Ever His Bride (20 page)

She gave a yank to the drapes. He kept them
closed for the lack of a view through the tangled bushes that had
always pressed at the windows. But now the sun leaped through the
clean panes to wash the room in glorious brightness. It launched
gilded shafts across the carpet, and caught at her smile.

“Are you so fond of me then, Mr. Claybourne?”
She threw open another set of drapes and the library brightened
further, warming the dark wood and touching off the rich colors of
the book bindings.

“I’m fond of order.”

“Then you cannot possibly be fond of me.” She
opened the last set of drapes and turned to him, her gaze steady
and clear, her hair brighter still. “I’ve brought nothing but
disorder to your life, haven’t I?”

“Yes.”

“And that is the way I am. I cannot change my
behavior any more than you can change yours.”

“I have no reason to change mine.”

Her laughter seemed too indulgent. “No, of
course not. You are perfect, in control of everything in your life
and I am perfectly out of control.”

“Exactly.”

“Then why keep me underfoot? Let me do what I
do best—explore the byways of Britain—while you do whatever it is
you do. We’d never heard of each other before this mess began, and
we were both perfectly happy. I see no reason why we can’t return
to that state.”

“You’re married to me now.”

“But not forever. I need this work, Mr.
Claybourne. I need to keep my travel gazettes popular and in the
public eye. Come next May, when you and I are officially divorced,
I’ll be destitute if I can’t find a job. And I’d rather not take up
work as a Southwark needlewoman, slaving for six pennies a day. Now
there would be a scandal for you: Hunter Claybourne’s ex-wife
reduced to poverty, dying horribly of septic fingers from sewing
men’s trousers. But suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn
you.”

Damnation!
He hadn’t thought of that:
what his wife would do once she was no longer his wife. God knows
she couldn’t count on Biddle or that uncle of hers to raise her out
of poverty.

“And, if I can’t pursue my living, I’ll have
to return to Bethnal Green whenever I can, to make a friend or two
who might put me up when I’m reduced to living on the street. You
wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Her argument held a certain amount of logic.
She
would
be on her own again at the end of their marriage,
left to her own devices. He couldn’t very well allow her to end up
as she described, as bait for his critics. And he desired not to
think of her living the life of a needlewoman, her luminous eyes
dulled by fatigue, never getting the stink of her impoverishment
out of her hair. Married to some smooth-tongued, gin-soaked
gambler. A sheen of sweat broke out across his upper lip.

He wiped it away and stood up, restless with
the persistent image of his wife dressed in tatters. Married to
another man. “You may leave tonight,” he said.

“Really? I can?” Her eyes lit up her entire
face and she threw her arms around his neck. And was that her mouth
that brushed the underside of his jaw, just beneath his ear?

There was something unsettlingly right in her
spontaneity. Had she been a real wife, she might have done the same
if she’d been pleased about a new hat or a night at the theater.
Had he been a real husband, he might have been just as pleased to
receive such an embrace. Might have taken her up to their chamber.
. . As it was, he couldn’t let his arms fit too naturally around
her—there was great risk in that kind of contact—so he let them
hang at his side. She drew away quickly, looking every bit as
uncomfortable as he felt.

Her forehead crinkled like a flight of wary
geese. “You’re not trying to trick me, are you, Mr.
Claybourne?”

“You have my permission. But I insist you
leave me an itinerary.”

“Of course, Mr. Claybourne.” She grabbed the
pen and a sheet of paper and began to diagram the entire British
railway, sketching the London & Northwestern to Rugby, then
north on the Midland Railway, ticking off stations along the route
through York and Newcastle.

“Good God, woman do you stop at the Scots
border?”

“Of course, but I plan to spend tonight in
Derby. . .”

The Tri-Junction Station. A damnably tangled
railway hub in the best of times, a calamity in the making for a
woman traveling alone. He sat down in his chair, masking his sudden
hesitance by straightening the inkwell as she dipped the nib and
scrawled on with her bloody itinerary. A different inkwell than the
one he’d always used, burled wood instead of pewter. But he’d found
it on his desk one day—the same day he’d found the first bowl of
flowers sitting on the library hearth—and so he’d begun to use it.
He knew that she had brought it, but he hadn’t found the right
moment to mention that it pleased him. Not that he needed to. She
was a grown woman and he looked forward to the peace he’d been
missing over the last month.

“You’re not to sleep on benches, madam. Or
barter for food or lodging, and I want a telegram every day stating
exactly where you are, where you’ve been, and where you expect to
be the next day.”

“So that’s the trick!” She replaced the pen
with a clunk and a furious frown. “I knew you’d try to snag me with
some impossible hurdle. I haven’t the money to send you all those
telegrams, Mr. Claybourne. I’ve barely enough for food.”

“Give me your purse.”

She eyed him over the bridge of her nose, but
finally settled her bag on the blotter. He carefully counted out
thirty pounds from his desk drawer, then poured the coins into her
drawstring bag and handed it back to her. “This should last two
weeks—if you’re careful not to lose it, or give it away.”

She peered into her purse as if he’d just
filled it with poisonous snakes.

“No, Miss Mayfield. This isn’t a loan. It’s
just another expense. See. You’ve become a column in my ledger.” He
pointed to a column of numbers whose sum had grown faster than its
length. He had titled the column
Miss M
.

“That’s me?” she asked, coming around the
side of his desk.

“Added to what I just gave you . . .” He
entered the expense as
Travels to Northumberland,
trying all
the while to ignore her warmth as she stood beside him, peering
over his arm. The effort drained the blood from his fingers and
sent it rushing elsewhere. “The total comes to eight hundred and
forty.”

“Well! I never thought I’d be reduced to a
column of numbers, Mr. Claybourne. But I do appreciate your taking
on my expenses. And I do consider this outlay, and all the rest of
the money you’ve spent on me, a loan; I plan to repay you as soon
as Uncle Foley returns—”

“From the gold fields. Yes, yes, I’m sure you
will.”

She lifted a defiant chin. “He’ll come back,
Mr. Claybourne.”

As he look into her eyes he felt an odd
twinge of conscience and regretted his comment, as well as the
sarcasm he’d injected into it. “Another few months, Miss Mayfield,
and you may even hear from him.”

“Yes, Mr. Claybourne. Thank you. May I go
now? Branson’s driving me to Euston Station, if you can spare
him.”

He was struck to the bone by the starkness of
her simple declaration that she was in a hurry to be gone. Made him
think of her bedchamber, the island of abundance she would leave
behind there; and the dining room with its too-long table and all
those empty chairs.

“I see your bag is packed,” he said, for fear
of saying anything more significant.

“I was leaving here today, no matter what you
might have said to the contrary.”

He refused to rise to her challenge. “Have
you everything you need for your trip? A canteen? Spectacles to
keep the cinders from your eyes?”

“Do you wish to inspect my bag, sir? Or take
an inventory?”

She’d made it to the doorway and stood there,
holding open the handles of her new portmanteau, her stalwart
bonnet failing to subdue her bountiful hair, and dreams of
adventure pinking her cheeks. No doubt already celebrating her
independence from him.

“You needn’t look at me like that, Mr.
Claybourne. I can assure you that I’m taking nothing more than
you’ve given me.”

“I didn’t think you had, Miss Mayfield.”

Yes, he would find his jealously-guarded
peace again when she was gone. And the solitary stillness of a
tomb.

“Good-bye, Mr. Claybourne.”

It was only then, with her footsteps receding
down the hallway far away from him, that he realized she wore no
wedding band. Nothing to mark her as married. No outward indication
that she belonged to him.

This would not do.

Felicity suspected her husband’s motives
immediately. He’d been too reasonable and accepting of her travel
plans. He’d even sent her to the station in his brougham. She
half-expected him to stop her, to ambush her on the way, but she
had arrived in plenty of time to board.

Branson hadn’t looked too pleased as he
watched her take a seat in a crowded, third-class, nearly
open-roofed car. The wind had come up and flapped at the canvas
above her head.

“You’re riding in this bloody thing?” he
said, hiking himself onto the running board and peering over the
side walls into the car. “All the way to Northumberland? If it
rains you’ll be drenched.”

“It’s all I can afford.” A big-boned woman
sat down beside Felicity and rammed her against the wall to make
room for three other passengers. Felicity usually traveled
second-class, more comfortable and not nearly as crowded, but it
wouldn’t be the first time she’d pinched her pennies. She would
return as much of her travel advance to Claybourne as she possibly
could. The last thing she wanted to do was to get used to his
obscene fortune.

“You’re married to a very wealthy man, Mrs.
Claybourne. The master can well afford to buy you a railcar of your
own. You needn’t ride in the open with a canvas over your head,
packed in with all these . . .”He rolled his eyes and spoke in a
hush that everyone around her could hear. “All these
people.”

She took his hand. “I’ll be all right,
Branson. This is my business trip, nothing to do with Mr.
Claybourne. Besides, I’m used to third class.” The sky looked a bit
threatening, but she chose to ignore it. She had managed to hold
most of the storms in her life at bay, but there wasn’t anything
she could do about just plain rain.

The train gave a whistle and with a great
breath of steam, the car lurched forward on its climb out of Euston
station up the Camden Yard incline. “I’ll miss you, Branson!”

“Take care of yourself, Mrs. Claybourne.” He
waved his hat, the sweet man. They were all quite sweet at
Claybourne Manor, except for Claybourne himself. He was . . . well,
like no other man she’d ever met. Would ever marry.

At Boxmoor she took tea with the
stationmaster, a dear old friend of her father’s, while the train
paused on a side rail to let a mail express pass; at Stony
Stratford two third-class cars were added, leaving her time to
visit with the postal master, another friend of the family.

Rugby was at least an hour further down the
track, where she’d have to wait on the platform to change from the
London and Northwestern Railway to the Midland, so she climbed
aboard the new car as soon as it was available, settled herself
into a corner seat, then closed her eyes for a nap.

“That’s an awful pretty bonnet, miss.”

Felicity looked up into a tiny face and pair
of soft brown eyes that she would expect to find on a milk cow. The
little girl sat directly across from her, clutching a ragged,
redheaded doll and a bulging flour sack.

Felicity smiled. “Why, thank you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Felicity. What’s yours?”

The little face lit up. “Mine is Kerrie.”
Kerrie looked into the face of her doll and sighed. “I don’t know
the name of my dolly. She was just give to me.”

Kerrie laid the doll on her lap, revealing a
piece of paper pinned to her shawl.

“Are you traveling alone?” She hoped the girl
wasn’t, because she was a good five years younger than Giles.

Kerrie nodded. “By myself.”

“Where are your parents?” Felicity leaned
forward to read the note, and her spirits plummeted.

Kerrie Slade – Deliver to Leicester Union
Workhouse—Sparkenhoe Street, Leicester.

Dear God! The child was on her way to a
workhouse!

“My mama went up to heaven last week.”

“I’m so very sorry to hear that, Kerrie.”

“But I’m six now, and I’m going to a school
in Leicester to learn to sew like my mama did.” Kerrie scooted
forward in the seat and touched her toes to the floor. “Where are
you going, Miss Felicity?”

She’d planned to make Derby tonight, but now
it seemed like she’d be stopping sooner. “Well, fancy a thing like
that, Miss Kerrie Slade. I’m going to Leicester, too.”

The wind came up while they waited on the
platform for the Midlands train. By the time they left Rugby a
squalling rain was driving sideways into the car from under the
flapping canvas roof. She gathered up Kerrie under her new woolen
shawl and took the brunt of the cold herself, held her closer as
the girl’s head began to nod.

The train rattled through a tunnel and Kerrie
shifted in Felicity’s arms, scrubbed at her nose, then settled in
deeper. She dreaded their arrival in Leicester. Someone from the
workhouse would be waiting to haul Kerrie off to an unthinkable
fate. Thank God Giles had been spared the workhouse.

But the platform was nearly deserted and she
refused to drag the sleepy child through the downpour looking for
the bloody workhouse. Morning would be soon enough,

She quickly found a room with two comfortable
beds at the Evesham, a fondly familiar inn owned by Lillian Paget,
the widow of her father’s favorite surveyor. Kerrie devoured what
must have been the most wonderful meal of her life then slept
through the night and woke with the sun to dance among the flowers
in the garden at the rear of the inn.