“In taking another bath? Yes, of course. I’d never thought to have one daily. Is that what you do?”
“When the stove is hot, that’s what I do. Now, what have you been cooking?” He lifted the lid off the carrots, beans, and peas. “Will I carve the meat for you?”
She nodded, removed the roast from the oven, and sat down to a normal family meal, the first she’d had since her mother had died. His legs didn’t fit under the small table as well as hers, and when he sat, the flatware bumped.
She rearranged her skewed fork. “What should I do with the laundry? You don’t appear to have a washhouse outside.”
“I leave the items I want washed in the foyer, and the woman who does my washing collects it from there, weekly.” He moved a little to the side, and his foot cracked against the table leg. “Add yours.”
She put her feet beneath her chair, knowing she ought to do the washing to save him money and occupy her time, but the thought of someone else performing the mindless task was too good to withstand.
“And meals,” she said, noting that he’d stretched one leg out from under the table. “Morning and midday. Should I make those for you?”
He finished his mouthful and moved his chair back a little. “I would be satisfied to start each day with breakfast, but I’m not often around during the day. I’ll leave money for you to buy whatever you want. And, you really don’t need to cook the evening meal.”
She nodded, catching her bottom lip with her teeth. Despite his polite enjoyment of her cooking, she couldn’t expect a man his size to sit at a table that trembled with fear whenever he moved. “And I’ve been thinking about the men in the office. I could make them a cup of tea while the stove is hot in the morning, around ten. And another in the afternoon when I might want one myself.”
“That’s a very good plan. They’ll be delighted to have two cups of tea a day, and it will keep them out of here.” He smiled.
Unable to prevent herself, she smiled back, wondering. In Seymour’s Emporium, the hat shapes had given her a yen to work further on her sketches. If Devon didn’t marry her, she would either have to find work as a maid or support herself another way. While she was idle, she could work on her idea. If she didn’t try, she didn’t deserve to succeed.
Chapter 6
After a sparse, hurried breakfast with Devon, Wenna made pastry, which she filled with the leftovers from last night’s roast. While the pies baked in the oven, she meandered upstairs, knowing Devon kept pencils and paper in his desk. She sat on his scuffed leather chair and pulled open a side drawer, finding not only lead pencils but also a ruler. In the next drawer down, she found notepaper and a finer page likely meant for letters. Beneath both, she saw foolscap, which was her preferred size. Since he owned a full package, she decided not to worry about the cost. Apparently, he didn’t.
Hesitantly, she began to draw the back and side view of a hairstyle she had designed in her mind last night. Gaining confidence, she filled the next page with another, both with and without the hat she decided would be the perfect foil for the shape.
The little filigreed carriage clock on Devon’s desk said she had taken half an hour. Barely in time to save her pastries, she scooted down the stairs and put the kettle on to boil. The staff in the shop-front office would expect a cup of tea now, if Devon had informed them of her plan. After making two mugs of tea, she pasted a polite smile on her face and opened the green connecting door to the room, a space that dwarfed the study above due to the position of the stairwell.
Ernie sat at a desk strewn with paper, tapping a pencil on his lips. His head turned toward her and he gave a sound of surprise. His scrubbed young face creased with a smile. “Morning, Mrs. Courtney.”
“Good morning,” she said, glancing around the area. The view of Rundle Street was partially blocked by a pair of green brocade curtains, fringed and tied back to let in the early morning light. An older man in a dark suit, seated at a large map-covered desk on the other side of the room, stood when he saw her. Shelves stacked with folders and papers ranged behind him.
“Where are your manners, lad?” he asked Ernie.
Ernie’s chair scraped back and he said, “This here is Mrs. Courtney.”
“So I surmised. How do you do, ma’am? I’m Tom Finn, surveyor.” Mr. Finn inclined his balding head courteously. To compensate for the lack on his pate, he grew a magnificent set of side-whiskers down his cheeks.
“Wenna Courtney,” she said without a quaver, stepping over to him to shake his hand. “So, you do the surveying?”
He nodded. “A never-ending job in a new colony.”
“Are you the only two working here?”
“How much more staff did you expect?” His eyes narrowed with amusement.
“I had no expectations, Mr. Finn,” she said, smiling back. “Enjoy your tea. I’ll bring another at about three in the afternoon.”
Ernie gallantly opened the door for her as she left. She took a deep breath. Without being married, she was now Devon’s wife. With the rest of the day to herself, she sat down again to alter her cream bodice and add the black braid, military-style, around the collar and cuffs. Pleased with her efforts, she ate a pie for her midday meal and plotted her next hat and hairdo designs.
She had barely finished her first drawing when the lobby door swung open, and Devon appeared.
“Nick’s done it.” His smooth-skinned face lit with one of his devastating smiles, and he waved a sheet of stiff paper at her. “We can be married this afternoon. I knew he would come through.”
“Who is Nick?”
“A friend from long ago,” he said, evading her gaze.
She didn’t note his answer. “Married.” Her thoughts sped too fast to catch, and she stared in horror at her black gown. “What time this afternoon?”
“Five o’clock. Not only did Nick organize a special license, but he organized the venue, too.” He grabbed Wenna into his arms and whirled her about.
When her head began to spin, she spiked both elbows into his chest to force him to put her back on her own two feet. He let her slide down his hard body, but he didn’t let her go. He stood with his hands lightly on her hips, his blue eyes triumphant.
“Finally married,” he said in a satisfied voice. His mouth curved into a smile she saw as deliberately lascivious. “Now we’ll be able to share a bed.”
Knowing what he meant, she tightened her face. She hadn’t even kissed the man. She certainly didn’t want him grunting over her. Perhaps he didn’t know that a woman needed courting before she wanted to open her legs for him. A small amount of courting. Or, perhaps more companionability than a quick breakfast together and a glance or two over a rustle of newspapers in his study at night.
She’d been able to put the thought of him poking her to the back of her mind while she’d had everything her way. His way wouldn’t be so comfortable. Now she had to be what he wanted: a convenient wife who knew her role as a breeder. Naturally, a woman with her background and looks expected no better; in fact, not half as much, if truth be told. She’d had no expectation of marrying a tall, handsome tradesman, and even less of marrying a gentleman.
Somehow, she’d landed on her feet in more ways than one. Devon, a gentleman with impeccable social contacts, would be a great catch for a woman with funds of her own. For a woman who had no foreseeable way to earn an income, an irresponsible, entirely-too-careless wastrel was an impediment. However, he was also even-tempered, good-natured, and—she breathed out—unbearably attractive. Whenever he touched her, her skin tingled. Possibly, she could make something of him.
In fact, he might even be the perfect man for her, one who could be molded and pushed by the right wife, and end up successful with her prodding.
If she added a little more money to her savings, she could contribute to his coffers. Although he would return to Cornwall as a son hoping for a handout, if his wife looked confident and prosperous, his father would be m
ore inclined to be generous. In Cornwall, she could bring up healthy, happy children, though she didn’t intend to breed until Devon could show himself well able to support a family. She couldn’t place much importance in his story about her having as much money as she wanted when she lived abroad. He’d seen that as a lure, but the lure was going home to the place she was meant to be.
Married! Something inside her opened up and warmed. He honestly meant to marry her. No female could not be impressed by his manly body or his chiseled face, or the way his eyes gleamed bright blue when he smiled.
She kept her expression nonchalant. “I will share your bed if you wed me,” she said, using her gracious tone.
“If?” He glanced away. “I’ve been planning to wed you for days. I’ve been hoping to bed you for even longer, as you know.” He nuzzled his nose into her hair, and his breath blew a whisper on her skin. “You’re so fresh and clean, and thoughts of you naked drive me wild with lust.”
She swallowed. “Now you’re being fanciful.” Her face and neck suffused with heat, and she pushed him away, her heart tumbling around in her chest. While trying to breathe, she had thoughts of him naked, too, and wondered about the size of his oldjohn. He was a large man. Her hands shook.
“We men do have these thoughts, faced with sharing a bed.” His expression turned indulgent as he tugged a curl of her hair that had somehow escaped.
She shifted away, trying to put sharing a bed out of her mind. Sharing a table had been awkward enough. Likely the bedding would be as quick as the meal last night, and assuage his needs. “We women have more practical thoughts, like shopping, cooking, and cleaning.”
“Forget your practical thoughts. We’ll be celebrating tonight and eating out.” He sounded miffed.
She adopted a languid “Miss Patricia” tone. “In that case, I’ll lie on my bed reading your newspapers before I prettify myself for the most momentous day of my life. Do you mind if I use the mirror in your room this afternoon?”
“Do what you will,” he said, already turning to leave. “I’ll be back after four to dress.”
“Have a pie before you leave. They’re still warm.”
He snatched up two and disappeared.
In the early afternoon, she unpicked the waist seam of her older black gown and took apart the bodice, giving herself the beginnings of a new skirt and a bodice pattern. The town hall clock struck three before she’d barely tidied the scraps of material and the broken threads. She had an hour and a half to ready herself.
Before she changed into the combination she’d decided on for her wedding, she took a laundered white shirt with a starched collar out of Devon’s tallboy, brushed his dark suit, and cleaned his black shoes. Knowing he owned the correct attire for an afternoon wedding, she found the black silk cravat she’d placed with his other neckwear in the top drawer. The clock struck the half hour.
Now for herself. Being the prettiest of her outfits, she’d planned her cream skirt and the cream-based floral bodice for the wedding that might never have eventuated. For the first time, she pulled on the crinoline hoop and dropped the extravagant petticoat over her head. The skirt took almost no time to fasten, and the swish and sway of the material fascinated her for a few moments, but her clammy fingers slipped with her stays. Her bodice had been altered to emphasize her small waist and the back hooking took quite a bit of contortion. Finally, she walked as gracefully as any lady back into Devon’s room to use his mirror for her hair.
For the second time, she formed the loose chignon that Devon had noted, but this time she added a pattern of thick strands to lightly decorate the spread. Using a hairclip, she separated a few curls to soften the edges around her face and neck. She stared at herself for a few moments, certain she looked as smart as any of her mistresses. When she heard him take the stairs at his usual rate, two at a time, she hurried back to her bedroom. Although he couldn’t avoid seeing her before the ceremony, she somehow needed to prolong the moment.
Her palms sticky, she sat on her bed. She didn’t have gloves. Her plain black pair would look appalling with her light outfit. And she didn’t have a reticule to hold her handkerchief. No matter. She wouldn’t cry. A bride didn’t cry on her wedding day.
Too soon, Devon stood in the doorway, dressed for the wedding, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, silently staring at her. He said not a word. His face looked tight, tense. He tapped his black hat on this thigh and glanced at the gloves he held in the same hand. “Thank you for readying my clothes,” he finally said.
She heard a crow outside calling, “How? How? How?” and her lips stretched into the shape of a smile. How foolish to expect a compliment. Better to be thanked for a good deed done than admired for the way she spent his money on decorating herself. He was only marrying her because... Why, why, why? A man with his looks and connections could choose from a long line of rich, beautiful young brides. Surely. Unless he was the wastrel she suspected he was, paid to stay away from England and hoping to be invited back if he sired a plump child to be fed sugarplums by his doting grandpa.
She glanced at Devon again. In black and white, the man looked like a lord: formal, remote, invulnerable, and the handsomest man in creation. Unable to suppress her shallow thoughts, she pushed past him through the doorway.
She held her posture during her entire wedding ceremony, keeping her eyes wide, refusing to blink, afraid that sentimental tears might gather. She wished her parents could see her today, standing tall beside a man who would provide strong, healthy children. Although she couldn’t be any more to Devon than the breeder he wanted, she had the idea that he could too easily be more to her, but she would guard against that. A love not returned would be wasted.
His friend had organized the ceremony in a stark building beside the almost fully constructed town hall. Two witnesses, strangers whom Devon quite blatantly paid, stood staring while the man dressed in street clothes who had introduced himself as the registrar asked Wenna to take Devon for her husband.
Neither she nor Devon had given thought to a ring, and she accepted his green signet in lieu. She murmured “I will,” and after the same phrases, Devon also said “I will.” The whole procedure, including the signing, took no longer than ten minutes. She stepped out of the tall building and onto King William Street a married woman. “Mrs. Courtney,” the registrar had pronounced her.
“I’m afraid of losing your ring.” She glanced at the town hall clock, whose minute hand had just passed the quarter hour. “It’s far too big. You’d best take it back.”
“I’ll get you another,” Devon said indifferently, taking her by the elbow. “But a ring isn’t an essential. We made our vows in front of witnesses, and no more than that is required. A church ceremony takes far longer to set up, and it would have meant nothing to me. I’m not a believer.”
“I can’t argue about religion. I’ve always gone to church on Sundays, and I’ve never seen the need to question.”
“You’ve never hesitated to question me, or my motives.”
“You’re hardly a higher being.”
“What? You don’t admire me?”
“You have your good points.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
She stood stock-still and looked him over from head to toe. “You look well in a formal suit,” she said drily.
He laughed. “I thought I was a rag of a man. Well, at least I own a block of land.”
“Let’s hope you’ll be able to sell it before you leave.”
He made a doubting mouth. “It’s an investment.”
His hat fashionably angled and, without speaking, he walked her back to The Pig and Whistle. Inside the noisy place, he took the same seat as before and told the same waitress he wanted a bottle of the best wine. The wine, which Wenna thought was extravagant, bearing in mind the state of his shaky finances, came with two thick-stemmed glasses. Since a celebration seemed to be in order, she sipped a little, too.
Devon’s gentlemanly dress appeared to impress the waitress, who listened to his order with her eyelashes lowered and then rushed to do his bidding. Wenna didn’t know what the waitress or the other patrons presumed about her. Not wearing a ring, she didn’t look like Devon’s wife, but since she knew she’d married him, she assumed an outward confidence.
Halfway through the meal, a little man with a curly fringe of white hair and an enormous nose came over to the table. “Everything in order, Mr. Courtney?”
“Sit and have wine with us, Snow. Milady has hardly taken a sip, and I don’t want to quaff a full bottle by myself.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The little man dipped his head and appropriated a beer mug from one of the few empty tables. “Is tonight a special occasion?”
“I’d say so.” Devon poured the wine into the mug. “This is my, ah, wife,” he said, indicating Wenna. “Snow is the host here. I think he owns the place, too, although he won’t admit it.”
“Garn with you.” Mr. Snow grinned at Devon. “You don’t think a rough old miner like me ’ud get a job here if I didn’t own the place, do you? Good t’meetcha, Mrs. Courtney. Thought it would only be a matter of time ’til this young buck settled down. A lotta ladies gonna be disappointed, though.” He quaffed his wine as fast as most men drank ale.
Devon laughed. “You still don’t have a taste for the good stuff.”
“I’m a simple man. You two enjoy yourselves, and I’ll get back to work. Jest wanted to inspect the lady. Everyone’s interested, like.” Mr. Snow took his empty mug and left.
“I’m surprised you eat in this place.” Wenna watched the little man speak to the waitress, whose face fell as she glanced back at Devon. “The other patrons are working people and none would touch wine.”
“Maybe they should.”
“Wine is too expensive if we’re wanting to get back to Cornwall.”
Wenna Page 8
