The Bashful Bride

by Vanessa Riley

  Frederica lifted her spry head. The music stopped. She stood up from the polished chestnut instrument and floated to Ester in an emerald silk gown with epaulette braiding about the sleeves, a dress Ester had designed.

  “If you are going out, Miss Burghley…I’ll…”

  Her friend was at her side, holding her up as the tears fell. “Templeton,” she said, “bring some tea and a hair brush.”

  The man looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  Ester surely had.

  The grandfather clock moaned thirty after seven, and she trembled. Bex could be dying from an angry mob, and she didn’t know where or how to save him.

  Helping Ester to the sofa, Frederica sat beside her. She gathered her in her arms and just rocked her. “When you’re ready, tell me what happened. And who I have to bribe to go beat the tar out of Bex. Lousy actor. I should’ve told him so. How dare an actor answer my advertisement.”

  Shaking her head, Ester wiped her eyes. “He’s a great actor, but I don’t know where he is.”

  Frederica smoothed her hands on the velvety nape of the indigo sofa. “Tell me what has happened. Did you marry? Did your parents stop you? Are you sure I don’t need to have someone beat the tar out of him?”

  Though, she didn’t know about the last one; maybe a good shaking was all that he needed, Ester waved her hand. “Slow down. I’ll tell you everything. Yes, Bex and I married. Yes, my parents caught us. They are the ones who insisted we go through with it, then they disowned me.”

  Her brow crinkling with questions, Frederica popped up. “You’re married, so you successfully eloped. Your parents were there? I don’t see the problem. Was Bex mean to you? Was he violent? Do I need to tell my father?”

  “Frederica, you’re not listening. Oh, why doesn’t Theodosia live in town, not hours away. She’s easier to talk to about these things.”

  Frederica’s lips turned down like she’d bitten beetroot or a turnip. “Our friend doesn’t need to be upset right now.”

  “Why?”

  She waved her hand across her mouth as if she’d given away a secret. “I’ll tell you later, but first tell me very clearly and precisely what has happened.”

  “Bex and I married. He’s kind and funny and never laid a hand on me except to kiss me. He’s dreamy at it. The best kisser, all I could want, but he doesn’t understand the danger he faces. There’s a reporter who wants to destroy him, and tonight he’s attending a rally.”

  Folding her lean fingers together, Frederica said nothing for at least a minute. “You came here looking like a drowned rat not because he left you, or was mean to you, but because he went to a rally. Hmmm. A man given to speeches went to a rally. Shocking.”

  “You don’t understand. He can be hurt tonight, and no will be there to help him. I’m not there to protect him.”

  Frederica went back to her pianoforte. She flexed her fingers and plunked at the keys, doing her scales higher and higher. “Perhaps you should go there.”

  Ester put her hands on her head, squashing her bonnet and making more of her shaggy chignon sputter out. She didn’t care. Concern for Bex’s safety had her near tears. “I don’t know where there is. I came here because I didn’t know what else to do. I thought you could help me reason. Maybe I should’ve stayed in Cheapside.”

  “You live in Cheapside now?” Frederica made a harsh bang at the keyboard. “I don’t know if that is an elevation. Nineteen Fournier is a palace in comparison. Ester, you came here because you want action. You want Bex. Let’s go to the rally and find him. It’s at the Serpentine at Hyde Park.”

  Shocked, Ester raised her head to the coffered ceiling. “How do you know this?”

  “An old friend of my father’s. He’s an earl. I met with him today because the duke asked me to. The rally was all he could talk about.” Frowning deeply, she shook her head. “I think he thought that attending the abolition rally would impress me, since I am mulatto with a Blackamoor mother.” She plunked another horrid note that haunted and rang with finality. “Abolition is a worthy cause, but why not talk to me about poetry and dancing, something light and fun, like I’m a potential match or a friend. The earl won’t do. I’ll have to place another advertisement. I’m trying not to fret, but I’m running out of time to find a husband.”

  Walking to the piano, Ester smiled at Frederica. She put a palm to her shoulder. “You will find the perfect respondent to your advertisement. It will happen. You’re meant to be happy.”

  Her friend started playing again. This time it was a bittersweet melody. “Father is dining with Miss Stevens again. An engagement will come any day.”

  “Has he said so?”

  “No, but this woman is different. She’s biding her time so carefully, being nice to him and me while she measures the curtains. She’s my age, but I know she will be the mistress of this house. There will be no place for me. I won’t be happy losing my father.”

  Ester sat by her side. “What if Miss Stevens makes him happy, too? What if being with her makes him feel young and alive?”

  “He’s not. He’s my father. The duke should be at home drinking hot milk for his gout.”

  “Frederica, that’s not fair. The heart wants what the heart wants.”

  Her friend played a few more chords, her long, elegant fingers traipsing the ivory keys. “Of course, it does. So why don’t you go after what your heart wants. Bex is at the Serpentine. I could take you.”

  Ester bounced up, pacing in her worn slippers across the expensive gray silk tapestry running the floor. “He should not have gone. Why can’t he be home and let me listen to him snore?”

  Frederica hit an off note. “What?”

  Stopping mid-step, Ester folded her arms about her. “It’s silly, but that’s how I knew my father had made it home safe when we lived above the warehouse. His snores vibrating the walls let me know he’d come home. We were still a family. I don’t even know why I’m here. I should be at Nineteen Fournier begging to be forgiven. I should admit my parents were right to shelter me and right to choose someone for me. I’ve made horrid choices.”

  “If Bex isn’t at your side, you at least know he’s fighting for an important cause, not out carousing. We are lucky to be born in London, Ester. Your mother’s people are enslaved in Jamaica. I often wonder how she’s here and free.”

  Those wonders should’ve been Ester’s, but she’d taken for granted so many things about her Mama and never broached the subject, too often thinking the woman delicate. Her mother was a lioness. Would she ever forgive Ester? “Mama was born in Jamaica, but her mother was kidnapped from Africa and transported on a slave ship. I think an earlier run of that horrible ship the Zhonda. She may have even had relatives that died on that ship’s last run.”

  Her friend folded her arms but barely covered her trembling. “The Zhonda killed so many. That trial, I believe my father followed it so carefully, he kept the clippings. I found some documents while rifling through his papers, trying to find birthday presents.”

  “Neither of us is allowed to rummage through our father’s things ever. Too many horrible secrets.”

  “Yes. I don’t know if it does anything to know how big of a hypocrite the duke could be. He was an investor in the insurance company the captain of the Zhonda tried to defraud by killing his enslaved cargo. What if my mother could be related to one of the enslaved men who died? But I couldn’t ask him, Ester. Just realize how lucky we are and how hopeless life is for those that look like us but are not born in England.”

  “We are lucky, Frederica. I didn’t value what we have. I admire the fight in Bex, but I want him safe, too. I don’t want the fight for abolition to cost his life. What if he’s killed and nothing changes? Then what?”

  Frederica lifted from the pianoforte and wrapped her in a big embrace. “It’s the fight that he wants, but he also wants you. You love him, right?”

  Ester did—more than she thought possible. That was why she was so furious he would
risk his life, their happiness, and leave without telling her.

  A sharp knock announced Templeton’s return to the room. He entered bearing a large tray. In the middle was a setting of tea and a silver hairbrush. He set it down on the low table in front of the sofa. “Your items, Miss Burghley.”

  Frederica came to him, the short emerald train of her gown swishing at her low heels. She picked up the hairbrush and waved it like a wand. “Templeton, draw the carriage around. We have an emergency.”

  The man looked at them beneath his spectacles. “It’s late, ma’am. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Templeton, I am. Please hurry.”

  He made a stiff bow, maybe an inch with his chin, and then he backed from the room.

  “The man isn’t happy. He’s no Clancy. Frederica, are you sure you want to be mistress here?”

  Her friend picked up the brush and started undoing and unpinning Ester’s poor braid. “Templeton will do what I ask. That is why the duke pays him so well. He’s a gruff servant, but this is my home. This is all I know.” She sighed. The notes weren’t light. They were dull, and hollow, and Ester’s heart broke for her, but she was in no position to prove that happy endings were possible, not with Bex in danger.

  With another few twists, Frederica had Ester’s hair in order. She wouldn’t look disgraceful chasing after her husband.

  “Ester, we’ll be on our way so you can claim your husband and take him home.”

  “If he’ll come home. But how will he make amends? He distracted me so he could go do this. It was deceitful. I can’t stand lies.”

  “Did he tell you he was not going, but went anyway?”

  “No, Bex didn’t say he wasn’t going. He just made me believe he would stay with me.” He gave her the treasure of a hot bath, with clean water and fresh soap. The perfect gift—an illusion like her dream of a wonderful marriage. “I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

  “Ester, if that were true, you’d have gone home to the Croomes. You’re in love with a man, one who knows his own mind. You can’t control that, any more than I can control my father. If Bex wants you, he’ll come home, but let’s show him the way.”

  Wanting to nod, Ester looked out the window and waited for the sound of the carriage. They had to get to Bex before he was hurt. And before she’d fully committed to this marriage, he’d have to promise to take none of these risks again.

  Ester dropped her face into her palms. She didn’t have much hope. Her heart was his, and he’d already risked breaking it.

  …

  The crowds at the Serpentine grew thick, gathering around the sand and the partially dried lake bed. Arthur had butterflies in his stomach. It would be his turn to speak soon, and he hadn’t written or practiced anything. How was he to speak his mind, when it was focused on Ester?

  Ester.

  Delicious kisses.

  Welcoming arms.

  All ruined by his deception.

  Arthur had tricked her. He hadn’t lied but he’d made her a bath, made her comfortable, then left her alone. He shook his head. It was well past eight. She wasn’t still soaking in the tub. She had to know he’d left. A groan left his lips. The woman deserved to be the center of his world, and he’d deceived her. How would she ever trust him?

  He was horrible. How would she ever be the woman to defend and believe in him, if she never trusted him? Tonight, he’d tell her everything and beg for one more chance.

  No secrets would be between them, but she would have to understand his fight. Was that too much to hope for, to have understanding, trust and support?

  The noise of the crowds whipped up again.

  Arthur looked up and saw the rail-thin Wilberforce take to the bench that the organizers had made into an impromptu stage. With hands to his dark coat, he lifted his head, staring toward the growing crowd, the fire torches of the organizers. “Gentlemen, this stain on our hands, enslavement, it does not go away because it is an ocean away. This blot must be removed. The road to change is fraught, but let us not despair. Abolition is a blessed cause, and success will crown our exertions.”

  A rumble swept the crowd as a fight broke out. A few men who looked thick, like Bow Street Runners, pulled the troublemakers apart.

  Wilberforce raised his arms, capturing the onlookers, directing them to listen. “We have gained one victory; we have obtained, for these poor creatures, the enslaved, the recognition of their human nature, which we have shamefully denied. This is the first fruits of our efforts; let us persevere. Our triumph will be complete.”

  The crowd howled as he stepped down. His footing looked less sure than it had in past years. The black armband engulfing his arm made him seem fragile, but how could a powerhouse for change be anything but strong? The man came over to Arthur and shook his hand. “The fight needs more young voices.”

  He clung to the grip for a moment, as if it were a baton from an Olympian run. “Even an actor, sir?”

  Wilberforce put a palm to Arthur’s shoulder. “Only a loud voice is heard over the noise. Don’t stop until this stain is no more. You know, Parliament can use loud voices, too.”

  Arthur nodded. Parliament wasn’t for him. Too much scrutiny. He barely stayed above the likes of Phineas now.

  Speaking of the reporter, the pest was off to the side. He fanned himself in the still air with the flyer created by the artist Wedgwood. The medallion printed on it was the dark outline of an enslaved man encircled with the words, AM I NOT A MAN AND A BROTHER. It pricked Arthur’s conscience. The plight shouldn’t be reduced to a throwaway.

  Am I not a man and a brother? If only Arthur’s uncle had realized that. He’d never have murdered fifty men. He wouldn’t have been hanged for it, and he could’ve remained Arthur’s doting uncle, someone to admire.

  A man shoved Phineas and the flyer fell from his hands.

  Arthur bent down and scooped it up like it was a script. The paper, the image of the man, stirred words in his chest. Arthur leaped onto the bench.

  “Brothers…”

  “Yes, let’s listen to the actor,” Phineas said. “He married today. Bex, is the little wife about?”

  “Brothers…” Arthur paused as he witnessed Ester and her friend coming toward the crowd on the same side as the reporter. They were easy to pick out, the only faces of color, the only women in the mix.

  Ester’s arms were folded across her chest.

  Arthur could tell she was fuming by her stiff stance. He didn’t know how to fix that or what to say to inspire the men of the rally.

  “Choke.” Phineas roused a few to start the chant.

  “Choke. Choke. Choke.”

  Their incantation worked. Arthur’s throat closed up. The muscles tightening, until everything became locked inside.

  “These men came to hear a message, but the actor can’t deliver. Tell them about the wife, Bex. That’ll calm things down.”

  The taunts, the threats to Ester worked. Arthur pivoted to step down, but he saw Ester with her hand to her mouth. A few paces behind Phineas, she looked so nervous, so scared for him.

  Arthur had put her in this position. He should have known she’d be rash and her fear for him would lead her here. The cause, his fight, had put her at risk. But still she was here, pulling for him.

  He couldn’t let her down. He must speak to this angry crowd about what was right.

  “Gentlemen.” He coughed and filled his lungs. “Gentlemen, I’ll tell you about a relationship of black and white, about love and hate. They’re the most important relationships. Right and wrong have a marriage. They need each other. They aren’t the same without the other, for how can we judge what is true without knowing the consequence of falsehoods? Neither partner is the same. Neither can replace the other. They both have a place.”

  He took the flyer and waved. “If this was your brother, your father, your uncle, would you stand for the injustice? Are you not your brother’s keeper because you don’t see him in chains in London? Do you love your broth
er any less because you are here, and he’s in Jamaica or South Africa?”

  Pointing at the flyer, he let his voice boom. “This man on the flyer asks a simple question. One that is as clear as black and white. Is he a man? Yes.”

  Arthur’s voice grew in power, and he glanced at Ester as if she were the only one in the audience at Covent Garden. “Yes, he is a man. For he loves like you and me, he’ll bleed for what he believes in, like you and me. This man will lay down his life for the lover of his soul—just like you or me. I’ll lay down my life for what is true, for the lover of my soul.”

  Ester began to clap but her friend grabbed her hands.

  His wife heard him. Maybe she understood.

  Arthur shook the poster again. “He’s your brother. Enslavement is our problem, even if we don’t own slaves. It’s the scandal of our lifetime, the stain on our humanity. You must press. You must push. You must do what you can to right the wrongs. For at the end of your life, you will give an account. Let abolition or indifference not be your haunting shame.”

  He felt the hiss of the bullet even before it struck the paper. Where it came from he didn’t know but he knew the crowd would descend into chaos. He leaped down as another shot was fired.

  He lunged past Phineas to Ester and her friend and surrounded them in his arms. He pushed them back until they were behind a tree.

  Out the corner of his eye he saw a gun leveled in their direction. The bullet would hit Phineas. He stood to warn him, but Ester held his coat.

  “No, Bex.”

  “Not when I can help.”

  Arthur started running. The hate he had for Phineas fled to the back of his mind. He was a brother to be saved. In a running leap, he jumped as the gun fired, and knocked Phineas to the ground. The bullet whizzed past.

  The crowd swarmed the fellow shooting. Chaos engulfed the Serpentine.

  Phineas jumped up and offered a hand to Arthur. “Bex. You saved my life.”

  Breathing hard, Arthur stood on his own, brushing sand from his coat. Then he headed back to Ester.

  Phineas caught his arm, the one that still smarted. “Bex, I said thank you.”