Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
The next afternoon, Charles walked away from the post office in Orpington, once again empty-handed as he crossed the cobbled streets and headed back in the direction of Woewood Cottage.
It was far too early to expect a correspondence from Mr. Page anyway, but Charles had managed to send off his letter to Tristan, despite Mother’s desire to keep his brother in the dark.
Tristan,
I’m sorry to begin this letter with terrible news, but our hunting trip must be postponed indefinitely, as I am presently occupied with my new wife. I’m certain you read that word again just to be sure, so let me settle your astonishment by confirming that I am, indeed, married.
If you have any questions, ask Mother. I’m certain she will be more than happy to fill you in on all the details, though she may or may not be honest with you.
As such, you may already have a guess as to how this union came about, especially when you discover that my wife is the one and only Marie Oakley.
You will remember her as the woman Mother has tried to force upon me for the last year.
All I shall say presently is that Mother was doing what Mother does best—meddling. At any rate, I have reason to suspect that circumstances between me and my new bride will change soon enough, so worry yourself not with the details.
I will explain all when we next see one another, though I have no notion as to when that will be.
I do hope London is treating you well. Give Thomas, Andrew, Ambrose, and Leonard my best. Though might I suggest not telling them about my marriage quite yet?
I should hate to worry the rest of you unattached gentlemen needlessly concerning the bet if this is all going to come to an end anyway.
Unless an ended marriage still counts toward the wager.
That being said, I do hope you are spending plenty of time in finding a wife. If this farce does proceed, three of us will be out of the running. Do try not to waste your money needlessly. You may rest assured that if you are not actively searching for a bride, Mother may already be plotting.
Charles
Despite his parents’ wishes, Charles had never been one to keep secrets from Tristan, so he had no remorse whatsoever in informing his brother as to what had occurred.
Charles had, however, stopped himself from sending off the letter he’d written to Mother—in which he’d laid out his plans to annul his marriage with Marie.
Delivering the news in a correspondence seemed rather cowardly, though, so he had tucked the letter away instead, deciding to speak with her in person just as soon as Mr. Page provided him a way forward.
If Mr. Page provided him a way forward.
Bracing himself for that familiar tightening of his chest that always came at the thought of remaining married, Charles furrowed his brow when, to his great surprise, that tightness did not appear.
Instead, the image of Marie watching him carry his trunk flickered in his mind’s eye, and the approval he’d seen caused his heart to trip.
The reaction was concerning, to say the least. Was he actually developing an attraction toward the woman?
An attraction that stretched beyond physicality?
He’d said himself he was beginning to find her enjoyable.
Was that why he’d known a degree of disappointment when she’d refused to join him in the village?
This would certainly put a damper on his attempt to seek an annulment—falling for the woman he was determined to no longer be with. Or worse, falling for the woman who no longer wished to be with him.
His thoughts continued whizzing busily about his mind as he left the village behind and walked along the lane that led back to the cottage.
He tipped his hat to a few ladies headed in the opposite direction, their eyes lingering on him a moment longer than necessary before they whispered and giggled quietly to one another the moment he passed.
Typically, Charles enjoyed the boost of confidence such looks gave him, but this time, his mind remained on Marie. Would she have noticed the girls staring? Would she have become jealous as he had when she’d danced with half the men at the ball?
No, she would feel no such thing because she wanted out of this marriage.
Just as he did.
He was still upset about not being able to choose his own future. He simply needed the reminder.
Creating a mental list, he rehearsed his grievances against her, and yet, his mind continuously rebutted each item he’d once complained about.
Her shifting personality had been due to her fear of rejection. Her lifeless behavior had entirely vanished. And her staunch propriety had been thrown promptly out the window when she’d kissed him in the gardens at night.
The only one that stood firm, however, was her lack of adventurous spirit.
She remained in her room yesterday after breakfast—just as he’d guessed—and he had yet to see her today.
What did she do in there all day besides dwell in her own thoughts?
Being with someone like that would cause Charles to lose his mind before long.
Then again, knowing Marie, she might encourage him to leave. She was fiercely independent, after all, having yet to even accept his hand upon entering a carriage.
This was another reason he and Marie did not suit.
Charles had always received a great deal of value in the knowledge that he was needed, whether that was by Tristan when they were children in fistfights against larger, older boys, or when their friends had needed a laugh or a simple distraction to help calm them during their tour around Europe.
He’d seen Andrew Langford’s wife, Sophie, rely on her husband to keep her reputation safe. Mother depended on Father to keep her entertained and cared for. With no wife to aid in such a way, no wife to need him in such a way, what value could Charles ever provide to his own marriage?
His footsteps slowed, weighed down by his heavy thoughts as he passed by the lych gate of the local church. He glanced through the small, roofed archway, spotting the stone chapel a good distance from it and a bench that was occupied by a woman.
He looked away, only to return a moment later as he recognized Marie. She wore a light blue pelisse that matched the ribbons in her hair, and her straw bonnet rested on her lap. She sat turned away from Charles’s view until she straightened, and her tear-strewn cheeks glinted in the light.
Charles stiffened. He had never seen Marie exude any such emotion before. He might have even thought her incapable of crying. And yet, as she reached up with gloveless hands to dab at her tears with a wrinkled handkerchief, the evidence was undeniable. And he had no idea what to do about it.
Obviously, she had never revealed this side of her before because she did not trust Charles. How could she when all he’d done was complain about their marriage for three days? Was that why she’d become emotional? Or were these tears residual from the cruelty he’d shown her before?
He shifted his boots uncomfortably in the dirt, still unnoticed by Marie as he remained hidden behind the covered gate.
Crying women always made him question himself.
He never knew what to say or what to do.
This was, in part, due to Mother, for her tears could always be turned on and off with the blink of an eye.
But Marie seemed genuinely upset. What could he do for her if she did not want his help? He would no doubt make matters worse whatever his efforts were.
And yet, as she swiped away another tear, his heart twisted. He had to help her. He yearned to help her. For not only was he her husband, he was also the cause of her tears.
Marie tried to stop, but her tears slipped down her cheeks with no inclination to cease. It was as if her body knew she was free to release years of pent-up emotion, for not only was she away from Father, but she was also away from Charles, who, she suspected, despised tears as much as Father did.
That was precisely why she’d walked to the church. With the cottage’s thin walls, she’d have no chance at privacy.
Still, she didn’t approve of the emotion either, and soon, instead of dabbing at her tears, she swiped the moisture away in frustration with her bare hands. She hated crying. It prevented her stoic front from protecting her vulnerable state. And yet, she could not help herself.
She’d been fine for two days now, but being alone once again, her thoughts shifted to sorrow as she realized that her loneliness was going to increase tenfold if her marriage with Charles continued or ended.
If it continued, they would remain in this manner their entire lives—him leaving, her staying. And if it ended, she would be without a husband forever.
Logically, she knew he would not annul the marriage if her reputation was at risk, but he seemed so determined, she feared he would stop at nothing to seize control of his future. Which would leave her with no future at all.
A fresh bout of tears streamed from her eyes, and once again, she aggressively swiped at them. Thank heavens Charles could not see her. If he did, he would—
“Marie?”
She gasped, swinging around on the bench to find Charles himself approaching her with hesitant footsteps.
“Charles,” she said, clearing her throat and turning away for a brief moment to wipe whatever moisture remained on her face. The shock from his sudden appearance finally put a stopper on her tears. “Enjoying your walk?”
He stopped a few paces away from her. “I am. I was walking by the church when I...saw you.”
Blast. He’d seen her crying in all her state, then. She drew a settling breath. “Yes, I wished to enjoy a small walk.”
He was silent for a moment. “I thought you didn’t like being out of doors.”
“I never said that,” she stated. “I merely said I prefer to be indoors.”
Although, now that she thought about it, perhaps that was because Mother and Father preferred to be indoors—and she simply did not wish to be alone when she ventured outside.
They always complained about the heat or the rain or the sunshine or the clouds, when in reality, Marie might not have minded being out of doors if she was with someone who enjoyed it. Like Charles.
“May I sit with you for a moment?” he asked, still standing a few steps away.
“If you wish.”
He sat down beside her, the wood creaking as he settled a foot’s length away. Silence fell when he removed his hat and circled the rim around his hands.
She had assumed he’d immediately pelt her with questions as to why she was walking alone or why she was crying, but as each moment ticked by in continued silence, her worries quieted.
He must not have wanted to speak as much as she didn’t want to.
They both stared across the small field that extended off the grounds of the church.
Tall grass rippled in the gentle wind that brought with it the scent of the hyacinths growing in the nearby woods.
Blue skies appeared between thick clouds, and all was quiet apart from the subtle bleating of distant sheep and the rustling of leaves from the oak tree they sat beneath.
Her desire to weep had vanished, and finally, she sat in serene peace—the one only discoverable after a healing cry. The one only experienced when being near the calm and steady presence of another.
Never would she have guessed that Charles would be that person for her.
She glanced over at him, his own peace soothing every inch of his expression—brow soft, lips loosely parted, and more apparent than anything, a still body.
Marie had never known him to be so tranquil. Was he doing this for her? She did not wish for him to feel obligated to do so.
“You needn’t—” she began.
“I have some things—” he started at the same moment.
Their eyes met, and a small smile passed between them. Instead of intense sparks of anger or attraction that typically accompanied their conversations, a serenity filled the space.
Charles motioned with a tip of his head for her to take the lead.
Marie nodded. “I was only going to say that you needn’t remain here if you wish to continue with your walk. I know you do not care to sit still for long periods of time.”
He paused. “I don’t recall ever telling you that.”
“You didn’t. But you are almost always on the move, whether you’re walking or standing.” Her lips curved. “Or sitting. I also noticed that you appeared more horrified to discover that I didn’t do much out of doors than when you discovered that you were going to have to marry me.”
His shoulders lifted as he gave a little laugh. “Mr. Berryman and my parents always scolded me for not being able to hold still as a child. I thought I had gotten better from my youth, but I suppose I am not as inconspicuous as I had hoped.”
“No, you are not.” Their eyes caught. “What was it you were about to say?”
His eyes lingered on hers, and he appeared as if he was in a different world for a moment before he blinked and looked away. “I was going to say that I have a few things I wished to apologize for.”