Married to a Perfect Stranger (15 page)

“Yessir.”

“But it is
not
wrong to long for adventures.”

“Sir?”

“Let no one tell you it is or discourage you from dreaming of great things.” Mary was touched by the sympathy in her husband's tone.

“Like when you put out the fire in the chimney?” Admiration filled the boy's voice.

Satisfied that they were getting on well and a bit ashamed of her eavesdropping, Mary slipped away.

In the parlor, John saw the adulation in Arthur's eyes. It was a new experience, to be held up as a hero by a child. “Not exactly like that.”

“The way you jumped in and beat out the flames, that was a wonder.”

“Sometimes you have to act quickly.” They were getting off the point John had set out to make. “You understand what I said? You can pursue what you imagine…”

“Well, I don't reckon there'll be another fire,” Arthur replied with a tinge of regret. “Not that I'd wish for one,” he added hurriedly.

“What interests you?” John asked, trying to get him off this subject. “Do you imagine traveling the world or…”

“This fella at the Parish Hall said they were putting a steam engine on steel rails to move right over the ground,” Arthur answered.

John almost sighed. It was difficult to keep the lad focused on their conversation. “When people try to tell you that you aren't capable of getting what you want…”

“I'd like to see one of them steam engines up close,” Arthur answered.

John felt as if he was offering a bit of treasure from his own experience, and it was being wholly disregarded.

“Have you ever seen one working, sir? There's a great noise, I hear, and…”

“I have not.”

“You'd like to, though, I reckon.” Arthur's eyes gleamed. “And they'd be glad to let us…you see, if you asked. There's to be a demonstration next month in…”

John gave up. “You understand that you are not to wander off for hours and worry everyone.”

Arthur's face fell. “Yessir. I'll pay more attention, like.”

“Good.”

“I never meant… I hope you're not angry with me any longer, sir.”

Why did the boy imagine he was angry? John wondered. He'd never been angry at him. “Not at all.”

Arthur slumped with relief. Only then did John understand the tension that had been animating his skinny frame. The reason for it remained a mystery. “You should get to bed,” was all he could find to say.

The boy nodded. “Thank you, sir.” With a small bow, he went out.

John sat before the fire, ruminating, for some time. But review it as he would, he could not comprehend why their exchange had been so fruitless.

The following afternoon Mary was glad to glimpse her neighbor Eleanor and her granddaughter walking in the garden in the center of the square. Mary got her cloak and hurried down the stairs to catch them.

She nearly ran into Kate, who was climbing the steps, and they tottered for a moment on the landing to regain their footing. “I wanted to speak to you…ma'am,” said the maid then.

“I was just going out.” Mary didn't want to miss the opportunity to talk to Eleanor.

Kate stood straighter. Her expression was stern, and she spoke in a rush. “I only wanted to ask if I might order a…a few ingredients to make up some creams and tinctures. A matter of a few pounds. I'll sell them and pay you back. That is…I'm sure I can.”

She hated asking, Mary realized—hated being obliged to ask. “To Mr. Jenkins?”

Kate nodded.

So the maid had been more interested in the apothecary shop than she chose to appear. Mary still found her attitude incomprehensible, but it had been her idea for something like this to happen, after all. “Very well,” she replied, aware that it was best to make no fuss over the request. “Order what you like. Just keep a tally.”

Kate didn't smile. She gave a brisk nod and turned to descend the stairs. Mary was right behind her, heading for the front door.

September had passed into October, but the air was mild enough today, smelling of dry leaves and coal smoke. Caroline waved when Mary came through the wrought iron gate, and Eleanor looked pleased to see her as well. It turned out to be easy to ask them for advice. “I want a gown that is…splendid,” she said when she'd told them about the invitation. “But…perfectly suited to the occasion, you know.”

Caroline clapped her hands. “Oh, you must let me dress you. Say you will. I know exactly the sort of thing you want.”

Mary had a moment's doubt. “I don't wish to…attract undue attention,” she said. Caroline seemed to enjoy having all eyes upon her. Mary merely hoped to fit in and make John proud.

“Gauze the color of a ripe peach,” Caroline replied, as if she hadn't heard. “Or perhaps dusty rose. Either of those will look wonderful on you. With the tiniest sleeves and a cascade of ribbons. Cut a bit low.” Caroline swept a hand across her bosom. “I will take you to my modiste at once.”

Mary felt as if she'd unleashed a monster. “Not low,” she objected. “Regular sleeves. A…a proper evening dress.”

“You have a lovely figure,” Caroline said. “You should make the most…”

“Perhaps I should come along on this expedition,” put in Eleanor. She looked amused.

“Oh yes, please.” Mary couldn't hide her relief.

Caroline pouted. “Don't you trust my good taste?”

“She doubts your restraint,” answered her grandmother.

“Restraint!” Caroline fluttered her fingers in disdain at the word. Then her face lit. “I'm going to wangle an invitation to this party. I have to be there—to watch your great success.”

At first uncertain, Mary realized how comforting it would be to know someone in the sea of people at a large reception—someone who was familiar with society and very comfortable there. She smiled and accepted as they settled the details of their shopping expedition.

* * *

Mary returned at five, her mind awhirl with satins and gauzes, tucks and ruffles, and a vast variety of trimmings. The exclusive dressmaker in Milsom Street had received her with enthusiasm because of her companions, and she'd been brimming with ideas for a ravishing toilette. Once Mary had secured Eleanor's approval of her choice, she'd ordered a gorgeous, expensive design. Indeed, the cost seemed a bit worrisome. But when she told John about it at dinner, he waved her concerns aside. “You deserve to be wearing the most beautiful gown in the room,” he said.

They retired to the parlor after the meal and had just begun a fascinating game, a tantalizing toying with button and laces, when there was a staccato knock on the front door. In the quiet, cozy house, it was startlingly loud. “Who could be calling at this hour?” John wondered. He rose, frowning. “Can it be someone from the office?”

The parlor door opened. Before Kate could speak, two young men came in right on her heels, as if there could be no question of denying them. “Mr. Frederick Bexley and Mr. George Bexley,” said Kate. Realizing with chagrin that the top button of her gown was still undone, Mary turned quickly away to fasten it before greeting them.

Would she have recognized these two as John's brothers in another context? she wondered. She'd seen them only once before, at her wedding. Both did have John's striking blue eyes and brown hair. On George, the military man, the hue was darker. His face was rounder, too, to match a frame with a good deal of muscle. Something about his expression and the way he held himself reminded Mary of a bulldog. Frederick, the eldest Bexley brother, was taller and slenderer, with sun-touched hair and craggier features. He looked as if he had a healthy sense of his own consequence. Mary supposed being the oldest of four brothers would foster such an attitude. She stepped forward, happy to have an opportunity to get to know John's family better. “Bring some wine,” she told Kate quietly.

“Well, John,” cried George. “It seemed you were never going to invite me, so I decided to come along and beard you in your den.”

“I was shocked, shocked, to learn that you hadn't entertained your brother even once,” put in Frederick. “So, as I was in town on a bit of business, I decided to call and set you straight.”

A bit surprised at the way they spoke to John, Mary made a welcoming gesture. “Please sit down,” she said, doing so herself.

George appropriated the other end of the sofa. His stocky frame seemed to require a wide expanse of cushions. Frederick sat in one of the armchairs as John took the other. “Not a bad little house,” said Frederick, looking around. “A bit cramped for my taste.”

“Rather out of the way,” said George. “The cab had a deuce of a time finding it.”

“It's convenient for my…” John began.

“Not too dear, I suppose,” Frederick interrupted.

Did he expect John to make an accounting of their lease expense? Mary wondered. It almost seemed so.

“It suits us,” John said.

“Oh, well…” Frederick's wave was oddly dismissive.

“The garden in the square is very pleasant,” Mary added.

Kate came in with a tray, and the brothers accepted glasses of wine. Frederick raised his in a mock toast. George stood and examined the ornaments on the mantle, looking unimpressed. He drained his glass and helped himself to another from the bottle Kate had left.

“So why have you been avoiding your family?” Frederick said then. “Mama says you've scarcely written since you first returned.”

“Nor has she written me,” John replied. He shifted in his chair. “I've been quite busy with the aftermath of the China mission.”

“Oh, your ‘job,'” said George.

Mary couldn't keep silent in the face of his dismissive tone. “John's work is extremely important.”

John made an abrupt gesture. Mary didn't understand the look he gave her.

George and Frederick exchanged a smile. “You don't want to be taken in by John's wild notions and fancies,” said the elder.

“Indeed, we can give you the real picture.” George laughed. “Reveal all his youthful peccadilloes. Give you the ammunition you need to keep the upper hand, eh?”

Mary blinked in surprise at this very odd idea of her.

“Remember the time he got stuck up the stable yard oak?” said George. He grinned.

“He does tend to get stuck in things,” Frederick told Mary.

“He went up after the cat,” George continued. “Thought
she
was stuck, you see.”

“She was,” protested John. He sounded younger than usual.

“Well, the cat jumped down and left him bobbing at the end of a branch.” Frederick laughed. “And then he couldn't get himself turned around to climb down.”

“Sheba ran along my arm and shoulder when I reached for her,” said John, as if he'd said these words many times before. “That's how she made it down. She wouldn't have been able…”

“I had to get a ladder to fetch him, he was so far up,” interrupted Frederick. “Swaying there like an overripe fruit, yelling for help.”

“Did…not…yell,” said John, playing his part in the recitation. It was a practiced story, Mary thought.

“Cat sat at the bottom of the tree, cleaning her fur, watching,” said George. “If a cat could laugh, she would have been. Roger nearly wet himself.”

Frederick nodded, laughing himself.

“And what about that time in Brighton?” added George. “When John set off on his ‘adventure'?”

It wasn't so much the things they said, Mary thought. Brothers did tease each other; she knew that. It was their tone. They spoke of John as if he was…always faintly ridiculous.

Frederick took his cue with a nod and a grin. “We'd been reading
Robinson
Crusoe
in the school holidays,” he told Mary. “And John decided to go off and find his own deserted island.”

Mary thought he might have had reason to want one.

“He went trudging off with a knapsack of warm clothes and a packet of bread and cheese,” said George.

“There was no knapsack,” put in John. “You know you've embroidered this tale out of all recognition. I was merely interested in discovering…”

“He tried to get a place on a fishing boat,” interrupted Frederick. “The owner made a great joke of it when he'd dragged John home to Father.” The eldest Bexley brother altered his voice to a higher pitch. “‘If you please, would you take me to a desert island.'”

“He said nothing of the kind. You were standing right there, Frederick.”

John's brothers didn't seem to really hear him when he spoke, Mary thought. Or…they heard, but the words had no effect on long-established anecdotes.

George slapped his knee and guffawed. “When that failed, our John decided to make a raft out of some bits of driftwood and rubbish on the beach.”

“It was an experiment…” John began.

“He got right out into the sea,” Frederick told Mary. “The thing was sinking under him when a sailboat spotted him and brought him back.”

“That sounds dangerous,” said Mary. George and Frederick showed no sign of hearing her either.

“He was positively woebegone when they brought him home that time. We called him Friday-Face for a bit after that.”

“For four or five years,” said John. He was smiling, which Mary thought odd.

“Friday, you see.” Frederick didn't seem satisfied with her reaction. “That was the name of the savage in
Crusoe
.”

“Your mother must have been so worried,” replied Mary, ignoring his invitation to laugh. “He might have been swept away.”

“Oh, she was accustomed to John's misadventures by that time,” said George carelessly. “Quite resigned to it. You'll see for yourself soon enough. He's continually hatching some harebrained scheme or other. And then we have to rally round to the rescue. Brothers, you know.”

The look he gave John was fond, yet Mary still found it annoying. “I don't think so,” she replied, unable to keep the coolness from her tone.

“No, no, you'll see. Everyone does,” Frederick assured her. He and George laughed again.

From their smiles, they truly believed that this chafing was all in good fun. And they didn't appear to notice that she wasn't amused.

“That girl from the hotel next door thought you were romantic as anything after that,” George continued. “A regular heartbreaker.”

John looked surprised, then he laughed. “She did, didn't she? I'd forgotten about her.”

“What was her name?” wondered Frederick.

John thought about it. “Sarah? No, Susan. Susan Fielding.”

“That was it. Trailed after you like a mooncalf for the rest of the holiday.”

George nodded. “Kept telling people you were just like the chap in that Byron poem. What was he called? Childe Harold.” He frowned in concentration, then added, “‘Sore given to revel and ungodly glee.'”

“I can't believe you remembered that,” Frederick exclaimed.

“Well, she was always spouting random bits of it,” said George.

“Which you appear to have listened to,” John said. “I
thought
you were rather taken with…”

“What a peagoose that girl was!” George interrupted.

Again, it was as if John hadn't spoken, Mary thought. His contributions were not part of the rhythm of the story.

“The first bit of that poem had just come out,” Frederick mused. “Everyone was talking about it.”

“She thought you quite the brooding hero,” added George, as if it was a ludicrous notion.

“Too bad I was only eleven and not really prepared to appreciate it.”

“Susan was about fifteen and had a very…” George realized he'd brought his hands up to his chest, and quickly dropped them. “…was quite pretty.”

“You seem to remember her far better than I do,” said John. He raised his eyebrows at George, who waved this comment aside.

“I can't think how she was allowed to read that drivel at her age,” put in Frederick.

“She stole the book from her aunt's boudoir,” John answered. “They blamed it on a houseguest. She kept it hidden with some of her schoolbooks.”

“Told you all that, did she?” marveled George. “And what else did you get up to when we weren't around? Or don't you want to mention it in front of your wife?”

“Wouldn't you like to know,” John said.

They all three laughed. But it didn't seem to Mary as if they were laughing together. John's brothers seemed to have an ingrained habit of…disrespect. Why didn't he set them straight? “John has quite an important job, you know,” she blurted out.