By Camille Oster
Copyright ©2020 Camille Oster
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Camille Oster – Author
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Chapter 1:
THE FLOOR SHIFTED SLIGHTLY and the lantern swung above where Caius sat at his desk, signing letters as Lord Warwick for the first time since assuming his late uncle's title. It sat badly with him, but his uncle's death had been inevitable. An aimless ding of the bell up on deck drew his attention to the roughness of the seas.
This cabin had been his home for longer than he cared to remember, but they were coming into port shortly, after having to traverse the rougher seas of the Atlantic.
His trunk shifted slightly along the floor. The seas were rough indeed. It would certainly be bad luck to succumb in a shipwreck so very close to home. Not that he would. Danger for him was an instinct he knew well and he simply didn't feel it now. It was just rough seas.
Six long years since he'd set foot on his own soil, having spent his time as a major, protecting the Queen's interest in the South China Seas. Mostly in Hong Kong and in China. If it wasn't for the duties to the title, he probably wouldn't be returning at all. Life in the orient had suited him perfectly.
"We're off the coast of France," someone said to a companion outside his cabin, which meant they were getting close. But he also knew that the very end of a voyage was the most trying, because one started to think about what to do when off the ship, and suddenly the small spaces of the ship felt confining.
Dropping his pen down on the desk, he rose and paced. Before him lay all the things he'd simply walked away from six years previously. His siblings. His father.
His wife.
With a deep sigh, he paced, feeling he needed more than the small area of his cabin, so he stepped out and made his way up on deck. Strong winds buffeted him as he stepped out into the cool air. They were definitely further north. The warm airs of Africa left behind. Steadily moving toward the cold, rainy isles of Britain.
There had been things he’d missed. Foods and fruit. A good scone with strawberry jam, and the sheer choice of tipples. The selection had been more limited in the orient, and rarely did they have the single malt reserve bins from the smaller distilleries. Not to mention the cognacs and bourbons from France.
But then there were the things he hadn't missed. Particularly the scandal and betrayal, the falsities and pretense and everything that had to do with his wife. Eliza. How fooled he'd been.
Well, it was time to address the issue. Swiftly and succinctly was how he would prefer to do it. How she would prefer to do it remained to be seen. It didn't matter all that much as money and title tended to take precedence in these things.
Over to the right, he could see a few lights in the distance along the French coastline. They really were getting close to home. A day or two and he would be in Southampton, and back on English soil.
*
No one met him at the port, which wasn't surprising as he’d sent no details of his arrival. Likely his brother and father would assume his imminent arrival due to the passing of Uncle Theodore.
"See to some transportation, will you," he said to Mr. Jones before stepping onto the gangplank leading down to the dock. Already, the cargo holds had been thrown open and sacks were being lifted out. They didn't linger, did they? The moment the ship pulled in, the unloading started. Port fees were expensive, he understood, so ships had incentive to be quick.
A jumble of carts stood waiting, and a few carriages standing by to pick up arrivals. People were everywhere, waiting, moving, heaving. Dodging through the frantic activity, and guarding himself against the manure littering the ground, he made his way to the pub he'd seen from the ship.
It felt strange walking on firm land. His body and mind were so used to the relentless shifting under his feet that he now felt strange. Only for a short while as there was a long carriage ride ahead of him. Right now, though, he wanted a drink, for all the things he'd rather not do.
It wasn't as if he feared doing them, it was the betrayal and disgust he didn't want to deal with—had seen no need to deal with it, because none of it had been his doing. But it was time.
The tavern smelled as he walked in, filled with rough furniture and rough men. They knew on sight he wasn't one of them, but they also knew to leave him be. He knew these men, had led men just like them into battle, had worked with them, and occasionally bled with them.
They weren't all good men, but when honor shone through them, it was as bright as he'd ever seen.
Even so, he would never be a part of them, and that went both ways. Grudging respect worked well from everyone.
"A whiskey," he said to the dirty and stained barman. The bar was old and scarred from use. Had been painted blue at some point in its history.
"Which kind?" he said without a smile.
As opposed to what people believed, port taverns, for being rough and uncouth places, usually had an excellent selection of tipple, designed to alleviate newly paid sailors of as much coin as possible.
"The Craggy Tor special reserve," he said and barman grabbed a small glass and then the dusty bottle from the top shelf. Caius liked it when the bottles were dusty. It often signified something special.
The honey-brown liquid shone in the poor light. Lovely color. It had been long years since he'd tasted one of these.
Picking the glass up, he brought it to his lips.
"Got a carriage for taking us to London. Or do you wish to head to Denham?" Mr. Jones said, arriving at his side. Jones had an even more quieting effect on the tavern than he had. His visage had that effect with his missing eye and savaged cheekbone, and the absent left arm. People, even the rough ones, didn't dare wonder what hellhole Jones had crawled out of. And it had been a hellhole.
With disappointment, he placed the glass down. It wasn't such a height of joy experiencing this tipple when there was a man waiting impatiently for direction. Despite his missing pieces, Mr. Jones was a good manservant, albeit impatient. Soldiers had their limitations.
"I think London first," Caius said quietly and Mr. Jones walked away.
Returning his attention to the glass he sighed as he brought it to his lips again.
"And where'd you come from then?" a man said, older and of a rough disposition. Pox marks scarred his face. Clearly dumb enough to think that he could have found his next mark.
"From hell," Caius said gravely.
There was a moment of tenseness. He would struggle if the whole tavern decided they wished to claim his purse, which could happen if he had to deal with the pox marked man in a decisive manner.
"Davie, leave him alone," a man called from the crowd. There was a tense atmosphere for a moment, but it stretched too long, long enough so everyone knew that no one was making a move.
The older man slinked away, grumbling as if he'd somehow been prevented from gaining his loot.
Finally he poured the liquid into his mouth and savored the smooth burn. Oh, it was nice. It had been aged perfectly. Flavor filled his senses—taste, burn, scent. Sheer beauty. It reminded him of sunshine, summer days and happiness.
Slowly he opened his eyes and was back in the grubby tavern. "I'll take the bottle," he said and placed down enough coin to cover it and then some.
Taking the bottle, he walked out of the tavern, but it wou
ld be a stretch to say into fresh air. The port had a cacophony of unpleasant smells, not helped by livestock from Brittany being unloaded right in front of him.
Searching, he found Mr. Jones, who stood by a carriage. It was well sprung. A good choice for the long ride north.
Damn, he should have bought a glass too, but he hadn't thought of it and unceremoniously drank from the bottle. While, he appreciated alcohol probably more than most, he wasn't beholden to it as some were. It had a time and a place, but this long drive north signified a good time for a bit of indulgence. It was a small pleasure, but there were times, when battle was heavy and it seemed the sun would never come out again, when small pleasures were all one had.
Men had different vices. His was a good whiskey. He might need a few in the weeks ahead.
Chapter 2:
BUCKET IN HAND, ELIZA stood and watched the roof, waiting to see if any of the leaks remained. Workmen had been on the roof all week after she’d pestered her landlord for months on end. Finally the roof had been fixed and her books were safe, but she wasn't going to trust it until she saw it with her own eyes.
"I think it's holding," Teresa said, eyeing the ceiling furtively.
"It seems that way. Well, that is a load off my mind. It would be nice to think we didn't have to run around dealing with leaks all the time. Perhaps we can get on with the Somerset order."
"The Widows and Orphans Charitable Trust hasn't given their final approval yet."
With a sigh, Eliza put her bucket down. "What is taking them so long?"
"I gather they only meet once a month and at times they don't get to everyone on the agenda," Teresa said. "I suppose they’re not ready to make the purchase yet."
One would think that charities were easy to deal with, particularly when providing school supplies for charitable schools, but some of the people she’d met in these charities were some of the hardest people she’d ever met. Many were entirely well-meaning, but there were a few people for whom Eliza didn't entirely understand why they were there.
Biting her lip, she wondered if she could get the assistance of another charity to provide the materials to the children, but it would be a hard endeavor trying to justify providing charity to children who were firmly in the domain of another particular charity. Charities were surprisingly competitive.
"I suppose we will simply have to wait."
"But in the meantime, I am wondering about the slate that just arrived," Teresa continued. "I'm worried it might be too thick. If a child were to drop it, it could do some damage to unprotected toes."
A fact that Eliza hated was that a number of the children who attended the most meager schools had no shoes. The schools that ran on fees rather than charitable trusts with wealthy patrons. For a long time, she’d wondered if there was some way she could manufacture shoes for these children, but she hadn't managed to find the right materials and production process to make it feasible.
"Then we will have to sell that slate to one of the charity schools," Eliza said. "We will have to look for another source for the slate."
Making her way back to her small office, she went over the accounts and found the purchase of the slate, and calculated what she had to sell it for. The margin they were earning was thin to start with, so she couldn’t discount it anymore. This business had its expenses and it had to support the people who made it run. Profit wasn't the purpose, but it had to keep itself alive.
At times, it felt like an endless string of problems, but she loved the small business she’d built. It had given her purpose. Granted, she enjoyed creating the learning books they designed, but it had become a small part of the business. So many things were required to keep it going.
A knock sounded on the door and she looked up to see Tom, their errands boy. "There's a letter for you."
"Really?" The post had already come for the day, so this must be hand-delivered.
Accepting it with an absent smile, she turned it over. Aberford Law Associates, it said, and unease crept up her spine. Solicitor involvement never meant anything good. What in the world could this be in regards to? As far as she knew, none of the current dealings involved any disputes that would result in solicitor communication.
Grabbing her penknife, she sliced the fine parchment open and extracted the letter. The paper was so thick, she actually had to hold it open. The language was impossible to understand, but she definitely saw the 1857 Marriage Causes Act mentioned several times. And also Lord Warwick.
This wasn't about her work. This was about her husband's family. But why would Lord Warwick be mentioned? And then it occurred to her that it was her husband it was referring to. He must have inherited the title.
Again she tried to read it. Dissolution of the marriage, it said. There was also a time and date where her presence was required.
Bringing her hand to her mouth, she dropped the parchment on the table. Her husband was initiating divorce proceedings. In a way, it wasn't a surprise, but it had been so long, she had in many ways forgotten about it—about him. It was a portion of her life she had wished quite firmly to forget.
And now it was here. There would be renewed scandal and trouble, that ill-fated marriage still causing upheaval.
A worse thought occurred to her. Technically, the business she’d built belonged to him. Anything she had belonged to him, including her, and with a divorce, he could take absolutely everything. Not that he would be interested in a small business producing educational material for charity schools, but she could very well imagine him doing so out of spite.
All she had built could be taken away from her. Not to mention that a divorce would make many of the charities she dealt with highly suspicious of associating with her, claiming her character was untenable, even as she was no different a person than the one she’d been a mere hour ago.
Most likely this also meant that Caius was back in England. For a while, she’d believed that she would simply never see him again. He had seemed intent on forgetting their marriage had ever happened, but that was not the case.
Now he had a title and likely his uncle's estate that went with it. He would need an heir and he clearly didn't feel she was suitable as a mother for that heir.
It was an insult, but truthfully, it didn't hurt overly much. So many tears she’d shed for that marriage—she simply didn't have any left. Years had stretched and she’d put the debacle behind her.
"What's the matter?" Teresa asked as she walked into the office. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"In a way I have," Eliza admitted with a wry smile.
Oh, how was she going to tell Teresa about the risk they now faced? They could lose the company entirely, because again, it technically belonged to her husband.
They might simply have to start a new company after the divorce if Caius wasn't amenable. They had the knowledge and the contacts, although they might lose all their inventory. It would be very difficult to start again, but they might not have any choice. And if her reputation as a divorced woman would be too destructive, perhaps Teresa would have to be the principal. Eliza might have to withdraw entirely.
This was all less than ideal, but both her and Teresa had dealt with setbacks before. The world was a cruel place and the only way in it was to make a place for oneself. Teresa had been filthy and starving with two children tucked under her dirty shawl when they'd met. Something about her defiance had made Eliza stop. And given the chance, Teresa had worked harder than anyone else Eliza knew, because she'd taken the opportunity and made as much of it as she could. So here they were, friends and colleagues.
And now they could lose everything again.
"It will all be fine," Eliza said with more confidence than she felt.
"What will be?"
"My husband has returned."
Teresa's eyebrow rose. "And what does he have to say for himself after all this time?" It could be said that Teresa's trust in men had been eroded by her experiences. Although she was beautiful, she paid no at
tention to the men who tried to catch her eye. Eliza understood.
"A petition for divorce," Eliza said and picked up the letter.
The room was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry," Teresa finally said.
"It was perhaps bound to happen." Eliza had hoped this day wouldn't come, but she wasn't entirely surprised it had. "But I think we must make some preparations in case things turn difficult."
Teresa sighed and leaned her hand on the desk, looking out of the stretch of paned windows. "Do you think he'll be difficult? You built this entirely on your own."
"Honestly, I don't know. He was very angry the last time I saw him. I have no idea how he feels now, but it seems he is in need of a divorce. Perhaps he has someone he wishes to marry."
"And he is willing to rip you to pieces to do so."
"So it would appear." The divorce would be scandalous. Every part of it would be reported and salaciously gossiped about. Any standing she held is society, which hadn't been all that good as her husband had deserted her, would be decimated as a divorcée. No doubt the cause for the divorce would be adultery. One accusation that had destroyed her marriage, and now reputation in the broader world. "It is what it is," she said and put the letter down again.
Chapter 3:
THE GREENERY STILL HAD the lushness of late summer, but the clement weather was gone. It rained, a symphony of waterdrops on leaves around. Caius listened to the patter as he traveled along the road leading west. Along with the jingle of the harness and the squeaks of the carriage.
It was too stuffy to keep the windows closed in the carriage, so they were both open, wetness occasionally splattering from the top of the door.
A headache sat at the back of his eyes. A hangover. Friends he hadn't seen in many years insisted on celebrating his return, and one couldn’t help but be amenable in such circumstances.
Returning to London wasn't something he wished to celebrate. He'd been there to see his solicitor and start the proceedings against Eliza. Exactly where she was, he wasn't sure, but she had a mailing address in Lambeth, which wasn’t exactly a genteel neighborhood. This made him wonder what she was doing with the money he’d sent her every month. Perhaps she was drinking it away in unsavory establishments in Lambeth.
The Nuisance Wife Page 1
