After the Wedding

by Courtney Milan

  “Oh,” Adrian said, suddenly. “That reminds me. I brought you a treat? It’s a celebration for a successful day. Here.” He reached down and found the paper bag at his feet, opening it up. “I hope you like lemon tarts. They were all that was left at the bakery.”

  She froze in place, her eyes fixing on the little pastries. Her hands flew behind her back.

  “Oh.” He felt a strange sense of disappointment. When he’d stopped in front of the bakery, he’d thought of her smile earlier when he’d bought her a meat pie. She’d had little enough reason to smile lately; that was the only reason he had wanted to see her face light up. Not because he’d enjoy looking.

  Nothing like that at all.

  “Oh,” he repeated sadly. “You don’t like lemon tarts.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “It’s not that. I love lemon tarts. Or at least, I used to do so.”

  “Then you should have them both.”

  She actually sat on her hands and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. Don’t worry about me. I never want for lemon tarts.”

  That smile he had hoped for did not materialize. Instead, she looked even more perturbed.

  “It’s not that. Or—it’s not just that.” She swallowed. “I said earlier I lost my family. Actually…” She stopped again, then glanced at the open door behind them. She dropped her voice even further. “Actually, I left them.”

  He waited for her to continue.

  “I was twelve. My uncle was wealthy; my father had just…” She paused, her lips pursing as if she were searching for the right word. “Died,” she settled on. “My family was in shambles. We were utterly ruined. My uncle offered to take me in. My sister told me not to go, but he told me I would have gowns and lemon tarts. So I gave in.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that.

  She looked down. “I gave up everyone who cared about me for lemon tarts. Fat lot of good that did me.”

  “Well.” Adrian wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. “But…you still like lemon tarts, don’t you?”

  Her eyes dropped to the floor. “I tried to eat one again when I was fourteen and staying with Mrs. Heilford? Back then, she had only just started asking me to do little tasks around the house. It was a special treat and I put it in my mouth, and…”

  “And?”

  “And I couldn’t taste anything,” she whispered. “It reminded me too much of things I couldn’t have any longer. It might have been sawdust, for all I knew. It has seemed like a waste to try one ever since.”

  “Well.” Adrian held out the tarts to her. “Time to try again, don’t you think?”

  She stared at the pastry. “What if I don’t taste it?”

  “Then you’ll try again.” He moved his hand even closer.

  “What do I do?”

  “Touch it,” he said. “There’s no rush. If your mind goes blank, just fill it with details. Remind yourself what it feels like first.”

  She reached out a tentative finger, running it over the golden-brown ridges of the crust. “It looks smooth,” she said quietly. “But it’s rough. It feels…crisp? Can something feel crisp?”

  “Break off a piece.”

  She snapped off a small section. Little crumbs scattered on the sack where he held the pastry.

  She raised it to her lips, then stopped.

  “Smell it first.”

  She inhaled. “Oh, it smells so sweet. And lemony.”

  “Does the crust smell different?”

  She turned the piece in her fingers. “Buttery,” she said, “with a hint of salt.”

  “Go ahead. Taste it.”

  Her lips parted, pink and inviting, and he was transfixed by the sight of her tongue darting out. She bit off a dainty piece and closed her lips. Her eyes shut.

  “Oh.” Just one syllable, somewhere between pleasure and pain. “Ohhh.” She chewed slowly. “I can taste it. It’s—oh, so good. The lemon is so tart, and yet so perfectly sweet. And the crust? It’s rich and buttery and salty all at once. I can taste it again.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “I can’t believe it. Adrian, it’s back. I can taste again.”

  And there was that smile he’d seen before—brilliant, sparkling, and so utterly beautiful that he felt as if he’d been knocked back a pace.

  Oh. No. He had known that he liked her. He had known he thought she was pretty. He hadn’t realized that he liked her. Bad idea. Very bad idea.

  “Of course it’s back,” he heard himself say. “You deserve lemon tarts—all the lemon tarts that exist in the world.”

  Her eyes shone. “No, no, that’s too many lemon tarts. I will be smothered.”

  His throat felt hoarse. “You deserve lemon tarts in reasonable quantities, then.” And because he needed to remind himself, he added: “You deserve someone who chooses you, someone who wants you for who you are. Someone who doesn’t let you slip away.”

  She just looked at him, her eyes shining, and oh, this was not a good idea. Why had he thought making her smile was a good idea?

  “I promise you,” Adrian said. “We’ll get you everything after the lemon tarts, too. It will all be yours—just as soon as we can end this thing that entangles us.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “I had thought that you might be able to be of assistance.” Camilla tried her best to look at the church groundskeeper with a friendly smile. The morning sun was bright, and she had been full of hope all day since she woke. The sun was golden, and it had driven off the morning mist entirely. During the drive out, green leaves had rustled on the trees. “I had heard that there were resources available for women who were in need of help, and I…well. You may have heard…” She trailed off invitingly and gave him another hopeful smile. There was still dew on the grass, and she could feel it, cool and comfortable, against her ankles.

  After the lemon tarts last night and the drive this morning, she’d thought she would never be unhappy again. But Mr. Graves was peering over her head as if she didn’t exist. His eyes focused on a point far away from her.

  A disappointment, to be sure. Well. It just went to show—not everyone would be as kind as Adrian. She’d never expected more. She had just hoped for it.

  “Ayep.” Still he didn’t look at her. “I heard what you did. We all did.” His nose twitched, as if he smelled something bad—and it was her.

  “Are such resources available?” She was proud of herself for asking without a hint of a quaver in her voice.

  “No.” He didn’t look at her. “Why would there be?”

  “I just thought, I had thought…” She trailed off, trying to figure out how to ask about charity without using the words Mrs. Martin gave money for a charity gift and I want to know if it was used properly.

  “What?” Mr. Graves sounded scornful. “You thought that you didn’t deserve what you got?”

  That started a slow, nervous fluttering in her stomach. She didn’t want to think, didn’t want to get distracted. As long as she didn’t think of it…

  “Could you—I don’t know, have you asked? Is there not some sort of fund set up for women in need, that one could inquire after?”

  “Not a chance. I have specific orders from the rector himself to make sure the likes of you move on swiftly. Don’t want you being a burden on the parish, we don’t.”

  “But.” She swallowed. “Are those recent orders? Might something not have changed?”

  For the first time, he looked at her. She almost wished he hadn’t. “He told me himself. In person. This morning.”

  She couldn’t back down. In this circumstance, her very helplessness made her a weapon that could be used. Camilla balled her hands and returned his gaze. “Is there perhaps some evidence that he told you that? Did he say so in writing? Or is there a circular on the matter?”

  She realized her mistake when his eyes flared in anger. Oh. He thought she was accusing him of deception.

  He took a step toward her. “Be gon
e!”

  He was taller than her by a foot. It took all her strength not to turn tail and dash away. “I didn’t mean to imply you were lying. Just—it would give me some comfort to know…? If there were some official pronouncement on the matter?”

  “I’m not a perambulating stack of documents,” he said, and this time he did reach for his shovel. “Get off. Nobody wants you. Nobody wants you here at all.”

  No doubt he meant nothing by it; men reached for shovels all the time. He was a groundskeeper; shovels were a tool of his business. But for a moment, Camilla stood in frozen horror, her lungs aching inside her.

  “Get out of here.” He actually raised the shovel.

  In the end, she broke and ran.

  * * *

  The walk back to the carriage, which Adrian had tied up out of sight, afforded Camilla an opportunity to calm down. Trees, she reminded herself. Trees with leaves on them. Leaves rustling in the summer wind. Green grass. Sun.

  No shovels, not anywhere. Her pulse had mostly stopped racing by the time she found him around two bends of the road. She felt chilled through, though, and she couldn’t explain it. It was a warm day, and she had her cloak. There was no reason to be shivering.

  Adrian jumped down to meet her as she turned the bend in the road. “And how did it go?”

  Camilla could be calm. She wasn’t the sort of woman to panic simply because a man told her no and picked up a shovel.

  “It went well.” Her voice was even, so even. She was proud of herself. Why should she feel anything? There was nothing to feel. “Precisely as we had expected. I asked if there were any resources for women in my position. He told me to take myself off.” Another shudder ran through her; she wrapped her arms about herself.

  He didn’t notice her involuntary tremor. He met her by the carriage. The horses were tied, and the sun crept higher in the sky. “Well, that’s as we suspected. That’s good.”

  It hadn’t been good.

  “I asked if there were not recently changed circumstances; he said there were none. I asked if there were any proof of this—circulars or a letter or such-like—and he…”

  For a second, it felt as if Mr. Graves were still standing over her with the shovel; she felt his presence like a flash of cold lightning and recoiled.

  “He told me it was rude to question him.” That was the problem, Camilla realized. Mr. Graves was too closely connected to her old life, the one she’d had at Rector Miles’s home. She’d learned early on that forward was the only possible direction. If she looked back, she’d yearn. She’d remember. She would think of all her carefully tended hopes and how they had come to nothing.

  If she looked back, she would have to face the truth, and if she faced the truth, how could she ever go on? There was her mistake just now; she’d looked back.

  She shouldn’t have looked back.

  “Hmm.” Mr. Hunter was frowning and looking upward.

  Which meant that he hadn’t noticed her mood. Good. She’d learned her lesson. She’d keep her eyes forward, her hope buoyant, unweighed down by the reality of her past.

  “Well.” He sighed. “I suppose that’s to be expected. It’s not like they would commit to flouting the terms of the gift in print, would they?”

  “Do you…do you think my word on the matter alone would be enough to prove it? For your uncle?”

  He turned to look at her. No, he did not say. He did not need to say it.

  “What we need,” he said, “is the rector’s private records. His books of account, if we could get our hands on them. I wish…” He trailed off, his mouth twisting. “I wish you and I had formed this alliance before our current situation. You would have had access back then, and…”

  She couldn’t think of being employed in the rector’s house. That was looking back. It felt like a shovel held over her head. It felt like the resistance of a locked door. She couldn’t look back. Not now, not when she needed to hope.

  He tapped his fingers against his chin.

  “You know,” he said, looking at her, “if you would be willing, do you know what you could do?”

  She knew what he was going to say. God, she was thinking it herself. She didn’t want him to say it. She wanted it out of her mind. She wanted her past gone forever.

  “You could go back to the rectory,” he said. “Ask Miles to give you another chance, another trial. You wouldn’t have to mean it; you could make an offer he could not refuse—less money, perhaps no money? Ask for a trial period for a week. A day, even. You only need a few hours.”

  Her chest hurt. She couldn’t go back. That wasn’t how this worked. It wasn’t how it ever worked. Miles had locked her in a room and told her she was going to hell. He’d said her hopes were devils. If she went back to him, she’d have to tell him—believably—that he was right, and she was so close to desperate that she feared if she said the words, they’d become true.

  She’d stayed with him for eighteen months. It had never felt terrible, not while she was going through it.

  But now Adrian was here. He noticed if there were holes in her gowns and told her that she deserved lemon tarts. Mrs. Martin had told her to care for herself. Mrs. Beasley had asked after her well-being, and told her she deserved to be happy. Even Mrs. Martin had given her advice.

  Camilla had not realized that Rector Miles had made her feel small and unwanted for every one of those eighteen months until she had experienced kindness again.

  She had to keep looking forward—not back. Be reasonable, her mind whispered. It would just be for a day. Half a day. But her stomach churned. Miles had never hurt her, so why did she feel so utterly harmed by the prospect of seeing him again?

  Adrian looked over at her.

  “What did we decide about lies?” Camilla heard herself say.

  “True. I’m terrible at them.” He gave her a warming smile. “That’s why I’m sure you will come up with a far better story than I ever would. Especially if we work together.”

  She didn’t want a story. She just didn’t want to do it.

  “Camilla?” He looked at her—really looked at her, this time with a searching glance that ran over her trembling hands, then traveled up the length of her arms to her tense, tight shoulders. “Is something the matter?”

  She opened her mouth to say that everything was lovely, fine, no problem…

  Nothing came out.

  “Camilla?” He took a step toward her. “Whatever is the matter?”

  Nothing was the matter. Everything he was asking for was logical. All he was asking her to do was…

  …Was to go back into a place she could no longer bear to see, with someone who had claimed to care about her soul, but had made her desperation the object of laughter.

  Adrian was asking her to look back, and every time she looked back, she thought of her family. She thought of the people who had never loved her. She remembered all the hope that had never come to fruition. She didn’t want to look back.

  Camilla drew in a deep breath, then another, then all she could concentrate on was trying to breathe through the iron fist that gripped her chest.

  “Camilla?” He took a step toward her. “Are you crying?”

  “No.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I hate crying. My eyes are just easily bothered, and it’s windy out.”

  He stopped a pace from her. “Camilla. We’re in this together, remember? We’re allies. We’re friends. If something is the matter, you can tell me.”

  She hadn’t meant to say it; even though he’d told her to speak, she hadn’t meant to really do it.

  But when her mouth opened to say once more that nothing was the matter, something else came out.

  “I can’t go back,” she said. “I can’t. I can’t look back.”

  He stood in place. Through the haze of her tears, she could see him shaking his head in confusion.

  “I want to. I want to be useful. I am trying so hard, but I can’t, I can’t. I don’t want to have to remember. Nobo
dy wants me. Nobody ever, ever wants me to stay.”

  Now grief and anger twined together, rising up inside her. It was one thing for her eyes to get misty. It was another thing entirely to sob. She wouldn’t. It would be weak and ugly and—damn.

  She had always felt her emotions so keenly, and this time was no different. She swiped at her eyes.

  He looked totally taken aback.

  “I left my family,” she told him. “I didn’t tell you the full truth before. Do you know what happened to them? My father was convicted of treason. I tried to walk away from it. My uncle took me in. I told you that.”

  This was why she couldn’t look back—because the past hurt too much.

  Camilla could recall what happened as clear as day—that conversation with Judith when she’d decided to go to her uncle. “Camilla,” Judith had said, “he’s stuffy. He doesn’t love you.”

  And Camilla, stupid child that she had been, hadn’t wanted to understand the truth. She’d just wanted to forget the people who pointed at them in the streets and called them names. She had wanted her life not to change.

  Camilla felt her fists clench. She looked over at Adrian and told him the devastating truth. “My eldest sister said our family should stay together because we loved each other. I told her that I wouldn’t starve.”

  Judith had looked at her and said, “If you don’t want to be loved, we don’t want to love you.”

  She remembered that feeling of foolish surety she had harbored that could only belong to a child. She remembered how upset Judith had been. They’d had an all-out row.

  Judith had always had something of a temper, and it had ignited at that. At the very end, Judith had stalked out of the room, pausing only in the doorway to deliver this: “Have it your way. I hope you never have love again. I hope you don’t get to wear it or eat it or experience it. When you’re crying yourself to sleep at night because nobody cares about you, don’t come crawling to me and expect me to make it better. You made your choice. You don’t get love anymore.”