Chapter 22
“Thank you, Mother, but I can manage on my own,” Verbena said, practically marching Mrs. Montrose out of the drafty bedroom.
“But don’t you want to hear my hard-earned wisdom?” Mrs. Montrose insisted. “Your wedding night—you should be prepared!”
“I know all I need to about what happens on a wedding night.” Verbena assisted her mother another inch into the dark hall.
The Abbey was in poor condition even here in the main wing, a thick layer of dust and debris along the edges and tucked into corners.
Cobwebs draped lavishly along the neglected wall sconces and various pieces of framed artwork; the hired girls from the village had barely the time to clean the few rooms that would house the small wedding party, leaving the rest of the manor to its disrepair.
étienne and his elder brothers were staying at Market Eden’s sole inn, while Verbena’s parents were housed in the only other bedroom that could be whipped into shape, all the way across the Abbey in another wing.
It was not the grand wedding Verbena had envisioned, but perhaps it was fitting. It wasn’t as if her marriage would be all that grand, either.
“What do you mean, you know what happens on a wedding night?” her mother demanded. “Where could you have learned such a thing?”
Verbena bit her tongue. She didn’t need to remind Mrs. Montrose that gossip often involved a level of detail that made it difficult for a young lady to not know the particulars of the marriage act.
“Poetry,” she said instead. “Now get some rest. I will see you in the morning.”
“Oh, all right. Do try to arrange your hair more pleasingly than usual tomorrow. Just because this is a country wedding does not mean we should look like slouches.”
“Good night, Mother.” Verbena closed the door with a loud bang of finality, then rested her forehead against the musty wood.
One more night. She could survive one more night. Then her promise to étienne would be fulfilled and everything would be as it should.
Verbena pushed away from the door and fiddled with the cuffs of her nightgown. She wasn’t at all tired, even after the exhausting journey from London and the lukewarm bath she’d taken in the copper tub the village girls had dragged into her temporary boudoir.
Verbena went to the window, pushing aside the moth-bitten curtains so she could see the moon more clearly.
The thin crescent showed starkly white in the black sky, surrounded by dots of stars.
Somewhere in the distance, a bird cried.
She was a creature of London and as such was discomfited by the abundant country quiet punctuated only by the occasional scream of nature and groan of the manor around her.
At least she would not need to stay more than a single night in this wretched place.
She and étienne were to embark directly on their honeymoon, with étienne’s carriage whisking them away as soon as the ceremony was finished.
Their “wedding night” would be spent at a modest inn of good repute.
Verbena wondered if étienne had thought to bring a deck of cards with him; they would need something to pass the time.
She shivered. They had decades more stretching before them, and cards alone would not be enough to pass it happily.
A knock sounded at the door: three sharp raps with no hesitation. Verbena turned swiftly, a strand of her fiery red hair catching on her lip. “Mother,” she said, swiping it away, “I told you I will see you in the morning.”
“It’s me,” came a voice. Not Mrs. Montrose, but a beloved, dear voice. The mere sound of it made Verbena’s heart leap into her mouth.
“William?” She flew to the door and tore it open. “Ah, apologies. Flora.” (It had not been apparent to Verbena before, but their voices were nearly identical. How strange, the ways in which one’s eyes dictated one’s perception.)
There, in the shadowed hall, looking radiant among the dusty fixtures, was the voice’s owner. A tentative smile, and Verbena’s heart skipped a portion of its work. “Good evening,” Flora said, her words and manner imbued with a strange formality.
That would not do.
“What are you thinking? Get in here before my parents see you.” She took Flora by the arm and pulled her inside, shutting the door tight.
In Flora’s hand was a heavy valise of dark leather, very much like a man’s case.
Her hair was characteristically arranged to perfection despite how long she must have been on the road, and her heather-gray dress was similarly unmarred by travel.
She looked somehow different, however. Changed, as if her bearing and demeanor had undergone some kind of transformation.
Her shoulders were thrown back and her head held proud, putting Verbena in mind of Artemis at the head of a hunt.
It took all of Verbena’s not-inconsiderable willpower to say in a trembling voice, “You came.” Not her most clever observation, but there it was.
“I did. Apologies, but I was unable to send you advance notice to expect me,” Flora said, her gentle words at odds with the rest of her.
“I knocked on the kitchen door and gave one of the serving girls a shilling, and she allowed me upstairs. I told her it was crucial I speak to you before the wedding, and that was not a lie.”
“Well, it must be very important indeed if it warrants an entire shilling!” Verbena said bitterly.
Flora must not have detected any acid in the words, for she only forged ahead with complete earnestness. “I had to see you before you are married. I—” She stopped and placed the heavy valise on the floor with a thud. “I could not let it end as it did at the masquerade.”
Verbena sat heavily on the edge of the featherbed, her arms crossed protectively over her middle. “How shall it end, then? Unless you have reconsidered my proposal, I do not think anything will change.” She glanced up warily. “You, however, seem changed. Has something happened?”
Flora lifted her heavy black bag in answer.
“I will tell you all, but first, would you mind very much if I…donned some fresh clothes?” She glanced over her shoulder at the decoupaged changing screen that stood in the corner, depicting a bizarre array of shirtless pugilists.
(The erstwhile Lord Eden had had strange taste.) “It would bring me great comfort to wear trousers for this conversation.”
“Oh! Of course, please.” Verbena motioned toward the screen.
“Thank you.” Flora offered her a shy smile, her cheeks glowing a faint pink as she ducked behind the panels. The shuffle and shush of fabric could be heard like faint birdsong in the quiet room.
Verbena sat on the bed, worrying at her dressing gown’s belt and wondering what exactly would happen if her mother discovered a man—somewhat, at least—in her bedroom the night before her wedding.
A whipping would be a kindness; more likely she would find herself choked to death under Mrs. Montrose’s hands.
Yet she did not fear her mother’s wrath as much as she despaired at losing this last chance to speak to the one she loved.
If William wished to be present instead of Flora, she could hardly request he absent himself.
She had meant what she’d said at Byron’s masquerade: her heart did not distinguish between the two.
Verbena cleared her throat, trying and failing to ignore the shape of William’s bared body silhouetted behind the paper screen. “You must have, erm, traveled mostly in trousers, I suppose?”
“Actually, I traveled as Flora for the duration,” William said.
His head popped over the top of the screen, his hair now cropped in its usual fashion.
“Lord Byron kindly offered me the use of his coach. With the caveat, of course, that he come with me. He claimed a great desire to ‘see this little town where so much drama is scheduled to take place.’ ”
Byron was here? In Eden? Surely he would not attempt to attend the wedding. Good lord, if he swanned in…
Verbena put the thought out of her mind; there were more pressing matters.
“I admire the ways in which your nature allows you to flit from one world to another. I wish I could do so, but I fear without a mask to hide my face, no one would take me as a man.” She lifted a hand to her hair, which hung in loose waves about her shoulders.
It was difficult to imagine cutting it short; she’d always prized her hair.
William was once more out of sight behind the screen, the long lines of his legs apparent as he worked them into his trousers. “You’d be surprised. Most people see only what they expect to see.” He stepped out from the protection of the screen, still arranging his clothing.
Verbena was awestruck. William was now barefoot, his trousers creased sharply down the center of each leg.
He wore a woman’s white chemisette atop these.
A brightly colored shawl, embroidered with pink and blue flowers, draped across his shoulders.
His cheeks and lips still held traces of Flora’s rouge.
He was altogether ethereal and lovely, a combination of both sexes without any shame as to the blurring between them.
“Miss Montrose?” Only William called her that, never Flora. Not since they’d become intimates.
Verbena’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “Yes?”
He wrapped the shawl tighter about his frame. “You were staring.”
“Oh, yes. I—I am sorry. You just look so…different.” She bit her lip. “It startled me.”
William glanced down at what little raiment he wore. “I thought I might take a page from the ladies of Plas Tan and invent a new style for myself. At least in private.” He lifted his gaze, slow and careful, to Verbena’s. “Does it disturb you to see me like this?”
Verbena considered it for a moment. It was difficult to think when those pink lips and soft, wild hair were so distracting, but she soldiered on. “You have a talent,” she said at last, “and it gladdens me to watch you wield it.”