If that was the price, he’d pay it.
If she was feigning sleep, that meant she didn’t want him. He’d best leave her alone. He told himself that as he went to find his lonely bed.
Faith dressed in her new blacks for Sunday church, and set a bonnet decorated with curled ostrich plumes on her curls. Subdued and dignified, she thought, if a little ordinary. She was ordinary, always had been. She’d make an adequate countess if he still meant to marry her on Monday. If he didn’t bring up the issue, she wouldn’t.
Yesterday he’d occupied himself with business.
When her new wardrobe arrived, she’d shut herself in her room and gloated over the beautiful clothes she found herself the shocked owner of. Even if they were blacks, greys, lavenders, whites, suitable for mourning. They suited her, but she did wish for a few blues and reds, but she appreciated that the whites were closer to ivory, the blacks deep, the lavenders nearer to blue than pink. Later. If she appeared in public in red, they’d know what to call her and she’d never lose the epithet “Scarlet woman.” Too easy to gain a nickname, too hard to lose it.
She chose the black she’d worn on her ill-fated shopping expedition, which had been expertly cleaned and repaired.
Robinson laced and hooked but chatted so much she threatened to give Faith a headache. While Faith had tolerated her chatter many times in the past, she almost snapped this morning. Nerves tightened, tingled, because this would be the first time society would get to see her. Or as many as visited St. George’s. From her perusal of the magazines and gossip sheets, she knew a fair number would attend. Perhaps more since they might expect a glance of the new Earl and Countess of Graywood.
Appalling thought. Her tension grew. Although she tried to breathe deep and regain some composure, her heart was drumming hard as she went down to the hall to find John. He was also attired in black. She took her time, lest she trip and fall.
“How are you?” he asked once she’d reached his side.
“Better for the sleep,” she said, managing to smile. Not too difficult, for he filled her with pleasure, the sight of him, the way he turned all his attention to her whenever she entered his presence.
Because she wanted to be as honest with him as she could, she murmured, sotto voce, “Nervous.”
He hugged a laugh. “So am I.”
The dowager countess arrived in short order, her daughters in her wake, wearing unrelieved mourning, and bonnets with veils covering their faces. Faith had a moment of doubt. Should she have worn a veil? The suggestion of one clouded her bonnet, but it wouldn’t cover her face. No, she decided. The spectators would think she had something to hide, and to mourn people she barely knew and who were not related to her at all would appear ostentatiously vulgar. At least, they’d say so. If she didn’t show enough respect, they’d call her brazen and ignorant.
Any excuse to castigate her. They’d have known the dead brothers, would have expected so much from them. Now hopes had gone and people they didn’t know now intruded themselves into their company.
They reached the church on foot. Many took carriages, but Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, and taking carriages to church were looked on as an indulgence by some, especially the high sticklers. Since Lady Graywood graciously accepted the walk, they made a procession of it with two footmen and attendant maids.
Faith leaned towards John, who bent his head so she could speak to him quietly. “Perhaps we should persuade the attendants to circle us like satellites. Then we could form our own solar system.”
Gratified, she heard a low rumble of a chuckle although his features showed nothing except that the corners of his eyes creased a little. “Behave yourself, my lady, or I shall make them do it.”
Her turn to suppress a laugh. She knew people were watching, not obviously, but from behind curtains and out of the corners of their eyes as they too made their way to service.
“Which reminds me,” he went on. “Your grand new lady’s maid will arrive tomorrow. She’ll turn you out in fine style. My man, Kelly, is from Canada, but well used to serving me. I fear I’ll never shift him now.”
“He makes an excellent job of your appearance,” she said.
“I’ll have you know I do most of the chore of dressing myself, except for the final touches when I allow him to work his magic. He concentrates on keeping my wardrobe in order, trimming my hair, and shaving me. Not that I can’t perform many of those tasks for myself, but it would be beneath my dignity to do so, don’t you agree?”
When she risked another glance, he appeared again straight-faced, but with that gleam in his eyes that betrayed him, to her at least. A secret smile. “Totally,” she said, maintaining her solemnity, as befitted the situation. Perhaps she should have opted for the veil.
Outside the church a few people lingered, but not the Graywood party. Leaving the servants to sit at the back, John led Faith inside, waiting to escort the dowager into the pew of her choice. The high-backed seats gave a measure of privacy, but people could see them if they walked past or sat in the pews on their opposite side.
Nevertheless it meant the maids could come forward and help their mistresses to lift their veils. They tenderly smoothed the scraps of gauze on top of the bonnets in a careful arrangement of folds, adding discreet pins. Faith watched with interest, but gave Robinson a nod of dismissal. She didn’t need anyone to help her take anything off. The chill of the stones struck through her new, warm pelisse, so she would retain it, even though she could hear her mother’s voice from years ago. “You won’t feel the benefit when you go back into the cold.”
She didn’t care, she wanted to keep warm. She wished she could lean back into John’s body. As she recalled, he positively radiated heat. A crying shame she hadn’t known that before, when soldiers’
wives could use the warmth.
She carried her own prayer book, creased and worn now, her father’s father’s final gift to her before she left his house for the last time in order to become a bride to John Smith. When she’d seen relief in his features, she’d understood, but it had still hurt. One less child to provide for.
Faith had always sensed atmospheres and she sensed the tension and anticipation here, almost touch it. Such high emotions did not suit her, but she could tolerate them, and she set herself to do so.
After all, they might not be the cynosure of every eye.
Except that she was. Some members of the congregation would know him a little, from his boyhood. He may have visited while on leave from the army, she had no idea. Tinglingly aware of invisible eyes on her, she stood to sing the first hymn and kept her gaze strictly forward. She could not afford to slip for John’s sake. No behaving like a vulgar hussy, or worse, a provincial.
The vicar kept his sermon mercifully short, only half an hour, and it didn’t have any pointed references to anything she caught.
She knew that some clerics, in London in particular, where they had a distinctive and influential audience, would use the opportunity to make their voices heard on a political matter. If he did, she did not catch it.
Would he want to marry her here? John hadn’t mentioned the topic again and he’d only dangled it in front of her, like bait on a fishing line in the first place. The quiet period of reflection gave her the chance to think matters through.
The woman who attracted his interest enough to make him want to marry her would be fortunate indeed, but that did not form his reason for marrying her. A mixture of duty and convenience, rather. She could not give him the heir he so obviously needed.
Tears pricked her eyes during the last hymn before Eucharist. But when John glanced at her, she had the presence of mind to glance down, as if she needed to read the words. Already he meant more to her than he should.