After the Wedding Page 8

  That sounded very convenient for him.

  “I see,” she said suspiciously.

  “And we cannot, um…” He looked away.

  “I’m not a child,” Camilla said. “You can say it. We cannot consummate the marriage.”

  He looked relieved not to have to voice the words. “The non-marriage.”

  She pulled her bravado about her again. “I have no wish to do either of those things.”

  “Lovely. We’re in agreement.”

  There was no point wishing that he would say something appreciative at a time like this. It would do no good to idly hope that he would say someone would be lucky or I’d be sorry not to be able to or any of the polite locutions he could have employed to soften the blow of his not wanting her at all, not even in the slightest.

  Camilla was used to harboring ridiculous hopes. She pushed these particular ones away and reminded herself of the truth. He didn’t want anything to do with her; that made him like every other person on the face of the planet.

  He took a bite of potato and made a face. “Dear God.”

  There was nothing to do but put on her bravest face. “You’ve given yourself away. Now I know you’re just finicky. It’s not possible to ruin a potato.”

  “On the contrary. Try it.”

  “That’s the beauty of potatoes. They’re good mashed, they’re good in soup, they’re good baked. They’re practically a perfect food in and of themselves.”

  Wordlessly, he speared a pallid section and held out his fork. She took it, and tasted a bite of… Dear God.

  “What did they do? Did they cook it in vinegar?”

  “I think they might have tried to pickle it.”

  “Pickled potatoes?” Camilla made herself swallow the food. “At least it’s alliterative.” She frowned at the potato. “Wait. Give that here.”

  “Be my guest. If you can stomach it, by all means, do so.”

  She unceremoniously dumped the potato in her soup.

  “What are you doing?”

  “There.” She took a bite of the concoction. “It’s not bad. The vinegar of the potato balances the tastelessness of the soup.”

  When he raised an eyebrow, she reached across the table and filled his spoon. He took it from her, sipped, made a face, and shook his head.

  “Well, I’ve learned something about you. You’re one of those people who can find the good in anything, aren’t you?”

  She’d hoped and hoped and hoped for so long, and it had never done any good. Still, she kept on, hoping, tumbling into love for no reason.

  She couldn’t protect her heart; she had bruised it too many times to believe she would ever stop. She was going to do it with him, too. She already knew it.

  He didn’t want to marry her. He didn’t want to have sexual relations with her. He didn’t want to do anything but break their tepid connection as swiftly as his uncle could manage it.

  And still she felt her hope flare, blossoming from the most tepid of compliments. He liked her, a little. That was something. It was a start.

  “Yes,” Camilla said, with a nod of her head. “I am. That’s me.”

  Chapter Eight

  Camilla’s hope lasted until she reached her room and opened her tired valise.

  She had not packed her things herself; she supposed Kitty must have done so.

  On top of her worn gowns and threadbare stockings was one of her sole indulgences—a crochet hook and a half-finished scarf. She had learned to crochet years ago, and she enjoyed working with her hands on the rare evenings when she had time to relax.

  But yarn was dear and she had no money to spare. This particular ball of yarn—half scarf now—had been crocheted and unraveled, crocheted and unraveled, again and again until the strands had begun to thin and fall to pieces.

  Still, she’d kept on crocheting with it. She’d made thin scarves and very short stockings and part of something that could have been a jumper—one ball of yarn was hardly enough for more—for years and years.

  She had learned to crochet, hoping that it would bring her close to the old woman who had sat at the fire, muttering and creating stitches. It hadn’t.

  Nothing she had tried had ever worked.

  No point dwelling on the past. Camilla shook her head and slid under the covers. That didn’t help. The mattress was lumpy and no matter how Camilla shifted, she could not make herself comfortable.

  In the light of the kitchen, with Mr. Hunter sitting in front of her, it seemed the right thing to agree. Let's work together. We’ll get an annulment. Then we’ll never have to see each other again.

  Even if she believed him—and the premise of his story was, You should trust me, I’ve been lying to you all along—all he’d told her was that he wanted to be free of her.

  Free. She shut her eyes and tried to imagine what free would look like for her.

  Free made sense for someone who could look her in the eyes and recite his family connections with a clear conscience. It was freedom for him. For her?

  She’d be free to go…where, precisely? To whom? She’d be free to start all over with absolutely nothing to her name but two gowns on the verge of falling apart and shoes that were almost past the point of repair.

  What if she’d done as he had, and recited her own family history? Looking back never did any good; she’d learned long ago that thinking of her past only hurt her in the present.

  And yet—perhaps because nothing was crueler than a mind on the verge of panic—she found her mind slipping back anyway.

  “Actually, my father was an earl.” It would have sounded utterly ridiculous—like she was making up a story to match his, just to puff up her own badly battered consequence.

  How would she have said it? “Actually, my father was an earl. But he was convicted of treason, and my family was ruined. My uncle offered to take me in—look, we’ve both got powerful uncles! He promised me pretty gowns, and I have no depth of character, so that was enough for me. My elder sister warned me that he didn’t love me, but I didn’t care. Ever since the day I decided that love was less important than pretty gowns, I’ve been doomed not to have it. So yes—marriage. Ha! It is definitely not to be expected for one like me.”

  God, she was pathetic even alone in her own mind—yearning for love after all this time. When was she going to learn? She could still hear her sister: If you don’t want love, we don’t want to love you.

  Everything that had happened stemmed from that moment, year after loveless year.

  She’d traded it away. She didn’t deserve love any longer; she was never going to get it. The fact that she knew it, deep down, made her hope blaze all the more keenly in response. Mr. Hunter would want her, maybe, and she’d convince him to love her with…with…with?

  With what?

  In the darkness of the night, with the weight of years of experience, she knew the truth.

  What did she have to offer, really? Her ability to work for half wages?

  She exhaled, pressing the backs of her hands into her eyes. She was such an idiot.

  It was stupid, stupid, stupid to feel the way she did. Rector Miles had tried to rid her of her worst tendencies. That chorus of devils on her shoulders kept pushing her to believe the most foolish things—that even now, after almost a decade of nobody loving her, someone would suddenly do so. If only she said the right things, Camilla kept thinking, someone would want her to stay.

  Mr. Hunter thought of freedom. God, she wished she could care about something so abstract. What did she have? A few hair ribbons and the money he’d given her. A vast emptiness inside her, the shame of knowing that even though she hadn’t gone into that room with lascivious intent, her heart had still picked up a beat to see him there alone. She’d smiled to see him, and an electric current of want had swept through her.

  She couldn’t make sense of what had happened—of the door being locked, of the key in her pocket—except this way: Maybe it was as the rector always said—she had sinned in h
er heart, and that was why this had come upon her.

  That was why she’d been married off to a man who didn’t want her. That was why she was alone on her wedding night, with nobody to love her in even the most transient meaning of the word.

  She wasn’t sure when she started crying—she was just glad she’d managed not to do it around Mr. Hunter. She hated crying, and she hated that she cried so easily.

  He was so strong, so calm, so rational, and she was nothing.

  The pillow was made of hard, lumpy rags; her shoulders shook as it soaked up her tears. She hadn’t had time to find a handkerchief in her valise, and the thought of getting out of bed to search for one was too daunting.

  She cried until the moon sank low enough to shine through her curtains, cried for the family she’d left for such a stupid reason, cried for the uncle who had sent her off for bad behavior, cried for the friends she thought she’d made at every stop along the way.

  She had spent years hoping and hoping and hoping. Three years ago, she’d hoped Larissa would swear lifelong devotion; instead Camilla had been sent on as a bad influence. Two years ago, James had told her she was pretty and sweet, and she’d made herself as pretty and sweet for him as she could, only to have him swear at her and call her names when they were discovered together.

  She’d even hoped to impress Rector Miles with the way she’d changed.

  Fat lot of good that had all done her.

  Old Mrs. Marsdell had used to quote Shakespeare—to thine own self be true, she had used to say, usually as a justification for why she was such a harridan.

  Camilla had been true to everyone but herself.

  She’d made herself over and over into someone who might be wanted, turning herself again and again like an overused sheet. Now she felt threadbare.

  And look—she was doing it again.

  Mr. Hunter wanted her to be his ally, to help him break free of their marriage.

  Why should she do as he wanted? A vision flitted through her head—of how she might resist. He’d told her himself how to not annul the marriage, trusting she wouldn’t use it against him. After all these years, why shouldn’t she try?

  She might force him to stay. She didn’t need love; she was just so, so tired of being left behind. She fell asleep, grimly imagining how she might force him to recognize their marriage.

  When she awoke again, it was morning.

  Sun peeked through the gap in the curtains. Birds were singing outside; she pulled the curtains back to see a cloudless sky on a perfect day. The air was crisp and sweet, scented with the smell of cut grass.

  The ache in her shoulders from carrying her valise had matured into soreness; she stretched her arms overhead and felt her muscles protest. Her whole face hurt from last night’s tears.

  She was going to have to go downstairs and see Mr. Hunter.

  She inhaled.

  She remembered her strategy, formulated well past midnight. Wait. What had she thought? She’d imagined seducing him. Telling the world that he’d debauched her. Last night, exhausted and angry, it had seemed almost rational.

  In the morning, these plans felt like odd, dark dreams.

  He was going to rid himself of her, just as everyone else had done.

  It was true: rationally, she should be angry at him.

  To thine own self be true, Camilla thought ruefully.

  There was no reason to avoid anger except this: She wasn’t an angry person.

  Camilla had been sent away over and over. Rector Miles had told her that the hope she carried was a legion of devils whispering from her shoulder, and despite his admonitions, she’d kept on hoping. She’d picked herself up and moved on time and time again.

  It was time to face the truth about herself. If her hopes had not shattered for good by now, they weren’t going to do so. She was the kind of person who, when dragged into hell, would hatch a plan to win the devil over with a well-cultivated garden of flame and sulfur. It wouldn’t matter if it was impossible. She would still try. She just would.

  Camilla took a deep breath and stretched her arms wide.

  I like you, Mr. Hunter had said last night. You’re one of those people who can find the good in anything, aren’t you?

  She looked out over the fields. They’d been picked over, some early summer crop plucked from the ground, and the remnants plowed over. They were now just long muddy furrows waiting to be planted with the eventual autumn harvest. She was the kind of person who could see all that ugly dirt and imagine the little seedlings that would poke bright green heads through the soil in a matter of weeks.

  Everything she had thought about herself last night was true. She was worldly, idealistic, lascivious, flighty, and desperate. These were the foundations of her character, and no doubt they’d be her undoing, as they’d been at every step along the way.

  Well. She’d tried doing what Miles wanted. She’d told herself her hope was a legion of demons leading her astray. She had tried to be good.

  It hadn’t worked. This was why she tried not to look back: Nothing she did ever worked, and it was best to forget that it had happened.

  With sunlight kissing her face, she could feel her desperation fading.

  You’re one of those people who can find the good in anything, aren’t you?

  “Yes,” she said. Her chin rose. “Yes, I am.”

  Maybe nobody would ever love her, but she’d hoped beyond reason for such an eternity that it appeared she no longer needed a reason for it. Hope made absolutely no sense under the circumstances, but it was the only thing that hadn’t abandoned her.

  She wasn’t going to let it go.

  * * *

  “You don’t look like you slept,” Adrian said, looking across the table at Miss Winters.

  Her eyes were red and puffy, her skin wan. Their rooms weren’t on the same floor of the inn, but hers had been immediately below his.

  He had suspected last night that he’d heard her sobbing. He could hardly blame her.

  She gave him a dazzling smile that made him doubt what he had heard. “Of course I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking.”

  He took a gulp of coffee. “I was, too. Our first course of action must be to contact my uncle.”

  She blinked. “Actually, I was thinking about what you said. That your uncle thought there was something not right with the rector. I have quite a good memory, you see, and I had an idea.”

  “I’m sure it’s a good idea.” The coffee scalded his throat. “And I absolutely want to hear it. I’ve inquired; it will take me an hour or so to go into Lackwich. That’s the nearest town where there’s a telegraph office. I can get everything taken care of in practically no time flat. Information and consultation really ought to be our first priority.”

  Her lips flattened, but only for a moment. “I see. Of course.”

  “You don’t mind staying here until this afternoon?”

  She stilled, looking at him. “You’ll come back?”

  For a moment, he felt a flicker of annoyance. Then he remembered that she didn’t know him, and what she did know of him was that they’d met when he was pretending to be a valet. She didn’t have to believe him.

  “I’ll come back,” he said. “Before noon. Hopefully, my uncle will tell us to come down to Gainshire on the evening train, and we can get this all sorted out by tomorrow. You’ll never have to see me again.”

  Her lips flattened once more. “Right,” she said. “Lovely.”

  He wasn’t sure why her teeth were gritting or why she’d stopped meeting his gaze, but in the long run, it really didn’t matter.

  “You’d best be on your way,” she informed him, and after a long moment, he decided that he agreed.

  * * *

  The telegraph was one of the most amazing inventions of modern society, Adrian reflected as he waited outside the office in Lackwich. Grayson had plans to lay telegraph wires everywhere in the world that was not yet connected—across the expanse of the Pacific Ocean, along th
e African coast. It was already a substantial domestic convenience.

  Twenty years ago, there would have been no choice but to make his way back to Gainshire in order to discuss the matter with his uncle. He’d have arrived with a faux-wife in tow, raising questions that he didn’t want answered. He would have been closeted with the bishop for an unconscionable amount of time.

  Today, he merely sent a telegram. It traveled near instantaneously, racing over electric wires, repeated by operator after operator until the message arrived in his uncle’s hometown a scant handful of minutes or so after having been sent. His uncle’s office was a fifteen-minute jaunt from the telegraph office there, and so after the courier was dispatched, he could have an answer, yay or nay, within an hour.

  His own message had been sent at nine in the morning, the moment the office opened.

  ENCOUNTERED OBSTACLE

  SUSPICIONS RAISED

  EMERGENCY ANNULMENT REQUIRED

  PLEASE ADVISE

  He hoped that this terse explanation of the last dizzying day of his life would let his uncle know that circumstances had changed drastically for the worse. But no immediate response had been forthcoming. He took to pacing in front of the office as he waited.

  “Come back,” he imagined his uncle saying. “I’ll take care of everything.” Or maybe: “Is all well? Tell me how I can be of service.”

  Over the last decade, he’d spent more time with his uncle than anyone else in his immediate family. True, he’d never been openly acknowledged, but there was real affection there. Even now, decades later, his uncle would speak of Adrian’s mother, his favorite sister, with a forlorn look in his eyes.

  Grayson might think the worst of Denmore, but his uncle was just not a particularly demonstrative man. At least he wasn’t demonstrative in the way that the rest of Adrian’s family had been when he was growing up, with hugs and laughter aplenty. Still, Adrian had seen him prove his compassion to hundreds of people who needed help.