The Bashful Bride

by Vanessa Riley

  “Where are you heading?” The old man looked at him then toward her and back. “Your maid wouldn’t say.”

  “Yes, sir. I said you were debating where to go next.”

  Arthur had a feeling she wasn’t acting anymore. Her doubts about going to Gretna had probably tripled with his recklessness, but he wouldn’t expose her to these strangers. She needed to know he supported her as much as he wanted her to support him. He raised his wrapped arm, and it hurt a little less. “I’m having problems recalling. The boy said it might be the ’nesia. The ports of Liverpool are not out of reach.”

  The old man eyed him very curiously. “We’re from Liverpool. A little out of your way from here. You could’ve chosen a more direct route than crossing the River Sark.” He grunted and tapped his chin. “You from those parts? You do look a little familiar now.”

  Arthur’s heart started to pound. He forgot how well known his uncle had been in Liverpool, and how many people used to say Arthur was the very image of his uncle.

  Scratching his bald head and wiggling his thin glasses, Smyth asked, “So, you going to visit relatives back there?”

  The man surely wanted answers, perhaps a name or connection he’d know, but Arthur wasn’t giving away anything. He only wanted to be alone with Ester and exchange their thoughts in privacy. “May I have some tea? My throat is dry.”

  Smiling with her perfect pouty lips, surely masking her concern, Ester lifted the cup to his mouth. The sweet smell of the calming chamomile tea, the soft lilac smell of her skin, tickled his nose. He could drink them both up.

  After a good gulp, he lay back. “Two days will cost me. The delay will hurt my return to London or Liverpool. Miss Croome, could you take dictation in your book?”

  The old man clicked his tongue again. “In a hurry again? Perhaps your maid can convince you to stay at least another night resting. You might be able to get some sense in him. That shoulder’s not broken, but it was a bad hit to the head.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll try.” She took her sketchbook from the tray. “That correspondence, Mr. Bex. I should write as you dictate.”

  “She writes, too? Well, you said Mr. Bex was eccentric in his choices of help. London actors.” The man shook his head as he went to the door. “I’ll leave you two to write. I’ll tell my son that you’re now awake. Maybe send for the boy when your maid is done. We should watch you and make sure that ’nesia doesn’t get worse.”

  After a few more taps of his cane, the door shut. Arthur let out a sigh of relief.

  Ester clapped her hands before folding her arms about her sketchbook. “Is this what it feels like to take on a role at the theater?”

  “You’ve done quite well with acting since we’ve begun this trip. The temptress in the woods and now a nursemaid.” He sat up with a grunt and took the sketch pad with his good hand and set it down, clearing the one physical block to holding her. “You could’ve just said the truth. You are the one who advocates truth and fidelity.”

  Her pacing began again. “Between us, between husband and wife. Acting is merely acting, becoming a persona on the stage. My stage just happens to be small, and it opens when I’m panicked.” She put a hand to her hip. “What sounds more plausible, Bex? A famous actor is eloping with a Blackamoor bride, a famous actor was attacked by a treacherous Blackamoor, or a famous eccentric actor is traveling the countryside with his exotic maid?”

  “None of them sound ordinary. You’re not ordinary. Far from it, Ester.”

  She sat on the edge of the mattress then sprang back up. “You’ve been unconscious for almost two days because of this accident. I was so scared. I couldn’t take the chance that they wouldn’t help you because you chose to consort with me, and I’m not going to rot in some jail because you weren’t able to defend me. I chose the easy path, and I acted a part I know others would accept. We are so far from London, I didn’t trust that things would be different. I wasn’t taking a chance—with your life or my own.”

  He reached for her, but she was six or more inches beyond his fingertips. “I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help, but this is wrong. You’re a lovely young woman who saved her fiancé’s life—again.”

  Sweeping to the window, she batted the muslin curtains between her palms. She started to weep. “Bex, I was lucky that the phaeton had landed back on its wheels. I was able to get the one good horse to pull it and lead you up to this inn. I would have said anything to make sure you got well.”

  When she came near, he grabbed her arm. Sitting further up, he gritted through the pain and drew her near. “I put you through something awful.” He pulled her against his nightshirt, held her sobbing form against him. “You are resourceful, but I never should’ve caused so much distress. Now, help me get dressed. We need to get out of here and go get married. Two days is enough time to be caught.”

  “Maybe we should be caught. Maybe we should end this. I was scared out of my wits. I almost lost you, Bex—all because I had to elope right away. We didn’t plan this. We didn’t think through each step. This is my fault.”

  “No, woman. The fault is mine alone. I wanted to prove myself to you, and instead, I caused you more grief.”

  She pushed to be released, but he wouldn’t let her go, not yet.

  “I must be bad luck, Bex. Since we’ve met you’ve been in a fight, a robbery, and now, an accident. What is next? Attacked at a rally? Will I have to stand by and see you wounded at another Peterloo?”

  “Shhh. Don’t speak of such.” He cradled her until she stilled.

  Her face found that spot between his shoulder and neck. Her heavy breaths sent tingles into his skin. “This is just a rough start, Ester. It can only get better, and maybe we’ll be able to change minds. Then folks like these people will know it is more plausible for you to be my love than my servant. I won’t push tonight, but in the morning, we’ll walk to Gretna Green. We’ll take our vows before the blacksmith.”

  “You still want to marry me? You are crazy, Bex.”

  Maybe he was. He lifted her chin and captured her beautiful topaz eyes. “Hopefully, you are, too, and you will agree. Ester Croome, let’s marry, if you’ll still have me.”

  Her fingers rose to his cheek, and she stroked the scruff that had to be three days of growth. “I’ll ask the boy to come help you shave. Must be clean shaven when we leave here tomorrow.”

  “Yes, for our wedding, Ester?”

  She stood, but words of agreement did not leave her mouth, though she did use those lips to kiss his forehead. “I’ll send the boy.”

  “Ester.”

  She picked up her sketchbook. “Hearing you say my name too many times might make me rash.”

  “Ester, you are too levelheaded to be rash. Ester, dearest Ester.”

  She waggled a finger at him as she moved to the door. “If we leave here tomorrow, Mr. Bex, you can still make it to your play on time.”

  He’d forgotten about that. Yes, there was still time, if they rushed, but that was the last thing he wanted. “I’m not rushing anywhere with you. The play will wait. If I lose this role another will come. Why don’t you come back and sit next to me?”

  “No. If I stay too long, they’ll think I am a different type of servant.”

  He tried again to get up, for he knew in his gut she’d decided against him. “Ester, where are you off to?”

  She put her hand to her stomach as she looked at him. “The servant’s quarters. It’s clean there. I can sketch and nap in a bedroll, and it has to be my turn in the bathtub. I want a bath so badly.”

  “Don’t stay away too long. Come back so we can walk to the Gretna’s blacksmith tonight.”

  Those eyes of hers went big again. “Oh, your coat and shirt are on the chair. I washed them clean of stains, No blood this time. This time.”

  Before he could reply, she had ducked through the door.

  The girl was scared, perhaps too doubtful of him to marry. Ester was wonderful, supportive, resilient—exactly the kind o
f woman he wanted. How could he convince her to go through with the marriage?

  Knowing his past, knowing he’d still have to take risks to fight for abolition, maybe she was right to be skeptical.

  He lay back down and covered his eyes. She’d lost faith in him. After all this trouble, he’d allow her to beg off. That was the sensible thing to do.

  But Arthur had not been sensible since he’d agreed to elope with Miss Ester Croome at the White Horse Cellar Inn. Nothing he felt right now was sensible.

  Everything inside said to fight for their union, but he’d do what was best for her. The notion of putting her on a coach back to London ripped his heart in two.

  …

  Ester waited for the footman to give her the fresh water for the kitchen. She took an easier breath now that she was out of Bex’s room. Joy had filled her soul that he’d awakened and was in his right mind and didn’t have the amnesia the boy said.

  But danger was still awaiting them. Her father could catch them now, five days gone, if he hadn’t given up looking. And if she and Bex wed, a Peterloo attack spurred by his rallies was a true and present danger. Eloping was the stupidest thing she’d ever done. This harrowing trip had been foolhardy. Tears threatened as the servant gave her the bucket. Ester didn’t know whether to curtsy or run. She offered a mumbled, “Thank you,” and took the water.

  She shook herself as she headed for the stairs. No more fretting, no more pacing between chores, no more wondering how she’d care for an ailing Bex. He was awake, and she was about to have a bath.

  The water steamed. The heavy bucket sloshed each step, so she slowed and took it tread by tread. None of the precious water for her bath could spill; she’d not get more, and this was the first moment the innkeeper had allowed her access to the bathing chamber.

  Finally, at the door to the room housing the copper tub she set her bucket down and wiped her eyes. Her hands were rough on her face. Bex had clasped her palm. Could he not tell her fingers were raw? Of course he couldn’t. He hadn’t seen the list of tasks the innkeeper had given her, the awful things she’d scrubbed, just to stay in a horrid cold room on the floor.

  No dawdling, Ester. She chided herself. She needed to bathe before someone of perceived higher rank arrived and took her turn.

  A warm bath, soaking in heavenly water with the lilac soap in her pocket would make the world good again. Then she’d remember the greatest actor in London was alive and still wanted to marry her.

  She popped open the door with her elbow and powered inside. Ester set the bucket down and locked the door behind her. Then she tore off her apron and started to undo the front of her gown in anticipation.

  Then she turned, intending to stare at the copper tub as if it were an old lost friend.

  But it wasn’t.

  It was strange and awful, and it felt like a horse had kicked her in her middle.

  Strands of red hair curled over the hammered wall of the tub.

  She grasped her stomach. That could be wiped away.

  Of course, the tub wasn’t ready for her as Mrs. Fitterwall would have had it at Nineteen Fournier. She came closer, ready to use her apron to give the tub a cleaning, and stopped.

  Scum floated at the surface.

  Heavy stains ringed the walls.

  And more strands of other colored hair bobbed in the murky water.

  Nausea flooded her throat as Ester’s heart crumbled, shattering to bits.

  The tears started.

  From her eyes, past her nose—plop, plop into the tub.

  Every salty drop she’d hidden in her bosom was wrung out of her soul. How could she dip in the dirt of every person who’d bathed today, every person of higher class than a Blackamoor maid?

  She couldn’t.

  The hot water she’d lugged from downstairs would have to be used to clean the tub, not for a bath.

  Ester sobbed harder.

  She cried for Bex and the injuries this elopement had caused him.

  She cried for Mama and Papa, who must think her dead or debased, five days gone.

  She cried for herself, her stinging pink fingers, and for not valuing what she had. Why was it so easy to discount her family’s love, their care, as pride?

  At Nineteen Fournier she was second. The tub and room had always been pristine when she stepped inside, and she could always ask Mrs. Fitterwall for fresh hot water.

  And the housekeeper never seemed to mind, for at Nineteen Fournier, Ester was worthy.

  Ester was worthy, a daughter sheltered by love.

  She’d forgotten how special her life had been and how valuable the freedom she’d possessed truly was. Could her parents ever forgive her?

  She needed to be back home, not here. The prodigal daughter needed to beg for entry at Nineteen Fournier. If only they would take her in, shamed and all.

  And if Mama could forgive her, forgive every traitorous thought Ester had ever held inside, then maybe Ester could forgive herself.

  A knock on the door made her startle. “Yes.”

  “Papa said there’s a guest who needs to use the tub. He says it needs to be cleaned.”

  Done with everything—the pretenses, her own stubbornness—Ester dried her eyes and stood up. She was Josiah Croome’s daughter. She had been birthed from a line of strong women, as her mother had claimed.

  And it was time to go home.

  She took her shawl down, exposed her curls, pinned up her dress, then opened the door.

  Timothy was there with his ruddy eager face.

  “Young man.” She reached in the pocket of her gown. “Here is a farthing to clean the tub. Then tell your papa Bex’s maid has quit and is going home.”

  The boy’s gaze rose to hers then lowered to her shiny coin. “Yes, Bex’s maid. No problem.”

  “Thank you.” She moved to the door. “When you are done, have your father rent me a coach back to London. I have enough money to be its only passenger.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The boy jumped inside, picked up a rag, and started cleaning the swill.

  As fast as she could, Ester ran to the attic room and collected her bag. She didn’t speak to the other women up there. She couldn’t. They didn’t have parents to run home to and be saved from this life. Knowing this was right, she yanked out her carriage dress, the one she’d cleaned and pressed after taking care of Bex’s coat. This dress would suit travel better than the thin one she’d worn to be a maid. That one, and all these memories, would need to be burned.

  Once changed, she pushed her sketchbook and her simple gown into her bag and clasped the handle. Lifting her chin, she left the servant quarters and headed to Bex. She’d release him from their engagement and say her goodbyes. It was only right.

  Her steps slowed, and Ester let her mind dream once more of loving Bex and him loving her. Then she let that notion drown in that tub of murky water. Heart aching, she kept her slippers moving all the way to his door. She cared for Bex the man deeply, but this life of being last wasn’t for her. She knew that now. She deserved more, and she wanted more.

  Before her strength abandoned her, she knocked on his door. Another quick pound led to a husky, “Enter.”

  Bex sat on the edge of the bed. He’d exchanged his night shirt for breeches and his shirt with a collar. The one bad arm was tucked inside, but not in the sleeve. The bulk of the bandage could be seen through the white material. “Ester, I am glad you have come back. I was coming to look for you.”

  She put down her bag, but picked it back up, holding it like a shield against her heart. “I have something to say to you.” Her words were rushed, but she had to tell him this elopement was over before his voice or the way he smiled at her made her go silent.

  “Me, too,” he said, “but you first.”

  She thought about sitting across from him in the chair the boy had used to keep watch over him as they directed her away, but that would only remind her of the fear she had of Bex dying, of how much him living meant to her. Sucking in
a breath, concentrating her strength, she put the bag down again. “I’m taking the next coach back to London. I’ll tell my parents that I started to elope and changed my mind.”

  “I see.”

  Folding her arms across her bosom, she felt her pulse beat faster as his frown ripped into her chest. “I think our worlds are too far apart, Bex. You don’t want me to pretend I’m a servant to be accepted where we go. And I can’t have you pushing yourself to exhaustion to prove a point. This won’t work.”

  He crossed the room and stood near her. The mustard ointment on his forehead around the big purple bruise in his chestnut hair overpowered the laundered smell of his shirt, the shirt she’d washed with her two hands. “You are worth the extra mile, Ester. But it’s not just you rethinking this. There are things about my past, about being a loner, that disqualify me from being a good husband to you.”

  Taking her hand in his, he held it against his chest. “My haste has left you unprotected. That’s wrong, Ester. For all you’ve done for me, I have to be a person you can count upon to do the right thing. Letting you go is the right thing.”

  He spewed nonsense, probably just words to make her feel better. That was sweet, for he had to know this hurt, cut like glass, slicing up her silly dream of a happily-ever-after with him.

  “Arthur Bex is a famous actor, probably the best in the theater. I spent what feels like a lifetime loving your stage presence. With this trip, as harrowing as it has been, I’ve come to know you. This feels like another lifetime. You are a wonderful man, but we aren’t good together. I guess we are saying the same thing.” She reached up, tugged his collar forward to kiss his cheek. “It was a fun adventure, Bex. I’ll remember it always.”

  “Are you going back to the arranged marriage, the one set up by your parents? Is there more safety in marrying a philanderer of your own race than in marrying me?”

  She didn’t want Jordan. Hopefully, he didn’t want her now. She looked to the floorboards, to his onyx boots flecked with sandy white dust. “That’s not a fair question.”