“I’ll be back in an hour to help you dress. Enjoy your bath.” Mrs. Fitterwall handed Ester her soap and fresh towel, then swept from the room.
Ester grew happy inside as she looked at the heat rising from the water. She was back home with her family, like nothing had happened, except Bex was here, too. Would he want to stay? Would his man’s mind want to be on his own, back in Cheapside?
Part of her wanted to dress and find him, but maybe he’d see that she—thatthey—needed to be here. She kneeled beside the tub and dipped her finger inside, making rings and hearts, soaking her whole hand in the warmth. Surely, Bex had to love her to be so thoughtful. Why else would he draw a bath for her?
Unless it was to distract her.
Had he gone again, or was he like Ruth’s beaux, bedding her just to leave her?
All the happy feelings inside her began to disappear.
No. She shook her head. She’d trust him. They’d found each other last night. Nothing would change that. They’d started their marriage again holding on to each other in arms of love. She wasn’t going to stop trusting her husband after she’d given herself totally to him.
Ester would enjoy her bath, then take her time to dress and keep hoping that Bex was worthy of her trust. She stroked the hot water and made suds with her soap. She sighed, hoping the hot water and lilac scent would wash away the fear drowning her heart.
…
Arthur stood outside the door to the bedroom chamber. He’d walked Nineteen Fournier up and down, feeling every inch the heel. He’d given in to love, the desire to have Ester, but he’d done so without giving her the one thing she’d ever wanted. Truth.
But that ended now.
He opened the door, and as he’d hoped, Ester was in the tub. Her beautiful neck craned against the side. Beads of moisture dripped from her chin. Suds obscured the best view a man with hands could ever want. “Ester?”
She opened her topaz eyes and smiled. “You’re here and safe.”
“Of course. I’m done going into burning buildings for now.”
“And how about rallies?”
“Ester, I won’t lie or trick you. Not after today. I have to tell you what I started to say last night.”
She turned away and looked toward the fireplace. “You don’t, Bex. Not if it’s going to steal us. We’re happy right now. Maybe I don’t need to know, ever.”
Arthur went in front of her and sat so they were almost eye-to-eye, he at the hearth, she pulling as many suds over her décolletage as possible. “Ester, I’m not Arthur Bex.”
Her fingers gripped the sides of the tub. Her beautiful face looked so pained. “Then who did I marry? Who did I consummate a marriage to? A stranger?”
“My name is Oliver Arthur Bexeley.”
“You changed it for the stage. That’s common.” She sighed and smiled. “That’s nothing.”
“I changed it because of my uncle. Oliver Bexeley. The captain of theZhonda.”
Her eyes grew large. It looked like she wasn’t breathing. “Not the monster, the ship captain who threw twenty-five enslaved men overboard to collect insurance money?”
“Yes, but it was closer to fifty men.”
“Fifty.” She fell back in the tub. Water splashed out wetting the rug. “Fifty men.”
“Yes. Fifty enslaved men.”
“Do you know what theZhondameans to my family, to my mother? It carried her family from Africa to be enslaved in Jamaica. Someone that shares my blood, her blood, could have been one of those fifty men.”
He cupped his brow, the weight of his guilt, the weight of the sadness in her eyes smashing against him. “I was on theZhondasince I was six, as Uncle’s cabin boy. I knew something wasn’t right with the cargo. Not the way his crew joked about. Not the way Uncle Bexeley made sure I didn’t watch the loading. I know I was young, but if I had bothered to look, or hadn’t loved the bliss of ignorance, I could’ve said something that could’ve stopped him.”
“But you were six.”
“Twelve is the age of reason, Ester. I was twelve on the Zhonda’s last trip. I finally saw the cargo, all those poor bound men. I tried to stop them, but nothing would stop my uncle and the crew from tossing the cargo. I saw men, not cargo, screaming as they sank.”
