“May I see?”
She extended the opened volume to him. “This plate shows a street in Bombay.”
The aquatinted drawing spreading over the page contained a crowd of neat white buildings with red-brown roofs. A clutter of people walked between them down a narrow street, separated by the occasional carriage or cart pulled by a tiny figure in a broad-brimmed hat.
The scene could almost have been from London. In some ways, a city was a city, no matter where in the world it was found. Yet in the wide-hipped roofs and stretching awnings, there was a suggestion of something unfamiliar. Things are a little different here.
Was it because of the heat? The brightness? How did it change a person’s heart, to trust in the sun?
Only when Jane tugged the book away did Edmund realize he had been staring at the image for a long time. He blinked, trying to clear his head. He seemed to have traveled away from the second story of Hatchards, and his mind fought the return to his body.
“You like it, too, don’t you?” Jane’s fingers hovered over the picture.
His throat felt dry. “Is there something about India in particular that you like?” He swallowed. Coughed. “Because of... of Bellamy?”
Not that Bellamy—Turner—had a damn thing to do with India, in truth. His stories were nothing but false tales from his fevered imagination.
“Not only India. Anywhere. Everywhere.” Her fingers trailed over the illustration. “I just want to know more. I don’t want to have a small life.”
Oh.
It wasn’t Bellamy, or India, or disappointment in Edmund. It was her own wish, untainted and sincere. And how could he argue with a wish like that?
His face must have changed, for she closed the atlas. “I’ll put it back. It’s rather expensive.”
He took the volume from her, but instead of returning it to the shelf, he handed it to a nearby clerk. “Please charge this to Lord Kirkpatrick’s account and have it wrapped up. We shall take it with us.”
When he turned back to Jane, he took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “I wish I could give you more than a book.”
“A book is enough.” God bless the woman; she even met his eyes when she said it.
Now that he’d found a way to please her, his body unknotted. A ridge of tension between his shoulder blades began to relax; the constant twisting feeling of his stomach began to ebb. This was . . . good. This was marriage as he’d never seen it: friendly and comfortable. As long as there was amity, they could rub along well enough without love.
He cleared his throat. Onward. “Will you help me choose a few Christmas gifts for relatives? They’ll need to be sent to Cornwall, so it’s best to buy them now.”
Jane’s brow furrowed. “Cornwall? You still have relatives living there?” She shook her head. “Yes, I knew that. It can’t be your father, but . . .”
“My mother. Two sisters.”
“And they won’t come to London for Christmas?”
He forced a smile. “They don’t travel, and I don’t either.”
“Yes, I know that well enough.” Reaching for the shelf at her side, she took down a volume at random, then put it back. “My mother is the same way. She likes to stay close to home, and she doesn’t like venturing into London. I was almost surprised that she came to our wedding, but she couldn’t ignore the marriage of her only child.”
“I’m glad she did not,” Edmund said.
Jane seemed not to hear him; gently, she stroked a hand-painted map labeled La Sicilia. “I said I didn’t want a small life, but that’s all she’s ever wanted. After my father died, so long ago I hardly remember him, it was just me and my mother and a sniffle-nosed maid-of-all-work. We lived on the fringes of a village, with enough shabby gentility to—”
“Carpet an estate?” he teased.
“With a very threadbare carpet.” Tracing the shapes on the map, she added, “I always knew that life wasn’t what I wanted for myself.”
Edmund opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. Formulating some sort of flowery compliment was much more difficult when one was given honesty rather than flirtation. “I understand.”
“Do you?” She gave a dry laugh. “I’m a baroness now. Lady Kirkpatrick. I certainly don’t understand it myself.”
“There’s no mystery to it,” he said. “Baroness or beggar, one just does what needs to be done. As sharp-witted as you are, I’ve no concerns about what sort of baroness you’ll be.”
“Sharp-witted,” she repeated. “I like the sound of that.”
“It’s the truth. Sharp-tongued, too.”
“Do you know, I think you’re being sincere.” She smiled at him.
Jane had quite a pretty smile, really. Her teeth were straight, and her chin came to a sweet point. In past years, he had tended to be wary of her smiles, which were often coupled with a wicked plan certain to result in ruined clothing or physical injury.
But she’d been very young then. And so had he. And now . . . her smile was lovely.
It was easy to return a smile to her.
“Well, let’s find those books you want.” All business, she broke into his musings. “Downstairs?”
“Yes. Have you found everything you want up here?”
“For now.” She looked down at La Sicilia once again. “Thank you for the book.”
“Don’t start thanking me again. You should say, ‘About dratted time you bought me a good present, Edmund.’”
Ah. That smile again. Good.
She led the way down the stairs. As soon as they rounded the first curve of the staircase, the clamor increased. They shouldered their way to a tall case of bound volumes. Edmund looked at the shelf before him, wishing the right book would leap into his hand. “Do women like novels?”
At his side, Jane scanned the shelves. “Some do. Do you think your sisters would like something humorous? Or something chilling and Gothic?”
“I’m not sure. Catherine used to like horses. And Mary liked flowers and things.”
“She liked ‘things’? Wonderful. Let’s find the section of books about ‘things.’”
Edmund poked her in the arm. “Minx. You know what I mean. Bright things. Butterflies. Fairies. Folk tales.”
Her mouth curved. “We can find her a book about ‘bright things,’ then. With nice illustrations.”
He caught her arm before she could seek a clerk. “Wait. Jane. I don’t know if she would enjoy that sort of book now. She—well. She liked all of that when she was a child.”
“Oh.” Jane tilted her head. “How old is she now?”
“Twenty-three. And Catherine is twenty-five.”
She paused. Blinked. “All right. Then they could do with a good novel.”
Jane began tugging down bound volumes. Green leather; black bindings; morocco and kid. She handed them to him, making a pile in his arms, and he felt relief at her quick decision.
And at the fact that she hadn’t commented on his being twenty years behind in knowing what his sisters liked.
“That should be enough,” she said when the pile of books reached Edmund’s chin. He set his jaw atop the stack to hold them steady. “Several Waverley novels. Your mother will probably like those, too. Besides that, Tom Jones. Send that one separately so your mother doesn’t know they have it, or she might be shocked.”
“I doubt much of anything could shock my mother.” If Turner was telling the truth about his sisters’ parentage, that is. His letter to his steward Browning, sent that morning, contained a few judicious questions. The younger man might infer their true meaning, but Edmund trusted in his discretion.
“Better to be safe than to get your sisters in trouble.” She winked at him; her smile had taken on the familiar mischievous twist. It brought out a dimple at one corner of her mouth.
His throat closed tight. “Where would you like to go after this?” He croaked as a clerk wrapped their parcels. “Name the place.”
He almost wished she would suggest s
omeplace far away. France. La Sicilia. He wouldn’t leave London for his own sake, but he would do it for hers, even knowing Turner would chase them.
Edmund owed him a debt of blood? Well. Likewise. Only Edmund had never intended to collect.
Jane took so long to answer that Edmund wondered if her mind had flitted back upstairs to the table of maps. Finally she said, “Let’s keep looking together and see what we find.”
Christmas had come early.
Oh, the calendar said it was still a month away. The shops hadn’t yet trimmed their windows with garlands. The weather was stubbornly gray, the rooftops wet with drizzle rather than snow-frosted.
Still. As far as Jane was concerned, Christmas had nothing more to offer than this day. Not gifts, not gratitude, not triumph over her own rebellious self.
She had succeeded in spending the afternoon with Edmund without the dreadful subject of love being brought up. She had even managed to tell him something real. How she felt about travel. About her mother. Her tiny little life.
She had managed to make him laugh. As though he liked being with her.
After completing their purchases at Hatchards, they wandered next into a shop of furnishings and decorative trinkets. Jane found a vase that purported to be from China, though for all she knew, it could have been painted up in the Wedgwood pottery the week before. It had a pleasing look of far-traveled splendor about it, though: nearly two feet in height, rectangular in form, with gilded handles in the shape of sinuous dragons. Each of the four sides was enameled with complex scenes of buildings and people and animals, trees and clouds and sky, all stacked in severe perspective and colored with tints brighter than nature.
As she studied it, Edmund found his way to her. “You like it.”
“I could look at it for hours and still find new things to notice. It’s like being in China. Or seeing what people in China think is beautiful.”
“I don’t think anyone could disagree with the beauty of this vase.”
She looked up at him. “Do you think it’s real?”
“From China?” He touched a dragon-formed handle with one gloved fingertip. “Most likely. I’ve never seen a vase like this before.”
“I’ll get it,” she decided. “I can use this quarter’s pin money.”
“Nonsense. I’ll take care of it.”
In a high-handed instant, Edmund had found a clerk and arranged for the billing and packaging of the vase.
When he returned to her side, she asked, “Why do you even grant me pin money if you never allow me to use it?”
His brows lifted. “It’s for when you want something so frivolous that the very idea of spending money on it makes me shudder.”
“Such as?”
“A bonnet with a stuffed pigeon on it?” His eyes crinkled, attempting a shared joke, and she couldn’t help but relent. Though she managed to thank him, a slight sense of injury lingered, as though he had taken away something she wanted very much for herself.
She was not to be trusted with money, her cousin Xavier had once said. But what he meant was that she was not to be trusted to spend it as she wished. Now Jane had money in her pocket, yet a man still held her purse strings and kept her from buying anything for her own.
Her spirits revived as they meandered through the shop, poking through boxes of precious-stone scarabs and admiring Dutch paintings. They both squeezed onto a tiny French fauteuil and stood, quickly and guiltily, when its old wooden bones creaked a loud protest.
Next they drifted into a milliner’s shop, a narrow space crowded with bright fabrics and plumes and ribbons, with finished hats lining shelves and resting on stands. Edmund chose three of the most lavish affairs—a silk turban trimmed with plumes, plus two high-crowned bonnets with ruched velvet and lace trim—for his mother and sisters. Jane found a length of lace for her mother; Mrs. Tindall could trim a cap with it and feel herself the belle of her village.
“You can’t always be giving things to other people,” Edmund said. “You must get something for yourself now.”
Jane laughed. “I’ve bought enough already. But if we’re keeping track of purchases, I haven’t seen you get anything for yourself yet.”
His own expression remained solemn. “A new bonnet, maybe. You could do with a new bonnet, couldn’t you?”
“Surely a man of society needs a new beaver hat. Or a snuffbox.”
Edmund pulled a face. “I have enough hats. And snuff? No.”
“A quizzing glass, then?”
“Jane, stop. My eyes are fine on their own. I don’t need anything. Now, what bonnet are we going to choose?”
“We are not talking of a matter of need. I don’t need a bonnet. I’ve already told you, I had all new clothing when we were married.”
He turned his face to one side, giving her his profile; a sculptor’s fantasy of clean lines. “We didn’t come out today so I could buy something for myself. Please, choose something.”
“I don’t want to, Edmund. Christmas is still weeks away. And I’ve already got a new atlas. And a vase.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It’s enough for me.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
Jane pressed her lips together. Not only was he not even looking at her; he wasn’t listening. “You want me to choose something? Fine. A bonnet will make you happy? Fine. You’d look lovely in red.”
He turned back to her, eyebrows arched. “A charming offer. But the bonnet is to be for you.”
“Who are you trying to please here? Me, or you?”
He blinked at her. “You, Jane. It’s for you.”
All she could do was blink back.
He thought he was being kind, but forcing unwanted gifts upon someone wasn’t kindness at all. It was selfish for him to press her like this. Was this because he felt guilty over neglecting her at last night’s ball? Was he trying to make her feel better?
If so, then he ought to atone in the manner of her choosing. Not force her to allow his own chosen atonement.
It had never occurred to her before that kindness could be selfish, yet this was. And he’d been selfish at the ball, too, hadn’t he? Spinning woman after woman onto the dance floor, ignoring his promise to her. Just as it had been lightly made, so had it been lightly discarded.
Not that she was going to say any of this in the middle of a shop. But the only person who was going to feel better after this purchase was the shopkeeper.
Skimming over bright ribbons and soft-crowned caps, satin turbans and silk-velvet bonnets, she looked for—aha. Tucked up in the corner of a shelf, half-hidden behind gaudier companions, was the bonnet of Jane’s choosing.
“That one, please. No—behind the plumed turban—yes, that’s right. The straw.”
A plain. Straw. Bonnet. That would show Edmund.
She put the bonnet on her head and regarded herself in the hand mirror the shopkeeper pressed upon her. The simple hat was prettier than she had expected, like a promise of spring in this drab wintry season: pale-blue straw, wired and shaped into a rounded frame around the face. The inside brim was edged with ivory silk, and a fat brown bow tied beneath her chin.
As she considered her reflection, Edmund’s face appeared over her shoulder in the glass. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’”
“No.” Her reply surprised even Jane.
“‘Thou art more lovely and more temp—’”
“No.”
“Not in the mood for poetry?”
“No.”
When he stepped out of the glass’s view, she glared at the face framed by the bonnet. Muddy eyes, obstinate mouth, slashing brows. A regular crab apple, with a hopelessly prosaic soul.
Carefully, she set the small mirror down on the shop counter. She’d seen enough. “I’m sorry, Edmund. I know you were trying to be kind.”
“Don’t be ridiculous; I was trying to be poetic. Kindness had nothing to do with it.”
“Why bother trying to be poetic?”
“To make you smile.” He touched the point of her chin. “I should have known, though, you can’t be persuaded to do anything you don’t want to. Even smile.”
“I want to smile. Sometimes.” She just didn’t feel like it right now. Not after so much time together, with such elusive sweetness, with disappointment inevitable on both sides.
No. Enough of that. No one liked a gloomy crab apple, especially not the gloomy crab apple herself. She tried a smile on.
Edmund covered his eyes and shrank away. “She snarled at me! Help! She showed her teeth like a wolf!”
Jane folded her arms. “Who is ridiculous now?”
Sober in an instant, he folded his arms in return. “Me, I suppose, for putting forth the effort. Yet you still won’t smile. And you won’t let me ask you if you’re having a nice time, or if you’re cold. How stubborn you are.”
She felt the point of her chin where he had just touched it. “You think I’m stubborn?”
“My dear lady, the whole world thinks you’re stubborn. But I know you are stubborn. And I’m certainly not going to buy you any more gifts today. Now are you going to purchase that hat for yourself or not?” The clownish grin had vanished. Instead, his lips pressed together, curling up at one side. Not a smile, but an expression of exasperation.
Triumph made her hands unsteady as she undid the bow at her chin. In some small way, she had forced him to see her clearly.
“Yes,” she decided. “I will buy it, after all.”
As Edmund helped Jane back into their carriage, freed from the snarl of traffic and half-filled with packages, there was only one question on his mind.
Why was she so obstinate?
She would not take what he offered in the intended spirit. He’d had to browbeat her into picking out something personal, not just something for the house or the library.
He had warned Jane against the so-called Bellamy as much as he could without telling her the full shameful truth. Now it was up to Edmund to protect her. To do so, he must keep her happy, wrapped up in threads of joy, cocooned from the man’s poison. More outings like today’s; that would be the answer. Little gifts. Books that pleased her.
Season for Scandal Page 10
