Chapter 7 #2
He closed the distance between them too quickly for her to object and plucked the pin cushion from her hand.
The shawl had fallen from her shoulders when she’d tripped, so he leaned down to retrieve it, folded it briskly, and set it aside.
And then the Earl of Chester knelt on the floor before her as if he were truly proposing.
As if he wanted her to be his wife instead of this obligatory farce they were both performing.
Which was…absolutely not. She crushed the thought that any of his attention could be voluntary or wanted with a tremendous amount of mental violence.
He reached for the hem of her gown. “We’ll begin with the length. The rip is small and will be on the underside of the fold.”
“I beg your pardon,” Julianna said.
“That won’t be necessary. Although it is bad luck for me to see you in your wedding gown before the ceremony, no pardons are needed.”
“Bad luck?” she echoed as some noise that sounded, frankly, hysterical escaped her throat. “There is no more cursed marriage on earth than this one. If the devil himself were officiating, it would hardly make things worse. Luck is not the issue.”
“Well then, we have nothing to worry over. Now stand still, Miss Farrow, while I pin your hem. If you insist on wearing this gown, at least wear it properly.”
“I did not ask for your opinion on my attire.”
“Nonetheless I have given it.”
“This was my mother’s dress.”
She heard his breath catch at that and she flicked her eyes down in time to see some stricken expression flash across his features before it was gone again. Good.
“May she rest in peace,” he said and, then, still there on his knees, began to adjust her hem.
Above them, Thomas coughed but it seemed less violent to her now. And she could hear the nurse’s muffled exhortations that he sit up a little, that he drink his tea. Those were, she admitted to herself with some chagrin, the exact same things she would have said to her brother.
She swallowed thickly but kept her mouth shut as Fred’s hands moved to the side of her skirt, his touch careful and impersonal. He did not let his fingers nor his gaze wander from the task at hand. He was…surprisingly competent at alterations.
“You’ve done this before?” she finally had to ask.
“Pinned a gown? Yes.”
“Why?”
He turned his head from her but she’d seen his mouth tighten before he did. “Eva lost a great deal of weight in her final year. She couldn’t bear to leave our apartments and hated when strangers came to her, so I altered her clothing myself when I could.”
He slid another pin into the muslin with a smooth, practiced motion.
“Perhaps she would have been better off in Dorset then and not in France.”
Fred’s hands paused, head bent over her hem. He went so still she wondered if he had stopped breathing. Then he said, very quietly, “Perhaps.”
They were both silent then and Julianna was left to wrestle with the uncomfortable feeling that she was the one being unkind. Which was ridiculous, wasn’t it?
Fred slid the final pins into place and leaned back slightly, still on his knees, when he was done. “There. It will hold until the seamstress can repair it properly.”
“We don’t have a seamstress.”
“Then allow me to send one over. Or a modiste. You can have any gown you desire, Miss Farrow. Money is no longer an object.”
“Stop buying your way into my life, Fred.”
He looked up at her at last, his expression hard. “Some things are necessary even if we wish they weren’t.”
“A new gown isn’t one of them.”
Mrs. Sykes appeared at the top of the landing, interrupting them. “My lord, my lady. Mister Farrow is settled for now, so I’ll just go and put my things down. Where shall I sleep?”
“You can sleep down here. I’ll stay with Thomas.” Julianna glanced at Fred, thinking he would fight her on that. But he didn’t. He just rose in one swift movement to his full, imposing height.
“The wedding will be at St. Oswald’s as soon as the license is procured. I’ll send the carriage for you.”
And then, without another word, he turned and strode out the door. The cold air rushed in behind him and all Julianna could do was stand there, alone with the ghost of her mother and the damned sick nurse, the sound of her brother’s labored breathing above her head.
Fred had not intended to return to Farrow Cottage that evening. He’d taken out his favorite horse, a truly beautiful Irish Hunter, on the idea that a ride—no matter how blasted cold it was—would ease his mind.
He had no reason to return to the cottage. The matter between himself and Thomas had been settled, the diagnosis from the physician procured, and the nurse installed. Every arrangement was already in motion. And yet, here he was, Farrow Cottage already in sight.
He tried to stop himself, but not very hard.
Because the nurse may not have settled in as she should and he ought to check.
And because, despite her excellent references, she might just be a charlatan.
Or Thomas could have certainly taken a turn for the worse in the last few hours since he’d been here.
There were plenty of reasons that it was his duty to visit, weren’t there?
Or so he’d managed to convince himself by the time he’d dismounted and tied his horse to the gate. Ahead of him the cottage windows glowed faintly with lamplight and smoke curled from the chimney. Someone was awake. He hoped more than was appropriate it was Julianna and not Thomas nor the nurse.
At the last moment though, as he stood with his gloved hands resting on the gate rail, he came to his senses.
What in Christ’s name was he up to, creeping around Farrow Cottage at night?
It might have been the setting of his best childhood memories but that did not mean he was welcome there now.
The way Julianna had only barely withstood his company this afternoon should have been enough to teach him that.
He turned around. He re-mounted his horse.
But he didn’t leave, even though he should.
The Irish Hunter danced for a bit, eager to be gone if they were leaving or to continue nudging the frozen ground for any sort of available grass if they were not.
He leaned forward and stroked the side of her neck to calm her.
“Go away,” Julianna called from the door he hadn’t seen her open. “Or come inside if you must. But please do not continue to sit outside my home and skulk.”
Fred felt an entirely unacceptable heat creeping into his cheeks. He considered if there was still time to wheel his horse around and pretend he’d never been here at all.
He knew there wasn’t. Especially not after she stuck her head out of the cottage door and called, “Well? What will it be?”
There was nothing to do then but dismount again and follow the warm scent of butter and woodsmoke inside. There was something else too, some earthy and delicious smell he could not immediately place. To his utter embarrassment, his stomach rumbled.
“Does the coaching inn not feed you?” Julianna asked.
“I’m at the Manor now. The London staff arrived today.”
“And they did not feed you?”
He frowned at that. “Never enough.”
“Well, it’s fungi for dinner here. I’m certain it will be below your standards but you’re welcome to it if you’d like. The nurse and Thomas are already abed and I’ve lost my appetite.”
Fred removed his gloves and his greatcoat and sat at the wooden table in the little kitchen. The firelight highlighted the planes of Julianna’s face when she turned to ladle something into a bowl and set it down in front of him.
She looked even more tired than the last time he saw her, the shadows beneath her eyes deepening to the color of bruises. He accepted the dish and asked, “Jules, are you alright?”
“No. I’m not. Why are you here, Fred?”
He stirred the contents of his bowl…were those truly the mushrooms they had gathered? They looked a great deal like clods of dirt surrounded by cream. “I came to see if Mrs. Sykes was to your liking.”
“None of this is to my liking. Which you know well enough.”
“I’m sorry, Jules. I really am.”
She turned away from him and faced the fire. “I don’t care that you’re sorry or that you’ve changed or that you’re re-paying a debt.” Her voice was quiet but he knew she meant every word. “I’ll do this for Thomas but I will not like it.”
“I haven’t,” he said.
“You haven’t what?”