After the Wedding

by Courtney Milan

  Camilla shut her eyes. “Yes.” Her voice shook. “He reminded me at regular intervals that I had very little hope at redemption. He told me I was a disgrace and an embarrassment and that I should consider myself lucky to have my half pay.”

  “Hmm,” said Mrs. Martin. “Sounds like him. Go on.”

  “And I tried,” Camilla said. “I tried, I did, but every week I did something wrong. I was too friendly or not friendly enough, or maybe my gaze lingered somewhere too long or I looked away too quickly—nothing I did was ever right. And then Mr. Hunter visited—serving as a valet to a guest—and we became stuck in a room together, and the rector tossed me out and told everyone I’d been—” She cut herself off. “Kissing. Among other things.”

  “Hmm,” said Mrs. Martin again. “And you hadn’t?”

  “No!” And then, because the woman was watching her with narrowed eyes, she added, “Not that time. Not with him.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “So I thought of you. I know you’d talked to the rector months ago about a charity donation. And he had mentioned that you were angry about something earlier when I was in his presence. Did he misuse funds you donated? We want to know because we despise him and wish to expose him as a fraud.”

  “My goodness.” Mrs. Martin shut her eyes. “That was an excellent effort. I feel myself wanting to give you money just for that. Dear God, that was good. Sir, you need to let this young lady conduct your fraud. She’s much better at it.”

  “We’re not after your money,” Mr. Hunter said in aggrieved tones.

  “Speak for yourself,” Camilla snapped. “I’ve been working for half-wages for eighteen months. I’ll take anything.”

  Mrs. Martin cackled.

  “But technically, we’re really not after your money. We just want to know what happened. Will you tell us about your experience? Did Rector Miles convince you to donate money?”

  Mrs. Martin sighed and shut her eyes. “To my great dismay. Worst experience of my life—excepting, of course, my marriage.”

  Camilla leaned forward.

  “Tell me more.”

  “So here I am, imagine.” Mrs. Martin threw her arms out. “I have one living relation in the world—my nephew. Like all men of his ilk—which is to say, men in general—he had lived upon the expectation of an inheritance from me, his aunt. I cannot begrudge him that, I do not think.” She looked dubious, as if her grudges were growing lonely and she would not mind giving them company.

  “Mmm,” Mr. Hunter said, and Mrs. Martin sighed.

  “But he came to visit me, as he does, to flatter me and try to convince me to part with a portion of my money before I kicked off this mortal coil. And would you believe what he did?”

  “I…” Camilla swallowed. “Um, the way you said ‘men in general’ just now, it suggests…?”

  “Precisely. He kissed my maid, and I do mean kissed, and not anything more, because I happened upon them in time. She hadn’t wanted it, and thank god I interrupted. I told everyone he did it, and not one person listened—not the constable, not anyone. They all just said ‘boys will be boys,’ but Susan—she was the girl who did for me, and she’d done for me ever since her mam became too ill to continue, and I thought of her as close to my own daughter as could be—”

  Mrs. Martin looked around the room, sat down, and, after carefully setting her cane to the side of her chair, pulled out a handkerchief. She didn’t dab her eyes with it; she waved it angrily, as if she were gesturing some unseen bull to charge.

  “In any event, I am not here to tell Susan’s story. In a fit of rage, I gave her as much of my money as I could make her take, but she told me she didn’t want anyone to think she was greedy. And after what he did to her!”

  “Your nephew sounds like a cad.”

  “So, of course,” the woman continued, “I had to get rid of the rest of my money. He isn’t getting a half-pence from me. I went to the rectory, and I specifically asked if I could make a donation to assist women who were down on their luck in that particular way, if you catch my drift. Before I’d handed over my money, they assured me that they’d use it as I directed. It was only after I’d given them two thousand pounds that the excuses began.”

  “Excuses?”

  “The explanations. The lies. The money had gone into the parish purse in general without being specifically marked, Miles said. He had to do so, as there were no wronged women needing help from the parish—as if that could be believed! Are there men in this parish? Yes? Then there are women who need help. It’s that simple. Eventually, he claimed they’d used the money for renovations for the church, but absolutely nothing has changed. What renovations?”

  “How dreadful, that you could not rely on their representations,” Mr. Hunter intoned.

  “Stop trying to say agreeable things,” Mrs. Martin snapped. “I utterly despise it. In any event, I have realized that nobody will listen to what I want. I’m too old and too female. If I can’t do any good with my money, I might as well have fun. Send some pretty young things my way, that’s what I say.”

  “I…” Camilla choked. “I will do so, if…I see any? Mr. Hunter may have more expertise in the matter.”

  Mr. Hunter looked appalled. “That’s honestly not my forte. I think I’d make a better fraudster, and we all know how that turned out. I wouldn’t know how to obtain men.”

  “Men.” Mrs. Martin rolled her eyes. “Did you not just hear my thoughts on men? I buried one man and took his money, and let me just say that the money was the best thing he ever wanted to give me, and it wasn’t worth what I had to put up with. I suppose I shouldn’t say such things aloud, but I’m so old that nobody takes me seriously. I vastly prefer women. Pretty men are nothing but pains all around.”

  “I…see,” Mr. Hunter said.

  “I wasn’t talking to you.” Mrs. Martin tilted her head in Camilla’s direction. “You,” she said, pointing, “on the other hand—you would do.”

  Camilla jumped. “Me? I—I am—”

  “No, not you, specifically, not like that. I want a young thing, and you’re, what, nineteen?”

  “Twenty.”

  “I thought as much. For myself, I have more a young lady of forty or so in mind—not an actual child. Good God. I’m not a man; I have standards. If you’re at all so inclined, you should find yourself a rich woman. Better work than bumbling about the countryside with this fraudster.”

  “I…” Camilla swallowed. She could feel her face heating. “I will have to take it under consideration?”

  The woman nodded at her sagely. “I thought as much. You had that look about you. We can always find each other, you know. Women can be terrible, too. But here’s a bit of wisdom I’ve acquired over the years: However terrible women are, they’re usually better than men.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Hunter folded his arms in annoyance.

  “You’re welcome.” Mrs. Martin smiled beautifully. “You’re entirely welcome. Come back if you ever need to hear it again.”

  * * *

  Miss Winters shifted uncomfortably on the seat of the hired carriage on their way back to Lackwich. They had a long drive ahead of them—eleven miles passing through several towns—but she did not try to make polite conversation.

  She did not look at Adrian. Instead, her hands gripped the seat, knuckles white—and it could not have been the speed of travel that bothered her, as Adrian was scarcely holding the horses above a trot.

  It took him five minutes to realize that she was nervous. It took him even longer to guess why. And it took him the longest while yet to figure out what to do about it.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m a bad liar,” he finally said.

  She turned to look at him. Her eyebrows rose in something that could have been encouragement. He decided to take it as such.

  “Too trusting,” he told her. “That’s what my brother Grayson tells me, and maybe he’s right. When we were children, he convinced me once that chocolate was made
with mud.”

  That won a tentative smile. “You didn’t believe that, did you?”

  “I’m not that gullible.” He turned to her as much as he could without losing sight of the road. “Um. Not any longer, at least. I learned my lesson. But here’s the thing about being too trusting—I don’t know what to look for when people are lying to me, and that means I don’t know how to evaluate my own lies.”

  “Your eyes,” she told him. “They give it all away.”

  “My eyes?”

  “Yes. You look up and to the right. As if you’re so disgusted with yourself that you can’t help but roll your eyes at your own words.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “I do not!”

  “You do. You really do.”

  “You see?” Adrian bit back a smile. “I told you that you were a tiger.”

  “Oh, am I?”

  “You see, tigers are patient. Some predators, if they are discovered, give up and go on to new prey. Tigers pretend to give up and then circle back and try again and again and again. You could have let Mrs. Martin throw us out. You saved everything.”

  She made a face. “Where are you getting these tiger facts?”

  “Did you see my eyes go up and to the right?” he countered.

  “Well, no. But—”

  “Then it’s true.”

  “I don’t think it works like that.” But she was biting back a smile for now.

  They lapsed into silence once more, the only sound that of the carriage wheels rattling over rutted roads. This quiet felt slightly more comfortable than the preceding one. Still, Adrian waited another mile before speaking again.

  “You know, tigress. I keep expecting you to tell me that I’m not trusting enough.”

  “Why would I say such a thing?”

  “I’ve told you to leave matters to me twice, and twice you’ve had to rescue yourself from the tangle my lies made,” he said simply. “I should have trusted you more, not less. I will endeavor to do so in the future.”

  She looked down. A blush painted her cheeks—small, but completely crimson. Her eyes squeezed shut. “Mr. Hunter.” She sounded pained. “I hate to be the one to bring this to your attention, but…you are wrong. You should trust me less.”

  “Why?”

  “You keep talking about an annulment.” Miss Winters wrapped her arms about herself. “I don’t know much about those. But isn’t a physical examination of the woman a part of it? To see if she’s…?”

  There was no Mrs. Martin present to fill in the indelicate word the moment required.

  “Yes,” Adrian said. “Technically, there is.”

  “‘If you have to put the word technically in front of the truth…’” Miss Winters quoted at him. “You should be angrier. I’m telling you, I won’t pass that examination.”

  “You do know they can’t actually tell, right?”

  She looked over at him. “But—”

  “Some women have a hymen until they lose their virginity. Some do not. Some have theirs torn by intercourse; others don’t. Sometimes tears repair themselves; sometimes they don’t.”

  She stared at him.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “You’ve seen me when I lie. Do I look like I’m lying to you? I told you, I served as my uncle’s amanuensis for a while. He talked to a doctor about this very thing in my presence. They don’t actually know if anyone’s a virgin. They just guess. And if we both swear we haven’t had intercourse, if we have witnesses to our character—”

  Her face fell once more. Ah. Right.

  “In any event,” he said, “it won’t matter. Have you been worrying about that?”

  “I’ve scarcely had time to worry about anything, to be honest. It’s all happened so fast.” She bit her lip and looked away to the passing fields. “Talking to Mrs. Martin about what happened was hard enough. I don’t want to have to think of it again, not now. Everything’s over and done with. Can we focus instead on what lies ahead?”

  “Of course.”

  She inhaled, and it was as if the breath gave her sustenance. She turned to him with a smile.

  “Well, then. I have an excellent memory—it is one of my few talents. We now know that Mrs. Martin donated money to the parish for a purpose. She does not believe that purpose was fulfilled.”

  “That’s not wrongdoing.”

  “No.” She tapped her lip with a single gloved finger, thinking. “But if they absconded with the money altogether it would be, yes? Maybe…we could prove that there are no funds available for the purposes Mrs. Martin intended.”

  “How?” he started to ask, and then realized. “Of course. We need to have someone apply for assistance—a woman who has been…ah, harmed by a man? We could find someone to pretend—”

  She made a disbelieving noise. “Mr. Hunter.” There was a tone of amusement in her voice. “Haven’t we learned that lesson already? Enough with the pretending.”

  “But—”

  “But we already have such a woman at our disposal. Gossip has entirely ruined her. She exists, and she’s willing to help.” She spread her arms. “Behold. Here she is—in the flesh.”

  “Oh.” Well. That was entirely logical. “Do you intend to go apply to Rector Miles for assistance yourself?”

  “No.” Her hands clenched. “I don’t think I want to look at his face, not right yet. But the groundskeeper is kept appraised of any such programs, so he knows where to send people.”

  “You’ll talk to him?”

  “He likes me.” A smile flashed on her face quickly, then vanished. “He used to, at any rate. Or I thought he did. I’m not the best judge.”

  Adrian was silent for a moment. “It’s quite a lot to ask of you.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to be a burden on you. I want to do my part. Really, I do.”

  “Well. I will keep that in mind the next time I need to draft someone to participate in one of my schemes.” He’d meant it as a joke, but she gave her head a vigorous shake.

  “Lying would be hard for me. I don’t think I could lie well. I’m pretty near the end of my resources.” She stopped speaking, and pressed her hands into her skirts. “I have next to no money. Nobody I can go to. I have no home, and those I could call friends are…” She laughed. “Kitty, I thought, was my friend, and she lied about me and ruined me.” Another laugh, this more shaky. “I’m not going to be a burden on you. I promise, I won’t. But I’m desperate and it shows. You’re trying to be kind by calling me a tiger to bolster my confidence. I’m sorry. I can’t hide the truth.”

  Somehow, he had not thought her side of things through. He had realized—intellectually—that she couldn’t have much. He’d held her valise. He’d seen her shoes.

  “Haven’t you got anywhere to go?”

  “I have been everywhere already.” She shut her eyes. A slight breeze caught a little tendril of her hair; it flapped in the wind, and she leaned her head back. “This last time? It’s not the first time I’ve been sent off in disgrace. It’s happened before. Multiple times.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that.

  “I lost my family when I was twelve.” She didn’t open her eyes. “I was sent first to my uncle, who found me too talkative, then a bit later, to his cousin. From there on I have passed through what feels like scores of homes. I have yet to inspire any sort of lasting affection.” A faint smile touched her lips. “It’s been half my life. I suppose I should really accept that I’m not the sort of person that people actually like, but I am pigheaded stubborn. I never do learn.”

  The wind picked up a touch, ruffling the fraying edges of her hat. God. Even her hat was frayed.

  “I grew older. The incidents grew worse. There was a girl my age named Larissa who became my particular friend. Her parents didn’t like how particular the friendship was. I told you I’m too desperate to lie—Mrs. Martin was right about that, too. Larissa and I practiced kissing together. Then we…weren’t practicing, and… They didn’t like that,
not when they found out. So on I went. At the next house, a son wanted—never mind. After that came James, the footman.” Camilla shrugged. “I was sent on so many times. I regret my memory is good enough to count them all. James is when Rector Miles found me. He told me that I was destined for hell, that I should change my name and try my hardest to reform. If I was good for two years, he promised to help set me up in a place where I was unknown. For the sake of my soul.”

  She had started rubbing her hands together as she spoke. He noticed now that there was a hole in her gloves.

  “So you see,” she said, “it’s not that I wasn’t guilty of what they accused me of with you—I was. Not at that moment, but I was. I have nowhere to go. I am desperate. So desperate that—” She paused, then shook her head. “I am so desperate that I’ve contemplated trying to force you into this, you know. We were joined in matrimony. It would take so little for me to make an annulment impossible, and you already told me the rules.”

  He must have made a sound, because she turned to him.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to alarm you. I won’t—I promise I won’t. I’m naïve and hopeful, and some part of me just wants someone, anyone, to care that I exist. I won’t. But you should know—I’m desperate enough to think of it. Even though I am not yet desperate enough to do it.”

  She was trembling.

  She talked when she was nervous, he realized. She also talked when she was happy, but they were two different kinds of talking.

  “You know,” he said, “if I were a different person, one who expected less, I would count myself lucky over the events of the last day.”

  “You wouldn’t. No one would.”

  “On the contrary. You’re pretty and capable and clever. You’re honest enough to tell me the truth instead of hiding it. And you undervalue yourself immensely—enough that you seem grateful for receiving the normal human kindness that should be everyone’s right.”

  She looked over at him. Her eyes were alight with liquid hope, and he almost felt sorry for what he had to say next.

  “If I were a different person,” he said. “I’d be happy to have you for a wife.”