Chapter Eight
Bridal visits. Atticus had forgotten about the bridal visits.
The tumult of wedding planning and the unceasing turmoil of remorse had wholly occupied his focus. Until Mama had reminded him yesterday as she and Papa embarked with Arabella and her husband to their home—to provide the couple with a period of blissfully wedded privacy, upon their own insistence—that their neighbors would soon be seeking their audiences with the new bride.
His heartbeat jumped in time with the bits and pieces of tunes drifting from the pianoforte, played by his wife, hands flexing against his knees. No matter how he adjusted, he could not find a comfortable attitude on the drawing room’s sofa.
If only he could escape to his library—Atticus shook that thought away, grateful the new Mrs. Wheadon sat with her back to him. Her soft profile came into view now and again as her fingers absentmindedly traveled up and down the keys. She need not witness his ridiculous nerves. Bridal visits were for the bride, after all. Still, Atticus did not relish the idea of spending more time amongst these largely unfamiliar Bainbridge residents.
The music ceased mid-phrase. Before Atticus could lift his head, his wife appeared before him, looking down with a curious, perhaps slightly pitying, expression. Instead of asking what troubled him as a stranger might, Mrs. Wheadon cut straight to the core of the matter. As if she already knew him.
“The bridal visits will be a success,” she said, her bright voice both reassuring and confident. “Besides, I shall be the focus of the day. Brides are always afforded special attentions.”
A nervous hand raced through Atticus’s thick hair. “Though you are called ‘Mrs. Wheadon’ now, most of our visitors will have known you since you were an infant. Usually, the bride is unfamiliar with her new home and neighbors, but I am the one unfamiliar here. What if they turn to me because I am the novelty?”
Atticus’s wife sank into the chair beside the sofa and gripped her chin in forefinger and thumb. “The situation does seem rather reversed since I would normally be accepting my bridal visits at Myhill Lodge, or the other house from your parents,” she mused. “But I suppose your neighbors in Sussex will require I conduct another round when the renovations are complete.”
The clock on the mantle clicked rhythmically, grating against Atticus’s nerves. His gaze shot to the drawing room door. “Our arrival has already generated more difficult interactions with strangers than I felt I could bear, and now adding the fascination of a surprise wedding will surely invite our guests to examine me like a spectacle.”
Mrs. Wheadon’s hand slowly came into view in the corner of Atticus’s eye as she reached across the space between them. He froze when she settled her hand over his. The softest smile he had ever seen graced her plump lips.
“I promise to divert their interests to the best of my ability,” she said, squeezing her fingers around his. “Besides, it is already my nature to attract attention.”
As Atticus chuckled with his wife, he also admired her bravery and innate self-assuredness. They were traits so deficient in himself that he would no doubt illuminate her boldness by contrast, as was her due. That she was willing to help him at all, to treat him with such consideration despite her own grievances, spoke volumes of her heart.
Mrs. Wheadon showed him more clearly with each passing day that hidden thing he had sensed from the very beginning—that the former Miss Reeve possessed a tender heart under her fiery exterior, even to those who did not deserve it, like Atticus.
“I greatly appreciate—”
Atticus’s chest seized as the drawing room door swung open. A footman rushed inside, eyes fixed upon his young mistress.
“The Gardiners’ carriage has just arrived at the front steps, madam.”
“Thank you, James. Please ensure that the tea things are prepared.” Turning to Atticus as the servant retreated, the lady announced with a tentative smile, “We are likely to have a few minutes to prepare ourselves.”
Hope flooded Atticus as a thought struck him. “Did…Did you instruct the footmen to warn us when the carriage approached instead of having the butler announce their arrival at the drawing room door?”
Atticus’s wife wrinkled her nose, her cheeks blooming pink. “I thought it might be helpful to you to have some time to gather yourself before they barge in on your tranquility.”
“You thought rightly,” Atticus replied, gratitude swelling in his chest. “Thank you, wife, for your thoughtfulness…”
He had intended to say so much more, and as usual, forfeited the opportunity to hesitation. Lambert strode into the drawing room, wispy, gray hair quivering with every firm step as he announced two of Mrs. Wheadon’s dearest friends as well as their mother and older brother, the current head of their household.
“Goodness, they moved more quickly than I expected. I shall tell the footmen next time to sound the alarm at the start of the drive,” Atticus’s wife whispered before rising and welcoming their first guests.
Atticus’s relief that the first visit came from a party including two of the most agreeable Bainbridge residents was immeasurable. Miss Gardiner and Miss Clara were both sweet, good-natured girls and Atticus appreciated their gentle presence to ease him into the exercise of conversation.
As promised, however, Mrs. Wheadon took the majority of the questions and comments for herself, unless a guest directed one specifically at Atticus. He took the opportunity to observe his wife in a state that seemed quite natural to her: engaging with others and captivating them with her unique charm.
She performed wonderfully, because for her, it was not a performance. The same could not be said for Atticus, for whom every syllable must be dragged from his lips.
“Mr. Wheadon, which card games do you enjoy?”
Miss Clara’s chipper question pierced the haze of Atticus’s thoughts. He became aware of every eye in the room trained on his face. The young lady wore an expectant smile, eyes always sparkling with an inner joy.
“W-Well, card games, you say? I am afraid I do not play frequently, though that is not to say I do not enjoy it or that I will decline an invitation—Ah, but to your question, well, I suppose there is such a variety I cannot think of them all now,” he sputtered, flames coursing through his veins. Even his ears burned red.
“All I know for certain is that you had better not claim whist as your favorite if you ever plan on testing yourself against me,” Mrs. Wheadon chimed in airily with an effortless smile. “My friends already know what you will learn in time, husband, which is that I am terribly competitive.”
“Oh, terribly competitive.” Miss Gardiner giggled behind a gloved hand.
“I-Is that so?” he dared to prod.
“You have never seen such a thing, I swear!” Miss Clara added, shaking her head. Her mother and older brother both offered their agreement, the former amused and the latter apparently adrift in his own thoughts.
“Felicity won one game of whist against Lydia last Season and would not let any of us forget for the remainder of it!” the younger Gardiner sister continued with a pout, earning laughs from them all, Atticus included.
All the while, as much as Atticus tried not to pay any mind, Mrs. Wheadon’s eyes remained anchored to him. Her smile, warm and inviting, reminded Atticus that he could join at any time. It was a testament to both her natural sociability and her growing understanding of Atticus’s temperament and needs. She did all of this for him despite the pain she felt at this unwanted life that had been forced upon her.
Atticus accepted his wife’s invitation. Slowly relaxing, he began earnestly engaging in the conversation with increasing ease and enjoyment. To his pleasant surprise, it allowed him yet another angle from which to appreciate Mrs. Wheadon thriving, making others smile and laugh while unabashedly expressing herself.
Throughout the rest of the day, the remainder of Mrs. Wheadon’s friends and their families came to congratulate the couple yet again and inquire after their marital paradise.
At least, the young ladies did a remarkable job assisting Atticus and Mrs. Wheadon in creating the illusion of marital paradise. He had not forbidden her from sharing the truth with them so long as she trusted them with every fiber of her being. Mrs. Wheadon had assured him she did. That was enough for Atticus.
Interspersed throughout their welcome visits came those from farther afield in the area. Though Atticus never reached a level of true comfort, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he felt more at ease than he normally would. He credited that entirely to his wife’s valiant, and thus far successful, efforts.
“We are nearly finished.” The lady inhaled and exhaled deeply as the door closed behind yet another guest.
“For that, I am grateful.” Atticus sighed, also catching his breath, though he looked far more ragged compared to Mrs. Wheadon. She was radiant with invigoration.
“Mrs. Cullham’s gig has just arrived at the end of the drive,” a footman announced far too soon.
Atticus’s anxiety surged when Mrs. Wheadon grimaced. “Mrs. Cullham has been widowed for nearly three decades now and prefers the company of the other older ladies with grown children. She does not often make appearances at the principal families’ events, yet somehow, she still manages to learn and share all Bainbridge’s gossip.”
“Oh, dear…” Atticus whispered, swallowing hard. Since the elderly woman had not yet been introduced to Atticus, she might find him of particular interest.
“Fear not, Mr. Wheadon,” his wife replied firmly with an encouraging glint in her eyes. “We shall overcome together.”
Mrs. Wheadon’s warning proved extremely useful to Atticus’s rattled nerves. The widow was indeed as voluble as she was inquisitive from the moment she stepped a diminutive, dainty foot inside the drawing room. Gesturing enthusiastically, she launched into greetings and congratulations as well as bits of advice and questions as she crossed to join her hosts. Atticus and Mrs. Wheadon exchanged a commiserating glance.
“How lovely of you to visit, Mrs. Cullham. Please do be seated,” Mrs. Wheadon managed to interject as the older woman finally drew breath.
“I rather like the look of this seat just here.”
To Atticus’s dismay, their guest perched on the sofa beside him with a prim huff. She smoothed her dark-purple skirts and craned her neck to peer up at Atticus, narrowing her watery, blue eyes.
“Yes, I should like to take a good look at the handsome, romantic young man who so quickly swept one of our most stubborn misses off her feet,” Mrs. Cullham continued in a tone that indicated she knew more than anyone about the new Mr. and Mrs. Wheadon, including them.
Atticus’s muscles seized, preparing to catapult him through the ceiling if necessary. “Y-You are too kind, madam,” he mumbled.
“My dear husband is too modest, is he not?” Mrs. Wheadon offered quickly, taking the chair she had intended for their guest and leaning as far forward as possible to force the woman’s attention in her direction.
Though Atticus longed to object, he understood his wife’s tactic. If Mrs. Cullham sought something tantalizing enough to report through her circle, they must deliver.
Mrs. Cullham turned to her hostess, scrunching her nose. “Modest? A gentleman with height and a pleasing figure, modest? I am sure I know fellows with far less to recommend them than your Mr. Wheadon who act as though they have never encountered the word.”
“Indeed! Mr. Wheadon is quite a rarity in many regards, in fact. I have never met such an intelligent, well-read man who places such high value on pursuits of the mind as a means to strengthening the spirit. Should you ever find yourself in need of a rare volume, my husband is sure to have it in his library or else know the precise means of acquiring it. And his thoughtfulness and consideration!”
The outpouring of compliments from Atticus’s wife achieved the goal of distracting Mrs. Cullham from driving him to insanity with her probing questions. Mrs. Wheadon wove morsels of information throughout her praises that the other woman inhaled with immense interest. Atticus only had to offer the occasional word of agreement to appear engaged.
However, Mrs. Wheadon’s surprisingly robust list of Atticus’s fine qualities achieved another unintended result. With each word his wife spoke, Atticus felt himself willfully forgetting that, in truth, any compliments she paid him were lies. They only existed to bolster the deception of their felicitous marriage. He felt himself entertaining the hope that perhaps these lies carried the potential for truth…someday.
“Well, I must say I have never seen a truly happy pair so opposite in temperament,” Mrs. Cullham announced after a long thirty or so minutes, nodding her approval at Atticus and Mrs. Wheadon in turn.
To Atticus’s surprise, Mrs. Wheadon’s expression tightened. “Surely, you have not already forgotten the young Harrowsmiths simply because they are no longer the most recent marriage,” she said with a light chuckle. Her usually generous smile no longer reached her eyes. “If they are happy, there is no reason why Mr. Wheadon and I should not also be happy.”
Atticus stared at his wife. Why couldn’t her words be true? The mere possibility was enough to awaken a glimmer of courage.
“I very much agree with Mrs. Wheadon,” he said, his gravelly voice solidifying as he spoke. “How could I not be overjoyed with such a spirited, open, understanding wife? I knew from the moment of our first meeting that she was unlike anyone I had ever met… Her heart heard the language spoken only by my own.”
When he’d finished his own speech, Atticus could not fathom what had possessed him to say such uncommonly bold and dreadfully flowery things. Both ladies watched him with impressed expressions. Mrs. Cullham grudgingly nodded to herself while Mrs. Wheadon wore a warm, proud smile, her chin lifted.
Proud? Of him? Not likely, Atticus reminded himself. Mrs. Wheadon had revealed quite a talent for masking her true circumstances and feelings over the course of the day. The light in her eyes, the slightly parted lips, the increased speed of her breath… All part of the act. If Atticus was so sure of it, why did his heart hum in response?
“Charming, indeed,” Mrs. Cullham said, satisfaction coloring her raspy voice as she rose from her seat.
“Bainbridge is blessed to have two such merry unions in such short order! Now, I am never one to dawdle, so I am afraid I must leave you poor young people to manage all on your own. Ah! But I suppose that is how it was when I first married my dearly departed Mr. Cullham. Still, I should have liked to have had the wisdom of a markedly older neighbor to ease the transition of those early days and weeks. Not that six-and-seventy can be considered markedly old these days, mind you—”
The couple nodded along in unison as they accompanied their last guest to the drawing room doors and gratefully accepted her assurances of another visit just as soon as she was able, though it might take rather longer than they would like, for her engagement diary always seemed to have just so many claims upon it.
As a footman closed the door behind the woman, Mrs. Wheadon propped both fists on her hips in a powerful stance. She whirled around to face Atticus, who had been content to remain a few steps behind his wife.
A triumphant smile brought her face to life in a way Atticus had not yet witnessed. The hum in his heart increased in intensity. Perhaps they had indeed developed some sort of language between them. Not one of love, but one of necessity.
“We did it, Mr. Wheadon! We survived the first day of our bridal visit battles, and whatever remains shall not be nearly as challenging. You performed admirably.”
“As did you,” Atticus replied, unable to muster more than a whisper.
Mrs. Wheadon shook her head. “Such social obligations have never caused me much suffering. This victory was entirely your own.”
She gestured toward Atticus with both hands, palms up. For a strange, wild moment, the desire to take hold of them for a very, very long time surged through Atticus’s veins.
“I would much rather share the sweetness of victory with my wife.”
After a moment of silence, Mrs. Wheadon finally answered, “I would like that. And what better way to celebrate than with sweets?”
As she crossed to the service bell and pulled, Atticus returned to his seat in a daze. If they continued like this, there was no knowing what else they might come to share with each other.