After the Wedding

by Courtney Milan

“But.” She said the word for him, yet her eyes watched his with an almost avid hunger.

  “But I want what my parents have,” he said simply.

  She sighed and dropped her eyes. “It sounded like a lovely story, when you mentioned it earlier. It must have been something like love at first sight.”

  “Nothing like that. It took them three years to marry. My mother was an ardent abolitionist, and she said that she worked with my father at events for ages before she realized what was happening. She looked up one day after eighteen months of hearing his lectures and realized that she had slowly, sweetly, fallen in love. She waited another six months for my father to realize the same. They waited another year, just to be sure.”

  Miss Winters exhaled. Her eyes squeezed shut.

  “That’s what I want,” he told her. “A long, slow falling in love. When I say ‘I do,’ I want to mean it—really mean it, more than I’ve ever meant anything in my life.”

  “That’s sweet. Extremely sweet. I hope you have that.” Sorrow—that’s what he was hearing in her voice.

  “Miss Winters,” Adrian said. “It’s not sweet. Anyone who wants love should have it. You can hope for the same. Really. Truly. You deserve someone who chooses you. Who you know loves you. Who believes that out of all the women in the world, you are the one who should share the rest of his life.” He paused, thought of Mrs. Martin and what she had said about Larissa, and he added: “Or hers.”

  Her lips parted. She looked almost in pain. “You know,” she said, “it is almost self-serving of you to say so.”

  “Maybe. But I promise that if you help me get what I want, I will not abandon you to your desperation. Money isn’t a problem for me. We’ll find you a place, a position. Whatever it is you want. And someday, somebody will choose you. For yourself.”

  She touched one hand to her head, sitting in silence for a moment. Finally, she looked back at him. “I have spent so many years wanting. Refusing to give up on hope. I didn’t know why it got further and further away with every step. Still, I didn’t give up. I couldn’t.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “Good.” Miss Winters looked away. “Thank you for reminding me that I could still hold on, even now.”

  The conveyance rattled on. “You know,” Adrian finally said, “you’re the best woman I’ve ever had to marry at gunpoint.”

  “Oh? Has it happened often, then?” She smiled slightly.

  “Just the once,” he said, “but I have a phenomenal imagination. I’ve considered everyone else in that household, and would you know, since I had to be locked in a bedroom and forced to marry someone, I’m glad that it was you. Just think—it could have been Bishop Lassiter himself.”

  She laughed aloud at that.

  “That would have made him a bigamist,” he said. “It’s a shame. We would have had proof of his wrongdoing already.”

  “Well.” She squared her shoulders. He could almost see her folding up her self-pity like so much laundry. “I suppose in lieu of such an easy solution, we’ll have to do this the hard way. When shall we visit the groundskeeper? Will tomorrow do?”

  Adrian thought of Harvil, and his promise to be back for the final china design. He only had a few days before it really would be too late to put in the effort needed.

  Maybe he should suggest that they go tonight? It was summer, and the light was still lingering. Still, he thought of the hole in her glove, and the six miles they still had to transverse. He thought of her saying that she was desperate. Maybe…

  She made an almost incoherent noise, an unintelligible mumble, and he looked over at her. Her head tilted at an awkward angle; her hair was spilling from its messy bun. She had fallen asleep, he realized.

  Tomorrow, then.

  Chapter Eleven

  Camilla wasn’t aware that she had fallen asleep in the carriage until she awoke with a crick in her neck and the jingle of the harness in her ears.

  She blinked, straightening, her eyes focusing on… Three shops, all next to each other, with a bit of a park across from them. It was late afternoon.

  They weren’t in Lackwich. They were in the town they’d passed through on their way to see Mrs. Martin—Cranfield? Something like that.

  Here was a green-grocer. There was a baker. And there, on the corner, stood a little shop advertising ready-to-wear clothing. Mr. Hunter was tying the horses.

  Camilla blinked and rubbed her eyes. Every muscle in her body felt stiff.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “Because you need to purchase some things,” he said.

  She looked over at him. She felt as if she must be missing something. “Things.” She frowned dubiously. “What sort of things?”

  He reached into a pocket and removed a fine leather wallet. “Well, that’s what we need to discuss. I ought to have thought of it before—when you had only the one valise—but I didn’t. You need a new pair of shoes and gloves—that much is obvious. You could probably do with another gown or two.” He looked away, as if embarrassed. “And…I cannot know without inspection, which would be awkward, but possibly some…”

  Underthings. She didn’t want to disclose the sordid, threadbare state of her underthings. “Things?” She waved her hand gravely.

  “Yes. Things.” He fished around in his wallet and found a bill—more money than she had seen since… She couldn’t remember. He held it out to her. “For obvious reasons, I shan’t go into the store with you, and you’ll have to make do with ready-to-wear…”

  She stared at him. Make do with ready-to-wear? Ridiculous. It had been ages since she’d thought of having anything personally made to fit her. For heaven’s sake, it had been years since she’d purchased anything new.

  He gestured with the bill. “You should buy some clothing, don’t you think?”

  “It’s…” She swallowed. “It would be improper to allow a man to…buy me clothing?” She didn’t mean for the end of her sentence to tip precariously upward into a question; she already knew she should say no.

  But she did need shoes. And gloves. And if her second-best gown wore through again…

  He let out a little bark of laughter. “What do you think will happen if word gets out, Miss Winters? Do you think your reputation will be ruined?”

  “Oh, you’re very amusing.” Still, she couldn’t bring herself to reach over and take the bill.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “While we were en route. I’ve been trying to make sense of what happened to us and what it all means. My best guess is that Lassiter figured out that I had some connection to my uncle. He wanted to discredit any information I managed to unearth by painting me a scoundrel. You became caught up in this because you were there and you were convenient. It’s my fault you are in this desperate predicament. And it’s easy enough for me to make your situation less desperate. Allow me to do so.”

  She could scarcely think. “But I can’t pay you back.”

  “I’ve never found that keeping score is a good way to maintain a friendship. See here, this is all in my best interest. Mrs. Martin was losing her eyesight; if we ever had to fool anyone else, you’d never be able to bamboozle them into thinking you a respectable lady. Not dressed like that.”

  Camilla colored. “I thought we had decided that there was to be no more lying.”

  Mr. Hunter shrugged, opened his wallet, and took out a smaller bill. He added this to the one in his hand. “I hadn’t imagined it would be so hard to do something nice for you. Get a new hat as well.”

  “But—”

  He simply added another bill. “Every time you try to politely protest, I am going to tell you to buy something else. What else do you suppose you need? A scarf, for sure.”

  “My scarf is in acceptable condition!”

  “Ha, unlike the rest of your things.” He smiled at her.

  She could not stop her own smile from peeking out. “You’re being ridiculous!”

  “Counterpoint: You’re exhausted. You’re ter
rified of the future. It is hard to find a respectable position when you look like you’re threadbare. These are perfectly reasonable feelings on your part, and I can do something about it. Doing so will improve my own quality of life by making you less anxious.” He nodded. “So go. I’ll be in the bookshop.”

  * * *

  It was substantially later in the afternoon when Camilla found her way back to the carriage, laden with parcels. Shifts that had not been mended fifteen times over! Gowns where the print had not faded! Shoes where the seams did not leak! She’d left her family hoping for pretty gowns; it was the first time since her uncle had sent her away that she’d had anything like them.

  Gowns weren’t love, but they were at least, gowns.

  Her fingers were warm in blue knit gloves that had not been darned again and again using three separate shades of gray yarn.

  “Here,” Mr. Hunter said as she clambered into the carriage. He handed her a paper sack.

  “My God.” She stared at it. “What more could I possibly need?”

  “Lunch?”

  The sun was dipping down toward the horizon, and her stomach chose that moment to growl. Camilla laughed. “Oh, very well.”

  The sack contained a meat pasty.

  “There’s a bottle of soda water at your feet,” he said as he started the carriage. It took her a moment to free the cork stopper, but the water was cold and fizzy.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she had indulged in soda water. Not since she was a child, surely. The bubbles went up her nose, tasting of something almost tart. It made a perfect complement to the savory beef and gravy in the pasty. She devoured the whole thing in minutes—before they were even out of the tiny hamlet.

  “Mr. Hunter,” she said. “I am beginning to suspect that you are very kind.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about very. Maybe a little.”

  “Very,” Camilla said assuredly. “You forget—I have moved about a great deal, and have experience with a vast multitude of people. You are very kind.”

  “Or you have been uncommonly unlucky. I’ve been blessed with family circumstances that allow me to be kind. That’s no great accomplishment.”

  “On the contrary,” Camilla said. “Most people I know who are so blessed are usually convinced that they deserve what they have—and that those who don’t have it, don’t deserve it. You will have to take my word for it—you are very kind. Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”

  “What, for being a reasonable human being?” He looked taken aback. “There’s no thanks owed for that. That should be the bare minimum expectation.”

  Camilla wiggled her fingers, now free of crumbs, back into her new gloves. “I am entirely certain that you are at least three marks above the minimum.”

  He glanced at her sidelong and smiled. “No more than two.”

  In the days since their abrupt marriage, Camilla had been doing her best to avoid thinking of what had caused the trouble in the first place—she and her flirtations. Mr. Hunter and his handsome countenance, his easy disposition, made every conversation feel like sunlight.

  But she’d liked him at first glance, and liked him more after they’d spoken. Now he’d fed her. He’d bought her gowns. His smile…God, it did things to her insides. She felt her stomach give a little betraying flip and her heart kicked in her chest. He had become even more handsome than when they first met.

  “Three marks above minimum,” she said, “at least. For heaven’s sake, Mr. Hunter, let a girl give a compliment every now and then.”

  There it was—she could almost feel the pink rising in her complexion. She was doing it again. She was flirting, and oh, she shouldn’t, she shouldn’t…

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, “but my friends all call me Adrian, not Mr. Hunter. You’ve exceeded the compliment level for bare acquaintances. I must send your compliment back with my sincerest regrets.”

  She pulled away, feeling a little stung. “I’m sorry.” She had been flirting. A little. She shouldn’t have done it. Their situation was fraught enough as it was; she was just making it worse. “I didn’t mean to impose. I’ll stop—”

  He looked at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “Silly. I wasn’t telling you to stop complimenting me. I was telling you to stop calling me Mr. Hunter. That’s my father. You can call me Adrian.”

  “Oh.” She was so used to being called forward. She blinked at him. “Are we friends, then?”

  “I don’t know; do you want to be?”

  He was going to leave her. The entire point of this exercise was for them not to be bound to each other. The flare of hope that lit inside her should not be there, Camilla knew. He’d asked if she wanted to be friends, not if she wanted to stay with him forever and have his babies.

  She felt like a pile of dry leaves in autumn—the slightest hint of fire, and she’d combust immediately. She knew she should hold herself back.

  She had never successfully held herself back from anything.

  “Yes,” she said. The world seemed to explode with color about them. “Yes, I should like that very much.”

  “Good.”

  She glanced at him next to her and flushed again.

  “You should call me Camilla,” she said. “Or Camille. Or just Cam.” She felt as if she were glowing with delight. “Call me anything you like. I don’t mind.”

  * * *

  The small back room where Mrs. Beasley had allowed Camilla to stay wasn’t much, but there were clothes-hooks and a little chest of drawers, and now she had things to put on them.

  And! And! Mr. Hunter—no, Adrian—had called her a friend. He’d said she was clever and brave and—well—technically they were only working together because he wanted to never see her again, but there was no point in dwelling on the unpleasant.

  She smiled, brought the new linen shift up to her face, and inhaled.

  Ah. The scent of new clothing. It was the best. She smelled starch and something crisp and fresh. She did a little spin of joy in the room, grinning with delight.

  “Ah—Miss Winters?”

  Camilla stopped mid-twirl, turning to Mrs. Beasley. Oh, no. She imagined herself saying, I wasn’t actually dancing. By myself. That would be odd, ha ha ha.

  She managed to keep herself to a bare: “Why hello, Mrs. Beasley. Can I be of service?”

  “Mr. Hunter is here to speak with you.”

  “Of course.” Camilla nodded. “We have to speak to the groundskeeper tomorrow morning, and we must talk about the schedule.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mrs. Beasley shifted in place, her jaw working, before she squared it and faced Camilla head on. “But before I send you out, may I ask a question? Are you well?”

  “Do I look ill?” Oh no. And she was going to see him soon, too. If she appeared sickly or wan—

  “No, dear. You look physically healthy. I meant in other ways. This has been a difficult time for you, and unscrupulous people might choose to impose on you and make the time more difficult, not less. I just wanted to ask. To be certain.”

  “Oh.” Camilla felt touched by her concern. “Please don’t worry. I am better than I have a right to be.”

  “There’s no such thing. You have a right to be extremely well, you know.” Mrs. Beasley gave her a half-hearted smile. “Just be aware that you can tell me anything, yes? It’s not difficult work, running a telegraph office, but it is troubling. I hear portions of everyone’s story and never the full thing. I pretend not to know half of what I hear.” She took one of Camilla’s hands and gave it a squeeze.

  “I’m well,” Camilla said. “The situation is hard, but…I’m well. Thank you for caring.”

  Mrs. Beasley shook her head. “The hardest part of my work is staying silent. Most of the time, it’s all just fodder for my amusement. But sometimes I hear and I must sit in silence and pretend I don’t notice. My biggest regrets come from that—the not asking. You will let me know if there’s anything I can do?”

  “I will.”

/>   “Good.” Mrs. Beasley gave her fingers another squeeze. “Then go have your chat.”

  * * *

  Adrian had been waiting for ten minutes in the front room before Camilla appeared. Mrs. Beasley very obviously did not close the door to give them privacy. Adrian sighed. Well, so be it.

  “I had been thinking eleven in the morning for when you talk to the groundskeeper,” Adrian said. “The church is a few miles away, so I should come by at ten thirty or so, to drive you out.”

  Camilla sat in a chair across from him. She’d changed into one of her new gowns, pink stripes with yellow cuffs. The colors suited her—bright and cheery in the diffuse light from the gas lamp.

  “Better be early,” Camilla said. “Mr. Graves gets hungry for his lunch around then. We want him in his best mood.”

  “Nine thirty?”

  “More like eight thirty.”

  “Gah.” Adrian felt his nose wrinkle in disgust. “So early. I detest waking early.”

  Camilla just laughed. “How did you ever pretend to be a valet? Really, Adrian.”

  She said his name almost shyly, and then glanced at him through dark lashes, as if wondering if the familiarity that he’d specifically asked for was too much.

  “Badly,” Adrian said. “So badly. I was a terrible valet.”

  She leaned forward, smiling. “What do you do when you’re not pretending to be a valet?”

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “This and that. My family has some business interests here, and I’m the one who spends the most time in England. So I see to them. I’m a little better at that than I am at being a valet.”

  She let out a little gurgling laugh. “I suspect you are. You have an air of competence about you; you had to earn it somehow.”

  If he had thought she was putting him on or flattering him on purpose, he would have pulled back. But she said it so matter-of-factly, and with such a smile, that it made him feel a little dishonest.

  He thought about telling her about the china designs. But he really had almost nothing to do with them—he had excellent artists who did amazing things with almost no direction on his part—and she’d laugh at the story. But…he liked the way she looked at him. He shouldn’t have, but he did.