The Bashful Bride (Advertisements for Love Book 2)

by Vanessa Riley

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Performance of a Lifetime

  Ester heard the musicians playing downstairs. The tunes they practiced sounded lively, perfect for a birthday celebration. It was her twenty-first, and the party would begin in an hour. Unlike all her other special days, she was miserable.

  Breakfast had been done with a smile. Like always, the food tasted delicious, with the fluffiest biscuits she’d ever had and a splurge on beefsteaks, but she’d only taken a few bites. She found it hard to act happy when she’d never been more miserable. Yet, she’d become quite good at acting, even pretending to herself that she didn’t miss Bex at all.

  Liar.

  When had she become a coward and a purveyor of falsehoods? Instead of answering Bex’s advertisement or simply going to his residence, she’d stayed at Nineteen Fournier, hoping for her heartache to go away. Where was the bravery to love and be loved? Where was her faith?

  “Miss Ester? You have a visitor downstairs in your father’s study,” Clancy said, his voice carrying to the third floor.

  Her heart beat hard. Maybe Bex was trying one more time. She checked her hair, the position of her bonnet, the sash of her indigo-colored dress. She should put on something prettier, not last year’s gown, for Bex.

  Oh, what did it matter? Bex was here. In a flash, she was out of the room, down two flights of stairs, almost sliding in her new ivory slippers past the servants lighting the chandelier.

  Trying to appear calm and aloof, not love-starved, she lifted her chin and knocked on Papa’s door.

  “Come…in.” Father’s words slurred, but his voice still had the masculine force that it always had.

  Holding her breath, she entered, then released a disappointed huff. “Mr. Phineas, what are you doing here?”

  “My business is twofold. I wanted to tell your father that I think the brass fittings on the newly installed gas lamps failed. With the dust of the wool and cotton in the air, a leak from a lamp could have caused the explosion.”

  “Jordan’s lamps.” Father took a moment and forced his lips to move without a slur. It was difficult with the burns to his face. “He put in cheap ones.”

  Ester headed to Papa’s desk. “Mr. Phineas, are you sure? That’s a mighty accusation. Your paper isn’t known to get things right.”

  “Ma’am, I’ve been hunting the manufacturer, talking to the installers. I’m very sure. Jordan’s gas lighting was at fault.”

  “Jordan.” Papa fisted his hand.

  Ester put her palm on her father’s and squeezed. “Thank you, Mr. Phineas. My father prides himself on being good to his workers, not putting them in danger. This is good news, but what was the second thing?”

  The reporter reached to the floor and lifted her bag, the one she’d left at Bex’s, and a pretty parcel with a big yellow bow. “Bex wanted me to give these to you.”

  “Why didn’t he come himself?”

  “He’s welcome,” Papa said the words loud and clear. “The boy is.”

  Ester squeezed her father’s hand again. Bex was welcome, welcome to everything, including her heart. She was tired of being afraid.

  Phineas sighed. “He doesn’t want to drag the Croomes into his fight. Some nasty reporter might follow him.”

  “He doesn’t have to fight alone.” The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop. Then she raised her head and let her protective nature reign. “Yes, he doesn’t have to fight alone, at all.”

  “Maybe you should tell him before he leaves.”

  “What?” Ester covered her mouth for a moment. “Bex is going away?”

  “Yes, but he might be at the White Horse Cellar tonight. There’s another rally for abolition. Many people want him there, including Wilberforce. I hope he shows and defends himself.”

  Ester clutched the box to her chest. “Mr. Phineas, tell him he should fight. That he’s a good man.”

  “My voice isn’t the one he needs to hear. You’ve been to the Cellar. You know how loud it is in there. Those that want hate or are resistant to change—their voices are always loud.”

  “And voices trapped by fear will never be heard.” Ester felt ashamed and scared and more in want of Bex’s embrace than ever.

  Phineas went to the door. “Happy Birthday, Mrs. Bex.” The man tipped his hat and left.

  “Ester.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Her father’s upper lip went up and nothing came out for a few seconds. “Go to Bex. He made…mistakes. Still worthy of re-redempt—”

  “Redemption?” Ester folded her arms about Papa. “I need to ask you something. You don’t have to answer. I know it’s not my business.”

  Papa nodded.

  “Why a mistress? We’d just moved to Nineteen Fournier. I thought we were all so happy.”

  Her father looked down. “Forgot what made us work. Success can…can make you forget…struggle.”

  She swallowed hard and witnessed a vulnerability she’d never seen in her big, tall hero. “Why did you keep the letters? If you had destroyed them, I’d never have known. Mama wouldn’t have read them.”

  “I knew.” His shaky hand pointed to his forehead. “Up here. Needed reminder of the trust I broke. Mama, she…don’t just trust any…anyone.”

  Ester swiped at the tears that came from his eyes. The fragility of love was so evident, so thick on his bruised lips. “Thank you for telling me, Papa. I’m so sorry for how I treated you.”

  He worked his mouth and said, “Sorry, for disapp…pointing.” He held out his arms and she fell into them. She needed Papa’s arms. She needed him.

  The bear hug grew tighter. “Can’t stand tall and proud for you anymore.”

  She knelt beside his chair. “Mistakes, they need to be forgiven, but Papa, you stand tall to me even when you are sitting.”

  He patted her shoulder. “Go to Bex. Tell him…sorry, too.”

  Putting a palm to her empty bosom, she shrugged. “Papa. He’ll do dangerous things. I love him enough to let him go fight his fights, to be the man he is.” Wiping her cheek, she rose and started for the hall before she felt even sadder about Bex.

  “Wait. Ester. The gift.”

  She turned back. Fear ran through her. It would be something thoughtful that would break her heart all over again.

  Sighing, almost praying that it was nothing personal, nothing that reminded her of how well he knew her, she took the box into her hands.

  The ribbon bow came off easy in one pull. When she pried open the lid, her sketchbook lay open to pages with her dream name, Mrs. Arthur Bex, but underneath, the voluminous tissue paper wrapped something pale pink. She peeked at it, trying not to wrinkle any of the folds.

  Papa grunted. “Well.”

  Joy swept over her as she lifted the collar rimmed high in lace. The rest of the dress, with lines of pearl buttons from bosom to hem, shimmered in the light.

  “He bought you a dress.” Papa fingered the falling sleeve. “Croome fabric. Good…taste.”

  It was more than good taste. It was the dress she’d designed on their elopement trip. Bex had it created for her but had it made with a high neck. Theodosia could calculate how many guineas it had cost, but Ester knew it was an extravagance for a humbled man of modest means.

  “Ester. Can…go get him…now?”

  The knock on the door was louder than her thoughts of agreeing with Papa.

  “Come in,” he said, clearer than before.

  Clancy entered. “Mrs. Croome wants you both to come to dinner. The guests have arrived.”

  Papa struggled to his feet. Cane in one hand, he held his other out for her. “Go.” He pulled her into a bear hug again. “Clancy…pull the carriage…my daughter must go.”

  Her stubborn heart beat fast, then went wild. She wanted her husband, loved him more than her fears. “A chaperone must come, Papa.”

  “You’re married. Don’t need one,” he said.

  “But I’m asking for one, Papa. I’m asking for yo
u. Will you come with me and give me your blessing?”

  His half smile returned. “Yes. Let me tell Mama.”

  They stepped out of his office to where Clancy stood. Smiling big, the butler held out his arm and helped Papa stroll the length of the hall.

  The front door opened, and the groom announced the Jordans. Mrs. Jordan swept inside in a gown of gold. “Happy Birthday, Ester. Charles wanted me to tell you he couldn’t make it.”

  Ester nodded, even as she sighed in relief. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Mr. Jordan had a snide look about him. “I heard you’ve been doing some traveling. You should’ve stayed. The headlines these past couple of weeks have been illuminating.”

  He nudged his wife, and she giggled.

  Surely, they knew about Bex, and Ester wished she had her ring on her finger and not on the coral necklace about her neck. “Yes, I only wish I could’ve shortened my trip to watch the installation of your gaslights. A reporter for The Morning Post thinks them faulty. It will make quite a headline once it’s proved true. But you know some papers don’t print truth.”

  The look, the audible swallow, was worth it, to enjoy each second of Jordan’s sneer drop away.

  “Does your father believe this lie?”

  “Yes.” Ester smiled big as she took the necklace off and removed her ring. Sliding it onto her finger, she nodded at the squirming couple. “He’s waiting on proof, Mr. Jordan. It should be any day now. I wonder if Papa will sue to gain restitution for the workers that died.”

  “I’m not feeling too well,” Jordan finally said. “Tell your parents sorry.” He spun his wife around and was out the door before Ester could count to twenty-one.

  She heard the cane tapping, getting louder behind her.

  By himself, Papa came and stood by her side. “We…back before…time to cut the cake. Before midnight.

  Yes, they had to have Bex with them before midnight, or at least by five past. Then their life together wouldn’t just be a dream Ester had every night. It would be a wish come true.

  …

  Men packed the bottom level of the White Horse Cellar. Not a table up front was empty, but Arthur found a seat in the back. Covered by the low tallow light and his heavy greatcoat, he sat, wondering why he had come.

  Yet, when Wilberforce offered his impassioned plea of the rights of every human, Arthur lifted his head and nodded in agreement. Just because he had failed didn’t make the cause of abolition a failure.

  Wilberforce raised a shaking hand to his face, cupping his eyes. “You’ve heard my words, the ones of a man who is still in the fight, but now let’s hear from a younger man. Arthur Bex, come forward.”

  The cheers stopped, and silence filled the cellar for exactly ten seconds. Then the boos started and lit a fire all the way around.

  Arthur tried to rise, but his feet had turned to lead. He coughed and wiped at his face.

  “Come on, Bex. Tell ’em.” It was Jonesy. The boy must’ve snuck away from watching Bex’s phaeton. So much for his one night in service as a groom.

  The naysaying buzzed, thick like smoke in a warehouse, or like shouts against a boy testifying about murder. Arthur knew what was right, even if he was the only one. He had to do what was right. That meant he needed to stop hiding, to stand his ground and fight.

  Now or never.

  Arthur stood and moved through the crowd. He came to the chair that was being used as a stage. He leaped onto it and waved his arms and stared down the loudest accuser until all had quieted like an audience at Covent Gardens. “The stakes have never been higher. You must choose what’s right, what’s true.”

  “Sit down, son of a slaver.”

  The comment silenced the room. No doubt, everyone waited to see how Arthur would respond, but he hesitated.

  “Bex was the slaver captain’s nephew, and Bex tried to stop the atrocities. What have you done?” The voice was Phineas’s, and it breathed new air into the Cellar’s stench.

  “Who in here is not related to a thief, a liar, or a slaver?” Arthur’s voice took command of the stage, making everyone go still. “If one in here can say yes, then you’ve deceived yourself. You’ve lied to yourself. No one is clean. We’re all steeped in some secret sin.”

  His voice boomed. The echo of it rippled across the quieted faces.

  He raised his hands, becoming Antony sending his men to battle and Macduff slaying Macbeth’s evil minions. “Brothers, I’ve been ridiculed in all the papers, but I’m not the fight, just a speck of dust. Enslavement is a cobweb which sticks to every Englishman. The newspapers don’t decry the chains cast on our brothers. They discuss the loss of coins from the Zhonda. If they could show you the chained men stacked like fish for the lure of guineas, then you would know. As the nephew of a slaver—the worst slaver—I’ve seen it. I saw proud men, proud brothers locked in heavy iron chains, thrown to their deaths. If you saw it, if you’d known the evil, you’d join me in the fight.”

  “You should know.” The snicker lofted above the silent crowd.

  “You turned on your uncle and let him be killed over cargo. The slaves were cargo. They endangered the crew. Crew comes first.”

  Arthur was losing them, but he’d not be stopped. “Brothers—”

  “Crew come first. Crew come first. Lying actors last.” It was a handful, not the whole room, but the angry voices were loud.

  “Cargo doesn’t scream. Cargo doesn’t gasp for air as the weight of chains drags them to the bottom. Cargo isn’t a man. Murder’s not how you treat a brother.”

  “Traitor,” one man said. “You got your flesh-and-blood uncle hanged.”

  “Doesn’t murder require justice?” The woman’s voice was low but grew louder. “Who’d not want justice for the killing of an uncle or brother?”

  The shy voice silenced the crowd.

  Ester? Ester’s voice had done it.

  She was in the back of the room, standing by her father. “Would any of you want your uncle to die, chains wrapped around him, tossed overboard to drown? The Zhonda’s crew did that fifty times. Fifty murders witnessed by a young boy, a nephew who had the courage to try and stop evil. Who among you is that strong? None. But you sit in chairs or read papers and you mock him for doing what is right.”

  “Of course, you would side with the actor.” A man stood and came toward her. “Look fellas, it’s one of those runaway slaves. Let’s get her and fetch a reward.”

  Before the blackguard or Iagos could get anywhere near her, Bex jumped between them and had a fist ready to do damage. “I can do more than act. Touch her, and you’ll know how much of your life remains.”

  The man backed away and eased to his seat. “You’re a big man, Bex, or whatever your name is. Get your maid and leave.”

  “Bex, we should leave,” Ester said. “Why cast pearls before swine?”

  “That one has a mouth on her.” The drunk made his table of buffoons laugh.

  But Arthur had to agree, because he’d kissed those lips and he wanted to again and again. “She does, a beautiful one.” He took her arm and led her to a chair near Wilberforce. “Wait for me until I’m done.”

  Another man pounded on the table. “Hey, if she’s up there, let her speak. Maybe she can tell us why we should listen to Bex?”

  Before he could stop her, Ester bounced to her feet and faced the men. “Because I know Bex better than I know myself. If there’s a hard path, one that will help others, he’ll take the difficult road. He’ll take on your burdens and make them his own. So, when he tells you abolition is the cause of his heart, it’s true.”

  Her clear voice, unwavering in support, made a difference. A few started to clap.

  The drunk stood once more. “Why should we believe this woman? She speaks good. Could be another actor.”

  She tugged off her glove and exposed her finger, the one showing her wedding ring.

  Ester wore it again. His heart beat a little stronger, a little louder, but this could be Ester taking
on a role to protect him. Acting would never do for Arthur. He needed her to love him, flaws and all. “You don’t—”

  Her smile, the light in her eyes, silenced him. “I’m Mrs. Bex. I’m his wife. We’ve been meant for each other going on two years—the niece of an enslaved man and the good nephew of his slaver. If I, who has more grievances than any, can stand here with my knees knocking and tell you of the good in this man, then you should know it’s true.”

  The room went silent again.

  Arthur took her hand and put it on his arm. “No one can undo the past, gentlemen, but we can do what is right, now. The slave trade beyond our borders, in our colonies, must end.”

  “What of America?” The voice was Phineas, and he seemed to be taking notes.

  “The Americas aren’t a colony anymore. That little revolution in seventy-six changed things.”

  The crowd snickered, and Arthur could feel they were with him again. “They’ll choose their own path, but we can be a beacon of light. They can follow us, and the world can change. We are all brothers and sisters, trying to do what is right. That’s our choice. Let’s do what is right and push for abolition everywhere.”

  The applause started as he hoisted Ester in the air and tucked her safely at his side. He tipped his hat to Wilberforce and then to Phineas as he made his way to the back of the room.

  “Mr. Croome, may I help you out of here?”

  The man nodded. “Yes. Birthday cake, now.”

  The man’s slurred command made sense. It was still Ester’s birthday. He took hold of his father-in-law near his mourning armband and let Mr. Croome put his full weight against him as they made it up the stairwell.

  On the main level, Mr. Croome grasped Arthur’s lapel. “Son, can’t fight everyone.”

  His heart warmed at the sentiment, son-ship. He hadn’t belonged to anyone in a long time, but there was still someone who needed to claim him. Arthur looked over to Ester and drank in her smile. “I won’t fight with your daughter anymore. She might take to the stage against me.”

  “Whoa,” Croome said. “Don’t look at her like that.”

  Arthur put her hand in his. “Sir, who else should I be looking at with all the love in my heart?”

  “Fine. Come. Cake. Mrs. Croome.” Ester’s father was a big man, and if his shaking fist connected, it would have power. “We go now.”