After the Wedding

by Courtney Milan

  “I wanted to choose him,” Camilla said. “I wanted him to know.”

  “Normally, one does not annul a marriage to someone one intends to marry. I am a puddle of bafflement.”

  “Oh, Judith,” Camilla said on a sigh. “Have you met Theresa? Benedict? Anthony? Yourself, even? Since when does one of your siblings do things the normal way?”

  “Hooray!” said Lady Theresa Worth behind her. “I’m not the worst sister any longer!”

  * * *

  They were not married by special license. The banns were called. It took weeks upon weeks upon endless weeks—weeks of planning, weeks of signing marriage settlements with Judith and Christian grumbling over the details with Grayson—before they were married.

  That also meant weeks in which Camilla met Adrian in her sister’s home, weeks during which they stole kisses against walls. During those weeks, the china exhibit was held; Camilla stood to the side and watched the responses to her fiancé’s newest china collection with gladness in her heart. There were vases, ringed in roses, and wide bowls with gold-plated rims.

  In pride of place, there stood the plates that Adrian and his cohorts had made. She would never tire of those tigers.

  Neither, apparently, would England. They sold the entire initial run before the exhibition was over, and Camilla cheered when people clamored for more.

  After those weeks of waiting were over, Camilla stood in the church, surrounded by those who loved her best.

  She had dreamed of marriage ever since she was twelve years of age and had been shunted off to the first family who reluctantly took her in.

  Over the years, she had told herself that it didn’t have to be marriage, and it turned out that it wasn’t just marriage that she celebrated here. Not any longer.

  Camilla stepped into the aisle on the day of her wedding and looked around her.

  Her brother and sisters were here. Larissa and her companion had come down to London via train, on Camilla’s invitation, and the correspondence they had exchanged in the weeks before had revitalized their friendship. Next to her sat Kitty with her daughter on her knees, smiling at Camilla with her heart in her eyes.

  There were Adrian’s relations—his parents, whom she had just met this last week—and a mountain of cousins and friends who she was gradually getting to know. Practically everyone from Harvil had turned out for the occasion, and they all watched the ceremony in delight.

  One person was all Camilla had ever wanted. One person, just one, who promised not to leave her. She had told herself she didn’t need love. She would have settled for tolerance and a promise that she would have a place to stay. And yet the one thing she had never done was stop hoping—hoping that one day, she would have what she wanted.

  Camilla made her way down the aisle, on the arm of the brother-in-law who had taken over the role as gruffly protective guardian.

  Adrian waited for her, and they could neither of them stop smiling.

  They had wanted a morning wedding this time. The sunlight danced among the pews, lighting his face with a joy that she could scarcely believe she had inspired.

  She listened with tears stinging her eyes as the ceremony proceeded.

  “Adrian Hunter,” the vicar was saying. “Do you take Camilla Worth to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and protect her, and forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”

  She hadn’t thought she needed anything except one person, and here she was with an entire horde of friends. She didn’t need the gown of lace and pearls that her sister had demanded she commission. She didn’t need the trousseau that had been sent ahead for their honeymoon trip. There was only one thing she needed.

  “Yes,” said Adrian, looking into her eyes. “Yes, I do.”

  He’d chosen her, and she’d chosen him. Camilla smiled up into Adrian’s eyes, holding his hands so tightly that she thought she might never let go.

  “I do,” she said, when it was her turn.

  And then the wedding was over—for a second time—and Adrian kissed her in full view of the world.

  After the (Second) Wedding

  Theresa had not dared to proceed too swiftly. If she’d acted as quickly as she wanted, she would have been suspected. Suspected and stopped.

  It had taken her week after careful week to research passage on ships. To figure out how to remove money from the trust that had been set up for her without her sister’s knowledge, to creep down to the shops and sell some of the sparkling gowns that they’d made for her. It was easy enough—she ruined her dresses often enough that they would never wonder why one had disappeared.

  Theresa wasn’t a child any longer. The last time she’d thought of running away, she’d had a bit of food and nothing like a plan.

  This time, though… This time, she didn’t know if she’d ever return.

  On the night when Theresa Worth left London—and England—for good, she packed in the dark. She’d already marked the gowns she’d be taking—good, serviceable ones that wouldn’t set her apart as too wealthy. She’d memorized the list of things she needed to take because she didn’t dare set them forth on paper, lest she be discovered.

  Petticoats and bloomers. A heavy cloak and mittens, for when it got cold at sea. Two hats, no more. And jewels to sell. It all made a heavy pack; it would join the more prosaic trunk of remedies and provisions that she’d arranged to be delivered to the Edelweiss a few days earlier.

  She removed the last horrifically embroidered cushion attempt from her wardrobe. The Trent raven-slash-horrible farming tragedy looked up at her.

  She could stay here and try to be that misshapen bird. Or she could go.

  She took the note she had written the day before, the one she’d been carrying in her pocket all day, and set it next to the cushion on the bed. She’d not wanted to give too many clues; they’d find her, if they could. If they found her, they would try to convince her to come back.

  She had the words of her note memorized by heart.

  My dear Judith, Camilla, Benedict, Christian, and Adrian—

  My love for you is like a field going to rot. It will grow without bounds. You cannot burn it out, I promise you, no matter how much you may want to afterward.

  But I love my family—all my family—and I cannot stay here any longer.

  Your loving sister,

  Theresa

  She’d sobbed as she wrote it. Her breath choked in her chest as she set it on her desk. She set another note next to it, her vision clouding in acute misery.

  My dear Dowager Marchioness of Ashford—

  I don’t remember my grandmothers. Any of them. I don’t remember my mother.

  I will remember you, your lessons, and your love, all my life.

  I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for leaving like this.

  Your adoring,

  Theresa

  There was no point dilly-dallying. The ship wouldn’t wait for her.

  She hefted the valise she’d packed and looked around the darkened room where she’d spent the last year and a half. This life was comfortable. The room was warm. There was always enough coal, always enough food, and where she was going, none of that was a given.

  But comfort was a cage, and she wouldn’t accept it. Not any longer. Not like this.

  Her chin rose. There would be time for feeling sorry on board the ship. She gathered all her resolve and slipped out of her room.

  A clock ticked in the hallway. A stair creaked—lightly—as she crept downstairs. But the kitchen was dark and empty, and as she made her way to the servant’s exit—

  “Theresa?”

  She stopped, cursing under her breath. She turned in place. “Corporal Benedict.” She looked at her younger brother with every ounce of command that she could muster. “Go back to bed.”

  But she didn’t have a real army, and he didn’t really have to obey her. He kept coming until he stood next to her. “Where are you going in the middle
of the night?”

  “Where do you think?” She straightened and glared her younger brother in the eyes. “I’m going to give you what you wanted.”

  “What I wanted? What do I want? Why are you carrying a valise?”

  “Will you please whisper? You’ll wake the household otherwise. I’m giving you what you want, Benedict. You don’t want to be a lawyer. You heard Captain Hunter talking. He takes on those who wish to learn what he does for a fee. Christian will gladly pay it. No sitting in a stuffy office looking at stupid papers for you any longer.”

  Benedict shook his head. “They’d never let me. And what has that to do with your valise?” His eyes narrowed. “Why are you sneaking about in the middle of the night? And why are you trying to distract me in the name of Captain Hunter?”

  She reached out and touched her brother’s cheek. “Don’t you see? You’ve shown you’re good at finding sisters. And reading clues. You’re good at listening. I’m giving you an excuse. You’ll need to go looking for one again, and this time, you won’t have to stay in England to do it.”

  His jaw wobbled. He must have understood what she was saying. When he spoke next—in a whisper, as she’d told him—it sounded almost like a wail. “But all my sisters are here.”

  Theresa’s heart constricted. “No.” Her voice was rough. “No, they aren’t. Not even now. And no, they won’t be. I’m leaving. I have to.”

  He exhaled slowly. He didn’t ask questions. He knew what she was like when she was serious, and she was serious now.

  Judith had never seen it, but for all their differences, Benedict and Theresa had always been much alike. Neither of them belonged in this comfortable place. They both knew it.

  “Are you going to stop me?” Theresa asked.

  “I’ve never been able to stop you from doing anything.” Now his voice shook, but he kept it at just that.

  She squeezed his arm. “You know what we have always been.”

  “We’re an army of two.”

  Theresa nodded. She refused to cry. Generals didn’t cry. “That’s right. We’re an army of two, even if we’re separate.”

  He didn’t ask where she was going or what she planned to do. He understood that if he knew those things, he’d tell Judith.

  “When will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, sir.” His voice shook. “Bon voyage.”

  She took a step toward him. “None of that sir business. You make your own orders now.”

  He nodded. “When you see me next, I’ll make you proud.”

  They embraced—his arms came around her impossibly hard—and Theresa imagined that he squeezed those two tears out of her. They didn’t come out on their own. That would be ridiculous of her.

  “Go back to bed,” she said. “Don’t lock the door behind me. You’ll come under suspicion.” So saying, she slipped out into the dark.

  The street was utterly quiet. A chilly little autumn breeze swirled over her, and she slipped on her gloves and began to walk, swinging her valise.

  It was heavy. She hadn’t realized how heavy it was until she’d gone one street, then the next. It felt as if her clothing had turned to bricks and her fingers to ice. She switched the valise to one hand, then the next, then carried it in two. Her shoulders slowly began to burn.

  It was going to be a long, painful two miles to the docks, she thought.

  A noise behind her caught her attention—the rattle of wheels against cobblestones. She retreated into the shadow of the stairs, huddling against the stone wall of a house as a carriage came into view.

  If she was very still and very small, maybe they wouldn’t see her.

  But the carriage stopped in front of her. A footman—oh, damn it all, an Ashford footman—hopped off the back of the conveyance and opened the door.

  Theresa had planned for this eventuality, too. She’d get in the carriage. Pretend to go willingly. She’d have to scramble and abandon her valise, of course, but damn, that valise was heavy. She’d be delighted to leave it.

  But it wasn’t Judith who stepped out. It was the dowager marchioness. She approached Theresa slowly, as if she were a skittish animal.

  “Theresa, dear,” she said, as if they were meeting in the yellow parlor, “why are you walking to the docks?”

  Theresa sighed. “Damn Benedict and his eternally running mouth.”

  The dowager sighed. “Don’t talk about your brother that way. He didn’t tell me a thing. It’s simply that I’m not an idiot. I did tell you months ago that I knew your habits. Do you think I wouldn’t notice what was happening underneath my very nose?”

  Theresa felt her chin set. “I’m not going back.”

  “I know. I told you I knew your habits. If you’re going to be you, do it well. Running off by yourself, with a handful of notes that will be discovered by the servants? Your family would never live this down. That was a poor choice.”

  Theresa didn’t have time to argue. Her teeth ground together. “I realize that. Nonetheless, I am not going back.”

  The dowager just shook her head. “And yet on the other hand, you have a perfectly acceptable alternative.” She held out her arm. “You could be embarking on a world tour with your elderly grandmère.”

  Theresa blinked. She frowned. “I could?”

  “I have access to funds you will never be able to tap,” the dowager said. “I’ve instructed my girl to gather your note and deliver it along with my own letter to my son in the morning. And I really would prefer that you remain among the living, which is quite often not the case when young women without funds travel on their own.”

  Theresa blinked. “But I have over a hundred pounds on my person.”

  “So intelligent, and yet still so little sense.” The dowager nodded. “I saw you looking up routes to the Orient in the newspaper the other day. I assume we’re going to find your brother, Anthony? He was such a nice boy.”

  “Eventually.” Theresa hadn’t let herself say the words aloud. She was going to find him eventually, and tell him what she really thought. By then, maybe she would have sorted out her tangle of love and anger. “But not at first. I’m going to find my other sister.” Theresa glanced defiantly up at the dowager. “They told me I made her up, but I’ve discovered I didn’t. She’s real. She’s illegitimate. And she’s half Indian.”

  “Well, then.” The dowager just nodded. “Our work is certainly cut out for us. Come now, don’t you think my coach will be a better way to get to the docks?”

  Theresa looked at the conveyance. She thought about her aching shoulders.

  Very, very slowly, she nodded.

  “Excellent. Where are we heading, then?”

  She’d not let herself say the words until now.

  “We’ll go to Brest first.” Theresa had been on a ship when she was a tiny child, and her memories of it were as diffuse as water-color paintings. Still, she thought of the feel of sea wind against her face. She remembered salt spray against her cheeks, ocean waves, and an open vista of sky and water. She remembered the sight of land—a green peak rising sharply from the sea…

  “Then, around the Cape of Good Hope to Calcutta. From there, we’ll find passage to Hong Kong. And after that? Wherever the trail leads us.”

  “Well,” said the dowager. “This will be interesting.”

  Thank you!

  Thank you for reading After the Wedding. I hope you enjoyed it.

  * * *

  Would you like to know when my next book is available?

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  You can sign up for my new release e-mail list at www.courtneymilan.com, follow me on twitter at @courtneymilan, or like my Facebook page at http://facebook.com/courtneymilanauthor.

  * * *

  Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative.

  * * *

  If you’re wondering about great-great-uncles John and Henry, their story is told in The Pursuit Of… The novella
can be read in the collection Hamilton’s Battalion, but it will be coming as a stand-alone story on June 26, 2018. An excerpt follows.

  * * *

  I you want to know what’s going on with Grayson and his telegraph laying-ship, his story is up next in The Devil Comes Courting. Benedict will feature prominently in the story, and you’ll find a brief description just after the excerpt from The Pursuit Of…

  * * *

  If you want to know about Judith and Christian, their story was the first book in this series—and it’s available now in Once Upon a Marquess.

  * * *

  Finally, you may be wondering how Theresa formed her friendship with the Dowager Marchioness of Ashford. My newsletter subscribers received a short story called “Bank Notes” about that.

  * * *

  If you didn’t get a copy, don’t fret—you can get one now. Just visit http://www.cmil.co/bn to claim your free short story.

  Excerpt: The Pursuit of…

  The Pursuit Of… is the story of Adrian’s great-great-uncles John, and Henry…

  What do a Black American soldier, invalided out at Yorktown, and a white British officer who deserted his post have in common? Quite a bit, actually.

  •They attempted to kill each other the first time they met.

  •They're liable to try again at some point in the five-hundred mile journey that they're inexplicably sharing.

  •They are not falling in love with each other.

  •They are not falling in love with each other.

  •They are… Oh, no.

  The Pursuit Of… is about a love affair between two men and the Declaration of Independence. It’s a novella of around 38,000 words.