and convinced me to wear this gown, which I have always loved. I . . . I wanted to feel beautiful just once more. I wanted you to . . . to see . . . I wanted—”

  Her explanation dissolved. How had she managed to lose both the cleverness of the Old Tessa and the placid good sense of the New? She was a weak, simpering, third version of herself. Steeped in regret and shaking in Joseph’s arms. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Joseph craned his head, trying to see her downturned face. “Please tell me,” he said, “that you do not believe your beautiful blue dress and your lovely braided hair are the source of this harassment. Please tell me you do not believe it to be your fault.”

  She blinked up into his blue eyes and tried to control the fresh tears. He sounded . . . shocked. His voice held such emphasis, she could not press her rebuttal again. She despised playing the victim.

  Joseph continued, “I cannot think who or what put the idea of blame in your head, but you are wrong. I’ve seen roving bands of young men in every corner of the globe and I assure you that no pretty dresses are required to encourage their interest. They are listless and bored and their chief concern is impressing each other. No young woman would have escaped their boorish attention, unfortunately—not in any manner of dress, brown or otherwise.”

  He paused, likely waiting for her to respond, but Tessa had used up her contribution to this discussion. To say more would only make the experience more horrible. She leaned into his chest and he closed his arms around her.

  “Every man appreciates your beauty, Tessa,” he said softly. “No one more than me. Only these cretins had the poor judgment to approach you. And that is their mistake, their crudeness and inebriation. And mine, because I left you alone. I was sick with worry, Tessa, when I couldn’t find you—and now I see it was warranted. I returned to the clearing, but—”

  “Oh, it was the play,” Tessa cut in, sitting up. “The terrible little play. Something about the production upset me. And the old woman—she, she was so meddlesome. I couldn’t remain. I know it was merely playacting, but—”

  “Make no excuses, please. That production was the worst piece of amateur theatre I have ever had the misfortune of witnessing. And the woman? Our own friends struggle to characterize our relationship—even I struggle—so it’s difficult to take counsel from a gossipy stranger. Even so, it was unconscionable for me to leave you alone. I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn’t found you.”

  Tessa’s heart, already overworked from the night, clenched. What had he said? He struggled to characterize their marriage? It was hardly a declaration, but there was some . . . softness in the way he said it. Was it possible he felt more confusion than outrage? Tessa felt the same confusion. And hope. So much hope.

  “I’m sorry I’ve dragged you to Vauxhall,” she said. It was a classic Old-Tessa machination. Despite the young men and the play and the old woman, of course she was not sorry at all.

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve a mind to return tomorrow. Perhaps we should come every night until we get it right. I’d hate for your lasting impression to be drunken revelers and my threatening to stab them in the neck.”

  She laughed at his suggestion. A proper laugh, devoid of fear or alarm. She wanted suddenly to crawl back into Joseph’s arms, and not because she was falling apart.

  She thought of the way he fought back the young men. Of his confidence and strength. She thought about his different accent and the way he prowled the space. A small quiver of something unnamed but intriguing burned in her center. She wanted to kiss him. Desperately. To kiss like they had at Berymede. How had the Old Tessa accomplished this?

  “Should we locate Sabine and Stoker?” Joseph was saying. He held out his hand. “You’re meant to meet her at nine o’clock, I believe?”

  “Yes, I suppose we should.” She took his hand. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

  The Old Tessa would simply ge
t it done. Reach up and pull his face down.

  But the New Tessa smiled and took his arm and walked modestly beside him, waiting for him to reach up or pull down, waiting for him to make some show of affection for which he did not feel obligated or tricked or honor-bound to make.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Joseph forced himself to wait a full day before initiating some future contact with his wife.

  Not only was he uncertain that Tessa wanted to see him (and if so, in what vein), he needed a full day to recover from Vauxhall Gardens.

  The twenty minutes that she was lost had taken years off his life. Icy fear thudded through his veins long after he’d followed her carriage home that night. For decades, Vauxhall Gardens had played dark, shadowy host to every manner of shady assignation. The moment he’d rushed into the pergola to find her ringed by a half circle of drunken louts made him want to rip the vine from the canopy and strangle each man. He thrummed with violence, but the situation wanted control and stealth, and every fight he’d ever fought had been brought to bear in those moments. He’d been outnumbered four to one and his first priority had been Tessa.

  Looking back, he marveled that he’d allowed the men to go, to simply fade into the darkness unaccounted for, but Tessa had required him more.

  In that moment, he met yet another side of Tessa he’d not known. Terrified, guilt-ridden, nearly inconsolable. He couldn’t stop thinking about her response. There was no question she’d been frightened, and this alone was enough to trouble him, but what bothered him more were her tearful ramblings. She seemed to believe that she’d somehow invited their attention, that vanity was to blame.

  It made no sense. She’d looked beautiful that night, colorful and happy and herself—or at least more like the self she’d presented in Berymede. She’d seemed not just pretty but comfortable, he’d thought. Natural.

  She’d eventually found some calm, but still she had clung to him, keeping close to his side far more than she had during the spirited, early hours that she’d enjoyed in the park.