Ever His Bride

by Linda Needham

  “Pompous, stiff-necked … miscreant!” she shouted against the pane.

  But Branson was already pulling away with his surly, soggy-haired cargo. She hoped she had cost Claybourne a dozen of his bloody contracts.

  But now she had a contract of her own to fulfill—her promise to the children of the Beggar’s Academy.

  Chapter 10

  Felicity spent the rest of the week collecting candle stubs and worn-out china from the household stores and cupboards, all of which she replaced with the newer goods from the crates. As she unpacked a mountain of new blankets, she set aside a dozen ragged-edged ones for the children—and for Giles, if she could ever find him again.

  Mrs. Sweeney squealed in delight at the sight of all the new kitchen tools, and didn’t seem to notice the dented pots and bent spoons disappearing into the plow shed with the rest of the contraband.

  She kept a careful accounting of everything she took. When Uncle Foley returned with her portion of the profits, she would pay back Claybourne for every candle stub and chipped bowl.

  His house no longer frightened her, and Claybourne and his blustering rarely did. She had set the staff to hacking away at the choke weeds that strangled off Claybourne Manor from the sunlight. Ernest took to the garden with enthusiasm, and soon became expert at maneuvering the new lawn mower around the hedges and trees.

  If her surly husband noticed the taming of the wilderness into a nearly workable garden, he never said anything.

  And neither did she, for fear that he would command her to stop. He allowed her the use of his library, and didn’t seem to mind that she had peeled back the drapes in the dining room and removed the dreary bushes that blocked the light. He occasionally engaged her in stilted conversations, usually about some minor domestic matter, sometimes about George Hudson.

  She sometimes fancied that he enjoyed her company.

  And she sometimes fancied that she enjoyed his.

  The thought startled her one evening as she sat opposite him at the dining-room table, which had quadrupled in length and now had a dozen chairs stationed around it, awaiting guests who would probably never be invited.

  He had arrived home in time to take dinner with her—nothing more than a coincidence, she was certain, since he had seemed startled to see her enter the dining room. But he now sat easily in his chair at the head of the table, unlike his posture outside Claybourne Manor, where his shoulders were always squared and his eyes always alert.

  She liked him this way: his guard down, and his eyes gone to the gray of smoke instead of black obsidian.

  “You were about to say, Miss Mayfield?”

  Felicity caught herself staring at him again, and gave a quick glance at her bowl of stew before raising her chin again.

  “I had been thinking about what you just said—the possibility of a telegraph cable being laid across the Atlantic. Imagine if such a thing existed right now: when my uncle landed in New York, he could just send me a telegram telling me that he had arrived safely.”

  “Yes, he could.”

  She saw him try to hide a smile with a finger to the corner of his mouth, certain that he thought her an imbecile. She tried again.

  “I’ve read about the plans to lay a cable between Dover and Calais—have you a financial interest in such a project, Mr. Claybourne?”

  He lowered his brow at her as if she were his rival in business. “It’s no secret. I have secured the contract to supply the cable, a design based upon the specifications of the project engineers. Whether the project succeeds or fails, I will have my profit.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He was so very sure of himself, born to the certainty of his wealth and privilege. “And what about the cable across the Atlantic? Will you be taking your profits from that as well?”

  “Not for a few years yet.”

  “But you must be looking forward to such a grand achievement and its advantage to your business. You can decide to buy an American railway in the morning, telegraph your bid before lunch, and learn of the seller’s acceptance before you go home that night to eat your plate of stew.”

  He laughed mutely and raised a brow, as if the thought of doing business by telegraph across the ocean hadn’t yet occurred to him. “Indeed,” he said, gliding his forefinger around the edge of his glass.

  “I will be going to London again tomorrow, Mr. Claybourne.”

  “For what reason?”

  More half-truths, but they would have to serve.

  “For many reasons. My Northumberland project for one, and to consult with Mr. Dolan. Also I need to see Madame Deverie. If I don’t return for the final fitting, the wardrobe you spent so much of your hard won money on will go to waste.”

  He hadn’t moved a muscle. “If you dare come home stinking of—”

  “I won’t, Mr. Claybourne.” She touched her napkin to her mouth. “You can be sure that you’ll not smell Bethnal Green on me ever again. I prefer to bathe in my chamber—in warm water, with lavender soap, thank you very much.”

  He scowled at that, dropped his linen napkin on his plate and left the table. His footfalls echoed on his way toward his library. He would probably be there all night.

  Yet she had heard him more than once leaving the library after dark, had seen him carrying a lantern away from the house, perhaps to wander the wilds of the estate. She’d caught him on the staircase the night before, after one of his wanderings—his waistcoat open, his shirt stuck to his damp skin, and bits of wood splinters caught up in his hair and on his trousers.

  He had grunted and passed by her without a comment.

  He was a strange man. And too handsome by far.

  But he had accepted her reasons for going to London. And every morning for the next full week, she loaded up her new portmanteau with as much as she could carry, stuffed it into the boot of the carriage, and rode with her husband into the City.

  She hadn’t promised not to go to Bethnal Green; she’d only promised not to smell of it.

  “Christmastide in June!”

  The boys and girls of the Beggar’s Academy shrieked in perfect delight over each and every item Felicity unpacked. Chipped bowls, a book of fairy tales, socks with holes—

  “And another blanket!” Gran clapped her craggy hands against her withered cheeks and sighed. “And more candles! Dear child, every day you come bearing the treasures of Solomon! The Beggar’s Academy thanks you, each and every one of us.”

  Blankets and pots and candle stubs could never take the place of fragrant meadowlands and pure sunlight. How could she hope to bring the children what they truly needed?

  “It’s my pleasure, Gran.” She would have to explain later that this would be the last of it for a while. Until she could earn some money of her own.

  Hardly Christmas.

  She lifted little Jonathan onto the table to put clean socks on his filthy feet. The socks were too big, and without shoes would last only a day, but for the moment his little toes would be warm and safe. He winced as she lifted his foot.

  “I’m sorry, Jonathan. Have you got yourself a sore here?” More than a sore, the boy’s foot was covered with cuts in various stages of healing, and a few long, pink scars. “What happened?”

  “Jonathan is a mudlark,” Gran said, from her pot at the cookstove.

  “A mudlark?” She’d heard the term but didn’t really know its meaning.

  “It’s nothin’.” Jonathan sighed, obviously impatient with these adult anxieties. “I gets cut steppin’ on glass buried in the mud, miss.” He hooked his foot with his hands and inspected the sole. “Looks good compared t’ some days.”

  “In the mud? Where?”

  “The Thames, mostly,” he said, letting her peer at his feet. “Coal is m’ biggest business. I gets the stuff what falls from the barges.”

  “The Thames is a sewer,” she said, trying not to let her horror show. “You shouldn’t be walking in it.”

  “I don’t mind, miss. Glass sells good as
coal. When it cuts m’foot, I find it, then I sells it. A fair trade, I warrant.”

  “Why don’t you wear shoes?”

  He shrugged and picked a dark thing from beneath his jagged fingernail. “Haven’t any. ‘Sides, they don’t last long, being wet and muddy all a’time.”

  She made a mental note to acquire a steady supply of ointments and thick-soled boots. The list was dreadfully long, and her time was so short. If she was to make a success of her new travel guide, and earn the money for it, she would need to spend a few weeks traveling through Northumberland. And then there was always Giles. She hadn’t given up trying to find him again.

  She stayed as late as she could until the afternoon, unpacking, helping with supper, and finally reading aloud from a book she had discovered among Claybourne’s things.

  Robin Hood. They seemed to love that the best.

  As she read, she became as enchanted as the children. Not with the valiant man who shunned his wealth and station to ease the plight of the downtrodden, but with the settledness of the school, the sense of home she’d found there among the children. She’d never really had a home, and this one felt very good.

  But the afternoon was lengthening, and she needed to spend some time looking for Giles before she had to race home ahead of Claybourne and scrub her skin raw and her clothes threadbare, just to keep his prickly sense of smell appeased. So far, he didn’t suspect a thing.

  She said good-bye to the children, then turned to Mrs. McGilly. “I must go look for Giles. He’s eluded me—”

  “Mrs. Claybourne,” Gran whispered. Her face looked terribly solemn. “You won’t find Giles.”

  “Why not? Is he ill?”

  “The fool was caught in Chancery Lane a few days ago, cutting a purse, I hear. The police have him.”

  “The police?” Her heart sank. She’d saved him from Claybourne, only to lose him to the magistrates. “Where was he taken?”

  Gran shook her head and sighed. “No one seems to know. The poor boy could be in Newgate by now.”

  “But he’s just a child!”

  “That doesn’t matter a whit to the magistrates.”

  “Well, it matters to me!” She kissed Gran on her leathery cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Felicity found a hackney on Shoreditch and hired it to Chancery Lane. The station house was small and crammed with every kind of person. She worked her way to the counter, and finally gained the attention of a stiff-coated officer.

  “Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for information about a pickpocket.”

  He didn’t look up. “Had your purse snatched, miss?”

  “No. I want to know where a young prisoner might have been taken. He was arrested a few days ago on Chancery Lane.”

  “We get ’em in dozens, miss.” The man seemed thoroughly bored. “Do ya have a name?”

  “Giles Pepperpot, or Potter, perhaps.”

  The officer muttered about long hours and low pay as he leafed backward through a book of names and dates. “Yes, here it is. Giles Potter.”

  Well, at least she’d found him. “What’s to be done with him?”

  The officer studied the page and then consulted another book. “Looks like it’s already been done.”

  “Done! What has been done? Dear God, he’s only a boy.”

  “Convicted of theft and …” The officer fumbled with a pair of spectacles as she rode out her fears, waiting to hear the worst. “Hmmm. Sent north to—”

  She slapped the countertop and drew a dozen stares. “To where, sir?”

  The officer peered at her over the top of his rims, his opinion of her station in life having drooped along with his frown. “To an apprentice school. Are you his mother?”

  “To a school?” Her heart lightened. He wasn’t in prison after all; he was in a school. He would learn a trade, just as she had hoped for him.

  “Does it say where the school is?” Feeling quite charitable toward the officer, she smiled and peered over the counter, trying to read the name upside down.

  “Blenwick.”

  “Perfect!” She couldn’t believe her luck. Blenwick was in County Durham, on her way to Northumberland. She would take Giles a package of sweets to share among his schoolmates, and maybe slip him another shirt, some money for supplies. Surely a young man at school could find a use for a bag of treats from a friend.

  “I’m leaving, Mr. Claybourne.”

  Hunter looked up from his accounts and found his wife dressed for travel in a functional brown suit done up to her neck. He liked her better in wet linen, but he couldn’t very well tell her that. She dropped her new portmanteau on the floor. It gave a decisively leaden thud meant entirely for him.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he said evenly, returning to his figures. He’d come home at noon to finish his work in the quiet coolness of his library, but peace and quiet were nearly impossible anymore. And then there was her scent, that faint coiling of lavender that could stop him dead in his thoughts and dangle him over a cliff side.

  Crinoline whispered from beneath her skirt as she crossed the carpet to his desk. He refused to look up again. He’d given his order. She was staying.

  “I’m leaving,” she said. “Today. There’s a running of the cheese in Brimsleigh tomorrow afternoon, and I want to be there to report on it firsthand.”

  “What the hell is a running of the … never mind.” He was about to repeat his denial and send her to her chamber when she plucked the pen out of his fingers.

  “I’m a pest, aren’t I, Mr. Claybourne?”

  “A bloody plague,” he said, grabbing for the pen but finding a drop of ink dangling from his fingertip instead.

  “You resent my existence.” She replaced the pen in the holder.

  “Every minute of every day.” He wiped the ink off his finger and watched her saunter toward the windows.

  “Then why keep me here under your roof? So dangerously near London, where I might sully your name. Why not send me out of town where no one knows our connection? Be rid of me.”

  “No.”

  She gave a yank to the drapes. He kept them closed for the lack of a view through the tangled bushes that had always pressed at the windows. But now the sun leaped through the clean panes to wash the room in glorious brightness. It launched gilded shafts across the carpet, and caught at her smile.

  “Are you so fond of me then, Mr. Claybourne?” She threw open another set of drapes and the library brightened further, warming the dark wood and touching off the rich colors of the book bindings.

  “I’m fond of order.”

  “Then you cannot possibly be fond of me.” She opened the last set of drapes and turned to him, her gaze steady and clear, her hair brighter still. “I’ve brought nothing but disorder to your life, haven’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that is the way I am. I cannot change my behavior any more than you can change yours.”

  “I have no reason to change mine.”

  Her laughter seemed too indulgent. “No, of course not. You are perfect, in control of everything in your life and I am perfectly out of control.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then why keep me underfoot? Let me do what I do best—explore the byways of Britain—while you do whatever it is you do. We’d never heard of each other before this mess began, and we were both perfectly happy. I see no reason why we can’t return to that state.”

  “You’re married to me now.”

  “But not forever. I need this work, Mr. Claybourne. I need to keep my travel gazettes popular and in the public eye. Come next May, when you and I are officially divorced, I’ll be destitute if I can’t find a job. And I’d rather not take up work as a Southwark needlewoman, slaving for six pennies a day. Now there would be a scandal for you: Hunter Claybourne’s ex-wife reduced to poverty, dying horribly of septic fingers from sewing men’s trousers. But suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Damnation! He hadn’t thought of that:
what his wife would do once she was no longer his wife. God knows she couldn’t count on Biddle or that uncle of hers to raise her out of poverty.

  “And, if I can’t pursue my living, I’ll have to return to Bethnal Green whenever I can, to make a friend or two who might put me up when I’m reduced to living on the street. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  Her argument held a certain amount of logic. She would be on her own again at the end of their marriage, left to her own devices. He couldn’t very well allow her to end up as she described, as bait for his critics. And he desired not to think of her living the life of a needlewoman, her luminous eyes dulled by fatigue, never getting the stink of her impoverishment out of her hair. Married to some smooth-tongued, gin-soaked gambler. A sheen of sweat broke out across his upper lip.

  He wiped it away and stood up, restless with the persistent image of his wife dressed in tatters. Married to another man. “You may leave tonight,” he said.

  “Really? I can?” Her eyes lit up her entire face and she threw her arms around his neck. And was that her mouth that brushed the underside of his jaw, just beneath his ear?

  There was something unsettlingly right in her spontaneity. Had she been a real wife, she might have done the same if she’d been pleased about a new hat or a night at the theater. Had he been a real husband, he might have been just as pleased to receive such an embrace. Might have taken her up to their chamber… As it was, he couldn’t let his arms fit too naturally around her—there was great risk in that kind of contact—so he let them hang at his side. She drew away quickly, looking every bit as uncomfortable as he felt.

  Her forehead crinkled like a flight of wary geese. “You’re not trying to trick me, are you, Mr. Claybourne?”

  “You have my permission. But I insist you leave me an itinerary.”

  “Of course, Mr. Claybourne.” She grabbed the pen and a sheet of paper and began to diagram the entire British railway, sketching the London & Northwestern to Rugby, then north on the Midland Railway, ticking off stations along the route through York and Newcastle.