The Brides of London, page 42
Glancing at her and her rising tone, he saw her fingers tightening about his papers. “But their love was so powerful. Aren’t you looking for a love like that?”
“No, Bex. I’m not. Their love was deceitful. Antony was married when he took up with Cleopatra. He was with the queen when his first wife died. How disloyal can a fellow be? Maybe Antony thought he’d get his wife pearls upon his return to gain forgiveness. Pity the wife never collected.”
Arthur fanned his hat. “Uh, yes, Antony was a bit of a scoundrel at first, but you must concede he was devoted to Cleopatra.”
Ester made a horrible laugh before shoving his papers back into his bag. “How devoted could he be? And to whom—the second woman he married, or the queen he returns to and with whom he continues an adulterous affair? I think Antony is horrid.”
“Maybe you are missing the point. It’s a classic love story. His marriages were political.”
“Bex, don’t tell me they were marriages of convenience. That still wouldn’t make me have sympathy for Antony or his portrayers.”
Arthur hadn’t thought about the play like that, and with Ester still smarting over her father’s infidelity, he heard the pain she hadn’t forgiven. He rubbed at his neck. “I can see your point. It was wrong to engage in the illicit affair, but that is how Shakespeare sculpts the web of their relationship.”
Ester tossed her head back onto the seat. “Webs are sticky. You do things for one reason, but you become entangled in another until you can’t break free. A neglected spouse, working all the time, too much to do to come straight home. Webs are ruinous.”
Yes, they were. This wasn’t going well, but at least she wasn’t fretting at his driving. Might as well push farther down this hole. “Do you think the queen was at fault?”
Cutting her eyes at him, Ester said, “Antony is responsible for his choices, but I wonder why he chose her, other than for her beauty. Every time Antony needed her help, Cleopatra was untrustworthy. She left her great love in need, and his ships were defeated. How can there be love, even a little love, if there is no trust? I hope we are never like them.”
One forbidden glimpse at Ester revealed tears in her eyes—wet, topaz eyes. His chest ached as he turned back to the rocky road. “It’s just a play, dearest, not our story. I’m not Antony. You’re not Cleopatra. What’s the matter?”
She fished in her bag for a handkerchief. “I don’t know why it matters to me. I mean it happened years ago. Mama has forgiven my father. Why can’t I? Why am I holding on to the grief?”
They were getting to the steeper parts of the terrain. It was either pull to the side now or have to wait hours. One look at Ester and there was no choice. He slowed the carriage to a crawl then edged over to the side of the road and parked. Slipping his hand about her, he tugged Ester, small delicate Ester, into his chest. His lips found her brow, and he kissed away the creases. The sweet scent of lilac from the soap she used to wash her face was still there. The sweetness so fragrant, so enticing. “Don’t cry, Ester. Your father’s a flawed man. Most men are.”
Fisting her hands, she beat upon his chest, but he did not let go. “You can’t be like that. You can’t lie to my face and say we are everything and then risk it all for a Cleopatra. Papa was perfect. Tall and strong. You can’t be like him.”
Arthur rubbed her back, settling Ester more firmly against him. “Your father, Antony…neither thought of the risks. If your father had properly weighed them, I am sure he’d have chosen the right course. But that is your parent’s marriage. Their lack of happiness or discord will be nothing to us. We won’t be foolish, Ester. We won’t squander what we have.”
“What do we have, Bex? A response to a newspaper advertisement that wasn’t even mine? You don’t know anything about me. You just mentioned you were from Liverpool, but what else do I know? You raised yourself, nothing of your connections. Nothing but what has been in the newspapers, the caricatures of the scandals. Will you leave me when things get tough? Things always get tough.”
Lifting her chin, he spoke of what he did know. “Ester, I’ve known you for two days. It’s not a lifetime, but I’ve never felt more like sharing a life with someone than I do with you. I’m not promising a grand passion, or that we’ll never argue. We’ve already done that.”
“Yes.” She sniffled. “You can be condescending.”
He tapped her nose, tracing the slight arch until he met her cheek. “And you, my dear, will not think of your own safety, in spite of my wishes.”
“’Tis true, Bex. I can be stubborn like my father. That has to be bad.”
“Ester Croome, I know I can depend upon you. That’s important to me. You’re right. I have to learn how to not be a loner, but you are the one I want to learn that with.”
Any doubts about them not being of one mind had diminished to almost nonexistence. Ester was a quiet person, but not passive, and if she truly loved him, Arthur knew she’d fight for him. Wasn’t that what he wanted in a wife above all else—someone to believe in him and recommend him?
Forgetting his past, stuffing it away to the rear of his brain, he gripped her delicate palm, her graceful fingers, so warm and full of life. “I promise you fidelity, Ester Croome. I promise to tell you the truth to anything you ask. I’ll cherish what we build. I won’t take it for granted.”
She pushed away to the edge of the gig as if she’d jump. “Please don’t make promises, Bex. I know things change. One minute everyone is happy. The next, not so much. I’ve admired you for two years. Maybe that has blinded me to our incompatibility. Maybe this crazy trip and lack of sleep has blinded you, too.”
“Ester, I’d rather you not see my flaws. They’re daunting.”
“What if I’m your Cleopatra and every time you need me to defend you, I shrink away? I’m a private person. You’ll push for abolition and you’ll keep fighting, but it is so dangerous. What if you need me to support you, and I can’t because I’m afraid of you getting hurt?”
He swallowed hard as his gut tightened. That couldn’t be. He knew that she was the one. Scooting over to her, he put an arm on her shoulder. “So tense, Ester. You think that I have doubts about a woman that danced in the bushes, placing herself in danger for me? You knew I would come back for you. Ester, what’s between us is new but it feels right.”
Turning to him, she looked up, and he captured her gaze.
He wasn’t ready to call what he felt love, but it was more than passion and thankfulness. “We have a beginning, Ester Croome. Something thick and rich to build upon. Yes, I am an actor playing parts in the theater, but my trust in you is no act. I hope to keep earning yours.”
“Maybe, but I’m sure my parents must suspect something is wrong. Hopefully, my absence has ruined my chances of marrying Jordan. You’ve done enough, Bex. Send me home by coach at the next inn.”
“Ester, your reputation. No one will think—”
“I know, Bex. I know. I hope this won’t end up in Mama’s scandal papers, but I need to protect you. Without me you can take a room and rest. You’ll get a great deal of sleep and make it back to London for rehearsals.
No.
He couldn’t lose her over sleep. She cared about him, perhaps more than she did herself. No one had done that in a while. The last woman he’d cared for, the Countess Devoors, had liked his fame and the attention his name brought, but she would have sold his hide for her name to be put in the papers. That’s why bashful, brave, beautiful Ester was perfect.
“Put me on a stagecoach, Bex. Then go on being London’s best actor.”
“No. I will not send you away unless you have decided against me as a husband. Do you not care for me?”
“You know I do, but this is not right.”
It hit him like a dropped line, a bad review. Somehow, she’d taken up the notion that this was too hard for him. She surely thought he couldn’t do well in a mixed-race marriage. He slipped a frizzy curl behind her ear. “You’re wrong to give up on me, Ester. In four hours or less, I’ll have you in Scotland. We’ll marry as planned. I’ll not send you back to face the scorn of the world. I care too deeply for you.”
He framed her face within his palms, claimed her wide-eyed gaze, and came within a whisper of her mouth. “You still wish to marry me, Ester Croome, don’t you?”
“I…maybe…yes, yes, Bex.”
The garbled words scented in apple were like a sultry kiss, exactly what he wanted. He started the horses. “Good, I want to be married to you, too.”
But Bex knew the matter wasn’t settled. As the horses regained speed, he looked over at her fanning herself with a sketchbook, perhaps a little breathless, like he was.
He wanted Ester, the right way, to be given to him in marriage. His past, like the miles ahead, was just an obstacle to overcome. He had to prove himself to her today, to wed her today, or lose her forever.
Chapter Twelve
Almost There
Ester sat in the phaeton as Bex paid for the horses to be changed. She saw a couple traveling with a girl maybe a few years younger than she. The mother figure hugged the young woman, combing through the girl’s ash-blonde hair, as they climbed into their carriage.
She wanted to turn back to her sketch, but Ester couldn’t and watched them sitting behind the window of their carriage, laughing, enjoying each other’s time. The picture sank her heart as she remembered Mama’s soft laugh, her knitting on the couch. When had their laughter stopped? When was the last time Mama had done her hair?
Unable to help herself, Ester eased her charcoal from the dress she’d started, to glance at the back of the ebony barouche pulling away from the coaching inn’s courtyard. A sob collected in her throat. Ester wanted her mother. She couldn’t wait for this elopement to be done to see Mama again.
Bex climbed back onboard, and she caught his half-closed eyes. “Not much farther, my future wife.”
The yawn in his voice could not be denied.
Her heart sank, hitting the bottom of her soul. She grasped his hand. “Bex, you are putting yourself at risk. An hour will change nothing. It’ll barely get us to the blacksmith at Gretna or back to London any sooner. Let’s stay at Carlisle, pull into a grove, and you can sleep for an hour. We’ll still have plenty of light left to make Scotland.”
He shook his shoulders as he took up the reins. “Carlisle is ten miles from Gretna Green. Ten miles. We are thirty minutes away. I’ll sleep well in a room with my wife. Not in a stable or by the side of the road, but a proper room with my proper wife.”
There was no reasoning with him. Though his determination to marry her touched the deepest parts of her, his bloodshot cobalt eyes ruined her peace, made her pulse race with fear. How could she stop someone so set on killing himself?
If she didn’t voice her objections, did that make her a couch wife—or perhaps a phaeton wife, but without the knitting needles?
“I’m fine, Ester. Put away that frown. We’re so close. We’re pushing through. Now don’t wear yourself to ribbons fretting. Why not finish the sketch you’ve been working upon. What is it, a dress?”
He swayed and peered over her. “My, with a trimmed low-cut bodice. What color should it be? Scarlet? I think you’ll look so pretty in it.”
Her pulse raced a little more as she absorbed his smile. Yes, she was a phaeton woman with charcoal instead of yarn. Resigned, she picked up her charcoal and positioned it within her fingers. The ride jarred too much for her to work on the delicate lace of the dress, but the contours of the hem could be refined. “I couldn’t wear something like this, not without adding lace up to the neck and maybe some sleeves—and in pink, not red. It would look too revealing on someone…of my height.”
“It will show off that beautiful neck of yours and the delightful figure you try to hide. Maybe you should wear it for me, and me alone.”
Was he trying to make her spark like a flame with such notions? “Please keep your eyes on the road, Bex, but thank you. This dress is for my friend Frederica Burghley. I make designs for her and Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil.”
“Pity. That scooped neckline would be quite fetching.”
“No…I’m a bit…” She found her hands floating closer to her bosom before she forced them down.
Passing a yawn, he waggled a brow. “Buxom? Beautifully buxom.”
She swallowed, but the unease lodged in her throat. “Yes.”
“Ester. You seem embarrassed, but you’re beautiful.”
Cheeks burning, she covered up with her shawl, rolling the silk tight about her neck. “I have a pretty face, but I think I’m…”
“Well-endowed? A woman of substance? Possessing a round figure? You don’t need to be embarrassed. I think the cut of the gown would accent your curves.”
“You noticed.”
“Oh, I noticed. I’m sleepy, not blind.”
If I hit him with the sketch pad, will he wreck the phaeton?
“A man in the company of a woman sees many things—her modesty, her manners, her loveliness. I’ll be very proud to have you on my arm and in them.”
His voice sounded so strong and overpowering, but Bex’s fine posture had become slumped, curving into a C-shape. More than once, before they’d stopped, she’d seen him blinking his eyes and shaking like he’d been caught napping.
If only they’d pull over again. He could nap, she’d draw and not have to fret about him. “I won’t think less of you if we stopped for a rest.”
Bex yawned loud and long. “Don’t ask. I’m fine. Just a little tired, but we are almost there. So close.”
His hand jerked as the ride became uneven. The high slope of this section of the path seemed hard for the horses and for stubborn Bex.
She tugged on his coat sleeve. “I think you should stop on the side of the road. You’re very unsteady and the horses, they don’t look so good, either.”
“We’re not at our best. Don’t fret, my dearest Ester. I’ll rest soon, with my wife at my side.”
The phaeton swayed again as Bex looked over at her. He latched a finger on to hers. “We’ve a few more miles of travel. Once we are married, I’ll sleep for days before we head back to London. I’ll make it up to you. Will you trust me to make amends later?”
“Bex, you give good speeches about freedom, but I’m not free if you won’t listen. My voice and concerns should matter to you.”
Maybe it was her bluntness, but he swerved a little and the horses left the road. Their hooves kicked up choking dust.
“Sorry.” He blinked a little then straightened his posture. “How do you and your friends make do? Every time I see Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil, she is smiling.”
“She’s in love with her husband. They don’t always agree, but they listen to each other.”
“I mean, how do they make do? How do they navigate society?”
“My friend is very smart. She knows the best days to shop, when merchants will be more amenable to us. She makes arrangements or utilizes her footman or butler to accomplish tasks. We all make do.”
“It’s not right. Should never have to be this way. Men are equal. We bleed and die the same.” His voice rose, roaring like thunder. “We both drown if we’re bound in chains.” His palm flew to his face like it perspired.
“Bex, what is wrong? Are you feeling more ill?”
“Do you think of marrying me as a loss?” He sounded more in control, his tone had lowered. “Are you losing things by being with me? Tell me, Ester.”
The way his lips moved as he said her name felt like a kiss. As sweet as a marriage to Bex would be, Ester would lose some of her freedoms. She couldn’t say that and bruise his ego, but she’d never lie, so she nodded. “A woman exchanges her father’s house for her husband’s. Seems, at best, a draw, unless she marries poorly. With my parents surely fuming, no dowry will be paid. Yes, marriage is a loss.”
“I never thought of it like that. The female perspective seems depressing. Ester, you keep telling me to slow down, to wait. It seems that the closer we get to Gretna, the more out of favor the idea of us marrying is to you.” He scooped up her palm and held on to it and the reins. “Do you still want to wed?”
“Bex, I’m scared. This feels wrong. I left my parents to fret because I was angry. I disappeared without a word. It must be awful for them. They don’t know if I am alive. I’ve caused my mother so much pain by running away. Then I look at you, and I feel the pressure of your hand on mine, and everything is good again. I think there’s a chance we could be happy. Maybe all these mixed-up feelings happen when you elope.”
His lips became pensive, thinning to a line. “Ester, what if something was in my past. Something that could prevent us having a future, or a good future. Would you want to know?”
“What are you saying, Bex? “
His lips pressed to a line, and then he opened his mouth. “Ester—”
The phaeton veered sharply to the left.
Knock, bump.
Everything was out of control. Ester held to the seat, which jerked and threw her as if it would vault her into a tree.
“The horse. It looks lame. Hold on.” Bex reached forward and started undoing some of the harness strapping.
The screech of branches hitting the sides smothered the noise of the hooves.
Pine and oak limbs swatted at them, and she ducked. The scent of kicked-up mud and fresh-cut pine branches filled the air.
Bex tugged on the reins, but the world kept moving. The gig hit a bump, and soon everything went high into the air.
“Got it. Go horses.”
With one hand, Bex pushed at her back. “Jump, Ester.”
The horses released but the gig kept going. The bumps rattled everything. Her sketchbook flew up and went over the side.
“Please, Ester, jump.”
