“My guardian disowned me. My uncle believed I had turned against him, but I was only doing what I knew to be right. I know how it cuts, Ester. I know the pain of separation.”
“Was that what happened when you chose to be an actor? I know some look down on it, but not me.”
He wiped at his face. “One of many decisions he found difficult. The point is, Ester, he felt my choice was a betrayal, but I could never do what he wanted. Never.”
Bex’s hands shook on the reins. His pain seemed raw, right under his gloves.
“But you reconciled? There’s a happy ending to your story?”
He shook his head. “No happy ending. He hated me until the day he died. I don’t blame him for that. Betrayal looks different, even to the guilty.”
A gasp left her lips before she could stop it.
“Ester, there is a very real possibility that we may never reconcile with the Croomes. I haven’t demonstrated I’m a good choice. I’m some actor that stole the fabric princess. We’ve just come back to London. We haven’t lived as man and wife yet. There’s much to prove.”
“You’re notsomeactor, but the best, and we’ve been married for three days. We’ve been amiable.”
Swiping at his brow, as if her logic had overwhelmed him, he shook his head. “And we’ve slept as friends. Not as husband and wife. There’s still much to prove.”
Maybe that’s what men did—wrap everything in a moment of passion. What of tenderness and care and concern and fidelity? “Who better to be friends than husband and wife?”
“I suppose that is true, friend.” He pushed his hat down and slowed the phaeton, turning onto Gracechurch Street. “My flat’s not far. If you want me to keep going to Fournier, I will. I’ll be by your side, even if the front door is slammed in your face.”
Would her mother cut her again? And would showing up be an admission that Ester had been wrong to elope and her parents right in telling her lies? Anger swam in her stomach, engulfing the ache of missing Mama and Papa. “They lied, allegedly to protect me. Would you do that, Bex?”
He leaned forward as if he needed to inspect the horses. “Ester, I won’t lie to you. I promise to be faithful, but there may be things I won’t tell you.”
“What?”
“If a colleague makes cruel remarks about our marriage, I won’t tell you. If I’m disparaged for marrying you, I’ll seal my lips. If I have to have fisticuffs because someone makes a statement that’s offensive, I’ll not say a word. I’d rather keep things that would pain you to myself than put you in a position which compels you to dance with highwaymen or play a maid. Your acting days are done.”
“Lying is to be preferred?”
“No, but omitting something painful is. I care enough about you to keep you sheltered from the bad. I care a great deal for you, Ester.”
She should be outraged that he wouldn’t tell her things, as if she couldn’t handle the truth, but the second thing he said, about caring for her—well, that outweighed everything. “You should be glad I have selective hearing. For I care a great deal about you, too. Let’s head to your flat.”
Bex’s laughter was low, and she laughed, too.
Minutes later, he turned onto another street, something called Fenchurch Street, and the neighborhood looked foreign. No hint of the Thames. No warehouses. No Huguenot homes. Nothing but lines of neat looking town homes. Her foot began to tap in anticipation.
“It’s best that I miss rehearsal tonight, Mrs. Bex. Means I can focus on getting you settled. Not much farther. We’ll be turning into the mews in a few minutes. Then I’ll take you to our flat and properly welcome my wife home.”
It wouldn’t be the home she knew, in a neighborhood where she didn’t know if she belonged. She tried to slow her pulse, but too many knots built inside at the thought of living with Bex as man and wife.
…
The wind whipped a little as Arthur headed down the final street before his flat. Ester sat on her hands, her cute chin turning this way and that way.
She was a beautiful woman, delicate, sophisticated, but right now she seemed fragile, more fragile than at any point in their short acquaintance.
But he was too anxious and unbalanced. He should’ve told her. The opportunity had been there in her questions. How could he say aloud that he’d witnessed atrocities, and that his testimony about such had led to his uncle’s hanging? The truth had cost Arthur what was left of his family and his good name. Now the truth would take his Ester away before they had a chance to discover what their marriage could be.
“Bex? Are you all right?” Ester’s voice was low. “Bex?”
“I forgot how hard it was those months after my parents died. I was isolated from everyone.” Then he had endured it again with his uncle’s imprisonment. “But, unlike me, Ester, you’re not alone.”
Her lips lifted from their sad pout. “I know, Bex. And you’ve been very sweet. I like you sheltering me.”
