“Where are they going?” she asked when Justin returned to her.
“To the livery stable. To hire a carriage to take them back to King’s Abbot.”
Her pulse skipped. The idea of being left alone with Justin without a chaperone was too new. It felt illicit. Dangerous. “Aren’t we…?”
“We’re going to dine at the Stanhope Hotel. It’s only a short walk. And you’ll find the food far superior to anything Mrs. Blevins has been serving at the King’s Arms.” He took her hand in his and tucked it through his arm. “I trust you’re hungry.”
“I am,” she admitted. “I didn’t eat a single bite this morning.”
“Nor did I.” He gave her another brief smile. “Wedding day nerves, I believe.”
The street outside the registrar’s office was all but empty save for a lone gentleman driving a smart-looking gig in the opposite direction. The rain had stopped, but the sky was gray, dark clouds heavy with the promise of another deluge.
“It’s never been as popular as Torquay,” Justin said. “But in the summer, these streets are teeming.”
Helena could well believe it. What she’d seen of Abbot’s Holcombe thus far had put her in mind of fashionable resort towns like Bournemouth, Brighton, and Margate. She’d never visited such places herself, but they were often depicted in lady’s magazines. During the past months, she’d read a great deal about seaside fashions, the use of bathing machines, and the relative propriety of sea bathing at a public beach. She’d thought to prepare herself for her new life along the coast.
“Is it always so empty during the colder weather?” she asked.
“There are those who remain for their health. But they’re invalids, generally, and don’t venture outside when the temperature drops.” He guided her around an uneven piece of pavement. “The private hotels hereabouts do a steady business catering to the wealthy and idle who fancy themselves ill.”
“And this is where you grew up? Where you spent your childhood?”
He flashed her a wary look. “Not in this part of town, no. The orphanage is closer to the church. Or, rather, it was. It’s not there anymore.”
“Did it close down?”
“Something like that,” he said vaguely.
They walked along for some little time, down one street and then crossing over to another, before reaching the Stanhope Hotel. It was a handsome structure of pristine white stone with an entrance faced in carved Corinthian marble. As they approached the doors, a footman trotted forward to welcome them, ushering them into the warmth of the hotel’s luxurious, wood-paneled foyer.
The clerk at the front desk greeted them with upraised brows. “How may I assist you, sir?”
“I have a reservation,” Justin said. “For Thornhill.”
The clerk consulted a large book on the counter. “Ah yes. A room with a view.”
Helena’s eyes flew to Justin’s face. A room? But they were merely dining together, weren’t they? Simply sharing a meal to celebrate their wedding day. Unless…
Unless her new husband meant for them to share a bed.
The possibility sent a jolt of apprehension through her.
She watched as the clerk gave Justin the key to their room and wished them a pleasant stay. Her mouth opened in protest only to shut again almost at once. She wouldn’t make a spectacle of herself by questioning her new husband in front of an audience. Better to wait until they were alone.
“The dining room is filled with local tabbies and London gossips,” Justin explained. “Even at this time of year.” He led her across the marble-tiled lobby floor toward the main staircase, a grand affair lined with artwork and potted palms. “We’ll have more privacy if we dine in one of the rooms. We’ll be more comfortable there as well.” He paused. “Unless you object?”
Helena gathered her skirts in her hand as they climbed the carpeted steps. Husband or no, she didn’t think she was ready to be alone with Justin in a hotel room, but if the alternative was exposing herself to gossip that might find its way back to London…
“I don’t object,” she said.
A footman directed them to their room on the third floor. It had an elegantly appointed sitting room with a rich Oriental rug and furnishings of heavy mahogany. Pale green draperies framed a window that looked out toward the sea. Helena moved to stand in front of it, uncertain of what to say or do in such a situation.
She heard Justin thank the footman for his assistance. And then he shut and bolted the door.
“Our meal will be sent up in a quarter of an hour,” he said. “I took the liberty of ordering it yesterday when I made the reservation. Soup, roast chicken, and I don’t know what else. If you’d prefer some other dish—”
“No.” She turned to face him. He had removed his hat. His hair was rumpled and, for a fraction of a second, it seemed to her that he looked remarkably unsure of himself. “I’m not particular about food.”
“No favorites, then?”
Helena untied her bonnet strings from beneath her chin and lifted her bonnet from her head. She placed it on an overstuffed chair near the window. “I like freshly baked bread. But I expect it has more to do with the smell than the taste.”
“Ah.” He appeared as much at a loss as she was herself.
She tugged off her right glove and then her left. It caught briefly on the ridge of her wedding band—a sharp reminder of her new status. As if she needed a reminder! Good heavens. She was alone in a hotel room with a gentleman she’d only just met two days before.
“Is there somewhere I can wash my hands?” she asked.
“Through the bedroom,” Justin said.
Helena retreated into the adjoining room, averting her eyes from the mahogany four-poster bed as she made her way to the adjacent bath. She was pleased to find that it was plumbed for water. There was a claw-footed tub and a marble basin with brass taps for hot and cold. Beside the basin was a stack of fluffy white towels, several cakes of scented soap, and a small selection of glass vials containing perfumed oil for one’s bathwater.
It was the work of a moment to wash her face and hands and to repair her hair, but she took her time about it. When she finally emerged from the bedroom, her paletot draped over her arm, their meal had arrived. It was arranged in covered silver serving dishes on a cloth-draped table at the center of the room. Justin was standing nearby, his hands clasped behind his back.
He gave her a look of inquiry. “Shall we eat?”
She dropped her paletot on the chair alongside her bonnet and gloves and joined him at the table. He pulled out a chair for her before taking a seat himself.
“There’s champagne,” he said. “Or lemonade, if you prefer.”
“Champagne, if you please.”
Justin filled her glass and then his own. She thought for a moment that he might propose a toast to their marriage. It seemed the traditional thing to do.
He didn’t propose a toast.
Helena supposed this sort of marriage was not the kind to inspire one. The thought depressed her a little. She raised her glass to her lips and took a drink, watching as Justin did the same.
She’d never had champagne before. The bubbles tickled her nose. For an instant, she feared she might sneeze. But then she took another swallow and the sensation subsided.
Justin began to remove the covers from the serving dishes. The smell of roast chicken and potatoes wafted into the air, making her mouth water. And, “Ah look,” he said. “Fresh bread.”
Helena leaned forward in anticipation as he filled her plate.
And then, for the next two hours, they ate and drank and talked, discussing everything and nothing.
Helena hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Nor how deeply she yearned for conversation. And Justin Thornhill, for all his gruffness, seemed in a particular mood to oblige her. He filled her glass when it was
empty and encouraged her to take second helpings of food. And he talked to her—about the weather, the history of King’s Abbot, and the tumbledown state of Greyfriar’s Abbey.
“It must have needed a fair amount of work,” she said. They’d finished their meal and were halfway through a strawberry tart. She felt as if her corset was going to burst.
“A vast understatement,” he said.
She set her fork down beside her plate, giving Justin her full attention. “Why did you want it, then? You weren’t still looking for the treasure, were you?”
“God no. I doubt there was ever any treasure to begin with.” He looked down into his glass, frowning. “I suppose, you might say I bought Greyfriar’s Abbey for sentiment. I spent most of my young life thinking it was the grandest house in England.”
“It is very grand.”
“Once, perhaps. Now it’s merely expensive.”
“Did you never consider buying a property that was in better condition?”
“No.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I was foolishly single-minded in my pursuit of the Abbey. Once I learned there was a way to make it mine, I didn’t stop to consider the village superstitions or the fact it had fallen into such disrepair.” He paused. “Nor did I consider how it would suit a wife.”
Helena leaned back in her chair. She was feeling thoroughly sated. Gorged, in fact. And, for the first time in months, in perfect harmony with the world about her. “I cannot speak for other wives,” she said, “but I like it very well.”
“You shall like it a great deal better in a moment. We’ve managed to hire a housekeeper. A woman named Mrs. Standish. You may recall her from that first afternoon when she came to meet with Boothroyd at the King’s Arms.”
Helena remembered her well enough. She was the sour woman of middle years who’d glared at her with so much scorn.
“I thought you were going to marry her,” she said.
Justin was surprised into a hoarse crack of laughter. “What?”
“When I came to the private parlor at the King’s Arms, she was inside with Mr. Boothroyd. She gave me such a look.”
He ran a hand over his face. “Good God.”
“I was so disappointed.”
“No doubt.”
“Truly. I almost left. And I would have done if Mr. Boothroyd hadn’t called me back.”
“Ah.” The humor in his voice faded. “I wondered what that was about.”
“You were watching me?”
“Naturally.”
“I thought you were reading your newspaper.” She gave him a speaking glance. “You might have introduced yourself.”
“Didn’t I?”
“And earlier, at the counter. I suppose you knew I was there in answer to your advertisement from the moment I entered the taproom.”
Justin drained his glass in one swallow. “Actually, I didn’t. Not until you asked to see Boothroyd.”
Helena remembered the way he’d glowered down at her before grudgingly showing her to the private parlor. She reached for her glass, raising it to her lips and taking a measured sip of champagne. “Were you disappointed?”
The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she wished she could call them back again. It was a stupid, girlish question. And a pointless one, too. Justin was a gentleman. He was her husband now as well. There was only one way he could answer her.
He looked into her eyes. “Deeply disappointed,” he said with unexpected gravity. “You see, I was expecting a slightly younger version of Mrs. Standish.”
Helena nearly choked on her champagne.
Justin grinned at her. “It serves you right for asking.”
She set down her glass and reached for her napkin. “You’re a perfect beast to tease me about it,” she said as she dabbed her mouth. “Any lady in my situation would wonder. Especially when the man she’s come to marry makes such an effort to frighten her off.”
“I was trying to be noble.”
“You were trying to send me running back to London.”
“More fool I.”
Heat suffused her face at the memory of his coarse words. She lowered her napkin. “What on earth possessed you to say what you did to me?”
Justin looked mildly abashed. “I didn’t plan to outrage your sensibilities.”
“Then why?”
“I was out of my depth. I knew at once that you were too good for me. To own the truth, I was expecting a younger version of Mrs. Standish.”
That made her laugh again. But Justin wasn’t smiling anymore. She could no longer tell if he was teasing or serious. “Poor Mrs. Standish,” she said. “We really shouldn’t make sport of her. Especially if she’s to be our housekeeper.”
“A commendable philosophy. You may feel less charitable in the days to come.”
“When does she start work?”
“She was at the Abbey when I left this morning.”
“Already?”
“Boothroyd was lecturing her on her duties, the first of which, you’ll be pleased to know, is a thorough cleaning of our bedroom.”
She stared at him. “Our bedroom?”
He set aside his glass. “I’ve shocked you. Forgive me. Is it too indelicate a subject?”
“No, no. It’s not that…” Her head was spinning. It occurred to her that she might have had too much to drink. “I beg your pardon, but are you saying that you and I…that we’re to share a single bedchamber between us?”
Understanding registered on Justin’s face. It was followed closely by another emotion which flickered for an instant and then disappeared. Helena thought it might have been disappointment. “Ah. I see.” He fell silent for what seemed an eternity. “Do you object to our sharing a bedroom?” he asked finally.
She looked down at her hands, now folded tightly in her lap. The long pagoda sleeves of her silk gown concealed the bruises on her arms and her cuffed muslin undersleeves covered the marks on her wrists, but they did nothing to mask the deep ache she felt from having endured so much rough handling. It was a painful reminder of the circumstances that had brought her to North Devon.
“No,” she said. “I don’t object.”
“But you would prefer a room of your own.”
Would she? She’d had a room of her own her entire life. It’s what she’d expected to have at the Abbey. A room she could go to when she wished to be alone. A door she could lock if she was feeling afraid.
After all, even a wife was afforded her privacy. A husband might visit her at night, but he didn’t impose his presence on her any longer than was necessary. It was how respectable married couples conducted themselves. Or so she’d always understood.
“I don’t know what I’d prefer,” she said. “I’ve never shared a room with anyone before.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Bray—the couple I was apprenticed to as a boy—shared a room for the whole of their married lives. I’d assumed…” Justin rubbed the side of his jaw with his hand. “But that was wrong of me, wasn’t it? I shouldn’t have assumed. I should have consulted you.” His frown deepened. “I take it your parents kept separate rooms?”
The unknowing question gripped at Helena’s heart like a vise. Her mother had died when she was just a girl, but she could well remember the small icy room, stripped of everything save an iron bedstead. It was an image that had populated many a childhood nightmare.
She moistened her lips. “They lived apart, yes. But you and I… We needn’t…”
“It will be however you wish,” he said. “I’ll not make unreasonable demands on you. You’ll not find me a brute.”
“I know that. You’ve been very kind to me. I’m more grateful than I can say.”
“Grateful,” he repeated.
“Yes. And so very much obliged to you.”
“I see.”
Helena sens
ed she’d said something wrong, but she hadn’t the least idea what. She wished she had someone to advise her. A sensible female to tell her what to say and what to do.
She needed Jenny.
Then again, Jenny was only two years older than she was and, for all her strident proclamations, knew as little about men and marriage as Helena did herself.
“Justin, I…” She struggled to formulate the words. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
His expression softened. “You haven’t. You won’t.” He stretched his arm across the table, his palm up in invitation.
His hand was large, his fingers long and almost elegant. It was the sort of hand that could wield a sword or a pistol as easily as it could write a letter or caress a lady’s cheek. Helena’s pulse fluttered as she reached out to take it.
Justin’s fingers closed protectively around hers. His clasp was reassuringly warm, his skin tanned from the outdoors and calloused from hard work. Her own hand looked small and pale in comparison.
“There’s no manual for marriage by advertisement,” he said. “We shall have to feel our way along.” His thumb moved slowly over the curve of her knuckles. “But if we’re honest with each other, we stand far less risk of being unhappy.”
She swallowed. He wanted honesty. Of course he did. And she was going to tell him everything. She’d planned to do it tonight, when they were back at the Abbey. When she was safe in his home and there was no chance he could send her away. But now…
She bit her lip. “There’s so much I haven’t told you.”
“I know. I’ve been somewhat less than forthcoming myself.”
“Yes, but at least you tried to tell me about your past. I’ve made no effort at all to tell you about mine.” She searched his face. “Doesn’t that worry you?”
“Probably not as much as it should.”
“Why ever not?”
He shrugged. “Your dark secrets can be no worse than my own. Besides which, I trust Finchley with my life. He’d never have sent you to me if you were a murderer or a lunatic escaped from Bedlam.”
She jerked her hand from his and, abruptly, rose from her chair. For a moment she feared she would be sick. She clutched her hand to her mouth and turned away from him.
The Matrimonial Advertisement Page 9