The Bashful Bride

by Vanessa Riley

  Chapter Twenty

  GET YOUR NEWSPAPER

  The sound of rain splashing the windowsill made Ester awaken. Her eyes were tired from too much watching Bex, too much not sleeping. She stretched and found the bed empty. That saddened her. She wanted to see him smiling at her again. Maybe he’d say aloud the whispers that nipped her ear. Snuggling his pillow, she pressed it against her bosom with her heart racing at the memory of him, the thought of his touches. The scent of ash and pine soap were faint, but the memories of his arms holding her, of him breathing life into her—those were vivid and warm.

  The door opened, and she shrank into the bedsheets to cover her bare shoulders.

  “Mrs. Bex, I thought you up,” Mrs. Fitterwall said as she walked in with a green silk gown in one hand and a poppy-colored one in the other. “I am here to draw you a bath. Mr. Bex said that a warm tub was your favorite, as if I didn’t know that.”

  Ester sighed with relief that it wasn’t her mother coming to wake her. Though she was married, she’d die of embarrassment if Mama had barged in upon her. Fishing for her robe with her toe, she seized it and pulled it on. “Is it drawn already?”

  “No, Mr. Clancy will bring the copper tub here. I’m going to fetch the hot water. You just need to relax and decide which dress you wish to wear.” The woman laid the beautiful morning gowns on the bed then dashed out the door.

  Ester scrambled to her feet and wrapped her sash about her tightly. She formed a bun of her hair. The locks that Bex didn’t seem to tire of sinking his fingers into were wild and frizzy. A stiff brushing was in order.

  A knock on the door made her dizzy. Was it Bex come to kiss her good morning? “You may enter.” She said, hoping her voice sounded dignified, not lost in love.

  Clancy came into the room with another servant hoisting the metal tub. They set it down by the fireplace.

  The housekeeper waited on the threshold until the men were done, then she brought in a bucket of hot water.

  Clancy came back in with another bucket. The cheery smile she was used to seeing on him was missing. In fact, his long face had a frown. “Clancy what is wrong? Is Papa worse?”

  He looked at Ester then toward the housekeeper. “An actor up in these parts. He should go back to his own.”

  Mrs. Fitterwall gave him a frown, her lips looking as if she’d pressed them flat between book pages. “I suppose that you don’t want me here.”

  “No, you’re different. You’re one of us. You know the struggle. What does London’s most famous actor know?”

  It was good Clancy stepped away, for if he was closer, both Ester and Mrs. Fitterwall would have hit him.

  “Mrs. Bex,” the housekeeper said as she moved to the door. “Your father is still in a great deal of pain. There’s no improvement.”

  Ester clutched the post. How could she be so happy with her father doing poorly? “Perhaps Mr. Bex and I should stay while he recovers.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour to help you dress. Enjoy your bath.” Mrs. Fitterwall handed Ester her soap and fresh towel, then swept from the room.

  Ester grew happy inside as she looked at the heat rising from the water. She was back home with her family, like nothing had happened, except Bex was here, too. Would he want to stay? Would his man’s mind want to be on his own, back in Cheapside?

  Part of her wanted to dress and find him, but maybe he’d see that she—that they—needed to be here. She kneeled beside the tub and dipped her finger inside, making rings and hearts, soaking her whole hand in the warmth. Surely, Bex had to love her to be so thoughtful. Why else would he draw a bath for her?

  Unless it was to distract her.

  Had he gone again, or was he like Ruth’s beaux, bedding her just to leave her?

  All the happy feelings inside her began to disappear.

  No. She shook her head. She’d trust him. They’d found each other last night. Nothing would change that. They’d started their marriage again holding on to each other in arms of love. She wasn’t going to stop trusting her husband after she’d given herself totally to him.

  Ester would enjoy her bath, then take her time to dress and keep hoping that Bex was worthy of her trust. She stroked the hot water and made suds with her soap. She sighed, hoping the hot water and lilac scent would wash away the fear drowning her heart.

  …

  Arthur stood outside the door to the bedroom chamber. He’d walked Nineteen Fournier up and down, feeling every inch the heel. He’d given in to love, the desire to have Ester, but he’d done so without giving her the one thing she’d ever wanted. Truth.

  But that ended now.

  He opened the door, and as he’d hoped, Ester was in the tub. Her beautiful neck craned against the side. Beads of moisture dripped from her chin. Suds obscured the best view a man with hands could ever want. “Ester?”

  She opened her topaz eyes and smiled. “You’re here and safe.”

  “Of course. I’m done going into burning buildings for now.”

  “And how about rallies?”

  “Ester, I won’t lie or trick you. Not after today. I have to tell you what I started to say last night.”

  She turned away and looked toward the fireplace. “You don’t, Bex. Not if it’s going to steal us. We’re happy right now. Maybe I don’t need to know, ever.”

  Arthur went in front of her and sat so they were almost eye-to-eye, he at the hearth, she pulling as many suds over her décolletage as possible. “Ester, I’m not Arthur Bex.”

  Her fingers gripped the sides of the tub. Her beautiful face looked so pained. “Then who did I marry? Who did I consummate a marriage to? A stranger?”

  “My name is Oliver Arthur Bexeley.”

  “You changed it for the stage. That’s common.” She sighed and smiled. “That’s nothing.”

  “I changed it because of my uncle. Oliver Bexeley. The captain of the Zhonda.”

  Her eyes grew large. It looked like she wasn’t breathing. “Not the monster, the ship captain who threw twenty-five enslaved men overboard to collect insurance money?”

  “Yes, but it was closer to fifty men.”

  “Fifty.” She fell back in the tub. Water splashed out wetting the rug. “Fifty men.”

  “Yes. Fifty enslaved men.”

  “Do you know what the Zhonda means to my family, to my mother? It carried her family from Africa to be enslaved in Jamaica. Someone that shares my blood, her blood, could have been one of those fifty men.”

  He cupped his brow, the weight of his guilt, the weight of the sadness in her eyes smashing against him. “I was on the Zhonda since I was six, as Uncle’s cabin boy. I knew something wasn’t right with the cargo. Not the way his crew joked about. Not the way Uncle Bexeley made sure I didn’t watch the loading. I know I was young, but if I had bothered to look, or hadn’t loved the bliss of ignorance, I could’ve said something that could’ve stopped him.”

  “But you were six.”

  “Twelve is the age of reason, Ester. I was twelve on the Zhonda’s last trip. I finally saw the cargo, all those poor bound men. I tried to stop them, but nothing would stop my uncle and the crew from tossing the cargo. I saw men, not cargo, screaming as they sank.”

  “Mama.” She put her hand to her mouth and covered a scream. “How could I have brought a killer’s nephew into this house? I married a slaver’s nephew.”

  He hung his head. “Yes, Ester, that is true.”

  “You lied to me, Bex. When Mama discovers this, she’ll toss you out. Don’t give her the trouble. You leave now.”

  He stood up, his limbs still shaky. “I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry for that. I left my past behind. I put it away and became Arthur Bex. Now that you know, the past has nothing more to do with us.”

  She shook her head. “The past is the best indication of the future.”

  “I am not a slaver, Ester.”

  “No, but that’s why you fight for abolition. Do you think your sacrifice makes up for all that was lost? Is t
hat why you chose to marry a Blackamoor? Doesn’t it burnish your credentials? Wait until the world learns of your little wife. ‘Good for you, Bex,’ they’ll say, and won’t think another moment of those that were lost by the Zhonda—all the pain, all the loss it caused.”

  “It wasn’t like that. I wanted a wife who would believe in me, who could love me despite my past.”

  She wiped at her face as sloppy tears fell, ones he couldn’t wipe away. He couldn’t touch her. Not now. She hated him…like he hated himself.

  “Did it bring you some type of joy lying to the world about who you are? Did it make you feel special to trick me into marrying you, the daughter of an enslaved woman to the nephew of a slave-killer?”

  “No. Ester, inside, I’m the same man you said you loved. The same man who cradled you in his arms last night. Does a name change that?”

  “Lies do. Do you think I would’ve married you if I had known? I’m not a trophy to assuage your family’s guilt. I wouldn’t hurt my mother like this.”

  He stood, turning away to the roaring fire. “Ester, I’m in love with you—funny, headstrong you. The fact that you are Blackamoor and I’m not did not matter to me. You matter. The hope of having someone to believe in me, to build a family with to replace the one I lost. That’s what I see when I look at you.”

  But her gaze held loathing and contempt. “Bex, Bexeley. I’m a Blackamoor woman. A proud one. One who will not sweep a lie under the rug. One untruth begets another. I won’t live like that. I won’t be a bathtub woman who looks the other way. I need you to leave here.”

  Her breath was ragged. She was as affected by him, by the love between them that couldn’t be denied, as he. “If you had known, you wouldn’t have married me, and I’d never have known true happiness. For that, I’ll never be sorry.”

  “You didn’t give me the chance, Bex-Bexeley. I know the difference between an actor and a slaver. The man who deserves my love should’ve trusted me enough to tell me the truth.”

  “I lost everything once because of the truth. Ester, I wasn’t prepared to lose you.”

  “You have. If you’d told me, I could’ve chosen. We could’ve reasoned through this, but you took that from me. We married under false pretenses.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “The name on the certificate. Is it Bex or Bexeley?”

  “It’s Bex. That is the name I have chosen, the name I am known by.”

  “That is fraud, Oliver Arthur Bexeley.”

  He turned and walked to the door. “Then you do have a choice. You can have this marriage dissolved, just as I suggested before we consummated it last night. You remember, Ester, being with me, loving me fully and completely. That’s what you said. Was that a lie?”

  She sank into the tub, splashing water his way. “Go.”

  “I’ll agree to whatever you want. I thought we were good together. I still believe that.” He put his hand on the doorframe and turned to look upon her one more time—wet glistening skin, tears flowing. “Ester, I can’t change the past, but I won’t let you enslave me to it. I’ve done that enough to myself. I should’ve told you, but this mistake doesn’t change a moment we spent together, or how I feel about you. Know that no man will ever treasure how your lips part when you smile, the crinkles in your forehead when you fret, or the low moan in your voice when you’re kissed well—not like me.”

  “But who are you? What’s tomorrow’s lie?”

  “The one I sign to annul this marriage and accept your wishes.” Gut shredding, Arthur left the room and plodded down the stairs.

  Clancy stood at the entry. He picked up Arthur’s hat and held it out. “There’s a reporter here for you, a Mr. Phineas. He wants to talk about the fire, but I wouldn’t let him in.”

  Arthur took the tall-crowned felt hat and slapped it on his head. “Tell Mrs. Croome and Mrs. Bex I’ll do my best to keep things out of the papers.”

  The butler shook his head. “Actor people. You know she’s too good for the likes of you.”

  “It doesn’t make me love her any less.” Arthur took a deep breath and marched outside.

  Phineas was sitting on the steps. “The butler wasn’t letting me in to get a statement about the warehouse fire. I thought maybe you’d give me one.”

  The last thing the Croomes needed was to be dragged into the papers. “Phineas, I have a better story for you. One that should’ve been told by now. But for the exclusive, you have to leave the Croomes out of the paper.”

  “I have to investigate the fire, but I’ll protect them as much as I can. You have my word on this. But what is your story? And why do you look like your best friend died? Is Mr. Croome—”

  “If you want the scandal of the season, follow me to my flat. I’ll tell you everything.”

  Arthur walked down Fournier Street to the mews. It was time to stop living a lie, and if he could tell his scandal without hurting the Croomes, he would. The pain of his past, of hiding, was nothing to the gut punch of losing Ester, the woman he loved.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  WHAT LIGHT BREAKS A HEART?

  A knock woke Ester from her light sleep. Her bedchamber at Nineteen Fournier was dark, only lit by the moonlight. She punched her pillow. It was hard to get comfortable without Bex’s shoulder to lie upon or the rumble of his snores teasing her ear.

  And she still fretted that he would put himself in harm’s way.

  Was he well?

  Was he out risking his life at more abolition rallies, or running into burning buildings?

  Was he sleeping?

  Or had the newspaper men robbed him of that?

  In the week since she’d asked him to leave, his horrid connection to the Zhonda had been printed in every paper. Headlines like WAREHOUSE FIRE CLAIMS LIVES AND UNMASKS HERO were everywhere. The vile Countess Devoors had suggested he, too, was a murderer. Poor Bex.

  Ester rolled over but couldn’t find comfort. Papa was no better, and Mama had gone silent again, only rousing from her blank-faced knitting to check on Papa or to go with Ester and Mrs. Fitterwall to bring food to the women widowed by the fire.

  Heartbroken, unable to sketch anything, she turned over again and put her face in the pillow.

  Another tap made the window creak. It sounded as if it would break.

  Ester sat up. Her pulse raced. At her window stood a man.

  A few blinks revealed a tall, muscular outline, and she struggled to breathe.

  Bex. He was outside her third-floor window.

  “No.” She leaned over and lit a candle then pulled the curtains back fully.

  The crazed man was on the ledge. She stared, transfixed, at his lips. He mouthed her name, and she felt his voice rip through her heart, even before she heard it.

  He wasn’t moving away, and Ester feared he’d fall, so she opened the window.

  One of his big legs plowed in first. Then the rest of him in a costume—tights, a pointed hat, and a leather mantle that looked like what he’d worn as Romeo in Shakespeare’s play. Had he just left the stage to come to her? “I thought you were to be Antony of Antony and Cleopatra?”

  He smoothed his rumpled shirt sleeves. “I’ve a bit part right now. I lost the general’s role. It seems the theater owner didn’t want a slaver’s son in the part.

  “You’re not that, Bex.”

  He stepped an inch or two nearer. The heat and hurt in his eyes pained her soul, made her almost pant. “Details don’t matter when a scandal is available. This room is very pink. Pink suits you. Yellow does, too. Pity you’ve taken off your wedding ring.” He leaned and spun the gold and emerald band on the coral necklace she wore. “Forget me so soon?”

  Like that was possible. She tugged at her salmon-colored nightgown, covering her throat and her vulnerable heart. She wished she had on a robe to hide from his gaze.

  But her own expressions probably gave her away, for he was gorgeous and tall and here. She pinched at her cheeks. “Why have you come?”

&nbs
p; “I have returned many times, Ester, but Clancy won’t let me past the door. You haven’t returned a single note.”

  “Notes?” She shook her head. “I haven’t received any.”

  “I sent Jonesy. I know he wouldn’t deceive me.”

  His voice sounded accusatory, as if she had, but only one person hadn’t been truthful. “Clancy must be trying to protect me, sort of like you, omitting everything to protect me.”

  “It’s not the same. He doesn’t love you like I do, and he’s never lost everything. At least, I hope that’s not his plight. I did want to protect you, and I still am. I’ve let the dogs have at me, to keep the Croome name out of the papers. There’ve been only a few lines about the warehouse fire. Nothing at all about our marriage.”

  “Bex, I look every day for a cartoon or interview about you. I’ve seen the horrible articles.”

  He put his arms on her shoulders. “I’ve sacrificed my privacy for you and the Croomes. It was the least I could do. I want no more harm to touch you. Just me.”

  His fingers sent a jolt through her limbs. His palms were warm, and she wanted so badly to go back to the night they’d loved each other.

  But there was no going back, not for her. She couldn’t trust her heart. “Why are you here, Bex?”

  “It’s after midnight. Our marriage still exists. No legal papers have come, Ester.” He brushed a curl of her unbraided hair about his thumb. “I hoped that was a small sign you’d reconsidered. Perhaps you could love me again.”

  His eyes, hungry and hurt, stole what air she could breathe. He was too close, towering over her.

  “Ester, I know we didn’t start this marriage right. I should’ve told you everything. But do you know what it has been like to live in fear that I will say the wrong thing to the wrong person and then be judged to be just like my uncle. I’m still paying for his crimes.”

  “You know how I live, Bex. I know the fear of saying the wrong thing, but I know more the fear of hoping my loved one comes home. I want to be safe. I want you safe. We can’t work.”

  “But we’ve found each other, Ester. Can you deny the love that is between us?” He took her palm and placed it against his chest, smoothing it against his leather vest. “I can’t sleep without reaching for you. I don’t want us to end.”