Ever His Bride

by Linda Needham

  “Good God, woman do you stop at the Scots border?”

  “Of course, but I plan to spend tonight in Derby…”

  The Tri-Junction Station. A damnably tangled railway hub in the best of times, a calamity in the making for a woman traveling alone. He sat down in his chair, masking his sudden hesitance by straightening the inkwell as she dipped the nib and scrawled on with her bloody itinerary. A different inkwell than the one he’d always used, burled wood instead of pewter. But he’d found it on his desk one day—the same day he’d found the first bowl of flowers sitting on the library hearth—and so he’d begun to use it. He knew that she had brought it, but he hadn’t found the right moment to mention that it pleased him. Not that he needed to. She was a grown woman and he looked forward to the peace he’d been missing over the last month.

  “You’re not to sleep on benches, madam. Or barter for food or lodging, and I want a telegram every day stating exactly where you are, where you’ve been, and where you expect to be the next day.”

  “So that’s the trick!” She replaced the pen with a clunk and a furious frown. “I knew you’d try to snag me with some impossible hurdle. I haven’t the money to send you all those telegrams, Mr. Claybourne. I’ve barely enough for food.”

  “Give me your purse.”

  She eyed him over the bridge of her nose, but finally settled her bag on the blotter. He carefully counted out thirty pounds from his desk drawer, then poured the coins into her drawstring bag and handed it back to her. “This should last two weeks—if you’re careful not to lose it, or give it away.”

  She peered into her purse as if he’d just filled it with poisonous snakes.

  “No, Miss Mayfield. This isn’t a loan. It’s just another expense. See. You’ve become a column in my ledger.” He pointed to a column of numbers whose sum had grown faster than its length. He had titled the column Miss M.

  “That’s me?” she asked, coming around the side of his desk.

  “Added to what I just gave you …” He entered the expense as Travels to Northumberland, trying all the while to ignore her warmth as she stood beside him, peering over his arm. The effort drained the blood from his fingers and sent it rushing elsewhere. “The total comes to eight hundred and forty.”

  “Well! I never thought I’d be reduced to a column of numbers, Mr. Claybourne. But I do appreciate your taking on my expenses. And I do consider this outlay, and all the rest of the money you’ve spent on me, a loan; I plan to repay you as soon as Uncle Foley returns—”

  “From the gold fields. Yes, yes, I’m sure you will.”

  She lifted a defiant chin. “He’ll come back, Mr. Claybourne.”

  As he look into her eyes he felt an odd twinge of conscience and regretted his comment, as well as the sarcasm he’d injected into it. “Another few months, Miss Mayfield, and you may even hear from him.”

  “Yes, Mr. Claybourne. Thank you. May I go now? Branson’s driving me to Euston Station, if you can spare him.”

  He was struck to the bone by the starkness of her simple declaration that she was in a hurry to be gone. Made him think of her bedchamber, the island of abundance she would leave behind there; and the dining room with its too-long table and all those empty chairs.

  “I see your bag is packed,” he said, for fear of saying anything more significant.

  “I was leaving here today, no matter what you might have said to the contrary.”

  He refused to rise to her challenge. “Have you everything you need for your trip? A canteen? Spectacles to keep the cinders from your eyes?”

  “Do you wish to inspect my bag, sir? Or take an inventory?”

  She’d made it to the doorway and stood there, holding open the handles of her new portmanteau, her stalwart bonnet failing to subdue her bountiful hair, and dreams of adventure pinking her cheeks. No doubt already celebrating her independence from him.

  “You needn’t look at me like that, Mr. Claybourne. I can assure you that I’m taking nothing more than you’ve given me.”

  “I didn’t think you had, Miss Mayfield.”

  Yes, he would find his jealously-guarded peace again when she was gone. And the solitary stillness of a tomb.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Claybourne.”

  It was only then, with her footsteps receding down the hallway far away from him, that he realized she wore no wedding band. Nothing to mark her as married. No outward indication that she belonged to him.

  This would not do.

  Felicity suspected her husband’s motives immediately. He’d been too reasonable and accepting of her travel plans. He’d even sent her to the station in his brougham. She half-expected him to stop her, to ambush her on the way, but she had arrived in plenty of time to board.

  Branson hadn’t looked too pleased as he watched her take a seat in a crowded, third-class, nearly open-roofed car. The wind had come up and flapped at the canvas above her head.

  “You’re riding in this bloody thing?” he said, hiking himself onto the running board and peering over the side walls into the car. “All the way to Northumberland? If it rains you’ll be drenched.”

  “It’s all I can afford.” A big-boned woman sat down beside Felicity and rammed her against the wall to make room for three other passengers. Felicity usually traveled second-class, more comfortable and not nearly as crowded, but it wouldn’t be the first time she’d pinched her pennies. She would return as much of her travel advance to Claybourne as she possibly could. The last thing she wanted to do was to get used to his obscene fortune.

  “You’re married to a very wealthy man, Mrs. Claybourne. The master can well afford to buy you a railcar of your own. You needn’t ride in the open with a canvas over your head, packed in with all these …”He rolled his eyes and spoke in a hush that everyone around her could hear. “All these people.”

  She took his hand. “I’ll be all right, Branson. This is my business trip, nothing to do with Mr. Claybourne. Besides, I’m used to third class.” The sky looked a bit threatening, but she chose to ignore it. She had managed to hold most of the storms in her life at bay, but there wasn’t anything she could do about just plain rain.

  The train gave a whistle and with a great breath of steam, the car lurched forward on its climb out of Euston station up the Camden Yard incline. “I’ll miss you, Branson!”

  “Take care of yourself, Mrs. Claybourne.” He waved his hat, the sweet man. They were all quite sweet at Claybourne Manor, except for Claybourne himself. He was … well, like no other man she’d ever met. Would ever marry.

  At Boxmoor she took tea with the stationmaster, a dear old friend of her father’s, while the train paused on a side rail to let a mail express pass; at Stony Stratford two third-class cars were added, leaving her time to visit with the postal master, another friend of the family.

  Rugby was at least an hour further down the track, where she’d have to wait on the platform to change from the London and Northwestern Railway to the Midland, so she climbed aboard the new car as soon as it was available, settled herself into a corner seat, then closed her eyes for a nap.

  “That’s an awful pretty bonnet, miss.”

  Felicity looked up into a tiny face and pair of soft brown eyes that she would expect to find on a milk cow. The little girl sat directly across from her, clutching a ragged, redheaded doll and a bulging flour sack.

  Felicity smiled. “Why, thank you.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Felicity. What’s yours?”

  The little face lit up. “Mine is Kerrie.” Kerrie looked into the face of her doll and sighed. “I don’t know the name of my dolly. She was just give to me.”

  Kerrie laid the doll on her lap, revealing a piece of paper pinned to her shawl.

  “Are you traveling alone?” She hoped the girl wasn’t, because she was a good five years younger than Giles.

  Kerrie nodded. “By myself.”

  “Where are your parents?” Felicity leaned forward to read the note, and he
r spirits plummeted.

  Kerrie Slade – Deliver to Leicester Union Workhouse—Sparkenhoe Street, Leicester.

  Dear God! The child was on her way to a workhouse!

  “My mama went up to heaven last week.”

  “I’m so very sorry to hear that, Kerrie.”

  “But I’m six now, and I’m going to a school in Leicester to learn to sew like my mama did.” Kerrie scooted forward in the seat and touched her toes to the floor. “Where are you going, Miss Felicity?”

  She’d planned to make Derby tonight, but now it seemed like she’d be stopping sooner. “Well, fancy a thing like that, Miss Kerrie Slade. I’m going to Leicester, too.”

  The wind came up while they waited on the platform for the Midlands train. By the time they left Rugby a squalling rain was driving sideways into the car from under the flapping canvas roof. She gathered up Kerrie under her new woolen shawl and took the brunt of the cold herself, held her closer as the girl’s head began to nod.

  The train rattled through a tunnel and Kerrie shifted in Felicity’s arms, scrubbed at her nose, then settled in deeper. She dreaded their arrival in Leicester. Someone from the workhouse would be waiting to haul Kerrie off to an unthinkable fate. Thank God Giles had been spared the workhouse.

  But the platform was nearly deserted and she refused to drag the sleepy child through the downpour looking for the bloody workhouse. Morning would be soon enough,

  She quickly found a room with two comfortable beds at the Evesham, a fondly familiar inn owned by Lillian Paget, the widow of her father’s favorite surveyor. Kerrie devoured what must have been the most wonderful meal of her life then slept through the night and woke with the sun to dance among the flowers in the garden at the rear of the inn.

  “I need to see the Leicester Union Workhouse for myself, Lillian, before I deliver up Kerrie to them.” She walked the few blocks to Sparkenhoe Street, took one look at the dreary, ill-kept, six-sided brick edifice then stumbled back to the Evesham and sat in the morning room with Lillian, watching Kerrie through the kitchen door, standing on a stool, merrily scrubbing that morning’s dish, singing brightly about a duck on a spillway.

  “What am I going to do, Lillian?”

  “The vicar and I’ve been trying to shut down that workhouse for years. And now the Board of Governors have reopened the stoneyard. There’ll be even more blood on their hands, if not a riot.”

  “I can’t leave her in that dreadful place! And I surely can’t take her with me.” Couldn’t possibly take her home to a man like Hunter Claybourne and his unfathomable, unrelenting prejudice against the poor.

  Lillian was smiling oddly when she left the table to stand at the kitchen door. “Such a sweet-natured little thing. They’ll soon beat it out of her at the workhouse. I’ve a mind to— Tell me if you think I’ve gone mad, Felicity, but I want to keep her.”

  “Here?”

  “I would welcome the company, and I’m certain that Kerrie could use a home.”

  The answer was almost too simple. “Oh, Lillian, that’s a grand idea!”

  “I’ll check with the vicar this very morning; he’ll know what to do, how to make it legal.” She took Felicity’s hands. “You’re an angel, Felicity Mayfield.”

  “No, you’re the angel, Lillian.” She hadn’t the heart or the energy to tell her that she was now Felicity Claybourne, the much-indebted wife of a man who quite possibly would allow little Kerrie to starve—given a penny’s profit.

  Felicity left Leicester as the day clouded over; the weather grew ever wetter the farther north she traveled. She disembarked at Durham to change trains for Blenwick and Giles’s apprentice school.

  With all the changes in her schedule, she’d missed the infamous Cheese Race in Brimsleigh, but there was another turf maze near the parish church at Blenwick, and a supposed connection to Richard the Third at the Brightwater Arms, where, with any luck she’d find a charming room for the next few days and could treat Giles to an outing and feed him till he burst. How fine it will be to see the boy again, his cheeks rosy, his limbs not so painfully thin.

  “Felicity Claybourne?”

  She heard her name through the rain just as she’d been about to climb the steps to the third-class car, stopped and turned to find a conductor peering at her in a way that reminded her far too much of Mr. Cobson.

  “Who is it you want?” she asked, wise enough to offer as little information as possible.

  “Please come with me, ma’am. There’s been a change in your ticket.”

  Absurd. “What do you mean by ‘change’?”

  “This way, if you please, miss.” He snatched her ticket out of her hand and started toward the rear of the train.

  “But there’s nothing wrong with my ticket, sir!” Indeed the new car was still third-class, but it was protected by a solid metal roof and rain-stopping leather curtains along the roofline. “I’m going west to Blenwick through Stanhope.”

  She ran to catch up, but the conductor had stopped at the last passenger car.

  First class. Bloody hell! Whatever the problem it was Claybourne’s doing. It had to be!

  “Give me back my ticket.” She made a grab for it but missed.

  “Your ticket’s no good, Mrs. Claybourne. It’s this car or none at all.” He opened the door and motioned her inside.

  A paraffin lamp glowed from a double sconce, and a new boiled-water heater warmed the compartment like a cozy parlor, wrapping her in its invitation as it poured heat out into the night air. She had always envied the people who traveled in these private coaches, a third of a railcar in size and large enough to permanently house three families from Bethnal Green.

  “We’re in station for only a few minutes more, miss. Please climb aboard.”

  “No, thank you, sir.” If Claybourne thought he could control her all the way from London, he would soon learn otherwise. “And if you won’t give me back my ticket, I’ll go purchase another, and wait for the next train.”

  The conductor’s worried eyes darted up over the top of her head and fixed there with an anxious frown. “Sorry, miss, there’s not another train to Blenwick until tomorrow.”

  “Very well; I’ll just stay the night on a bench here in the station. Looks comfortable enough for me!” She turned from the conductor and would have stalked off, but there was a very tall and very familiar obstacle blocking her way.

  “Not comfortable enough, wife. You’ll be riding with me.”

  Chapter 11

  Hunter knew better than to smile down at the fuming woman, though he was so damned relieved to find her, he could hardly speak. It had taken him all day, but here she was. Safe and sounding perfectly fit.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you, Mr. Claybourne. How dare you insert yourself into my business trip!” She looked like something dredged up from a drowning. Her bonnet missing; her hair wet to the scalp. Her eyes were as big and bright as the moon, and blazing with anger.

  “I’ll not have my wife riding in an open car like a Guernsey cow to market.”

  “A cow? You follow me all the way from London just to call me a cow?”

  “Enough.” Not wanting the woman to make any more of a scene on the crowded platform than she already had, he scooped her and her portmanteau into his arms and stepped up into his private compartment, then slammed the door behind him.

  “So. You’ve imprisoned me again, Mr. Claybourne.” She wriggled out of his arms and backed up against the bench seat. “Don’t you ever tire of this game?”

  “Where have you been, Miss Mayfield?”

  “I haven’t been anywhere yet, though God knows how I’ve tried. Now, step aside and let me out of here!”

  The train shuddered forward, and Hunter caught hold of the luggage rack above his head to keep from pitching to the floor.

  “You have remarkable timing, Mr. Claybourne.” She threw her portmanteau onto the seat behind her, seemed entirely unaffected by the jerking movement of the train, as untroubled as a sailor r
iding out a violent storm on his sea legs.

  “Tell me where you have been!”

  She lifted that stubborn chin. “You followed me here. You tell me.”

  He’d have fired Tilson for such insubordination. He tossed his hat into the rack. “You were to telegraph me, Miss Mayfield.”

  “I’ve been away one night. You knew where I would be.” She settled back into the seat, seemed to be sizing him up for a coffin.

  “You were to stop in Derby last night. You didn’t.”

  “I …” She dropped her gaze, then unwound herself from her soggy cocoon and stretched her hands out toward the heater. “I was detained along the way.”

  “Detained how?” By whom, he wanted to ask. He remembered the delight in her eyes when that young reporter had embraced her. Couldn’t concentrate on his accounts for the memory of it, for wondering who she would meet in her travels, who might be waiting to enfold her in his arms. He’d wondered most of all why the thought of her meeting another man set his blood to boiling.

  “I stopped to see a friend,” she said, picking hairpins from her hair.

  “What sort of friend?” He took his usual place in the center of the seat opposite, chiding himself for sounding too much like a jealous husband. It wasn’t that, at all. He was jealous of his name, his time, his reputation, nothing more. That’s why he’d purchased a wedding band for her—merely to simplify their relationship. But now the damn ring had begun to burn a hole in the pocket of his waistcoat.

  “I visited a woman I’ve known since I was a child. She lives in Leicester, runs an inn there.” She seemed too easy with her explanation, fluffing her hair and speaking offhandedly in that smoke-wrapped voice that warmed the air around him. “I stayed the night with her.”

  “You didn’t telegraph me with your changed itinerary.”

  “I didn’t have time, Mr. Claybourne.”

  “You should have made time.” He waited for her response, but she only blinked twice, sighed her dismissal of the subject, and began unlacing her soaking wet boots.