A Wicked Kind of Husband

by Mia Vincy

  She had been busy.

  And he had been right. She had never needed him. She had sought to include him out of duty, because she always tried to do what was right. But after he abdicated, she finally claimed her position and her space and her own home. Her own life.

  A life that did not require him.

  He was proud of her. He wanted to weep. But she had put too much on their child and now she had lost that. She would grieve, as he would grieve. And one day, their grief would lessen and fade, as grief always did, and she would turn to him again. She would need him for one thing at least. If that was his only chance—if he had to start again as a stallion—he’d take it. He’d take any chance he could get.

  He shuffled through the pages. To the bedrooms. She still claimed the mistress’s room, connected to the master bedroom for him. No: Not for him. “Mr. DeWitt’s chambers” had been crossed out, with two strong lines, the end of one tearing the paper. Now it said: “Empty.”

  Empty. An empty space. Like the empty rooms in his house in Birmingham. Her empty womb. The place that belonged to her husband. Empty. Like that feeling in his gut when she told him to go.

  Empty space.

  But ah! Ha ha! Here was the thing about an empty space: An empty space needed to be filled.

  He scrabbled about for pen and ink and cursed his bad handwriting. He crossed out “Empty” and rewrote his name. And the study: He looked about. It was a big room. Why shouldn’t they share it? “Mr. and Mrs. DeWitt’s study.” Or maybe not. Maybe she wouldn’t like to have him underfoot all day; he’d ask her. “Nursery for baby.” He changed that too: “babies.”

  A knock at the door, a second knock. He dropped the pen with a splatter of ink, and Mrs. King the midwife stepped into the room.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “Your wife is tired and sad, but she will be all right.”

  “I left her. Three days ago she was well and I left her. She was upset and it…Was it…?”

  “Naught but coincidence,” she said briskly. “I told her the same.”

  Not you. Just go. Not you.

  “She blamed me?”

  “She blamed herself, poor lamb. But there’s not one thing either of you could have done different to change this, that’s the truth, and don’t you listen to any fool doctor what tries to say otherwise. I’ve been doing this a long time, and my mother and my aunts and their mother before, and let me tell you, if a baby wants to come, it’ll come, and it won’t care if you’re in the midst of heartbreak or war. But sometimes babies just don’t want to be born and there’s an end to it. But you have to stay away from her now.”

  “What?” It was a conspiracy. “Never.”

  “Out of her bed, I mean. For a month or so. Give the poor lamb time to recover.”

  “But I can still sleep with her?” Another thing he learned in Birmingham: He hated to sleep alone.

  “Aye, sleep, if you want. But mind that’s all you do.”

  “Can I see her?”

  Not you. Just go. Not you.

  “She’s sleeping now. Let her rest.”

  Alone again, he went to the window. The light was fading but it was still the same day. It was still the same garden. She would sleep, and she would wake, alone. Would she reach for him, as he reached for her?

  There had been a moment, when she first saw him. She had been happy to see him. She had.

  He had to give her something, so she knew, when she awoke, that she was not alone. She would never be alone again. Had he ever given her anything? Not in London, and when everything was arranged with Das, he had left Birmingham too quickly to even think of buying her a gift. That was what husbands did for their wives, wasn’t it? Bought them gifts. He should get her something she liked. What did she like? What was wrong with him, that he loved her so much and didn’t even know what she liked?

  I like it when you leap through windows.

  She did like him, she did. She liked flowers and music and pigs and cats and making love to him. She liked soft fabrics and strawberry tarts and those awful herbal wines her mother made. She liked meeting new people and winning at cards and balancing the ledgers and rubbing her cheek against his scruff. She liked it when he teased her and when he brushed her hair and when he kissed the underside of her breasts.

  And he had a lifetime to learn everything else she liked and make sure she always had it.

  The plans! They could be a gift to show her! He grabbed them up and was halfway to the door when he stopped. Wait. No. She was ill. She didn’t want him blathering on about plans and money and businesses. Not now, not yet. That wasn’t a gift.

  Then out the window—Flowers!

  He’d take her flowers. Roses and…the other ones. The Donkey’s Elbows or whatever they were called.

  He ran into the still-wet garden and grabbed at a rose, which bit him, and he sucked the blood off his finger and tried again, and his sleeve snagged on a thorn, and he tried to free himself, but then his other sleeve snagged too, and then he couldn’t even get the wretched rose to snap off, and it occurred to him that flowers might be more complicated than he thought.

  He ran back inside—sprinting, because he didn’t have time for this, no time to argue with flowers when his wife might think she was alone—and he found a knife, a nice sharp pen knife, and he ran back out and this time the rose could not withstand him. Ha ha! Behold the mighty conqueror of roses! One pink rose, and then another rose, and this purple-blue flower and that yellow one, and this white one, and it needed some more pink ones, and then he had a whole bunch of flowers, and they didn’t look nearly as pretty and symmetrical as the flowers in the house, those flowers made harmonious by her competent hands, but he decided that didn’t matter, because at least he had a lot of flowers. Now he needed to tie them together.

  He dashed back through the entranceway, under that carving of “Every sunne is a new one,” which went to show how much they didn’t know, because it was the same sun every day, rising and setting, constant and sure and endless, and sometimes one simply needed to look at it anew. That was a nice thought, and he’d tell Cassandra that thought; he had so much to tell her. But first, no time to waste—string!

  He charged inside, but before he found any string, he found a ribbon. How fortuitous! It was a pretty green color, not unlike the color of Cassandra’s eyes when they were being green and not brown, and he decided that yes, this ribbon would be ideal for tying up the flowers. Unfortunately, the ribbon was attached to a bonnet, but Joshua decided that he needed the ribbon more than the bonnet did, so he pulled out his handy pen knife and sliced the ribbon from its bonnet and tied up his flowers, which still didn’t look nearly as good as bunches that she made, but he had no more time to waste, so he jogged up the steps, only to see that the door to his wife’s room was closed and her mother had just come out.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but Lady Charles pressed her fingers to her lips.

  “Hush,” she whispered. “She’s sleeping. She needs to rest now.”

  “I need to see her.”

  “She’s sleeping.”

  “She’s my wife.”

  Lady Charles’s eyes flicked to the sorry bunch of flowers in his hand. “But don’t wake her. Not yet.”

  Then she was gone.

  Silent as a cat, he let himself into the room, darkened now, though it was still light outside. She slept peacefully, in her blessed nightcap, her mouth open, a faint blush on her cheeks. He entered as quietly as he could, and put the flowers on the table by her bed, and sat in the chair. He wanted to touch her, but didn’t dare wake her.

  “I’m your husband and you’re my wife and I know what that means now,” he whispered. “It means for better or for worse, and I’m going to devote my life to making your life better, whether you want me to or not.”

  Then he rose, went out, and crept down the stairs to wait out the evening and the night and all the long hours until he could see her again.

  Chapter 33
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  Cassandra awoke. The pain was gone. The blood was gone. A lantern burned; they had not left her in the dark. She was alone, in a clean shift, a clean nightcap, with clean linens on the bed. Mr. Twit was curled at her side. Nothing had changed.

  As if it had all been a dream. As if right back at the start, she’d dreamed Lucy singing and dancing alone in the ballroom. Joshua and the ball and Mrs. O’Dea and the lovemaking and the baby: She’d dreamed it all, and now she would get up and get on with her life. The same as always. The life she would accept because it was the one she had.

  She smelled flowers, the promise of them, but they were wrong. If this were a dream, she would smell only violets, the violets she’d picked that long-ago morning, excited by the start of spring.

  No violets. Instead, laid by her bed was the most peculiar bunch of flowers she’d ever seen, a wildly mismatched and exuberant hodgepodge of blooms. It looked like something Joshua would throw together for her, if he was ever to take leave of his senses and start picking flowers. The sight filled her like a smile: He had come back.

  For the baby, not for her. It was the first thing he had said. He had let himself love that baby, and he would never survive the loss, and it would send him running again; perhaps he was already gone. What could she do? She had to let him go.

  She picked up the flowers. They were tied with ribbon. Emily’s ribbon. Yes, it was more likely Emily had picked them. Why on earth would Joshua ever pick her flowers?

  Except that Joshua should have done it. He could have done it. Why had he not done it? The fiend!

  Let him go?

  Let him try!

  She flung down the flowers and hurled herself out of bed, slightly dizzy, tired and sore, damp between her legs, but she was fine. Well, no, she wasn’t fine, her heart ached with the void left by her baby, but she would be fine. One day. This happened, they all said that. Sometimes babies just aren’t ready to be born.

  Well, all she could do about that now was grieve and wait for her heart and body to heal, and find hope in the other women’s words. But as for him? Oh no, indeed, Mr. DeWitt. This will not do. Not this time. She was always going along with what life threw at her. Did she think she had fortitude and patience? No: It was cowardice. No more. She was not going to accept whatever life threw at her, not this time, not without a fight.

  Her dizziness having passed, she soothed Mr. Twit’s growl of complaint, tugged off her nightcap, and carried the lantern into the dark, sleeping hallway.

  His empty bedroom sent fear shivering through her, but she kept on, ignoring the weakness in her limbs, marching down the stairs, and slipping into the study.

  And there he was, keeping vigil by the fire, staring at the coals, as she herself had done, all those nights on her own. He did not turn; he did not seem to have even heard her enter.

  Her eyes drank him in, every beloved, cursed inch of him, this infuriating, intense, captivating man, who had turned her inside out and transformed her into someone new.

  No, not someone new. Into who she had always been inside.

  And he thought he would leave her?

  Not a chance!

  She set down the lantern with a little bump.

  “You are not running away again,” she announced.

  He jolted and leaped to his feet, crossing the room toward her, arms outstretched, talking all the while. “You’re awake. How are you? You should be resting. Why aren’t you resting? Let me take you upstairs. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  “This will not do. I’m not having it.”

  A shadow crossed his face. His arms fell. He stopped walking, though his body kept swaying toward her. He was as taut as a violin string, his eyes soft and dark and flicking wildly over her face.

  “Please,” he said gently. “Let me—”

  “No.” His shoulders jerked, but she hardly noticed. “All my life, I was well behaved and polite and never made trouble. Not any more. I won’t accept it. This is not how it will be and you will not run away.”

  “Cassandra—”

  “Stop.” She showed him her palms and glared. “I will not behave nicely and I will not be polite and you will not object because it is you who taught me to be rude. You are a coward and a fool, and you will not run away again, do you hear me? I know it hurts, it hurts so much, but you’ll have to stand there and take it like a—like a—woman! Yes, that’s what you’ll do. I want a husband, and you’re the only one I have and the only one I want, so you’ll…bloody well be a husband to me.”

  “Cassandra—”

  “And don’t you tell me not to curse! I’ll curse if I want to! I’m tired of being good. I’m going to make trouble for you, Joshua DeWitt, and you will be my husband if I have to knock you over the head and tie you up. You told me to fight for what is mine. Well, you’re mine and this time I’m going to fight.”

  She stepped forward, but a wave of dizziness hit her, and her knees threatened to fail. In a flash, Joshua sprang, scooped her up, and carried her over to the settee. He laid her on it like she was the most precious thing in the world, then sank to the floor, holding onto her hands.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered. “What do you need? Tell me what you need.”

  “I’m all right, I…”

  The dizziness had vanished, and taken with it her wits, for why on earth was Joshua kneeling on the floor? Holding her hands in his, big and warm and strong, stroking her fingers, staring at her as though his world was about to end?

  “You want me to stay?” he said. “Really?”

  Clearly he had lost his wits too.

  “Did you not hear a word I just said?”

  His eyes did not release hers as he pressed her fingers to his lips. His fingers were so strong and sure, they could hold her whole body and soul, and his eyes could melt her bones, they were so hot and dark and liquid.

  Liquid.

  He had tears in his eyes.

  “You didn’t want me. You sent me away.” He spoke in a whisper that tore at her already torn heart. “Earlier today. I broke us so badly that even in your greatest need, you pushed me away.”

  “I never…”

  “You said, ‘Not you.’ I wanted to help you, but you said, ‘Not you’.”

  He pressed his lips together and briefly squeezed his eyes shut. Her own tears welled. She slid onto the floor and freed one of her hands to press it to his cheek.

  “I did not want you to have to see what was happening,” she said softly. “I was losing our baby and I did not want you to see that. I feared you could not bear the pain.”

  “But you had to bear the pain, so I should too. You had to be strong and brave, but you did not have to be alone.” He spoke firmly now, and took both her hands in his again. “Whatever the pain, whatever the burden, we bear them together.” A faint smile curved his lips. “Must I explain to you, Mrs. DeWitt, how marriage works?”

  “You love me,” she told him. And herself. A simple fact, simply stated, for both of their simple minds.

  “With everything I am.”

  She heard her own words and his, and a breathless, tear-filled laugh shook out of her, releasing her pain into the night.

  “I ought to have mentioned that earlier,” he said ruefully. “It took me a while to see it.”

  “It took a tragedy.”

  “Before then.”

  She shook her head, looked down at their joined hands. “You say that now, but you left me, and you only came back for…”

  Her words trailed off at the sight of his hands. Specifically, his left hand. More specifically, the gold band that encircled the ring finger. She took his left hand in both hers and studied the ring carefully. It was bigger than hers, of course, but the same gold, with the same patterns etched along its rim.

  It matched hers exactly.

  “You found your wedding ring,” she said.

  “I never lost it. But it meant nothing to me before. Now it means everything: My fidelity and devotion to you.”


  “Where was it?”

  “Birmingham.”

  “Then…” She ran her thumb over the ring and looked up at him. “You got it before. Before you came back. Before I lost the baby.”

  A strange new relief filled her. It was not the tragedy that made him love her. He did not come back only for their baby. He came back for her. She had lost their baby, the dream of that child, but she had not lost him too.

  “It was in Birmingham that I realized that you matter to me more than anything. I am married to you. I don’t mean the vows we said two years ago, or the rings or our names or the paperwork. I mean that I can never leave you, because my heart and soul and body are already married to you, bonded and forged in the furnace like steel. They have been for some time, but I could not see it.”

  He lifted her left hand to his, kissed the gold band on her finger.

  “In different circumstances, now would be the time when I confess my undying love, get down on my knees, and ask you to marry me. But I’m already on my knees and we’re already married.”

  A shaky laugh escaped her. “You always were very efficient.”

  “I’m sorry I left you. I’m so, so sorry for all the times I hurt you. I’m sorry I have been such a dreadful husband. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you. But I vow to be better, and make your life better. And maybe, if I love you hard enough, with everything that I am, in time you will love me too.”

  The anguish in his eyes left her amazed. “Joshua, you fool, of course I love you.”

  “But you love everything. And you’re stuck with me, so of course you…I mean, I wish you could…That I was…” He closed his eyes briefly, opened them again. “You are very good at loving, but I am very hard to love.”

  “Loving you is the easiest thing in the world, and there is nothing I love like I love you.” She spread her hand over his chest, over his heart, felt it beating with all his wild exuberance. “My love for you is as much a part of me as the air that I breathe, which means it will never stop until I do. Which is why I told you that I shall never let you go.”