Chapter 19
“Do you think it might be wise to have the wedding outside of London?” étienne asked from somewhere around the level of Verbena’s knee. A pin sank into the soft flesh of her thigh.
“Prick!” Verbena cried through gritted teeth.
“Ah, sorry!” étienne fought his way through the cloud of tulle currently strewn about Verbena’s waist. His mouth was brimming with pins; it was only due to his great skill that he was able to speak without dropping any.
“I hesitate to make any excuse, but you must realize I have not had much experience in this. Men’s clothing tends to be much more… straightforward.”
Verbena held back a sigh. “And yet you insist on making not only your own wedding clothes, but mine.” The sting of the pinprick was fading, but the pain of the entire situation? That still lingered.
étienne gestured with his tailor’s chalk. “A gown like this is a work of art. How can I allow the opportunity to pass me by?” Her betrothed disappeared beneath her voluminous skirts once more. “Did you hear my earlier question, my dear?”
Verbena thought back. “You want to have the wedding outside of London? Where would we go?”
“To Market Eden,” came the muffled reply. “Or rather, the Eden estate. Apparently, I have taken possession of the whole of Eden Abbey, according to my customers. Four have wished me a hearty congratulations already.”
Verbena started, risking another jab. “How on earth did they get that idea?”
étienne must have shrugged; the tulle heaved up and down.
“Certainly not from me. Owning a house here in town is enough, in my opinion. I suppose, as the ton ponders how I came into such good fortune, they must inevitably come to silly conclusions. You would not believe the things I have heard secondhand.” He resurfaced, red-faced, to whisper: “They say I am Lord Eden’s long-lost half brother.
Or I murdered him and forged his signature on various documents.
Or I am the missing Lord Eden in disguise, and I am only playing at being a tailor and a Frenchman as a—how do you say? Lark?”
Verbena tipped her head back with a groan, staring up at the ceiling.
It was much closer than most ceilings of her acquaintance, as the back room of étienne’s workshop was quite cozy.
It was also stuffed to the gills with more bolts of fabric than seemed possible.
(étienne collected them, not trusting London drapers to have the exact shade or weave he required at the appropriate time.)
“I should have known the gossipmongers would be operating at full tilt, even after our announcement,” she said.
They had cut their visit at Plas Tan short, returning to the city with Flora and Miles (bandaged arm and all) via an interminable carriage ride.
No one spoke more than a handful of words for the entire journey.
Where talk was rare, the glances were many and charged.
Verbena could hardly keep track of how many times an intense look had passed between her and Flora, and her and étienne, and étienne and Miles, and, maddeningly, Miles and Flora.
The final leg of travel brought them into London as night settled like a shroud over that great city.
Verbena had felt it as she felt the pall cast over her heart.
Flora was the first to disembark, and she had done so wordlessly, with only a solemn glance over her shoulder at the others.
Verbena had tried to call out to her, but she had already disappeared into her building, leaving the driver to drag her trunks up behind her.
The day after the next, the notice appeared in the papers: Miss Montrose was destined to wed the successful man of business and fashion, Monsieur Charbonneau, lately of Savile Row.
In the days that followed, Verbena received many letters wishing her well in her impending marriage.
The veritable flood of sentiments lacked one distinct voice: she had not heard from nor seen Flora since that awful, silent carriage ride.
Verbena had sent a short note round to Maiden Lane, a cordial message containing nothing but hope for a reply. There had been none.
It was difficult to play the chess game of high society when the bulk of Verbena’s thoughts were occupied with Flora. Would she ever so much as see her friend again?
“My dear?” étienne’s hand rested on her ankle. “Do you have any preference? Here or Eden?”
Verbena shook herself from her stupor and smiled down at him. There was no need to burden her husband-to-be with her troubles; he had plenty of his own.
“I am thinking,” she said, and then did so quickly.
“It may behoove us to hold the wedding at Eden. Anything that removes us from the prying eyes of London.” The ceremony itself would be a modest affair, as they always were; even among the ton, the engagement announcement held more importance than the act itself.
If étienne was already the subject of so many wild whispers, any distance from their audience would be to their benefit.
Besides, Verbena could admit that the idea of being married on a sprawling country estate had its charms. There was only one problem.
“You do not actually own the place, though. However would we manage such a thing?”
étienne sunk more pins into the dress’s hem.
“Here is where it becomes rather strange,” he said as he worked.
“Truthfully, it would have never occurred to me at all, but I received an odd letter from Market Eden—the village, you see. Signed by several upstanding citizens: the postmistress, the farmers, the tavern master, a few shopkeepers. They seemed to slyly imply that I was their new landlord, as Christopher was absent, and that they were keen to welcome me to Eden Abbey—so long as I, like the absent Christopher, did not get it into my head to start assuming the usual duties of a landlord.”
“I see,” Verbena murmured. “It serves the village folk if everyone thinks you’re the new master at Eden, and they are offering you a chance to claim that title though you have no legal standing—if, that is, you do not charge them rent.”
“Provincial villagers,” étienne said, “are often very clever. I know; I used to be one myself.”
“Well, you have no intention of charging them rent, do you?”
étienne gave an affronted gasp. “Never! I would die before I joined the vile brotherhood of landlords; my brothers and I pay a criminal amount monthly for this very shop. If they wish me to pretend, I do not mind. I am already pretending at so many other things.” He finished the hem of Verbena’s gown, then sat back on his heels to regard his work.
“Turn for me?” he asked, spinning his finger in the air in demonstration.
Verbena executed a turn, feeling the silky fabric swish about her.
Now that all the layers were pinned in place, the dress took on a slimming silhouette with the bodice gathered tightly beneath her breasts.
A silver manteau lined in blush-colored satin fell from her shoulders to cascade down her back.
This, along with the dress itself, was trimmed in the finest embroidery, bursting with pink rosebuds, blue violets, and green vines.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, looking down at herself. étienne had done exquisite work. For some strange reason, tears choked her throat. It didn’t seem right that she should wear such a gorgeous thing while feeling so miserable.
“Only as beautiful as its owner.” étienne rose to his feet and gave her a peck on her cheek. He studied her face closely. “My dear, are you well?”
Verbena waved him away. “I’m fine. And so is this notion of yours about the wedding. We should go to Eden. It’s strategically beneficial.”
“How lucky I will be, to have such a strategic wife.” étienne gathered her hands in his.
“I will make all the arrangements. I hear the Abbey has fallen into disuse; we will need servants to see to it and us, at least for a short while. Do not worry about a thing. My brothers are so happy that I am finally marrying, they will pay for whatever I need.”
“That is good of them.” Verbena managed a smile, though it felt weak on her lips. “I should get out of this dress and go. Can you imagine the rumors if we were discovered in the back room alone?”
étienne rolled his eyes. “Quelle monstrueux. They would cast me as the Don Juan of Byron’s verses, I suppose. I have been reading them. Quite amusing! For an Englishman.”
That made Verbena’s smile a little more real. Her life would not be so awful, she thought, married to this man. He was a sight better than most. Not to mention handy with a needle.
He helped her out of the gown and into her ordinary walking dress, taking care to position her bonnet on her head just so. She bid him good-bye and left the shop.
Verbena walked south on Savile Row, not wanting to return home just yet.
As the engagement notice had already been printed in all the papers, there was little her parents could do to stop the proceedings, yet that did not curb their disappointment—nor their cruelty.
Apparently, Mrs. Montrose had been holding out hope for a baron at the very least and was furious that Verbena had not consulted her before accepting étienne.
As punishment for Verbena’s failings, she found herself ignored by everyone in the household.
Even the servants had been instructed not to speak to her.
It was like living in a tomb, playing the part of the ghost.
She chewed the inside of her cheek as she made her way along the crooked London streets. It wouldn’t matter; soon she would be living with étienne in Bloomsbury.