Chuckles ensued, but I held my tongue and savored the sweet citrus scent of my chamomile tea.
I had to remain calm in front of the council to make it to my appointment, to get the proof I’ve needed for four years.
The clicking of bone china cups on brilliant white saucers was loud enough to cover the laughs, all the jokes made at my expense.
Things had to change.
“Ruth,” Mama said, sitting in her favorite high-backed chair near the fireplace. She sat directly across from me, a blurry vision of seafoam blue.
As always, Mama wore a freshly starched mobcap, a splash of creamy lace atop her silky dark tresses. Hints of gray wove about her chignon like a delicate basket. Reserved and powerful. A tigress in disguise.
“Your knitting is much improved, daughter, but don’t you think you need your lenses?”
Lenses. Spectacles. Horrible, heavy headache-inducing things that brought everyone’s scorn or pity-filled faces perfectly into focus.
Knit one, purl one.
“No. I don’t need them for knitting.”
I made a show of looping the scarlet yarn about my needle. I’d become an expert at knitting in the solitude of the country cottage where my parents had exiled me until the gossip had died down. Such awful gossip.
Ruth Croome, the whore, found in a brothel.
Ruth Croome, the liar, ran off with a man but was abandoned.
Ruth Croome, the jilted lover, lying about a man who never existed.
But the worst gossip—Ruth Croome Wilky, the fake widow.
All my pain, every bit of my life was a joke in our tight-knit community here in London.
“Ruth, I can ring Mrs. Fitterwall to get your spectacles. It would be no trouble.”
“No, Mama. They give me headaches for this close work.”
I felt my mother glaring at me, wishing I’d take the hint and obey.
Didn’t she know that there was a point when embarrassment lost its power?
My heart had died with Adam. I was a shell, nothing but nightmares and shame had been poured inside me for four years. It had burned up all my dreams, all the things a young woman should want. But it had birthed light onto the only thing that mattered, simple gratitude.
Food on my plate. A plate. Clothes for my baby and me.
Receiving my trunk, the one stolen from Adam and me four years ago, had resurrected something new. The dream of being a respectable lady, like Mama, lived again. Finding proof of my truth made me want to leave the house, something I’d rarely done these past two years in London.
Chatter continued amongst the four women, these friends—Mama, Mrs. Daly, Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Carter.
Mrs. Johnson, a new addition to the knitting circle, stayed quiet. She’d pick up the other ladies’ bad habits of poking at me soon enough.
The mantel clock gonged three times.
Each hollow brassy noise that echoed in my chest rattled in that empty spot near those lungs that had proven easy to fill with fear.
My nerves.
They were bad. I didn’t blame them. They’d been bad since Adam’s murder.
Mama set down her latest project, an emerald-green baby’s blanket, on her lap. “Dear, are you feeling well? Perhaps you should stay in and miss this evening meeting. You set it quite late.”
That was the only time Papa’s groom, Jonesy, could go with me. He was a sweet, ruddy boy whose weakness, a cleft in his lip, was on the outside. He saw my hidden weakness, my nerves, and helped me in those hard times I had to leave the house. “It’s not too, too late, Mama.”
Knit one. Purl one.
“Ruth, it will be dark by the time you get back. You don’t see so well in the dark.”
Shots fired.
Mama shot a cannon ball at me. I must be reminded that I became frightened stepping out of the house. It had been at least seven months since I’d last tried.
“Ruth, you do look pale. I think you should miss this meeting.”
Mama’s voice sounded calm, but the tigress fooled no one. She sought to control her reformed wild child. This meeting was for my boy. When it came to Chris, I would be steel—strong and unbreakable.
Knit one, purl one.
Chin lifting, I smiled big. “No, Mama. I won’t miss my appointment. I’m looking forward to it.”
That was said with the appropriate amount of bravado. Bravado. Adam’s word. I laughed this time, maybe out loud.
In my head, I pictured Mama frowning, a full one, as if she’d bitten into the tartest lemon.
Didn’t she know? Mother and daughter were the same—stubborn, determined, fast knitters.
“Then wear your glasses, dear. You’ll need them.”
“Yes, Mama.”
A headache was worth not being barred from leaving. I had a theory that a blurry world would keep my nerves away. Now I was going to have to be completely brave.
Knit one, purl one.
Fingering the watch on the simple silver chain I’d pinned to my shoulder, I felt the limbs had moved, but not by much. The glass had been taken off so I could guess the time without looking. Leaving by carriage was still twenty, twenty-five minutes away. That’s when Jonesy would be back with Papa.
A watched pot was slow to boil.
The same could be said of me.
Every decision, every word out of my mouth was scrutinized. This critical light made me slow and deliberate. For the past six months, I had stewed upon offers of marriage I’d received from a newspaper advertisement. A silly gambit my sister and her friends had convinced me to do. It had given the knitters something new to discuss. That was a blessing.
Yet, I didn’t want a husband or anyone to tend to in bed. I’d rather have cold sheets and accidentally spill Bay Rum on them.
But I had a son, and his needs outweighed everything, even my nightmares. I had answered Barrister John Marks, a busy, humble man who had taken a liking to my son.
And Chris liked him. Another reason to accept Marks’s offer in the upcoming week. He had made his intentions known at Mama’s dinner party two weeks ago. A proposal was in the offing.
“Did you read about the strange suicide? The boat captain, near the docks?”
That squeaky voice had to be Mrs. Daly’s. A small, fashionable woman close in age to Mama. Mrs. Daly loved the newsprint gossip as much as my mother.
“Nacknel was his name,” Mrs. Daly continued. “Did he do business with your husband, Mrs. Johnson?”
Mrs. Millicent Johnson was the blue-eyed wife of the head of a shipping company. Her husband serviced Papa’s business partners upon occasion. She was of Spanish descent with striking olive-shaped eyes. The new-mother-to-be sat close to me and was always helpful, almost acting as if we knew each other.
“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Johnson said and sipped her tea, “but the suicide is the talk at my husband’s offices.”
Mrs. Daly clicked her tongue. “Seems odd for the magistrate and coroner to call it a suicide when the man was found beaten as he was.”
My pulse raced.
In a blink, I watched Adam be struck. I blinked three times, saying to myself, be calm, don’t lose your wits. I couldn’t miss this meeting.
I put down my needles and wet my drying tongue with a swallow of tea. “Beaten to death? That’s tragic.”
Mrs. Carter snorted. Her cup runneth over with malice. “My husband tells me his gambling caught up to him. Whack, whack over a jack.” Her thick island accent gave a smooth rhythm to her hateful words.
“Ladies, let me go check on our cake. My guests need scrumptious cake.”
No, no, no.
The door shut. My eyes closed and I counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
“Is this appointment with a new doctor, Ruthy?” Mrs. Carter asked. “Or has our girly been doing somet’ing with that would-be-fiancé that requires doctoring?”
I gulped air and waited for the rest of the twisted counseling to begin a
new.
Shaped like a squash, small on top, big on the bottom, Mrs. Carter leaned near. The peppermint scent of her hand lotion could smother a cow. “You’ve been naughty again, Ruthy, haven’t you? We told you to save your desires for the wedding night. Be frigid.”
Frigid wouldn’t be a problem.
The barrister and I had had a delicate conversation when he’d mentioned the topic of marriage. Very delicate to talk about taking time and separate bedchambers. “Thank you, ma’am, but shouldn’t you save your advice for your girls?”
Mrs. Carter’s nose wrinkled. Her own daughters hadn’t wed yet. They had the sense to be picky and the ideals to know they deserved to be treasured. But harpies like their own mother would call them spinsters.
The nasty woman tugged at her lacy cuffs. “Do the barrister a favor. Make the man think you enjoy him like it was a first time.”
Why would Mrs. Carter offer such advice to me, a widow with a child? I knew what desire was, what it felt like to be sought after by a man. I knew too much of it and didn’t want any part of desire now.
Lips clamped shut, I tried to sculpt a proper ladylike response but failed.
Nothing but improper comments centered on my tongue: Hell no, huns. Go away, goosecaps. Shut your lips, sauceboxes.
Adam used to tell me those low-class insults and mix up his own. The young man had been from a well-to-do background but had spent far too much time at the docks rather than the ballrooms, because his family was in finance for shipping and such.
I pressed on my temples. Adam had been in my mind since exchanging letters with the barrister. Even more since my trunk had arrived. That lost thing, four years gone, had shown up two weeks ago.
“What say you, Ruthy? Your Mama’s not here to quiet you. Tell me you’re respectable, girly. Lie to me.”
No baiting. No loss of my dignity. “Mrs. Carter, I will speak my mind. I’m a respectable widow. Please remember that.”
Mrs. Carter batted her eyes as if she’d heard my voice.
Maybe I’d forgotten how to use it.
No more. “My time with my husband was short,” I said, controlling my tone, smothering my anger. “But Mr. Wilky had my firsts—a first kiss, a first confession of love, a first surrender in his bed. The barrister, or whomever I marry, will gain an older, wiser woman, one that knows what true love is.”
Though I couldn’t see their expressions, the silence told me all I needed. They’d heard me and could not discount my truth. I desired to live for me and my son. If I chose, I’d have an honorable marriage of convenience. I’d keep the gentleman’s house, keep his name in esteem, and keep his trust.
Then maybe we’d find something more, but I would be grateful for a clean, safe house that was mine to manage, and a good man for my son to model. In time, he would be grateful for me—a good woman, a woman to be an asset, maybe even his queen.
Mrs. Carter’s big blur, her thick arms like coconuts, began to clap. “Nice say, Ruthy. Mr. John Marks will believe you. But you can tell us…or should we be watchin’ your waistline?”
All the women snickered, but I shuddered. I wasn’t wanton. I desired to be respected, and it hurt to be deprived of it for my one crime—having no legal proof of my marriage to Adam.
Mrs. Johnson put her hand on mine. She shook her head, dangling her sleek blue-black curls. “You do look pale, Mrs. Wilky. I know pale.”
Thinking of Adam, of losing Adam, shredded my insides anew. Hating my weak eyes, I wiped at the moisture pooling in my lashes. “I didn’t sleep too good last night. Nothing more is wrong.”
“Didn’t sleep too well?” Mrs. Daly’s possession of language skills was perfect and as stiff as a piece of fine furniture. “You do look sickly, Mrs. Wilky.”
Two weeks and little to no sleep had taken a toll. Fourteen days since my lost trunk landed on the steps of the Croome house.
Since its arrival, everything had come back and not just at night. I was a walking nightmare, and I kept seeing Adam’s death—in the shadows, down the stairs, outside of Nineteen Fournier.
The creases under my eyes must have creases. “I’m fine, ladies,” I said. “Thank you for your concern.”
The door to Mama’s parlor creaked, and the patter of little feet came to me.
My beautiful three-year-old son, Christopher, tugged on the dull salmon-pink print of my gown.
I scooped him up and prayed the women wouldn’t make any jokes. My boy was perfect and was smart enough to understand. He already asked questions about his papa.
“Mama,” he said, “I want outside.”
I tweaked his nose. “No, Chris, you’re just getting over a cold.”
He poked out his thin lips. Brown eyes looking dull, the boy was just a day from the sniffles, but even healthy, I hesitated to let him outside in the open.
My nerves couldn’t be put on my baby.
That couldn’t happen.
He couldn’t suffer because of me. Never.
I kissed his forehead. “Grandpa will be home soon. Maybe he’ll go with you for a little fresh air.”
Chris tossed his chubby arms about my neck, giving me one of his best hugs. He smiled as if I’d given him a new toy. He scooted down to the floor, fighting his light-blue pinafore and running to the hall.
“A little wild boy, aye, Ruthy. Definitely in need of a true father.”
“Mrs. Carter, I’m not up to your teases.”
“Ruth, I could get a physician to come.” Mama came close to my chair, inspecting, fretting. “It wouldn’t take too long.”
She would return to hear me speak of weakness. “No. I’m…I’m fine.”
“It would be no trouble.”
“No, Mama.”
Her offer was a trap. To admit to being sick and weak would mean I’d miss going to Adam’s family because I’d have to wait for the physician. There was proof at Blaren House, the address Adam had written on the back of my half of the marriage registry…the half that remained in the lining of my missing trunk.
Adam Wilky’s half was at Blaren House, I was sure of it.
Having both pieces would prove my truth, that I’d been a wife, who had married too young, to a man who wasn’t prepared for the dangers of this world, a man whose secrets had destroyed us.
Knit one. Purl one.
I fingered my watch. Still didn’t hear Papa’s carriage.
Knit one. Purl one.
“Ruth,” Mama said, her voice steady and calm, readying to criticize. “Your stockinette stitches are much better but try doing something more decorative for the barrister.”
I pulled the scarf to within a few inches of my face. Horror. I saw the uneven stitches. Mama was being kind. This was awful.
I undid the last row. “I think Mr. Marks likes things uncomplicated.”
That wasn’t the right word for the man who had accepted my son and my predicament like it was a normal thing to be perceived a fake widow.
Mrs. Johnson leaned in and turned up her face, smiling her I-have-a-secret smile. “Your new friend is up and coming. Popular, too.”
He was.
Barrister Marks was a nice man and a fierce advocate for change, one who’d attracted many female spectators to the Old Bailey with his spirited defenses. “I’m lucky.”
That shut everyone up.
Luck and me in the same sentence were earth shattering, a volcano’s explosion in the offing. Forget the curse of Ham. My problems were Job’s. No one had such bad luck, not like me. But going to Mayfair today would end this.
“Daughter?”
My mother’s tight tone sliced through my jumbled thoughts.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I asked you to offer Mrs. Carter more tea. Her cup looks empty.”
The softly spoken command called to the little girl still hidden in my bosom. I snapped to attention and lifted the pot and served the serpent to my right.
This side was the weakest of my vision, but I took pride in my aim, not spilling
a drop.
The heavyset island woman, whose monied connections were rumored to involve the unscrupulous sugar plantations of the Caribbean, picked up the full cup and slurped. “You look flustered, Ruth. That will serve you well with your second marriage. I’m sure your barrister will appreciate the pretense in bed. Girly, a man might take used goods, but definitely doesn’t want to be reminded of the bargain.”
Mrs. Carter’s indictment hung in the air like the rosewater scent Mama used to freshen the curtains. A little sniff didn’t annoy, but a full whiff was overpowering, suffocating.
“I’ll remember that, ma’am,”
She leaned near. I couldn’t miss her sneer. “You must smile more when he’s around. It will ensure that banns are read…this time.”
Giggles. Full belly laughs.
Old, wild me might grab her or shake her or say some truth she wouldn’t want uttered about her family, but I was new me, the me who wouldn’t disrespect Mama or dragons. “Say your insults direct. Don’t hide behind half jokes. Come for me head on.”
The chuckles stopped, but Mrs. Carter sang the gossip refrain, the melody that had followed me these four years. “Runaway Ruth, Wanton Ruth, Bad-luck Ruth. Be easy. It’s just jokes.”
Fine. I wasn’t new long-suffering me, but old volcano Ruth. I exploded and swatted the cup in front of me. It flew across the tray spinning toward Mrs. Carter. It clicked against a saucer.
The way the big woman jumped, some of the brown liquid must have landed on her. “Clumsy!”
Clumsy tigress Ruth. “Sorry,” I said in a practiced easy voice. “Be aware, ma’am. All this talk has me jittery. It makes me very unpredictable, maybe a dragon, like you.”
Warning delivered. I stood. “I should go get a towel for you before I leave.”
Mama rang a bell, and Clancy, the Croomes’ faithful butler, came into the room. He appeared too fast, like he’d been on the other side of the door, staring through the keyhole.
The doting man with big, bushy silver locks and big arms like Papa possessed a gleaming ebony mantle. He sopped up the tea with a cloth. “Mrs. Wilky, your carriage has been sent for. It’ll be here in a few minutes. Your father’s still out. You won’t be able to use his.”
I kept my face from falling. Jonesy wouldn’t be able to go with me. I’d have to do this alone.
The Bewildered Bride (Advertisements for Love) Page 3
