The Bewildered Bride (Advertisements for Love)

by Vanessa Riley

  “The good news is they don’t have Cicely, for Nickie would have said so for leverage. The bad news is that Nickie might be aware of Mrs. Wilky but isn’t sure.”

  “You know that face of yours is going have a bruise when you go courting your wife.”

  Lawden was right. Wycliff had more to be concerned about. He had to make sure that Nickie never located Ruth. She must never be at risk. That meant Wycliff would have to ensure his Thursday visit with Ruth wasn’t his last.

  Chapter Twelve

  A Garden Party Dilemma

  I looked out Papa’s office window at the courtyard behind Nineteen Fournier. The little stretch of clipped grasses and yellow aconite flowers waved in the breeze dancing in front of the thick hedges. A lovely spring garden. Mama surely knew how to make any place special.

  My eyes hurt from straining. I tugged off my spectacles and put them upon the desk.

  I jiggled open Papa’s top drawer. That’s where he kept his folding knives. He’d had many made after his brother’s death. I liked the pearl-handled one the best. I slipped it into my pocket and closed the drawer. A little protection for outside couldn’t hurt.

  If I talked myself into being brave, surely I could walk outside, but the yard was different than the pavement out front. Most thought the garden safer, with its delicate twirling petals.

  Not to me.

  It seemed like a clearing in the woods, and I found myself looking for a way to escape. It was completely nonsensical, but that didn’t stop my pulse from pounding.

  Gripping my hands together, I felt my palms slipping against my thin satin gloves. Mama and Ester thought me so proper. They didn’t understand how I needed the fabric to wick away my perspiration. The gloves hid my fears very well.

  I fingered my watch on my chain. It was at least fifteen after two.

  Where was Mr. Marks?

  If he were here, I could walk with him into Mama’s garden.

  Putting on my spectacles, I peeked through the window. Nothing of the barrister or anything I imagined Adam’s cousin to look like. No clear look at him, but I hoped he was like Adam. A small bit of me wanted him to share Adam’s nose or his eyes.

  Adam.

  I’d dreamed of him last night.

  He was alive, making me laugh, singing to me and Chris. In my dream, he liked my son. He loved him. Once my boy was in bed, Adam returned to me, walking with that swagger. With my eyes closed, I kissed him. It was everything, everything I wanted and missed. Then I awoke alone, lying on Wycliff’s cape.

  Ester poked her head into the room. “You can’t hide in here. The party is in your honor.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes, Mama thought this might help nudge you along with Mr. Marks—an excuse to wear a pretty dress and have a suitor about. That’s what I overheard her saying to Mrs. Fitterwall.”

  “A party for me. I suppose I can’t watch from the window.”

  My sister came into the room. She looked like spring in her muslin dress of saffron yellow with India ink-printed jasmine flowers. A wide straw-brimmed bonnet, rimmed in matching grosgrain ribbon, shadowed her lovely olive face and the strand of pearls Mr. Bexeley had given her for her birthday. She looked so elegant and was so loved by her husband.

  “Take my hand, Ruth. Come with me. You bolstered yourself and went to Blaren House. You can take a few paces outside into the garden.”

  I twiddled my spectacles and searched for reasons to delay. A headache, a coming storm. Nothing that would stop a pushy, well-meaning sister. “There are known dragons out there, Ester.”

  “There are people who will protect you, too. I’m here.”

  I smiled at Ester and prayed my expression mirrored hope and happiness, not the anxiety of waiting for Wycliff.

  “Barrister Marks will be here soon,” I said. “He’s big and tall and can fight all the ghosts I let play in my imagination. With him, I’ll venture out.”

  “Nothing is going to hurt you, sis.” She extended her hands toward me. “I won’t let them.”

  Clasping that open palm seemed too far to stretch. It required too much strength, strength I was saving for Mr. Marks, for our couple’s walkabout. I didn’t know if I could go into the garden twice. “Mr. Marks will be here soon.”

  Ester lowered her hand. It hit the desk with a bang. “I don’t mean to push, but I don’t know how to help. I want you to trust me again. I want to know how to fix us.”

  Didn’t she mean fix me, her crazy sister?

  No one could.

  Not the physicians, not the crazy elixirs which made my eyes whirl.

  Not Papa’s brandy swirled in tea.

  Not even the suggested dover pills—opium. Thank goodness, Mama had said no to that.

  Nothing stopped the tremors once they started. The terror rattled everything in my mind, my body. It curled an invisible hand about my mouth, dragging me backward as it squashed my screams. Even as I tried to resist, it raped my soul. It kept stealing me, those bits of my spirit that made me strong and funny and fearless.

  I wiped my damp gloves along my cheeks. I was getting worked up. My composure was slipping, and I wasn’t even out of the house.

  “I’m here, Ruth. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She put her arms about me, and I held on to her.

  I am grateful for her, for my family, for clothes, food, and my Chris.

  Her strength filled me. I took Ester’s hand. “A few minutes in the warm sun with my beautiful, pushy sister should happen. Let’s go.”

  Good. I sounded normal, not confused or scared. Good.

  Ester steadied me and led me out into the hall. “Will you introduce the baron to Mr. Marks? How do you think he’ll like your cousin?”

  Tightness clenched my stomach again. I couldn’t tell if this was defensiveness or Wycliff or that back door coming at me. “He should like him just fine. You should, too.”

  “He’s not my cousin.”

  I looped my arm tighter about Ester’s. “Marks and Wycliff are both handsome men, are they not?”

  Ester didn’t respond. That meant Wycliff was good-looking. Nothing was wrong with having a handsome cousin, was it?

  I lifted my head as we came to the threshold. I couldn’t press my sister for her thoughts on Wycliff, not with the whitewashed doorframe beckoning me. I glared at the plaster-cast acanthus leaves on each side of the entry. They taunted me. Safe inside, danger outside.

  “No need to answer, my fretting sister.” I forced a laugh. “I’ve my spectacles. I’ll be able to fully examine Wycliff, head to toe.”

  “In front of your friend, Mr. Marks? Ruth, you can’t do that.”

  “Can’t do what in front of me?” John Marks, the tall barrister, tall like Papa, stood near. My suitor, an answer from a newspaper advertisement—rumpled chestnut hair matching a wrinkled coat and cravat, soulful brown eyes with crusts of sleep in each—had arrived. Had he slept in his office again? The man worked so hard.

  He reached for my hand and took me away from Ester.

  “You came directly from work, didn’t you, sir?”

  His steady eyes widened. “Yes. My latest trial is very taxing, but I said I’d be here this time. Perhaps showing you I’m a man of my word will induce you to accept my offer. I want to marry you, Mrs. Wilky.”

  “I need more time. My parents need to see you more.”

  “Then let’s go to them.” He had a strong hold on my hand, not threatening, but not slack.

  The next I knew, he’d whisked me through the door.

  The motion was fast.

  The change in light from dim to blindingly bright made my head spin.

  My chest pounded.

  My bosom sounded hollow.

  I hooked my arm tighter about his.

  That made him smile down at me with his big blue eyes.

  My practiced smile. Was it still there?

  “Mrs. Wilky, I daresay you are getting more used to me.” He slid my palm, my clutched palm, down and took
my hand in his. “Your parents are about. We shouldn’t look so forward.”

  I nodded. I might even have agreed out loud. We walked a little farther. Mr. Marks on one side. My terror on the right.

  Ester was close behind us. Bonnet on, short ivory gloves, but she was there.

  I smiled.

  I breathed a little easier. Croome girls might have words, but we made sure we each were safe. I loved that frustrating bonbon.

  Blinking, I forced my eyes to John Marks. He could be my future, Chris’s and my future. The sooner I learned how to feel secure with him, the better things would go.

  Marks took his time guiding me about the garden, chatting with this one and that, complimenting Mama on the food, Clancy on the manicure of the hedges.

  Yet my terror stayed on my right side, the side with my scar, the worst part of my vision. The trees, the flowering hedges in the distance didn’t seem so scary, but I did keep looking back to the house.

  My barrister was personable and chatty, even with the knitting women.

  Mrs. Daly could find no fault in his diction. She may have even smiled back at him.

  I paid attention as much as I could, but I felt my gaze drifting, hunting through the crowd for the shortest path back to the house. My lenses weren’t as strong as the ones I’d broken at Blaren House, but anything was better than seeing a few inches from my nose when I was out where things could get at me.

  We crossed Mama’s path again.

  Her ice-blue gown with ruffs of Brabant lace about the hem made her seem beautiful and serene. She didn’t smile as much at Marks as she did at Ester’s husband. I didn’t know why.

  “Mr. Marks,” she said, “you must have a slice of my cake. Did Ruth tell you that she loves baking? She’s a good baker, too.”

  I looked up, and Mr. Marks had that pout on his face, the beg-off frown.

  “Mrs. Croome, this is a lovely party, but I’ll have to wait on the dessert. I have to leave. I have to meet with my solicitor. New evidence has been discovered for an upcoming trial.”

  Mama’s prim expression stayed perfect, and sweet, not an ounce of disappointment exuded.

  But I knew how she liked people eating her cake.

  I was torn, because if Mr. Marks left, he would have to take me back to the house, but Mama worked hard for her parties.

  “You’re never able to stay.” Mama’s tone gave her away. “One wonders what kind of life my daughter will have if her husband works all the time.”

  The tone sounded delicate, but the words weren’t.

  A stranger would think it was just a mother offering a slight critique. This was Horatia Croome’s shot over the bow. Croome women might fight, kick, and scream, but they had one another’s best interest at heart.

  For the first time in a long time, I was proud to be a Croome.

  “Mr. Marks,” Mama said, “at least go say your good-byes to Mr. Croome. He’s over in the shade with my grandbabies, Josiah and Ruth’s son, Christopher.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Croome.” He released my hand and left me.

  I focused on Mama, not the distance back to the house, which was now at least thirty paces.

  I folded my arms, clutching my long sleeve, my elbows, and tried to breathe.

  “Ruth, you hear me. You’re fine. Don’t embarrass yourself. You’re good.”

  That was Mama’s encouragement, raw and gutting like a slap.

  But it was enough to make me hide deeper into myself. My terror stayed with me. My skin felt clammy. My palms wet through my gloves. But my posture was perfect, and this Croome girl held her chin high.

  Something touched my hand.

  I looked up and saw Mr. Marks. He took my arm and escorted me back into the house.

  Crossing the threshold made me happy. It didn’t matter what he said. I giggled at being led inside.

  “Ruth?” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I have to head to the Lincoln’s Inn. There’s always so much work. You do understand?”

  “Of course I do.”

  He kissed my forehead. “That’s why we’ll be great together. You feel my drive for justice. You know how much my clients need me.”

  My joy faded. Disappointment took its spot. It hit me that he was leaving. “I understand that you do what you must.”

  The look on his face didn’t seem encouraged. His smile was a little lawyerly. Had he become like a judge who’d heard false testimony?

  His lips thinned, and he leaned down close to my ear. “I know that you wanted me here longer. I came this time, but I’ve work to do. Work now, then my schedule should be clear next week for a drive in Hyde Park. I’ll be fully available for any little outing or ritual you have in mind.”

  Rituals?

  I’d been open about my fears, my panics in the letters we’d exchanged. Was all of this a ritual? Were gatherings with my family rituals? “Next week, Mr. Marks. If your schedule holds, that’s something to look forward to.”

  “Mrs. Wilky…Ruth, don’t be like this. I’ll make it up to you.” He fumbled with the silver pocket watch Mama had given him as a Christmas present when she’d thought my accepting his offer was imminent. “A drive in the park next week will be wonderful. You’ll have my undivided attention.”

  A closed carriage would be wonderful. “Tea here would be nice, too.”

  “Ruth, I’ll make this up to you.”

  I wouldn’t beg him to stay. I’d begged enough for a lifetime. I was safe in the house, where I needed to be. Ours was an honorable arrangement, a platonic one.

  No overthinking things.

  No expecting more or giving more.

  I pinned on that practiced smile again, one Mama would be proud of. “You go and prepare and win that trial for me. I’m inspired by your dedication.”

  He kissed my cheek. “Next week, Mrs. Wilky.”

  The man hummed and bounced his way to Clancy at the entry.

  Should I follow and watch him don his hat and coat and wave as if I were pleased?

  I didn’t have it in me today. Instead, I turned and went to the threshold and looked out at the garden party.

  A hand wrapped along my arm. “Ruth.”

  Ester’s friend, Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil hugged me. With her arm wrapped about my waist, I was ushered outside to where Ester and her other confidante, Lady Hartwell, stood.

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil was a vision in sage, the viscountess one in light burgundy. Ester slipped to the other side of me as if to block my escape.

  Breathe, Ruth. Shut up. Take this. Smile.

  “We are so excited for you.” Lady Hartwell was gleeful, her bisque bonnet set like a tiara on her auburn curls. Her baby bump was starting to show.

  “I’m glad you all could make it,” I said. “You just missed Barrister Marks. He couldn’t stay. A trial needed him.”

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil beamed. “Men and their work. My husband is working on his latest play, and his brother, Lord Hartwell, is helping him keep track of all the children.”

  “He’s so happy with lots of children.” Lady Hartwell held a plate of sweets, a pile of chocolate-dipped biscuits. “Mrs. Wilky, I saw Mr. Marks leave. He’s been paying you a lot of attention. Will you be our fourth successful bride by newspaper advertisements?”

  I shrugged. “It’s still early in our courting.”

  “It’s been since November,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil said.

  Lady Hartwell wiped her mouth of bonbon crumbs. “She’s taking her time. More time for your mother to help with my situation.” She patted her tummy. “The Fitzwilliam family will probably have her move in with us the month of my lying-in. Someone will have to keep my husband calm.”

  Clancy offered a sparkling tray of lemonade to the ladies. I abstained but tried to pay attention to these kind women. Their friendships with my sister were long and deep, their lives perfect and settled. I just wanted to go back to the house.

  The wind rustled in the distant bushes, louder than their easy chatter. I was alone
, even with these women. Sometimes it felt as if I were on Gracechurch Street looking through the shop glass, knowing Croome fabric was sold inside but I wasn’t welcome.

  Stop it, Ruth. Let’s turn over a table. Launch into a drinking song, one Adam and I had heard at the docks. Wild, unpredictable me had been silenced too long. “Ladies, I’m grateful my sister has such good friends, and you each make things better for others. Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil and the flower-shop girls. Lady Hartwell with her women’s hospital.”

  They clinked their glasses.

  “Ester, will you return to reading Shakespeare at Lady Hartwell’s charity in the summer?”

  “Yes, Sis.” Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. They tapped their goblets again.

  Air went in and out of my empty chest more easily. I felt my confidence rise, sans a drunkard’s tune. “Lady Hartwell, if a young mulatto woman was on the streets, would she be welcome at your charity?”

  “She could be, if there’s an opening at Magdalen House.” Lady Hartwell stepped closer. “Mrs. Wilky, is there someone you’re looking for?”

  “Yes, my late husband’s sister is missing.”

  A brow raised on the pretty woman’s face. Doubt shadowed her hazel eyes. “A sister missing? How could that be?”

  Confused at the response, I squinted at her, even tweaked my spectacles. “My late husband’s sister, she’s a young mulatto girl. She’s missing.”

  Ester elbowed Lady Hartwell.

  Then I realized that this council of friends was the same as Mama’s. They’d been told the lies. All the things I’d endured, all the things I’d suffered, were fiction to them. These women needed actual proof, too.

  This was worse than staring through heavy shop glass.

  My sister had betrayed me.

  These were nice women, but nice women believed I was a liar.

  My chest felt hollow, more than empty. I searched for the house. I didn’t even have it in me to fake a smile and beg off properly.

  Ester stepped into my path. “Ruth, these are my friends. We share everything. I told them what Mama said.”