by Darcie Wilde
Leannah had to admit the impromptu meal was most welcome, partly because it passed the time while Gossip was being reshod, and partly because it cheered and revived Uncle Clarence.
“Remember, my dear,” he said as she drew him aside to thank him for his help, “we are your family. Whatever may happen, you can always come home.”
It was hardly a rousing endorsement of her conduct, but she could not blame him for it. Her uncle did kiss her kindly, and went to shake Harry’s hand without any show of reluctance. They stood together now, with Uncle Clarence talking earnestly and her husband nodding his head at regular intervals.
Her husband. She wasn’t Mrs. Wakefield anymore. She was Mrs. Rayburn. It was all so strange. When she’d married Elias, she’d been chiefly aware of an unnamed, nervous loneliness, this despite the fact that she was surrounded by her friends and relations.
Now she was surrounded by strangers, one of whom had just sworn to love, honor, and cherish her. Her only two relations present were trying to put the best possible face on it all. This time, though, she felt filled with warmth, excitement, daring, and relief, and, yes, gratitude, too. She was worried, but for the first time in a very great while, she felt poised at a fresh beginning. That sensation thrilled her almost as much as the heated glance Harry cast at her from across the room.
She was so intent on watching Harry she barely noticed when Genny came up to her to beckon her over into the chimney corner, one of the few quiet spots left in the inn.
“Now you’re not to worry,” Genny said. “I will look after everything at home until you get back.” She meant it, too. This was Genny at her most determined.
“I won’t be too very long.”
“No, I don’t expect so.” Genny didn’t say this to Leannah. She was looking at Harry, and her expression was distinctly uneasy.
“Genevieve.” Leannah laid her hand over her sister’s. Her throat felt unexpectedly tight and she had to strain to keep her words even. “You do understand why I’m doing this?”
“Not completely, but I do know you deserve any chance at happiness. I just hope Mr. Rayburn proves worthy, even for a little while.”
“Surely the fact that he proposed marriage speaks well of his character?”
“Perhaps. But I can’t help wondering . . .” Genny shook her head, and squeezed Leannah’s fingers. Then, much to Leannah’s relief, she smiled. The expression was faint, but it was genuine. “No. Considering how we came to be here, I won’t start casting fresh glooms now. I trust you, Lea, and you have the best heart of anyone I know. This is a great deal for a sister to admit, so I hope you won’t ask me to repeat it.”
“I won’t.” Tears stung Leannah’s eyes. “I promise.”
“And I promise you’ll have all the help I can give to make everything right.”
They embraced then, and there was nothing faint about this gesture. Leannah felt her heart might burst from love and gratitude. She felt there were a thousand things she should say—explanations, promises, and apologies. But she didn’t have the chance. At that moment, the door opened and Martin—smiling for the first time since their arrival—shouted that the carriage was ready.
The crowd cheered again and parted as far as it could to let Harry make his way across to her, and bow with a flourish.
“Mrs. Rayburn?” He held out his hand.
Leannah stepped away from Genny, and let Harry lay her arm over his. This occasioned another cheer and many more hoisted glasses. The whole crowd formed up behind them, a loud and merry escort to the barouche. Mr. Jessop himself opened the door, and bowed.
With exaggerated care and solicitude, Harry helped Leannah into the carriage. Gossip stamped uneasily and Rumor shook her head, making clear their opinions of crowds, late starts, and bridegrooms. Leannah wished she could climb up onto the box to take the reins, but her injured hands made that impossible. She bit her lip and reminded herself that Harry had already proved himself to be an able man around horses. She sat on all her cautions and suggestions as to how he should drive them, and instead asked, “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.” Harry was making a great show of shaking out the driving rug and laying it across her lap. His hands brushed her legs and her hips as he wrapped the rough woolen covering about her and he certainly took his time smoothing out every wrinkle across her thighs and knees. The feeling of his hands caressing her, even through so many layers of cloth was enough to set her heart racing.
“Perhaps I don’t like surprises,” she replied, with a dignified lift of her chin as she arranged her shawl. Mrs. Jessop had given Leannah the thick woolen shawl she’d worn most of the night by way of a wedding present.
“Nonsense.” This word was accompanied by a bold twinkle in Harry’s steel blue eyes. In time, that twinkle was going to become either endearing or exasperating, possibly both.
“If you say something horridly conventional like ‘all women like surprises,’ I will slap your face,” she informed him.
At this, Harry flashed her one of his magnificent, sunny smiles. A pang of need shot through Leannah. The twinkle might be neither here nor there, but the smile could bring her to her knees. She swallowed. On her knees with Harry suddenly seemed like an eminently desirable place to be.
“If you don’t like surprises, it’s only because you haven’t had the right kind,” he was saying. “It’s on the list of things I mean to remedy in your life, Mrs. Rayburn.”
“You’ve made a list?”
“Oh, yes.” Harry climbed up on the box and let Martin hand him the reins. “I think you’ll find me a very thorough and methodical man. Now, do sit back, my dear, relax, and let me take care of you a little.”
Leannah did sit back, but the heat in Harry’s eyes and in those words was going to make it impossible to relax.
“The bouquet!” shouted some stout woman from the crowd. “Come on, missus!”
She’d all but forgotten the little bundle of snowdrops. Leannah turned. The first face she saw among the small knot of women who had assembled among the men was Genny’s. Her sister was trying to smile, but it was clearly still difficult for her. Worry touched Leannah. She aimed carefully, and tossed the flowers. For a heartbeat, she thought Genny might let them fall. But she did not. She caught them, and even raised them high. The women around her cheered and laughed. Genny met Leannah’s gaze, and nodded.
Also not a rousing endorsement, but it would do for now.
* * *
The afternoon had turned fair and relatively warm. All around them the first haze of spring green lay on the fields, and if the wind was slightly chill as it rushed through her hair, it was filled with the sweet scent of warming earth.
Leannah was used to being a passenger, of course. London society frowned on women driving themselves. But she never let any hired driver take charge of Gossip and Rumor without distinct misgivings. The horses realized as soon as Harry took the reins they were in the hands of a stranger, and they were up to all manner of tricks—falling out of step, working their bits, bobbing about in the harness like half-broken colts. Several times, Leannah almost started to her feet, but she managed to hold herself in check. Since she could not drive, it was futile to shout suggestions from the seats like a nervous duenna in a hackney.
It helped that from the start Harry had demonstrated he was a patient man, and experienced with horses. He certainly proved this first impression to be correct now. He gave the team just enough play on the ribbons to let them think they were being allowed their own way. Seeing they were not to be constrained by inexpert or harsh hands, the matched grays fell back into what they loved best, which was to run. As the road was clear and the weather fine, Harry let them run.
But where were they running to? Leannah gripped the carriage rail and watched the passing countryside. The fields with their new greenery and pale rows of last year’s stubble were giving way to clusters of cottages as the city walls came into view on the horizon. Her mind kept turning over
possible destinations once they reached town. Did Harry have a house or rooms to take her to? Or did he mean to try to find them a hotel, or another inn, or even a coffeehouse? From this consideration, her idle thoughts turned to imagining Harry in each of the different settings.
In bachelor rooms she pictured him as sly, mischievous. He’d sit them together on a sofa. Then, he’d gather her close and whisper stories of all the exotic ways he’d learned to please women on his many travels. His knowing competent hands would work the tapes of her gown. He would peel the layers of muslin and cambric slowly from her body and set about demonstrating each pleasure, in his thorough and methodical fashion.
In a gentleman’s house, he’d be courtly and correct, leaving her in her own room to get undressed. A silk wrapper would be laid out for her. After a suitable interval, he would come to her, and slowly undo the sash of that same wrapper. His eyes would light up when he saw she was entirely naked underneath.
Gossip and Rumor had run themselves long enough to tamp down their first reckless impulses, and permitted themselves be slowed to a brisk walk. A burst of impatience skittered through Leannah. She did not want them to slow. She could see nothing of Harry but his back, but that view showed her his broad shoulders, and did quite enough to remind her of how solid and strong he was, and how wicked and willing she’d felt in his arms. With such thoughts as companions, the ride already felt interminable. Whatever this mysterious destination was, she wanted them to be there now, this minute. She had fantasized long enough. She wanted this man—her husband—in her arms and under her hands.
Unfortunately, wanting and wishing did not shorten the road. By the time they made their way through the gates and into the streets of Westminster, twilight had already fallen. The winding streets were filled to the brim with carriages, coaches, vans, and chairs, all jostling for whatever space could be found. These were just the sort of conditions Gossip and Rumor hated, which did nothing to help their progress.
Leannah’s heated imaginings had faded, but her restlessness had not. If anything, it grew worse, and far colder. While they had been on the highway, she’d felt separate from her life. Now they were back amid the walls and crowds of London. Anyone or anything might be approaching them, and they’d never see it coming.
She wondered where Uncle Clarence’s ancient slow-coach was now, and how late it would be when he and Genny finally arrived back home. Had they remembered to send a letter ahead to Father or at least Mrs. Falwell, saying that all was right and that they were returning? Aunt Clarence was with Father, and she understood him, but what if he grew badly confused as he did sometimes, or fell into one of his black moods? Then there was Jeremy to be thought of. He could not be entirely trusted to sit patiently at home if word had reached him that an adventure was underway.
Leannah closed her eyes against the looming city. Shadows, smoke, and noise carried all her responsibilities back to her in one great bundle, to be delivered to Mrs. Wakefield. Those responsibilities had never heard of a Mrs. Rayburn. They had no notion such a person existed.
But I am Mrs. Rayburn, she told herself with as much firmness as she could manage. It is signed and witnessed. It is done. It is real.
She rested her head back against the seat and did not open her eyes. It was as if she thought to hide in her private darkness like a child hiding in the nursery, stubbornly believing that if she could not see, she could not be seen.
She stayed like that for a long time.
* * *
“Are you awake, Leannah? We’ve arrived.”
Leannah’s eyes flew open.
She must have fallen asleep. She hadn’t felt the carriage halt, let alone noted that the neighborhood had changed from winding Westminster streets to a ruler-straight London avenue. Stone and brick houses that spoke of trade and wealth surrounded them, and a steady stream of richly appointed carriages flowed past.
Harry had drawn them to a halt in front of one of the stone buildings. Two wings of three stories each spread out to take up most of the block. Stone steps led up to an Italianate entranceway flanked by fluted columns. Rows of casement windows showed velvet curtains shimmering in the light of good fires and clean lamps.
“It’s the Colonnade. A first-class establishment,” Harry added, with a trace of anxiety in his voice. “We often lodge our business partners here, although I’ve never stayed myself.”
Before she could answer, a small army of men and boys in scarlet livery emerged from the hotel, to take hold of bridles and reins, to hold aloft torches and set steps in place so Harry could alight without accidently muddying his boots in the gutter.
“It looks lovely,” Leannah murmured, but not with the level of reassurance she hoped to muster. She felt suddenly and keenly aware of her appearance. During the day, her plain, disheveled dress and windblown hair might have been explained away, as could her lack of bonnet and gloves. But evening was filling up the streets. No woman of substance should be abroad unless she was cloaked, gowned, and jeweled.
“Don’t worry,” murmured Harry. He reached over the carriage door to take her hand and kiss the back, right on the edge of her bandages. “I told you, I’m known here. There will be no vulgar mistakes. You wait here for a minute, and I’ll go see that my note made it through. It was brief, so there may be one or two details left to sort out.”
But not even the lingering warmth of Harry’s smile could loosen the knot in Leannah’s chest. A gleaming carriage drew up behind hers. Two ladies emerged from the hotel and descended the broad stairs. The torchlight allowed her to clearly see their suspicious and disapproving glances. She tried to smooth her hair, but it was to no avail. Nothing was improved by the involuntary way she kept trying to calculate the cost of even a single room in this place, never mind the expense of a meal, and of stabling the horses, all of which had to be added up with the sum Harry had already paid out to rescue herself and Genevieve.
Genny only did this because she wanted to secure us the money her marriage to Mr. Dickenson would bring. Her speech to Uncle Clarence came ringing back. If I marry Mr. Rayburn, we are taken care of and she’s free to make a different choice, a better choice.
At the time, she’d meant those words to convince him to conduct the ceremony and sign the license. Now, enlarged and echoing, they sounded like the calculations of a gazetted fortune hunter. Or something much worse.
I can’t go through with this. Panic descended and Leannah clenched her cold hand around the gold and diamond band on her little finger. The bit of jewelry had taken on the weight of an iron fetter. It was an awful, selfish idea. I won’t do this to him, or to myself. I’ll tell him it was a mistake. I’ll thank him for going through with the ceremony in order to get Genevieve back home, and I’ll leave him here. I’ll tell Genevieve . . . something. Something will occur to me. There’s surely been no time for scandal to erupt yet. We’ll work out what to say. Almost anything will be more believable than the truth.
“Why, Mrs. Wakefield!” cried a woman’s voice. “I was certain that was you!”
Oh, no. With the slow, syrupy sensation of impending doom that took hold in the worst of nightmares, Leannah turned. A closed carriage had halted alongside her barouche and a mature woman leaned out the window. Torchlight gleamed on her plum velvet cloak and the half a shop’s worth of jewels that glittered in her dark hair. Not Dorothea Plaice.
If there was a greater and more persistent gossip of her acquaintance than Miss Plaice, Leannah could not think of her name, or his. A permanent and unusually wealthy spinster, Dorothea had helped raise her flock of nieces and nephews. This seemed to have given her a particular taste for knowing and managing everyone else’s business.
“I’m so glad we’ve met!” cried Dorothea before Leannah even had a chance to say good evening. “I heard the most dreadful rumor at Mrs. Ibbotson’s this morning. Now you can absolutely contradict it.”
There was no hope at all this rumor could be something small, like the price of a gown, or Mrs.
Spinnaker patronizing yet another young painter. Nothing to do but face it out. Leannah rallied nerve and sense. “I’d be glad to contradict it if I can, Miss Plaice. What is this rumor?”
“Why that little Genevieve eloped yesterday! Mrs. Ibbotson said she heard it from her maid, who heard it from her cousin . . . well, never mind the daisy chain.” She waved it all away with a wild flutter of silk-gloved hands. “The point is, if Genevieve had eloped, you would not be sitting here so calmly.” She paused, and seemed for the first time to take in the state of Leannah’s dress and general appearance. “Would you?” she concluded rather more sharply.
But Leannah never spoke her answer, because just then Harry trotted down the hotel steps.
“Everything is ready for us and . . . I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He bowed to Miss Plaice.
“I’m sure you did not,” Dorothea replied somewhat frostily, drawing herself back inside her carriage. “But I don’t believe I’ve had the privilege of your acquaintance, sir.”
Leannah took a deep breath. For a heartbeat, she met Harry’s gaze. She saw there a moment of fear and she understood it. He’s waiting to see if I will deny him.
“Miss Dorothea Plaice, may I introduce Mr. Harry Rayburn. My husband.”
“Husband!”
Leannah allowed herself a small measure of satisfaction at having made Dorothea’s jaw quite literally drop.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Plaice.” Harry maintained an air of perfect aplomb as he bowed.
“You see, Genevieve isn’t married,” Leannah told her. “I am.”
“Well!” Miss Plaice pressed her hand to her generous bosom. “I am astonished beyond measure. I do beg your pardon, Mr. Rayburn.” She bobbed her head. “And do please let me wish you very happy. But it is all so sudden! Everyone is so very fond of Mrs. Wake . . . Mrs. Rayburn I suppose I must say now. There is not one of her acquaintance who has not longed to see her comfortably settled.”