A Wicked Kind of Husband

by Mia Vincy

  “You did nothing of the sort.”

  “So I think I should invite this doctor down and see what he needs, because if he’s right, we could save all those people’s lives. What do you think?”

  He whirled her around in a mad, improvised waltz. She twined her arms around his neck and held on tight. Maybe before she told him, they could make love one more time. One last time.

  “I think you make the world a better place,” she said, and kissed him.

  It was only meant to be a simple kiss but he turned it into something longer, and when they broke it off, she was breathless. He smiled against her lips.

  “I like it when you kiss me first,” he said.

  “I like it when you leap through windows.”

  “I’d leap through any window in the world if it got me one of your kisses.”

  Then she was smiling too. He did care for her. She was important to him. He enjoyed himself here. He had sought her out. He was learning to see Sunne Park as his home, and her as his wife.

  She was worrying unnecessarily. Everything was going to be all right.

  “Do you remember that first day we met—I mean, that day in Hyde Park,” Cassandra said. “Do you know what I thought of you?”

  “That I was unutterably rude and needed to shave?”

  “That too. But you had so much energy, I imagined you had been hit by lightning and the lightning was still bouncing around inside you. And the best part is that when I am with you, that lightning slides inside me too.”

  He stilled, for too many beats of her racing heart, and then he cupped her bottom and pulled her against him. “Well, Cassandra, if you want me inside you…”

  “Oh! You!”

  He feigned innocence. “What? Why do I get the blame when you’re the one saying shocking things?”

  His touch and teasing ignited her desire, the potency surprising her given that she was already with child. Yet that desire was maddening too, because she knew what he was doing: He was using it to hide.

  He was already running away.

  “I have something to show you,” she whispered, reluctantly dragging herself from his arms.

  “Mrs. DeWitt! And us in broad daylight too.”

  “Hush!”

  She led him to the table, where she had left the house plans. Her hands were clumsy as she smoothed them out, and her mouth was dry and confused. To think that when they first met, she did not care what he thought and said whatever she pleased!

  Somehow, she untangled her tongue to speak.

  “I am proposing a few changes to the house to reflect the changes to the family.” She pointed with one finger and hoped he did not notice it shaking. “This wing here; we don’t use it much. I thought to convert a few of the rooms into an apartment for Mama. It is near the kitchen garden and her distillery, so she can grow herbs and have a patch of garden all of her own. We have no dower house, but this way she can have her own privacy and space, but also be part of us.”

  He said nothing, studying the paper, his lips pursed in thought.

  “And here, well, I’m doing less with the estate now, so Papa’s study—I mean, the main study—it’s not being used, I mean, except…So…”

  No need to say it. He could read the label she had written: “Mr. DeWitt’s study,” with the room next to it designated “Mrs. DeWitt’s workroom,” and she liked the idea that they would be working side by side.

  She glanced at him.

  He said nothing.

  She slid away the top page to reveal the plans for the bedchambers on the first floor.

  “With Mama in her own apartments, we can move into the main suites.”

  She smoothed her hand over the plans: “Mr. DeWitt’s bedchamber,” and, next to it, “Mrs. DeWitt’s bedchamber.” Not that they ever slept apart now; he used his own room for washing and dressing only. She curled her fingers into her skirts. Still he said nothing. He had gone horribly still.

  “Of course, I shall redecorate them extensively, to make them our own, so you must let me know what colors you prefer, or let me choose and…”

  Her words trailed away as he touched a finger to the ink.

  “Why?” he said, so quietly she barely heard. “Why did you do this?”

  She could not understand his question, and his profile gave no clues. “You said I should claim the space, so this is what I’m doing. But our marriage gave you this house too, whatever you say, and you should feel comfortable. ”

  “Ever the dutiful wife.”

  “I’m trying to do what’s right.”

  And we are right, she wanted to scream. We are right. Together, here or Birmingham or anywhere, I’m stronger and happier for knowing you, you’re calmer and happier for knowing me.

  And then she recalled his words in London, when he said he wanted her to be honest, not dutiful and polite. Honest was hard, because if he didn’t like her honesty, she had nowhere to hide.

  Besides, she was nursing a much bigger lie than this.

  She waited, hoping that he would burst out with something like “No, this is how I want it” or “Yes, that’ll work,” and Birmingham would be gone.

  Instead, he said nothing. He picked up the pages and leaned back against the table, staring at them, although she did not know what he saw.

  “I want you here,” she said unsteadily, to his profile. “I know your life is in Birmingham, and I’ll go there with you happily if you want. But this is your home too.”

  Every inch of him was as taut as a rope about to snap. She had no breath and she had no skin and she still had to tell him the rest.

  But then he shuffled to the third page. The one she hadn’t been brave enough to reveal: the upper floors, with the nursery and schoolroom. And the little sketches of animals and flowers drawn by her friend and neighbor Juno Bell, as ideas for painting the walls.

  He lowered the plans and stared across the room, at nothing, perhaps, or at the window through which he had leaped. He understood; of course he did.

  She waited, her hands clammy, her mouth dry.

  His brows drew into a frown, and she realized his gaze had sharpened on something: her workbasket, with its jumble of fabric. His eyes hardened. Whatever he was feeling, it was not joy.

  It is your child, not mine, he had said. I want nothing to do with it.

  Her heart fell and shattered.

  He had seen, he had understood, and now he would leave.

  Chapter 30

  Joshua had been staring unseeingly ahead for what seemed like hours until he realized what he was staring at. The shadows in the folds of the white fabric in Cassandra’s workbasket began to form themselves into shapes. Shapes that danced before his eyes, like the little animals she meant to have painted on the nursery walls.

  But how like him, these days, to look at something and not see it. How adept he had become at not noticing everything beneath his nose.

  He put aside the pages, the plans she had made to bring him into her house. Perhaps she wanted a father for her child. Perhaps she was merely doing what she believed was right. It was so appealing, but it wasn’t real. His real life was in Birmingham.

  The floor was as unsteady as a ship in a storm as he crossed to that workbasket, with its taunting pieces of fabric. He pulled out the first piece and almost laughed at himself. It was merely her nightcap, and the jokes they had enjoyed, oh, how he would tease her and—

  It was a nightcap, but it was not hers. He made a fist with one hand and settled the little bonnet on it. Pins and needles poked out here and there, for she had not finished making it. It would not take her long; the bonnet was very small.

  “It’s too small for you,” he said, and wondered when he had become so stupid. All that country air and domestic bliss had addled his brain. There was comfort in being obtuse, freedom from making decisions.

  She didn’t respond, though he could feel her hovering somewhere behind him. Her every move stirred the air, it was so still and thick and warm.


  He laid the little bonnet on the window seat and tied its little yellow ribbons in a bow. Samuel had had one just like it, covering the dark fuzz on his pink head. The ruffles used to wobble furiously when he screwed up his face and cried.

  Joshua reached into the workbasket again. Another piece of fabric. Also unfinished. A little white dress or petticoat or whatever it was called. Samuel had worn these too, his chubby baby legs kicking around in them. Until the day when he was four, and Rachel had taken him out of skirts and put him in breeches for the first time. How proud of himself he had been, running and stomping and jumping, as if discovering his legs anew.

  This, too, Joshua laid out on the seat, below the bonnet. This, too, was not finished: She was embroidering it with masses of little flowers. Waste of time, the baby won’t care, he wanted to tell her. But he knew why she did it: She was impatient too, and this eased the waiting. The baby will only break your heart, he wanted to say, but she wouldn’t listen to him. She was as unwilling to listen as he was to see.

  And back into the basket, wool this time: another bonnet, half knitted. He did some arithmetic—he learned enough from Rachel to perform that count—and calculated that the baby would be born in winter, so yes, they needed a warm hat. And warm, woolen stockings, their ends still hooked around needles. Tiny little stockings, to warm those precious little legs. Only partly made, like the baby.

  He arranged them below the dress.

  A baby. A half-made shadow baby.

  This is what she wanted to tell him, although behind his willful stupidity, he already knew. He could have looked at a calendar and counted the days. He could have wondered why in the past month she had never needed a few nights alone. Or why she rested most afternoons now, when she never had in London. Or why he saw her eating at odd hours and sometimes not eating at all. He could have wondered any of those things, but he had not, because he had not wanted to know. He who wanted to know everything did not want to know this.

  “I thought Charles for a boy,” she said, in a voice too thin to be hers. “Maybe Charlotte for a girl, or something else. If you agree.”

  “So you are sure?”

  “It is still early but the signs are there and—”

  “Are you sure or are you not sure?” His voice sounded harsh to his own ears.

  “I’m sure,” she said in half a voice. She swallowed and coughed and tried again. “I’m sure.”

  This was his. It could be. All of it. This lovely woman, who made his heart swell and brought him peace. This baby. This house. This family. All of it—laid out for him on a silver platter. His to have, his to hold, his to love, his to lose.

  All he had to do was take it. Turn around, take three steps, pull her into his arms, and say yes.

  He didn’t move.

  “You got what you wanted,” he said.

  “I want a husband.” Her voice was harder than usual, and sharp and trembling. He turned to face her. He could be that husband. He could stay. He simply had to pull her into his arms and say yes. “A whole one. Not one who is always leaving me.”

  But his feet didn’t move. His arms didn’t move. He opened his mouth to say, “I am your husband,” but what came out was, “I need to go to Birmingham.”

  And he saw it then: He saw the moment he lost her.

  Loving, warm, welcoming, steadfast Cassandra, who had taught him how to use his heart again, who had brought joy to his days and hope to his plans: She turned on him before his very eyes. Withdrew inside herself, pulled away.

  She had felt him like lightning. He had felt her like a fire in winter.

  And now her warm welcome was gone.

  “Then go,” she said. “Go and stay gone. I’m not keeping you here.”

  She pushed past him, gathered up the shadow baby, her movements rough and awkward as she shoved the fabric back into the basket. And when she straightened and looked at him, a stranger lay behind those changeable eyes.

  “You’re right: You aren’t my husband. We just happen to be married. So if you’re going to leave, you may as well leave now. You’ve had one foot out the door since you arrived anyway.”

  She was sending him away. Of course she was. She had never needed him; she had only wanted a child. Those plans—yes, the dutiful wife. What a hypocrite she was: accusing him of always leaving her, when she had been leaving him too. Once the baby came, she would have no time for him and whatever they had would have crumbled. She didn’t mean to be cruel, but she had never truly loved him. It was his own fault, for being so hard to love.

  No matter. They had what they wanted. This is what they had agreed. Separate lives: him with his work in Birmingham, her with her baby. This had been nothing but a foolish interlude. Real life called. Five minutes in his factory, in the life he had forged from nothing, and he’d know himself again and forget this nonsense.

  “If you have no further need for me, then, madam,” he said.

  “What I need from you is something you cannot give. Go. Go to your home in Birmingham.”

  She turned away, her shoulders straight and cold. He could go to her, put his arms around her, join them again as they were meant to be joined.

  But he didn’t.

  He picked up his coat and went. He went and went and kept on going until he reached his house in Birmingham.

  The housekeeper looked put out when Joshua came barreling into his house without warning, and he suspected it had something to do with the dust sheets over the furniture and the piles of clutter throughout the main rooms.

  “We didn’t realize you’d be here, Mr. DeWitt,” Mrs. White said. “We pulled everything out of storage to clean and make sure there was no damage. There were rats, you see. All gone now—the rat catcher came—but I thought it best to do a right thorough spring clean anyway.”

  Rats. Worse than sisters, were rats.

  Go and stay gone. I’m not keeping you here.

  “Carry on,” he said. “Get my rooms ready and put out a meal. I want to be alone tonight.”

  The housekeeper looked around helplessly, more embarrassed than the clutter merited. A closer look revealed why.

  These were not Joshua’s things.

  He had had them take away all Rachel’s and Samuel’s clothes, her books, his toys, but here were the things he had kept. Rachel’s blasted clock collection, a dozen of the things, mercifully silent. He had never understood her fascination with clocks, the way they ticked ticked ticked all the time. And there was the horrid tiger-skin rug. Blazes knew why he had kept that.

  The clutter took up too much space and made him fidget.

  You aren’t my husband. We just happen to be married.

  “Will you be traveling again soon, sir?” Mrs. White asked. “We’ve not got a full staff on, but I can have them back here by morning.”

  He waved a hand, seeing not clocks and clutter but a private garden, alive with flowers and bees, with a fountain and a woman.

  What I need from you is something you cannot give. Go. Go to your home in Birmingham.

  “I have to get back to—” He stopped in time. If he had finished, she would think he had taken leave of his senses. Because he’d been about to say “Birmingham.” It had been his refrain for so long that it was all his brain seemed to know.

  What he sought wasn’t here. Because—

  Of course not. He only used this house for dressing and sleeping.

  “Never mind,” he said. “I don’t need much. I’ll spend most of my time at work.”

  Out in the streets, he headed for the factory on foot, surprised by how fast everyone walked. Of course they walked fast—this was Birmingham; it was he who had turned slow. He quickened his pace and soaked it all up, the noise, the bustle, the surge of effort and victory and loss. The smoke from the factories, the stench of the canals, the yells of canal men, and some factory workers singing. Yes, Birmingham, where money was king and hard work was his queen.

  By the time he reached his headquarters, he was walking a
t a decent speed again, his head was used to the clanging, and he had mostly stopped coughing. Yes, Birmingham. Everywhere everyone was working, producing, making useless stuff useful.

  Das looked only mildly surprised to see him, rising from the desk, where dossiers were neatly stacked and everything appeared to be in order. And, of course, when he quizzed Das, he learned that everything was in order. He let Das talk, while he paced around the office, and tried to find it interesting, but most of what the man said was gibberish, which was odd, as Das was usually focused and clear.

  I want a husband. A whole one. Not one who is always leaving me.

  Everything felt odd, not only Das’s gibberish. Everything was meant to come together once he got back here. But Das had everything under control, and the secretaries had taken to making decisions themselves, and it seemed that they made good decisions. They weren’t secretaries, now, though, were they? They were managers, and those were the new titles that Das proposed. Joshua had made himself redundant. They didn’t need him either.

  I want you here. This is your home too.

  No. No. His home was here, in Birmingham. This was who he was. He had just…forgotten.

  “Well, I’m back now,” he said, cutting Das off mid-sentence, ignoring his raised eyebrows. “All looks good. But you know, we need to make changes.”

  “One more thing, then.” Das straightened an already-straight dossier. “You know that I have immense respect for you, Mr. DeWitt, and I am grateful for the opportunities you have given me.”

  Oh no. Bloody hell. No.

  “I have learned a lot these past years and enjoyed myself immensely. These past weeks at the helm have been the best weeks of my career.”

  No. Hell, no. Not Das too.

  “The experience has firmed my resolve to run an enterprise of my own. I do not intend to be your secretary forever.”

  “Now? You’re leaving right now?”

  Das looked puzzled. “No,” he said slowly. “But if you are making changes, you should be aware.”