ON THE FOURTH DAY AT SEA, BOTH HE AND HODGINS felt much improved. The ship had traversed into calmer waters, and they could stand and walk without a threatening roll in their stomachs.
Finally able to emerge from the prisons of their berths, many of the passengers rediscovered the optimism and joviality they’d shared that first day of the voyage. William headed to breakfast in hopes Franny would be there as well. She was not.
He tried the promenade deck, again full of walking, smiling, happy passengers. But no Franny.
On a hunch, he checked the library, and there she was, bent over one of her books, writing in a journal of some sort. She was the only one in the cavernous room. The rest of the passengers were too busy enjoying the novelty of fresh air.
He imagined the Paris designer responsible for her intensely violet dress never intended it to be worn in such a studious endeavor. Yet the designer could not have picked a more advantageous model. Even the trims suited her as she was a woman of many unusual contrasts herself. He tried to be quiet in his approach, but as the room was empty of all save Franny, his addition was bound to be noted. She glanced up, frowned, and went back to work.
“Franny, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She never stopped writing. “That’s considerate of you, sir. Most gentlemen wouldn’t show that kind of compassion for a common trollop.”
“I don’t think you’re a trollop, Franny, and I certainly don’t think of you as common. This is just too important for uncertainty. You can see that, can’t you?”
She put her pen down and glanced up. The hurt he saw in her large brown eyes wounded him deeply. “Yes.” She sighed. “I understand how important this seems to you. It’s part of the reason I moved out of the stateroom, even though I am your legal wife.”
That small concession lifted his spirits. “As your legal husband, may I request that we continue to take our meals together?”
She raised a brow.
“I would say this is necessary to maintain proper appearances, but the truth of the matter is . . . I rather miss your company.”
Compassion flooded her at the sincerity in those last words. He shifted his weight uncomfortably as if her answer really mattered. That in itself was a novelty—that her opinions mattered to anyone.
“I will join you for meals if you come to call at my stateroom.”
“Agreed.”
She nodded acceptance and returned to her translations, but he continued to stand by her side even though the topic had clearly been settled. She glanced up at him. “Was there something else?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.” He pulled a chair over to her side. “Franny, we still need to review and practice the lineage information.” He held up a hand to still her rising protest. “I know this is not something you want to do. I realize the lines of my ancestry are not as exciting as your children’s stories, but believe me, this information will be of crucial importance once we reach England. You will appreciate having spent the time studying it.”
At least, this time he phrased this boring assignment as a request rather than a demand. On that basis alone she was inclined to agree. But something else bothered her and as he seemed in a cooperative mood . . .
“Tell me,” she said. “You mentioned something about my bee pin yesterday.”
“Yes.” He scowled slightly as if confused. “I said the jew elers forgot the crescent, why?”
“Crescent?”
“Yes, a bar that would signify the crescent moon.” He slipped his fingers under the wings of the bee pinned to her gown. “To be quite honest, I was surprised to see it on your bodice. I had supposed that it failed to be delivered before our departure.”
“Then you commissioned it?” she asked, just to be certain.
“Of course.” He smiled. “It’s to symbolize our honeymoon. Normally, such a pin has a flower and a moon, but given your interest in these pesky little insects, I commissioned a bee. I must say”—he tilted his head in a critical fashion—“it turned out quite well, didn’t it?”
She wasn’t even sure he’d known of her interest in bees, and yet he knew enough to commission a unique pin, just for her. Her fingers sought the pin. She had worn it as a protest and now discovered it signified acceptance of the very situation she was protesting. She had thought the elegant pin was the creation of a poet, someone with superior taste and grace, all attributes she had assigned to Randolph. Now she wondered if those same attributes truly belonged to Bedford. Her head swam with the irony of this entire phase of her life.
“I think you’re correct that I require additional information,” she said, wondering what other attributes had she seemingly missed about her husband. Earlier she had little interest in learning all his connections, and the forced memorizations seemed more tortuous than necessary. Perhaps the shortened time available before she was to actually meet some of the names in that tome affected her logic. Or perhaps she was developing a different sort of appreciation for a man who noticed the small things about her, but suddenly she was curious about how his family . . . now her family . . . fit into the puzzle of British society.
A smile lit his eyes and she found herself to be smiling in response. Something passed between them, perhaps a recognition and an appreciation for the other. A warm current infused her, like a fine tea slowly staining heated water.
“Excellent,” he said. “But there is one other problem. This library is not the best place to review this information. It may be empty now as everyone is enjoying the sunshine that they’d been denied to date. However, as I recall from the passage over, this novelty will pass, the ennui will set in, and this room will be occupied by any number of passengers.”
“Why would that be a concern?”
The smile turned wry. He studied his hands as if reluctant to continue.
“Perhaps there are dark sheep in your family that you don’t wish to publicly acknowledge?” she teased, partly to bring the erstwhile smile back to his face. “Murderers, smugglers, robbers, and thieves, we all have family members we’d prefer not recognize.”
Her strategy didn’t work, his lips tightened. He was obviously uncomfortable with the topic at hand. “I’m sure we have all those and more. That, however, isn’t my concern.”
His solemnity tempered her enthusiasm.
He reached over and took her hand in his. “Franny, you know that if circumstances had been different, we might never have met, much less married.” One corner of his lips twitched up. “I must admit that even if we hadn’t married, I’m glad that we met. I’ve never known anyone quite like you.”
That cup of tea was staining darker and darker. A low tingle started in her rib cage.
“If I married under normal circumstances, then my prospective bride would be presumed to already know those things I’m asking you to study. Not to know these relationships invites hurtful criticism and misrepresentation for both you and me.”
“I understand that but—”
He squeezed her hand. “There are those, even aboard this vessel, that would use the occasion of our studying against us. As proof positive that you are not suited to be the wife of a duke.”
He didn’t mention a name, but the image of Lady Mandrake popped into her mind. Yes. She could see that such preparations should be handled privately.
“Of course.” She glanced up at him. “Where do you propose we study?”
“Either your stateroom or mine, it matters not. Now that we both understand the restrictions surrounding our behavior, I’m sure we’ll be able to manage responsibly.”
She nodded again, a bit more hesitantly. The “restrictions surrounding our behavior” part of his speech dredged up memories that he still considered she was lying regarding her intimate history. The tingling stilled and her imagined cup of tea turned cold. “When would you like to begin this review?”
“We could begin today after the midday meal.”
She agreed, but still he didn’t leave. He glanced at her written pages.
“Is this the story of the beautiful girl who is forced to marry the beast? The one you told me about when I was ill? You never told me how that ended.”
“I haven’t decided yet, it’s still something of a work in progress,” she said. “I’ve found several different adaptations of the same tale with different endings. I haven’t decided which ending will work best.”
He looked pensive, so she continued. “I’m working on something else. It’s called ‘Ash Girl’ and was written by the Brothers Grimm. I’m afraid they tend to have a rather nasty ending to their stories, so I may need to change this ending as well.”
“Can you tell me about it? Perhaps I can help?”
So she told him the story of the ash girl as per the German text and he listened intently. She returned the favor that afternoon when they met in her stateroom parlor.
The remaining days on the
Republic
continued in a similar fashion. They discussed fairy tales and lineage, art and architectural—subjects she noted William to be particularly knowledgeable about—and beekeeping as a vital component of agriculture. Without the stress afforded by trying to seduce Bedford at every turn, she found him to be intelligent, well mannered, and often humorous.
Her plan to observe the women to which he seemed attracted did not provide any additional information. He seemed to focus his energies entirely on her.
Sometimes she’d catch him observing her with a peculiar expression, as if he wondered if she still wore her brightly striped corset beneath her high-neck dresses. The thought made her smile. Perhaps her “unforgettable” had lived up to its purpose after all. He escorted her at mealtimes, and she found that with him by her side, she began to relax more in the presence of strangers.
They laughed often about minor considerations. Throughout the day they indulged in friendly discourse, but in the evening without so much as a kiss, they reluctantly parted in the hallway outside their staterooms.
FINALLY, ON THE SEVENTH DAY FROM LEAVING PORT IN New York, they arrived at Southampton port. Even though Fran had initially not wanted to move to England, the prospect of solid ground made her mouth water.
She stood at the rail with Bedford and the other passengers to watch with great anticipation the misty lump on the horizon grow first into a full vista, then into the colorful, busy docks.
He placed his hand above the horsehair bustle tied at her waist. The heat of his touch warmed her through her many layers in a different way than the fierce sun overhead. Did he step closer or did she? Either way, his close presence comforted her jittery nerves as she glanced out at the foreign country that would be home for a few years at a minimum.
She had to admit that prospect was not as distasteful as before—now that she had learned that Bedford was not the beast that she’d envisioned. Of course, he was only one in an entire country of strangers.
“Is there someone waiting to greet you?” she asked, knowing for a certainty no one waited for her.
Ropes as thick as her arm swung out from the vessel to secure the
Republic
to the dock. The wharf swarmed with activity, like bees on a comb.
“This isn’t the end of our journey,” he said. “Deerfeld Abbey is north of London in Bedfordshire. The luggage will be hauled by a freight company, but we’ll take the train. It’s the quickest way home.”
Lord, she was weary of travel. She believed her soul groaned, she just hadn’t anticipated that it would be audible. “Mercy,” she said. “I had hoped to sleep in a bed that doesn’t move and in a room that doesn’t moan.”
She tilted her head to see his face. Fine creases fanned out from the corners of his eyes.
“I thought you were born with sea legs?”
“One does not sleep standing up.”
His smile deepened a moment before his expression shifted. He held her gaze. “Sometimes one doesn’t sleep at all.”
They connected in that moment in words not spoken but deeply felt, words about unquenched desires, reluctant separations at one’s stateroom door, revisiting memories of ginger wine. His head bent closer as if to kiss her—there in such a public venue—without care or concern for the appropriateness of such an action. Her eyes slipped shut, a willing accomplice to need and desire.
“Bedford,” a familiar woman’s voice called from behind. The moment was lost. Fran’s eyes shot open as they both turned to see Lady Mandrake and her aged viscount. Fran offered her noncommittal smile.
“Mandrake.” Bedford nodded. “You’re looking a bit indisposed. Did the crossing not agree with you?”
“Worst crossing ever,” the old man grumbled. “Now I’m stiff in all the wrong places, if you catch my meaning.” He shifted his rheumy gaze to Fran. “This must be the new Duchess I’ve heard so much about.”
Bedford handled the introductions.
“Will you be staying locally for the night before continuing?” Lady Mandrake asked, her eyes trained on Bedford. Fran looked up at him hopefully. If her will alone could persuade his speech, his lips would mold into the word,
yes
.
She studied his face, waiting for his answer. He hesitated and held Lady Mandrake’s glance. The overlong moment hung in the air, making her realize another form of communication had transpired.
“No,” he said with a conciliatory glance at Fran. “I’m afraid we shall need to return to Deerfeld Abbey rather urgently. We’ll go directly from here to the train station.”
As disappointing as the prospect of more transit was to Fran, if she wasn’t mistaken Lady Mandrake appeared flummoxed as well. Fran’s eyes narrowed. There was something irritating about that woman, something akin to a stinging insect that always avoids the slap.
“Deerfeld Abbey is rather large.” Bedford’s brows took an apologetic tilt, taking some of the sting away from his refusal. “I’m sure we shall be able to carve out some private time there amid a busy schedule. Beside the fact that once we arrive at Deerfeld, we won’t need to board a train or streamer for an extended period.”