Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
It was just shy of the dinner hour. The day was clear enough to permit them to return to Fairhaven before nightfall.
That return should have felt triumphant—or at least resolved—but as the familiar shape of the estate rose from the winter haze, Jillian felt something coiled low in her stomach.
Not quite dread. Not quite defiance. Something far more complicated, sharpened by the knowledge that she and Miles had crossed a threshold that could never be uncrossed.
She sat beside him in the carriage, their hands loosely twined on the seat between them.
The intimacy of York still clung to them in subtle ways—the warmth of his shoulder brushing hers whenever the carriage hit a rut, the faint smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth whenever she caught his eye, the soreness lingering in her body that reminded her with startling clarity of what they had done.
But the closer they drew to Fairhaven, the more she could feel society—its expectations, its scrutiny, its malice—stirring awake around them.
And waiting.
The carriage rolled to a halt before the house, where the front doors stood flung wide and half the household seemed gathered on the steps.
Jillian saw Helena at once, her face a mixture of worry, outrage, and unmistakable sisterly judgment.
Behind her loomed Beatrice, shaking with excitement like a hound who had caught the scent of romance.
Henry looked prepared to provide gallant resuscitation with fainting salts for anyone who might require the cure.
Several guests hovered with appalling interest.
And there—like a pair of vultures—stood Arabella and her mother.
The moment Jillian stepped from the carriage, a cacophony erupted.
“Where have you been—?”
“Do you have any idea—?”
“Gone since dawn—!”
“Entirely unchaperoned—!”
“As a general rule,” Miles stated with impervious aplomb, “married couples do not require a chaperone to travel together.”
Silence descended, but only for a moment. Then the whir of voices rose again, louder and more furious, stunned questions mingling in the cool air as everyone tried to make sense of what had occurred.
“Married?”
“Elopement?”
“You cannot have gone to Gretna Green so quickly!”
Jillian ignored the scatter of exclamations and fixed her gaze on Helena.
“We chose to mitigate further scandal,” she said, voice clear and steady, “by being married in York by common license this morning. It was the most expedient solution and afforded us the benefit of beginning our lives together without unnecessary delay.”
Helena stepped forward, taking Jillian’s free hand in both of hers.
“Only you, my dearest sister, would think a wedding ought to be expedient,” she said, torn between outrage and laughter.
“Perhaps that is why you and Miles are so perfectly matched. My cousin by marriage will now be my brother by marriage. We must celebrate.”
The tension broke a little. The crowd began to disperse, people filtering back into the house as they muttered under their breath.
“York?”
“Good heavens! York?”
“Is it true? Did they really—?”
Over all of it, Beatrice wailed, “The spirits have done it! I knew they would!”
Miles offered Jillian his hand again and she took it, letting him help her up the steps with a calmness she did not feel.
She recognized that calm for what it was: the brittle composure of a woman who had willingly toppled herself into the abyss and had decided she might as well descend with dignity.
Once inside the house, away from the worst of the curious stares, Helena seized Jillian’s arm and tugged her toward a small parlor just off the main hall.
The Hartingtons were already there, having been shown in by a too-efficient servant.
Henry and Miles followed, with Henry closing the door firmly behind them to keep additional spectators at bay.
Helena caught Jillian by both arms and looked her up and down as if searching for injury. “You eloped,” she whispered, sounding horrified, relieved, proud, and exasperated all at once. “You actually eloped. With Miles Fairfax. Jillian, what in the name of all sanity possessed you?”
Jillian pursed her lips. “A great many things,” she said. “And none of them your concern at present.”
Helena arched a brow that promised several conversations later, then turned her attention to Miles. “And you,” she said, poking him in the chest, “could not have left so much as a note?”
“I left one for Henry,” Miles answered, irritatingly reasonable. “He was meant to find it on his desk.”
“I found it,” Henry muttered from behind Helena. “I wish I had not.”
Before Jillian could reply, Arabella surged forward, her mother close behind. Arabella’s expression was all wounded dignity and injured pride; it would have been laughable if it were not so tiresome.
“Well,” Arabella declared, folding her arms, “this explains everything. Missing together, found together, and then vanishing before dawn. A scandal arranged with such precision one might almost admire it.”
Jillian felt anger flare—clean and bright. “If you believe our actions were arranged with you in mind,” she said coolly, “I assure you they were not. You did not figure in our plans at all.”
Arabella’s mouth tightened. “Your marriage is an affront. A mockery of propriety. An insult to everyone forced to endure your theatrics.”
“It is an insult,” Mrs. Hartington added sharply, “to suppose you can simply run away and make it right afterward, as though no one will question your motives.”
Helena moved before Jillian could speak.
She stepped between Jillian and the Hartingtons, skirts flaring, chin lifted. Helena rarely allowed her temper to surface, but Jillian recognized the stiff set of her shoulders and the steel in her eyes. It was the stance of a Hale woman drawing a line.
“You will remain silent,” Helena said, her voice low and trembling with contained fury. “Both of you. If you say one more word against my sister or her husband, I shall ensure your standing in this community crumbles to dust.”
Arabella recoiled. “You cannot threaten us—”
“I am not threatening,” Helena replied. “I am telling you how matters stand. Jillian and Miles are married—as much from your meddling as in spite of it. They are beyond the reach of your pettiness and your ambition. If you whisper against them in London, no one who matters will care what you think. But if you attempt to poison their names here, in the only place where you possess any real influence…” She took a small step closer, her voice dropping further.
“Then I will ruin you here. Not socially for a season. Entirely.”
Mrs. Hartington’s face flushed a mottled red. “You would dare—”
“I am Helena Fairfax,” she said, very softly.
“This is my home. These are my guests. And that is my sister. The matrons of this neighborhood overlook more from you than they would from others because I am willing to tolerate you. That tolerance can be withdrawn. Your invitations can vanish. Your daughters’ prospects can vanish with them. ”
Silence fell, thick and absolute. Even the muffled sounds from the hall seemed to recede.
Jillian watched her sister with something close to awe. She had always known Helena was formidable; she had simply never seen that power turned outward with such ruthless precision.
Arabella went pale. Her mother swallowed hard, then tugged her daughter back a step.
“We have overstayed,” Mrs. Hartington said tightly. “We shall gather our things.”
“Yes,” Helena said, her smile sweet and terrible. “You should.”
The Hartingtons swept from the room with what dignity they could salvage. The instant the door shut behind them, it opened again to admit Beatrice, who all but vibrated with excitement. It was perfectly obvious she had been listening at the keyhole.
“The spirits,” she cried, clasping her hands. “The spirits arranged everything. I knew they would interfere at the crucial moment—”
“Beatrice,” Henry groaned.
“—and now look!” she went on, sweeping an arm toward Jillian and Miles as if unveiling a masterpiece. “A triumph. A love match. Fairhaven has done itself proud.”
Miles pinched the bridge of his nose. Jillian sighed. Beatrice beamed.
Helena, still crackling with protective energy, slipped an arm around Jillian’s shoulders and pulled her close. “I am furious with you,” she muttered into Jillian’s ear. “And I am hugging you. And I shall go on being furious while hugging you until I decide which feeling wins.”
Jillian leaned into her, emotion tightening her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Always,” Helena returned.
Miles moved to Jillian’s other side, his hand brushing hers, then taking it fully. The small, steady pressure of his fingers around hers settled something inside her that had been in chaos since they left York.
“If I may,” he said, looking from Helena to Beatrice then to Henry—the people whose opinions mattered most in that moment—“I should like to make one thing plain. Our marriage may be viewed as hasty. It was nonetheless a choice made freely. There was no coercion. No dishonor. And I, for one, have no regret.”
His words were simple, but Jillian felt them all the way through her.
No regret.
She squeezed his hand, a silent echo of the sentiment.
Helena sniffed and swallowed back tears that threatened to fall for reasons that had nothing to do with outrage now. Henry muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer of thanks. Beatrice clapped once in delighted approval, as if the spirits themselves had been vindicated.
Miles turned his head, his gaze finding Jillian’s. The softness there would have astonished her a month ago. Now it simply made her chest ache in a way that felt curiously like happiness.
“Shall we go and face the rest of them?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” Jillian said, her mouth curving into an irrepressible smile. “We shall have to endure a great deal of uproar.”
“Fortunately,” he replied, his thumb brushing her knuckles, “we are no longer required to endure it alone.”
Together they left the little parlor to rejoin the household, hand in hand. The gossip would rage, the speculation would spread, the story of York would be told and retold until it acquired embellishments neither of them would recognize.
But Fairhaven, with all its ghosts and meddling and chaos, had not written this ending.
They had.
And whatever beginning followed, it would belong to them.