Chapter Seven
Morning sunlight filtered into the vestibule of the church, drowning Felicity’s surroundings in a golden haze. It was beautiful, to be sure. The churning in Felicity’s stomach might have paused a moment to allow her to truly appreciate it.
But what was there to appreciate about this day? It was only Felicity’s wedding day, after all. At one point in time, she had been unfailingly confident that the only way anyone would get her down the aisle would be to drag her, flailing and screeching at the top of her lungs.
The reality proved far different. Felicity stood motionless as her friends and sister fussed over her, turning her this way and that and approving the final touches. All the while, Lady Eldmar conversed in the pews, accepting blessings and well wishes on her daughter’s behalf as well as congratulations on yet another excellent match in the family.
Three weeks had provided plenty of time for Felicity to become resigned to the harsh truth.
The fact that she was marrying Mr. Wheadon helped. No, it did not help exactly. Yet Felicity was intimately aware of the fact that the viscountess could have thrown her to a true beast like Lord Cleasehill. Lydia had nearly suffered that fate at the hands of her own desperate mother last Season.
“Heavens, what a beautiful bride you are!” Clara sighed as she took a step back. Her round eyes already brimmed with tears.
“We will always support and love you, Felicity,” reminded Ellen with a sweet, hopeful smile.
“You are brave. We know this is far from your ideal situation, but we also know that if anyone can find a way to make the most of it, it is you,” Isabel offered, adjusting a few ivory blooms in the bride’s bouquet.
“Thank you,” Felicity replied listlessly.
She knew she should appreciate their encouragements and optimism, which had been in steady supply since Felicity had revealed her engagement and its cause. Instead, their kind, pitying words only served to remind Felicity how powerless she truly was.
For all her fierce imaginings, here she stood about to accept her fate quietly, meekly. Nothing she or anyone else said could change the terrible course her life had taken.
Always striving for perfection, Lydia continued to adjust Felicity’s intricate lace veil as Lord Eldmar peered in through the outer doors. “Are you nearly finished, daughter?”
Felicity swallowed, her throat burning as she tried to speak around her tears. She would have given anything to remain right here surrounded by her beloved companions for the rest of time.
“Almost, Father. Another five minutes is all we need,” came Mercy’s answer from behind Felicity as she tightened one of the pins holding the bonnet in place.
“Very well.” The viscount nodded sharply and retreated into warm, fresh air.
Looking over her shoulder, Felicity sent her twin a glance of silent thanks. Mercy smiled. Hers was the only one Felicity had seen that morning that was honest.
“I do think everything is in order,” Mercy announced, coming to Felicity’s side. “Thank you all for your assistance.”
Felicity’s friends gave their final embraces and hopeful prayers as they filed out to take their seats in the church.
“Thank you!” she called after them, forcing the words out despite the pain. It was the very least she could do after all the strength they had lent her these past few weeks.
Only Mercy remained. She slipped her arms around Felicity and squeezed, resting her temple against her sister’s.
“I was not certain if I should reveal any of this,” she whispered, “but I have some information that might soothe you before…”
Felicity’s ears perked. “Continue immediately.”
Mercy pulled away and looked down at the stone floor, biting her bottom lip, a habit only Felicity had the privilege of witnessing. “That day in the stone garden when I returned to the house to fetch a fan—just two days after the engagement announcement, I believe—I accidentally overheard a private conversation between Lady Eldmar and the younger Mr. Wheadon.”
Felicity’s mouth fell open. Mercy did not attempt to correct her, too overcome by her own guilt to monitor her twin’s decorum.
“I have debated ever since if I should share it with you because it was meant to be private. But watching you suffer on what should be a joyful day is breaking my heart, dear sister.” Mercy paused, her expression tortured. “I only seek to ease your burdens by sharing with you a glimpse into the true character of your future husband.”
Felicity listened with increasingly entangled feelings. When Mercy had finished, Felicity left all else aside. It was her turn to ease her sister’s burdens.
Unceremoniously dropping her bouquet on the nearest surface, she grasped Mercy’s hands. “Thank you for confiding in me, darling. I understand why you did not speak sooner.”
Mercy exhaled, relief coloring her eyes. “I hope I was of some use.”
“You have certainly given me much to ponder. But, unfortunately, there is no time. Though I suppose I shall have more than enough time to think about everything and nothing after this dreadful wedding,” she finished with a dry chuckle.
Despite her humorless joke, the familiar warmth she had come to associate with Mr. Wheadon took root in Felicity’s chest. It had been present since their first meeting, long before they’d become entrapped in this predicament.
The man had earnestly cared for Felicity’s happiness and had sought to free her for her own sake. Surely, that was worth something—even if his own interests had played a part in his attempt.
For the first time since that fateful night, Felicity could not help allowing herself to wonder if perhaps a life with a gentle soul like Mr. Atticus Wheadon would not be so bad after all.
The thought had come close over the past three weeks, certainly. Only now, on the day of her wedding, mere minutes from standing before an altar, had she allowed herself to face that thought, to feel the fullness of the possibility.
“Felicity, we really must go. Everyone is waiting.” Lord Eldmar’s bark broke the bride out of her reverie.
She gave her father a sharp nod and he retreated once more, his impatient scowl deepening. Next, she turned to Mercy. “I cannot thank you enough for all you do for me.”
As Mercy’s eyes filled with tears, Felicity took her twin’s face in both hands and planted a noisy kiss upon her forehead. The more proper of the two laughed and grimaced at the same time.
“Might I have a moment alone to gather myself?” Felicity asked when their giggles had faded away.
Squeezing Felicity’s hand one more time, Mercy quit the vestibule. She truly only had a moment now. Felicity used it to clasp her hands together under her chin and close her eyes.
“You must find it within yourself to make the best of this situation for both your sakes since your groom is doing the same for you.” When she opened her eyes, she called the viscount into the vestibule. “I am ready,” she said, her voice sounding far steadier than she felt.
“Very good.” Lord Eldmar offered his arm and Felicity accepted. “Congratulations on your fortuitous match.”
Her father’s hollow words made no impression on Felicity. She knew they meant nothing to him. She was not even sure if Lady Eldmar had told her husband the truth of their daughter’s sudden engagement or if he’d cared to seek the information himself.
More importantly, the reality and panic began to sink deep into Felicity’s bones. Until this moment, standing before the double doors leading into the church proper, everything around her had had a dreamlike quality. She had taken part in all the necessary steps without any energy.
Now Felicity’s senses were wide awake. Her heart hammered. Blood rushed under the surface of her skin and thundered in her ears. No matter how many times she blinked or how hard, the scene refused to change. Two footmen opened the doors.
Mr. Atticus Wheadon stood at the other end of the long stretch. Even from here, Felicity could see his anxious habits, the twitching fingers, the darting eyes. She almost smiled.
His racing gaze landed upon her. It stayed. His hands stilled and his neck lengthened. The moment he saw her, his entire being softened.
Felicity felt the same transformation in herself. The fingers clutching Lord Eldmar’s coat sleeve loosened. Her breathing slowed.
The fears and apprehensions had not disappeared. They had only pulled back just enough for Felicity to find a touch of joy in the day. What could be the harm in that?
It was her wedding day, after all.
*
The busy weddingmorning had come to an end. The breakfast had been cleared away. Family and friends returned home—including Patience, the only one of her brothers or sisters to make the journey. And to round out the celebration, a brief overview of the household staff by Mrs. Wheadon—the elder, Felicity reminded herself, as she now bore the same name as well.
Felicity Wheadon stood alone in her new bedroom of delicate, blue walls and white moulding, still in her finest ivory gown, clutching the welcome gift the kindly housekeeper had prepared for her, a lovely porcelain vase for her bouquet.
Once she had made it to the altar and taken her husband’s hands, everything after had passed in a blur. She hardly remembered saying those words that now tied them together for the remainder of their lives. Clearly, she must have, if she was now here inside a bedroom in the family wing of Setherwell Court. She was no mere guest or visitor. She belonged to this family. Legally, at least.
Crossing to the window on the opposite wall, Felicity placed the vase on her nightstand and slipped her veiled bonnet off, tossing it onto the plush, four-poster bed. She rested her forehead against the glass, warmed by sunlight. A surprising bittersweet ache tugged at her heart when her eyes found in the distance the roof of her former residence over the treeline separating both properties.
In truth, Felicity and Mercy had always preferred their friends’ homes to their own. Huxley Manor had never been particularly comfortable for her, certainly not on the occasions when her parents deigned to visit. With their constant presence since last spring, it had felt even less like a home and more like a prison.
All the same, Felicity had been immensely glad when her betrothed had made clear his intention to remain in Bainbridge with his family, forgoing a honeymoon and the marital property his parents had set aside for him until his time came to inherit the Wheadon estate. Felicity would have her friends for a while longer.
Turning her head from side to side to familiarize herself with her new view, Felicity wondered why it must always be the lady who left behind her family, companions, and home with no guarantee of finding better in her next, significantly longer phase of life?
A knock at the door to the hallway made Felicity jump and straighten her spine. Could it be her husband? And why did her heart hum at the possibility? But that would make little sense when he could simply knock from the door to their shared sitting room.
She marveled yet again at the bite of disappointment when she called for the door to open, revealing the familiar lady’s maid whom Felicity had insisted on bringing from Huxley. Hammond’s smile still lingered as she stepped inside. Ignorant as she was, she openly displayed her pleasure at her mistress’s good fortune.
“Mr. Wheadon would like to inform you that he is in the library should you wish to join him, madam. Though he insisted I also inform you that you need not feel pressured to oblige. What a thoughtful gentleman!”
“Indeed,” Felicity agreed, stifling a giggle. She could hear the clipped, nervous cadence of his voice in her maid’s repeated message.
How did she already know it well enough to imagine it so clearly? Then again, she had never met anyone quite like Mr. Atticus Wheadon. Surely, someone so unique and fascinating would leave an impression even in so short a time.
“Thank you, Hammond. That will be all for now. Please return to your exploration of your new quarters and continue making them just to your liking. And do inform me if you find anything lacking. I shall remedy it at my first opportunity,” Felicity finished with a grateful nod. The older woman curtseyed and retreated.
The decision, as with most of Felicity’s decisions, was made in an instant. She would accept her husband’s offer. Being at the center of attention all morning had prevented them from sharing a private moment together.
After stopping two different footmen and her father-in-law on her quest to locate the library, Felicity had begun to fear that she would never again find that place that had so abruptly and irrevocably changed her life. Strange that she should wish to return so soon.
The younger Mr. Wheadon was so lost in his book, hunched over and enclosed in his velvet wingback armchair, brows knit deeply, and eyes flying over the page, that he did not hear Felicity enter the library or see her approach his cozy corner.
She took advantage of his distraction to admire the wallpaper of black with Prussian blue swirls and the collection of candles lighting the space, silk curtains half-drawn over the nearby window seat. A gray blanket, draped over the back of his chair, trailed along the floor and a wobbly stack of books occupied the chair beside him. Strewn across the nearby side table were teacups and partially nibbled snacks.
Somehow, Mr. Wheadon’s hair had already become disheveled. He suited his comfortable, intimate surroundings perfectly, transforming it into his natural habitat quite quickly.
Tilting her head to one side, partially hidden behind a row of shelves, Felicity sighed. He looked so peaceful, she did not wish to disrupt his reading, especially after such an eventful day. Yet she knew she should not ignore this pull of curiosity toward her husband. If she was to have any hope of a tolerable married life, Felicity must put forth some effort.
She coughed, announcing her presence. To Felicity’s relief, she found the interruption worthwhile. Genuinely happy surprise seemed to fill Mr. Wheadon’s round eyes. To her equal frustration, it was an even more endearing expression than his utter concentration or his fretful frowns.
He jumped to his feet and bent in a formal bow. A perfect gentleman, indeed, though he continued to stare in silent awe.
For the first time that day, Felicity’s smile came without any force. “May I join you?”
“Of course,” Mr. Wheadon quickly agreed, muttering to himself as he scrambled to clear adequate space for his wife. A few books tumbled over in the process. Felicity welcomed the laugh that bubbled inside her as she knelt beside the young man and collected spilled books.
Their hands brushed against each other. A breath caught in her throat. Such a touch should not feel so shocking. They had held hands throughout the ceremony and intermittently during the celebratory breakfast whenever their guests had desired to admire the happy couple. What made it so different now?
Felicity’s groom snatched the books from her hands, tucked them under one arm, and helped her into the chair. “Are you quite well, Miss Ree—Mrs. Wheadon?”
Felicity felt another pull at her heart, tender this time. It longed to reassure him and smooth the crease from his forehead.
“I am perfectly well,” she answered, surprised at the truth she heard in her own words. “I am still recovering from the commotion of the day.”
“As am I,” said Mr. Wheadon with a strained chuckle as he resumed his seat. “You need not have come if you would have preferred to rest in your room. I only meant for it to be a suggestion.”
Felicity’s hand shot up. He obeyed and ceased his rambling. “I did wish to join you, truly.”
Did her husband’s cheeks color, or were the shadows playing with Felicity’s vision?
“Why…did you wish to join me?”
Without thinking—the very thing that had landed Felicity in this mess—she gave the truth. “I wished to express my admiration for your determination to be the least obtrusive husband possible. I imagine nearly every wife in history would have found happiness in her situation if her husband had been thus committed.”
Mr. Wheadon froze, looking so much like a deer, a paradox of startled grace.
“Husband,” he repeated, a strained smile twitching across his lips. He tucked a finger under the starched collar of his shirt. “I must confess the word is still quite foreign to my ears when applied to myself. Though I am sure it will become more natural…in time.”
The gentleman paused and inhaled. Felicity offered an encouraging nod. The tightness in his face eased.
“As to your immensely kind words,” he continued, “as far as I have been made aware, a husband’s first and foremost duty is to ensure his wife’s contentment and comfort to the greatest degree possible. In this particular case, if your contentment and comfort are derived from minimal obtrusion on my part, then I am more than happy to oblige.”
Felicity could only sit and stare for a moment, overcome by the earnest care in Mr. Wheadon’s soft, cautious voice and her increased admiration for his benevolent heart. It was just like the accidental touch of their hands earlier. She could not dwell in this place…not yet.
Reaching across the narrow space between their seats, Felicity tapped the book in her husband’s hand, eager to change the course of the conversation. “Why do you enjoy reading so much?” she asked, entirely without judgment.
Mr. Wheadon huffed a quiet laugh. Inhaling, he leaned back into the plush azure of his armchair, grasping his chin, deep in deliberate thought. “In novels, every interaction, every question, every response, it is all predetermined. I can study each scene and come to perfectly understand why its events come to pass as they do…why the people within it behave as they do.
“The real world moves far too quickly for careful study. It carries too many variables that can irreversibly change the entire story in an instant. In a book, I always know I have the option of flipping pages ahead, or even to the very end, for reassurance that all will be well. If only the same were possible in this incomprehensible, nebulous world.”
Felicity’s eyes widened as he spoke with an eloquence she had not heard from him before. Her heart lurched at the pain and worry embedded in every word. The poor man had been suffering for so long. When he finished, they lapsed into thoughtful silence.
“Perhaps we share more in common than I thought,” Felicity whispered, more to herself than her companion.
“Oh?” Mr. Wheadon prodded quietly.
A warm shiver raced down Felicity’s spine. He watched her with interest and curiosity and real attention, brows upturned and head tilted toward her. It was jarring. All of a sudden, Felicity felt exposed.
She was not used to such notice from the gentlemen she typically interacted with at her mother’s insistence. They never encouraged her to continue her thoughts, instead seeking excuses to quiet her or return the subject to their interests.
Mr. Wheadon lowered his head, mouth tugging to one side. Felicity realized too late that she had been silent too long.
“Of course, what could a sorry fool like me hope to have in common with a lively and charming lady such as yourself?”
Winged creatures came to life in Felicity’s stomach at her husband’s sweet words. Entirely too aware of herself, she plucked a book off the nearest stack and watched intently as the pages fell open.
“No, I only meant that it seems we both feel misplaced in this world…our fears at odds with Society’s demands.”
Mr. Wheadon hummed thoughtfully. “I am glad we now have this understanding of each other moving forward. Perhaps, if it is not too presumptuous of me to say, some good may come of this yet.”
An unexpected contentment enveloped Felicity with every kind word her husband spoke and every kind attention he paid. Despite the dismay with which she had begun her day, in its place now bloomed…hope.
Her fingers twitched with the wild urge to reach out and grab his hand. Her sense, what little she had ever possessed, tempered the impulse with a sharp reminder. This was still an unfamiliar state of affairs. Certainly not the worst it could have been, but not what she’d wanted. Felicity had never wanted or needed to hold a man’s hand for comfort. Why should she begin now?
“Perhaps,” Felicity agreed in a tentative whisper.
Without her permission, her eyes flitted down to the volume in her husband’s hands. She turned her face away, face flushing. He was reading a romance novel, a tale where a man and woman fell in love, endured obstacles, finally came together and married, then began their happily ever after with a family. All things she and this man sitting beside her should have done, should be doing.
“But first…” she mumbled.
“First?”
“About our marital duties…”
“P-Pardon?” Mr. Wheadon sputtered.
Felicity heard his soft palms fumbling with the aged leather cover of his book. Refusing to meet his eye—not that he likely had any desire to meet hers, either—Felicity jabbed a finger at the novel.
“If you regularly include such titles in your reading, you cannot be unfamiliar with my meaning. I wish to keep our bedchambers separate for the foreseeable future…forever, most likely. Of course, you will be wanting heirs, and I suppose when the time is right, we must find some way—”
“Miss Ree—Mrs. Wheadon,” the man interrupted in a mortified squeak, “I would never, ever ask you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Nor do I have any interest in any of that. Heavens, no. Certainly not. I have always known that heirs were not compatible with my particular life.”
Silence fell between them for a long moment, heat simmering under Felicity’s skin. There was only one thing to do when she encountered a situation that made her uncomfortable: ignore it.
“Well, shall we?”
She raised her book, glancing at the title for the first time. A history, her least favorite subject. And a blessing in disguise. It would take the full force of Felicity’s concentration to wade through the mire of facts and dates and names of long-dead men. She had reached her limit with these tender topics and flourishing phrases and humiliating realities.
“Ah, well, it is just…”
Felicity returned her attention to the gentleman frowning at her selection. “Yes?”
“It is just, I do not know if it was your intention, and of course I would have no objection if such were the case, but that history there… Well, I found it to be rather dull, I am afraid. I only brought it down to confirm a reference in the novel I am currently reading.”
His frown transformed into a sheepish smile, his steady shoulders rising. “If it is agreeable to you, might I suggest this one instead?”
Mindful not to allow her skin to contact his this time, mindful not to allow their eyes to meet, Felicity accepted the volume.
What was it about Mr. Wheadon that had turned her stubborn head after a lifetime of protests? And why did it feel so strangely pleasant?